‘Of course. Perhaps I should tell you that we have certain reservations about Reynolds. Nothing to do with his actions, you understand. It’s simply that we must be careful to make certain he’s suited for what we have in mind. We don’t want him saying the wrong sorts of things to the newspapers.’
‘No, I can see that. Well, in that case if I were to be perfectly frank with you, I’d have to say that I think your concerns would be justified.’
‘Really?’
‘He was never very popular here amongst the other chaps. Kept very much to himself. Bit of an odd fish actually. Wouldn’t let the men service his machine and so on. Insisted on doing everything himself. He rather gave the impression that he imagined he was a cut above everybody else. Damned opinionated with it too.’
‘Opinionated? In what sense?’ wondered Jarvis.
‘He was prone to criticising his superiors. Not only me, but the General Staff. Didn’t agree with the way the war was being pursued. Quite frankly, Reynolds didn’t know his place.’
Jarvis wasn’t surprised by Thompson’s remarks. His own initial impressions of Reynolds had always been that Reynolds might be more of a hindrance to their aims, than a help. He thanked Thompson for expressing his views openly.
‘Not at all. Now, how about that lunch before you leave? The patrols ought to be back about now. You might like to speak to some of the men.’
‘Yes, I’d like that. How are things in this sector at the moment by the way?’
‘Oh, I think we’re managing alright. Naturally, I’d like to have some more experienced pilots, but I should think everybody’s in the same boat.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Mind you, I haven’t enough planes for the pilots I’ve got at the moment. Is there any chance we might get some of the new machines?’
‘The SE5s? Unlikely I’m afraid. They’re all being sent to the new fighter squadrons as quickly as we can make them.’
‘It’s just that my chaps are having to fly without an escort, you see.’
‘Yes, I sympathise, but I shouldn’t worry too much, once we’ve got enough of the new machines, I think you’ll find the enemy won’t have things all their own way. I’ll mention your concerns, though,’ Jarvis assured him.
‘Would you? I’d appreciate it. Not that I’d want anyone to think I’m complaining, you understand. I realise we must all do the best we can.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Now, here we are.’ Thompson held open the door to the officer’s mess. ‘I believe we’re having beef today. Can I offer you a drink, Jarvis?’
‘Thank you. I’ll have a whisky if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve only got Bells, will that be alright?’
‘Absolutely. Though I might have a dash of soda with it in that case.’
CHAPTER 33
The clerk in charge of records didn’t appear at all surprised by William’s request.
‘So you want to know where you’re buried, sir. Though it isn’t actually you, of course.’
‘Yes, that’s right. The records ought to have been changed to show that it’s Captain Wright.’
The clerk’s expression was sceptical. ‘I doubt that. But let’s have a look. If you’d like to wait here I’ll see what I can find out. Would you like a cup of tea or something, sir?’
‘No thanks, Sergeant.’
‘Right then. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
In fact he was gone for more than an hour, and William had begun to think the man had forgotten about him. Eventually, though, he returned and his smile was evidence of success.
‘I was right about one thing, sir. The records haven’t been changed, but I’ll put in a request right away to get it done. There’s a bit of a backlog as you can appreciate, sir. It’s the lucky ones’ get their own graves, but even then you can never really be sure who they’re burying. A bit of this and a bit of that. I suppose it doesn’t really matter though does it, sir. Dead is dead, as they say.’
‘I expect you’re right.’
‘Bit of a funny one this, though. Unusual. No wonder you couldn’t find the grave. It’s not in the cemetery that’s why. He was buried in a village just outside Amiens.’
The records clerk showed William the documentation, though it told him nothing other than what he’d just heard.
‘Do you know why he was buried there?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘No idea, sir. Perhaps you could ask at the hospital. Somebody there might know. He wasn’t French was he?’
‘No. Not as far as I know, anyway.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then, sir, shall I?’
‘Yes, thanks for your help, Sergeant.’
‘Pleasure, sir.’
When he got outside William lit a cigarette. He decided to go to the village right then and see the grave for himself. After returning to the hospital he managed to find an ambulance that was returning to the front and cadged a lift. He arrived late in the afternoon. The village was little more than a handful of cottages that had grown up in the protective folds of the landscape, sheltered from the elements. A hollow by the river that trapped the heat. It was June and the weather had changed. A single dusty road was the only way in or out of the village. It passed beneath shady trees and ran alongside a low hill where a wall made of grey stone surrounded the churchyard.
‘I can wait if you want, but only for a few minutes,’ the ambulance driver offered after William climbed out.
‘No, it’s alright, thanks. I’ll walk back.’
As the ambulance drove away a brown dog roused itself from a patch of shade and ran after the vehicle barking half-heartedly, and then duty done trotted back and collapsed in a panting heap. The sound of the engine faded to silence.
He climbed the path to the empty churchyard. The most recent graves were at the back behind the church, where the view over the wall stretched across fields and woods of dark green. He could see the red roof of a farmhouse in the distance. From the woods came the staccato echo of a woodpecker, and from the other direction the rumble of guns.
