by Wilbur Smith
When Michael taxied the SE5a down to where she waited and swung it broadside to the distant airport buildings, she sprinted out from cover, tossed the bag up to him, and scrambled on to the wing. This time there was no hesitation and she clambered up into the cockpit like an old hand.
‘Head down,’ Michael ordered and swung the aircraft on to line for the take-off.
‘All clear,’ he told her once they were airborne and she popped her head up again, just as eager and excited as she had been on the first flight. They climbed higher and still higher.
‘See how the clouds look like fields of snow – and the sunshine fills them with rainbows.’
She wriggled around in his lap, to look back over the tailplane, and then a quizzical look came into her eyes and she seemed to lose interest in the rainbows.
‘Michel!’ She moved again in his lap, but with deliberation.
‘Michel!’ No longer a query, and her tight round buttocks performed a cunning little oscillation that made him squirm.
‘Forgive me!’ He tried desperately to move out of contact, but her posterior hunted after him, and she twisted her upper body around so that she could place both arms around his neck and she whispered to him.
‘Not in broad daylight – not at five thousand feet!’ He was shocked by her suggestion.
‘Why not, mon chéri?’ She kissed him lingeringly. ‘Nobody will ever know,’ and Michael realized that the SE5a had dropped a wing and was starting a shallow spiral dive. Hastily he corrected the machine, and she hugged him and began to move in a slow voluptuous rhythm in his lap.
‘Don’t you want to?’ she asked.
‘But, but – nobody has ever done it before, not in an SE5a. I don’t know if it’s possible.’ His voice was becoming weaker, his flying more erratic.
‘We will find out,’ she said firmly. ‘You fly the aeroplane and do not fret yourself,’ and she hoisted herself slightly and began drawing up the back of her fur coat and the yellow skirt with it.
‘Centaine,’ he said uncertainly, and then a little later, ‘Centaine!’ more definitely, and a little later still, ‘Oh my God, Centaine!’
‘It is possible!’ she cried triumphantly, and almost immediately she was aware of sensations which she had never suspected were harboured within her. She felt herself borne upwards and outwards as though she was departing her own body, and as though she were drawing Michael’s soul out with her. At first she was terrified by the strength and strangeness of it, and then all other emotions were swept away.
She felt herself tumbling and swirling, upwards and upwards, with the wild wind roaring about her, and the rainbow-girded clouds undulating on every side – and then she heard herself screaming, and she thrust all her fingers into her mouth to still her own cries, but it was too strong to be contained, and she threw her head back and screamed and sobbed and laughed with the wonder of it, as she went over the peak and fell down the other side into the gulf, spinning downwards, settling softly as a snowflake into her own body again, and feeling his arms around her, hearing him groaning and gasping in her ear, and she twisted and held him fiercely and cried, ‘I love you, Michel, I will always love you!’
Mac hurried to meet Michael as soon as he cut the engine and climbed out of the cockpit.
‘You’re just in time, sir. There is a pilots’ briefing in the mess. The major has been asking for you – best hurry, sir,’ and then, as Michael started along the duckboards towards the mess, he called after him, ‘How is she flying, sir?’
‘Like a bird, Mac. Just reload the guns for me.’
First time ever that he hadn’t fussed about his machine, Mac thought wonderingly, as he watched Michael walk away.
The mess was full of pilots, all the armchairs were taken and one or two new chums were standing against the wall at the back. Andrew sat on the bar counter swinging his legs and sucking on the amber cigarette-holder. He broke off as Michael appeared in the doorway.
‘Gentlemen, we are being honoured. Captain Michael Courtney has graciously consented to join us. Despite other pressing and important business, he has been kind enough to devote an hour or two to help us settle our little difference with Kaiser Wilhelm II. I think we should show our appreciation.’
There were howls and cat-calls, and somebody blew a loud raspberry.
‘Barbarians,’ Michael told them haughtily, and dropped into the armchair hastily vacated by a new chum.
