Wilbur Smith - Shout At The Devil

by Shout At The Devil(Lit)

  Sebastian laughed with delight, and then grabbed at the side of the cockpit to steady himself, as the machine rocked violently under him. This was the pilot's method of attracting Sebastian's attention, and Sebastian wished he would think up some other way of doing it.

  He looked back angrily shouting in the howl of wind and engine.

  "Watch it! YOU Stupid dago." Da Silva was gesticulating wildly, his pink mouth working under the black mustache, his eyes wild behind the panes of his goggles, his right hand stabbing urgently out over the starboard wing.

  Sebastian saw it immediately on the wide water-way, the launch was so glaringly conspicuous that he wondered why he had not seen it before, then he recalled that his attention had been concentrated on the terrain directly beneath the aircraft and he exCUsed himself. Yet there was little to justify da Silva's excitement, he thought. This was no battle cruiser, it was a tiny vessel of perhaps twenty-five feet. Quickly he ran his eyes down the channel, following it to the open sea in the blue distance.

  It was empty.

  He glanced back at the pilot and shook his head. But da Silva's excitement had, if anything, increased. He was making another frenzied hand-signal that Sebastian could not understand. To save- argument Sebastian nodded in agreement, and instantly the machine dropped away under him so that Sebastian's belly was left behind and he clutched desperately at the side of the cockpit once more.

  In a shallow turning dive, da Silva took the machine

  Down and then levelled out with the landing-wheels almost brushing the tops of the mangroves. They rushed towards the channel, and as the last mangroves whipped away under them da Silva eased the nose down still farther and they dropped to within a few feet of the surface of the water. It was a display of fine flying that was completely wasted on Sebastian. He was cursing da Silva quietly, his eyes starting from their sockets.

  A mile ahead of them across the open water bobbed the overladen launch. It was only a few feet below their own level, and they raced towards it with the wash of the propeller blowing a squall of ripples across the surface behind them.

  "My God!" The blasphemy was wrung from Sebastian in his distress. He's going to fly right into it!" It was an opinion that seemed to be shared by the crew of the launch. As the machine roared in on them, they began to abandon ship. Sebastian saw two men leap from the high piled load of timber and hit the water with small white splashes.

  At the last second da Silva lifted the plane and they hopped over the launch. For a fleeting instant Sebastian stared at a range of fifteen feet into the face of the German naval officer who crouched down over the tiller bar at the stern of the launch. They were then past and climbing sharply, banking and turning back.

  Sebastian saw the launch had rounded to, and that her crew were clambering aboard and splashing around her, but da Silva had throttled back and the engine was burbling,. Once more the aircraft dropped towards the river under half power. He levelled out fifty feet above the water, and flew sedately, keeping away from the launch and well towards the northern side of the channel.

  "What are you doing?" Sebastian mouthed the question at da Silva. In reply the pilot made a sweeping gesture with his right hand at the thick bank of mangroves alongside.

  Puzzled, Sebastian stared into the mangroves. What was the fool doing, surely he didn't think that... There was a hump of high ground on the bank, a hump that rose perhaps one hundred and fifty feet above the level of the river. They came up to it.

  Like a hunter following a wounded buffalo, moving carelessly through thin scattered bush which could not possibly give cover to such a large animal, and then suddenly coming face to face with it so close, that he sees the minute detail of crenellation on the massive bosses of the horns, sees the blood dripping from moist black nostrils, and the dull furnace glare of the piggy little eyes in the same fashion Sebastian found the Blitcher.

  She was so close he Could see the pattern of rivets on her plating, the joints in the planking of her foredeck, the individual strands of the canopy of camouflage netting spread over her. He saw the men on her bridge, and the gun-crews behind the pom-poms and the Maxim machine guns on the balconies of her upper works From her squatting turrets her big guns gaped at him with hungry mouths, revolving to follow the flight of the machine.

  She was monstrous, grey and sinister among the mangroves, crouching in her lair, and Sebastian cried aloud in surprise and alarm, a sound without shape or coherence, and at the same moment the engine of the aeroplane bellowed in full power, as da Silva thrust the throttle wide and hauled the joystick back into his crotch.

  As the aircraft rocketed upwards, the deck of the Blitcher erupted in a thunderous volcano of flame. Flame flew in great bell-shaped ejaculations from the muzzles of her Machine guns. Flame spat viciously from the multi-barrelled pom-poms and the machine guns on her upper works

  Around the little aircraft the air boiled and hissed, disrupted, churned into violent turbulence by the passage of the big shells.

  Something struck the plane, and she was whirled upwards like a burning leaf from a garden bonfire. Wing over wing she rolled, her engine surging wildly, her rigging groaning and creaking at the strain.

  Sebastian was flung forward, the bridge of his nose cracked against the edge of the cockpit and instantly twin Jets of blood spurted from his nostrils to douse the front of his jacket.

  The machine stood on her tail, propeller clawing ineffectively at the air, engine wailing in over rev. Then she dropped away on one wing and one side swooped sickeningly downwards.

