Francis Meyrick

Ch.39 THE THIRD HOME COMING

He opened the little white gate, picked up his small, rather battered suitcase, and walked up the long garden path towards the house, feeling uncomfortable and self conscious. How well he remembered this house!
How much he had loved it in his lonely dreams!
It was a home coming, after all the horrors of war.

He passed the green ironwork bench, and thought back to the many nights he had sat there with Genevieve, gazing at the stars.
He stood before the door, and straightened his tie. He fiddled a bit with the flowers, and then, drawing a deep breath, he rang the bell. It seemed to take ages for somebody to answer, but at length old Madame Pegoud’s shuffling step could be heard, approaching along the corridor. The door creaked open, and her withered features stared out. Jeremy lost his speech, and could only stare at her. No emotion at all seemed to pass over the old lady’s features. Then, she stretched out a knurled hand, and touched him on the arm. She smiled at him, a toothless, gummy smile, warmly welcoming for all that, and beckoned him inside.

He stood in the hall for a minute or two, and then Aunt Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs. She stared at him, smiled, and then came down the stairs.
“Jeremy! I am so glad to see you! ”
The welcome was genuine, but there was a slight air of worry about her. She embraced him, and kissed him.
Then she quickly ushered him into a side room, and invited him to sit down. They exchanged pleasantries. She was obviously glad to see him, but there was something else… Several times she glanced out the window, nervously, as if watching for somebody. In the end he could stand it no longer.
“How is Genevieve? ”
He phrased the question in a neutral manner, but he could have screamed it out loud. Aunt Agnes picked up on the tension in his voice, and steeled herself for the task ahead. She liked Jeremy. She eyed the bunch of flowers, and started with a sigh…
“She is very well, thank you, Jeremy. There is something I think you should know however. ”
Jeremy’s heart sank.
“Genevieve is… how do you say in English. She is going to have a husband. ”
Jeremy nearly fainted.
“You mean she’s engaged!?? ”
His voice had risen unintentionally, and in those few words Aunt Agnes saw his whole soul revealed. Her heart bled for him. She leaned forwards, and clasped both his hands in hers.
“Oh, Jeremy, you are a good boy. You will find your happiness too one day. I am also a bit surprised at what has happened… ”
That was true, she reflected bitterly.
“But you know, when it comes to the affairs of the heart… ”
She paused, unsure how to continue.
“…the young are… impulsive? ”

Long moments passed in silence.
She realized she was gripping his hands tightly.
The blood appeared to have drained away from his face.
He stared past her at the wall, with large, unseeing eyes. What remained of his world was falling apart also.
With an effort he pulled himself back into the real world.
“Where is she now? “, he managed to ask.
Aunt Agnes studied him for a moment.
“She is walking in the back garden. Her… her man… is with her also. Is it best that maybe you do not see her, Jeremy? ”
She searched his face earnestly, and shared his hurt.
The girl was a fool not to have waited for this one!
Jeremy sighed, and his head slumped. He stood up slowly, and gazed sadly out of the window.
He turned and faced aunt Agnes, and summoned up strength and composure.
“Aunt Agnes, you have been really good to me, and I am grateful beyond words for that. And… ”
He turned to face the wall.
Control yourself!
He forced down the emotion, swallowed, and then spoke calmly.
“I think you’re right… it is better if I don’t see her. I’ll leave straight away. ”
He smiled at her, leaned forward, and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“Good-bye, Aunt Agnes. Thanks for everything. Don’t mention to Genevieve that I was here. ”
The good old lady shook her head and showed him out, sadly.
She waved him goodbye, wiping away a tear.

The door shut silently behind him, and Jeremy gazed at the sky. The sky…
He had torn tracks up there…
It was all over.
He shook his head, and headed for the gate.

He was half way along the garden path, when he heard voices. He passed the hawthorn tree, and suddenly recognized Genevieve’s voice. She was laughing gaily.
A man’s voice was telling a story. He knew that voice as well…
He looked across to the green bench, and saw two people sitting there, with their backs to him.
Genevieve was laughing, and had her arms on the man’s shoulder. He was wearing a uniform of the RFC, and was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“…so really, darling, it’s been a jolly good war.
I’m quite sorry it’s over in away. Nothing’s going to be quite the same again. No more popping up and shooting down a couple of bally Germans, you know… ”
Genevieve laughed again, and mused:
“You are so brave… ”
Her companion waved her praise away.
“Oh, nothing to it really, my dear… ”
He jumped to his feet, and launched himself into another story.
“Why, I remember, one day, we had this problem with a blue Albatros. Group Headquarters phoned me, and asked if I could sort the bloody Bosche out. Well… yes I said, of course, but you’ll have to give me some extra men. They gave me exactly what I wanted. So, one day, there I was, flying along at twelve thousand feet, and, away up in the sun, I could see this tiny dot… Aha! I said to myself. Got you, you ruddy Kraut… ”
His eyes caught sight of the silent figure, and he stopped. Something in his gaze made Genevieve turn her head also, and she stared in horror. In a flash she was on her feet, and moved quickly over to Colonel William A. McAllister, who placed his arm protectively around her waist. A witty sarcasm readily reached his lips, and then, mindful of the hiding he had taken on the last day of the war, he remained silent.
Jeremy suddenly felt shabby in his old coat. Wretched, and pathetic. Stupid, unbelievably stupid, holding the small, battered suitcase.
Words failed him, and then he realized he was still feebly clutching the bunch of flowers.
He tossed them gently on the ground, turned, and continued on his way. Nobody spoke. Nobody followed him.

Fifteen minutes later, tears pouring down his face, Jeremy realized fully for the first time, that he had…
simply…
…nowhere to go.

* * *

The cemetery was just the way he remembered it on that day when they had buried poor Digsby, Baines, Baxter, and all those other days. A dozen or so more pilots’ graves, that was all.
He hadn’t even realized he had consciously headed there.
But it was in fact the only place left to go. Old friends lay there…
He wanted to say good-bye.
He had long since lost his suitcase, which lay discarded in a ditch not far from Genevieve’s farm.
He looked a little wild, and the eyes were staring strangely. He staggered in through the old gates, and gazed around the cemetery.
He found himself staring down on the grave of Baines.
Memories flooded back to him of his old friend. The composed, competent, strong, invincible Baines, who had taught him so much. He moved on to the grave of Digsby, and reflected on the speech that McAllister had given.
The words came back eerily, echoing around his skull.

“…so, in conclusion, gentlemen. I want you to fight as British airmen. Steadfast, resolute, unflinching in the face of death. Remember the great historical contribution you are fortunate to find yourself in a position to be able to make. In decades to come, men will admire your deeds, and your spirit. Above all, your thirst for victory regardless of cost… will be admired. ”

Part of him felt like laughing. Part of him was crying.
“…victory regardless of cost “
The phrase took on an echo of its own. He looked at the inscription on the grave stone, and thought of McAllister with his arm around Genevieve.
“…victory regardless of cost “.
What a joke. What a joke…
Part of him became savage. He wanted to grab McAllister by the throat, and drag him to the side of Digsby’s grave. Point to the inscription, and ask McAllister if this cost was included in the calculations.
Included in his ‘jolly good war’?
He remembered the mystifying way he had been whisked out of France.
Was that to make room for McAllister to steal his girl? What had McAllister been up to?

The anger quickly receded. There was no point. McAllister and his types would never understand. They were so full of their own goals of advancement, that their eyes looked only to their own good. There was no time – or propensity – for reflection on the fate of those who fell by the wayside. Mere stepping stones…
Expendable. Discarded.
Jeremy’s vision swam, and he moved on to the next grave.
“Good-bye, Digsby, old pal… “, he whispered.
He was quite unaware of the small figure at the far end of the cemetery, that walked silently along a row of graves, peering intently at each headstone, as if searching for a name.

* * *

Her husband-to-be had graduated on to passionate kisses, and had temporarily buried his face in her long neck. She leaned back on the sofa and enjoyed it. He was a hero! And a colonel! They would look a smashing pair together.
Her thoughts traveled back briefly to the scene earlier in the day. She frowned slightly, and studied the ceiling thoughtfully.It was a shame when a man fell apart like Jeremy Armstrong. How thin and shabby he had looked!
It was a pity. She had liked Jeremy. But he had read much more into their relationship than she had meant. However, that was not her fault, was it? That ridiculous bunch of flowers! That suitcase! What had he expected? To move in?
Pathetic creature…

Mentally she went on comparing Jeremy with the man who was now fondling her breasts. She thought of Charles Nungesser, and wondered which of the two men Charles would have preferred as a friend. She knew the answer to that one. There was no contest, really.
Simply no contest.

* * *

Graves… they were all the same. Sad, meaningless, end-of-journey landmarks that most people pointedly avoided. Roadsigns to destiny everybody hurried past, eyes averted… Baxter’s grave, eighty miles away, was just the same. So much vitality, so much leadership, so much personal warmth… forgotten, pushed aside, bygone… hurriedly buried in a muddy hole in the ground…
Jeremy reflected on the invaluable teaching he had received from this great man. That terrible day came back to him. The day the Blue Albatros had latched onto Baxter’s tail, and Jeremy had been just too late. The agonizing descent. Ten thousand feet, watching his teacher and mentor desperately side slipping, frantically trying to keep the flames away.
The terrible scene brought back to Jeremy the echo of other guns, and the screams of another injured man, trapped, burning, in a German field.
“Shoot me, Jeremy, shoot me! For God’s sake, man, shoot me! ”
Jeremy shuddered. In his mind, he stood there still, his revolver in his hand, unable to pull the trigger.
His face muscles contorted, and moved unnaturally.
His mouth opened and shut, and he trembled uncontrollably.

A movement made him spin round. Twenty yards away, a figure, with its back to him, was sobbing quietly.
He knew that figure!
He studied the headscarf, and the bunch of flowers the figure was even now gently placing on the grave.
Carnations…

His eyes became haunted and staring, and his fists clenched.
The Dream…!
The one Baines had…!
The figure of the woman, who lay on bed and wept!

Baines’ voice came floating back, as if from far away.
“It’s a girl. This beautiful girl. She’s lying face down on a bed. Crying… Crying her eyes out… ”
Jeremy’s face became horrible to see. Across it played terror and nightmare, death and suffering. His first instinct was to run. He checked this, and willed himself to stand still.
The echo of Baines’ voice returned again, as if from a great distance.
“Then suddenly, I’m standing in a cemetery. She is bent forward over a grave, as if she has only just discovered it. She’s holding a bunch of red carnations. She’s crying. I know it’s her, although I’m looking at her from behind, and she’s wearing a headscarf. It has a floral pattern on it. She kneels down, and places the flowers
on the grave… ”
Jeremy watched the dream unfolding, slowly.
The slim, forlorn figure knelt down, and a gloved hand reached forwards with the flowers.
“Her whole body is shaking with sobs. She searches for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears, but can’t find one. Then she slowly peels her headscarf off and dabs at her face with that. ”
It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Jeremy watched the dream continue yet, and his mind was tortured with a terrible dread. He watched her shoulders shake, and felt the hurt reverberating through the tiny frame.
“I feel sorry for her, and I want to comfort her. I want to put my arms around her. ”
Jeremy moved forwards, helplessly.
“She hears me coming, looks around, and becomes terrified. She cowers away from me, in terror. I want to comfort her, but I can’t… ”
Jeremy knew the moment she heard him. Knew it by the stiffening of her shoulders. In the same instant, he recognized the grave, and read the inscription.
Hans Joachim Hemke…

The bastard in the blue and green Albatros! The shit who tried to machine gun me on the ground! The damned sadist who waved at me from his cockpit! Baines killed you, you evil sod, and I hope you rot in hell…
His face contorted with the insane rage of those who have suffered mortal terror, and he was back in his own cockpit, raining down death and destruction on his enemies.
In one horrible instant, he had become Baines.
He gazed down upon the woman who dared grieve for his enemy, and her upturned face caught the full brunt of his anger, and read Death in his eyes…

* * *

They walked into the house, arm in arm, and the Colonel was still regaling her with his stories.
Genevieve couldn’t help admiring the man. He was so brave!
“Don’t you ever worry about all those men you have killed? ”
She gazed up into his eyes; somewhere, at the back of her mind, she remembered another young pilot, sitting in her kitchen, his head in his hands, agonizing over the men he had killed…
Colonel McAllister, lost in a mood of self satisfaction, glanced at her in surprise, and smoothed away a look of irritation that passed quickly over his face.
“What? Oh… ”
He thought for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s quite simple really. They started it. It’s their fault, so they got what they deserved. Simple as that! ”
He was pleased with his answer, and felt it sounded quite heroic. She smiled in reply, and felt also that it was a good answer. It satisfied her. She debated asking about all his own men who had died, and how he felt about them, but decided not to.
His answer had satisfied her eminently well.
“…so they got what they deserved. ”
Yes, that summed it up neatly.
They passed into the dining room, and she decided to ponder no more on those problems.
That kind of brooding had been Jeremy Armstrong’s downfall.
The war was over, after all.

