He was already making the grave mistake of looking on flying in action against the enemy as just another form of sport.
*
Kaczinski, that February, was a senior at Princeton with a final season of success on the football field behind him. He had broken a collarbone and could not play in the last few games.
In the intervals of training for, and playing, football he worked desultorily for a degree in American History, secure in the knowledge of the special leniency the examiners showed to great varsity athletes like himself.
When he was not playing or studying, or “horsing around in the fraternity house with the guys”, he was pursuing one or another of the many girls who sought to be seen in the company of such an idolised sportsman. Kaczinski had just one criterion for the length of time he devoted to any girl: either she came across, she put out, pretty damn quick or he didn’t waste any more time on her. He very rarely had to waste any time.
Some of the girls were freshmen (the frosh), sophomores, juniors or seniors at a nearby women’s college. Some were waitresses. Some were the daughters of members of the faculty.
Kaczinski took no interest in, and little notice of, the war in Europe. He occasionally read what the papers thrust on his attention, but remained unconcerned about which side won; and he had no mental picture at all of what it was like to be fighting in that distant war.
When he spoke of it, it was only to make some boastful comment. “They had better not start something with the U.S.A. We’d wipe the bastards out in a coupla months.”
In a vague way “They” stood for the Germans: but he was not even too sure about that. His parents had a lot of friends of German origin who talked the language among themselves even after three generations of Americanisation. And some of his own friends at collage were Pennsylvania Dutch; which had nothing to do with Holland; they were of pure German descent. That, however, was a minor distortion in a culture which perverted “chaise longue” to “chaise lounge”, genteelly pronounced “vichysoisse” “vichysoi” and “fillet” “filay”; and women called their handbags “pocketbooks”.
Europe was indeed a remote place.
Kaczinski never dreamed that he would set foot there until, as was expected of a rich young man, he took his bride to “Paris, France” on honeymoon; or, as he would have put it, “a wedding trip”.
*
While German artillery pounded the defences of Verdun into rubble, dust and mud, while Kaczinski pursued his academic career with all the sensitivity of a pachyderm, and while Codrington, Dupuis, Gabin, Rudel, Weisbach, Stokoe, Paxton, Baird, Ehrler and Seeckt fought, or prepared to fight, their countries’ battles, Frodingham S. Andretti was mastering the hotel and catering trade and the young women of California.
He also was detached from the war and regarded Europe as a part of the world which had no more relevance to his life than Africa or Australasia. He looked upon Italy as a distant colony of the millions of Italo-Americans. Even the Italian he spoke was peculiar to America, infected with the dialects of Naples, Sicily and Genoa. The Italian food to which he was accustomed was an adaptation of the dishes cooked in the land where his father and mother had been born.
He took pride in whatever brought credit to Italy, but only as the owner of a performing animal takes pride in its tricks. Whatever disgrace tainted the nation whose undiluted blood ran in his veins, he ignored: such as the Italian Army’s rout at Caporetto. Mention Leonardo da Vinci, Casanova, Christopher Columbus or Gianni Caproni the aeroplane designer, and he claimed a direct connection with the country which gave them birth.
Most of all he was proud of his hot Italian blood and convinced that he was bestowing a favour on any girl to whom he made love.
In the early months of 1916 he would have dismissed as absurd any suggestion that he would be spilling that hot blood of his in the squabble between Germany and France’s allies on, as far as he was concerned, the other side of the world.
*
The triumphs of the German Military Aviation Service gave Ehrler great pride. His only reservation was that too much success would bring about the end of a war which was providing him with an admirable reason for staying away from his wife.
He had been promoted to corporal and one of the aircraft he serviced was the favourite of Leutnant Weisbach. Weisbach’s cheerful disposition had always made Ehrler feel at ease with him. Being in the air force had altogether made him less serious and morose.
He also had a special liking for Leutnant Rudel, who was larger than life, with a great booming laugh and none of a typical cavalryman’s haughtiness.
Whenever Rudel and Weisbach flew together, Ehrler felt fidgety until they came back safe and sound. He knew that Weisbach was an exceptional pilot and that Rudel had learned to handle a machine-gun with a skill that was astonishing in someone who was notorious for having been a poor rifle shot. But he knew also that when they flew together they got up to some hair-raising escapades.
During the early days of the Verdun siege these two came back from a sortie over the fortress one morning with their machine much battered by anti-aircraft fire and the bullets of two French scouts which had managed to penetrate the German scout patrols.
He fussed around the damaged aeroplane and pointed out the major damage to its crew.
“Gentlemen, it will take two days to make this colander fit to fly again.”
“Come on, Corporal, you can do better than that.”
“Leutnant Weisbach, you are lucky to have got home without crashing. Just look at this spar ... and here ... and that damage to the engine.”
Rudel said “Do you know, Corporal Ehrler, your nose twitches like a terrier’s when it scents a cat, every time you poke it into a badly shot-up aeroplane. And do you know why that is, Corporal?”
“Because I am much concerned about the work that has to be done, which will keep the squadron short of a machine, sir.”
“No, it is not that. Is it, Weisie?”
“I think I know what you are getting at.” Weisbach assumed a solemn air but winked at Ehrler.
