by Max Hennessy
Shaved, brushed and combed to within an inch of their lives, they climbed into Hatto’s car and headed for Deane. When they arrived the guests were all parading before the bride, the groom and the parents. Diplock’s father, tall, plump and smiling, had no idea who they were but Hatto’s title carried weight.
“Come in, dear boy,” he said. “You’ll be one of the Norfolk Hattos. I was at Oxford with Rudolf Hatto.”
“Actually,” Hatto said, “we’re from Northamptonshire and we don’t have anything to do with the Norfolk lot. Especially Rudolf. He ran off with the curate’s wife.”
“Do you know this bloody Rudolf, you glass-eyed bastard?” Foote whispered as they made their way into the marquee.
“Never met the chap in my life.”
Looking surprisingly beautiful, Zoë appeared at Dicken’s elbow. “What are you doing here?” she murmured. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“When Willie Hatto gets an idea in his head,” Dicken admitted, “you tend to go along with it. He probably fancied the free champagne.”
A man who looked well-stomached and prosperous started discussing the war with them. “Next time we make a push,” he insisted, “it’s got to take us to Berlin. No half-measures. We’ve just got to disregard the casualties.”
“You in the army?” Hatto asked silkily.
“Not me. I’m reserved.”
“Thought you might be,” Foote commented.
The sarcasm passed unnoticed, and the well-stomached man went on enthusiastically. “It must be very exciting flying over the lines as you do,” he said.
“Not always,” Dicken snapped. “Sometimes you don’t come back.”
It seemed to startle the stout man, and they were just about to set about him when Diplock’s father started banging on a table with a spoon. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve come to cake-cutting time.”
An uncle droned on about Annys and the bridegroom, going on so long Diplock’s father had to nudge his elbow, then the best man, who turned out to be the Wing colonel, a man with narrow lips and cold eyes, proposed the toast.
“Making sure his future’s secure,” Hatto observed dryly. “If you want to get ahead, get a high rank to your wedding.”
The Wing colonel’s speech was short and witty and the congratulatory telegrams, they noticed, were mostly from members of his staff. Diplock was just on the point of replying when Hatto raised his hand.
“Permission to speak, sir?” he asked. “Old comrades and all that.”
Diplock’s father beamed. “Just one more word then,” he conceded. “The Honourable William Hatto would like to add his mite. You’ll all know his father, Lord Hooe, of course.”
There was a spatter of applause and Hatto screwed his monocle into his eye.
“Bit out of order really,” he apologised. “Normally, at these affairs, it’s always the bride who gets the attention. This time, I think the bridegroom ought to be noticed.” He gestured at Diplock who was watching him suspiciously. “Captain, you’ll notice. Very important. Until recently, personal pilot to the colonel at Wing. Very dangerous job.”
Annys smiled proudly and there was a ripple of applause because nobody had the slightest idea what the Wing colonel’s pilot did.
“Still,” Hatto went on, “we’re not here today to draw attention to his flying skills. Just to the fact that he’s a lucky bridegroom with a bride as beautiful as ever appeared in the society magazines.” Annys looked coy and Diplock tried a nervous smile. “The only advice we can give him today is on his future.” Hatto paused. “I’m not going in for all that nonsense about ‘May all his troubles be little ones’ and so on. That’s old stuff and marriage is serious. Like war. And in that our good friend has already brought himself very much to the attention of his comrades.”
Dicken exchanged a glance with Foote and he saw Diplock going pink.
“Doubtless,” Hatto went on, a dangerous look in his eye, “he’s feeling nervous, faced with all his relations and the friends who know him. Marriage, y’see, like many things in life, is sometimes enough to make a man break out in a cold sweat.” There was a low murmur of laughter and a rumble of approval from the men. “But courage is a splendid virtue and our good friend, Arthur, knows all about courage. He’s been called on to show it.”
Dicken was unable to hold his head up because he knew exactly what Hatto was getting at and so did Foote.
So did Diplock. He was frowning deeply, his face red, his fingers twitching at his side. The guests were smiling and nodding approval. It was a serious speech, they were thinking, not the flippant trivialities of most weddings, because the times were serious, with men dying in France and almost everybody suffering loss.
Diplock’s father, plump, smooth and smug, was nodding approval. Nobility, his manner said, gave tone to a wedding.
“The way Arthur demonstrated his courage–” Hatto was well into his stride now “–became known to everybody who flew with him. Every man on the squadron knew its quality because they watched him in action against the enemy and saw how he behaved. And, as you can see, he wears a medal on his breast, and we all know how these medals are won.” This time, not only Diplock but the Wing colonel frowned, because he, too, wore a DSO that had been won for organisation rather than action.
“Marriage needs courage, too,” Hatto smiled. “As he’ll surely discover. It requires the same trust that we needed in him when we were with him in the air. So let him make sure he screws up his courage and makes a success of his marriage. Like war, marriage’s dangerous.”
There was a burst of laughter and Hatto lifted his glass. “Let me ask you then to drink to Arthur, our Paladin, our Hector, our Hotspur, our Achilles.”
“To Arthur!”
