Heart of War (27 page)

He swung the D.H.'s nose west, staying at eight thousand feet, and the man from A Flight joined him. The stream of the upper air hurled them on at 170 miles per hour ground speed, until, nearly over Mirvaux, they dived down through severe turbulence, and landed with both tank gauges showing empty. Then they taxied to their separate places in the line of D.H. 2s. As soon as he had stopped his engine the other pilot scrambled out of his cockpit and raced toward Guy shouting at the top of his voice, ‘Five! My God, five Huns on your first day!'

Guy sat, the propeller whirling to a stop, kicking back once, stopping. His fitter and rigger were there, half a dozen of the squadron officers running up, catching the frenzied excitement of the first, shouting, cheering. Guy felt his stomach churn, his forehead break into a cold sweat, and with a single heave he vomited all over the cockpit, the
instruments, the control column. Tears burst into his eyes, and he sat, shaking, retching, groaning, weeping.

The first man was on the lower wing – ‘My God! Rowland! Are you hit?'

Guy shook his head. He smelled vile. He hated himself. He croaked, ‘Keep off … get away … leave me alone.'

Belcraft was there, on the wing, his hands out – ‘Here, sir … Don't worry about that … I'll clean it all up …'

‘No, you won't!' The voice was harsh. ‘Anyone who is sick in an aircraft of this squadron cleans it up himself!'

‘Yes, sir,' Guy said, looking down at Major Sugden's grim face.

He climbed out and jumped feebly down – ‘Get me a bucket and mop,' he muttered to Belcraft.

Sugden, surrounded by a crowd of officers, said, ‘Is it true, what O'Grady was saying – that you shot down five Boches?'

‘Four, sir. They were trainees … must have been … blown west by the wind up there. I had the fifth in my sights when I realized … I fired over his head.'

‘You can't have!' O'Grady exclaimed, ‘I saw him go down.'

‘He was terrified,' Guy said, ‘went into a spin – didn't know how to avoid me, didn't know how to get out of it.'

Sugden turned on O'Grady, a lieutenant with black hair, greenish eyes and a long Irish upper lip – ‘You saw the others?'

‘Yes, sir. I got one myself, with my second burst. Then my gun jammed, but I stayed with Rowland to make the Huns think there were two of us.'

‘And you're positive he got them … four?'

‘One after the other … he had a long chase to get the fourth, but he got them all, all right. Closed to fifty yards or less before firing, just like Ball.'

Sugden said, ‘Come and see me in the office, Rowland, when you've cleaned up that machine, and yourself.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The squadron flew two more sorties that day, the first day of the Battle of the Somme, and Guy made no more kills, though he damaged a Fokker E III over Peronne and others saw it flying lower and lower towards the east, trailing
smoke. His own machine came back with bullet holes in the fuselage from each sortie, some very close to where he had sat in the cockpit, and as he landed for the last time, in the dusk, Major Sugden spoke briefly to him – ‘I'm claiming four Boches for you today, Rowland. You did well … though you should have shot at that fifth trainee. He might have survived, to kill you one day – or your best friend. You're a good scout pilot, obviously. You go in close and make sure of your kill. Your trigger told me you barely fired a belt in all. But when you meet real Jasta pilots, remember they'll have the guts and skill to be firing back at you.'

‘Yes, sir,' Guy said. He thought, but I'm not going to miss a Hun just because he's firing back at me. I'll dodge, dive, do anything to escape if he has the jump on me; but if I have him in my sights, I won't lose him, ever.

A droning sound grew rapidly louder and a lone aircraft appeared low in the east. Guy stopped, watching, standing at the far side of the airfield. He stared at the plane, wondering. It was a Fokker E III hopping the hedges, skimming along the airfield with guns silent … one plane, alone … Mechanics, riggers, fitters, and pilots dived for cover. Guy stared intently. The machine turned tightly and roared back, low over the field. The pilot threw out a white package tied to trailing red ribbons. Hopping over the hedge, the Fokker vanished in the eastern gloaming.

