Heart of War (67 page)

His sister, Virginia: thrilled to hear he had shot down twenty-eight German aeroplanes, not counting twelve balloons. It was a swizz that they never mentioned his name in the papers, or showed his picture. They'd have to do it if he won the V.C., wouldn't they? She was so proud of him and had his picture up in her barrack room and all the other girls thought he was so handsome. He'd better be careful if he ever came to visit her again, as she couldn't guarantee his safety (ha ha) … She'd been home on leave. Mummy spent most of her time moping around the house. She ought to get a job, there were plenty she could do, but she just sat and moped. The girls in her Section were marvellous, friendly, helpful, they all stuck together, and she'd never thought it could be so much fun with other girls, after Cheltenham Ladies College. And she was going out every Saturday with Battery Sergeant Major Stanley Robinson, D.C.M., who wished to be remembered to Guy and respectfully wished him all good fortune. Lots of love and kisses X X X X.

From No. 9056748 Private John D. Merritt, Co.D, 16th Infantry Regiment, El Paso, Texas … He was in the Army now, a dogface, earning all of $25 a week, what did Guy think of that? Only half the other enlisted men, old regulars, could read or write, and when he'd foolishly let slip that he had been at Harvard they'd given him a hard time, until he fought the one who'd been riding him the hardest and broke his nose. But they were good fellows. He'd never known any people like them before, meeting them was like going down into the cellar of your house and finding a whole different breed of Americans down there, who'd quietly been feeding the furnace and fixing the plumbing without anyone upstairs realizing what they really looked like. They'd show the Krauts something when they got over. And that wouldn't be long as
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From David Toledano, Royal Field Artillery, in Palestine, obviously … enjoying the climate, bathing in the Mediterranean … had enough leave recently to visit the Valley of the
Kings and Thebes: magnificent, awe inspiring … life likely to change its tenor now that Allenby is coming out as C-in-C. We hear he is nicknamed the Bull, and we expect him to live up to it, and lead us charging off against the Turks …

His father: proud of him … the battalion in the line again after a short rest … saw aeroplanes flying over all the time and often wondered if he's in one of them … the battalion was in good shape though something must be done about
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before winter comes. The battalion had a good many casualties the last time it was in the line, but remained in good spirits. Your Affec. father …

From Florinda – this one he'd kept till last: she was performing at three hospitals a week, all over the country. Getting so tired of sitting up in trains all day, all night, always looked like something the cat brought in, in the mornings, and the trains always late … thought about him a lot, couldn't realize it was six months since he was here, how time flies, and now she'd better stop, bloody train to catch in an hour and couldn't find her music and she had the curse, what a life, love, love, love. …

He held the letter and stared sightlessly out of the window. Nothing about other men there. But what right did he have to be told about that? Did he want to be, if there were? He must remember that she wasn't Probyn's granddaughter any more, but a very rich peeress and actress, very beautiful – miles away, in space, and circumstance. The robin watched him from the window sill, waiting for more biscuit. Guy saw nothing, but an abstraction of sky, cloud and earth, unfocussed, framed in the oblong of the window. The robin flew in and landed on the table beside him. Then he noticed it and, feeling in his pocket, held out his hand, full of biscuit crumbs. The robin hopped onto the ball of his thumb and began to peck away with great satisfaction, and no fear.

The four S.E. 5 As of D Flight, 333 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps, flew north through scattered banks of heavy cumulus cloud in V formation, the flight leader, Lieutenant Guy Rowland, D.S.O., M.C., at the point of the V. They were at 8,000 feet, the air cold for the time of year. To the left, slag heaps, pithead towers and wheels, and the enormous straddling black shape of Tower Bridge marked the mining towns of Hulluch, Loos, Lens, and La Bassee. The flight was
keeping about five miles on the German side of the trench lines. A south-west wind of twenty knots at that altitude made the machines crab slightly to keep on course. It was evening, the sun low, squalls coming up.

Guy flew with no thought on the business of flying. By now, that – the maneuvering of the control column and the rudder pedals, was instinctual, as were his periodic glances at the compass and altimeter. His attention was concentrated in the encircling sky … the line of observation balloons to the west – the German ones very close, the British beyond, over the slag heaps and pitheads … two R.E. 8s, Corps aircraft, doing artillery spotting and ranging for the British guns – tempting targets for Jasta 16, those R.E. 8s. Von R's men liked to pounce out of the clouds on the practically helpless R.E.s, shoot a couple down, then fly back, speeding on the western wind, to their bases.

