Hornet’s Sting (49 page)

Lacey slit the envelope and took out a page torn from the
Yorkshire Post
, the ‘In Memoriam' page. Someone had ringed the death in action of a Lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps. The notice included Lacey's epic verse,
Now God be thanked, From this day to the ending of the world
... It was said to be the work of “a brave British airman, somewhere in France”.

Two notes were attached. One was from the literary editor:

Brave indeed! Or is plagiarism now a weapon of war?

The other note was a memo from Maurice Baring, Boom

Trenchard's private secretary. It said:

Dear Brazier: I rather think you've been rumbled. My advice is, make a clean breast of it and appeal to the chap's sense of humour
.

Lacey tore the notes and the newspaper page into little pieces.

“Baring has obviously never been to Yorkshire,” he said to Paganini. “Humour has been extinct in Yorkshire since the fifteenth century.”

* * *

Woolley told Cleve-Cutler that he had hammered into Mackenzie's skull the need to stay with the flight, learn his trade, wait his chance, do what he was told; and Mackenzie had rushed at the first Hun he saw like a dog after seven bitches. “I can't lead my flight with a loony in it, sir.”

“Loony ... That's a bit strong. He did get a Hun.”

“Anyone can get a Hun. I never met Major Milne, but I'm told he made damn sure he got a Hun.”

Cleve-Cutler thought about that. Milne had been C.O. before him. One day he had thrown an enormous party, and then taken off alone and deliberately rammed a Hun. Not a well man, so Dando had said ... “All right. I'll have a word with the lad.”

The upshot was that Cleve-Cutler detached Mackenzie from A-Flight, in fact from the rest of the squadron, and gave him permission to freelance: to fly when he liked, where he liked, and fight how he liked.

“Rather like Captain Ball, sir,” Mackenzie said.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Mackenzie was enormously pleased. “Suppose I were to live in a tent, sir, next to the Nieuports? Awfully convenient.”

“And also just like Captain Ball.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

The notion that Mackenzie was a bit of a recluse, if not a hermit, amused the squadron, all except the adjutant. “This sort of thing ruins discipline, sir,” he complained.

“Bad for discipline, good for morale, as Bliss said. Remember?”

“It's irregular, sir. You won't find it in King's Regs.”

“You won't find Hun flamers there, either, Uncle.”

The spare Nieuport was not ready. While his bell tent was being put up and his kit transferred, Mackenzie wandered about the aerodrome, booting an old football from here to there. He reached the chapel and, because it was there, kicked the ball against a wall, harder and harder, trying to burst it. The padre came out. “You're turning the House of God into a bass drum!” he shouted.

“Am I really?” Mackenzie said. “That sounds like some sort of miracle.”

“Spare me your ignorant jokes. I take my faith seriously, even if you don't.”

“Funny you should say that. I keep having visions.”

“No, you have delusions. There is a difference.”

“Honestly, padre, I keep seeing the Virgin Mary up a tree. Look, there she is now.”

“Profanity is not wit.” The padre pushed past him and strode away.

“Look here, if three peasant kids can see her in Portugal, why not me?” Mackenzie called. No answer. “Damn, she's gone,” he said. “See what you've done?”

He went into the chapel and knelt in front of the cross that the squadron carpenters had made from broken propellers.

“Signal,” he said. “From Lieutenant Mackenzie, R.F.C., to St Hubert, patron saint of hunting. Subject: Flamers. Message begins. Keep up steady supply of above. Message ends.” He almost stood, and then knelt again and said, “And if you bump into that poor bloody Hun I got, give him my regards.” He got up. Drinkwater was standing in the doorway. “Come to say goodbye?” Mackenzie said.

“No. No, I've come to ask if you took my scarf.”

“Ugly spotted green thing? Very nasty item.”

“That's your opinion. My cousin gave it to me, for luck. I always wear it. Now someone's pinched it.”

“Act of God. The Almighty doesn't like superstition.”

“I think you took it.” Drinkwater stared, but Mackenzie stared back. “Anyway, what's this about saying goodbye? Are you leaving?”

“No, but you might be. The old man asked me what I thought of your offensive spirit, so I told him. A chap's got to be honest, hasn't he? Ta-ta.”

Most structures destroyed. Large landslides
.

