Hornet’s Sting (37 page)

By 3 p.m. each flight had flown another patrol over the battle-field. Fierce counter-battery work was being done by both sides in an attempt to shield the infantry from the pounding of artillery. Two-seaters kept grinding up and down, their observers searching for the flash of an enemy battery, or for coloured smoke that would indicate a friendly infantry position. Mainly, they saw rain and shellbursts. If they flew low they got raked by machine-gun fire. When they climbed to escape, the rain blotted out all detail.

High above all this bloody confusion, a separate battle went on: a struggle between fighters. Hornet Squadron drove down a couple of Huns and blew a Pfalz scout to pieces, or maybe he just fell apart under the strain; it was hard to say. One Pup was a flamer. Andrei's Biff lost its prop when he flew into bits of an FE2d, fluttering down after a shell knocked its wings off. He glided halfway home, potted at by troops to whom he was an ominous shape in the rain, and made a clever landing on a farm track.

Woolley gave a third briefing at 3.30 p.m. The rain had stopped and enemy machines were flying low over the battlefield, strafing troops who had not had time to dig trenches. At 4 p.m. Hornet Squadron took off with orders to stop the strafing. After forty-five minutes they came back without one Pup. Nobody had seen it crash. Every machine was holed or ripped or bent or all three.

Four new Biffs, six new Pups and three replacement pilots had arrived. Woolley put Maddegan in charge of the replacements. “Kick their arses,” he said. “Keep them flying until they're flapping their little wings in their sleep. I won't take them over the Lines until
they've done at least twenty hours solo.” Maddegan glanced at their logbooks. “You want me to turn deuces into aces.”

“Oh, I don't bloody know.” Woolley was wet and cold. His eyes were sore. His ears ached from so much climbing and diving. The stink of whale-grease filled his nostrils. He opened two bottles of Guinness and gave Dingbat one. “I didn't pick the bastards. Just get them out of the nursery, that's all.”

The adjutant visited Andrei and told him that Duke Nikolai's death had been confirmed. “A Hun machine dropped a message-bag on one of our ‘dromes,” he said. “No doubt as to identity. His tunic was enclosed.”

“He will be avenged ten times over.”

“Yes, of course.” Brazier was surprised to see tears streaming down Andrei's cheeks, although his face itself was stiff and stern and his voice was strong. “Your loyalty does you credit.”

“He was a true Russian,” Andrei said. “What more is there to say?”

Brazier remembered the Bible whacking Nikolai's head. “Naturally, you two didn't always see eye-to-eye.”

“He gave his life for Russia! It wasn't his fault he was stupid. He was raised to be stupid. He didn't know how to live, but he knew how to die.”

“I don't know whether you were aware of it,” Brazier said, “but he urged the C.O. to have you shot for treachery.”

“Magnificent.” Andrei's face was shining with tears and pride. “In such a small body, such a big heart.” He poured two tots of peppervodka. “To Nikolai! To Russia!”

Brazier drank, and shook hands, and left. Later he told the padre what had happened.

“Extraordinary people, the Russians,” the padre said. “They couldn't raise a cricket team if you gave them all eternity. Still, I shall say a prayer for Nikolai. A gallant lad.”

* * *

The inquiry got nowhere.

It identified four possible causes of the Arras Incident (as it was discreetly labelled). First, the Bristol Fighters might have underperformed or suffered some grave failure. Second, the observers'
marksmanship might have been poor. Third, the pilots – especially the flight commander – might have been in error. Finally, the enemy might have been armed with some new weapon. Rockets were spoken of.

The trouble with all these theories, Cleve-Cutler pointed out, was the total lack of supporting evidence. The survivors spoke of “a classic interception, exactly as practised”. There was nothing unusual about the Albatroses. Except their success.

Someone mentioned tactics.

