Andretti, in San Francisco, was wide awake. The subdued lighting in his apartment cast a somewhat sickly pink glow, the phonograph played a syrupy waltz. His fingers were busy with the fastenings of his companion’s dress. He had spent nearly fifty bucks showing her a good time and now he was impatient for the pay-off.
The seventeen-year-old blonde twisted away from him.
“Oh, Frod, are you sure you love me? You’re not just saying it? I’ve never done anything like this before, you know. I don’t think I ought to ...”
“Baby!” He put his hands on her again. His voice was gentle and affectionate, wheedling. “C’mon, Beautiful, how many more times do I gotta tell ya? Di’n’t I show you a good time, Baby?”
“Sure you did, Froddie. But ...”
“But nothin’. Come here.”
The girl gave a sudden and unexpected screech. She pulled away from him. Her dress ripped. She screamed, turned and ran for the door.
Andretti chased after her and there was the sound of a hard slap. She screamed again. Andretti raised his hand once more.
The girl’s knee jerked up and Andretti screamed this time, jerking forward and clapping his hands to his crotch.
The door slammed behind the girl as she ran for the elevator.
Andretti, moaning, hobbled to a chair.
Like Stokoe, he would long remember the hour at which the Somme offensive opened, on account of his wound. Andretti’s pride was hurt as sorely as his sweetbreads.
*
For several months Rudel had been enamoured of the lines, the performance and the firepower of the Albatros fighters which had entered service in 1916.
The Albatros had a graceful torpedo-shaped body, the upper wing sat prettily low above the fuselage. It was armed with two machine-guns firing through the propeller disc. It had a top speed of 109 m.p.h. and a ceiling of 18,000 ft.
Seeing these beautiful machines perform the aerobatics which had become possible with mastery of the spin, stall and loop, aroused his envy. It also aroused happy memories of putting a well-bred horse over jumps and through the complex evolutions of dressage.
He and Weisbach had seen nine Albatros D.1s fighting an equal number of Nieuport XIs one afternoon and the performance had seemed to him like a ballet. Both types of aircraft were handsome and highly manoeuvrable. The two guns of the Albatros gave it a decided advantage and only two had been lost in the process of shooting down five Nieuports.
Rudel was a man of sudden decisions. He made one now which was to have a profound effect on his life.
The squadron was now flying the Rumpler C.1, which was capable of 94 m.p.h.; he found it exhilarating after the much slower D.F.W. Walking away from it he linked his arm through Weisbach’s in friendly fashion.
“No reflection on you, Weisie. You’re the best pilot on this squadron, by far. But seeing the Albatroses darting about as gaily as mayflies day after day is more than I can bear. I’ve had enough of sitting behind a machine-gun, taking photographs, having to rely on the Albatroses for protection when things get really hot.”
“I know what you’re going to say. You want to take your life in your own hands. I don’t blame you.”
“I couldn’t be in safer hands than yours, Weisie. And I’m probably being a damned fool for wanting to give up flying with one of the best pilots in the Service and trying to emulate you as best I can. But I’m going to put in for a pilots’ course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. That helps me to make up my mind to do something I’ve been contemplating for a long time. I’m going to ask for a posting to an Albatros squadron.”
*
Paxton went into the flight commander’s office, saluted and stood looking uncertainly at the tired-faced man behind the desk. He noted the faded tunic with the badges of a famous Lancer regiment, the pristine ribbon of a Military Cross under the faded pilot’s wings. His spirits fell. He had had more than enough of these fellows who liked to show off their military pedigree. Most of them were rude and patronising and did not necessarily fly well enough to justify their conceit. He had been hoping to have a real, honest-to-God R.F.C. type as his flight commander.
Codrington looked up, smiled and got to his feet. He walked round the desk and shook hands. Paxton at least approved of his hard grip.
“Glad to have you on the flight. We’re both new boys, in a sense. This is my first day in command.”
