No Wrath of Men

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Her beautiful elder sister’s husband, the artillery captain, happened to be on leave on one of his trips to Paris and the four of them made a couple of expeditions together. Monique adequately chaperoned by her married sister and her brother-in-law. They went to a concert, the Louvre, up the Eiffel Tower, to the Café de la Paix for coffee and cream cakes, to a restaurant for lunch. Andretti insisted on being host: in some small repayment, he said, for all the hospitality he was receiving.

  Monsieur Lenoir was an eminent lawyer, his wife was the cousin of a baron. Although highly placed in Parisian society, they belonged to a respectable, staid, segment of it which was quite unlike the raffish, meretricious and amoral circles in which Kaczinski’s beautiful auburn-haired comtesse preferred to move.

  Autumn wore on towards winter and Andretti’s thoughts were occupied with ways and means of avoiding ever having actually to go into combat and of seducing Monique.

  *

  Codrington had acquired a considerable affection for Paris during the past three years and four months since he had flown — and repeatedly crashed in — a BE2 to the squadron’s first French base.

  Like many well-to-do English families, his had employed a French governess and had ventured to Dinard, Dieppe and Deauville for summer holidays. Codrington’s parents being in India, he and his brother and two sister — all his juniors — had spent their school holidays with their paternal grandparents. These had shared the services of a tough, middle-aged spinster from Tours — reputedly the home of the purest-spoken French — with another family, their nearest neighbours in the country. From the age of six until he was sixteen, “Ma’mselle” had figured in Codrington’s life.

  Every summer she accompanied the children on their seaside holiday in France. The Codrington grandparents and the parents of the other children went with them alternately.

  By the time that Codrington went to Sandhurst he had an excellent command of French, which he spoke with a good accent. He also had a good appreciation of the national character. During his last two summer holidays as a schoolboy he had been allowed to go, with two school friends, to France without adult company. They had, on each occasion, spent half the time in Paris: where they had acquired experience of a kind which was probably not in the minds of their parents when they arranged for them to be lodged by respectable French families.

  Since his first wartime visit there, Codrington had found his relaxation in a manner different from most British officers on leave. Instead of the Crillon bar, the Moulin Rouge and the Ritz or Maxim’s, he frequented obscure cafés, small restaurants and dance halls and stayed in a modest little hotel. The hotel lay in the Third Arrondissement, somewhere between Boulevard Sebastopol and Boulevard du Temple. Although he was usually accompanied by one or two others from the squadron, he did not expect them to share his tastes. They invariably preferred to put up at a hotel near the Champs Elysées or the Place de l’Opéra.

  Codrington was very much imbued with a feeling for small communities, l’esprit du quartier, and relished being identified as a denizen — albeit an infrequent and sporadic one — of his own small corner of Paris. He found it infinitely more agreeable to sit on the terrasse of some little tabac in a side street or on a small square than of the Café de la Paix or the Dome. He enjoyed adding to his store of the local slang and dialect, talking to workmen, shopkeepers and clerks. He made a hobby of discovering bistros where the food was as good as in the great restaurants and cost a quarter as much. He found it amusing to pass an hour in one or other of the quarter’s small maisons de tolérance, where the girls were more amusing and ardent than in the grand establishments of the fashionable First, Eight or Sixteenth Arrondissements.

  He had found himself increasingly drawn into the company of Paxton, Stokoe and Baird. Early in the war, when squadrons had two or even three different types of aeroplane, usually both one- and two-seaters, instead of being homogeneous as they had started to become in late 1916, pilots had not had their own regular observers. Now, to foster team spirit, Codrington had paired them permanently. In consequence it was natural for him to spend much of his off-duty time with Stokoe. He had already formed a friendship with Paxton before Stokoe and Baird joined the squadron. Codrington would not normally have made a friend of anyone as young as Baird, but Baird had a great admiration for Stokoe, and, being Paxton’s observer as well, he naturally gravitated into Codrington’s inner circle. As Baird was the youngest member of the squadron, Codrington also felt that he ought to keep a special eye on him.

