Heart of War (66 page)

From the corner of his eye he caught an unusual change in the pattern of the Bristols and quickly looked to his own rear.
The S.E. 5 A was equipped with two machine guns, a Vickers synchronized to fire forward through the arc of the propeller, and a Lewis gun mounted on top of the upper wing. A dexterous pilot, having stalked an enemy aircraft from below could, while flying his machine with one hand, pull down the butt of the Lewis gun with the other, and send a stream of bullets into the German from underneath.

The sky beyond the Bristols was dark with what looked like a flock of big birds, brightly coloured – Albatros D Ills, the machines that had caused the Royal Flying Corps to name this past April, 1917, ‘Bloody April.' His squadron commander tipped over and dived straight toward the Albatroses. Already a Bristol had got one of them, a long trail of black smoke spiralling up from a twisting, falling Albatros. Guy felt the familiar cold settle in the pit of his stomach, the steady warmth in his hands and feet on the controls, his eyes sharp as a falcon's behind the goggles. He felt the rush of air, heard the roar of the Hispano Suiza engine's 200 horse, saw the sun glinting on the green paint on his engine nacelle … Twelve thousand feet, into the sun, turning tight, gathering speed … a hundred and fifty … hundred and seventy … He picked out an Albatros and, going straight at him from above and a little behind, fired a short burst at the pilot's head from two hundred feet. The head disappeared, the Albatros flipped over onto its back and screamed headlong toward the distant earth. Guy pulled the S.E. 5 A into a climbing turn, hung vertically on his propeller for a moment, then fell away into another short dive, this time head to head with another Albatros. He saw the flashes of the other's tracer passing low overhead, but held his course. When the two machines were barely a hundred yards apart on a collision course, the German pulled up his nose. Guy breathed an ecstatic, sighing, ‘Got you!' as his thumbs closed on the trigger – again a short burst, this time into the Albatros's belly as it passed over him. He turned savagely, knowing that he had not wounded the other mortally, and at the end of the turn came out level, four hundred yards behind the Albatros, which was flying starboard wing down. He jerked himself up and down in his seat, swearing, ‘Faster … faster … you swine … faster!' An S.E. 5 A was 28 m.p.h. faster than an Albatros: it shouldn't take long. Steadily he closed on the wounded Albatros. He had him in his sights … something wrong with
the fellow's aileron controls … pilot wounded, too, perhaps …

Something reflected in his goggles, a touch of colour, shouldn't be there. He thrust fiercely at the stick and kicked the rudder over. The S.E. responded in a spiral dive – a shadow roared over … yellow spinner and wheels, yellow wing ends outside the black crosses, red stabilizer … von Rackow's own Albatros. He'd been commanding Jasta 16 for three weeks now, and had from that day painted his stabilizer red, the same as Guy's … So, von R., with four, five, six more of his Jagdstaffel around him. Nearly got him that time. Guy pulled the S.E. out of the spin and began climbing. There they were, circling a thousand feet above … a few S.E.s were climbing with him … it would be a tough fight, with the Germans having the height, and the Three Threes broken up by the earlier encounter from their usual close order, mutual support fighting formation.

The Albatroses waited for them, like a mid-air version of a scene he remembered from an American film, where the U.S. cavalry waited in the middle of the prairie and the Indians rode out toward them … He found von Rackow's plane again easily enough from the red stabilizer … Damn, two of the other Three Threes were going for him, from underneath … couldn't see the flame from the guns, but they were in the attacking position. Von Rackow turned tight, inside the S.E.s, and fired from a beam position. Guy swore, tight lipped, as he saw an S.E. stagger and seem to stop in mid air … it carried the number ‘2' in blue – that was Graham … but his attack had made von Rackow vulnerable to his companion, No. 3 – and to Guy himself. Range … too long for certainty, but in another two seconds von R. would be out of danger. Guy pressed the trigger and saw his tracer pass over von Rackow's cockpit. He lowered his nose a touch and fired again … some hits, too far aft, and von Rackow was falling away in the same sort of dive that he had saved himself with a few minutes ago.