“I don’t understand you, sir.” Ehrler looked from one to the other in perplexity.
Rudel said “A horseman has to be something of a psychologist. If one understands horses, it is simple to understand men, who are in many ways less complicated than the noble beasts.”
“Sir?”
“You were a schoolmaster, Ehrler. You will be one again. You must have a good knowledge of psychology.”
Ehrler smiled. “I think I may say that I understand boys, sir; and I have read Jung and Freud. But I do not understand what you are implying, sir.”
“The reason why you look so excited when you prowl round a machine that has just been shot up is that you long to be in the thick of things yourself.”
“Me, Herr Leutnant?”
“Yes, you, Corporal. Am I not right, Weisbach?”
“Yes, I believe you are.” Weisbach did not know whether Rudel was right or wrong, joking or serious, but he agreed with him out of friendship; and because he was always ready for a joke and this may turn out to be one. A good one.
“Well ... sir ... I certainly don’t like staying behind while gentlemen like you go off and take such chances.”
“You don’t like it, in your heart of hearts, when anyone goes off and you can’t go too: especially as there are so many N.C.Os flying.”
Ehrler grinned shyly. “Perhaps you are right.” He flushed with pride at this revelation of daring, or whatever it was, buried deep in his nature.
“Admit it, now: you would like to come with us ... to be there, where the shot and shell are flying ... where the real men’s work is done.”
“I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“Time you did, then. They are taking older men than you now as pilots and observers. Educated chap like you: you’d waltz through the training.”
This astounding implication opened such astonishing new viste to Ehrler that he felt quit
e lightheaded.
“D-do you really th-think so, sir?”
“Listen: what’s a chap like you doing getting his hands dirty with grease all day? What are you, a mathematician?”
“I teach mathematics, yes, Herr Leutnant.”
“You don’t need mathematics to repair airframes.”
Ehrler sighed. “No, I suppose not.”
“You would like to fly, wouldn’t you?”
Weisbach said “How many times is it I’ve taken you up for a joy-ride ... ostensibly an air test?”
“Fourteen times, sir.”
“There you are, then: nobody who wasn’t very keen would have remembered the exact figure. And don’t tell me it’s because you are a mathematician!”
“You apply for training as pilot or navigator,” Rudel told Ehrler, “and in a couple of months you’ll be a sergeant. Think of the extra comfort, the bigger pay ... the cleaner work ...”
“And doing a real man’s job.” Ehrler sounded enthusiastic. “Thank you for suggesting it, sir. I’ll put in an application straight away.”
“Get this crate repaired before you rush off,” Weisbach said.
“Oh, I won’t let you down, sir.”
“It is much more important in life never to let yourself down,” Rudel said.
*
Seeckt was standing in line for his turn with whichever of the girls happened to be available when he at last, after forty minutes of chilly waiting in the February dampness, got into the grim-looking brick building in which the Army catered for the libidos of its humblest ranks.
His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders were hunched, he stamped his feet on the ground, his breath condensed like protoplasm as he breathed out.
One of the men standing near him said “Corporal Ehrler’s going on an observers’ course.”
Seeckt’s large ears, red with the cold, pricked up.
“Go on?”
“Yes, it’s true. I was in the Orderly Room when he brought in his application. The C.O. has strongly recommended it.”
“How much pay will he get?”
The Orderly Room clerk mentioned the figure.
Seeckt pondered. He was drawing a lance-corporal’s pay now and there wasn’t much casual labour to be had on the farms in winter. If he became an observer or pilot, he would be a sergeant and that would mean a lot more money as well as the comfort of a sergeants’ Puff, as it was known, with no need to queue for ages.
He nudged the clerk.
“Do you think the C.O. would recommend me for a pilots’ or observers’ course?”
“I’m damn sure he would. The casualties we’re getting in the Service now, with the new British DH2s and FE2s and the French Nieuports, they’re crying out for pilots and observers.”
That did not sound encouraging. Seeckt thought it over some more. He nudged the clerk again.
“Now what d’you want? And don’t keep jabbing me like that: you don’t know your own strength; you’re bruising me.”
“Sorry, chum. I was just thinking. By the time I get on a course and finish my training, we’ll have some new machines too. And we’ll have the upper hand again. There won’t be so many casualties.”
“What’s the matter? You scared? All big talk, was it, about becoming a pilot or observer? All hot air?”
“I’ll show you. I’m going straight to the Orderly Room now.”
“Giving up your place after all this long wait?”
“The sooner I get my application in, the sooner I’ll be a sergeant and not have to hang around in queues for my bit of fun. I’ll wait in comfort indoors, in an armchair.”
The Orderly Room clerk grinned.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone give sheer damned lust as a reason for heroics.”
Seeckt strode back to camp, full of virtue.
Six
By the summer of 1916 the British and French were getting the better of the Germans in the air. The single-seater DH2 scout, which had become operational at the end of February, was the first aircraft to be designed specifically as a fighter. Although it was yet another pusher type, it had a Lewis gun on a moveable mounting in the nose and could reach 93 m.p.h. at sea level and 77 m.p.h. at 10,000 ft. It was more manoeuvrable than the Fokker.
