The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  William began to look for the balloon and soon he saw it far below. There would be a basket underneath with a crew reporting by phone to the artillery below. If they were alert, one of the crew would have his glasses trained to the sky searching for danger.

  William gestured to Henry, who had already seen their target anyway. They had a method for attacking balloons. Because they had to attack at such a low height they took it in turns. On the first run Henry would stay up at around ten thousand feet to keep watch for enemy planes and draw them off if any should arrive. Both jobs were dangerous in their own ways, so after William had made two passes - if the balloon hadn’t been destroyed - they would change places. Henry had argued the point, saying that he ought to go first because he needed the experience. The truth was, he simply wanted to claim the ‘kill’ for himself. He had already shot down five German planes and he was keen to add a balloon to his score. But in this case, William had overruled him.

  William cocked his guns and scanned the sky for a final time. There was nothing there. At least nothing he could see. As he pushed the stick forward and opened the throttle to maximum his heart was hammering. He felt alert in a way that he never did at any other time. Every nerve ending, every ounce of sinew and muscle, every electrical pulse of his brain was sharpened and focused on what he was about to do. He was aware of the plane as if he were part of it. He could feel the vibrations from the wires and the frame running through the stick and the pedal, felt the power of the engine as the growl of the firing pistons became a roar. The wind tore at his face and the humming of the wires became a wail of protest. Fear and excitement became one. He was appalled and exhilarated at the same time. In front of him, the balloon grew rapidly larger and clearer, the ground took on more and more definition. In a few minutes he would kill or even be killed himself. The thought struck at his bowels, a momentary terror threatening to cause him to lose control of his functions. Then all at once there was no time to think of anything but what he had to do, and a curious calm descended over him.

  The balloon crew on the ground were nervous that day, it seemed. Before he was within range, William saw the first puff of dark smoke unfurl in the air ahead of him. Others soon followed, but the anti-aircraft gunners were struggling to find their range and the explosions never threatened him seriously. He was more worried about the threat of being hit by the machine guns on the ground, but he couldn’t think about that. He concentrated on his target. Already the ground crew were winding in the cable and the balloon was losing height. He attacked from above at a steep angle. When he pulled the trigger the Vickers barked and tracer flashed in a line dead into the centre of the balloon. He was aware of the figures in the basket, the flash from their rifles as they fired back at him, and then as he roared past, he twisted around to see if the balloon was burning. Though he knew he’d hit it, the balloon appeared undamaged, and he pulled back on the stick and banked to port to come around for another pass.

  On the ground, the machine guns opened up. Above the noise of his engine, William heard the crack of bullets in the air. He lined his sights up on the balloon and opened fire early, a long burst that once again seemed to score a direct hit, though there was still no sign of fire. At the last moment, instead of climbing past his target he levelled off and reached for the Lewis gun to fire a burst into the belly of the basket. A figure threw up his arms and toppled over the side, and for an instant William felt both exultation and horror. But still the balloon refused to burn.

  He looked up, searching for Henry, and glimpsed him circling in position. He should climb and exchange places, William thought, but by the time he did that the balloon would be very low and Henry ran the risk of being an easy target for the machine guns. He made a decision and banked in a steep turn, pushing the nose down again. If he didn’t get it this time they would break off the attack and run for home. For a third time the balloon filled his sights, and this time he started shooting as soon as it was in range. He followed the tracer in a straight line with the throttle wide open. Bullets hit his wings and splinters of wood flew off a strut, but when he glanced at the damage the wires were intact. He held his course. The crew were plainly visible, one of them waving his arms and frantically gesticulating to the winch party below, while another aimed his rifle. The tracer found its mark, but nothing happened. William kept his finger on the trigger, and as he got closer the balloon seemed to fill the sky until he thought he’d left it too late to break off. As he banked hard to port he was aware of a pale, terrified face, and at the same time he saw a lick of flame grow like the petals of a flower unfolding. There was an explosion, and the balloon collapsed on itself and fell in burning fragments. William felt the heat on his face and feared it would burn him too, but then it was behind him and he pulled back on the stick and began to climb and turn for home.

  When they landed, Henry jumped down from his cockpit and pushed brusquely past one of the mechanics. He ripped off his goggles and strode to William’s plane.

  ‘You were supposed to exchange places after your second run,’ he said angrily.

  ‘If I had, it would have been too low,’ William answered.

  ‘I could have got it,’ Henry insisted petulantly. ‘That would have been my first balloon.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter which of us pulled the trigger,’ William pointed out. ‘We had a job to do and we did it.’

  But he knew Henry didn’t see it that way. Henry turned and stamped off towards the chateau like a child who’d lost his favourite conker.

  *****

  ‘There you are,’ Christopher said, turning from the window as William came into the room. ‘It looks as if it’s clearing.’

  Outside, the rain was easing. The solid sheet of grey that had severely restricted flying since the beginning of the attack at Passchendaele was fading to a heavy drizzle. Since William’s balloon busting mission four days ago the squadron had only flown two patrols.