He dived after him. Von Rackow broke away half a second before Guy had expected him to and in a flash was coming up on Guy's tail, almost in position to open fire. Guy flung the S.E. into a turn so tight that the fabric juddered and the wooden frame members creaked. In the middle of his full turn, wings vertical, von Rackow passed through his sights,
and he fired – missed astern – at once kicked the S.E. into a reverse turn as tight as the other one he had attacked from. Where was von Rackow? … he jerked his head round, not in front … neither flank … ah, behind, nearly on his tail again … stick forward, hard, tracer flashing into the canvas of the wing over his head, full right rudder … down … The German had him cold, couldn't shake him off … wished he could get back and tell them what modifications needed to be made to the S.E. 5 A to enable it to beat the Albatros … speed was fine, but needed more manoeuvreability … Why had he not felt the bullets smashing into him, or seen the engine burst into flames in front of him? He looked round and saw von Rackow a hundred feet behind, the twin guns aimed straight at him – but the muzzles black, and von Rackow jerking furiously at the gun levers … Guy laughed. Guns jammed!

He swung the S.E., turning tight inside the Albatros. Von Rackow couldn't properly fly his machine and unjam his guns at the same time, and in a few seconds Guy was inside him, then above. Von Rackow gave up on his guns and climbed away. Guy followed, aimed his machine, pressed the trigger … but a fraction of a second before, the Albatros turned sharply, and he missed … again … again … His petrol gauge marked nearly empty. Angrily he tried one last burst – again von Rackow jinked at the last moment. Guy turned away, heading for home. Von Rackow, receding to the east, waggled his wings in sardonic farewell.

Corporal Frank Stratton climbed up on his wing as soon as he switched off the engine, and said anxiously, ‘You all right, sir? There's twenty holes in the upper wing and there must be twenty more in the fuselage.'

Guy pushed back his goggles and climbed stiffly out of the cockpit. One kill … Frank was holding the bucket ready … ready for him to vomit into, the sign that the whole squadron knew by now meant that the Butcher had killed. But he did not feel as he usually did. The long duel with von Rackow had altered his emotional view of the fight. He was exhilarated: von Rackow could fly, all right – better than he could, no doubt about it even allowing for the Albatros's superiority in manoeuvreability. Von R. should have had him before his guns jammed. There were several seconds there
when he'd had Guy helpless in his sights, the range short, the air still and clear.

‘I got one,' he said.

‘Good news, sir! That makes you 37 … and at least one Hun every day this week!'

Guy started walking toward the long hutment, recently erected, which housed the headquarters offices of the three squadrons that used Ambrines – 333 equipped with S.E. 5 As, and two squadrons of Bristol Fighters. He said, ‘I'll come back when I've made my report.'

‘Very good, sir.' Frank saluted, watched his pilot for a few moments, then returned to the machine, for which he was mechanically responsible.

When he reached it, he stood a moment, staring at the starboard side, counting the bullet holes in the canvas, then walked round and counted those in the port side … then in the wings, then in the aluminium sheet of the engine cowling. Fifty-two in all. They'd need a big roll of canvas and a big pot of dope. Where was that lad Farrar with the step ladder?

The rigger's voice was close behind him – ‘Here y'are, Corp. I was in the bogs … had to go …'

Frank glared at him disapprovingly. Wonder the squadron commander didn't say something about the length of his hair, must be four inches long, wavy, and thick with lavender oil; but he was a good man with the fabric – worked in a tailor's shop before the war, he said.

Frank indicated the S.E. – ‘Someone put a lot of holes in our machine, so you patch them, while I look at the engine and the controls, make sure no harm done there.'

He climbed up onto the wing, thence into the cockpit and began carefully working all the controls – rudder, ailerons, control column – feeling the firmness and accuracy of the response. He'd check them all by sight, by actually running the cables through his hands, later, and then make sure no bullet had hit a stressed strut: but this to start with. All good so far. The Germans who'd put all those bullets into Mr Guy's machine had fired high. Mr Guy never made that mistake. If you aimed a little low, you'd still hit some other part of the fuselage, but if you were high, all you'd hit was air.

He climbed out and down, moved the step ladder and climbed up to examine the propeller; then he unfastened the engine cowling and, getting Farrar to start up the engine,
watched it, as the propeller whirled. All well, no damage to the cylinders, plugs … fuel pipes sound, exhaust clean, firing sweetly … no, one of the cylinders sour … No. 5 … He pulled a notebook out of the pocket of his greasestained overalls and made a note with a stub of pencil … then stopped the engine, climbed back to the ground, and made more notes.