The Director of Military Aeronautics was ready for that. He had brought a paper, summarising the tactical situation vis-à-vis the Bristol Fighter. He reminded those present that this type had originally been conceived in the photo-reconnaissance role, to replace the highly vulnerable BE2c and RE5 and their like, which were being lost in large numbers. That was why it was a two-seater. A single-seater could not defend itself while the pilot was taking photographs. The superb design of the Bristol Fighter made it well able to fight off such attacks. It was built to fly straight and level. A pilot who threw it around like a Camel placed unacceptable strains on the structure. But during testing it had been discovered that this apparent drawback could be turned to great advantage. A group of Bristol Fighters, flying in close formation, formed a multiple gun-platform whose crossfire was lethal to any enemy attack. This had been demonstrated again and again in trials. In fact its performance was so impressive that it was given the name ‘Fighter' and sent to the Western Front in that role.

The Director distributed copies of his paper.

Cleve-Cutler struck a match and held it to a corner. As the flames swarmed across the pages he let the copy drop into an ashtray.

“What do you think that proves?” the Director asked.

“I don't know. I just wanted us all to be aware of what actually happened to some of my men, ten thousand feet above the Western Front.”

The flames, and the words, silenced the others; but silence brought a solution no nearer.

He got back to the hotel at eight o'clock. “I've shifted the fair-haired boy to another room,” Taggart said. “So you can stay with her, if you want.”

“Good.”

“They're not here. They went out, both.”

“Oh well.” Cleve-Cutler headed for the stairs, and then checked. “How long has he been here? The boy.”

“Let's see ... Ten days.”

Cleve-Cutler went upstairs, wishing he hadn't asked, wishing his knee didn't ache so abominably. He had a bath, ate a bowl of Taggart's stew, drank some wine, went to bed. When he awoke it was daylight and Dorothy was in her nightdress, sitting on the bed, brushing her hair.

“What's this stuff about Lady Jasper?” he asked.

“Taggart's joke.” She tossed the brush away and, with one easy roll of her body, got into bed. She dragged up his pyjama jacket and hugged him so hard that his ribs hurt.

“I say ... Look here, steady on old girl.” The embrace was a shock, but already his body was rising in approval of the idea. Where was discipline? Where was order? He was a major in the R.F.C., for Christ's sake! “Who's in command here?” he demanded. His pyjama trousers had gone. “Dammit, woman.”

“Look! The height of fashion.” She took a yellow hair-ribbon and, with one practised flick of the fingers, tied a bow around his penis. “I claim this height for King George and England! We shall now sing the national anthem.”

“You're very frisky, for someone who's just had ten days of rumpty-tumpty.”

“Ten days?” She fussed with the bow, making it neat and tidy. “You mean poor Tommy. I kissed him once, on the cheek, and he had palpitations. Tommy is one great big emotional booby-trap.”

Cleve-Cutler tugged the ribbon. “What would happen if you did this to him?”

It was meant to be a joke, but she took it seriously. “He'd be a gibbering idiot for a week. What he doesn't understand about himself would fill a book.”

“Ah. So you and he have not been fornicating like the beasts of the fields.” Cleve-Cutler knew that that was excessive, but he felt entitled to a little excess.

“Would it make any difference if we had? I don't remember you making any pledge to be faithful as you trotted back to France.”

“Well, you didn't ask for any.” They ended up staring at each other.
“Where did he sleep?”

“On the couch.”

Cleve-Cutler undid the ribbon and dropped it, delicately, over the side of the bed. “What was it about him that appealed to you?”

“Oh ... desperation, I suppose. He was sitting on a luggage trolley in Waterloo station, and everyone was rushing about except him, and he looked as if his pet rabbit had died.”

“Pet rabbit,” Cleve-Cutler said. “This is a commissioned officer in the Durham Light Infantry, in wartime, and he looked —”

“Don't be so stuffy. The first time I saw you, you were grinning like a baboon.”

“Surely not.”

“Like two baboons. Anyway, Tommy had no money and nowhere to go, so ...”

“I see.” He stretched. “Well, enough about him. More than enough. What about us? What's on the menu?”

“Rackety.” She could see that he had forgotten, so she said. “Rackety-rackety-rackety. It's in code.”

“That
rackety. Of course. I remember it well . . . What does it mean?”

“It's the signal for the Big Push,” she said, which made him laugh. After that, the morning improved rapidly.

* * *

On the third day of the battle, nth April 1917, it snowed.

