Hornet’s Sting (8 page)

“Deux-églises. 42 Squadron. Says he got lost and landed there to ask the way. Also says he shot you down. Profound apologies etcetera. God save the Tsar and all his relations.” Cleve-Cutler stooped and pulled the cork from a knothole in the floor. “Stand to attention down there!” he shouted. He replaced the cork.

“I'm fairly sure nobody shot me down,” Ogilvy said.

“Oh, I think they did, Spud. Fortunately, he didn't see you crash. Too much cloud. Brilliant flying got you home, albeit your machine was holed like a colander.”

“Albeit?”
Ogilvy cocked his head. “Is that what you just said?”

“Yes, dammit. Albeit. I want this idiocy ended, even if I have to talk like a tombstone to do it. Now, we need a bust-up Pup.”

“Well, there's what's left of Stone-Franklin's bus, after he tried to fly through a tree.”

They found the wreckage in the back of a hangar and had it dragged out. When the duke landed, in gathering dusk, Cleve-Cutler and Ogilvy were examining it, with a sergeant mechanic. The duke came over and saluted. He looked from the wreck to his flight commander and back again. His eyes were wider than usual. Other than that, his face gave nothing away.

“A good landing is one you can walk away from,” the C.O. said. “Right, sergeant?”

“Right, sir.”

Ogilvy prodded a piece of tail-fin with his foot. “Can't you salvage anything, sergeant?”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“Oh, well. You know best. Carry on.” The sergeant saluted, and his boots crunched on the wet tarmac.

Cleve-Cutler and Ogilvy strolled slowly around the wrecked Pup.

“Brilliant flying,” the C.O. said, “albeit for the loss of a much-loved aeroplane.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Cleve-Cutler turned to the duke. “Now then, lieutenant. Have you anything to report?”

“I regret —”

“Wait a moment,” Ogilvy said. “Things may be different in Russia, but here in the Royal Flying Corps, when an affair of honour is settled, we never discuss it. Never.”

“I have nothing to report, sir.”

When he had gone, Ogilvy said: “Presumably he took a pot at someone, thinking it was me. And missed.”

“He'd better do better than that when you take him over the Lines.”

They strolled back to the mess. The first flakes of snow speckled their uniforms. By nightfall the field was white.

Hanging objects swing
.

Snow fell, and ended flying. Cleve-Cutler searched for ways to keep the pilots fit. The adjutant suggested bayonet-fighting. “The bayonet is on the rifle,” he explained. “There are certain moves and countermoves. It's very similar to sword-fighting.” A space was cleared in a hangar, and within the hour two men were being stitched up by Dando. Cleve-Cutler cancelled bayonet-fighting.

Brazier retired to the orderly room in disgust.

“They were only puncture-wounds,” he said.

“Rather like the Crucifixion,” Lacey said. “And what a fuss people made about
that.”

“You haven't the slightest idea of physical pain, sergeant. One of these days I might perforate your hide with a bayonet, just to educate you.”

“Yes, sir. You're strangely interested in mutilating the other ranks, aren't you? Were you whipped a good deal when you were a child?”

“I was never a child, sergeant. I was issued by the War Office in 1891. You can find the military specifications engraved upon my left buttock.” He put his glasses on and stared at Lacey. Lacey went away to brew some tea.

Ration wagons trundled up and down the lanes leading to the Front, but otherwise the war virtually stopped. Without aeroplanes and balloons to spot for them, the guns were blind and silent. Brazier hired fifty Chinese labourers to dig a runway across the aerodrome, but snow kept falling. They never gave up, but they made no progress either. The temperature kept falling, too. The ground was iron-hard; trenches were difficult to repair and impossible to dig. “God's a conchie,” McWatters said to the padre. “He's decided He's against this war on religious principle, and He's gone off to play with the angels.”

“Too deep for me, old man. Very dodgy area, religious principle.
Look: which of these cinema films d'you think the chaps would enjoy?”

McWatters glanced at the list. “Get westerns. William S. Hart, Douglas Fairbanks. Lots of violence.”

“There's a rather stirring one about the Battle of the Somme. Don't you think ...”

“Not violent enough.”

“Surely —”

“Get westerns. Revolvers and brawls and bars getting bust-up, that's the ticket. Just like a good mess-night party.”