He found the grave under the branches of a yew. The headstone was made of polished marble, inscribed with his name and the dates of his birth and supposed death. He looked around. It was a peaceful place, a green idyll far from the war. It reminded him of Scaldwell. He sat down to think. He wondered if it was Elizabeth who’d arranged for him to be buried there, though it was odd that she hadn’t said anything. He wondered why.
By the time William arrived back at the hospital it was late in the afternoon. While he was packing his things, Elizabeth came into the ward.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.
‘I went for a walk.’
She watched him fold his clothes. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘Yes. My orders came this morning. I was going to tell you.’
‘Are you going back to England?’
‘No. I’ve been posted to a new squadron.’
She tried to hide her reaction, but he thought some things are impossible to conceal. She looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears she held back.
‘Elizabeth…’
She looked at him and tried to smile, wiping her eyes. He thought about the grave where Wright was buried and he wanted to go to her and put his arms around her, to hold her and feel the softness of her hair, breathe the scent of her skin. Neither of them moved.
*****
They met at seven o clock at the hospital gates and walked towards the town. Elizabeth was quiet. When he glanced at her she was looking at the ground, her brow creased in angry lines.
‘They shouldn’t be sending you back,’ she said at length. ‘I’ve heard that other men who’ve escaped after they crashed have been treated as heroes.’
‘They’re desperately short of pilots,’ William said, though he suspected there might be other reasons for the decision to keep him in France.
‘Then they must need experienced men to train new ones.
Surely you’ve done your part.’
‘No more than anyone else.’
‘It just doesn’t seem fair.’
‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘I’ve been posted to Christopher’s squadron.’
She stared at him in disbelief.
They went to a café where they had been once or twice since Christopher left. The owners were friendly and the food was good.
‘Christopher will be glad to see you,’ Elizabeth said when they were sitting at a table in the corner. ‘You can look after one another.’
‘How is he?’
‘I worry about him. Now I’ll have to worry about both of you.’
The café was busy with people who had stopped for a drink and a snack on the way home from their work. Like everywhere else, there were very few men under the age of forty five. The women worked at jobs that would have been the realm of men before the war. The owner’s wife brought them a bottle of Bordeaux.
‘When did you last hear from Christopher?’ William asked, offering Elizabeth a cigarette.
‘He writes every few days. I think things are difficult. He says the new planes are very good, but there still aren’t enough of them.’
‘It will get better,’ he said, trying to reassure her.
‘Will it?’ she said sceptically. ‘I’ve heard that our squadrons have been attacked by as many as thirty German planes at a time.’
William had heard the stories too. The German jastas had developed a new tactic of concentrating their numbers where they were needed, sometimes flying missions en masse. The pilots referred to them as flying circuses because of the garish colours the German’s painted their machines.
‘They’ve had the upper hand, but it’s changing,’ he said. ‘The SE5 is making a difference and I’ve heard Sopwith are making a bigger version of the Pup. With the new French Spads and Nieuports arriving as well, the tables are turning.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He could see she wanted to believe him, and by all accounts what he was telling her was true, though the new planes weren’t arriving in sufficient numbers yet, and there was a serious shortage of experienced pilots.
Despite William’s efforts to be positive, Elizabeth was unusually quiet during their meal, and no matter how hard he tried to take her mind off the war he couldn’t lighten her mood. She looked tired, he thought. Though on the surface she was still the young woman he’d once known and loved, she had changed. She rarely laughed. A memory came back to him of the day he’d taken her flying and shown her Scaldwell. If Christopher hadn’t been waiting for them when they returned he would have asked her to marry him. Would that have changed anything he wondered? It seemed to him that too many things in life went unsaid, and opportunities for happiness were missed and later regretted.
‘I went to Thierry this afternoon,’ he said.
Her eyes widened in surprise and she put down her fork. ‘How did you know?’
‘So it was you. I thought it might have been. I wanted to find out where Wright was buried so that I could write to his family.’
‘I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I am.’
They looked at one another, their silence speaking more than words could ever express. The colour of Elizabeth’s eyes had always fascinated him; the startling clarity of green that made him think of light on the surface of the sea, illuminating the depths underneath. In some ways there was nothing more intimate than gazing openly into the eyes of another person. One felt exposed in a way. Nothing could be hidden. It made his heart race. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. A kind of freedom.
They smiled at one another as if sharing their thoughts.
‘There’s something I want you to know,’ Elizabeth said. ‘When we were in Cannes, Christopher and I both knew we’d made a mistake. When I look back now, I see how heartless I must have seemed to you. I can’t excuse what I did. I’m not even sure I can explain it entirely, but I think you knew I was in love with Christopher, or at least imagined myself to be. You asked me more than once if I was and I denied it. The truth is, I’d been in love with him for years. But it was more an idea than an actual feeling. All I ever wanted was for him to feel the same way about me. But he never did. He never saw me the way he saw other girls. The way he saw Sophie. And then I met you and without even wanting to, or realising or understanding what was happening, I began to fall in love with you. I was very confused.’
