The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  Once again William turned to make another pass. When he had first seen the trapped men, he’d wanted to try to help them, even though he knew the odds were long. Now he desperately wanted them to survive. He had witnessed enough of the conditions on the ground to know they must have imagined their fate was sealed. Trapped in the open, their only choices were to either cower in the freezing mud and water until the Germans directed artillery fire to tear them to shreds, or else to climb out and be killed by the machine guns. Suddenly, they had been given a chance. On either side of them, millions of men were ranged with artillery and guns. When the offensive began, tens of thousands would perish, all for the gain of a few feet of mud that would probably be lost again the following week. There was nothing that William could do to prevent the senseless carnage, but the lives of the handful of men below were somehow all the more important because of it.

  A pair of German soldiers ran to the machine gun to replace their fallen comrades and Smale opened fire with the Lewis again. More German troops appeared from their dugouts, and began firing rifles from the trenches both at the British soldiers and the plane. Several bullet holes appeared in the fabric of the wings, and a sharp crack sounded as the edge of a strut was hit. A splinter of wood hit William’s cheek, but his face was numb from the cold and he barely felt it. He held his course and Smale fired again. A German soldier toppled, his rifle spinning from his grasp. For an instant William saw his upturned face. He was young, his mouth opened as he cried out in pain or surprise as the bullet struck his chest and then William could no longer see him as he pulled back on the stick for height.

  Pervis followed them again, and the air was full of the crack of bullets as the planes became the Germans’ target. William thought it would be a miracle if they managed to get away. On the ground the British soldiers took advantage of the situation and ran at a crouch for their lines, dodging this way and that. One of them fell, but the others made it, and the last William saw of them was a hand raised in acknowledgment or thanks. He continued to climb away from the hail of fire, afraid that a bullet would hit the engine, and when he glanced back he saw Pervis still following.

  Within a few minutes they were at three thousand feet again. During the climb they had drifted back over the German rear positions. The fuel gauge indicated half a tank and William deliberated whether or not to continue their observation work. As he automatically scanned the sky all around for danger, he saw four machines fly out of the clouds two thousand feet above. He recognized the shape of the German Albatross’s at once and gestured frantically to Smale, who froze for a split second before he hurriedly started reloading the Lewis gun.

  Pervis had seen the danger too, and though both planes turned and dived for speed, William knew they were too late. He looked over his shoulder as the Albatross’s split into pairs. There was nothing he could do but race for the lines and hope that Smale could fend them off, though a single Lewis gun against the Spandaus of an Albatross meant they were hopelessly outgunned, as well as being slower and far less agile than the German fighters. Within moments Smale opened up with the Lewis gun, which was immediately met with the heavy thump of the Spandaus. Lines of tracer cut the air on either side of the plane. William banked hard and turned to try to put the German pilots off their aim, but the RE8 was a lumbering, unresponsive machine and straight away his port wings were filled with holes. The engine took a hit and coughed a slick of oil, and then an Albatross went past on either side, each of them banking and climbing to attack again. The Lewis was silent as Smale desperately worked to change the drum.

  William put the plane into the steepest possible dive he dared to in a last ditch effort to gain speed. He knew of he could reach no-mans land they had a chance. Looking over his shoulder he saw the Albatrosses turning to give chase. The RE8 was rattling and shaking as if it was going to fall to pieces. The engine leaked a steady stream of oil. Underneath them the ground rushed up to meet them and William pulled back on the stick with all his might. He thought he had left it too late even as the nose began to inch upwards. All he could hear was the roar of the exhaust and any moment he expected to feel German bullets rip them apart.

  Then suddenly the machine responded to the controls and began to level out and they roared above the lines at less than fifty feet. In the trenches men cheered and William glanced behind. The Albatross’s had broken off their attack. Either they were low on fuel or else unwilling to risk crossing the lines. There was something arrogant, almost disdainful about the way they chose not to finish them off. It was the same arrogance that made them paint their machines in garish colours to identify their jastas; red for Richthofen’s, green or purple or some other combination for the others. It was an expression of their utter confidence in the superiority of their machines. Or perhaps, William thought, the German pilots had a more prosaic reason for turning back. Perhaps they thought they had already done their job.

  The engine spluttered and emitted another slick of oil. He could feel the loss of power. It began to miss, and he wondered if he would make it to the aerodrome. Nearby, Pervis was also in trouble, his machine trailing a thin stream of smoke. He was flying erratically and it looked as if Thorne in the back was slumped across his gun.

  Ten minutes later William was descending towards the poplars alongside the river. The engine note rose and fell, and it was difficult to keep the speed up, but as the grass rushed up to meet the wheels, William kept the throttle open and found another surge of power in the nick of time. As soon as the plane came to a stop, he and Smale jumped out to watch Pervis come in to land. A few of the riggers and mechanics came out of the hangars, and William shouted at them to fetch water. There was now thick smoke pouring from the front of Pervis’s machine.

  ‘He’s going too fast,’ Smale muttered.