Guy walked across the field. The adjutant was there limping toward the package. He picked it up, adjusted the monocle in his left eye, and opened the package, as Guy and others gathered round him. ‘That was von Rackow,' he said, ‘Notice the yellow wing ends, outside the black crosses? And that was his E IV – same as an E III, but with three guns instead of two … Ah, what have we here? A package, labelled “Personal effects of Lieutenant Bristol, R.F.C.” with a note addressed to “The next of kin of Lieut. Bristol” – it's open …' He read aloud – ‘Dear Sir or Madame, Your son was a skilful pilot and a brave man, but his machine broke up under my fire. He died instantly and I honour his memory – Werner Von Rackow: … Here's another letter, addressed to Major D.Q. Sugden, D.S.O., O.C. 333 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps …'

Sugden arrived, moustache bristling, and the adjutant said, ‘Perhaps you'd better read it, sir.'

Sugden tore open the envelope and read aloud:
‘Dear Major Sugden: One of your officers today butchered five student pilots. I will be waiting for him, alone, 2,000 metres (6,600 feet) over Peronne at 7.30 tomorrow morning. Only one of my guns will be loaded. Respectfully yours, Werner von Rackow, Captain, Jagdstaffel 16.'

Sugden muttered, ‘What's he so angry about? How was Rowland expected to know that they were students?' He glanced up at Guy – ‘If you attempt to make that rendezvous, Rowland, you will be returned to England as unsuitable for active service.' He stuffed the letter into his pocket and turned to the adjutant – ‘Get four machine guns from the nearest Ordnance Depot, and arrange to train a dozen fitters and riggers to fire them. It was chivalrous of von Rackow to bring over Bristol's effects, and the note, but I don't want them to get any ideas. The next Boche who flies down my airfield is not going to get home to his.'

August 1, 1916

The great battle still raged between the Somme and the Ancre. Lieutenant Colonel Quentin Rowland, wounded again, this time through the stomach, was on his way to the railway station in Amiens, there to be loaded, with many others, onto a hospital train and taken to a Base Hospital. The ambulance bumped and rattled over the pavé, his wound hurt, his whole belly ached, but, lying in a haze of morphine, he did not think he was dangerously wounded. Doc Sholto, the R.M.O., had told him that the bullet – received in front of Contalmaison early this morning – had apparently gone clean through without touching any vital part.

Guy Rowland sat in the C.O.'s office, listening to Major Sugden. He had made three more kills during the month, raising his total to seven. Each time he had vomited in the cockpit of his D.H. 2 as soon as he was safely landed.

Sugden said, ‘I am giving you this leave so that you can see your grandfather, Rowland, and help the R.F.C. … because he is a Member of Parliament. I want you to impress on him that our most urgent problem is to get a workable synchronized machine gun. The Boches have had
one for months, and it gives them a great advantage in design. Our designers have to build pushers, which, if they're single engine, must have twin booms and their concomitant problems.'

‘I found that out for myself, sir.'

‘You have designed aircraft?'

‘A little. Single-engined pushers seemed to suffer from structural weakness and inefficiency of the propeller. It was all right, in theory, with multi-engined pushers out on the wings – they were aerodynamically as good as tractors.'

‘That's interesting … Well, make your grandfather appreciate – and have the Prime Minister appreciate – that the very best brains in the country must be put to this. We don't have much time. Now the D.H. 2 is superior to the E III, but Fokker's not going to sit still. I don't think he can push his E design any farther. He'll bring out something faster … more manoeuvreable, and it will knock us out of the skies, until we get a machine that has better flying characteristics than the D.H. 2, which means a tractor engine – which means synchronized guns – at least two of them … something like the new Sopwith that 70 Squadron got just before the start of the offensive.'

Guy stood up, thinking the squadron commander had finished – ‘Anything else, sir?'

Sugden said, ‘Wait a minute. Tell him you've got the M.C. Not for your exploit with the student pilots, but for the way you attacked those four Boches on the 16th, when they had Gorringe cold, gun jammed and engine missing on most of its cylinders.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘You're a bit schoolboyish sometimes – I don't mean in Mess, that doesn't matter a damn – but in the air. How old are you?'

‘Nineteen and nearly a half, sir.'