William listened to her speak, watching her mouth, her eyes, the way she fiddled with her wine glass. The ring she wore, Christopher’s ring, flashed in the light.
‘After we came back I tried to find you,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘I tried everything I could think of. But you seemed to simply vanish. I didn’t know who to ask, but I tried everyone. Nobody knew anything.’
He thought back. The weeks after the fire were unclear. ‘I went to Birmingham,’ he said. He’d worked for a coachbuilder and then an engineering firm. He had lived in lodgings and nine months of his life had disappeared in a black haze. Eventually he began to think about flying again, but shortly afterwards the war began and he had decided to join the Flying Corps.
‘Yes, I know. You were sent to Shoreham.’
He was surprised that she knew, and then she told him how she’d travelled to Shoreham and sent a letter to the camp and waited for a reply that never came. ‘I didn’t receive a letter.’
‘You’d already gone by then, but I only found that out months later. My letter was returned. By then I was living in London, training to become a nurse and you were in France.’
As he struggled to absorb what Elizabeth was telling him, it struck William how arbitrary life was. How fickle timing and circumstance could turn a person’s life toward a hitherto unforeseen direction. It was as if the forces that governed their existence had conspired to keep them apart, but still, somehow, they came to be sitting together at a table in a café in Amiens. He could understand how the Greeks had believed the gods meddled in men’s affairs for their amusement. And perhaps they weren’t finished yet. Though he and Elizabeth were only separated by the width of a table, they were bound by loyalty as surely as if they were chained. The table may as well have been a chasm.
Elizabeth told him about the day the burned pilot was brought to the hospital and the confusion over his identity. ‘I wanted him to be you, because the alternative seemed to be that you were dead. And when he died at least I had sat beside you and told you the truth, and I clung to the idea that you heard and understood everything I said.’
‘What did you say?’ he asked, wanting to hear her speak the words.
‘That I love you. That I’ve always loved you.’
Did any other phrase in language express so much of what was truly important in life, William wondered.
Elizabeth looked at the ring on her finger. ‘When Christopher asked me to marry him, I agreed because in a way I love him. I love him like a friend I’ve known all my life. But more than that I agreed because I believed I would never see you again, and Christopher was alive and he needed me. He still needs me. He needs to believe in me.’
William understood what she was saying, but he already knew it. There was solace, at least, in the knowledge that he loved her and that she in turn loved him. He smiled and reached across the table for her hand and that was enough.
CHAPTER 34
JULY 1917
The barrage on the German positions had been going on for nearly a week. A thousand guns were raining shells onto the ground that rose towards the ridge overlooking Passchendaele, with the intention of destroying the heavy enemy fortifications. The German artillery were responding and had put up a balloon to assist their gunners, and it was this balloon that William and Henry were about to attack.
It was a quick raid, meant to take the Germans by surprise so that they would have no time to winch their spotters down to safety or telephone one o
f the aerodromes to summon a squadron of Albatrosses. Unless they were unlucky enough to run into a patrolling jasta, William hoped they would slip across the lines and complete their mission and be back in time for lunch.
Henry was on his right as they climbed for height on their own side of the lines using the cloud for cover. The Hispano Suiza engine in his SE5 growled steadily as the altimeter climbed above ten thousand feet. The plane was steady and had proved to be fast in a dive. It could out climb an Albatross, though it was not quite so quick in a turn. The Lewis gun above the top-plane was loaded with standard ammunition, but the Vickers mounted on the cowling in front of William was loaded with incendiary bullets, designed to ignite the helium in a balloon and make it burn.
He entered heavy moisture-laden cloud, and for a few minutes he couldn’t see Henry, but he trusted him to hold his course. Henry had taken the place of William’s normal wingman, who was giving the other two pilots in William’s flight some shooting practise. They were replacements for Kirk and Wilson, who had both been shot down within a week of each other.
At thirteen and a half thousand feet the cloud thinned, and then moments later William flew into bright sunshine. Automatically he looked all around, searching for enemy planes. The greatest danger when flying was being taken by surprise. Both sides habitually patrolled close to their effective ceilings, using cloud and the sun to their advantage, always hoping to pounce on vulnerable two-seaters working at lower heights. For the moment he couldn’t see anything. To the north, a slab of heavy, dark cloud covered the landscape at about five or six thousand feet. Between there and his current position the drifts of cloud were layered at varying heights, and in between were oceans of blue. It was a landscape of a thousand hiding places, where danger could lurk unseen until it was too late. Far below, the earth was a dull canvas of muted greens and browns. In the air, the dimensional perspectives were reversed. The cloud made towering mountains and deep valleys and endless plains that stretched to the far horizon.
Henry’s plane emerged from the cloud and William checked his compass before changing course to follow a bearing that would take them over the lines south-east of the ridge. They sailed on through clear sky, accompanied by the reassuring note of the engine and the wind humming in the wires. He looked over the side of his cockpit at the ruined swathe of the Ypres Salient. Flattish, waterlogged land being churned to more mud and craters in preparation for yet another momentous battle. Explosions appeared silently, like ripples on a muddy pond.
The Flyer Page 38