  Christopher gestured to a chair and poured himself a drink from a decanter on his desk. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Just a small one thanks.’

  The library of the sixteenth century chateau where the squadron was based, served as Christopher’s office. There was a large fireplace, and two of the walls were lined with shelves filled with books. Since his posting there, William had spent his spare time, such as there was, reading Proust and Voltaire.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took the drink Christopher gave him and they both lit cigarettes.

  ‘If it continues to clear like this we’ll be flying in the morning,’ Christopher said. ‘HQ are desperate to know what’s happening. I gather the entire thing is a complete mess.’

  ‘I can’t believe they went ahead with the attack in this weather,’ William said. ‘You can imagine what it must be like out there.’

  ‘Yes, well, I expect these things are planned well in advance. If there’s a delay the element of surprise is lost.’

  ‘I very much doubt that there’s any such thing as surprise anymore.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Anyway, the fact remains that the reconnaissance squadrons will be up as soon as the weather breaks, and that means the Huns will be out to stop them. I think we can expect to be busy. At least Henry will be pleased for another chance to add to his score.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ William said.

  Christopher gave a wry smile. ‘You’re not overly fond of him are you?’

  ‘He’s a good pilot,’ William said diplomatically. ‘And a brave one.’

  ‘He can also be a pompous ass.’ Christopher smiled. ‘You don’t have to respond to that. Henry may be my brother, but that doesn’t make me blind to his shortcomings. I had to speak to him the other day, actually. I don’t like his attitude towards the men. I heard him giving some poor fellow what for. He was complaining that his gun had jammed and putting all the blame on this young fitter. He said he’d have him on a charge if it happened again.’

  Though William hadn’t seen the incident himself, he wasn’
t surprised. He recalled the first time he’d met Henry years ago at Pitsford. He’d thought him a bully then for the way he used his position against people who couldn’t defend themselves for fear of losing their jobs.

  Christopher emptied his glass and lifted the decanter. ‘Another?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks.’ Christopher was drinking a lot, William thought, but then Christopher wasn’t alone in that respect. When William had passed the room they used as a mess earlier, most of the pilots were sitting around reading or playing chess, all of them drinking. Over the past few days they were often drunk before dinner, and then afterwards there would be drinking games and music until the early hours.

  ‘There’s no news of Hunt, by the way,’ Christopher said, referring to a pilot who’d been seen to go down a few days ago. One of the others thought he might have managed to land and there had been speculation he might evade capture and turn up again one day.

  ‘Are we getting somebody to replace him?’

  ‘Yes. He ought to be here tomorrow. I had a letter from Elizabeth this morning,’ Christopher said. ‘She sends her love.’

  ‘Thanks. Send mine back would you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Is she alright?’

  ‘Yes I think so. She’s working very hard. They’ve been overrun with wounded since this latest push.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Christopher frowned and looked out of the window at the rain. ‘I was hoping to get up for a night to see her, with this weather. But it’s not really possible at the moment. Anyway, I expect she’s been run off her feet.’

  ‘How long before you’re due some leave?’

  ‘Leave?’ Christopher sounded despairing. He shook his head at the impossibility of the idea. ‘I find it’s best not to think about it. I try and take each day as it comes.’ He picked up an envelope from his desk and William saw Elizabeth’s handwriting on the front. ‘About the only time I can contemplate any sort of future is when I write to Liz. I often talk about Pitsford, what it will be like when we’re living there again. I can almost believe it will really happen.’

  ‘Of course it will.’

  ‘I wonder if you believe that? I can’t help thinking it’s a dream. A fantasy. I want to believe in it, but I don’t think I really do.’

  There was a worrying fatalistic note to some of the things Christopher said, William thought. He sometimes talked as if he’d given up hope for the future, though never if any of the others were present.

  ‘Can I ask you something, William? As friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘After you crashed and you met that woman who helped you… what was her name?’

  ‘Helene.’

  ‘Helene. Yes. Liz said something to me. She thought you might have been in love with her. I’m not asking if you were, it’s none of my business, of course. But I know you cared for her. I couldn’t help wondering, in that case, whether you ever considered staying there?’

  ‘Staying?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose Hunt going down made me think of it. I mean, if he did manage to get away and found somewhere to hide from the Germans like you did, he could simply stay there until the war ends.’

  It was an extraordinary idea William thought. ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘It’s difficult to know unless one is in that situation, but if I’m absolutely honest I think I would consider it.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I think in the end you’d try to escape.’

  ‘You seem very sure,’ Christopher said. ‘Is it so wrong to think of one’s own life, one’s future? I mean it’s not as if I’m one of those fellows who didn’t join up at the start. I think I can claim truthfully to have done my duty. Nobody would ever know, after all. How could they?’

  ‘You would know,’ William said, and he was vaguely surprised to acknowledge that apart from practical considerations, it was why he’d never thought of doing what Christopher was suggesting.

  Christopher acknowledged that he was right with a wry, almost bitter smile. ‘Yes, I suppose I would.’