  Da Silva fought her, feeling the sloppiness of the stall in her controls come alive again as she regained air-speed. The fluffy tops of the mangroves rushed up to meet him, and desperately he tried to ease her off. She was trying to respond, the fabric wrinkling along her wings as they flexed to the enormous pressure. He felt her lurch again as she touched the top branches, heard above the howl of the engine the faint crackling brush of the vegetation against her belly. Then suddenly, miraculously, she was clear; flying straight and level, climbing slowly up and away from the hungry swamp.

  She was sluggish and heavy, and there was something loose under her. It banged and thumped and slapped in the slipstream, jarring the whole fuselage. Da Silva could not dare to manoeuvre her. He held her on the course she had chosen, easing her nose slightly upwards, slowly gaining precious altitude.

  At a thousand feet he brought her round in a wide gentle turn to the south, and banging and thumping, one wing heavy, she staggered drunkenly through the sky towards her rendezvous with Flynn O'Flynn.

  Flynn stood up with slow dignity from where he had been leaning against the hole of the palm tree.

  "Where are you going?" Rosa opened her eyes and looked up at him.

  "To do something you can't do for me."

  "That's the third time in an hour!" Rosa was suspicious.

  "That's why they call it the East African quickstep," said Flynn, and moved off ponderously into the undergrowth.

  He reached the lantana bush, and looked around carefully.

  He couldn't trust Rosa not to follow him. Satisfied, he dropped to his knees and dug with his hands in the loose sand.

  With the air of an old-time pirate unearthing a chest of doubloon he lifted the bottle from its grave, and withdrew the cork. The neck of the bottle was in his mouth, when he heard the muted beat of the returning aircraft. The bottle stayed there a while longer, Flynn's Adam's apple pulsing up and down his throat as he swallowed, but his eyes swivelled upwards and creased in concentration.

  With a sigh of intense pleasure he re corked and laid the bottle once more to rest, kicked sand over it, and set course for the beach.

  "Can you see them?" he shouted the question at Rosa as he came down through the palms. She was standing out in the open. Her head was thrown back so that the long braid of her hair hung down to her waist behind. She did not answer him, but the set of her expression was hard and strained with anxiety. The men standing about her
were silent also, held by an expectant dread.

  Flynn looked up and saw it coming in like a wounded bird, the engine stuttering and surging irregularly, streaming a long bluish streak of oily smoke from the exhaust manifold, the wings rocking crazily, and a loose tangle of wreckage hanging and swinging under the belly where one Of the landing wheels had been shot away.

  It sagged wearily towards the beach, the broken beat of the engine failing so they could hear the whisper of the wind in her rigging.

  The single landing-wheel touched down on the hard sand and for fifty yards she ran true, then with a jerk she toppled sideways. The port wing hit into the sand, slewing her towards the edge of the sea,

  her tail came up and over.

  There was a crackling, ripping, tearing sound; and in a dust storm of flying spend she cartwheeled, stern over stern.

  The propeller tore into the beach, disintegrating in a blur of flying splinters, and from the forward cockpit a human body was flung clear, spinning in the air so that the outflung limbs were the spokes of a wheel. It fell with a splash in the shallow water at the edge of the beach, while the aircraft careened onwards, tearing herself to pieces. A lower wing broke off, the guy wires snapping with a sound like a volley of musketry. The body of the machine slowed as it hit the water, skidding to a standstill on its back, with the surf washing around it. Da Silva hung motionless in the back cockpit, suspended upside down by his safety-straps, his arms dangling.

  The next few seconds of silence were appalling.

  "Help the pilot! I'll get Sebastian." Rosa broke it at last.

  Mohammed and two other Askari ran with her towards where Sebastian was lying awash, a piece of flotsam at the water's edge.

  "Come on!" Flynn shouted at the men near him, and lumbered through the soft fluffy sand towards the wreck.

  They never reached it.

  There was a concussion, a vast disturbance in the air that sucked at their eardrums, as the gasoline ignited in explosive combustion. The machine and the surface of the sea about it were instantly transformed into a roaring, raging sheet of flame.

  They backed away from the heat. The flames were dark red laced with satanic black smoke, and they ate the canvas skin from the body of the aircraft, exposing the wooden framework beneath.

  In the heart of the flames da Silva still hung in his cockpit, a blackened monkey-like shape as his clothing burned. Then the fire ate through the straps of his harness and he dropped heavily into the shallow water, hissing and sizzling as the flames were quenched.

  The fire was still Smouldering by the time Sebastian regained consciousness, and was able to lift himself on one elbow. Muzzily he stared down the beach at the smoking wreckage. The shadows of the palms lay like the stripes of a tiger on the sand that the low evening sun had softened to a drill gold.

  "Da Silva?" Sebastian's voice was thick and slurred. His nose was broken and squashed across his face. Although Rosa had wiped most of the blood away, there were still little black crusts of it in his nostrils and at the corners of his mouth. Both his eyes were slits in the swollen plum coloured bruises that bulged from the sockets.

  "No!" Flynn shook his head. "He didn't make it."

  "Dead?" whispered Sebastian.

  "We buried him back in the bush."