* * *

The face of the killer that stared down on her, lips drawn back from his teeth in an animal sneer, terrified her. She cowered away from him in unimaginable terror, knowing that the threat those eyes contained was too great not to be carried out.
The face advanced towards her, horribly expressing her own death sentence, the fingers reaching out like claws towards her throat…

* * *

Thank goodness the war was over. Genevieve reflected briefly on whether or not she would ever confide in the man sitting opposite her about her ordeal at the hands of the sniggering soldier. She had confided in Jeremy Armstrong. Should she not do like-wise in her future husband? Should she not be totally honest and truthful?
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She admired the way he held himself at the table, erect, smart, sophisticated. A far cry from the casual manners of Jeremy! He held his wine glass just so, and toasted her good health with impeccable charm.
They clinked glasses, and she reached a decision.
No, she would not tell him. Ever.
The war was over. Her personal war was also over.
Subject closed.

She smiled warmly in her new found peace of mind, and Colonel McAllister, imagining it was meant purely for him, enjoyed it as if it were a personal present.
He smiled delightedly back, and studied her lips.
He’d soon be making love to her, and, this time, he was really going to let her have it.
He felt elated, and full of life. All his plans had gone beautifully into fruition.
He remembered how he had orchestrated the quick removal of Jeremy Armstrong from France, ( “Poor chap’s unstable… best ship him out quickly before he makes any more trouble, eh? “), and laughed out loud. Good old ‘Scar-face’ had taken the bait immediately, eyes blazing, promising to attend to the matter immediately.
Yes, it certainly helped to cultivate friends at the top…
His teeth flashed, and an informed bystander might have decided there was altogether too much of the wolf in Colonel McAllister’s smile.
* * *

The turmoil in his mind showed in the wild expression.
He could hear the guns of the blue and green Albatros rattling behind him, as he fled in terror. At the same time, he sensed the presence of his enemy under the ground before him, and he wanted to kill him again and again. And kill anything and anyone associated with him.
You bitch! Do you know what that bastard did to me?
And you dare cry for that evil swine?
He watched her in a fury, cowering beneath his gaze, slithering away across the grave…
You bitch! Where do you think you’re going?
He closed on her, and she knew there was no escape.
Guiltily she hung her head, waiting for her punishment.
Why had she come to France? How had she expected to get away with laying flowers on a German pilot’s grave?
It was too soon after the war. Why had she come?

Somewhere, from far away still…
but maybe closer…
maybe even very close…

…a voice that Jeremy knew so well played through his mind.

“I feel sorry for her, and I want to comfort her, but I can’t… ”
Suddenly, all his anger and rage evaporated. Compassion filled his heart, and the gentleness of his nature reasserted itself gloriously, for the first time for years…
Words echoed through his mind. Words from afar. Never forgotten.
“Oh, God, Jeremy, I’ve killed so many more people than I know off! ”

Jeremy, helpless for words, put his arms around her shoulders, and hugged her tightly. She resisted only for a second, and looked up at him in stunned surprise. Then, when she felt his hot tears pouring down onto her face, she placed her head against his chest, and understood.
For a long time they remained, locked together, immobile, without words; communicating nonetheless, in the true language of compassion.

* * *

They were sitting in the old priest’s study.
Jeremy smiled sadly at the girl he knew so well now, although he had met her only two hours before.
Their conversation – lubricated with several glasses of the priest’s best wine – had been revealing, and he thought of some of her questions.
Had he known her brother?
Yes.
How had her brother died?
A difficult one.
‘Bravely, against overwhelming odds’, he had lied.
She had studied him carefully.
Had Jeremy been there?
Another difficult one. Eventually: yes.
Had they… fought together?
Jeremy had shrugged his shoulders, and nodded. He didn’t tell her it had been a rather one sided battle.
She had been totally without bitterness against him. Only sadness. She had told him briefly about her brother.
How he had been his mother’s darling. A trifle spoiled, perhaps.
“Poor Hans. He had scored one victory already. He was desperate to add to his score. He wanted to join Jasta Boelcke. Become a hero. Score many, many victories… ”
Her voice had trailed off sadly, and tears had sparkled in her eyes again. Jeremy had been strangely moved.
She had continued, and almost mused to herself.
“I knew he was going to die. I dreamed it. Over and over again. You see… when he was smaller, we were so very close. So close. He ran to me first, if he hurt himself.
His mother… ”
She frowned, and corrected herself.
“Our mother… made him very ambitious. She is very… ”
She searched for the right word.
“…how do you say, strong? ”
Jeremy had nodded, thinking of his own parents.
“Hans became different as he grew older. He was still very affectionate towards me, but he became harder towards other people… ”
Jeremy had understood. Nor had he been surprised that Heidi’s father was the complete opposite of her mother.
It was the same as with his parents. He told her so.
“My father sells boots to the army, and fancies himself a great patriot. He wanted a son who enjoyed killing Germans. I’m afraid I’m rather a disappointment… ”
He had smiled wearily.
Nobody had spoken for a long time.

Now he could only look at her, and reflect on the stupidity of war. Here he was, talking intimately with a German. The Bosche. The enemy. Not only that, she was the sister of a man who had come within inches of butchering Jeremy. It was all crazy. Too crazy for words.
He found himself saying as much.
“I hated the war. I never could understand it. ”
She inclined her head, and looked at him seriously.
“You helped your side win the war. Does that please you? ”
Jeremy looked wearily at her.
“No side ever wins a war, Heidi “.
There was no answer to that.
Heidi knew she heartily agreed.
She was suddenly very glad she had risked her mother’s wrath by coming to France.

* * *

It was late when he bid her and the good priest a goodnight, and headed off to the airfield.
He had taken her address, and promised to try and locate the whereabouts of any of her brother’s personal effects.
The priest had offered Heidi shelter for the night, and they remained talking for a long time.
“He is a good man “, the priest said, with feeling.
“A good, kind, compassionate man. ”
She listened intently.
“The war though has hurt his mind. The body is whole, but the heart… ”
He shook his head.
“The heart is broken. ”
Heidi wondered, and felt deeply sorry for the man who had just left.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Ch.38 THE SECOND HOME COMING

His father had been almost embarrassed to meet him.
They had shaken hands.
His mother had cried. And cried.
His sister had been indifferent.
It had not been a cheerful home coming.

Emmy…
Emmy had been bewildered by this stranger. Who spent hours in his room alone. Who said very little. Who could not be coaxed out of his shell.

He had promised himself to stay for four weeks, before returning to France.
He lasted three.

When he left, saying he had some unfinished business to attend to, his mother had gone almost hysterical.
He had endured the weeping figure draped around him, beseeching him not to go. He had said very little.

At length, his mother, powerless, hurt, confused, had stepped back. Her hand had come up to her mouth like a little girl found out doing something naughty.
After he had gone, shabbily dressed in his old pre-war civilian clothes, she had rounded on her husband.

Throwing things at him, she had roundly cursed him,
his boots, the war, and everything Mr Armstrong had held sacred.
He had been shocked to the core.

Jeremy’s sister had lapped it up, hugely impressed at her mother’s knowledge of the vernacular.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Part Four

THE LONG ROAD HOME

Ch.37 JUDGMENT

Captain Culpepper was uncharacteristically furious.
He was striving to keep a lid on his feelings, and was finding it a hard task.

“Gentlemen, the man is a hero. I am recommending him for a D.S.O., and he’s richly deserved it. I have glowing testimonials here… ” He sifted demonstratively through an impressive stack of paperwork.
“Some of these come from men of impeccable character and standing. Squadron leader Matherson states that in his opinion the contribution made by Lt. Armstrong to the successful outcome of Baxter’s Master Plan was inestimable. Captain Baxter himself, before his untimely death, made no secret of his high regard for this young airman. His reports are full of praise for this pilot.
This man deserves recognition. Not a court-martial! ”

He looked around the faces, and noted that only one seemed in open sympathy. Two faces looked downright hostile, and the third, the General’s, looked merely pensive. Or maybe he was just sleepy, Culpepper decided.
There was an awkward silence.
The sympathetic face belonged to Colonel Raymond Laurence Rimell, who now proceeded to clear his throat, and add his two penny’s worth.
“I must admit to having been myself very impressed with Lt. Armstrong… ”
He knew he had to be tactful, so he continued on what he hoped was a diplomatic note.
“He is, like all young men, a trifle headstrong. I can quite understand Colonel Barton… ”
He nodded deferentially at the ferocious looking man of bear-like appearance.
“…expressing horror at indiscipline in the ranks.
But I think we should credit this airman with his virtues outstripping his… errors of judgment. He was, before he, ah… struck Colonel McAllister… engaged in a fight to the finish with the Blue Albatros, which aircraft is very well known to all of us, and is believed to have accounted for some sixty five RFC aircraft. In downing this aircraft, Lt. Armstrong contributed immensely… ”
He was interrupted bluntly by the bear-like man. The bushy eyebrows almost concealed his small eyes.
“Have we any verification of this officer’s claim? No!
Not one! Immense contribution? If he succeeded, which is in doubt, then it had no bearing on the course of the war.
The war is over. What we have here is straightforward insubordination. The physical striking of a senior officer. If I had my way, he would be shot. Standards may have fallen, but they have not fallen that much. I am totally opposed to any reward for his misconduct. He should be court martialed forthwith. ”

It was a long speech for ‘Grizzly’, and he closed up.
He was unlikely to say much more, Rimell knew, and he was equally unlikely to change his mind by one dot. He knew he had to try however…

“The reason for no verification was that he was thirty miles behind enemy lines. On his own. Having almost certainly saved his two wingmen from being cut to pieces.
If you read their reports… ”
He was interrupted again, this time by the lean, hungry looking man with the dramatic scar.
“We can place little value on the reports of a man’s friends, who are bound to want to say whatever will help their flight leader. I place much more value on the report of an indisputably gallant officer like Colonel McAllister, whom we have known a long time. ”
Captain Culpepper seethed.
Who does he think he is? Dismissing the reports of men who fought tooth and nail? One of whom is injured, whilst the other is critically ill?
Colonel Rimell, with more experience of power politics at the top, tried another tack.
“I think we have to remember that Lt. Armstrong was not aware that the war was nearly over. Nor could he be. In pursuing the Blue Albatros with the tenacity he showed, and as far as he did, he exemplified the best fighting spirit of the British airman. He… ”
Scar-face was unmoved, and demonstrated this by changing the subject quite bluntly.
“Colonel McAllister previously recommended that this pilot be court-martialed. It was yourself, Colonel Rimell, who stepped in to give this officer another chance. It was you who engineered a transfer to Captain Baxter’s outfit. Wouldn’t you say that this latest outrage demonstrates the sound judgment of Colonel McAllister, when it comes to the character of this airman? ”
He had ended on a note of sarcasm, and even Rimell felt exasperated. Culpepper, speechless, didn’t trust himself to talk.
Rimell, mentally counting slowly to ten, deliberately slowed down his speech, and affected his most reasonable tone of voice.
“At the time Lt. Armstrong left his first squadron, he had only two victories. He has ended the war with twenty seven confirmed. Mostly scouts. Baxter’s reports emphasize over and over again that he could have greatly increased his personal score but for his habit of sending his wingmen down to polish off the two seaters. Baxter also states over and over again that getting Lt. Armstrong to submit claims and combat reports was like pulling hen’s teeth, and that therefore… ”
Scar-face was in like a bullet:
“Another example of this flier’s complete lack of discipline! ”
Rimell imagined slowly lynching his opponent, whilst Culpepper positively seethed.
The man with the pot-belly stirred slightly, and the watchful eyes of Scar-face fixed him like a hawk.
There was a silence. Then the General spoke, quietly.
“Your summary of the situation, please, Colonel Rimell “.
Rimell gathered himself.
“Sir, I believe Jeremy… Lt. Armstrong has deserved the D.S.O. more than anybody who’s ever got it. At the close of the war, to court martial such a gallant officer, would be a travesty of justice. Let’s not forget that he was an injured man when he struck Colonel McAllister, suffering from a fractured skull, presumably due to a ricochet. He was tired, exhausted, and not responsible for his actions. He deserves the D.S.O., Sir! ”
“Amen! “, Culpepper added firmly, with a lot of feeling.
The bearlike man glared even harder at him.
The General moved slightly again, and addressed Scar-face.
“Summary of your views? ”
Scar-face looked pleased to oblige.
“If being tired and exhausted was a good enough excuse to punch an officer in the face, then the trenches would have seen to it that no officers were left with any front teeth. The man is a proven menace, showing a wanton disregard for military discipline. He should be court-martialed forthwith, and drummed out in disgrace.
With the end of the war, we can dispense with a custodial sentence. ”
He made it sound like a major concession.
Rimell felt ill.
Culpepper wanted to scream.
The room was silent.
Only the general’s aide, utterly bored and tired from standing for a long time, swayed slightly.
The butler in the corner, impassive and detached, mentally thumbed hard for the young flier.

