Heart of War (26 page)

The officer opposite said, ‘That's the disadvantage of having a French chef. It's not bad if you pretend not to notice the colour.'

Guy enjoyed lamb however it was done, as long as it was tender, and this was; he ate slowly, eyeing his fellow officers of Three Threes, the squadron famous throughout the R.F.C. for that number. It was the result of a War Office clerk, typing out raising orders for new squadrons, typing 32, 33, and then 333, before continuing 34, 35, 36, 37. Naturally, once the orders had gone out it was unthinkable to change them, so … 333 it had remained.

They were nearly all at the table now … twelve pilots; the adjutant; the quartermaster, an ex-sergeant major of the Royal Welch Fusiliers; and Major Sugden. Most of them wore the uniforms of the regiments from which they had been seconded to the Royal Flying Corps, with their pilot's wings on the left breast above the tunic pocket and, here and there, a medal ribbon or two. Guy noticed three wearing the white-purple-white of the Military Cross, and two the blue-red-blue of the Distinguished Service Order – the C.O., and a baby-faced lieutenant. A few, like himself, wore the double breasted tunic of the R.F.C. itself, always referred to as the maternity jacket. One or two wore riding breeches and field boots, but most wore slacks. All their Sam Browne belts were hanging in the hall of the farmhouse.

Guy's neighbour said, ‘Were you one of the fellows who flew in the new D.H. 2s?

Guy said, ‘Yes,' just stopping himself in time from adding ‘sir.' His neighbour was only a lieutenant like himself; and Guy had been instructing lieutenants, captains and even one major in flying. Back at Shoreham he had had no particular awe of them; but this was an entity, a fighting
squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, and a crack one.

‘Ever flown one in action?'

‘No.'

‘Well, you can throw them around the sky and they'll hold together but they may spin in, so be careful when you're below three thousand feet. And they're cold. Jesus, they're cold! I hope to God we've got something else by October … preferably September.'

‘We'd better have,' the man opposite said. ‘Jerry will have thought up something better than the Fokker E by then.'

Another said, ‘And the Gnome Monosoupape's a bloody menace. We lost …'

‘I know,' Guy said, ‘I'm in his tent.'

He returned to his plate. His father had dinned into him that officers never talked about shop, women, or politics in mess. Those rules did not seem to apply here … not about shop, anyway

An airman came in through the barn door, which had been permanently sealed shut, by the smaller door cut in it for human purposes, started for the table at a run, then stopped, searched the group with his eyes, and, finding the slicked-back grey hair of Major Sugden, went to him and handed him a message form. The C.O. read, looked up, banged on the table with the handle of his knife and said, ‘Quiet please, gentlemen … We've been ordered to make another sweep of the battle front. The Boches have sent in two squadrons of E Ills in an effort to clear the area so that their photographic and artillery spotter planes can get forward. We'll take off at …' he glanced at his wristwatch ‘… one thirty pip emma, that's in ten minutes. Rendezvous eight thousand feet over Albert, then up the main Bapaume road to ten miles behind the German front, then south-east to the Somme – all in stepped up echelon of flights, in order B, C, A, D. Tactics – as for flight actions, unless we run into a squadron or more of Boches in formation, when we'll attack in squadron formation, following my lead. That's all.'

Guy took another mouthful of lamb, cleared his plate of peas, and went out. His rigger had already painted his individual number – 3 – in green on both sides of the nose of the cockpit, where it matched the green colours of D Flight which decorated the wheels and the propeller boss. He had
learned from the Standing Orders that A Flight's colour was red, B's blue, and C's yellow; and the Squadron commander's black.

He climbed into the cockpit and began checking his instruments. He was going into action. In half an hour he might be dead. He felt a peculiar sinking sensation in his stomach and after a moment recognized it; it was what he always felt when first called on to bowl, as he was walking across the turf, rubbing the ball in his hand, measuring out his run. He fastened his safety strap, looked at the petrol gauge – full. He pulled his goggles down. The sergeant of the flight was waving his arm in a circular motion and Belcraft repeating it – Start engines! Guy checked his contact switch and shouted ‘Contact!' Belcraft went to the rear and caught hold of the propeller. An airman came running out of the line of tents, waving a revolver. He reached the side of Guy's aircraft as the engine caught and the propeller began to whirl, the cylinders coughing smoke and a reek of burned castor oil thick on the hot summer breeze. Belcraft took the revolver and handed it up to Guy, ‘You have to take your revolver, sir. Squadron orders!'

