Stokoe had not thought much of that idea.
“Aw, don’t go crook on me, Cobber. Stone the crows, you’re always loafing off to see your sheila. She won’t appreciate you, mate, if she sees too much of you. We were counting on you to keep us out of trouble, the boys and me.”
This was an appeal irresistible by the serious Baird. “The boys” were a bunch of Australian, New Zealand, Canadian and South African pupil pilots and navigators: a more noisy, hard-drinking and riotous collection than Baird had yet encountered. They were all older than he, from six months to five years, and he felt complimented at being regarded as a restraining influence. They pretended to be much impressed by his responsible status as an engaged man. Before setting out to paint London red they had given him specific instructions about what was expected of him: he was to ensure that none of them fell for the lures of designing women who might do something quite shocking, like forcing them into bed; he was to ensure none of them got too drunk to walk; and if there was any trouble, here was the name and telephone number of a reliable solicitor who would see that all fines were paid.
In the event, an hour after the new year was ushered in, Baird found himself deserted. All the others, more or less unsober, had gone off with various ladies whom they had acquired in the course of a long evening. Perfectly respectable ladies, his friends assured him. Every one of them married, with husbands decently serving in one or other of the armed forces; but not, fortunately, within several miles of London. They dispersed for the night to various luxurious houses and flats in Mayfair, Belgravia and Knightsbridge, leaving Baird to return to an officers’ club in Bayswater on his own.
*
Andretti saw the new year in at the family’s best restaurant, surrounded by relations.
He was the centre of a group of admiring pubescent girls, with whom he danced indefatigably throughout the evening and to each of whom he pitched the same line.
“Yeah, there’s gonna be a war, Baby. Give it another two-three months and Uncle Sam’ll have to take a hand in things over there. Then it’s me for the wide blue yonder.”
“What d’you mean, Froddie?”
“I’m gonna be an aviator, Beautiful.”
“My! I guess you’ll look just so handsome in your uniform.”
“It’s not the uniform, kid. I’m gonna get me an aeroplane and a machine-gun and show those Sauerkrauts something they ain’t gonna forget. And the Frogs. And the Limeys.”
“Oh, Frod, you’re just wonderful.”
Andretti thought so too and he had seldom enjoyed himself so much; despite the ultimate untouchability of all these young female relatives.
Kaczinski was at a grand New Year’s Eve party on the lakeside, where the richest of Chicago society was gathered.
He had a good audience, too. Every husband-hunting girl in the room hung on his words with shining eyes.
“Yup, all us guys’ll be in Uncle Sam’s khaki come a month or two. Won’t you gals just miss us?”
“What are you going to do, Baxie?”
“Oh, I guess I’ll try my hand at this aviating. Maybe when I come back from over there, I’ll buy me an aeroplane and take you lovelies joy-riding. If you aren’t all snapped up by the guys who stay at home.”
“We’ll wait for you, Baxie! “
A lot of them probably would, at that, he thought. He was a good catch and worth waiting for. Just the same, maybe he should get himself engaged to make sure somebody else didn’t cut him out. There was just one girl he really wanted to get hitched to. He turned to the millionaire beef-packer’s daughter.
“My dance, I believe, Sugar?”
“If you say so, Baxie.”
*
Two days before he was due to return to France after a spell in hospital and some convalescent leave, Codrington was enjoying a final fling in London, going to the theatre and a night club or two. Paxton was with him. Codrington had spent a week with his paternal grandparents at their home in Leicestershire, where he had hunted the fox as a change from Germans. Paxton had been to stay for the weekend.
They were walking from the Cavalry Club in Piccadilly, where Codrington was staying and where they had had tea, to Claridges, Paxton’s hotel, for a drink. As they passed a pub in a quiet Mayfair mews the door opened and a burly figure in the uniform of a merchant service officer came hurtling through, arms outstretched to damp his heavy fall onto the paving stones. A yard behind him, a second large merchant marine officer came flying.