Major Sugden's orders had been unequivocal – ‘Sweep just the German side of the line at eight thousand, from Arras northward to Armentières, then back at twelve thousand. Attack and destroy anything you meet on your patrol, except balloons … Our object is to demonstrate to the infantry that we control the air over the front line fighting area. As you know they have recently been attacked by German aircraft. I hope you catch some of them at it … particularly in our gun areas.'

The little fighter flew into a white, damp, swirling blindness of cumulus, lurched and heaved through it and after two minutes burst out into sunlight. Guy swept the sky … no change … there must have been strong updraughts in that cloud, for his altimeter read eight five. He pointed the nose gently down, and the two others followed close. Into cloud again, bump, watch the altimeter carefully now, still rising, with nose down. He broke again into sunlight, seeing straight ahead, five hundred feet below, the black crosses and yellow spinners of twelve Albatros D III fighters. No need to signal – nose down – attack! Throttle wide … he had one in his sights, just beginning to turn away. He fired at a hundred and fifty feet, and the Albatros exploded into a huge ball of fire, so large that he flew through it, the flames momentarily scorching him, the smells of burning fuel acrid in his nostrils … He was through, an Albatros closing up on his tail, tracer bullets beginning to clack past. He swung the S.E. round in a
tight, flat crab motion. The Albatros, expecting an Immelmann, passed close to the right as Guy held the S.E., kicked it back and waited till the Albatros slid into his sights … a long burst … got him! No, damn, the man was falling off, Guy's sights slipping back toward the tail … he'd put a lot of holes through the fabric there, but it didn't catch fire. The German turned on his back and started to spin down … doing it on purpose, Guy muttered, it won't help … he followed, thumb ready on the trigger, twisting and turning … The fellow was down to three thousand … two … one … screaming east, as fast as he could go, he'd burst his engine from over-revving … even so, Guy gained on him steadily, slowly … There was nothing the fellow could do to get away … He flew on, closing inexorably, unaware of the time, any of his instruments, only the fleeing German ahead. At last he was close enough. Why didn't the man turn and fight? He'd have a chance of doing some damage at least. But he didn't. At a hundred feet range and barely twenty feet above the ground, Guy fired a one-second burst. The Albatros nosed over at a hundred and ten miles an hour and flew into an open field, disintegrating into a thousand pieces that bounced back into the sky, cartwheeled across the field, burst through hedges. One of the pieces was the body of the pilot, it too breaking and scattering as it bounced.

Guy climbed back and up. No damage that he could see, controls all answering well. Time to turn for home. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Where was the rest of his flight?

He saw the Albatros from two miles away, coming out of the setting sun at him … no other aircraft in the sky, all gone home, like birds, to their roosts … all but that single Albatros and his single S.E. They must be at least twenty miles behind the German lines, so the Albatros could manoeuvre any way he liked, while, unless it came to desperation, Guy must try to work back westward – or face imprisonment for the rest of the war, even if he won the dogfight. He flew on, climbing as the Albatros manoeuvred to cut across his course.

He knew it before he saw it: yellow wing tips … von Rackow again, come to get the Butcher. Rain began to stream past him, and the temperature dropped abruptly. He hadn't enough petrol – he'd never get home – but he had no choice.

Guy turned suddenly and attacked. Von Rackow was
ready and twisted away two seconds before Guy was ready to fire. Guy swung the S.E.'s nose again to the west, still climbing … must have some height for emergencies … Why not just run for it? He might just get home, or at least crash-land on his own side of the lines. He had the speed advantage, and von Rackow would only get one chance, as he passed. Guy threw the S.E. into the same flat turn that he had used before, in his second fight of the evening, and for a moment had von Rackow by surprise, the Albatros's cockpit flashing across his sights as he pressed the trigger. The tracer slashed just behind the pilot's body, perhaps four or five bullets into the fuselage – nothing serious. Then von Rackow had hauled the Albatros round, water vapour trails streaming from his wingtips, until he too could fire a burst. But Guy was turning hard and it went behind him; he pulled up and heaved round; so for a few minutes they circled, like wary dogs. This time it was von Rackow who attacked, jerking his Albatros into a savage turn and at once opening fire. Guy kicked on full rudder and skidded horribly out of the way … glimpsing the tracer streaming behind his shoulder … pulled up the nose, went over into an Immelmann and at the end of the half-roll found the German coming up at him, the muzzles of his Spandaus red and yellow fire. His own thumbs were on the triggers …