The Allied advance, already reduced to nibbling a few yards here and there, came to a halt. It left many troops in exposed positions. These had been expensively bought: the price lay scattered about the woods and fields. Having spent so much to win so little, the generals refused to think that the effort was wasted and so they kept on spending. It was a miserable existence for the infantry, chilled by the blizzard, chivvied by machine-gun fire, hounded by artillery.

All day, Woolley sent up units of two or three aircraft to patrol the battlefield and chase off any strafing machines. It meant flying low: dangerous work. The prop blasted snow at the pilot's head, and the horizon was a white blur.

A lieutenant called Drinkwater, flying a Pup, got shot at so often
that he felt sweat trickling down his body. Flashes of small-arms fire caught his eye, but by the time he turned, whirling snow had spoiled his view. More flashes came from a different side, and a sharp scream as a round scarred the engine cowling. “Bastards!” he shouted. A hillock loomed, and then trees on the hillock. The Pup reared to miss them. Enough of this madness. Drinkwater went up a thousand feet.

He was alone. Two Pups had taken off with him; one turned back with a sputtering engine and he'd lost the other in this grisly weather. He flew wide figures of eight and waited for something to happen. Eventually the snow thinned and almost stopped. He could see for a mile. Two miles.

At once, enemy Archie began to seek him out and he climbed and turned, dived and turned and climbed some more. Drinkwater had been with the squadron for seven weeks; he was a veteran; he knew how to outwit Archie. The bursts made blots, like cheap ink soaking into cheap paper. A flight of six Sopwith 1½-strutters crossed above him, probably off to bomb a railhead or an aerodrome, and the Archie switched to this juicier target. Drinkwater saw activity on the ground and went to look. What he found was British cavalry, sheltering in a dip behind a wood.

This was so extraordinary that he forgot about strafing. Cavalry were not an unusual sight; their camps were all over northeast France, far behind the trenches. This was the first time he had seen cavalry at the actual Front, within striking distance of the fighting.

They were lancers. From two hundred feet he could clearly see their lances, looking like the sort of javelin he had thrown in the school sports. The men holding them were dismounted, standing in groups. They wore swords. Some of them waved to him. They looked as relaxed as if they were at a point-to-point before the start.

He circled. Nothing much happened. Maybe they were returning from action. If so, there was no point in hanging around. He climbed to five hundred feet and flew east, looking for trouble. In less than half a mile he found it. The ruins of a farmhouse were busy with men in field-grey. He sideslipped to get a better look and a machine gun opened up. “Bloody nerve!” he said. The Pup's Vickers was fully loaded. He hadn't shot anyone or anything since before breakfast. He put the nose down. A second machine gun began firing, and a third. He sheered away and felt bullets smacking into the Pup. He gave
the engine maximum revs and curled his body into the smallest space and hared back to the wood.

The lancers were cantering past it. They were not going back to camp. They were heading for the open fields around the ruined farmhouse.

Drinkwater flew alongside them and waggled his wings and waved and shouted. They waved and shouted back. He could see their open mouths.

As the field widened, so the cavalry spread out and quickened their pace, kicking up a fine spray of snow. Drinkwater counted at least sixty men. He climbed and got a splendid view. Now they were into a gallop and the lances were being lowered for the charge. He kept climbing. They were aiming to sweep behind the farmhouse. The first row of horses went down as if tripped and their riders died with them. The next row raced into the bullets and now the machine gunners were hosing the rest of the galloping column, finding fresh targets as the leading horses crashed and made room for the bullets to hit the followers. In a minute it was over.

Before that, Drinkwater had dived at the farmhouse and kept his thumb on the gun-button until the Vickers stopped firing. He was fired at, but he was too angry to care. He climbed, and turned, and took one long look at the snowscape dotted with struggling animals and men, and many more not struggling, not moving, just lying in ragged rows, and a few who had turned in time and were racing away, trying to out-run the bullets. Then he stopped looking and flew to the west.

Something cracked loudly and the control column ceased to do much controlling. The Pup sank gently, in a powered glide, and finally found a bog on the outskirts of Arras. It skimmed the mud until its wheels stuck and it performed a very squalid cartwheel.