As the glasses rose, Dicken noticed that Hatto very pointedly placed his on the table untouched. With the babble of conversation starting again, he faced him. “That was bloody cruel, Willie,” he said.
“It didn’t harm the bride.” Hatto studied the guests crowding round Diplock and Annys. “Come to that, I doubt if it’s hurt the bridegroom. With the Wing colonel on his side, his friends are more powerful than his enemies and his performance in Strutters will be forgotten so quickly it won’t be worth reminding anybody of it.” He paused, watching Diplock, his eyes suddenly contemplative and strangely cold. “I’ve always been prepared to forgive a man for running away, because I’ve often wanted to myself. But this one’s different. A man who can get himself a cushy job, promotion and a medal out of it has more to him than meets the eye. This one’s crafty, ambitious and dangerous, and what I said probably makes up a bit for Snell, Scarati and Johnson. I don’t like our friend. I never shall. He’s the sort of shabby type we haven’t seen the last of. I think we’d better go now. This place stinks of moral turpitude and stale piety. Some of the bastards, in fact, look as though they’re doing very well out of the war.”
As they collected their hats, he spoke to the maid. “Tell Captain Diplock,” he said, “that we had to leave, but that we shall be watching his future progress with great interest. Make sure you get the message right.”
As he went off with Foote to find his car, Zoë appeared.
“Your glass-eyed friend managed to muck up the wedding beautifully for Arthur,” she observed. “He looks as though he’s turned up an amputated hand in the fruit salad.”
“I think,” Dicken said, “that was the idea.”
She gestured. “You don’t think he’ll take it lying down, do you?” she asked. “He was boasting the other night that he has the power to send a man anywhere in France. He’ll probably send you lot to the penal battalion.”
Six
Just how right she was, was proved less than a week later when Hatto was informed he was to fly Bristols from St Sylvestre.
“I’m not getting the flight I w
as promised,” he said ruefully. “I expect Parasol Percy fixed it. His ju-ju seems to be stronger than mine.”
Before lunch, news came through that Foote and Dicken were to proceed to St Bernardine Cappel. They were to fly Camels but were also not getting flights.
“We’re going to end this goddamn war right where we started it,” Foote decided.
On the last evening, Dicken drove Zoë to Brighton for a meal. The place had changed a lot and the hotels seemed to be full of women and girls who had found a new freedom with the war.
“They go into pubs, too, these days,” Zoë said. “On their own. A lot of them are earning more than men and they feel they’ve a right to. Casey’s all for having women in his factories. He’s going to the top, you know. And when he does, I’m going with him.”
“What about marriage?”
“It won’t make any difference. After the war, women will be working alongside men and even taking their jobs. You’ll see.”
“What about when children come?”
“Who wants children?”
“I’d want ’em for one.”
She seemed in a bad temper and he got it out of her that Vickery had killed himself that day at Shoreham.
“He never could turn corners,” Dicken said.
On the way home, she suggested he stopped at her flat for a coffee and a last drink. It was a tiny place on the top floor of an old house, and instead of making coffee, she simply offered him a drink.
“You can stay the night if you like,” she offered.
“How many bedrooms have you got?”
“One.”
There was a long silence.
“Where’s the settee?”
“I haven’t got one.”
“You inviting me to share?”
She shrugged. “We might all be dead tomorrow. Some German might fly over here tonight and drop a bomb on us.”
A nagging worry entered his head. “Has Casey Harman ever stayed here?” he asked.
“He’s married and I don’t go in for other people’s leftovers.” The words were brisk but he wasn’t convinced.
She leaned toward him and kissed him. It was slow and experienced but, as he felt his pulses quicken, she pushed him away.
“My, aren’t we excitable?” She seemed to be laughing at him. “I’m going to change. This dress is hell.”
He recognised the ploy. “Not the thing for romping on the sofa,” he said.
“I haven’t a sofa,” she said coolly. “And I wouldn’t romp on it if I had. When I do things, I do them properly.” She indicated a door. “The bedroom’s through there.”
The following morning, Dicken woke warily, wondering what was in store for him. Zoë’s half of the bed was empty.
He lay for a moment, deep in thought. It was always the young soldier’s fear, he had discovered, that he would go to his death without ever having made love to a woman. Well, what with Zoë and the Hon. Maud, at least he’d done that. But he had a feeling that this time something was missing.
Half-expecting her to arrive with coffee and toast, he lay silent until, finally deciding there was to be no coffee and toast, he rose and dressed. He found her in the yard at the back of the house. She had the bonnet of her car open and her head inside.
“Damn thing goes like a run-down bit of clockwork,” she said. “It ought to have its points cleaned. But if I do it, I expect there’ll be trouble. Annys is due home today and I’ll be expected to turn up with clean hands. She’s staying with Mother while Arthur’s in uniform. Why do people have to get married? It seems to be in the air these days.”
“It’s something I’ve thought about myself.”
She lifted her head and studied him. “You asking me to marry you?”
He hadn’t been but, as she’d said, marriage seemed to be in the air.
“It’s an idea,” he said.
“All right,” she agreed. “When? Tomorrow?”
“Good God, no!” He backed off at once. “Not as fast as that.”