It seemed a long time before the General spoke.
“I think a compromise is in order. If Captain Culpepper withdraws his report recommending the D.S.O., and Captain McAllister withdraws his report recommending a court-martial… then I think we are ending up quits. Furthermore, we’ll send him home at the first opportunity, without returning him to his old squadron, so he leaves France under a cloud, so to speak. People can draw their own conclusions from the unusual circumstances of his departure, and I think Captain McAllister will not be dissatisfied when he learns that Lt. Armstrong has missed a D.S.O. as a result of his…
impropriety. ”
The silence lengthened. Culpepper was very red in the face. Rimell was sad.
“Subject closed! ”
The General’s voice sounded sharp.
Captain Culpepper, who had opened his mouth, slowly closed it again.

* * *

Outside, as they prepared to go their separate ways, Rimell and Culpepper met briefly together.
The rain drizzled down steadily.
Culpepper spoke first:
“Thank you Sir, for the way you stuck up for Jeremy. Nobody could have tried harder than you did, Sir. ”
Rimell waved it away. He looked pensive.
“You know,old boy “, he said softly.
“I don’t think the D.S.O. would have meant a lot to Jeremy… ”
Culpepper started. He was surprised.
Rimell smiled.
“You see, Jeremy is different. Very different. The likes of McAllister, and that lot in there… ” He nodded his head towards the chateau in a manner that seemed to Culpepper to imply disdain.
“… they’d never understand that. To them… medals and rank and status means… everything. ”
He looked up at the granite walls, thoughtfully.
“…and, what’s worse… ”
He turned back to Culpepper.
“…they couldn’t care less how they go about climbing the ladder. ”
He smiled thinly, shook hands with Culpepper, climbed into a staff car, and was gone.
Culpepper, standing alone, threw the building a long and withering look.
There was much bitterness in his heart.

* * *

She crept into the ward, furtively, hushed into shocked silence by the presence of a Great Unknown. There was suffering here, hurt, perhaps even… Death.

Slowly she passed the beds, with their silent, bandaged figures. Some gazed up at the ceiling, vacant, frozen, immobile, not betraying the Truth with even the slightest tremor or expression. The Truth… that they were still nominally alive, but lost. Hopelessly, irrevocably, lost. Their spirits were forfeited, sacrificed on the altar of War, in the name of King and Country.
Somewhere, deep down below, in the dungeons of the human experience, Laughter lay spreadeagled, staked out, smothered, under neatly arranged starched white sheets.
She tiptoed past, not wishing to disturb what she sensed in each silent bed. Turmoil. Unhappiness.
A peculiar inner agitation, that was contagious, and enveloped her.
Which one was Jeremy?
Which figure, shrouded in bloodstained bindings, was the man she had loved? The man she had hugged, and kissed, and wanted to make love to, so gently, so lovingly, so passionately? A bizarre impulse welled up inside her to turn and run, and never come back. To remember him only the way he had been before, handsome, elegant, with those deep, deep eyes.
Charles Nungesser took his wounds bravely… He laughed about them.
The picture of the brave – some would say reckless – French airman, with the jagged scar running along his chin, rose up before her, and she hoped fervently that Jeremy’s injuries would be short-lasting, and would one day become the object of fun, mockery, disdain…
Like Charles Nungesser…
Her eyes studied the patient in the third bed. She realized he had no lower face left. Just an opening where the mouth should be, a small, shrivelled, burned black raisin where the nose had once been. The eyes followed her slowly, vacantly.
Not like Charles Nungesser at all…
Again the same overwhelming craving for open air, the fields, the sky, overtook her. She actually had to swallow hard, take a grip on herself, force herself, move on, gently, purposefully, to the next bed…

When she found him, she was amazed.
He sat, propped up in bed, with not a scratch on him. A small piece of plaster attached to one one side of his head was all that was incongruous.
He was thumbing absently through an old newspaper. His face was expressionless.
He’s not hurt! Oh, thank God! There’s not a mark on him!

Her first impulse was to want to run, throw her arms around him, smother him with kisses, on the lips, the eyes, everywhere. To tell him she loved him, and that this was the happiest day in her life.
Instead, she stood still, her face moving a little, in spasms, reflecting the intensity of her feelings. Her left hand moved out to the metal end of the bed next to Jeremy’s, and she gripped the cold, round tube as if her life depended on it.
Jeremy…
He looked up, as if he had become aware of somebody staring at him, oddly, vacantly, with no sign of surprise or elation.
“Oh, hullo, Genevieve… ”
It was flat. Just that. A polite greeting. No warmth. No enthusiasm. She gripped the bed end even more desperately, and then, slowly, firmly, willed herself to let go. She walked over and sat on the edge of his bed.
He regarded her calmly.
How elegant she looks.
He felt nothing.
She studied him with almost blank features, in which a little amazement could be sensed.
There’s not a mark on him. Is it a skull injury? But then surely he would be bandaged?
Neither spoke.
A few beds away, a patient groaned. It started in pain, but ended in a sob. Nobody took any notice. A nurse at the other end of the ward didn’t even look up.
Only Genevieve took notice. She stared at Jeremy, and the first seeds of doubt entered her soul. What was it that colonel back at that airfield had said? She thought back, puzzled, trying to make sense of it all.

* * *

She had ridden to see Jeremy at Aix-en-Chapelle, or to leave a note in case he was flying. The sentry’s reaction had been different. She was used to smiles of recognition, and a cheerful greeting. She knew they liked to see her, flirted with her, were probably fascinated to see a woman in tight trousers and boots riding a horse.
They were always helpful. “Lt. Armstrong is airborne, miss, but if you would like to wait for half an hour, we can offer you a mug of tea… ”
She would graciously accept, and allow herself to be fussed over, flattered, admired. She was used to it, but it was still nice.
Then…
This time it’s different. What’s wrong? Jeremy…
That sudden, horrible feeling; a deep dread, panic, that rushed to her face:
“Is he…? ”
Her eyes had been wide, shocked, staring.
The sentry had quickly shook his head:
“No, no… ”
That had been a relief then. Jeremy was alive.
But… is he injured?
The sentry had looked bewildered.
“None of us really know what’s happened, Miss… he was in a hell of a fight, and the story is that he got the Blue Albatros… ”
The Blue Albatros…? Jeremy had got…?
The sentry had hurried on, the words almost falling over themselves.
“He appears to have crash landed at another airfield forty miles south from here… ”
The sentry waved with his hand in the general direction.
“… and then… ”
Genevieve listened breathlessly, seeming to note a degree of puzzlement coming into the man’s face.
The sentry shrugged his shoulders.
“…and then they arrested him! He’s been there ever since. We haven’t seen him. ”
They had ARRESTED him? Jeremy?
Her brain whirled in amazement. The sentry sympathized with her feelings:
“I know miss, it’s crazy, he shoots down the Blue Albatros, wot’s been a bloody curse to the Royal Flying Corps for all these years, and they chuck him in the slammer! ”
Genevieve reeled, and had to shake herself.
She rallied quickly, and spoke with determination.
“I want to see the Commanding Officer! ”
The sentry had started to protest, but seeing the look in her eye, had sent a message to Sergeant Brinklaw, who in turn had notified Major Baxter, who had rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and debated sending the Sergeant out to get rid of her.
In the end, he had sighed deeply, and ordered her to be shown in…

* * *

Sitting on the hospital bed, gazing at Jeremy, talking inconsequentially about nothing, she thought she was beginning to understand the peculiar diffidence exhibited by Major Culpepper, the polite embarrassment, the inability to answer any but the most basic questions.
Yes, Jeremy had crash landed elsewhere.
No, he was not injured.
Yes, he claimed he had shot down the Blue Albatros.
Yes, he was under military arrest.
No, the Major regretted, he couldn’t answer any further questions regarding the charges. It was a military matter.
No, it was extremely unlikely she would be allowed to see him. He was under arrest, you see…

She had insisted. Demanded. Become emotional. Worried him. Little had she known how he hated emotional women! His wife was emotional. He was convinced that there was no reasoning with the species. He kept repeating that it was all out of his hands. In the end, in order to get rid of her, he had told her the name of the airfield where Jeremy had crash landed, and advised her to apply to the Commanding Officer there. He had felt guilty about it, felt reasonably sure that she would travel there, cause a stink, but it seemed the only way to pacify her.

Now, sitting on the bed, gazing at her beloved, she wanted to ask: “What happened? ” Wanted to know. Desperately. Instead they were talking about fruit. Did he want any?
He didn’t…
What an insane, wooden conversation! We talk of trivialities. What IS wrong with him? Nothing, that I can see! Dare I ask? No, better let him tell me in his own time…

And she had continued talking airily, carelessly, whilst silently she brooded, and mulled over her interview with that Colonel. She had traveled the next day, with great difficulties, transport had been a nightmare.
However, she had made it, to this strange airfield, and buttonholed the sentry. Who had refused her admittance, and been most offhand. She had kicked up a terrible fuss, turning on all her feminine French passions, and they had sent for some officer. He had tried to tell her to go away. She had dealt with him too, and he had gone off quickly, and returned with a most distinguished looking man, who had introduced himself as Colonel something or another. He had been very kind, and taken her in to his office. Given her a generous brandy, and offered her sympathy. He had smiled a lot, kindly, with very white teeth. She had been adamant that she wanted to see Jeremy. He had been polite, ever so, pointing out that Jeremy was under military arrest, and not allowed any visitors.
What for!? What on earth for!?
She had blazed angrily. Beside herself with rage. Stamped her foot.
What has he done!??
The Colonel had smiled, sympathetically, wisely, gravely.
Some matters… some matters of military discipline could not easily be discussed. She had been confused.
Military discipline?
He had nodded, patiently. Some matters of the behavior of a soldier in war-time… were best left to the military to deal with. One did not wish to cause…
(his voice had become softer)… unnecessary distress...
She had tried to follow. Tried with all her heart.
Behavior? Behavior of a soldier in war-time?
She had tried to digest the hidden meaning.
Then she had asked, stammering for the first time, less sure of herself now, if there had been something wrong in the way Jeremy had behaved?
The sadly smiling countenance in front of her had said nothing, but merely shrugged expressively, with a slight downward turning of the corners of the mouth.
Jeremy’s behavior… cowardice?
It seemed the only explanation. He had been guilty of cowardice? Jeremy?
She had asked the question straight out. The Colonel had regretted, very sincerely, he had said, that he could not comment. He had already said too much really.
She had burst into tears, all her aggression, her almost maternal fighting instinct to protect her young… all had vanished in a swirling mist of confusion.
He had been very kind, very kind indeed. Stroked the back of her hand, gently. Made sympathetic, murmuring noises. Told her he would take a chance. Break regulations. Bend the rules for her. Just once. He would arrange transport for her to the hospital, where Jeremy was being kept.
He would break the rules…

And now, here she was, talking mundane, superficial nonsense to a man who appeared to not have a scratch on him. A man who was oddly vague, and appeared to be avoiding looking her straight in the eyes.
She ached with desire to really talk to him, really get to the bottom of what had happened.
Instead, they talked nonsense. Generalities.

It was all so unreal…

* * *

The night Heidi’s father died, she thought her heart would break. First Hans, and now her father. The two people she loved most in the world…
Her mother showed little grief, and it was impossible to know if she felt any. It was left to Heidi to wait up beside her desperately ill father, whilst her mother slept soundly in the next room.

He died with a soft sigh, almost of wonder.
It was only then that his grip on her hand relaxed.

* * *

It was amazing how speedily Jeremy was packed off home.
He was not allowed leave, and his belongings were collected for him. In a daze, he felt himself propelled forward by an efficient bureaucracy, which whisked him out of France and across the channel in a heartbeat. He could not follow exactly what was going on, or why the RFC was suddenly so anxious to be rid of him. It was a relief however that
the incident with McAllister was apparently being forgotten.

He was not permitted to visit Genevieve.
He made up his mind to write as soon as he got to England.
Too late, he remembered he did not have her address.
Torturing his brain, he tried to remember the name of the house, or the road. He failed on both counts.
The old farm did not lie in a village, and the exact address was critical.