Codrington and Paxton paused.
A third man emerged from the doorway, staggering and trying to keep his balance. He was a sergeant in a Guards regiments and he collapsed on top of the other two.
All three of them had cuts and bumps on their faces and both the sailors’ noses were bleeding. A huge man in Australian uniform filled the doorway. He tossed the three sprawling men’s caps at them. A short, hefty man in South African uniform was just visible behind him: apparently gripping the Australian’s belt, for the Australian took a sharp step backward as though answering a violent tug, disappeared, and the door slammed shut. Both colonials sported an observers’ brevet and the Australian had two good medal ribbons.
Codrington made for the door, which was marked “Saloon Bar”.
“Better take a look. Could be trouble. Can’t have officers brawling with O.Rs, even if the Australians are a law to themselves.” He paused by the Guards N.C.O., who was slowly getting to his feet. “You’d better be on your way, Sergeant.”
The sergeant grinned ruefully, leaped up to his full height, rammed his cap on his head and saluted.
“I’m not making any complaints, sir.”
The two merchant service officers were dusting their clothes, stanching their bleeding noses and scowling.
Codrington said “I don’t suppose you feel like going back in there. Very wise.”
In the bar they found the Australian and the South African standing at the counter in an otherwise empty room.
They turned when the door opened and the Australian clenched his fists. Then he grinned.
“Look what’s flown in, Bairdy. Come and have a drink, cobbers.”
Codrington sauntered up to the bar counter.
“We didn’t come in for a drink. I came in to tell you what a damned disgrace to the Corps you are, brawling in public. And as for fisticuffs with an N.C.O., that’s a very serious offence, as you damned well know.”
Baird said “They started it. They got what they deserved.”
“What happened?”
Stokoe, still looking pleased, said “Come on, have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it. We’re celebrating. We’ve just passed out from our observers’ course. We’ve been to the tailor to order our R.F.C. clobber.”
“You’ll be lucky if you ever wear it. If those two sailors come back with a policeman, you’ll be court martialled and the Corps won’t have you.”
“The sailors won’t be mangy. They’re decent enough blokes. Just indiscreet, that’s all. Have a drink, both of you.”
Codrington and Paxton said they’d have whisky.
Hearing Paxton speak, Stokoe held out his hand. “You’re a bloody Canuck! How are yer, mate?”
“What was all that about?”
“Aw, those two bloody drongoes are off some tub in the Docks. They said they’d come ‘up West’ to have a change from the dockland pubs. They started to make insulting remarks about Australia, so we had a bit of a blue.”
“What about the sergeant?”
“His old man’s a butler in some lord’s mansion around here. He’s up from the Guards Depot for the day. Been to see his dad. He made some insulting remarks about Gallipoli.”
Codrington eyed Stokoe’s M.C. and M.M. ribbons. “You’ll get all the fighting you want in France, without knocking people about in pubs.”
“I’ve been in France, cobber. Some bastard stuck a bayonet in me on the bloody Somme. I came straight out of hospital onto my pilots’ course. Had a few crashe
s, bust me legs and I’ve wound up as an observer. Have another drink.”
“No thanks.”
Baird asked diffidently, “Are you both on the same squadron?”
“Captain Codrington is my flight commander.”
“What are you flying?”
“We’ve been on Pups, but Codrington had a letter from the C.O. to say we’re getting Bristol Fighters.”
Stokoe had been listening to Paxton with close attention.
“Two-seaters! That means you’re going to need observers.”
Codrington knew at that instant exactly what a nappy horse felt like when it shied away from some strange and frightening object.
“No doubt War Office will see we get them.”
“We’d like to make sure we get on Brisfits. Wouldn’t we, Bairdy?”
“Very much. They’re the latest thing.”
“How about it, Captain?”
“How about what?”
“Putting in a good word for us.”
“On what grounds? That one of you is able to throw three large men out of a pub single-handed and the other isn’t capable of preventing him?”