  Codrington thought it would be amusing to introduce his three friends from the colonies to the esoteric aspects of Parisian life. It also amused him to see the reaction of the French, in estaminets near the squadron’s aerodrome, to Paxton’s ripe Québequois accent and strange turn of phrase: he looked forward to witnessing the effect on his acquaintances in his favoured quarter.

  Although leave was irregular it was fairly frequent and, in addition, ostensible duty visits to Paris were not difficult to arrange. New aircraft had often to be fetched from Le Bourget, those needing major overhauls had, from time to time, to be flown there.

  One day shortly before Christmas of 1917, Codrington decided that one entire flight of his squadron would exercise its crews in accurate navigation by making a high-altitude flight to Paris, flying above the clouds and following a course with three turning points. The aircraft took off at five-minutes intervals so that each crew had to rely on its own navigation. He set an optimum time for the trip and the crew who came closest to it would win the prize of a dinner at his expense.

  Stokoe approved.

  “We’ll do it right on time. Even Blind Freddy could navigate better than you blokes.”

  His squadron commander disabused him.

  “We’re ipso facto disqualified, Digger.”

  Stokoe, who called his C.O. “Crasher” in private but carefully observed the formalities in the presence of others, a rare tribute from him or from any Australian, favoured Stokoe with the grin which transformed his seamed and leathery countenance into a mask of Satanic glee. He compromised between familiarity and respectfulness.

  “That’s right, sir, I was forgetting something: we’ll be making one or two involuntary stops on the way ... Major Crasher.”

  “By God, you’ll pay for that, Stokoe.”

  Not long after they had taken off, before the others so as to be at Le Bourget to time them in, Codrington reflected that his observer’s jibe must have been an ill omen. Without warning, the excellent Rolls Royce Falcon engine spluttered. It ran roughly for a few seconds before resuming its usual steady roar. It again misfired jerkily, the engine coughed out a billow of smoke, the engine faltered and stopped.

  Stokoe leaned over Codrington, who turned his head and shouted.

  “Petrol feed blocked.”

  Codrington dived the aircraft, switched the engine on and off twice, let it run for several seconds, and swore when it continued to fire irregularly and stopped once more.

  “We’ll have to force-land. There’s a French aerodrome somewhere about here.”

  “It’s almost due east of us now, about five miles.” A moment later Stokoe gave a precise course.

  Codrington hoped his confidence was justified. They were flying over broken cloud and he was able to make his way down through a gap. They soon picked up the French aerodrome. When they were low enough to begin an approach Codrington fired a red Verey light. A Spad was taking off. He swung aside to avoid it, lost height, had to make a quick adjustment to regain straight and level flight, and touched down neatly on three points. The Bristol Fighter taxied a few yards before coming to a stop.

  Stokoe grimaced.

  “I should have touched wood when I made that bad joke.”

  “Yes, you blasted Jonah. I hate giving the French something to laugh about at our expense.”

  A mechanic was strolling over. He stopped and looked up at them insolently.

  “Qu’ y a-t-il encore de cassé?”
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  His manner touched Codrington on the quick. He began to climb out of the cockpit.

  “Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me. Go and tell your Commanding Officer that Major Codrington would like a word with him. At the double.”

  The mechanic looked stunned. He jerked his hand to his cap in a salute. His Adam’s apple jiggled up and down.

  “I beg your pardon, Mon Commandant. Captain Dupuis has just taken off. He is doing an air test: he won’t be long.”

  “I think I’ve got dirt in my petrol. Get some hands to push my aeroplane out of the way.”

  The mechanic doubled off, shouting, and in a couple of minutes several of his mates were pushing the Brisfit towards the hangars.

  A squat man with a jolly face, fair hair and a spiky moustache came sauntering towards Codrington and Stokoe. He touched the peak of his képi.

  “Lieutenant Gabin, second-in-command. Votre avion est en panne, Messieurs?”

  He in turn looked astonished at the fluency of Codrington’s idiomatic reply.