The problem occupied him during the entire train journey back to Calais.
By the time the cliffs of Dover came in sight, he had decided his course of action:
He would spend the minimum amount of time that decency required with his parents – say, four weeks – and then return to France. He would ask Genevieve to marry him forthwith, and seek employment, anywhere, in aircraft manufacture.

He hardly stopped to think that the demand for aircraft, with the cessation of hostilities, was likely to be rather low…

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 11, 2008, 9:05 am

Ch.36 THE LONELY SKY

The lonely sky…
Thirty miles on the wrong side of the lines.
Cold.
Wondering whether, any second, the tortured metal components spinning around, red hot, under the cowling, will simply give up the ghost, and seize solid.
Any other enemy scouts?
Amazingly, no. Not yet.
Fuel?
What fuel. It is better not to ask.
Damage?
Colossal. The lower wing looks somehow odd. Twisted up.
The propeller is damaged.
Shoot. This can’t last. How long to cross the lines?
Years. You’ll never make it.
Oh, well…

The minutes crawled slowly past. Each mile traveled was a mystery. Each revolution of the battered wooden propeller, which set up colossal vibrations, was in defiance of all the laws of physics.
Something was screeching loudly. Something tore, metal to metal, and he knew it couldn’t last.
Crossing the lines was an impossibility. He didn’t even know where he was.
Head west, young man, head west…
Slowly, he was climbing. At about 100 feet per minute.
It would help, when the inevitable long glide began.
The minutes passed slowly.
He came to wonder incredulously, what force was it that kept those cylinders firing, and stopped his airframe from breaking up?
He realized he was lost in his own thoughts. His lookout had virtually ceased. That mechanical, automatic, conditioned reflex of scanning sky for enemy, and the ground to ascertain his whereabouts, was fading.
I don’t care anymore…

Life resolved itself into memories.
Emmy. Smiling wisely. Glad to see him. Not, repeat, not in love with him. Oh, no. And he was not, definitely not, in love with her. Oh, no.
Genevieve. He wanted her. Wanted to hold her. She was worth fighting for. As long as she never found out.
Found out what?
The doubt. The purposelessness. The way he felt, or rather didn’t feel, about Life.
Why?
Ah. That was the question. Indeed. That was the question.
The little French priest was there, quoting from the Bible. He was a nice man. Nice man.
The Blue Albatros wasn’t a nice man. But he was… gone. Out of the picture. All that hate he had felt…
All gone.
Strange. Unreal. ‘A’ Flight. Mac. Tiny. Dillon.
Which one had bought it? The flamer…
Depression. His gramophone. Smashed. He’d shot it.
Why?
It didn’t do. To listen to such beautiful music. When you had to hate. So deeply. Do violence. To your own nature.
To kill, you had to hate. He had too, anyway. Music made it hard to hate.
Aw, shut up.
Lookout.
They’re at it again…
Archie was bursting everywhere, creeping closer.
Disinterested, heading west, not caring where he was going, he took time off and studied the shell bursts.
He’d never done that before. Curious. The flash. Black smoke. Shock wave. Smell.
Rather a lot of it…
He looked out. The lines were slowly creeping into view.
Amazing. What height was he at?
700 feet…
Low. No wonder archie was having such a fun time.
The lines, eh? Where?
No idea. Never seen this bit before…
He felt no elation at crossing the lines.
The realization that he might actually get away with it brought him no comfort. He was past caring, and didn’t even flinch at the shell bursts that twanged shrapnel off the fuselage and wings.

A few minutes later, it was almost a relief when the engine finally, abruptly, quit.
Good. I can crash now…
He pitched the nose up for best glide speed, and tried to trim the aircraft. No dice.
Shot away…
Far ahead, past the nose, he saw sunlight reflecting on something. He weaved the nose, and spotted buildings.
Hangars…
Somebody’s airfield. Unfamiliar.
Good place to smack in…
Mentally, he worked out the distance versus glide angle.
He knew he couldn’t make it.
Oh well, let’s plough in as near as we can…
Something was trying to make itself heard in his mind.
A tiny voice of reason. “Why crash? “, it was saying.
Why crash…
Wearily, he thought about it. He had never for a moment thought he would make the lines. Yet he had. So why shouldn’t he make a successful ‘engine off’ landing?
Seems logical…
But a little voice told him he was missing something.
Something important.
He couldn’t think what.

* * *

It was a smooth looking field, and just beyond it lay the airfield. They had probably already seen him.
Good… I hate walking.
It looked like a good approach. Speed was good, and at this lower airspeed, the buffeting had reduced somewhat.
He started to ease back at 50 feet. At 15 feet, he was smoothly rounding out.
This is too easy!
10 feet.
Looks good.
5 feet.
Any second now.
The machine settled smoothly.
He seemed to be sitting very low.
There were funny noises coming at him.
Grating noises.
No wheels!
NO WHEELS!
He somersaulted, with the little voice of reason shouting at the top of its voice: “See! SEE! SEE! ”
Aw, flippin’ heck…

He slipped out of the crumpled wreck, mentally brooding over his failure to think through the results of the collision with the Albatros.
The sickening crunch had knocked the breath out of his body, and his left shoulder ached abominably.
Blood trickled into his eyes, and down past his left cuff, and his ribs hurt. He knew the machine would be a mass of flames any second, and frantically he half staggered, half ran from the wreckage. Twenty yards away, he slipped and fell in a muddy puddle. He splashed about and made another five yards, before slithering into a low ditch, utterly exhausted. He arrived at the bottom with a splash, and lay there for a moment, too sick and weary to move.
The airfield fire engine raced up, and two men jumped down.
“Are you all right, Sir? “, one of them inquired solicitously. Jeremy staggered to his feet, nodded, and waved them on. They jumped back up, and raced to the now fiercely burning aircraft. Jeremy staggered out of the ditch, walked a few steps, and sank to his knees, watching the blaze with large round eyes, that stared from an oil blackened face.

A vehicle drove up behind him. He heard the sound of the engine drawing up, and then the handbrake was applied. The rasp of the ratchet oddly cut into his consciousness above the roaring flames, and the shouts of the fire crew.
A door opened, and shut. Feet crunched behind him.
A voice he thought he recognized, spoke quietly and acidly.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Jeremy Armstrong. I should have guessed from the appalling standard of dress… ”
Slowly, painfully slowly, Jeremy, still on his knees, turned his head. The first thing he saw was a pair of highly polished riding boots. His gaze traveled up the starched breeches, up the immaculate tunic, the baton held rigidly in the correct position, slowly…
Slowly up to the thinly smiling supercilious disapproving face of an old acquaintance.
He struggled to speak, but found the effort surprisingly difficult.
“Captain McAllister ” he managed to say at last, thickly.
The sneer on the face became more pronounced.
“Colonel McAllister to you, Armstrong. I see your recognition of rank is as poor as your flying. And why… ”
The baton was now prodding Jeremy’s chest.
“…why are we still destroying perfectly good aeroplanes? The airfield, by the way, is that way. The other side of the hedge. ”
The baton pointed curtly.
“Of course I appreciate navigation was never your strong point, was it, Jeremy? ”
Jeremy, exhausted, was finding it difficult to stand.
McAllister continued remorselessly, disapproval written all over his face:
“However, never mind Jeremy. The war is just about over. ” He emphasized the ‘over’. ‘Ooh-ver’.
“The Hun has had enough. He is negotiating surrender terms. So fancy that, there will be no need for you to go around breaking any more aeroplanes. ”
Jeremy turned away from McAllister, and gazed across at his fiercely burning aircraft. Beyond that, he saw the horizon, and the fact that the war was over. It was finished. He would never have to fight again.
McAllister’s voice spoke behind him. Coldly.
“Nobody even managed to clobber the blue Albatros.
Despite all that huge effort. It’s the last day of hostilities. And Lt. Jeremy Armstrong cracks up another perfectly good aeroplane. Quite irrelevant really to the war effort, but sadly typical nonetheless… ”

Slowly, very slowly, Jeremy turned back to McAllister.
His expression was strange. If McAllister had seen it, he might have paused, but he was more intent on following the feeble efforts of the fire crew.
There was a pause.
Them McAllister spoke again. Airily. It was almost a throw away comment. Tossed casually over his shoulder.
“Fancy you picking my airfield to make your last landing of the Great War. A proper botch up you made of it.
And a proper shambles you made of your war. Never mind, Armstrong, there were other men who fought the good fight… ”
Slowly, Jeremy moved towards McAllister…

He studied the proud military bearing. The way the colonel held the baton rigidly correct, clasped in the hollow of his right armpit, as if he was on parade…

The war was going slowly through Jeremy’s mind.
The last day of hostilities. Pointless…

The baton flew through the air in a high arc…

An outraged “What the dickens do you think you’re doing…!? ” from McAllister was abruptly terminated by a fist in the stomach. With an amazed “Ooph… “, he started to keel over forwards, only to be lifted clean off his feet by a sledgehammer blow full in the face. McAllister’s head jerked back, and blood spurted from his nose. He crashed over backwards. In a flash, Jeremy was on top of him, and lifted him by the collar, a fist poised for another drive.
But it was not necessary. McAllister, whimpering pathetically, held his hands up to defend his face, pleading “No, no! “.
The sight disgusted Jeremy…

The bloodstained flier’s ugly expression, jaw squarely set, hovered close to McAllister’s terrified face. Slowly, he spat out the words:

“You insect. You hypocrite. You coward. You are so typical of them. You fight the war from behind your desks. You send men to battle and die who are far better than you.
Then, when the fighting is over and done, you stand up to collect the glory… ”
He paused, a crazed look in his eye.
“The men who won this war are DEAD… ”
He shook McAllister violently, and screamed at the man cowering in front of him.
“They’re DEAD, do you understand?! ”
McAllister nodded vigorously. Extremely so.
Jeremy’s voice lowered dangerously:
“Don’t you ever forget that… ”
The man cowering before him shook his head equally adamantly.

Suddenly, Jeremy was very tired.
Tired and disgusted. He let go of his superior officer, who fell back into the mud, and slithered quickly away sideways.
Jeremy started walking…

The white dove that flew across the field had a grand stand view of a strange tableau.
A burning aircraft, with men engaged in a futile attempt to extinguish the blaze. A mud stained colonel, lying on the ground, mopping his nose that pumped out blood.

And a retired airman, walking with a strange, fixed expression, staring into the distance.

Walking. Walking away…

Ch.35 THE VIGIL

It was nearly six p.m.
Lt.Jeremy Armstrong was now officially overdue some ten hours. The atmosphere in the mess was very subdued.
Mac, despite the protestations of the M.O., who wanted to transfer him to the field hospital, had walked out of sickbay, and had temporarily partly anesthetized himself with a potent mix of whiskey and gin. His hand had now swollen to the size of a small football, and he was amazed how painful it was. He had just finished relating for the fortieth time the tale of how Jeremy had saved his and Tiny’s bacon. He was in shock, and beginning to ramble severely.

Sergeant Bennet knocked hurriedly on Captain Culpepper’s office door, and entered hastily on the first syllable of the answering grunt.
Captain Culpepper, used to the slow, steady inexorable gait of his aide, looked up in surprise. Then his stomach contracted into a knot, and he asked hastily:
“News? ”
Sergeant Bennet nodded, but seemed almost… embarrassed?
“Sir… “, he began. Then, abandoning all restraint, he blurted out:
“Mr Armstrong is alive, Sir, but he’s under arrest at the RFC squadron at Macon-le-Blanc! ”
Even the unflappable Captain Culpepper blanched.
“Under arrest? Armstrong??? What ever for? I’ve never heard anything so CRAZY!! ”

The two men stared at each other in blank amazement.

* * *

The reaction in the mess was even more stunned. Sergeant Bennet was bombarded with questions he could not answer, possessing only the barest details.
Mac especially reacted with fury, and was all for setting up a raiding party, and leaving for Macon-le-Blanc straight away, with the objective of retrieving their flightleader. His proposal met with considerable support from other indignant pilots, but further examination of the strategy threw up a number of weak points.
Macon-le-Blanc was seventy miles away. By the time they got there, over the bumpy, war damaged roads, it would be late. They had no idea what Jeremy was in for. Their untimely heavy handed arrival might make matters worse.
It was felt vital to have more information.
“Perhaps it’s just one helluva big mistake “, somebody offered.
“Perhaps by the time we get there, he’ll be on the way back here. The man’s a hero, not a criminal. Let’s wait until the morning. ”
It seemed sensible, logical, and was grumblingly accepted. Mac, helpless with amazed outrage, helped himself to more whiskey, threatening vengeance in the morning.