Paxton noticed now that the third pip on each of the captains’ cuffs was brighter than its fellows.
He smiled back. “Congratulations, sir.”
“Sit down.”
Codrington resumed his seat. Paxton took a chair, removed his cap and crossed his legs.
“I’ve been looking at your logbook. You’ve done very well. That’s good, because I’m afraid we haven’t much time to familiarise new pilots with conditions here. Anyway, we’re all going to get a bit of a breather. The squadron is re-equipping with Sopwith Pups, like the Navy. Which means we’ll all be off operations for a few days while we learn to fly them decently.”
“That’s great news, sir.”
“I hope so. We’ll have to wait and see. It has a decent turn of speed, about a hundred and ten, and of course it has the Ross interrupter gear to synchronise the gun with the engine: but that cuts down the rate of fire to three hundred rounds a minute; and it has been known to go wrong, so that one shoots one’s own prop. to pieces.”
“I guess being a fast single-seater makes up for any defects, sir.”
“That’s what we all feel. We’ll find out soon enough. The first batch of them is due here next month.”
*
Corporal Ehrler and Lance Corporal Seeckt left their squadron together, bound for an observers’ training school. The disparity in their ages and education had put a distance between them: which Ehrler would have been happy to maintain. Thrown together for twenty-four hours on a slow wartime railway journey back to the Fatherland, each discovered something in the other which, in the uncertainties of their new surroundings, gave him the reassurance that he was not entirely on his own among strangers.
To Ehrler, Seeckt was someone of whom he was aware only because of his giant physique. They had hardly ever had occasion to speak and Ehrler would not even have noticed his presence if Seeckt had not been so conspicuous. As it was, everyone on the squadron knew Seeckt. He was a familiar figure, with wheelbarrow and broom, tidying the roads and paths; or, with buckets, cloths and scrubbing brushes, towering over the aircraft as he washed them down.
Seeckt was also, in the way that large, simple men always are, a butt for his comrades; but with affection as much as with ridicule. Many had found that poking fun at Seeckt rebounded on them. He was endowed with much innate cunning and was by no means slow-witted in clumsy repartee. Everyone knew that he was a tremendously hard worker who would volunteer for extra chores around the squadron’s dispersal area. Quite obviously, aeroplanes fascinated him.
His fondness for keeping himself occupied was further manifested by his hours of off-duty toil on local farms: because he loved the land and because he wanted more money in his pocket than the Army put there. It was his regularity in the long queue outside the privates’ and corporals’ Puff which earned him derision: and a certain amount of envy. Now and again Seeckt would get drunk with some of his friends, and when he did so they used to extract from him descriptions, somewhat bashfully recounted, of his diversions among the beasts of the field; for which they derided him.
During their journey, Seeckt tried constantly to draw Ehrler into conversation, but Ehrler preferred to read. Ehrler had even given Seeckt his newspaper and taken a book from his knapsack. Seeckt was not much of a one for reading. He skimmed through the paper, then gazed in awe at Ehrler: having a friend who actually enjoyed reading a book was a new experience for him. Not that they were friends yet.
Ehrler regarded Seeckt with contemptuous amusement. He was hoping to make interesting new acquaintances at the training school. Absorbed thou
gh he was in his book, he noticed that when Seeckt failed to get him to talk he was not shy about forcing a conversation on someone else. Presently, Seeckt had provoked a noisy discussion among the other occupants of the crowded compartment.
It was then that Ehrler learned for the first time of a far greater gulf between the two of them than the differences in age and background.
Seeckt was what the Army called “an old Front hog”. He had been in the trenches, fired his rifle at the enemy, been under fire himself from rifle, machine-gun, mortar and cannon. That gave him a prestige to which Ehrler could never attain. Even if he flew a thousand missions against the enemy, he would be excluded from the special distinction and comradeship that belonged to those who had known the horrors and hardships of the trenches.