Squadrons equipped with the DH2, and, alongside them, those flying the tough two-seater FE2, the “Fee”, adopted a new method of operating. Hitherto a couple, maybe three, or four at most, scouts had been escorting reconnaissance aircraft. Henceforward there would be a dozen fighters in the escort: and these escort sorties turned from defence to offence. A mixed escort of twelve DH2s and FE2s could afford to detach more than half its strength and go looking for the enemy. In this way purely offensive patrols were born and instead of single scouts probing behind enemy lines, formations of them went looking for a fight.
The French had a new fighter also, the Nieuport XI, known as the Bébé because it was only nineteen feet long, had a wingspan of just over twenty-four feet and weighed only 1210 lb. It was still armed awkwardly with a Lewis gun mounted on the upper plane, but was capable of 97 m.p.h. It was very agile and made rings round the enemy machines.
On 1st July the Battle of the Somme began. For a week before that, the British had maintained heavy bombardment. Codrington, flying over the battlefield daily, saw fields, woods and villages mashed by the tremendous weight of sustained shellfire, until the entire aspect of the terrain had been so altered that it was no longer recognisable.
The week-long barrage devastated the countryside but it did not kill many Germans.
In preparation for what had become known as the Big Push, the imminence of which was the subject of rumours all over Britain, France and Germany, so that all surprise was lost, the Germans had had time to make preparations. They had fortified villages that they had occupied, they had built concrete dugouts, they had excavated sleeping quarters forty feet deep underground. They had constructed redoubts, they had dug three, and in some places four, lines of trenches.
The German positions looked down on the British ones and when the attack opened the British infantry had to advance uphill.
Codrington was on patrol that morning. The squadron put up twelve aircraft. Major Fotheringay-Brown was not leading them. Commanding Officers had been forbidden to cross the enemy line. They were too valuable to lose. In theory, anyway. The major saw his squadron off.
Codrington was walking towards his machine when he heard the C.O.’s voice.
“Jutht a thecond, Codrington.”
“Yes, Major?”
Codrington sounded peeved. His mind was preoccupied with the task ahead.
“Thought you’d like to know your Emm Thee hath juth come through.”
An M.C.? Codrington’s first thought was that it was high time, too. His second, that this announcement could well be prompted by the fact that the major did not expect him to return from the sortie: that he would die more happily with the knowledge that he had been put forward for a decoration.
“Very civil of you, Major. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Shortly afterwards Codrington was watching wave after wave of British infantry climbing out of their front line trench, moving up the chalk downs towards the enemy wire in almost parade-ground formation: two arms’ lengths between each man and his neighbours to left and right, one hundred yards between ranks.
Codrington saw the German machine-gunners mow them down and soon twenty thousand of them were dead, forty thousand wounded.
While fourteen British divisions went into action that morning at 7.30 in bright sunshine, five French divisions also attacked on their front, which began some nine miles to the east.
*
Dupuis and Gabin, Rudel and Weisbach, flying over the area, saw the French, putting into practice the lessons they had been learning at Verdun, dash forward in small groups to infiltrate the German positions instead of advancing in a solid mass like the British. The French were also supported by an even h
eavier artillery barrage than the British, which obliterated large sections of the German wire and trenches.
Codrington, Dupuis, Gabin, Rudel and Weisbach sat down to their lunches that day with little appetite. The Englishman and the Frenchmen reflected that their air superiority had made no difference to the battle. The Germans were thinking that if they still had air superiority there did not seem much that they could have done to avert the enemy advance.
Paxton had arrived at the railhead at St. Omer that morning. At 7.30, when the British and French infantry were going over the top, he was having breakfast in a transit mess. He was on his way to join his squadron.
Stokoe, on attachment to a British regiment, was among those who scrambled out of their trenches in the sunshine which was so welcome after the days of cloud and rain that had preceded it. The British had just been issued with the new steel shrapnel helmet, the tin hat, the battle bowler. Stokoe told himself he must look like a bloody mushroom with this bloody thing on his head. But he was glad enough to be wearing it when he dived into a shellhole and drew breath. Several chunks of lead and steel clanged against his helmet and did not even dent it. He clambered out of his temporary shelter and charged on. He shot three Germans with his revolver before a bayonet took him in the thigh. He shot the man who had bayoneted him.
While Paxton was being driven from St. Omer to his squadron’s aerodrome, in a lurching Crossley tender packed with pilots and observers on their way to several squadrons, and while Stokoe was shooting Germans and being bayoneted, Baird, in his last few days at school, was putting on white flannels in preparation for an all-day cricket match and wondering whether he would score another fifty and again take four wickets with his fast bowling.
Kaczinski, in Chicago, was putting his latchkey into the front door of his parents’ mansion at the moment when the British erupted from their trenches. He was wearing tails and a white tie. He had been to a so-called débutantes’ ball, where he believed he had made an irresistible impression on a beautiful girl whose father owned a considerable part of the stockyards. What a prosperous union it would be, he was telling himself, if the only son of a millionaire meat-canner were to marry the only daughter of a millionaire beef-slaughterer.
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