* * *

Looking over his shoulder, he had seen the English machine following him down, and he had cursed quietly, for the first time feeling the beginning of a cold sweat.
He was not in a good position to tackle the Yellow Canary. He was low on fuel, and even lower on ammunition.
He had also sensed, with the killer’s instinct for these things, that his adversary was ragingly angry.
Verdammt noch mal! I’ve killed his wingman, and shot up his flight. He wants revenge…
He steepened the dive, watching the airspeed screaming up towards the danger point. He sensed the entire airframe straining under the aerodynamic forces.
It was not enough. Peering over his shoulder, he could see the English machine slowly overhauling him. Soon, he would be in firing range.
It’s no good. I’m going to have to fight. Just try and get as close to home as possible…
It was uncanny the way it had happened. He had hit the man! Seen the machine roll slowly away. That had been no feint! He could have filled him with holes, but for the presence of the other machines.
Crazy…
He is pushing his machine even harder than I am mine. Normally the Albatros can out-dive an SE5. He is angry.
Very angry. He is taking risks. How far behind German lines is he now? Thirty miles…?

Home was only three minutes away. Home, a bath, warm food, good comrades, laughter… It suddenly seemed the most desirable place on earth. If he could only get out of this scrape… Perhaps General von Kleist was right.
Maybe it was time to take a backstage role. He couldn’t go on winning. He had done enough.
The realization hit him forcefully.
I’m frightened. The little Englishman has frightened me…
Anger had welled up then. The deep, roaring blood anger of the habitual warrior.
Hauling back on the stick, he had risked ripping the wings off in a gigantic spiraling half-loop, watching carefully to evade fire.
His party piece was coming up.
Specially for you, my friend…

* * *

Two men gazed up into the sky. They leaned on their pitchforks, and their rough garb showed them to be agricultural laborers.
Silently, they watched the two aircraft duel in the sky.
The big one, with the face that seemed to permanently signal contempt to the world, was determined to enjoy it.
It was a nice show they were putting on for him. There was a savage joy in listening to the machine gun fire, and in watching the little tongues of flame that licked forth from just behind the propellers. It seemed that first one duellist, and then the other, had the upper hand.
They were low. With a bit of luck, the loser would crash near them. It would be nice to have a souvenir. Maybe a gun, if he was lucky. He might be able to sell a gun.
It would fetch quite a few marks. The Burger Meister. He would be the one to approach. He would give a lot for a trophy. He already had several.
Come on, one of you, crash down here. Nice big field for you. Come on then…

The other man was horrified. He had a slightly simple expression, and gave the air of being an uncomplaining long-time servant, well used to humble status. His lower jaw hung slightly open, and he followed the fight with empathy, flinching in pity on behalf of whichever pilot was on the receiving end. His body moved, in odd little compulsive spasms, muscular jerks, as if he could sense the bullets trying to rip through human flesh and bone.

* * *

To Jeremy, some of the close up maneuvering of the Blue Albatros was a mystery, which confused him several times. He was having to wheel and turn as never before. He knew they were getting lower and lower to the ground.
They missed each other again, by inches it seemed, and Jeremy lost sight momentarily of his opponent. He turned in a 90 degree bank, his wings vertical, pulling tremendous forces, only to be confronted with the silhouette of the other biplane coming straight at him, also in a 90 degree bank, orientated the other way.

He’s coming straight for me… which way do I turn?
His brain froze, and in the last instant, he shut his eyes tight.

* * *

For a little canary, he packs a hell of a peck…
Who was it that said that?
Kurt Wolff…
The situation was critical. He was nearly out of ammunition, expecting any second to have his gun belts judder to a sickening stop.
As for fuel… I’m running on vapor…
There was nothing else for it. He had to meet each attack head on, going straight for the enemy, as if he wished to ram him. That way, perhaps, he could stretch the game until… what? The Englishman gave up?
Fat chance! Zum Teufel! His blood’s up…
Surely the man had to know he was miles and miles behind German lines? In danger any second from the arrival of other German aircraft?
The truth laughed quietly at him.
He doesn’t care… he wants YOU…
He wheeled around, and, in a 90 degree bank, drove straight at the silhouette that confronted him.

* * *

The splintering crash as both aircraft hit at no more than 400 feet above the ground, was clearly audible to the watchers below. The sound of wood fracturing, metal tearing, and a sudden high pitched, whining sound.
Both machines, having seemingly cannoned off each other, dived for the ground.
One made it, just, righting itself and pulling out at no more than fifteen feet height.
The other crashed in a shower of splinters and dust, with large segments of aircraft breaking off and rolling across the ground, and one wheel, crazily, bouncing high in the air.
The two laborers instinctively crouched down, one arm thrown up in front of their faces. Then they broke into a run.

* * *

To Jeremy, time stood almost still.
The shock that traveled through the airframe threw him forward, and the shoulder straps bit in painfully. The aircraft reared crazily, and rolled slowly inverted, diving towards the ground. He could see it all, in quite unnecessary detail. The ploughed furrows, the ditch, the weeds, small bushes, a broken fence… Purely automatically, by reflex, his situation registered in his pilot’s brain. But the events were happening a long way off, and it didn’t really matter anymore.
Upside down… low… don’t pull…
roll… roll through… push while you’re rolling…
ground coming up… going to crash…

The vague feeling was one of regret. Pity. All for nothing. He was going to finally die.
Oh, well…

Then time went by, and he was suddenly climbing slowly through 300 feet, his engine running unbelievably rough.
He wasn’t very interested. His hand had already automatically rolled off as much throttle as possible without descending again. Even the highly abnormal vibrations, which felt as if the entire airframe was buffeting before a stall, interested him barely at all.
He turned slowly, and looked down at the crumpled wreck of the Blue Albatros. The sight filled him with nothing except a feeling of vague emptiness.
Oh, well…
The thought crossed his mind to machine gun the wreck.
It wasn’t burning.
That’s never going to fly again… it’s a complete wreck.
He could see pieces of blue fabric scattered over half an acre, and a deep scar in the earth.
The machine was dead. Disintegrated.
How about the man?
He looked at the wreck, and doubted very much if any man could survive such an impact.
Machine gun the remains and make sure?
He shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t be bothered. His anger had dissipated.
If he’s survived that, he’s going to be a very broken up man…
The buffeting increased, and there was something funny about his propeller disc. It was fuzzy. Blurred.
He dragged his attention painfully away from the wreck below, and concentrated on his own machine.
This thing isn’t going to stay airborne long. The propeller’s damaged. Bottom wing leading edge is buckled up… what a mess.
He looked at the flying wires. Some were abnormally slack, and others looked taut – like piano wires.
He groaned, and realized he felt sick.
He turned westwards, leaving the wreck behind him.
With his last look, he could see two figures running…

* * *

The big man got there first.
Pity. It’s one of ours. I’d have got more for an English gun.
Nothing stirred. No smoke or fire. He walked around to the front, and tried to find the guns. He spared no thought for the pilot. He was obviously dead.
Serves him right for losing. Useless idiot…

The smaller man stumbled up, out of breath, and started groping through the remains of the upper wing, in the area where he guessed the cockpit lay. He had never seen an aircraft close up before, and he was astonished at the way the fabric covered the flimsy wooden ribs.
What an amazing way to build an aeroplane…
He pulled part of the upper wing roughly away, and found what he was looking for. A crumpled, hideously broken body lay, face upwards, eyes staring emptily into space.
He knelt down beside the pilot, and gently felt his forehead. He was full of pity.
Poor man… he’s dead.
The forehead felt cold and lifeless. He reached for the man’s pulse, but before he could feel it, a faint groan drew his gaze abruptly back to the pilot’s face.
The eyes had moved, slowly, racked in pain, and a thin trickle of blood bubbled forth from the tortured mouth.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Ch.34 DAWN PATROL

Dawn.
That magical time.
Perfect stillness. Quiet.
A world asleep. Not a breath of air.
Quiet.

Somewhere, far away, a hesitant tremolo.
Silence.
Hush. The world is asleep. Dead perhaps.
No Hope.
Nothing stirs.
The lone musician…
Be quiet. Let the world sleep.

Another tremolo. Won’t go away, this one.
An answer. From the distance. Different song.
Same arising.
Same day.

If God was to choose this moment, to walk through the fields, alone, pondering the heart of Man…

what would He think…?

* * *

Bloody cold.
Just so bloody cold…
They stamped their feet, and slurped their hot drinks gratefully, and cursed a bit as a matter of form. Jeremy wished Mac and Tiny would hurry up. Only Dillon, fresh and eager to fly, had turned up so far.
Hurry up, guys… Anything, even freezing to death in the open cockpit of an SE5, was better than this.

He turned and looked away to the East.
Towards Germany, and the enemy. Towards where there were people who would unhesitatingly kill him that morning, if they got the chance. He wondered…
Was some German pilot waiting to get airborne to meet him, and was he cold as well? Was he stamping his feet in that same helpless primitive rhythm, quietly cursing his comrades, and wishing for his warm soft bed? Wishing for his Anna? Anna?
Genevieve…
He sighed from the heart.
Do you want to call it off today, chum? I’m game if you are… Anna. Heidi. Gertrud. Wilhelmina. Ingrid. How often did they think of their German flier boyfriends?

Genevieve…
He shook himself again, and gazed at the horizon. Although the sky above him was clear all the way to the moon, in the distance he could see a band of level, unbroken cloud stretching all along the Western Front. Dead level. Almost as if somebody had taken a ruler, and drawn the top of the clouds as a geometrically perfect straight line. Left to right. North to South. Dead level. Not very high above the horizon either. But there was enough there to worry him. Weather front coming through? Ground mist?

Shouts from behind him.
‘Clear prop!’ Somewhere, a Wolseley engine coughed, sneezed, rasped and clattered into life. The mechanics were making a last minute final adjustment.

Funny old sky… If you looked along the top of the cloud, you could tell where the sun was intending to come up. Although the entire sky behind the cloud was quietly beginning to illuminate, almost equally all the way along the top of the clouds, there was one area that stood out. There you could see no rays or increased intensity, but you could see a thin gold lining. Gold? No, it wasn’t gold. It was…

He shrugged his shoulders. He was hopeless at colors. He fumed quietly for his companions. Stared balefully at the sleeping quarters.
Are you coming you guys, or what?

No, not gold. Bright, very bright. Not yellow. What? A bright cheese color?
No, you can’t describe sun on cloud in terms of your favorite Edammer. What color IS that then? Must be a word for it. Amazing that cutting edge. Just a thin, ever so thin, dazzlingly bright edge trimming to the dark pinky purple clouds.
Pinky purple? Oh, Gawd.

Tiny arrived with a coughing explosion and a mouthful of obscenities. One of the mechanics wisecracked. Something about the cold air aloft sterilizing the bugs that live in lungs.
“Do you good, Sir, bugs can’t survive below zero! ”
Tiny appeared to give the matter very serious consideration. Then his face brightened.
“You mean the higher I go the better the chance of freezing their little balls off? Great! ”
Jeremy sighed. He felt the prognosis was dubious.

Pinky purple? He would have to look up some better words. Some fancy description would capture it scientifically exactly. Indigo or something.
What the hell is indigo?

He squinted his eyes, and stared intently at the distant cloud layer. If you looked quickly, you would say it was just gray. But if you looked closer, there was a lot more to it. There was a hint of blue there. Hint? Trace. No. Shade…
And purple. Even pink. Violet. The longer you stared, the more you realized it was not just a boring old gray cloud bank. How did you describe something like that?
Pinky purple.
Yes, that was it.

Still no Mac. He debated walking over to the mess to chase the lazy clot up. There was no point in everybody getting dressed on time, and then standing around freezing because of one useless pimple faced Jock from Glasgow, who couldn’t recover from the party. Jeremy disliked exerting authority, but this was getting ridiculous.

The sun was coming up. The very tip of the red orb was just beginning to show above the horizon. Interesting. You could see it quite clearly. That meant the cloud was well above ground level.
No ground mist. Good.
The ruler straight cloud top stretched unbroken, high above the peeking top of the sun.

A gentle voice cut in. Soft. Almost whispering.
“God’s playing games again this morning… “
It was the Old Man. Tim turned around and eyed him. The Old Man was leaning against the cowling of Jeremy’s SE5, waiting to swing the propeller.
Not often the Old Man spoke. Jeremy knew he was honored. He said nothing, staring momentarily at his mechanic.
“Fancies himself as a bit of a painter, you see… ”
The Old Man sighed, and slowly took his pipe out. Painfully, he exercised his rheumatic, aching shoulders. His eyes were alive and bright though, Jeremy noticed.

