by Wilbur Smith
Michael picked Andrew’s SE5a out of the pack and went for him, and the two of them locked into an intricate aerial duet, pushing the big powerful machines harder and still harder, seeking their outer limits of speed and endurance; but evenly matched in skill and aircraft, neither was able to wrest the final advantage, until quite by chance as Andrew came up on his tail, almost into the killing line, Michael kicked on full rudder without bank and the SE5a tail skidded, turning flat, whipping him around with a force that almost dislocated his neck, and he found himself roaring back head-on to Andrew’s attack.
They flashed past each other, only the lightning reflexes of veteran fighter pilots saving them from collision, and instantly Michael repeated the flat skid turn and was flung violently against the side of the cockpit, striking his partially healed shoulder on the rim so that his vision starred with the pain – but he was round in a flash and he fastened on to Andrew’s tail. Andrew twisted desperately, but Michael matched every evasive twist and held him in the ring sight of the Vickers, pressing closer until the spinning boss of his propeller almost touched Andrew’s rudder.
‘Ngi dla!’ Michael howled triumphantly. ‘I have eaten!’ – the ancient Zulu warcry that King Chaka’s warriors had screamed as they put the long silver blade of the assegai into living flesh.
He saw Andrew’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror on the cross struts of the wing above his head, and his eyes were wide with dismay and disbelief at that incredible manoeuvre.
Andrew fired a green Very flare to signal the recall to the squadron and to concede victory to Michael. The squadron was scattered across the sky, but at the recall they re-formed on Andrew and he led them back to Mort Homme.
The moment they landed, Andrew sprang from his machine and rushed to Michael, seizing him by both shoulders and shaking him impatiently.
‘How did you do that – how the hell did you do that?’
Quickly Michael explained.
‘It’s impossible.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘A flat turn – if I hadn’t seen it—’ He broke off. ‘Come on. Let’s go and try it again.’
Together the two big scout planes roared off the narrow strip, and only returned as the last light was fading. Michael and Andrew jumped down from their cockpits and fell on each other, slapping each other on the back and dancing in a circle, so padded by their flying clothes that they looked like a pair of performing bears. Their ground crews stood by with indulgent grins until they sobered a little and then Mac, the head mechanic, stepped forward and tipped his forage cap.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but that paint job is like my mother-in-law’s Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, sir, dull and dirty and God-help-us.’
The SE5a’s were in factory drab. A colour that was intended to make them inconspicuous to the enemy.
‘Green,’ said Andrew. A few of the pilots on both sides, German as well as British, desired the opposite effect. With them it was a matter of pride that their paintwork should be bright enough to advertise their presence to the enemy, a direct challenge. ‘Green,’ Andrew repeated. ‘Bright green to match my scarf, and don’t forget the flying haggis on the nose.’
‘Yellow, please, Mac,’ Michael decided.
‘Now what made me think you would choose yellow, Mr Michael?’ Mac grinned.
‘Oh, Mac, while you are about it, take that awful little windshield off her and tighten up the rigging wires, won’t you?’
The old hands all believed that by screwing up the rigging wires and increasing the dihedral angle of the wings, they could put a few knots on their speed.
‘I’ll see to it,’ Mac promised.
‘Trim her to fly hands off,’ Michael added. The aces were all fusspots, everybody knew that. If the SE5a flew straight and level with hands off the controls, the pilot could use both hands for the guns.
‘Hands off it is, sir!’ Mac grinned indulgently.
‘Oh, and Mac, train the guns for fifty yards—’
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘That will do for now, Mac,’ Michael answered his grin, ‘but I’ll work on it.’
‘I’m sure you will, sir.’ Mac shook his head with resignation. ‘She’ll be ready by dawn.’
‘There’s a bottle of rum for you if she is,’ Michael promised.
‘And now, my boy,’ Andrew threw his arm around Michael’s shoulders,’ how about a drink?’
‘I thought you would never offer,’ Michael said.
The mess was full of excited young men all eagerly and loudly discussing the new machines.
‘Corporal!’ Lord Killigerran called over their heads to the mess servant. ‘All drinks tonight will be on my book, please,’ and his pilots cheered him delightedly before turning back to the bar to make the most of the offer.
An hour later when all eyes were glittering feverishly and the laughter had reached that raucous pitch which Andrew judged to be appropriate, he hammered on the bar for their attention and announced solemnly, ‘As Grand Bok-Bok Champion of Aberdeen and greater Scotland, not to mention the outer Hebrides, it behoves me to challenge all comers to a bout of that ancient and honourable sport.’
‘Behoves, forsooth!’ Michael cocked a mocking eye at him. ‘Kindly pick your team, sir.’
Michael lost the toss and his team was required to form the rugger scrum against the far wall of the mess, while the mess servants swiftly stowed away all breakables. Then one at a time Andrew’s lads took a run across the mess and landed with all possible force upon the scrum, endeavouring to collapse it for an outright win. If, however, any part of their anatomy touched the ground in the process, it would have meant an immediate disqualification of their team.
Michael’s scrum withstood the weight and violence of the onslaught, and finally all eight of Andrew’s men, making sure that not a toe or finger touched the ground, were perched like a troop of monkeys on top of Michael’s pyramid.