“I suppose you're right.”

Next day the padre had to report that the mobile cinema was stuck in a snowdrift, miles away, near a place called Beauquesne. Lieutenant Dash immediately volunteered to go and unstick it. Moving pictures didn't excite him, but the name Beauquesne did. It was where Sarah Beverley, of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, lived. Ogilvy asked how he proposed to get there, since he certainly wasn't taking any squadron transport. Dash said he would ride; at home, in Herefordshire, he'd ridden all sorts of horses. “I'm glad you're good at something,” Ogilvy said, “since you're obviously a tenth-rate pilot.” The adjutant phoned a nearby artillery unit and borrowed a horse. It was a huge, shaggy beast, accustomed to hauling field guns over rough country at the hard canter, and it had a mouth like a steel trap.

Sergeant Lacey fed it carrots while Dash got into the saddle and bunched the reins. “Should you come upon a reputable
épicene,”
Lacey said, “the mess is in need of a good Dijon mustard.” Brazier slapped the animal's rump and it set off at a sedate trot that kicked up clods of snow like broken plates.

The name on the bridle was Daisy. It didn't suit. The horse was entirely black, and as broad as a sofa; Dash's knees were far apart. Because one eye was milky, the horse led with the other eye, and this caused it to trot obliquely, aiming to the left while moving to the right. Daisy was a gun-carriage horse. It disliked the saddle and it disliked Dash. After half a mile it locked its front legs and tossed him as easily as a farmhand tossing a sheaf of wheat.

He landed in a snowdrift. Daisy trotted on. By the time Dash got his breath back, cleared the snow from his ears and found his hat, Daisy was a small black shape, growing steadily smaller. He chased
hard. Daisy would not stop for him. He ran alongside and managed to vault into the saddle. His breeches were slippery with snow. Daisy threw him twice more in the next hundred yards. The second time, there was something hard in the drift: ice or stone or wood; and he crawled out bruised and cursing, ready to quit; but an oncoming ration wagon had seen his trouble and a soldier had jumped off and captured the brute.

They waited for him to limp up to them.

“Bit frisky, is she, sir?” said the sergeant in charge.

“Just a trifle.”

“Your nose is bleedin', sir. Rub some snow on it.”

Dash tried to laugh. “That's all I've been doing since I set out, sergeant. This isn't a horse, it's a catapult.”

“Too frisky, sir. Give ‘er a good gallop, make ‘er blow a bit. Once she's fucked she won't be so fuckin' frisky, pardon my French. Women are all the fuckin' same.”

Dash remounted and banged his heels against the ribs. Daisy went off at a slow canter and nothing changed that. He wished he had worn spurs. He disliked spurs but he loathed Daisy. The horse seemed to be developing a jolting, sideways prance. This did his bruised backside no good at all. On the other hand he was still in the saddle when they reached a crossroads. Beauquesne was to the right. Daisy had already decided to go left.

“Come right, you bitch!” Dash shouted. He doubled the reins in his fists and dragged hard. His feet were braced against the stirrups. It was like trying to turn one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. Snow was falling, and he felt the flakes melting on his sweating face. The horse was winning. Dash had come all the way to France to fight for his country, and now he was being beaten by a bloody nag. “You lousy whore!” he screamed. Another ration wagon was approaching. He didn't care. He kept the reins in one hand and unbuttoned his holster with the other and took out his service revolver and cocked it and fired a thunderous shot past Daisy's left ear. The horse shied. He fired again, a blast of noise that flung the head to the right. He whacked with his heels. Daisy broke into a gallop. Dash fired at the sky and whooped. Faintly, he heard the ration party cheer.

* * *

Chlöe Legge-Barrington slid back the bolts and heaved on the door of the nunnery of Sainte Croix. “Goodness,” she said. “You look like Napoleon's retreat from Moscow.”

Dash stood in the night, layered with snow, too tired to shrug it off. Behind him the horse raised its great head, black capped with white, and looked at the young woman; then it let its head droop.

“Is this First Aid Nursing Yeomanry?” Dash said. “Because I'm looking for Sarah Beverley.”

“This is F.A.N.Y., but Sarah's in England. Would you like some supper? Lancashire hotpot with apple crumble to follow.”