  The plane was weaving drunkenly, and losing height but not speed. Everybody stood in silence, powerless to do anything but watch and hope. When it landed, the plane bounced twenty feet, and then almost in slow motion tipped on one side. When it came down the starboard wings were sheared off in a mass of splintered wood and trailing wire, and the engine was pushed back into the fuel tank which immediately ruptured. Within moments a sheet of flames engulfed both cockpits.

  The men who rushed to help with buckets of sand and water were driven back by the heat. In the back seat, Thorne remained still and William thought that he must already be dead, but in the front Pervis managed to climb onto his seat, where he paused for an instant as if to jump. His clothes were on fire. Flames danced greedily about his head. The air was thick with the smell of petrol and roasting flesh. He began to scream, his arms beating at the flames, but the fire was feeding on the fats in his body. He threw back his head, and amidst the yellow and orange was a dark ragged hole from which came a final anguished cry before his vocal chords melted, and Pervis slowly collapsed with his arms outstretched.

  It took several minutes for the flames to begin to die down. The grotesque remains of Pervis and Thorne fell free as what held them was reduced to charred ash. A streak of white revealed bone laid bare.

  *****

  By the time William left the hangar and made his way across the field, the rain had stopped, though it was cold. He thought of the poor devils in the trenches living in their muddy burrows. It must be especially miserable in the winter, forever cold and never entirely dry, and often under fire from shells or snipers. By comparison, his own existence was comfortable. The aerodrome was well behind the lines, out of reach of the enemy guns. Occasionally they had to put up with a German plane sneaking over to try and drop bombs on them, but the anti-aircraft gunners usually saw them off.

  Light from the windows of the farmhouse beckoned with a warm glow. He could hear a gramophone record playing, a ragtime tune played on the piano. Somebody laughed, an unnatural sound, and it was followed by a chorus of voices. His fellow officers were playing some sort of drinking game, drowning their morbid thoughts in whisky and wine. He continued on to the barn, whic
h had been roughly partitioned so that each officer had his own private area big enough for a bed and somewhere to keep clothes and personal effects. After he’d washed and changed he joined the others in the room that served as the officer’s mess. The table was laid for dinner.

  Major Thompson, the squadron CO, threw William a curt glance and looked pointedly at his watch. ‘There you are, Reynolds. I was about to send somebody to find you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir,’ William murmured.

  ‘Dinner is served at eight I clock. I expect my officers to be in the mess promptly by half past seven.’

  A mess steward approached and William asked for a whisky.

  ‘These things matter,’ Thompson continued. ‘The moment you allow standards to slip, discipline breaks down, and without proper discipline the army cannot function. Where have you been anyway?’

  ‘I was over at the hangars. My machine was shot up today.’

  ‘You could have let the men sort that out. That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘I prefer to look after my own machine, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well I’m not at all sure I approve of that. You’re an officer, Reynolds, not a damned mechanic.’

  The arrival of the steward with William’s whisky saved him from having to reply. As the officers took their places at the long table, Captain Wright took the opportunity to speak quietly to William.

  ‘I hope you’re not intending to antagonise him this evening, Reynolds.’ Wright was very tall and thin, and had extraordinarily long fingers. His hands were almost feminine. He was known to be a very good classical pianist. ‘Try to keep in mind that we’ve lost two good men today.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to remind Thompson of that,’ William replied acidly. ‘He seems to be more concerned about me being late for dinner.’

  Wright stiffened. ‘You shouldn’t speak about him like that. He’s your commanding officer.’

  ‘He’s a fool.’

  Wright glared at him and turned away. At dinner they sat opposite one another and to either side of Thompson at the head of the table. As the officers took their places, the two chairs which only the evening before had been occupied by Pervis and Thorne, were conspicuously empty. Thompson waited for the men’s attention and the talk and laughter, fuelled by several hours drinking, died away to an uneasy quiet.

  ‘Gentlemen, as you are all aware the squadron has suffered the loss of two very brave men today. Of course it is always difficult to accept that men we have all lived and fought with are no longer with us, however we must remember that it is the willing sacrifice made by chaps like Pervis and Thorne that will inevitably ensure our victory against the Hun.’

  Thompson raised his glass and the officers all stood. ‘Gentlemen, I give you Lieutenants Pervis and Thorne. May God rest their souls.’

  The officers solemnly echoed the names of the dead men, and as they took their places again the stewards brought out the first course.

  Thompson unfolded his napkin. ‘Ah, here’s the soup. Jolly good. What is it Dawkins?’ He lowered his nose to appreciate the aroma coming from his plate.

  ‘Cream of chicken, sir.’

  He frowned and examined the label on the wine. ‘I’m not sure a Cote de Rhone is appropriate with chicken soup. See if there’s a Bergundy or something will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  William looked at the faces of the men around the table. He didn’t know any of them well. Many had only been at the squadron a short time, having arrived as replacements for men who’d been lost over the winter. Pervis and Thorne, like himself and Wright, had been old timers. Not that he could claim to have known them well either, or Wright for that matter. The squadron had flown BE2’s before the new RE8’s arrived, which had proved so disappointing. They had all hoped for a machine capable of taking on the Albatross, but the cumbersome RE8 proved that the brass’s thinking was still a long way behind the Germans’. Now two more men were dead.