The top of the sun was clearly visible now, a deep red. The edge trimming of the cloud directly above had now increased in brilliance tenfold, and the width of the band had deepened. The cloud above the sun was now more purple. But if you looked away from the vicinity of the rising sun, the cloud in the South now looked more uniform gray. A boring gray.
Where the hell was Mac?

“Sergeant Smiley! ” The fat little sergeant turned around sharply, and marched smartly over to Jeremy.
-Sir?-
“Go and find Mac… Mr. Farquart, and tell him to move his bloody arse. If he’s not here in five minutes, I’m coming with a gun! ”
The sergeant’s countenance remained impassive, he saluted with a sharp ‘Sir!’, and marched off on his errand. Secretly, he was quite pleased. It was better than standing around, and it was nice hounding the spoilt little officer kids out of their beds.
Pity he’s not serious about the gun… I’d love to shove a barrel right up Farquart’s…
He marched along grimly, pleasing himself with fantasies involving young officers court-martialled and shot for reluctance to get out of bed and go and fight.

The top of the red sun had entered cloud now. Quite noticeably. Only just a bit above the horizon, it was as if the top had been surgically removed.
That cloud was thick… But at least it was above ground level. Strange how intense the sun was below cloud. You couldn’t possibly stare into it for more than a few seconds at a time. But once into cloud, it was effectively snuffed out completely.
One of Emmy’s favorite verses… what was it?

“Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun;
But if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness; for they shall be many. “

Too true, chum…
He made a wry face, and kicked a tire for comfort.
Was some Bosch pilot looking at that same sun? Was some bastard German at that same time looking at the sun disappearing into cloud? What was HE thinking?
I’m going to get me an Englishman…?

What sort of a guy was he? Maybe he wasn’t the sensitive type. Maybe he couldn’t give a damn about the sunrise. Maybe he was a typical Kraut who loved beer and sausages, and who had no feelings. Thick and ignorant.
It was easier for Jeremy to imagine his Germans like that.
He preferred it that way. It was easier killing them if you regarded them as… gross.
The sun was well up into the cloud now. More than half so. The bottom of the sun would soon be showing above the horizon.

Mac staggered up, unshaven, unkempt, and obviously nursing a cracker of a hangover.
Serve you bloody right, Jeremy thought unkindly, ignoring as much as he could that he felt far from good himself.
He glared as hard as he could at his errant wingman, and climbed in.
So here we jolly well go…

Why? He strapped in, and wondered. Why? He didn’t want to go and fight the Germans. So why go?
Because they’ll flaming well shoot you for cowardice if you don’t, chum…
It was a potent reason, he decided.

* * *

Through 1000 feet. Circling round towards the east.
Check behind: how are the boys? All tucked in nice and tight. Dillon’s fitting in well. Good sort. Bit green, but soon sort that out. Better start the look out. We need to climb like buggery, we’re late off. The other side’s bound to be upstairs already. Cold. Airspeed’s good. Face is cold. Eyes watering. Shouldn’t be. Goggles not fitting properly? Look back at formation. Not bad. Dillon’s floating out a bit. Engine sounds good. Sun shining through propeller disc. Illuminates whole thing. Looks good. Happens when light comes from just the right angle.
Good look out. Nobody about? Bet they’re up there all right. Somewhere. Have they seen us? Tough if they have.

Ten lil’ fokkers, riding thru’ the sky,
ten lil’ fokkers, quietly passin’ by,
and if ONE lil’ fokker, were to come to fall…
there’d be nine lil’ fokkers, sittin’ on the wall…

He giggled quietly to himself.
We’re all a bit the worse for wear this morning. Good party though. That idiot Thompson flat on his face hugging the bog…!
It’s going to be a nice day…

He turned the formation northwards.
Look at the Sun peeping up above those clouds now. Brightening up the whole sky. All those little houses. People fast asleep. Tucked up in bed. Don’t know we’re up here…
He spent a second or two longer than he knew he should have contemplating the peaceful scene below. He knew why.

Genevieve…

Her face smiled at him, tossed her head slightly, so that the hair fell over her shoulder, away from her face.
His stomach gave that familiar kick, that tightening feeling. Genevieve…
I miss you, kid.

2000 feet. Let’s hit a gentle turn, so I can see past the nose. Formation? Quick look. Not bad. Dillon again.
Anybody up high? Any dots? Hard to see. In the sun? Beware the Hun in the sun. Can’t see. Scary. Gentle turn. Look behind. Funny the way your skin crawls.

A man is waiting in the sun,
his soul is fierce but scarred
He trusts the power of his gun,
his eyes are blue and hard.

Soul? That man has no soul! The Blue Albatros is just a killer, devoid of emotions…
That feeling in the stomach again. Butterflies this time.
Is that sod up there? Where then? Keep looking!
Engine good, climbing well, formation? Not bad. How’s your head, Mac? Better? Keep your eyes skinned…

God’s playing games again this morning… fancies himself as a bit of a painter, you see…

The Old Man’s theory… Certainly beautiful out there, if I had time to admire it. If…
Sod! Is that something? There! It’s gone… In the sun!
I knew it! They’re waiting for us!
He’s waiting for me…
The others seen anything? No, you haven’t have you? Dozy sods! Right. Fire the guns, and jab a finger at the sun, fortissimo!
TACA-TACA-TACA-TACA!!!
Got the message, boys? Yes, you’re damn right. They’re waiting for us.
This’ll cure your headache, Mac.
Lord knows what it’ll do for your stomach…

Sixty yards away, Paul Dillon warmed his guns nervously, licking his lips. His mind was racing, and he knew he was frightened.
Where are they? Hell, Sir, I can’t see a soddin’ thing! In the sun? WHERE in the sun? What are we going to do now? I’ve not been in a dogfight yet. How can you guys see them? My eyes just fill with tears. Stay close to me, he said. Stay close to me…

Tiny sighed.
Here we go again. What a way to spend a lovely morning…
He was humming ‘Oh when the Saints go Marching in’, and he had also seen the brief tell tale specks before they slipped back into the sun.
He was frightened, and willing to admit it.

Mac burped, farted, and shuffled uncomfortably against the straps.
My bum is numb already, and we haven’t got half way yet. I’m going to be bloody sick all over this cockpit, and it’s going to be all your fault, Mr Smart Alec Jeremy Armstrong. Why the hell I volunteered for this caper, I shall never know. Need my brain examining. Where are the soddin’ Krauts anyway? I can’t see a thing.
He was frightened, but not willing to admit it, even to himself. Instead he channeled anger and frustration at his flight leader.

11000 feet…
Jeremy wheeled the formation round, peering intently into the sun.
They’re going to jump us, any second. I can bloody feel it. He’s looking at me, right now. I know. I bloody know.

* * *

The cold, blue eyes that stared down from a very great height narrowed slightly. The mouth tightened into a thin line of lips. The jaw was set.
He’s clever, this one. He knows we’re here…
I wonder is it our friend Yellow Scarf…

For half an hour he had watched and waited. Freezing cold. Hurting with the pain of twenty degrees below zero.
Aware that his body craved more oxygen. Determined…
Then they had appeared…
The four little dots, late off the ground, unable to avail themselves of any cover of early morning low-level darkness. He had smiled grimly, and the cat and mouse game had begun. They had wheeled and climbed in the sun. Always, always, keeping their formation between the sun and the climbing British scouts.
It was not easy. The unknown British flight leader was clever. He had many times abruptly changed heading, for several minutes at a time, trying to search the sky above as thoroughly as possible. In reply, the man with the hard blue eyes had been forced to maneuver just as adroitly, turning quickly, and following every move of the British. Once or twice, they had come close to blowing their cover. Like when young Steinbeck had turned to steeply, pulling hard, failing to allow for the rarefied atmosphere. Idiot! He had spun off, and lost several hundred feet in seconds. He had climbed back as quickly as he could, but it had taken long minutes.
Had the British flight leader spotted that little farce?
Possibly. But he was still coming…

Mentally, the man with the hard blue eyes worked out the odds. He had five wingmen with him. That made six Fokker D. VII’s versus four SE5A’s. Good odds. However, the British in that sector still had some very good fliers.
Like the Yellow Canary…
His mind went back to the strange duel they had fought before, and the reports of his pilots. Kurt Wolff’s comment:
For a little canary he packs a nasty peck…
Still, the odds were good. Pity about the fuel. They had been stooging about waiting for a while.
Why were you so late this morning, my fine British friends?
It was strange being so far over the British lines. Strange, but satisfying. The war was going very badly indeed, that was obvious. But… while there was a will… He found himself longing for the rattling fire from his guns, the vibrating kick of the recoil, the smell of cordite.
Oh to drill them all into the ground!

Yes, that was the Answer. The whole purpose of life.
Drill every last one of them six feet into the ground…

* * *

It was Tiny who got a positive sighting for a moment on
the spinning D. VII. His heart thudded into his throat, and his stomach seemed to turn over.
He fired a short burst, and gesticulated emphatically as Jeremy’s head turned.
There…!
His index finger stabbed at the sun.
He could see Jeremy nod briefly.
Tiny shivered, and wondered what was going through his flight leader’s mind.
Jeremy, how many Huns ARE there up there?
We’re playing it THEIR way at the moment, aren’t we?

Unbeknown to Tiny, Jeremy’s thoughts were working along a very similar line.
This won’t do… we’re already at 14000 feet. What height are those guys at? 18000? They obviously know what they’re doing, because they’ve done a good job of keeping out of sight, despite all my weaving and changing course. But they’re a long way over OUR side of the lines. How long have they been here? How are they for fuel? Can’t be too healthy. Why not sucker them? Break north, climbing all the time, and let them run thin on fuel. Then turn back east, at height, and maybe clobber them when they have to split for home. Right!

The man with the hard eyes swore quietly when he saw the result of Jeremy’s thinking, and knew immediately that the British flight leader’s action was prudent, and held in it a concealed threat. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl, and he knew he had to abandon the hunt. Fuel was going to be a problem otherwise.
Damn Englishman!
He wondered if the leader was the Yellow Canary.
Probably. The devil is cunning. But what else can I do?

He had to take the formation home.
Or…

The germ of an idea blossomed in his mind, and again the lips pulled away from his teeth. This time though, his mouth wore something that resembled more of a smile.

* * *

Jeremy and Tiny saw them first. The tiny, ominous dots, that appeared out of the sun, and rapidly fell towards the German lines.
So there you are…
Automatically, Jeremy counted.
One, two, three…
Mac had noticed them now as well. Only Dillon, bemused and quite innocent of the stealthy game being played, was wholly unaware of the dangerous dots in the far distance.
Four, five…
Jeremy wheeled the formation onto a south easterly track,
and pushed the stick forward gently. His airspeed increased smoothly. His scarf flapped a bit harder, tugging gently at his neck.
Carefully he studied the enemy, mentally working out time and distance. He thought back to the large German map they had studied, in Baxter’s office. If this lot came from where he thought, then he could well give them a nasty surprise just when they were low on fuel.
This could be interesting…
Baxter used to say that…
Poor sod Baxter. Dead as a doornail. Dying with a message on his lips. A message that was however just gobbledygook. A dying man’s nonsense. It meant nothing…
What had he said?
Every man just has to reach out…
You’d never get every man to do anything. Life just wasn’t like that. Poor Baxter.
Airspeed. Good. Formation?
Not bad. Tuck up, Dillon! Fuel? That’s okay. Engine sounds great. Descending now. Might get a bit warmer!
Warmer?? You mean less cold, don’t you?
Poor Baxter. Sun’s really up now. Thin blue sky. Indigo? No, brighter. Lighter. Azure? No! Much, much thinner, colder, more… fleeting.
Fleeting…? As in ‘passing by’?
For God’s sake, Jeremy, concentrate on what you’re doing!
Lookout. Search everywhere. Look, watch, wait.
Look, watch, wait…
Where had he heard that before?
It rang a bell somewhere, deep within.
Emmy…?
Something to do with Emmy. No time to dwell on it.
Those guys are below ten thousand feet now. Hungry for breakfast, eh? Don’t count on it just yet. Not just yet.
Flying wires are howling now. That’s called speed. We’re really going now. Poor Baxter. Poor Baines. Poor sods.
And Dek. And Mortimer, Hayes, Clifton, Meredew, Swords, Beaton and Johnston. All poor sods.
How many funerals have I been to? Does it matter?
All that matters is this stick in my right hand. This throttle in my left. The fact that I’ve still got plenty of petrol in my tank. At least half. The fact that my guns are ready. Plenty of ammo. That’s what matters.
That’s real. Nothing else. If I waggle the rudder pedals, the tail kicks. That’s my world. The smell of oil, the smudges on my goggles, that’s the truth.
There is nothing higher. Nothing greater. Nothing that matters more…

A shadow fell over him.
It was so unexpected, so unreal, so ghostly, that his breath froze. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up, and he felt the blood drain away from his face.