Before lunch, Paxton and McWatters each led their flights on short patrols, escorting RE8s on photo-reconnaissance tasks in the Arras area. It was routine stuff, a chance to educate some replacements. There were few Huns in the air, and these declined to take on six Bristol Fighters. Enemy Archie was like a pack of dogs, always chasing, always barking. Two Biffs got ripped by shell fragments. One RE8 was shot down in flames.

Steak-and-kidney pie for lunch. Its pastry crust glowed like bronze and tasted like the glow and not the bronze: another triumph for Lacey's cook. Orders for the next day arrived by despatch rider. All leave was cancelled. The squadron was to be on stand-by from 3 a.m. onwards. That confirmed it. Third Wipers was about to begin.

A fine day had turned into a magnificent afternoon, with baking sunshine and more blue sky than you could shake a stick at.

No patrols had been ordered. The padre arranged a cricket match: pilots versus the rest. Klagsburn decided to film it. “Everyone likes a sportsman,” he said. “War isn't all bullshit. Besides, we need a few laughs.” He wandered about the wicket, shouting at the players to make it more exciting.

“Extraordinary fellow,” Drinkwater said to Mackenzie. He very much wanted to ask him how he had got his flamer, without sounding envious or admiring, and this was difficult because he was, in fact, both. “Are all Americans like him?”

“I've known dozens.”

“Really?” That was a fatuous reply. “Look: congrats on your Hun.”

“Yes.” Mackenzie's acknowledgement was so curt it sounded like a dismissal. “If you really want a Hun, don't wait for permission. It's not a bloody squash court up there, you know.” He strolled away. Drinkwater stood with his hands clenched and hidden in his pockets,
desperate to kill somebody and thereby prove something.

Dando was acting as umpire for the cricket match, mainly because standing quietly was the best way to get over the indigestion that raged within him. McWatters came and stood alongside. “I'm being punished, so I am,” Dando said. “For a sin I never committed. Which proves there is no God and I wish to blazes He would go after the adulterers and the sons of bitches who covet their neighbours' oxen and leave my alimentary canal alone, for the love of Christ.”

“I need your advice, doc,” McWatters said.

“Has it to do with the bowels? That's the first question we doctors ask, so I'm reliably told. Who was it told me that, now?”

Harry Simms
, McWatters thought, and very nearly said so. Harry Simms rabbiting on about Carter's Little Liver Pills and upsetting Spud Ogilvy. But that was not a fit subject for conversation and Dando should know better than to raise it. “Nothing to do with the bowels. It's about the way a girl gets pregnant.”

“Ah, I know that one. It's called sex. We don't get a lot of it in the Royal Flying Corps. Boom Trenchard is strongly against sex, you know. He thinks it weakens your offensive spirit.” The more Dando talked, the less his indigestion hurt. A cricket ball whizzed between them. “Trust the English to invent cricket,” Dando said. “The only sport that's lethal and tedious at the same time.”

“It may be a silly question,” McWatters said, “but is it possible for a girl who's already pregnant to be made pregnant again? Say, a couple of months later?”

“No,” Dando said confidently.

“Good. Thank you.”

“I take it you're planning on having relations with a female two months gone?”

“I might. You never know.”

“Very true. Even more true of the lady. Not every pregnancy goes the whole hog. Sometimes a lady's no longer pregnant and doesn't know it.”

“Ah. So I might...”

“You might. Fortunately I can supply a device to prevent that. It's a protective sheath, illegal and totally sinful in Ireland but endorsed by the British Army and highly virtuous in France. God moves in a mysterious way, and not only in my alimentary canal.”

Klagsburn wanted Mackenzie to do something heroic with the bat. He asked the padre to arrange five or six fielders behind Mackenzie. “When he hits the ball,” Klagsburn said, “they all go hey! wow! terrific! and they point up high, and the nearest guy slaps Mackenzie on the back and the rest applaud, okay?”

“I've never seen anything remotely like that happen in a cricket match,” the padre said.

“Trust me.”

The padre organised the players.

“Big grins!” Klagsburn called. “Lotsa teeth. Mac, gimme some energy! Wave the damn bat!” He began filming. “Pitch the damn ball,” he shouted. The bowler lobbed it invitingly. Mackenzie skipped down the wicket and whacked the ball hard and high. The fielders performed. “More excitement!” Klagsburn demanded. “He just won the damn game!” They cheered. A fat raindrop hit the lens. “Shit in spades,” he said. “Sorry, padre.”