  ‘What is it, Reynolds? Don’t you like chicken soup?’

  Thompson’s question jolted William from his reverie. ‘For some reason I haven’t much appetite this evening,’ he said. ‘I can still smell roasting flesh, though I suppose I ought to be used to it by now.’

  Thompson and the other officers who were close enough to overhear, stopped eating and stared in shocked silence.

  ‘Good God man!’ Thompson said in disgust. ‘Is that some sort of depraved attempt at humour?’

  ‘I can assure you, sir, I don’t find anything amusing about watching men burn to death. Especially when it is unnecessary.’

  ‘Death is an unfortunate but inevitable fact of war,’ Thompson said with patronising banality.

  William caught the warning look that Wright flashed him, but he ignored it. ‘It is when the brass who sit safely behind their desks refuse to acknowledge what even a fool can see.’

  ‘If that comment is directed towards me personally, Reynolds, you would do well to remember your place,’ Thompson warned icily.

  ‘I’m referring to the idiots at HQ who insist on sending us out in outdated machines,’ William said, though he thought Thompson was no better than they were. ‘They give us planes designed for reconnaissance when the Germans are equipping entire squadrons with fighters whose only purpose is to shoot us from the air.’

  ‘Lieutenant Reynolds!’ Thompson banged the table with his fist, his face almost purple with rage. For a few moments the room was utterly silent, and then Thompson turned to the stewards lingering uncertainly near the door. ‘Get out!’ he barked. When they were gone he turned to William again. ‘You will not criticise the decisions made by senior officers, do you hear me? It is your duty and your place to follow your orders, and that is what you will do, or by God I will have you on a charge. You are an officer, man! How the hell do you expect to maintain discipline among the men if they hear an officer speaking as you did?’ He glared furiously. ‘Is that understood?’

  Across the table, Wright flashed William another look that was both disapproving, and a silent plea to back down and William knew that it was futile to argue.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s understood.’

  ‘Very well.’ Thompson picked up his spoon again to resume eating his soup, but then put it down and pushed his plate away. ‘Somebody tell the stewards to take this bloody soup away,’ he said.

  A new subaltern called Stringer got up and went to the door, and a few moments later the stewards returned to clear their plates.

  ‘Since you’re so concerned about the damned Albatross jastas, Reynolds,’ Thompson said. ‘I expect you’ll be pleased to hear that I want you and Wright to go to St Omer in the morning. You can pick up a pair of scouts we’ve been given to act as escorts for our patrols.’

  ‘I say, that’s good news, sir,’ Wright said. ‘May I ask what type they are?’

  ‘Nieuports I believe.’ Thompson smiled thinly towards William. ‘You see, Reynolds, it appears that HQ concur with you on this occasion. I’m sure everybody will be greatly relieved to know that in future they’ll have you to protect them from the Germans.’

  He looked around at the other men, who all obediently smiled at his gossamer veiled sarcasm.

  When dinner was over, William left the mess and went outside. Somebody put on the gramophone again and the hum of voices resumed. As he lit a cigarette the door opened behind him and Wright came out.

  ‘That was bloody stupid of you,’ Wright said. ‘It doesn’t accomplish anything you know.’

  ‘You know that what I said is true. Even Thompson knows it.’

  ‘That isn’t the point.’

  ‘No of course,’ William murmured. ‘One mustn’t rock the boat must one.’

  Wright looked at him with a puzzled air. ‘Do you know, I really don’t understand you, Reynolds. You behave as if you detest us all.’ William didn’t answer and Wright took his silence as encouragement. ‘You can’t live your life completely alone, you know. None of us can. Especially
here.’

  The sound of drinking and singing came from the mess. It was the same in all the squadrons; the pilots drank to forget that the fates of men like Pervis, could easily be their own. Most had a terror of burning. William wondered if it was better to be like the others and drown his fears in whisky? He threw his cigarette into the darkness where it landed in a shower of sparks.

  ‘I think I’ll turn in. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Wright said stiffly, offended at the rebuff.

  Alone on his bed William tried to read, but even Homer couldn’t hold his attention. He could still hear the faint sound of music from the mess. The table would be littered with empty bottles. By the time some of the officers finally get to bed they would have had no more than a few hours sleep before they had to get up for the early patrol.

  Much later, as he lay awake in the dark, he heard somebody moan in his sleep. They were all afraid, though none of them would admit it. They drank so that they could sleep, and in the morning put a brave face on it, their reactions blurred by hangovers. Wright was wrong. In the end, William thought, every man was alone.

  *****

  When they arrived at St Omer in the morning a clerk told them that the Nieuports they’d been sent to collect wouldn’t be ready until the afternoon, and faced with the prospect of spending half the day together Wright decided to drive to a nearby squadron to see somebody he knew.

  ‘You’re welcome to come with me if you like,’ he offered, but William declined, which he thought Wright was pleased about anyway.