From the top of the pile Andrew asked the crucial question which would decide glorious victory or ignoble defeat.
‘Bok-Bok, how many fingers do I hold up?’
His voice muffled by the weight of bodies above him, Michael guessed. ‘Three.’
‘Two!’ Andrew claimed victory and with a dismal groan the scrum deliberately collapsed itself, and in the ensuing chaos Michael found Andrew’s ear within inches of his mouth.
‘I say, do you think I might borrow the motor-cycle tonight?’ he asked.
Pinned as he was, Andrew could not move his head, but he rolled his eyes towards Michael.
‘Going out for a breath of air, my boy, once again?’ And then when Michael looked sheepish and could find no clever reply, he went on, ‘All I have is yours, go with my blessing and give the lucky lady my deepest respects, won’t you?’
Michael parked the motor-cycle in the woods behind the barn, and carrying the bundle of army blankets sloshed through the mud to the entrance. As he stepped in there was a flash of light as Centaine lifted the shutter of the lantern and shone it in his face.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’
She was sitting up on top of the bales of straw with her legs tucked under her and she grinned impishly down at him. ‘What a surprise to meet you here.’
He scrambled up to her and seized her.
‘You are early,’ he accused.
‘Papa went to bed early—’ she got no further, for his mouth covered hers.
‘I saw the new airplanes,’ she gasped when they broke apart to breathe, ‘but I didn’t know which was you. They are all the same. It troubled me not to know which was you.’
‘Tomorrow mine will be yellow again. Mac is re-doping it for me.’
‘We must arrange signals,’ she told him, as she took the blankets from him and began to build their nest in between the bales of straw.
‘If I lift my hand over my head like this, that will mean that I will meet you in the barn tonight,’ he suggested.
‘That is the signal I will look for hardest.’ She smiled up at him and th
en patted the blankets. ‘Come here,’ she ordered, and her voice had gone husky and purring.
A long time later as she lay with her ear against his naked chest and listened to his heart pumping, he stirred slightly and then whispered, ‘Centaine, it’s no good! You cannot travel to Africa with me.’
She sat up quickly and stared at him, her mouth hardening, and her eyes, dark as gunmetal, gleamed dangerously.
‘I mean, what would people say? Think of my reputation, travelling with a woman who was not my wife.’
She went on staring at him, but her mouth softened into the beginning of a smile.
‘There must be a solution, though.’ He pretended to puzzle over it. ‘I have it!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘What if I were to marry you!’
She put her cheek back against his chest. ‘Only to save your reputation,’ she whispered.
‘You have not yet said “yes”.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes! A million times yes!’
And then, characteristically, her next question was pragmatic.
‘When, Michel?’
‘Soon, as soon as possible. I have met your family, but tomorrow I will take you to meet mine.’
‘Your family?’ She held him at arm’s length. ‘Your family is in Africa.’
‘Not all of it,’ he assured her. ‘Most of it is here. When I say most I don’t mean numbers, I mean the most important single part of it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, ma chérie, you will!’ he assured her.
Michael had explained to Andrew what he had in mind.
‘If you get caught I will disclaim any knowledge of the whole nefarious scheme. I will, furthermore, preside with great enjoyment at your court martial, and will personally command the firing-squad,’ Andrew warned him.
Michael had paced out the firm ground at the edge of North Field on the side of the de Thiry estate furthest from the squadron base. He had to slide-slip the bright yellow SE5a down behind the line of oaks that guarded the field, and then as he skimmed over the seven-foot stone wall, he shut the throttle and let her drop to the soft earth. He pulled up quickly, and left the engine idling as he clambered out on the wing.
Centaine was running out from the corner of the wall where she had been waiting. He saw she had followed his instructions and was warmly dressed: fur-lined boots under her yellow woollen skirt, and a yellow silk scarf at her throat. Over it all she wore a lustrous cape of silver fox fur, and the hood dangled down her back as she ran. She carried a soft leather bag on a strap over one shoulder.
Michael jumped down and swung her in his arms.
‘Look! I am wearing yellow – your favourite.’
‘Clever girl.’ He sat her down. ‘Here!’ He pulled the borrowed flying helmet from the pocket of his greatcoat and showed her how to fit it over her thick dark curls and buckle the strap under the chin.
‘Do I look gallant and romantic?’ she asked, posing for him.
‘You look marvellous.’ And it was true. Her cheeks were rouged with excitement, and her eyes sparkled.
‘Come on.’ Michael climbed back on to the wing and then lowered himself into the tiny cockpit.
‘It is so small.’ Centaine hesitated on the wing.
‘So are you, but I think you are also afraid, no?’
‘Afraid, ha!’ She flashed a look of utter scorn at him, and began to climb in on top of him.
This was a complicated business, which involved lifting her skirts above her knees and then balancing precariously over the open cockpit, like a beautiful bird settling on its clutch of eggs. Michael could not resist the temptation, and as she came down on top of him, he ran his hand up under the skirts, almost to the junction of her luscious silk-clad thighs. Centaine squealed with outrage. ‘You are forward, monsieur!’ and she plopped down on to his lap.