Sugden sighed, ‘Well, you've got to act like eighteen, but think like forty, in the air. That's all.'

Guy saluted, and went out, adjusting the forage cap to the proper angle on the side of his head. Four o'clock and the squadron's Crossley was waiting for him. His grandfather and the other two visiting M.P.s were in the Hotel de France in Amiens. He ought to get a good dinner out of it, at least …

The car started, Guy sitting beside the driver. For a while they talked, then Guy remembered that the adjutant had handed him two letters just before he went in to see the C.O. He pulled them out of his tunic pocket and glanced at the handwriting. The first was from Aunt Alice. He read quickly – Granny was in the hospital again, but no operation possible. Grandfather hadn't wanted to go on the tour of the Front with the other M.P.s, for Granny's sake, but she had insisted. Uncle Richard's aircraft company was doing well, big aeroplanes flying low over the town every day so that people hardly looked up any more; the American girl, Betty Merritt, was working for the company, helping design the aeroplanes, what a wonderful thing for a woman to do …

He opened the other letter. It was from his mother: Virginia was working as a common private or whatever they called them in the Women's Legion, cleaning lavatories and scrubbing floors; but she said she was happy. She herself was still in Hedlington, and unhappy: Guy would know why. She had seen the man she had told him about, but he would not speak to her. Was there anything he needed – socks, gloves, scarves, what about a sheepskin flying jacket?

What I'll need in a few weeks, flying a D.H. 2., is a polar bear's coat and trousers, Guy thought sardonically … Poor Mummy, apparently she knew where the man she loved was, but would not tell him or Virginia or anyone else. Guy thought he would like to meet the man some time. He ought to regard him as a cad and a rotter, ruining his father's marriage; but he couldn't. People weren't always responsible for themselves or their actions, and allowances had to be made. One had to understand, or try to … one had to think like forty.

At the main road the driver had to stop the Crossley and wait while a column of seventeen ambulances passed, also heading for Amiens. Then they followed behind. Guy thought, he had not yet had an opportunity to go up the line. He knew that his father's battalion was in the battle area. He'd go tomorrow, as soon as he'd said goodbye to Grandfather, instead of spending the day here, overeating and drinking.

They followed the ambulances until they turned off towards Amiens railway station, while the R.F.C. driver continued to the Hotel de France.

The evening passed pleasantly enough for Guy – a happy reunion with his grandfather, sherry with him and the other two M.P.s, while he told them about the war in the air and the absolute need for synchronized machine guns; an hour's mild flirtation with the vivacious young French woman behind the reception desk, then to his hotel room, and his thoughts … up the line tomorrow; next day, in the air again, and again the killing. His lips tightened and his eyes gleamed, leaning over the basin, staring at his own face in the mirror. This was the face that had gloated over the poor mad Hedlington Ripper, when he'd killed him on the steep slope down into the town, under the full moon. He had felt the same as each Fokker turned and died, its pilot with it. He leaned closer to his image and whispered, ‘Butcher!' Later he went to bed and tried to go to sleep, but, until three o'clock in the morning, failed.

Cate read it all again slowly. It was over.

It had not begun. Once, he would have felt so. Even his wife Margaret, all the years they had lived together, had not been able to make him see anything more in the troubles of Ireland than the squabblings and internecine bickerings of a
small and unstable people, whose fate had unfortunately been linked by geography to that of England. The full majesty of the British legal process had been invoked in Casement's case; and there was no other way. Obviously, he could not be court-martialled and summarily shot, since he had not been caught with arms in his hands, waging war against the King. But now, from behind the grim walls of Pentonville, Casement would speak to future generations. You could dismiss the Connollys, Pearses, Plunketts, MacDermotts, and Clarkes as wild Irish fanatics, most of them dangerous radicals, too. Sir Roger Casement had been a British Consul, a knight, and a notable diplomat. Perhaps Casement should have been reprieved as a gesture of goodwill, in the name of the Irish soldiers now fighting and dying in France. Or perhaps it was the Pearses and Plunketts who should have been spared – given a stinging metaphorical cut across the palm and told to stand in the corner and be good boys in future.