Stokoe laughed loudly.
“You can’t blame Baird. He did his best. Look, Captain, fair dinkum, we’re both good with a machine-gun. Baird passed out top in gunnery and I was second. What more d’you want, cobber?”
“Quite a lot.”
“Well, we know the number of your squadron, so there’s nothing to stop us applying for a posting to it, is there?”
“A lot of other squadrons are getting the Bristol Fighter as well.”
“But it’ll be a stronger application if we nominate a particular squadron.”
Codrington was not quite sure how it came about; and neither, in retrospect, was Paxton; but they presently found themselves drinking in Claridges with their two new acquaintances, then dining together and finally going with them to the theatre and a night club.
When Codrington woke the next morning with a sore head he reflected wryly that he had agreed to recommend both Stokoe and Baird to Major Fotheringay-Brown.
Eight
Rudel, flamboyant with his corpulence, his medals, his flaming red hair and his big black car adorned with roundels to declare his victories over the British and French, took naturally to the style and self-advertisement of the Jagdstaffel. Each Jasta decorated its aircraft in a squadron colour or colours. The one on which Rudel and Weisbach served had a black and gold livery. The pilots devised individual patterns.
Rudel had his Albatros D3 painted in broad longitudinal stripes. Weisbach’s was black, with a gold fin and tail planes and small gold diamonds along the fuselage and the upper surface of the upper wing and the under surface of the lower one.
Rudel also had a gold band painted around his limousine.
During the winter, the Germans had gradually regained ascendancy in the air. Their aircraft industry had achieved a high volume of production and the Albatros D3 had replaced the earlier marks on all thirty-seven Jastas. These proved superior to the Sopwith Pups except when the latter were in the hands of exceptionally skilled pilots. The R.F.C. was still flying its obsolescent BE2s and DH2s as well as the comparatively small number of Pups and Sopwith One-and-a-half Strutters.
The best of the British scouts was the Sopwith Triplane, but this had been issued only to the Royal Naval Air Service and was present in very small numbers on the Western Front.
Rudel and Weisbach had not allowed themselves to be drawn into the same intimacy with their fellow pilots as they had with their old comrades on their first squadron. Weisbach still smarted with resentment of the condescension with which he had at first been treated. Now that he was acknowledged to be the best pilot on the squadron, he allowed himself a certain amount of aloofness in revenge. Not that all the present pilots were the same ones who had been so hostile to him. Half of those had been killed or so badly injured that they no longer flew.
Rudel, from loyalty to his friend and a natural high-spirited indifference towards the vanities of others, had not sought the friendship of his new companions. With his gregarious nature and jovial manner, he was welcome in any company and he and Rudel had made many acquaintances in the local bars and restaurants.
They were in a restaurant in Lille one evening in March with a group of infantry and artillery officers who were on a few days’ rest from the line. Rudel, as he usually did, guided the conversation in the direction of specific interest to him at the time.
“What about these new CL aeroplanes: are they effective?”
One of the infantrymen said “The close-support jobs? Yes, they’re useful. Dangerous job, though. We’ve been using them in our sector.”
Weisbach asked “How exactly do they operate?”
“They fly low along the enemy trenches, dropping bombs and grenades and machine-gunning.”
Rudel said “I believe there is a better use for them than that. I see them as primarily an attack weapon. In a push or a counter-attack, they should go in first, directly ahead of the ground troops, to soften up the defence: make the enemy keep their heads down.”
Driving back to camp, Weisbach asked “What was all that about the CL class?”
“I want to know all about them, Weisie. This war isn’t going to be won in the air. Or at sea, for that matter. Ultimate victory will come only when we have driven the enemy back all the way to Paris. The primary purpose of the aeroplane in war was as an extension of the cavalry, a means of probing ahead and bringing back information about enemy strength and movements. Then the scouts appeared, to chase the reconnaissance machines away. Then more scouts, on both sides, to chase each other away and protect the reconnaissance boys. Then we developed machines big enough to go and bomb England. So the English built ones that can bomb the Fatherland. But that isn’t going to be decisive in winning the war, either. The next logical step is close support for the ground forces so that we can blast our way to Paris.”