They all walked away, the rain making dark dots on their shirts, but soon it was spattering hard and they were running. The storm chased them into the anteroom. The sky had a sullen look that promised plenty more where this came from.

“If it hits Wipers,” Cleve-Cutler said, “God help the P.B.I.”

“Join the army and see the sea,” Paxton said. A servant gave him a towel.

“War is not a fair-weather pastime,” the adjutant said. He hung his tunic on the back of a chair. “The British soldier can cope with a spot of rain. It's not going to kill him.”

“Isn't it?” Maddegan said. “You didn't see the swamp map, Uncle.”

“It's only mud. We know all about mud.”

“I think the swamp's reached here,” Maddegan said. Rain was being blown under the door and forming a pool.

Morale matched the weather. Nobody wanted to talk about Wipers. Nobody wanted to argue with Brazier. Rain hammering the roof made a depressing noise. The Americans looked around them, and decided nothing was going to happen here for a while. They got in the Buick and drove off to see the action at Wipers. There were rumours of tanks. Klagsburn thought they would make good pictures.

* * *

Cleve-Cutler sent for Drinkwater.

“I won't tolerate bullying in my squadron. What puzzles me is why
you
tolerate it, Drinkwater. You're bigger than him. Punch the silly bastard in the teeth.”

“Wouldn't that reduce me to his level, sir?”

“No. You'd be on your feet and he'd be on his back.”

“With respect, sir, it's not the Christian way.”

“I don't know anything about that. I know what
works.”
Drinkwater did not reply. He just stood, looking solemn. “Explain how your way works,” the C.O. demanded. “Doing nothing.”

“Sooner or later, sir, it will make him realise what an utter rotter he's been.”

The C.O. used his sleeve to buff his buttons. “Well,” he said, “it's a point of view. All right, toddle off.”

Drinkwater left. The C.O. watched him go, and took out an envelope addressed in green ink. He looked at the snapshot: the jaunty posture, the cocky grin, the heroic statue in the background.
You fly, he fled
, and PB stood for Poor Butterfly. It was all a lot of sentimental tosh. London wasn't in the real world. New York was just a name. The Western Front was where life was being lived to the full. And lost too, of course, but take away death and life had no point, no purpose. Cleve-Cutler looked at the picture again and was surprised to feel a brief glow of happiness. Poor young Tommy Blanchflower. Probably live to be sixty and die of gallstones. Serve the little bugger right.

* * *

“Damnfool deck chair,” McWatters said. “Squashed my fingers.” His right hand was wrapped in a handkerchief. “Can't write a bally word. Need to send a letter.”

“Of course, sir.” Lacey took up his shorthand pad.

“It's to Miss Edith Reynolds. Here's the address. Let's say ... um ... ‘Dear Miss Reynolds. Thank you for your kind letter dated 27th July... um ... The arrangements ... um ... suggested therein ... um ... are agreeable to me and ... um ... I suggest a further discussion . . . um ... in the very near future. Yours truly, etcetera'. Oh ... better put a PS: ‘Subject to flying duties'.”

Lacey watched him stride away from the orderly room. “Turgid,”
he said. He thought for a minute, and wrote:

Dearest Edith
,

What a wonderful letter! I thought I might never see you again, and now it seems that you want us to meet! You spoke of your thirst for pleasure. If I can bring to your life a fraction of the joy you bring to mine, I shall count myself a lucky man. I'm told the Hotel Lion d'Or in St Pol is a cosy rendezvous. My stars! If I concentrate I can see your delightful smile from here ...”

Lacey signed it
Yours very affectionately, Jack McWatters
. Thirty minutes later he bribed a despatch rider to deliver the letter and wait for an answer. “And this goes with it,” he said, attaching a red silk rose. The despatch rider cocked an eye. “Be prompt and courteous,” Lacey said, “and you shall have one, too.”

* * *

Cleve-Cutler telephoned ahead to Ypres, and when Dabinett and Klagsburn got there, a Tank Corps man, Captain Quigley, was waiting to look after them. They dined in his mess: oysters, braised pheasant and sherry trifle, with a robust Côtes du Rhône to help the pheasant along. “We always lay on a good spread before an attack,” Quigley said. “Who knows when these chaps will eat again?”