A shadow fell across the notebook and he looked round to see Guy Rowland staring at the S.E., his flying helmet and goggles in one hand, stroking his chin with the other. He said, ‘How is she?'

‘Number 5 cylinder – or the plug – is sour. That's all – an' the bullet holes, of course.'

‘We're going on a sweep at three this afternoon.'

‘She'll be fixed by then, sir … Farrar, be careful with that dope. The surface has to be smooth, you understand?'

‘O.K., Corp.'

Guy Rowland said, ‘There are two things wrong with this plane. One is the manoeuvreability has to be improved, somehow. The other is that there's something wrong with the engine, but I'm not enough of an engineer to put my finger on it.'

‘I gave it a top check over last night, sir, and …'

‘Ah, that's why you have those bags under your eyes. I thought you'd been out on the tiles with a mademoiselle.'

‘I'm a married man, sir,' Frank said, grinning. Mr Guy liked to tease him about being a Romeo, but he'd never looked at another woman but Anne, and Mr Guy knew it.

He said, ‘Well, sir, I think it's the reduction gear … I don't know why the Hispano Suiza people don't re-gear the engine so that it doesn't need reduction. I'd like to see them put a Rolls Royce Falcon in, same as the Bristols have.'

‘That looks pretty big for an S.E. 5.'

‘It is, sir, so they'd have to modify the cowling … change the engine bearers, recalculate the centre of gravity … but none of that should give them any trouble at Farnborough.'

‘Well, I'll talk to the C.O. about it, and try to persuade him to put these ideas to Wing.' He nodded and turned to walk away. Frank came up beside him saying, ‘Sir … is there any chance of leave soon?'

Guy stopped and looked at the corporal. Frank knew that the R.F.C. was being stretched to the limit of its men and machines. It was unlike him to ask for leave when he must
know that it was all but impossible. There were many domestic emergencies which in more normal times would merit the grant of leave … not now, though. The war demanded all.

He held Frank's eyes. ‘Trouble at home, Frank?'

‘I don't know, sir.' Frank's open face was disturbed – ‘There was a letter from Mother in the post bag yesterday. She said I must come home … she said she'd tell the R.F.C. about my being 4 F really, and not fit for active service, if I didn't.'

‘Did she say why it was so important?'

‘No, sir. But I wish I
could
go home for a couple of days and see what's the matter … Mother's practically crippled with the rheumatism and arthritis and all. Dad has to look after her about as much as she looks after him, Ruthie says. That's my sister, sir – Mrs Hoggin.'

Guy recognized that Frank didn't really expect to get leave. What he wanted was someone to talk to; and here he, Guy Rowland, was closer to Frank than any of the other corporals or sergeants in whom another man might have confided, in preference to an officer.

He said, ‘I'm afraid you won't get any leave now, Frank. It's not even worth applying, unless …'

‘Oh, no, sir, I understand.' He laughed ruefully. ‘I suppose I'm just feeling a mite homesick for Anne and the kids – ' he laughed again – ‘Even to see Victoria – that's a motor bike my Dad's making in his shed, to go a hundred miles an hour. I used to work on it with him before the war … not much though. I bet I could get a hundred and five out of her, if he'd let me, but …' he shrugged – ‘He's my dad, and he's set in his ways.'

‘Aren't they all?' Guy said.

They walked on until Frank Stratton said, ‘Well, I'd best be getting back, sir. She'll be in tiptop shape in no time … and you can bag another Hun for tea.'

Guy laughed, waved his helmet and goggles in the air in response to Frank's punctilious infantry-type salute, and went to the officers' quarters – ten huts, each with two quarters in it, each for two officers. He had the end quarter – alone.

In the room he dropped his helmet and goggles on the bed, picked five letters off the table and sprawled back in a
battered wicker chair by the empty grate. The windows were open, and a robin was sitting on the window sill watching him, its head cocked. He found a Nice biscuit in his pocket, broke off a crumb and threw it at the little bird. The robin dodged and flew down outside, following the crumb. Guy began to open the letters.