  "What happened?" asked Rosa. "What on earth happened out there?" She sat close beside him, protective as a mother over her child. Slowly Sebastian turned his head to look at her.

  "We found the Blitcher,"he said.

  Captain Arthur Joyce, R.N was a happy man. He stooped over his cabin desk, his hands placed open and flat on either side of the spread Admiralty chart. He glowed with satisfaction as he looked down at the hand-drawn circle in crude blue pencil as though it were the signature of the President of the Bank of England on a cheque for a million sterling.

  "Good!" he said. "Oh, very good," and he pursed his lips as though he were about to whistle "Tipperary'. Instead he made a sucking sound, and smiled across at Sebastian.

  Behind his flattened nose and blue-ringed eyes, Sebastian smiled back at him.

  "A damn good show, Oldsmith!" Joyce's expression changed, the little lights of recognition sparkled suddenly in his eyes. "Oldsmith?" he repeated. "I say, didn't you open the bowling for Sussex in the 1911 cricket season?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "Good Lord! Joyce beamed at him. "I'll never forget Your opening over to Yorkshire in the first match of the season.

  You dismissed Graham and Penridge for two runs two for two, hey?"

  "Two for two, it was. "Sebastian liked this man.

  "Fiery stuff! And then you made fifty-five runs?"

  "Sixty-five," Sebastian corrected him. "A record ninth wicket partnership with Clifford Dumont of one hundred and eighty-sixV "Yes! Yes! I remember it well. Fiery stuff! You were damned unlucky not to play for England." oh, I don't know about that," said Sebastian in modest agreement.

  "Yes, you were." Joyce pursed his lips again. "Damned unlucky." Flynn O'Flynn had not understood a word of this. He was thrashing around in his chair like an old buffalo in a trap, bored to the point of pain. Rosa Oldsmith had understood no more than he had, but she was fascinated. It was clear that Captain Joyce knew of some outstanding accomplishment of Sebastian's, and if a man like Joyce knew of it it " meant Sebastian was famous. She felt pride swell in her chest and she smiled on Sebastian also.

  "didn't know, Sebastian. Why didn't you tell me?" She glowed warmly at him.

  "Some other time," Joyce interrupted quickly. "Now we must get on with this other business." And he returned his attention to the chart on the desk.

  "Now I want you to cast your mind back. Shut your eyes and try to see it again. Every detail you can remember, every little detail it might be important. Did you see any signs of damage?" Obediently Sebastian closed his eyes, and was surprised at how vividly the acid of fear had engraved the picture of Blitcher on his mind.

  "Yes," he said. "There were holes in her. Hundreds of holes, little black ones. And at the front end the bows there were trapezes hanging down on ropes, near the water.

  You know the kind- that they use when they paint a high building Joyce nodded at his secretary to record every word of it.

  The single fan suspended over the table in the wardroom hummed quietly, the blades stirred the air that was moist and warm as the bedding of a malarial patient.

  Except for the soft clink of cutlery on china, the only other sound was that of Commissioner Fleischer drinking his soup. It was thick, green pea soup, scalding hot, so that Fleischer found it necessary to blow heavily on each spoonful before ingesting it with a noise, not of the same volume, but with the delicate tonal quality, of a flushing water closet. During the pause while he crumbled a slice of black bread into his Soup, Fleischer looked -across the board at Lieutenant Kyller.

  "So you did not find the enemy flying-machine, then?"

  "No." Kyller went on fiddling with his wine glass without looking up. For forty-eight hours he and his patrols had searched the swamps and channels and mangrove forests for the wreckage of the aircraft. He was exhausted and covered with insect bites.

  " Fleischer nodded solemnly. "It fell only a short way, but it did not hit the trees. I was sure of that. I have seen sand-grouse do the same thing sometimes when you shoot them with a shotgun. Pow! They come tumbling down like this..." He fluttered his hand in the air, letting it fall awards his soup, then suddenly they do this. "The hand took flight again in the direction of Commander (Engineering) Lochtkamper's rugged Neanderthal face. They all watched it.

  "The little bird flies away home. It was bad shooting from so close," said Fleischer, and ended the demonstration by picking up his soup spoon, and the moist warm silence once more gripped the wardroom.

  Commander Lochtkamper stoked his mouth as though it were one of his furnaces. The knuckles of both his hands were knocked raw by contact with steel plate and wire rope.

  Even when Fleischer's hand had flown into his f
ace, he had not been distracted from his thoughts. His mind was wholly occupied with steel and machinery, weights and points of balance. He wanted to achieve twenty degrees of starboard list on Blucher, so that a greater area of her bottom would be exposed to his welders. This meant displacing one thousand tons of dead weight. It seemed an impossibility unless we flood the port magazines, he thought, and take the guns from their turrets and move them. Then we could rig camels under her... "it was not bad shooting," said the gunnery lieutenant.

  "She was flying too close, the rate of track was..." He broke off, wiped the side of his long pointed nose with his forefinger, and regarded balefully the sweat that came away on it. This fat peasant would not understand, he would not waste energy in explaining the technicalities. He contented himself with repeating, "It was not bad shooting."