  “Vous avez profité par votre séjour en France pour perfectionner votre français, Mon Commandant.”

  “I haven’t learned a damn thing since I came here in August ’Fourteen that I haven’t already known since I was a boy.”

  Gabin began to laugh. He hoped very much that Dupuis would not stay up for long. The encounter between him and this Codrington would be worth witnessing.

  “You put me to shame: I haven’t a word of your language.”

  He shook hands with Codrington and Stokoe.

  Stokoe said “Enchanté. Je m’appelle Stokoe et je suis Australien.”

  “Tiens! Lui aussi, il parle français.”

  Codrington smiled.

  “Don’t let him fool you. That’s about a quarter of his entire repertoire. The rest is ‘Where d’you live?’ ‘Will you sleep with me?’ and ‘How much?’.”

  Gabin swayed about, stamping his feet as he laughed.

  “Tell me what the trouble is and I’ll give orders for the repairs. We’ll go to the mess and have a glass or two while it’s being attended to.”

  There was a tremendous blast of noise and they turned as a Spad XIII hurtled across the aerodrome at no more than fifty feet. It did a flick roll to the right, another to the left, then climbed steeply into a loop.

  “The C.O., Captain Dupuis.”

  They watched him land.

  Codrington said “I’d better have a word with him before we go to your mess. I’m afraid I gave him a bad moment as he was taking off.”

  Gabin shrugged.

  “He’s been giving me bad moments for years.”

  They walked towards the Spad, which had stopped on the tarmac apron in front of the hangars.

  Dupuis, with his customary sour expression, got out and began to harangue his mechanics. He deliberately ignored his second-in-command and the two strangers. Eventually he had to turn and take notice of them. He glared at Codrington, then dredged up enough of his faulty English to say something disagreeable.

  “ ’Oo you are? You near ’it my aeroplane when I take off.”

  Codrington returned his hard look for hard look, but spoke with his customary politeness.

  “Capitaine Dupuis? Commandant Codrington. I’m sorry I gave you such a near shave. I had an engine stoppage and made a forced landing. I did fire a warning flare.”

  Dupuis’s angry look intensified. Gabin, watching and listening appreciatively, wore a broad smile. His xenophobic C.O. had been whipped into a frenzy by this Englishman’s impeccable French. He despised those who spoke French badly and was filled with resentment by those who spoke it well.

  Dupuis resorted to one of his frequent sneers.

  “What is your engine? A Rolls Royce?”

  “Yes, the best engine in the world, Captain. Unfortunately there was dirt in the petrol: for which we can blame neither my country nor yours.” Codrington’s face relaxed in a smile.

  Dupuis gave him no return for this olive branch. He nodded curtly.

  “I see it is being attended to.”

  “Lieutenant Gabin very kindly gave the necessary instructions.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “St. Sangsue. We are on our way to Le Bourget.”

  “No doubt my men will soon have you on your way. Now, if you will excuse me ...”

  Gabin looked annoyed.

  “I was just taking our guests to the mess for a drink.”

  “By all means.”

  “Won’t you join us?”

  Dupuis hesitated. He looked Codrington up and down.

  “Yes, of course. I wonder, Mon Commandant, if you would agree to a little quid pro quo?”

  “Why, certainly. What is it I can do for you?”

  For the first time, Dupuis spoke without looking as though he had a bad smell under his nose.

  “I’d like to have a flip in your Bristol Fighter.”

  Stokoe, who had understood, looked surprised.

  “We’re late already, Crasher.”

  “Never mind. I’ll be delighted to let you fly it, Captain. I’ve never flown a Spad.”

  “Mine is having a few adjustments made. Gabin will be pleased to lend you his.”

  It was a small aerodrome. Only the one squadron was based there. It was a short walk to the mess. On the way, Gabin made pleasant conversation with Codrington. Dupuis stalked ahead, sucking on a cigarette. Stokoe ambled after them, feeling murderously disposed towards Dupuis. When they had drunk a glass of Burgundy together while Dupuis asked questions about the Bristol Fighter and extolled the Spad, they returned to the hangars.