This easy brotherhood of old Front hogs became apparent also when they reported to their new station. The Orderly Room sergeant, looking through their papers, grinned at Seeckt; and sergeants very seldom grinned at anyone, except in anticipation of making their lives a misery.
“So you are an old Front hog too? Well, we’re both lucky to be out of it.”
“What happened to you, Sarge?”
“I got a lungful of our own gas at Ypres last year, and a bullet in the guts at the same time. I’m no longer Grade One. But for that, I’d feel conscience-bound to volunteer for flying myself. But the good Lord wills otherwise. I’m glad to say! It’s a change to have a cushy job like this, I can tell you.”
The sergeant was markedly less cordial with Ehrler. “Oh, so you’ve decided to do something useful for a change? At last.”
Seeckt said “He’s a good lad, Sarge. Someone has to repair the machines, and Ehrler did it as well as anyone could.”
Ehrler was not pleased to be defended and patronised by a yokel like Seeckt. He stood woodenly at attention.
“I see you’re almost as far from home here as you were in France, Ehrler. You needn’t think you’re going to be able to keep nipping home to see your wife, just because you’re back in Germany.”
“I have no expectation of any leave, Sergeant.”
“Just as well, because you won’t damned well get any. Not even when the course finishes. You’ll be needed at the Front immediately. That is, if you survive the course: casualties have been shocking these last few months. All the good pilots go to the Front. The fellows who’ll be flying you are all rejects, not fit for squadron service.”
The sergeant grinned again but it was different from the way he had grinned at Seeckt.
On the way to their barrack room Seeckt said, reassuringly, “That was just his way of letting you know that you can get home for a few days if you treat him properly. I know his sort. Just grease his palm and he’ll see you get a leave pass.”
“That is the last thing I want.”
Seeckt gave Ehrler an astonished look. Ehrler’s expression forbade comment or question.
They were thrown into constant propinquity now. They slept in adjacent beds, they paraded in the same squad every morning for instruction. At meals they sat side-by-side. Ehrler’s irritation wore off. In a way that he would never have thought possible, the despised peasant Seeckt began to establish a dominance: at least, in one segment of their joint life. Seeckt’s size, his naivété, his wounds, his membership of the freemasonry of old Front hogs allowed him many small concessions. He became, in a way, Ehrler’s protector.
In reciprocation, Ehrler, impatiently at first and then with grudging gratitude, helped him with the academic side of their lessons.
Presently Seeckt even persuaded Ehrler to accompany him and some of their colleagues for an evening’s drinking in the local town. And Ehrler prevailed upon Seeckt to read a work of fiction which he chose for him in the station library.
They both passed the course and were posted back to their old squadron. The autumn of 1916 had set in. The Battle of the Somme was still grinding on. The Australians lost 23,000 men in six weeks. The French began to counterattack at Verdun on 24th October: a prolonged operation destined to drag on until a week before Christmas.
Sergeant Observers Ehrler and Seeckt were by then already beginning to wonder whether the extra pay was worthwhile.
*
Codrington’s squadron had moved twice since he had joined it. The discomfort of being crowded into barges moored on a canal, whose interiors had been divided into cubicles, had given way to the equal discomfort of living in a bell tent. Each officer did at least have a tent to himself, but it was very cold in winter. Now the whole squadron lived in a hutted camp which was dry and fairly warm. The officers had their own rooms.
Paxton, feeling lonely, would have been glad of a room-mate. However, Codrington’s welcome had reassured him. He found a friendly atmosphere not only on his own squadron but also among the two other squadrons which formed the wing.
He was glad to see that about a third of the pilots and observers wore, as he did, regulation R.F.C. uniform. This indicated that there was a good proportion of non-regulars among them. He had very quickly learned that there was a great difference in the attitudes of the regular and the wartime officers.