‘Are you comfortable?’ Andrew asked him solicitously. ‘Do you mind if I carry on? Good! Well, as I was saying, the squadron has received an urgent despatch, delivered by motor-cycle less than half an hour ago, direct from divisional headquarters.’
He held it up and waved it at arm’s length, pinching his nostrils with the other hand so that his voice was nasal as he went on.
‘You will be able to smell the quality of the literary style and the contents from where you are sitting—’
There were a few polite guffaws, but the eyes that watched him were screwed up nervously, and here and there were little nervous movements, the shuffling of feet, one of the old hands cracking his knuckles, another nibbling on his thumbnail, Michael unconsciously blowing on his fingertips – for all of them knew that the scrap of coarse yellow paper that Andrew was waving at them might be their death warrant.
Andrew held it at arm’s length and read from it.
From Divisional Headquarters, Arras.
To the Officer Commanding No. 21 Squadron RFC.
Near Mort Homme.
As of 2400 hrs 4th April 1917, you will at all costs
prevent any enemy aerial observation over your
designated sector until further orders to the contrary.
‘That’s all, gentlemen. Four lines, a mere bagatelle, but let me point out to you the succinct phrase “at all costs” without dwelling upon it.’
He paused and looked over the mess slowly, watching it register on each strained and gaunt face.
‘My God, look how old they have grown,’ he thought, irrelevantly. ‘Hank looks fifty years old, and Michael—’ he glanced up at the mirror over the mantelpiece, and when he saw his reflection, he brushed nervously at his own forehead where in the last few weeks the sandy hair had receded in two deep bays, leaving pink skin like a beach at low tide. Then he dropped his hand selfconsciously and went on.
‘Beginning at 0500 hours tomorrow morning, all pilots will fly four daily sorties until further notice,’ he announced. ‘There will be the usual dawn and dusk sweeps, but from now on they will be at full squadron strength.’ He looked around for questions; there were none. ‘Then each flight of aircraft will make an additional two sorties – one hour on, and two hours off – or as our friends in the Royal Navy are wont to say, “Standing watch and watch”. That way we will maintain a perpetual presence over the squadron’s designated area.’
They all stirred again and then heads turned towards Michael, for he was the eldest and their natural spokesman. Michael blew on his fingers and then studied them minutely.
‘Do I have any questions?’
Hank cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ Andrew turned to him expectantly, but Hank subsided back into his armchair.
‘Just to get this straight,’ Michael spoke at last. ‘We will all fly the two hours’ dawn and dusk patrols, that’s four hours – and then an additional four hours during the day? Is my arithmetic correct, or does that make eight hours of combat a day?’
‘Give Captain Courtney a coconut,’ Andrew nodded.
‘My trade union isn’t going to like it,’ and they laughed, a nervous braying chorus quickly cut off. Eight hours was too much, far too much, no man could exercise the vigilance and nervous response necessary to sustain that length of combat flight for a single day. They were being asked to do it day after day without promise of respite.
‘Any other questions?’
‘Service and maintenance of the aircraft?’
‘Mac has promised me that he can do
it,’ Andrew replied to Hank. ‘Anything else? No? All right, gentlemen, my book is open.’
But the pilgrimage to the bar to take advantage of Andrew’s offer was subdued, and nobody discussed the new orders. They drank quietly but determinedly, avoiding each other’s eyes. What was there to discuss?
The Comte de Thiry, with a vista of forty thousand hectares of lush farming land before his eyes, gave his rapturous approval to the wedding, and shook hands with Michael as though he were wringing an ostrich’s neck.
Anna hugged Centaine to her bosom. ‘My baby!’ she wheezed, slow fat tears seeping out of the creases around her eyes and coursing down her face. ‘You are going to leave Anna.’
‘Don’t be a goose, Anna, I will need you still. You can come with me to Africa,’ and Anna sobbed aloud.
‘Africa!’ And then even more dolorously, ‘What kind of wedding will it be? There are no guests to invite, Raoul the chef is in the trenches fighting the boche – oh, my baby, it will be a scandalous wedding!’