* * *

It was the Old Man who heard it first.
The unmistakeable sound of an SE5A engine. He moved quickly to the hanger entrance, and stood there, head cocked on one side, listening. An unlit pipe in his right hand pointed oddly upwards.
“There they are “, somebody said.
There was a pause.
“It’s only one “.
A shudder of concern passed through the waiting watchers.
Only one? What about the other three?
The mess emptied out; somebody had gone in and announced that there was only one machine coming back.
They all came running.
Where was the rest of ‘A’ flight?
The lone machine flew over the airfield, circled around into wind, and landed carelessly, untidily, the wings rocking from side to side, as if the pilot had held off too long, and then simply allowed her to mush onto the ground.
It was Mac. He taxied in, and the machine showed all the signs of having been dragged through several hedges backwards. Great rips showed in the fabric, the rudder was sieved, and the elevators were all but shot away.
The pilot’s face, grimy and blackened, and looking desperately tired, reflected his relief at being back on the ground. He switched off, and people gathered around him.
An unmistakable smell greeted them. Mac had been sick in the cockpit.
Nobody commented.
Mac climbed out swiftly, peeling his gauntlets off in disgust, and flinging them away. His right hand was bleeding profusely, and was obviously causing him pain. He wrapped his handkerchief around it.
Nobody spoke.
He eyed them gloomily. “The Blue Albatros… ”
Something stuck in his throat, and he coughed it up.
“Damn… ”
Then, aware that more comment was required, he searched the horizon from where he had come.
“Tiny should be along in a second. He’s got some kind of trouble, and he’s flying very slowly. He’s all shot to hell as well. Dillon… ”
He shook his head, and started to peel his flying jacket off.
“Dillon’s dead “.
The Old Man sighed, and thought of poor little fresh faced Dillon, all eager and keen.
What about Jeremy?
He couldn’t have got Jeremy? Best pilot we’ve got. The Blue Albatros got Jeremy? Never…
“As for Jeremy… I don’t know what’s happening. He…
I thought he was dead. Knocked off at the first pass. He just sort of slumped forwards and rolled away. I thought he was dead. Then… Dillon went down. Blew up. Flamer. That left me and Tiny. He just… ”
He paused, and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“He just ran rings around us. Just… played with us.
He got me through the hand, turned the machine into a sieve, and I’m sure Tiny’s the same. I couldn’t even get a decent shot off at him. Then… ”
A distant noise turned several heads. Somebody said:
“Here’s Tiny now. ”
The Old Man listened carefully.
“Sounds rough. Sounds hellish rough. ”
He peered hard at the approaching dot, which was just beginning to resolve itself into a biplane silhouette.
He could hear Mac clear his throat, spit, and then carry on.
“I didn’t know what to do. There were two of us against just him, but we just couldn’t hack it. He was picking us off at his leisure. Next thing… ”
Somebody was bandaging his hand now, and he winced in pain.
“Next thing, blow me down, there comes Jeremy, going like a bullet, right back into the fray. Hanged if I know where he’d been. Anyway… ”
The second SE5a sounded appallingly sick, and seemed to be trailing smoke. Everybody looked, including Mac.
“Anyway… he went for the German like he was mad. Like… he was raging. Shot bits off the blighter’s aileron. Then… ”
The second SE5a was turning onto finals. Something was hanging crazily from the wing.
The Old Man winced.
What in heaven’s name is that? And where is Jeremy?
Still nobody had interrupted Mac.
“Then… the German decides to quit while he’s ahead. Pushes off home in a hurry. Jeremy… ”
The second SE5a was now touching down. It was a poor landing. The ship bounced high in the air, hung there unhappily, and then crashed down hard. Somehow, the undercarriage survived, although one wingtip seemed very close to the ground. Tiny taxied in slowly and slightly oddly, the Old Man thought.
There was a pause while the noise of Tiny’s engine drowned out conversation. Tiny pulled up, and switched off the fan.
Silence returned. Everybody looked at Tiny. His face seemed very white.
“Hullo, chaps! ”
Nobody was fooled by the attempt at lighthearted jocularity.
“Think I’ve copped a few! ”
He smiled apologetically, and fainted dead away.
Willing hands lifted him out of the cockpit, and discovered that he was bleeding severely from his stomach. The medics went to work immediately, applying field dressings, and examining him for bullet wounds.
They carried him away on a stretcher in a hurry, looking grim.
Everybody watched the procession.
“Damn! “, somebody said.
The Old Man finally could contain himself no longer.
Ignoring rank, he spoke up for everybody:
“Sir, what happened to Mr Armstrong? ”
Mac turned a tired gaze on the groundsman. If he was surprised at being quizzed by a non-officer, he didn’t show it. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know “, he said helplessly.
His voice rose slightly in perplexed bewilderment.
“Last I saw he was chasing the Blue Albatros right into the middle of Germany. Tiny and I were in no shape to follow… ”

* * *

It was a funny dream.
Ever so funny.
Why can’t they let a man sleep?
It wasn’t fair… He was tired, and he wanted to sleep.
He had jolly well deserved some decent sleep.
There they go again! They’ll wake me up in a minute…
He fought against surfacing. He did NOT want to wake up. It was nice and cool lying in bed, and he wanted to sleep on. But they were making such a racket…
motorbike…
He decided it was a motorbike. Why on earth were they revving it up outside his bedroom window?
Inconsiderate…
He was slowly surfacing, and he didn’t want to. There was no way of fighting it.
Shame…
He was conscious of bed now. Bed,bedroom, sheets, and…
Light… shining in the window.
It was only very vague. Obviously early in the morning.
Not a motorbike. Car? No…
aeroplane!
Aeroplane? Outside his bedroom window? Who on earth…
something not right…
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, peering at the vague outline where the window was, pale moonlight shining through the curtain.
Thought was accelerating. Faster and faster. With increased thought came increased worry.
Worry?
He tried to surface faster now, reversing his previous efforts. What was the aeroplane doing outside…this time… Other sensations came rushing towards him.
Touch…
This bed’s awfully hard…
Smell…
I can smell the oil off that engine…
Something hitting his face. Ruffling his collar. Jerking gently at his neck. Cold water. Somebody had showered him in cold water…
Slipstream…
My God! Oh, my God…

A gigantic explosion of panic sledgehammered his mind.
Adrenaline surged through his system…
I’m flying, I’m in the aeroplane, but I can’t SEE…
I CAN’T SEE I CAN’T SEE I CAN’T SEE…
….
The moonlight, shining through the curtains, outlining the window, was not moonlight at all!
He realized he was screaming at himself.
WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
The ground! Where was the ground? His right hand reached and, searching for the stick, and found it. His left hand reached and searched for the throttle, and his knuckles touched the black knob.
But I can’t SEE! How can I fly? I can’t SEE!
Still the voice was shouting, ringing in his ears, panic raising the note higher.
Concentrate… I must concentrate…
Slowly, the indistinct image of pale moonlight, swimming in front of his eyes, started to resolve itself into something more substantial.
Instrument panel!… windscreen…!
But it was all blurred. He could not read the altimeter, or the airspeed indicator. He could see only the round faces of the dials. Frantically, he looked out, but he could only see a vague horizon, and was completely unable to judge height.
It’s coming back… vision is slowly coming back… I’ve been out cold… but it’s coming back… a few more seconds…
Did he have a few more seconds? Was the ground about to obliterate him? There was no way of knowing.
With his heightened state of mental striving, everything was occurring in slow motion. Slowly, very slowly, color and features were coming back…
That’s the ground, fields… wings are level… going down… ease back, ease back!…
He eased back on the stick, and sat there whilst his vision repaired itself to normality. He realized he had been in only a very slight nose down attitude, with wings level…
wings level?… an aircraft with no pilot that falls out of the sky and recovers itself to an almost level attitude? That’s impossible!
Memories were crowding his brain now, clamoring for attention. He could remember a shadow spreading over him… a massive blow to the back of his head…
and rolling over, falling away, powerless to prevent himself disappearing over the cliff edge… being aware, yet not been able to prevent the falling… falling…
Mac! Tiny! Dillon!
There was blood trickling down his face. He wiped impatiently at it. Twisting his head around, searching the sky, he winced in pain as his head throbbed. He was just in time to see, about a mile away, a vicious yellow and black sheet whipping up viciously and hungrily from a falling aircraft. Even as he watched, his stomach turning over in empathy, he saw a tiny figure falling away from the main body of fire. This shape too trailed its own, much smaller sheet of fire.
Who’s that…?
He guessed the answer. Movement caught his eye, and he turned the aircraft hard round. To the north, and above him, some fifteen hundred feet higher, three aircraft fought furiously. One in particular seemed to be having things all the pilot’s way…
Jeremy swore softly, and slammed the throttle wide open.

* * *

The word was that Tiny was badly hurt. One or more bullets in the stomach. He was still unconscious, and had lost more blood than had been at first realized.
The Medical Orderly was arranging a transfer to the field hospital.
Mac’s hand was smashed. He was now in great pain, but trying to put a brave face on it.
There was no sign of Jeremy Armstrong.
People spoke and moved in a subdued manner.
The Old Man was quietly distraught. He looked on Jeremy with the affection of a father on a son, and frequently went outside to listen. No Jeremy. The hours went by. He was long out of fuel now.
The Old Man reflected on how much Jeremy had risen in everybody’s affection.
Weird… when he came here first, nobody wanted to know him. They shunned him even. Just because he was unusual.
Now… in a squadron conditioned to death and destruction, they mourn him. But they’re wrong… he’s not dead. He’s not… I know.
He would walk out, illogically, and listen.
Where are you, young Jeremy?
You’re not dead, are you?
Only the silence answered him.

* * *

The man with the hard blue eyes pressed the trigger viciously, exerting far more thumb pressure than required to operate the simple trigger mechanism. His first choice had been the straggler, almost certainly the novice, but then he had reflected carefully.
Get the leader first… if that’s the Yellow Canary, he’s dangerous… and I have a score to settle… then pick off the novice, then assess the other two…
He had grinned as he had seen the short end of the yellow scarf flapping gaily, just as he completed his successful stalking approach from out of the sun.
Good decision… good choice…
Fire had poured forth, and the Flight leader had rolled away slowly, almost lethargically, demonstrating with absolute proof that the pilot had been hit. The surprise was complete, and the rest of the flight scattered in confusion. It was the work of seconds to half loop, roll off the top, and swing round onto the tail of the correctly identified novice, who offered no evasive maneuver at all.
Goodbye, Englishman...
He aimed carefully, and seemed to see something red erupt from the flier’s head and spatter against the inside of the windscreen.
He did not wait to see the results of his handiwork, but turned to attack a third aircraft.
They were coming at him now, their senses recovered, but they were no match for him. He easily evaded the first attack, kicked upwards, gaining height, and fired off a snap burst that went home. He could see pieces fly off his enemy. He almost laughed out loud.
He was beginning to enjoy himself.
I can take these two. Both of them. Just don’t rush it. Take your time, go for quick bursts, and slowly cut ’em to pieces…
He thought of Lothar, and how he had sworn revenge.
Here it was. His turn.
A song entered his head. It was an old Prussian cavalry song, and he imagined he could hear the music playing.
This was the life! With his Spandaus doing the talking, barrels glowing, he was alive and happy!

The clarion calls, the bugle sounds,
the heros charge, the horses foam;
’till Death does come upon the plain,
we sing the laughing, loud refrain.

It seemed to him that he had never been happier. Perhaps he had been more worried about the Yellow Canary than he had realized. Well, it no longer mattered. The Yellow Canary was dead. He feared no other man alive.
He managed another deflection shot at one of the remaining machines, and grinned as he saw his aim was true. The pilot seemed to writhe, and he suspected that the man had been hit.
Next time, my friend, next burst, and you die…

He only just saw him coming. A glimpse out of the corner of his eye… a violent evasive kick on the rudder…
and the bullets meant for between his shoulder blades missed by inches. His windscreen shattered, and a fragment ripped through his cheek, causing a flesh wound that stung, causing his eyes to water. A trickle of blood became wind blown and smeared across his face.

What the…

His surprise was absolute.
The Yellow Canary! Impossible! Has he arisen from the dead?
He peeled off, and dived flat out for home.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 9, 2008, 3:18 pm

Ch.33 SHADOWS IN THE FIRE

It could have been a great day. It very nearly was.
The day the Master Plan went into operation, and worked. Spectacularly. Until the very end.
Jeremy grimaced in reflection, shaking his head in disbelief.
Why…?