Codrington did not seem typical of his kind. He had said to Paxton, on Paxton’s first evening in mess, “We’re not a formal lot in the Corps. That doesn’t mean that discipline’s slack. But it does mean that mess life is a lot more free and easy than it used to be. No one senior is going to jump down your throat if you speak before you’re spoken to and that sort of thing.” He had laughed, then, and added, “We have to thank chaps like you and the Australians for a lot. You don’t take kindly to some of our old customs, so they’ve been quietly dropped.”
Paxton thought he could afford to take a chance. “I saw one of our chaps take a particularly rude and bumptious young English subaltern outside the mess, at Shoreham, and punch him on the nose.”
“That’s the sort of thing I mean.” Codrington sounded cheerful enough about it.
“I assure you I have no plans to punch anyone, Captain.”
“Should rather hope not. We take all the bumptiousness out of anyone who shows signs of it pretty quickly here.”
Paxton was wise enough to perceive the ambiguity in this statement.
He liked Codrington and everyone else. His only reservation was about the C.O. But he decided that Major Fotheringay-Brown’s unattractive manner arose from shyness and his speech impediment rather than arrogance.
He was no stranger to the FE2. He had flown one for a few hours at the end of his training. There were Jonahs on the squadron, however, who made a point of warning him of its less endearing characteristics. One of them threw in a word of encouragement with which the others concurred.
“You’re lucky to come onto Codrington’s flight. We lost so many good pilots last winter, that a lot of you new chaps have no one to show you the ropes properly. Codrington’s one of the best. He’s damn good to fly with and he’ll take care of you: break you in slowly. That’s not to say you’ll have an easy time at first: there’s too much for us all to do.”
As Paxton found out, with three sorties on his third day. The first was a dawn patrol of four aircraft, led by the flight commander.
“I only want you to get the feel of things and learn a few of the landmarks,” Codrington told him. “And I want to see how well you keep station.”
Paxton found that holding good formation was made unexpectedly difficult by the one hazard to aviation he had not encountered in practice: anti-aircraft fire. Shells bursting around him at close quarters created the greatest turbulence he had ever encountered. It was not until after he had landed that it occurred to him that he had not been scared of being hit by the myriad shards of hot steel that had been hurtling past him; because he had been sweating with concentration on keeping his place in the formation.
On his second sortie he had flown as one of twelve Fees escorting an RE8 on reconnaissance. The objective had been close behind the enemy’s rear trench line. Again the Archie had been heavy but
there had been no encounter with enemy aircraft. He had seen a dozen or so Albatroses a mile or more away but the mission had been completed and the RE8 and its escort had turned for home while the enemy was still too far for an exchange of shots.
He had felt relieved at the time but frustrated when he landed.
The third sortie, in the middle of the afternoon, again saw the whole squadron up on an offensive patrol. The C.O., perforce, remained behind. Codrington’s flight flew in the middle of the formation.
On each operation Paxton had had, as observer, a veteran lieutenant who had shot down twenty enemy aeroplanes. Paxton knew that experienced pilots and observers did not like flying with novices. He felt self-conscious about his rawness and this made him inclined to be aggressive. His orders were to try to stay close to Codrington if a battle developed and not to argue with his observer if he said it was time to break off and go back to base.
“The whole purpose of teaming you with a hot-stuffer observer is to try to keep you out of trouble. Do as he says.”
Paxton had no choice but to accept. He told himself, however, that he might go just a little deaf if an interesting situation developed which he would be reluctant to leave. Had he gone to all that trouble to get as far as this — nearly drowned, nearly died from pneumonia — only to have the right to make decisions taken away from him the first time he got in a fight?
The enemy was waiting for them in strength. Nine Albatroses came out of hiding from behind a small cloud and the two formations altered course towards each other.
Paxton was dividing his attention between Codrington and the enemy. His observer was dividing his between the enemy and scanning the sky all around.
The observer turned round and rapped on the pilot’s small windscreen, then extended an arm up and to the right.
Paxton, looking round, saw another clutch of Albatroses. He counted them: fourteen.
Damn! Now he’ll tell me to go home.
But the observer did not.
No Wrath of Men Page 8