  Stokoe said “This gink doesn’t expect me to go up with him, does he?”

  “Don’t worry: I’ve explained you’re nervous of strange pilots.”

  “Yeah. I suppose I deserved that for what I said about having to make some involuntary landings this morning.”

  The Brisfit was ready. Codrington gave the engine a long run-up, then explained the handling technique to Dupuis. He watched Dupuis take off and climb, hoping the engine would not cut again. Fotheringay-Brown would not overlook a written-off machine if Dupuis crashed.

  Codrington became enamoured of the Spad XIII at once. It was an exhilarating and reassuring machine. Once he had seen the Brisfit land and Dupuis emerge from it, he took the Spad down almost vertically, zoomed up and rolled and finally made an inverted run across the aerodrome with the crown of his head no more than ten feet above the grass, before pulling up high enough to half-roll into normal flight.

  Dupuis’s face had gone from pallor to beetroot red and his voice shook.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Very much, thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t time to offer you a flight in the Brisfit, Gabin, but come to lunch at St. Sangsue in two days’ time and I’ll make it up to you.”

  Codrington and Stokoe found their comrades awaiting them at Le Bourget in an uncertain mood of amusement mixed with trepidation. Stokoe, with a great show of magnanimity, proclaimed that the delay was in no way “The Boss’s” fault. It was all due to dirty Pommie petrol, he declared.

  By everyone’s reckoning, Paxton and Baird had won the prize: having arrived within twenty-one seconds of the time stipulated by Codrington.

  Codrington had booked ten of the sixteen rooms at his little hotel in the Third. He took his party to a nearby restaurant. The arrangement was that they would go Dutch treat but he would pay for Paxton and Baird. As a bonus he stood champagne all round.

  From the Third Arrondissement they crossed the Seine to the Boul’ Mich’ and then went on to Montparnasse. By the time it was getting on for eleven-o’clock it became apparent to Codrington that his idea of showing his companions a side of Paris life which they would not otherwise have seen was not a success. He spoke quietly to Paxton.

  “The chaps seem a trifle bored.”

  “A trifle? I guess they’re bored stiff. It’s all right for you and me, but these guys don’t know a
word of the language and they’ve had enough of the ‘quaintness’: the neighbourhood cafés and smoky little boîtes with sweaty midinettes to dance with. When they come to Paris they want expensive women and bright lights.”

  Codrington stood up.

  “Come on, you chaps, time for the Crillon; and Montmartre for those who feel like it.”

  There was a cheer and a rush for the door.

  They found the Crillon bar crowded and American air force uniforms in abundance. One tall, heavy-set, florid American pilot with a loud voice instantly caught their attention.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, I was up there at fifteen thousand when I saw this goddam Limey machine, one o’ them Bristol Fighters, and I dove right past it and looped all around it. The pilot tried to get on my tail, but he couldn’t. No, sir. We had a dogfight, must have been all of ten minutes, and this guy couldn’t shake me off.”

  Stokoe said “In a real fight, the observer would have shot you down.”

  Kaczinski looked startled, then an insolent grin appeared.

  “Well, now, here’s a flying asshole speaking out of turn.”

  Whatever else Kaczinski had failed to learn, he had discovered, to his delight, that the observer’s brevet, consisting of a large “O” with one wing sprouting from it, was known in the R.F.C. as the flying arsehole.

  Stokoe moved closer to him.

  “There are ways and ways of using that term and I didn’t like the way you said it.”

  “Is that so, Limey?”

  “I’m an Australian.”

  “Yeah? You’re still a flyin’ asshole.”

  There was a crash as Kaczinski tottered backwards, fell onto a chair, which broke, and lay groaning, clutching his belly with both hands. In a moment he began to retch.

  Stokoe stood over him with fists clenched.

  “Get up, you soft bastard.”

  Paxton grabbed him on one side and another large member of the flight on the other. Baird took his usual grip on Stokoe’s belt. He began to struggle.

  “Get him out of here,” Codrington told them.