A tremendous blow on the side of the head made him reel in the cockpit … von Rackow was turning again, no time to wonder where he was hit, how badly. He rolled over, spiralling. Von Rackow didn't believe it and was lining up for another attack. Guy turned to face him, firing as he turned … something wet on his cheek, inside the flying helmet, dripping onto his hand when he leaned forward, head hurting … fearful smarting pain along the side somewhere … He jerked the S.E. out of its spin, fired again … more hits, but no visible sign of damage. Clouds everywhere now, rain, grey vapour scurrying past, the S.E. jumping all over the sky, sun gone … God, lightning behind von Rackow!

He could barely see now, for the blood running in his eyes, and turned blindly, kicking the rudder this way and that. There he was … yellow, seen for a moment, red stabilizer. He pressed the trigger, tracer flashing yellow fire in the dusk. He prayed for the red blossom of flame to erupt from the Albatros's engine, but it flew on, turning tight, out of his
sights, gone … he wiped desperately at his goggles with his gloved hand … tore off the gloves, tore off the goggles, wiped his face, his hand red and sticky. He saw von Rackow, coming at him again out of the black rain, and pressed the trigger button … the Vickers fired … he lifted his thumb off the trigger … the gun kept on firing. Oh God, trigger jammed, runaway gun! The belt was flying through the gun and he could not stop it. He had used the last of his Vickers ammunition, there was no possibility of being able to use the Lewis, and he ached all over with fatigue. The engine began to cough. Lightning flashed and he saw the Albatros plain. It was still shooting, while his own engine clattered and panted as if in despair. More lightning, and the engined failed – picked up – failed again. The S.E.'s nose dipped as power was lost. The propeller windmilled uselessly in front of him. He was done.

He pushed the stick forward to gain flying speed, so that he could have some control over the machine. Any moment now von Rackow would complete his turn, and – finis! He looked round, saw the Albatros coming at him, raised his hand in salute, and waited, trying not to cringe. The Albatros did not fire but passed by, very close, so that he could see the pilot's thin blonde moustache under his goggles. ‘Get on with it,' he shouted. He could just make out the earth below … a field, a farm building, near one corner … hard to judge his height. Why bother? Von Rackow came round again … sights on. Guy waited.

Again the Albatros swung past, this time close above, and Guy, looking up, saw that the struts of one of its landing wheels were shot through. Well, von Rackow would catch it when he landed … cartwheel at least, and with luck, catch fire … meanwhile, he was down to five hundred, the wind whistling and roaring loud now that the engine was silent … still raining – that, too, loud in his ears. Nose down a little more, he must keep up flying speed in the tight turns he'd have to make if he wanted to land in that big field …

If? He wiped more blood off his face and looked round. The Albatros was following him down … about a hundred yards back. Playing cat and mouse? Waiting till he thought he was at least going to make a safe landing, and then cutting him to pieces with those Spandaus? That wasn't von Rackow's reputation … but with Germans, you never knew.

He braced himself for the landing. Perhaps his own undercarriage was shot through … more likely his tail or upper wing struts damaged … one way to die wouldn't be much different from another. Just don't let it be a bad wound, crippling. The field rushed up in the dusk. Which way was the wind blowing? Impossible to tell in the near darkness, better assume it was south-west, as it had been when they took off, and still was when he'd seen the smoke from the chimneys toward Lille. He glanced quickly at his compass, once more brushed blood from his eyes and face with the back of his bare hand, and watched the earth take shape and form close ahead. Buildings loomed – no lights – nose down a touch more. He skimmed over a hedge and at once lifted the nose. The S.E. settled at once with a heavy bump, then rolled forward through some crop, dull green in the dusk, over hard earth, slightly ridged … He was down. Now von Rackow would fire … He heaved himself out of the cockpit, stumbled onto the wing, slipped and fell to the ground, struggled up and began to run toward the dark shapes of the buildings. The sound of the aircraft engine which had been in his ears all the way down – von Rackow's engine – was now loud overhead, the Albatros a big dark silhouette against the lightning-shot clouds. The wings swept round and there was enough light for Guy to make out the yellow wheels and spinner. He stooped and turned, watching … von Rackow was coming down … Perhaps he could take him prisoner. He found his revolver, drew it and again started to run, this time toward the place where the Albatros would land.