‘The priest will come over, and the general, Michel’s uncle, has promised – and the pilots from the squadron. It will be a wonderful wedding,’ Centaine contradicted her.
‘No choir,’ sobbed Anna. ‘No wedding feast, no wedding dress, no honeymoon.’
‘Papa will sing, he has a wonderful voice, and you and I will bake the cake and kill one of the suckling pigs. We can alter Mama’s dress, and Michel and I will have our honeymoon here, just the way Papa and Mama did.’
‘Oh, my baby!’ Once Anna’s tears had started, they would not that readily be dried.
‘When will it be?’ The comte had not yet relinquished Michael’s hand. ‘Name the day.’
‘Saturday – at eight in the evening.’
‘So soon!’ wailed Anna. ‘Why so soon?’
The comte struck his thigh as inspiration came to him.
‘We will open a bottle of the very best champagne – and perhaps even a bottle of the Napoleon cognac! Centaine, my little one, where are the keys?’ And this time she could not refuse him.
In their nest of blankets and straw they lay in each other’s embrace, and in halting sentences Michael tried to explain the new squadron orders to her. She could not fully comprehend their dreadful significance. She understood only that he was going into dire peril and she held him with all her strength.
‘But you will be there on our wedding day? Whatever happens, you will come to me on our wedding day?’
‘Yes, Centaine, I will be there.’
‘Swear it to me, Michel.’
‘I swear it.’
‘No! No! Swear the most dreadful oath you can think of.’
‘I swear it on my life and on my love for you.’
‘Ah, Michel,’ she sighed and pressed against him, satisfied at last. ‘I will watch for you as you fly by each dawn and each dusk – and I will meet you here each night.’
They made love in a frenzy, a madness of the blood, as though they were trying to consume each other, and the fury of it left them exhausted so that they slept in each other’s arms until Centaine woke, and it was late. The birds were calling in the forest and the first light filtered into the barn.
‘Michel! Michel! It is almost half past four.’ By the light of the lantern she checked the gold watch pinned to her jacket.
‘Oh, my God,’ Michael began pulling on his clothes, still groggy with sleep, ‘I’ll miss the dawn patrol—’
‘No. Not if you go directly.’
‘I can’t leave you.’
‘Don’t argue! Go, Michel! Go quickly.’
Centaine ran all the way, slipping and sliding in the mud of the lane, but determined to be on the hill for the squadron take-off, to wave them away.
At the stables she stopped, panting and clutching her chest to try and control her breathing. The château was in darkness, lying like a sleeping beast in the dawn, and she felt a rush of relief.
She crossed the yard slowly, giving herself time to catch her breath, and at the door she listened carefully before letting herself into the kitchen. She slipped off her muddy boots and placed them in the airing cupboard behind the stove, then she climbed the stairs, keeping close to the wall so that the tread would not squeak under her bare feet.
With another lift of relief she opened the door to her cell, crept in and then closed it behind her. She turned to face the bed, and then froze with surprise as a match flared and was touched to a lantern wick, and the room bloomed with yellow light.
Anna, who had just lit the lantern, was sitting on her bed, with a shawl around her shoulders and a lace nightcap on her head. Her red face was stony and forbidding.
‘Anna!’ Centaine whispered. ‘I can explain – you haven’t told Papa?’
Then the chair by the window creaked and she turned to find her father sitting in it and staring at her with his single malevolent eye.
She had never seen such an expression upon his face.
Anna spoke first. ‘My little baby creeping out at night to go whoring after soldiers.’
‘He is not a soldier,’ Centaine protested. ‘He is an airman.’
‘Harlotry,’ said the comte. ‘A daughter of the house of de Thiry behaving like a common harlot.’
‘Papa, I am to be Michel’s wife. We are as good as married to each other.’
‘Not until Saturday night, you are not.’ The comte rose to his feet. There was a dark smudge of sleeplessness under his one eye and his thick mane of hair stood on end.
‘Until Saturday,’ his voice rose to an angry bellow, ‘you are confined to this room, child. You will remain here until one hour before the ceremony begins.’