“That's frightfully decent of you.”

“Well, frightful decency is something we have rather a lot of, around here.”

They stabled Daisy and came back inside. She led Dash to a cheerless bathroom and ran a hot tub for him. “Thank God the nuns had a new boiler put in before they left,” she said. “They believed in self-sacrifice but they drew the line at chilblains.”

“Where are they now?”

“Orleans.” She gave him a pair of workman's overalls. “Best I can do. Bring your things, they'll need drying.”

Dash eased his aching body into the bath. The cold retreated from his limbs like a beaten army. It put up a brief resistance in his toes and then surrendered to the heat. He ducked his head and blew a fanfare of bubbles.

He found the kitchen by following the noise. Six stunningly beautiful young women turned and looked at him. All wore smartly tailored uniform. Most were without their tunics. “Golly,” one of them said.
“Such
a lot of freckles.”

“Sorry.” Dash tugged sideways at the overalls and made them look like a blue sack. “I thought it said fancy dress on the invitation.”

Chlöe Legge-Barrington took his clothes. “Left to right,” she said, “Edith Reynolds, Laura da Silva, Nancy Hicks-Potter, Jane Brackenden, Lucy Knight. You'll never remember them, but don't worry, they're all thoroughly forgettable.”

“Charles Dash. This is really awfully —”

“I say!” Chlöe was draping his uniform on a clothes horse and she'd found the wings. “Royal Flying Corps.” Again, they all gazed at him.

“Guilty.” This time he smiled back. It was an engaging, wide-mouthed smile; he knew this because he had practised in front of a mirror at home. As he smiled he saluted. It had been an exhausting afternoon and the hotpot smelled delicious.

“My stars, a hero,” Lucy Knight said. “I must get a clean tablecloth.”

“Are you a pilot? How high do you fly?” Laura da Silva asked.

“Oh ... a mile or two. Or three. Depends where the Huns are.”

“How many Huns have you shot down?”

Dash looked away, while honesty fought temptation. “Oh well,” he said. “It's a team game, you know. The squadron gets the credit.” That wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't a total lie either; and he could see that his modesty impressed them.

Supper was easy. All he had to do was smile – not all the time – and tell funny little stories about flying. He fascinated them, and the more casual he was, the more attentive they were. He mentioned the Mad Major. “He used to fly upside-down, just above the enemy trenches, and pelt them with old beer-bottles.” Edith Reynolds asked why. “Dunno. An expression of contempt, I suppose.” He spoke of the banned practice of chasing staff can full of British generals until they drove into the ditch. “Isn't it awfully risky?” Chlöe asked. “Not if they can swim,” Dash said, and tried to look puzzled by their laughter. He told of a marvellous chap called Captain Ball (they had all heard of
him)
who developed a frightfully clever trick. “He flies straight into the middle of a flock of Hun scouts, and they daren't fire at him in case they hit each other.” Then what does he do? “Oh, he knocks one or two down and streaks home for breakfast.” It was easy. He had never met a Mad Major, nor chased a staff car, nor talked tactics with Captain Ball, but he had heard a lot of chatter in the mess, and by the end of the meal, with a couple of glasses of red wine inside him and these wonderful girls all saying
How spiffing!
and
What a corker!
Dash almost believed that he'd done it. Or at least seen it done.

They gave him a second helping of apple crumble and cream. He said they looked awfully smart.

“We're all volunteers, in F.A.N.Y.,” Chlöe Legge-Barrington said, “so we buy our own uniforms. A bit like the Red Cross.”

“Only much, much more swanky,” Lucy Knight said. The others hear-heared. “We don't wait for orders from the army. We knew the
troops wanted a cinema, so we bought our own, but Edith drove it into a snowdrift.”

“All the same,” said Nancy Hicks-Potter, “you mustn't think we're not nurses. We could remove your appendix right here and now, on the kitchen table.”

“Bet you sixpence you can't.”

She opened a drawer and took out a carving knife.

“It's gone,” he said. “Two years ago. Just when I was about to become captain of boats.
C'est la vie.”

She cocked her head. “Show us the scar.”

“Please,”
Chlöe said. “No shop during meals. Anyway, Charles here is exhausted.” He opened his mouth to protest and was overtaken by a yawn.