Guy waved a hand in acknowledgement and stuffed the Webley into its holster on his Sam Browne. B Flight was taxiing out, blipping their engines, three abreast, plus Major Sugden's machine on the right of the line. The wind had increased, still blowing from the south-west, but a point more up and down the field. Take off should be easy, except for the dust rising in little whorls behind the taxiing machines. B Flight lined up and took off: C filed out onto the line, turned, engines roaring … off! A – off! No, the right hand man's engine had cut, the propeller whirling to a stop – a final cough – dead. A dozen fitters and riggers ran out, reached it, lined up behind the lower wing, shoved, strained. The machine was trundled off out of the way. Hard cheese on someone, Guy thought. His D flight was on the move – one behind the other, in line, all turning left together. Oil pressure steady, ailerons and rudder tested … The Flight Commander raised his hand, looked right and left, dropped it. Guy opened the throttle wide and the D.H. 2 started to roll, grass flying back, the air still full of dust and dried grass from the passage of the leading flights. The wings of the machine in the centre began to rise above the
wings of Guy's. He eased back on the stick. He was airborne, climbing on course, due east, falling into station as left hand man of the flight, above and a little behind number 1, while number 2 was in the same position the other side. The sun filtered brightly through strange, thin, long bands of cloud.

The flight climbed, the sun glistening on the pale yellow varnish of the wings, the other flights visible ahead. The spire of Albert church was straight ahead, the meanderings of the Somme off to the right. Here, behind the battle line, the fields were green, studded with copses, the underlying chalk of the Somme uplands clear through the grass or crops, every lane and road white in the strong light. Guy glanced at the map spread on his lap then quickly up, as he heard a strange sound, like the roaring of a train in a tunnel … another … again … several of them, each a rushing roar. Suddenly a glint ahead caught the light and for a moment he saw it – a heavy shell which had just passed him with the strange rushing sound, now for a moment flying in the same direction, on its arching course to its destination, easily visible from straight behind. The roarings ceased as the flight passed above the zenith of the shells' arcs. Almost at once the D.H. 2 began to bounce and surge, drop fifty feet, rise violently, lurch from side to side. Guy sweated as he struggled with rudder and ailerons to hold his machine steady. Then he realized that he was alone. Looking right, where the others had been, he saw them, still close, but diving toward a group of three small flying objects two thousand feet below – Fokkers. He nosed over to follow. They ought to get some of those Boches – coming out of the sun, from a superior height. The wind howled past, the fabric screamed and sang. Below, one of the Fokkers burst into flames, the others turned violently away. That must have been his Flight Commander's work. He tried to coax one of the swerving Fokkers into his sights, his thumb ready on the machine-gun trigger that was in the head of the joy stick, but it kept dodging, and also gaining on him, increasing the range. The other two machines of his flight were climbing back into the sun to rejoin the rest of the squadron, dark, silhouetted shapes above there. He pulled the stick back and followed, taking his thumb off the trigger. Close, but no luck. Well, it was his first day, and he had
enough petrol for another hour's flying at least, depending on the wind.

The squadron finally made its rendezvous over Albert, and headed north-east up the Amiens-Bapaume road. They crossed both sets of trench lines, and for a moment, looking down, Guy imagined he saw, amid the smoke, lines of pygmy figures, the glint of steel catching the sun … his father might be down there. But it was only his imagination, he knew, for he would not make out any figures from eight thousand feet. One day soon, he must go up to the line and see and feel for himself what that side of the war was like. It was easy to read about, to look at photographs – but hard to understand, in your heart.