“All very interesting, Rudie. But tomorrow morning we still have to get up at dawn to keep the enemy out of our airspace, as usual.”
“Maybe. But you mark my words. Close air support of the advancing ground forces is the coming strategy. Which means it is the kind of work we ought to start doing as soon as possible.”
“You mean the Jasta ought to change its role?”
“No. I’m saying that we ought to get ourselves onto a squadron that’s flying the new CL class of aeroplane.”
*
Dupuis and Gabin were discharged from hospital at about the same time as Codrington and Paxton.
Dupuis spent his convalescence at the family home in Neuilly. His mistress lived conveniently nearby, on the Avenue Victor Hugo. As a matter of form, her husband, the Député, kept a young actress in a flat in Montparnasse. Matters arranged themselves well. While Monsieur le Député was in the Chamber or with his actress, Dupuis was with his wife. When husband and wife had social obligations in which both must share, Dupuis did not begrudge the Député his mistress’s time. To amuse himself during an afternoon when his mistress had to attend a political reception, he had once kept watch on the little actress’s apartment from a café terrace opposite. He had been delighted to see that she was deceiving the portly Député with a smart young sergeant of Chasseurs: who, Dupuis made it his business to find out, had been wounded in 1914 and was permanently employed at the War Ministry in a clerical post.
Dupuis’s mistress did him credit. They had been lovers, and faithful to each other, for four years by then. She was tall and slender, with eyes of an unusual shade between hazel and amber, hair of a rich chestnut hue and Grecian features. Her public manner was imperious. In private she was vulnerable, clinging and beguiling.
On the evening that Codrington and Paxton had first met Stokoe and Baird, Dupuis and Adèle had just got out of bed, dressed, and were drinking chilled Sancerre in the salon, awaiting the Député’s return: allegedly from his office, but, as they both knew, actually from a
similarly cozy afternoon in Montparnasse.
“It will be more difficult than ever to part after you have had such a long time away from the Front.” She looked wistful.
“At least I am going back as a captain. And I have been promised that my squadron will be among the first to have the new Spad Thirteen when it comes into service.”
“You are sweet. Your eyes lit up like a small boy’s in anticipation of a new train set, when you said that.”
“Some toy! Imagine: two machine-guns, if one wants them, and a speed of over two hundred and ten kilometres an hour.”
“I cannot imagine what it must be like to travel at such speeds as you boys do.”
“I’ll show you, one day, when the war is won.”
She reached for a walnut table at her side and rapped on it. Her eyes became misty.
“Promise me you always wear that medal I gave you.”
He unbuttoned a tunic pocket and took out an oval gold medallion embossed with the figure of the Madonna. He put it on his palm and held it out to her.
“It never leaves me.”
Except in bed, he reminded himself, where it would hardly be appropriate.
It had been blessed by the Pope when Adèle had accompanied her husband on a visit to the Vatican. They both placed great store by it. So did the Député, who took an interest in the preservation of Dupuis’s life. He did not want his beautiful wife moping about the place, mourning.
“And now that you are taking command of the squadron, perhaps administration will keep you on the ground more.”
“No reason why it should. I can attend to the paperasserie after dark.”
“You have done enough already.”
She leaned towards him on the sofa they were sharing and flicked one of his medals. It tinkled against the other two.
“Nobody can do enough. Especially these days, with the soldiers behaving so disgracefully.”
The French Army, demoralised by its slaughter at Verdun, had mutinied in more than one place. For the time being it was useless as a fighting force. It could not be asked, or forced, to launch another ambitious push like the one on the Somme. All that the Allied generals could expect of the French Army was that it would hold its present positions. It would take a year to restore its pride and confidence.
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