  By morning, the weather had cleared enough to allow flying. A blustery westerly shook the tops of the trees and patches of cloud fled across the sky, casting shadows on the land. The planes were assembled on the still wet grass, and as the pilots came down from the mess, Christopher gave his flight leaders their final instructions.

  ‘Our job is to protect the observer squadrons in our sector from the enemy. We’re rotating with other fighter squadrons nearby, so there ought be one lot in the air at all times. It goes without saying that everybody needs to keep a sharp lookout because the Huns are bound to be out in force too.’

  William joined the three other pilots from B Flight. ‘Hemming and Chalmers, you’re my wingmen. Chalmers on my starboard side. Beresford, you’re protecting our backs, alright?’

  Beresford was the youngest of them, a boy of eighteen with red hair and protruding teeth. He responded eagerly. ‘You can rely on me, sir.’

  William knew he didn’t have to worry unduly about Hemming, but the other two still lacked experience. ‘Good luck, then,’ he said. ‘And remember to stay close. If we get into a fight use your speed. Dive and zoom! Do you understand me? And don’t fly in a straight line for longer than you have to!’

  Suddenly there were a hundred things he wanted to remind them, instructions he wanted drummed into their brains until they were second nature. But he knew there was nothing more he could do. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  ‘Tallyho!’ called Chalmers, and as he went to his plane called to Beresford. ‘I say, save me a Hun if you get the chance! I’m the only one here who hasn’t opened my score yet and it’s damned embarrassing.’

  But his bravado failed to quell a waver in his voice, or keep the terror from his eyes.

  The engines were started and the steady roar of a dozen V8’s filled the air. Wreaths of smoke and the smell of oil and petrol were whipped away by the breeze. While the pilots waited for their machines to warm up, they checked their guns and controls. Elevators dipped like gladiators bowing their heads, ailerons flapped up and down.

  Finally, the first machines began to move across the grass. As they gathered speed they were followed by the next two, and then two more. When it came to William’s turn he gestured to Chalmers and they followed the others. He looked over his shoulder to see Beresford and Hemming safely off the ground. Blood surged like a tide through his veins. All around them the horizon widened and the landscape opened up, with its patterns of field and hill and river and road.

  They played follow-my-leader, climbing ever higher as Christopher led them on a course towards to the lines. Cloud formations drifted white and grey against the blue of the sky from three to twenty thousand feet. The higher they climbed, the more unreal the ground seemed as woods and buildings and the Ypres dissolved into a puddle of greens and brown. As they reached seventeen thousand feet and took their places in a ‘V’ formation they passed over the salient below. To them the battlefield was nothing more than a swathe of dun coloured nothingness. They had no idea of the vanished roads, the swamp of mud that the land had become in the rain where men and horses drowned and sank without trace, sucked down by the quagmire.

  Far below the SE5s, the two-seaters of the reconnaissance squadrons lumbered over the battlefield to report the disaster and direct artillery fire onto the German positions, and from the north-east came the Albatross jastas intent on shooting them down.

  William saw the enemy planes when they were at about fourteen or fifteen thousand feet heading straight for a cluster of half a dozen two-seaters observing a stretch of the ridge. The air was pockmarked with puffs of grey from the anti-aircraft fire, and now and then intermittent layers of cloud obscured both the ground and the two-seaters. It was the cloud that made the Albatrosses impossible for the two-seaters to spot.

  William counted six of them. A knot tightened in his stomach and he flicked off the safety on his guns. He looked
around, wondering why there were only six of them. Above there were clouds and blue sky, and the sun dazzled him. Something felt wrong, though he couldn’t see any other enemy machines. Ahead, he saw a flare rise in an arc from Christopher’s plane. Christopher banked and put his nose down, and the others began to follow. William hesitated. The flare was like a beacon. He had an uncomfortable premonition and wished he could speak to Christopher and urge him to hold back. But if they waited, the two-seaters wouldn’t have a chance. He searched the sky again but couldn’t see anything. Then he banked and changed course to follow the others, and the rest of his flight followed suit.

  After that there was no time to think. The two-seaters spotted the Albatrosses and broke and ran. As the Germans closed for the attack, the SE5s in turn tore down on them. William singled out a target painted green and red. The wires complained with their banshee howl and his engine thundered. He saw Christopher open fire first, and at almost the same moment William’s target filled his sight ring and he pressed the trigger in a long burst. The German pilot reacted almost instantaneously, banking hard and pulling his nose up to escape, but Hemming was there to cover that side and let off a bust of fire before rolling away and zooming up.

  For a few minutes there was mayhem. Planes rolled and turned, zoomed and dived every-which-way. Tracer carved deadly tracks across the sky. One of the two-seaters went down on fire, but the others took their chance and escaped while they could. An Albatross broke off and dived towards the east helped by the wind. The one William had attacked desperately tried to gain height and when William followed, the German used his faster turning ability to try and bring his twin Spandaus to bear, but Hemming caught him with a burst from his Lewis as he flashed underneath. The Albatross slipped over and began spinning towards the earth.