He glanced round. It was ten minutes since they had left Albert, and it hardly seemed to have moved – there it was, not four miles back. What on earth … ? On the way up to rejoin the flight after trying to get the Fokker he had experienced that same turbulence, at about six thousand feet … and now the squadron was making very slow progress toward the east. It could mean only one thing – a strong east wind was blowing at this altitude. Well, it would be easy to get home today. His Flight Commander kicked into a violent turn, and a second later a big shadow flashed over Guy. Instantly he pushed the stick over and kicked the rudder controls. He heard a muffled clatter, and saw the yellow streaks on his tail, and three, four others concentrating on his flight. The Germans had been spotted just in time, probably when diving out of cloud, and now the whole of 333 Squadron was engaged, the nearer sky full of weaving aircraft. Guy dived, as another burst of tracer missed him close, then swung over into an Immelmann turn. For a moment he had a Fokker swimming up into his sights. Just as he was ready to press the trigger, he felt the presence of another Fokker above and behind him, pulled the D.H. 2 into a climbing turn, flipped over on his back, and fell away in a spin.

After a few seconds he passed into cloud, and steadied the machine. He climbed back through the swirling vapour, jerking, bumping … out into sunshine … Not a sign of aircraft … Yes, there was one, about a mile away, near the same height as himself, flying on a crossing course. He recognized it at once as a D.H. 2, from the pusher engine,
marked dihedral of the upper wing, and the fuselage shorter than a Vickers Gunbus. He waggled his wings and settled in beside it in echelon. It was No. 3 plane of A Flight. Whoever he was, he would be Guy's senior. The pilot raised an arm in the beginning of a signal, flying no more than sixty feet to Guy's right, when suddenly he leaned over, started down, and pointed. Guy looked and saw, silhouetted above the now distant earth, several machines, black crosses plain, a parasol-like structure over the single wing, the wing set about mid-fuselage. They were Fokker Es, but not E Ills, such as they'd just had the dogfight with – E Is, perhaps … Two against seven. The two D.H. 2s dived together, side by side, the sun straight behind, no clouds within two miles.

The rear Fokker came into Guy's sights … the tail … the centre of the fuselage, the pilot … the pilot's head, looming larger and larger … deflection one degree ahead … he pressed the trigger and at once released it as the German pilot jerked upright, then slumped foward. The Fokker fell away, but already he was on the tail of the next … the ring and bead sight steady … a one-second burst … again the slump, but this time the Fokker flipped over on its back, the wing nearly touching his undercarriage as he passed over it. No sign of his flight companion now, but another Fokker, near the head of the formation, was in flames … They were breaking up, scattering.

He selected one, dived briefly to gain speed, and came up underneath it. To his left another Fokker was turning in to attack. He'd be too late. Guy's short burst went into the cockpit and engine from below. The Fokker turned lazily on its back, smoke trailing, and circled toward the earth.

He settled down in a stern chase of one of the remaining Germans. He was almost within range … now the German would dive … head for cloud … turn to attack. He did nothing, flew desperately on. Guy's sights came on, from directly behind, and the German attempted a loop … but Guy, climbing faster on the inside of the loop, pulled his stick back a trifle harder. He pressed the trigger. As the Fokker fell off the top of its loop, he shouted aloud, ‘Got him!' glaring at the plane with teeth momentarily bared … just as he used to run half-way down the pitch when he had clean bowled a batsman, letting go the involuntary shout, and baring his teeth.

He glanced at his petrol gauge … less than a quarter of a tank … twenty minutes flying. Two Fokkers were still in the air, fleeing for their lives. Once more he settled to the chase. He was gaining … two hundred yards … one hundred and fifty … well within range: he closed his hand lovingly round the stick, his thumb caressing the trigger … fifty yards …

The reason why he had won four such easy victories burst on him. These were pilots from some advanced training unit, not a Jagdstaffel. The very high east wind in the upper air had blown them farther west than they expected, and there, still ten miles behind their own lines, Guy and his companion had found them.

The German's head was clear and close. For a moment he turned, drawn, mouth open, terror evident in every line, very young, younger even than Guy. He couldn't bear it. He lifted the D.H. 2's nose up and pressed the trigger, sending a long burst six feet above the Fokker pilot's head. The Fokker swung sharply, turned over, and spun down. Guy eased into a circle and watched the German go down, spinning slowly like a huge maple leaf … ‘Right rudder!' he heard himself shouting. ‘Right rudder! Stick forward!' He remembered a pilot, one of his pupils, on his second solo, freezing up like that over Chanctonbury Ring. He had been in the air himself at the time, and had watched the B.E. 2 until the final shock, the towering flames. Now the Fokker went in: there were the flames, the smoke.