Michael fastened the safety-belt over both of them and then nuzzled her neck below the edge of the helmet. ‘You are in my power now. You cannot escape.’
‘I am not sure that I wish to,’ she giggled.
It took some further minutes for them to arrange all Centaine’s skirts and furs and petticoats, and to make sure that Michael could manipulate the controls with her strapped on to his lap.
‘All set,’ he told her, and taxied to the end of the field, giving himself every inch of runway that he could, for the earth was soft and the strip short. He had ordered Mac to remove the ammunition from both guns and drain the coolant from the Vickers, which saved almost sixty pounds in weight, but still they were overloaded for the length of runway available to them.
‘Hold on,’ he said in her ear, and opened the throttle and the big scoutplane bounded forward.
‘Thank God for the south wind,’ he murmured as he felt her unstick from the mud and strive mightily to lift them into the air.
As they scraped over the far wall, Michael banked slightly to lift his port wing over one of the oaks, and then they were climbing away. He felt how rigid Centaine was in his lap, and he thought she was really afraid. He was disappointed.
‘We are safe now,’ he shouted over the engine beat, and she turned her head, and he saw in her eyes not fear but ecstasy.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, and kissed him. To know that she shared his passion for flight delighted him.
‘We will go over the château,’ he told her, and banked away steeply, dropping down again.
For Centaine it was the second most marvellous experience of her whole life, better than riding or music, almost as good as Michael’s loving. She was a bird, an eagle, she wanted to shout her joy aloud, she wanted to hold the moment for ever. She wanted to always be on high with the wild wind howling around her and the strong arm of the man she loved holding her protectively.
Below her lay a new world, familiar places that she had known since her earliest childhood, now viewed from a different and enchanting dimension. ‘This is the way the angels must see the world!’ she cried, and he smiled at the fancy. The château loomed ahead of them, and she had not realized how big it was, or how pink and pretty was the roof of baked tiles. And there was Nuage in the field behind the stables, galloping ahead of them, racing the roaring yellow aircraft – and she laughed and shouted in the wind, ‘Run, my darling!’ and then they passed over him, and she saw Anna in the gardens, straightening up from her plants as she heard the engine, shading her eyes, peering up at them. She was so close that Centaine could see the frown on her red face, and she leaned far out from the cockpit. Her yellow scarf flowed behind her in the slipstream as she waved, and she saw the look of crumpled disbelief on Anna’s face as they flashed by.
Centaine laughed in the wind and called to Michael, ‘Go higher. Go up higher.’
He obeyed and she was never still for a moment, twisting and hopping about in his lap, leaning out of the cockpit first on one side, then on the other.
‘Look! Look! There is the convent – if only the nuns could see me now. There, that is the canal – and there is the cathedral at Arras – oh, and there—’ Her excitement and enthusiasm were infectious, and Michael laughed with her, and when she turned her head back to him, he kissed her, but she broke away.
‘Oh, I don’t want to miss a second!’
Michael picked out the main airforce base at Bertangles; the runways formed a cross of mown green turf through the dark forest, with the cluster of hangars and buildings nestling in the arms of the cross.
‘Listen to me,’ he shouted in her ear. ‘You must keep your head down while we land.’ She nodded. ‘When I give you the word, jump down and run into the trees. You will find a stone wall on your right. Follow it for three hundred metres until you reach the road. Wait there.’
Michael joined the Bertangles circuit in textbook fashion, taking advantage of his sedate down-wind leg to scrutinize the base for any activity which might indicate the presence of high-ranking officers or other potential troublemakers. There were half a dozen aircraft parked in front of the hangars, and he saw
one or two figures working on them or wandering about amongst the buildings.
‘Looks as though it’s clear,’ he muttered, and turned crosswind and then on to final approach, with Centaine scrunched down on his lap, out of sight from the ground.
Michael came in high, like a novice; he was still at fifty feet when he passed the hangars, and he touched down deep at the far end of the runway and let his rollout carry them almost to the edge of the forest before he swung broadside and braked hard.
‘Get out and run!’ he told Centaine, and boosted her out of the cockpit. Hidden from the hangars and buildings by the fuselage of the SE5a, she hoisted up her skirts, tucked her leather bag under her arm, and scampered into the trees.
Michael taxied back to the hangars and left the SE5a on the apron.
‘Better sign the book, sir,’ a sergeant mechanic told him as he jumped down.
‘Book?’
‘New procedure, sir – all flights have to log in and out.’
‘Damned red tape,’ Michael groused. ‘Can’t do a thing without a piece of paper these days.’ But he went off to find the duty officer.
‘Oh yes, Courtney, there is a driver for you.’
The driver was waiting behind the wheel of a black Rolls-Royce parked at the back of No. 1 hangar, but as soon as he saw Michael he sprang out and stood to attention.
‘Nkosana!’ he grinned with huge delight, his teeth gleaming in his dark moon-shaped face, and he threw Michael a sweeping salute that quivered at the peak of his cap. He was a tall young Zulu, taller even than Michael, and he wore the khaki uniform and puttees of the African Service Corps.