‘But, Papa, I have to go to the hill—’
‘Anna, take the key. I place you in charge of her. She is not to leave the house.’
Centaine stood in the centre of the room looking around her, as though for escape, but Anna rose and took her wrist in a powerful calloused hand and Centaine’s shoulders slumped as she was led to the bed.
The pilots of the squadron were scattered in dark groups of threes and fours amongst the trees at the edge of the orchard, talking softly and smoking the last cigarettes before take-off, when Michael came clumping down the duckboards, still buttoning his greatcoat and pulling on his flying gauntlets. He had missed the pre-flight briefing.
Andrew nodded a greeting as he joined them, making no mention of Michael’s late arrival or of the example to the new pilots, and Michael did not apologize. They were both acutely aware of the dereliction of his duty, and Andrew unscrewed his silver flask and drank without offering it to Michael; the rebuke was deliberate.
‘Take-off in five minutes,’ Andrew studied the sky, ‘and it looks like a good day to die.’ It was his term for good flying weather, but today it jarred on Michael.
‘I’m getting married on Saturday,’ he said, as though the ideas were linked, and Andrew stopped with the flask halfway back to his lips and stared at him.
‘The little French girl up at the château?’ he asked, and Michael nodded.
‘Centaine – Centaine de Thiry.’
‘You crafty old dog!’ Andrew began to grin, his disapproval forgotten. ‘So that is what you’ve been up to. Well, you have my blessing, my boy.’
He made a benedictory gesture with the flask. ‘I drink to your long life and joy together.’
He passed the flask to Michael, but Michael paused before drinking.
‘I’d be honoured if you would agree to act as my best man.’
‘Don’t worry, my boy, I will be flying at your wingtip as you go into action, I give you my oath on it.’ He punched Michael’s arm and they grinned happily at each other and then marched side by side to the green and yellow machines standing at the head of the squadron line-up.
One after another the Wolseley Viper engines crackled and snarled and blue exhaust smoke misted the trees of the orchard. Then the SE5a’s bumped and rocked over the uneven ground for the massed take-off.
Today, because it was a full squadron sweep, Michael would not be flying as Andrew’s wingman, but as leader of ‘B’ flight. He had five other machines in his flight, and two of his pilots were new chums and would need protecting and shepherding. Hank Johnson was leading ‘C’ flight and he waved across as Michael taxied past him, and then gunned his machine into his slot behind him.
As soon as they were airborne, Michael signalled to his flight to close the formation into a tight V and he followed Andrew, conforming to his slight left-hand turn that would carry them past the hillock beyond the château.
He lifted the goggles on to his forehead and slipped his scarf down off his nose and mouth so that Centaine would be able to see his face, and flying one-handed he prepared to make their private rendezvous signal to her as he passed. There was the knoll – he started smiling in anticipation, then the smile faded.
He could not see Nuage, the white stallion. He leaned far out of the cockpit, and ahead of him Andrew was doing the same, screwing his head around as he searched for the girl and the white horse.
They roared past and she was not there. The hillock was deserted. Michael peered back over his shoulder as it receded, making doubly sure. He felt the dull weight in his belly, the cold and heavy stone of forboding. She wasn’t there, their talisman had forsaken them.
He lifted the scarf over his mouth and covered his eyes with the goggles, as the three flights of aircraft bore upwards, climbing for the vital advantage of height, aiming to cross the ridges at 12,000 feet before levelling out into the patrol pattern.
His mind kept going back to Centaine. Why wasn’t she there? Was something wrong?
He found it hard to concentrate on the sky around him. ‘She has taken our luck. She knows what it means to us and she has let us down.’
He shook his head. ‘I mustn’t think about it – watch the sky! Don’t think about anything but the sky and the enemy.’
The light was strengthening, and the air was clear and icy cold. The land beneath them was patched with the geometrical patterns of fields and studded with the villages and towns of northern France, but directly ahead was that dung-brown strip of torn and savaged earth that marked the lines, and above it the scattered blobs of morning cloud, dull as bruises on one side and brilliant gold on the side struck by the rising sun.