Suddenly, what he’d done alarmed him but she didn’t seem to have noticed. “No, perhaps not tomorrow,” she said thoughtfully. “Too soon.” She poked delicately with one finger at the engine as if it were of far more moment. “Father would have a fit. Especially with the cost of Annys’ wedding and his girlfriend in Brighton.”
“We could get engaged.”
She gave him a long slow smile. “I’d say,” she observed dryly, “that we got engaged. Last night.”
Meeting in London before catching the boat train, Dicken, Hatto and Foote celebrated their return to France with a night out in the West End. Foote’s brother seemed to know every girl in London and where all the parties were and they took in three before making their way to Victoria Station. They slept all the way across the Channel, managed to miss the train south and had another night out in Calais before heading for St Omer.
No. 1 Aircraft Depot sent airplanes and men to the squadrons to replace their casualties. It was an ugly sprawling place, with scores of canvas hangars and workshops, and rows of Nissen huts for living quarters. The pilots’ pool was situated there.
“Sort of livestock depot,” Hatto observed.
The base staff – and it didn’t take them twenty-four hours to discover that Diplock was part of it – had the boxes and the stalls, while the pilots waiting to sell their lives over the lines had the cheap seats at the back. It was a little like being in prison. There was a plethora of notices – “No Admittance” and “Keep Out” – and even sentries to make sure you did as you were told. The place was full to overflowing and there was a waiting list a mile long.
“Oh, well,” Foote said. “Perhaps the war will be over before they get to us. Let’s go and find the town.”
They didn’t get the chance. Hatto was whipped off that afternoon, over the heads of men who’d been waiting for weeks, and Foote and Dicken the same evening. “Parasol Percy,” Dicken decided. “I think Willie was righter than he knew.”
“They say there’s another push due,” Foote pointed out. “Perhaps Percy’s hoping we’ll get killed so there’ll be nobody to tell the truth and stop him becoming a general.”
They had just packed their equipment and were waiting for the tender when information reached them that their destination had been changed, because the squadron was leaving for Candas on the Picardy front, and they arrived next morning just as sixteen Camels began to appear in groups and ones and twos. As the pilots pulled off their flying caps and smoothed their flattened hair, they began to unstrap what appeared to be personal gear which had been lashed aboard.
“What’s going on?” Dicken asked.
“We’ve ceased operational flying,” he was told. “We’ve just been struck off the strength of the Wing.”
“Don’t tell me,” Foote grinned, “that the war’s over.”
“Not on your life. It’s just getting into top gear. We’re being sent to another front.”
The commanding officer turned out to be Morton, and he looked up with a smile as he saw Dicken.
“You’ve just arrived in time,” he said. “We’re on our way to Italy. The Italians have been complaining that it was a condition of their entry into the war in 1915 that we should send troops and guns and aircraft to their front and they blame Caporetto on the fact that we never did. Well, now the powers that be have decided that if we don’t, we’ll lose them and guns and infantry have gone, 28 and 45 Squadrons are on their way, and we’re joining them as soon as possible. You’ll be in C Flight.”
It didn’t sound too bad. Wine and food were said to be cheap in Italy and the Austrians couldn’t possibly be as good as the Germans and certainly never as dangerous as the Richthofen Circus. There seemed a chance not only of enjoying themselves but also of surviving.
“Willie’s schemes,” Dicken said, “always seem to have a twist in the tail. However, occasionally, they also have a bright side.”
Trenarworth, the leader of C Flight, was a Cornishman who’d been flying at the front since 1915. He had a habit of referring to himself always in the third person, and had several victories to his credit, but seemed over-excitable and not quite sane.
“These bloody Austrians are going to get a shock, me dear, when Trenarworth and his boys arrive,” he said. “So brush up your shooting. With your experience, you ought to be knocking the bastards down in dozens.”
Almost the first person they met in the mess was Foote’s brother.
“One Foote was bad enough,” Dicken said. “Two Feete will be horrible.”
Foote’s enthusiasm was not so marked. “The goddamn kid’s got no experience,” he pointed out. “He’s only got seventeen hours’ flying time – only two on Camels. Rats, I’m going to have to take care of him.”
By the following day half the machines were looking like coffins on wheels without their wings. Packing cases stood everywhere and armourers trudged backward and forward carrying guns. Two trains were set aside for their use, the carriages for the officers and senior NCOs small and ancient, the men as usual packed into wagons – 40 hommes, 8 chevaux. Transport and stores were loaded on trucks and the transport drivers and mechanics were to travel in their own tenders and lorries, while camp cookers were installed in a wagon between the men’s and the officers’ accommodation to provide food for those on the trains.
“Italy,” Foote said, “here we come.”
Unfortunately, that night the push they’d been expecting in France started. For a change there was no barrage to warn them and the first they learned of it was when their trains were shunted into a siding.
The French stationmaster shrugged. “Messieurs, you ’ave not heard? There is a great battle. British tanks attack at Cambrai. Nearly four ’undred of them. They cross three German lines and there is a ’ole in the German defences four miles wide. Ten thousand Germans are captured with two ’undred guns. The cavalry go in to exploit the breakthrough.”