* * *

The airspeed in the dive was on the upper limit. He dared not go any faster. Reluctantly, he rolled a bit of throttle off.

Why? Why? The Blue Albatros again!
That man is super human… what maneuver was that, for goodness’ sake? It looked like…what? How did he do it?
One moment he was diving away, running like the rest of the survivors, and the next… hanging upside down, hundreds of feet higher, with deadly accurate fire scathing down enemy aircraft! But how did he get there so fast!? What the hell maneuver did he start with? It looked like he was spinning around in a second, whilst climbing!?
What in heaven…?

The surprise and confusion in Jeremy’s mind was easily exceeded by the sheer terror in another pilot’s mind: the Blue Albatros’ latest victim, as he hurtled towards the ground, the center of a gigantic fireball. The man’s thoughts raced, as he desperately tried to grapple with a sudden turn of events he had not been expecting.

God help me! Now I’m in trouble…

He knew he was on fire, he knew it hurt, yet he still gripped the stick, obsessed with the faint glimmer of hope that he might just reach the ground in time, land and jump out, before he burned to death.

So this is what it feels like? All the men I’ve shot down in flames, this is what they went through?

He was writhing in the cockpit, beating at the flames with his left hand, aware of the futility of the action at the same time as he redoubled his frantic efforts to beat the flames out.

Crazy! I’m burning! I’m covered in flames! And I’m still THINKING! Talk about a slow death…

He knew his wife was unaware of his predicament. He could see her in the kitchen, snipping roses to length to fit in her favorite crystal vase. He wanted to scream at her.

Look woman! I’m burning! I’m going to die! Help me!

But he knew it was no use. She couldn’t hear him, and would go on snipping -infuriatingly- at her blessed flowers, while he… he died.

No! Sodding hell, no! Damn, damn, damn, BLAST IT!
I’m NOT going to die! Ground… where’s the ground!?…
right, roll right!… trees… that’s no good…
God, it hurts… there!… those fields…
bit small… it’ll have to do…
we’ll be there in, what?… two minutes?…
What height are we?… 1000 feet…
can… I…
last…
that… long?…

The last remnants of his mitten holding the stick seemed to peel and blow away, and with an agonizing horror he realized his skin was bubbling and turning a vile black.
He wrenched his eyes away from the horrible sight. His teeth were clamped together now like a vice, but his chest ached from searing fumes entering his lungs.

GOD!… if you’re there… help me get down…
get down…
I can’t… stand… the pain…

* * *

It was later. It had to be later. Sky. Blue sky. He was lying on his back, of course. Gazing up. Into heaven.
But this was still the world, wasn’t it? Yes. He could hear the birds. Singing. A breeze. Rustling through the trees. Playing. Sighing. He could see the clouds. Moving. Gathering across to cover over the blue. Slowly. Inexorably. Pity.
Funny kind of.. peace. Peace?

The pain… it’s here but it’s not so bad… maybe that’s because I’m dying?…
who cares?… I do… I suppose…
why am I dying?… because of the war… what were we fighting for?…
was it worth it?… worth this end?…

He felt sad, and yet joyous. It was a dream, but not all a bad dream. Some of it was good. Just to rest. Rest his soul from it all. Escape the weariness. Just to stretch out… for a little while. How were the boys? Had any of them bought it? Yes… he’d seen some… but the Germans had copped it worse… much worse…

War… it’s funny lying here, thinking… I’ve never thought so clearly about it… why are we so intense… about fighting one another?… why can’t we love?… why prolong such slaughter for years on end?… there’s no good reason really, is there?…

He found himself chuckling. It hurt, and he went into a paroxysm of coughing. When it subsided, he lay very still, drawing breath carefully into his tortured lungs.
It was odd. Maybe only now, when he was dying, could he see, for the first time, the sadness of it all. If only… it was possible to explain to one’s enemies that sadness…

If I can recover… with what I’ve experienced… then maybe… I can… save… the world…

He felt through the ground, rather than heard, the approach of thundering footsteps, that drew up beside him. A figure bent over him. He recognized the silhouette. His favorite pilot. He smiled painfully, and struggled to talk. The man crouched beside him leaned forwards to catch the words.

You… you… silly sod!… I knew… you… you’d come!

The message. He had to pass on the message. What he had learned. Realized. The Love. The Pure, great Love. What he felt. What he now knew existed.

listen… listen closely… we don’t… have to…
fight…
any more…

The man bending over him held his breath, so faint were the words now.

every man… just… has… to…

The flames of the burning aircraft were dying down now, the profile unrecognizable, consumed, cleansed, purified, by fire.

…reach out…

A smile crossed the face of the dying man, tinged with a faint wonder, and a slight ephemeral surprise…

Jeremy felt for a pulse, found none, and stood up, his blackened, oil smeared face expressionless. Slowly he switched his gaze to the remains of the burning aircraft, and then on to where the sun was setting in the west.

Five hundred and sixty miles north-north-west, Mrs Cathy Baxter suddenly dropped her scissors, and clutched at her throat. Tears sprang into her eyes, and in that horrible instant, beyond human comprehension, she suddenly, shatteringly, knew…

* * *

The mess was quiet, and the fire in the grate was becoming the focal point. Nobody spoke. Despite the overwhelming victories of the day, the mood was glum. Nobody wanted to celebrate. It wouldn’t do, Jeremy knew. Wrong atmosphere to have in a fighting squadron. But just for the moment he had no desire to do anything.
He had to work through his own thoughts first. He was too calm, too composed, and he knew it. It wasn’t healthy. The others were reacting, letting the feelings out. He wasn’t. It worried him. It had to come out sometime, eventually. He was uncomfortably aware that this was the way he had felt before. When Dek had been killed. His responsibility. Then he had started out being calm. And eventually blown up. Spectacularly. Shot his gramophone. That must not happen again. He had to reason it all out. Yes, that was it. Logic. Equilibrium. Calm. It was just an exercise in logic. Not emotion. Or feeling.

First, what was going to happen now? With Baxter gone, the architect of the Master Plan and the man in charge of the squadron, who had impressed his own character on every aspect of squadron life, was no more. Who would Group HQ bring in to replace him? He hoped fervently that whoever it was, had some humanity in him. The squadron would not easily readjust. Baxter had been more than a leader. He had been a symbol, a man who led by example, and there was not a man in the squadron who would not have willingly followed him to the very gates of hell.

Second, what in hell’s name were they going to do about the Blue Albatros? Jeremy found himself once more talking to the man, through a medium he did not understand. He had addressed unkind mental thoughts before, but tonight was different. Tonight…

Tonight it’s as if I can hear his replies. Or sense his replies. Sense… your replies, you cold blooded killer!

His hairs stood on end, and adrenaline surged through him. He was gripping the edges of his chair, and staring fixedly into the fire, but he was unaware of this. Slowly, the room retreated, the shapes of his silent mess mates ceased to exist, and Jeremy was alone with his thoughts. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was…

You’re a bastard! You’ve killed some of my best friends… people I cared about… Baines… he was a good, kind man… and you… you butchered him!

The face that swam before him was cool, laconic. It didn’t even favor him with a reply. The sardonic grin was reply enough in itself. It spoke volumes.

Your good friend Baines was a fool. He didn’t look over his shoulder. I jumped him. And shot him down. I’d do it again. I don’t care who he was to you…

Jeremy’s knuckles were showing white. His mouth was beginning to contort. The face in front of him was beginning to take on detail. The high forehead, the strong nose, the deep eyes, the granite jaw.

You shithead! Baxter was more than my chief! He was my inspiration. I would have followed him anywhere… He had that effect on people. Where he went, we all followed. Few men ever earn that kind of respect from their men.

The granite jaw seemed to harden, and a sneer spread across the uncaring face.

You can follow him, little Englishman…

The face mocked him.

…straight down to hell!

A strange laughter seemed to echo around, as if from unseen persons lurking in the background. It was as if the Blue Albatros was speaking on behalf of many others, who waited in the background, laughing, sneering, clapping, stamping their feet. The flames of the fire seemed to rise up, and the silhouette of Baxter’s burning aircraft rose up. It changed slowly, and became the shape of Baxter himself, lying on the ground, gazing up into the sky, whispering… Whispering with an intensity that concentrated every effort in his burned body. Why had he used up his last energy in such a titanic effort of will to communicate to Jeremy the Answer?

every man… just… has to… reach out…

What did it mean? Did it mean anything? What was Baxter thinking? God…

You silly sod… I knew you…you’d come…

God… I should have been there. Should have been there…
A piece of wood cracked surprisingly loudly, and the fire spat out a flame that sailed in a sparking arc through the air, landing on what passed for a carpet in front of Jeremy’s feet. His eyes and ears registered the moment, but his mind dismissed the stimuli almost before they were offered for consideration. The mind was elsewhere…

The laughter was making him unbelievably angry. He could only see them as dim shadows in the background, but they were there nonetheless, and they were amused by his humanity. They thought him odd, and they disdained him. To them, he was a nothing, a fool, an oddball, and their leader with the hard blue eyes would blast him away one day. They were drinking… that was it. They were drinking, and clapping, and stamping their feet, and…
laughing at him.

You bastards… you unfeeling, cruel, heartless, primitive bastards! You underestimate me! You way miscalculate me… I’ll show the whole bloody lot of you… yes, go on, laugh now… we’ll see…

He was almost speaking now. His lips were moving. His expression changing from passive to murderous. He was quietly shaking. His jaw was making chewing, biting movements. Looking through the fire, past the fire, he saw what no one else in the room could see… and saw it with an intensity, a loathing, a bitterness, that would have astonished him not many months before.
The mess was quiet. Somebody had noticed. Nudged somebody else. Nobody had laughed. Or even smiled. Heads moved slowly. Messages were communicated. Although they didn’t understand all of it, they now understood some.
Somebody went as if to shake him. A head shook firmly at him. No. Leave him alone.
Quietly, very quietly, one by one, the men who had – not many weeks before – mocked him and laughed at him, filed out of the room. On tip toe.

Leave him to it. He’s a good man. Lord knows what he’s going through. We’d be incredibly worse off without him.
Hell of a pilot… hell of a bloke… just leave him to it.

Jeremy sat for hours, on his own, lost in an inner world, where none could follow.

* * *

“Have ‘nother drink… ”
“Set ’em up, I gotta go for… see a man… ’bout a (hic) dog… ”
It was a few days later.
A party was going on, and some barrels of beer had mysteriously appeared from somewhere. It was rumored that the patron from the livery stables down the road had donated them.
The traffic to and from the gentlemen’s convenience was intensifying. Captain Culpepper, the new Boss, was making his way through that dimly lit establishment, when he almost tripped over a prostrate body. He paused, swaying unsteadily, and directed a solicitous inquiry at the dim shape.
“Hello, old bean, are you all right? ”
The voice that replied, although unsteady and a little thin, contained all the essence of military protocol.
“Never better, Sir. ”
This reassured Captain Culpepper somewhat, but there remained a nagging doubt at the back of his mind.
“What’s your name, old boy? I’m new here, y’know. ”
“Edmunds, Sir. ”
“Would you like a drink or something, Edmunds? ”
“No thank you, Sir, I’ve just had a few… ”
Satisfied, Culpepper left, only to return a few seconds later, having been struck by a piercing thought.
“I say, Edmunds, can I ask you something? ”
“F-f-feel free… ” The reply was distinctly more feeble.
“Why are you holding onto the jolly pot? ”
“Stop the… spin, Sir “.
“Oh, I see, full opposite rudder, eh what? ”
This novel technique quite tickled the C.O., and he staggered off to broadcast it.
A minute later, it was Mac’s turn. His figure could be seen navigating back from the said establishment, negotiating tables and chairs most carefully.
“I say, chaps, there’s a bo-bo-body in the lllll…
the lllll…. ”
Everybody waited patiently.
“…in the jolly zjithouse. ”
“My word, is it dead? ”
Dillon’s interest always tended to the funereal.
“I don’t think so, he’s just missed being sick all over my foot… ”
“Bad show, near miss, eh? ”
“Rotten luck. ”
“What’s he doing then? ”
“He’s being sick, Sir! ”
There being some dissenting voices raised, somebody felt obliged to stand up for the truth.
“That’s quite correct actually, I saw him myself. ”
“What, clutching the blessed pan? ”
“Gripping it like a whore’s knockers. ”
“Maybe he’s looking for specimens. ”
“What sort of specimens? ”
The conversation at this point seemed to diverge. There followed two indistinct strands of thinking, which appeared to be however somewhat illogically interwoven.
“Smashing hobby, collecting flies! ”
“Didn’t think he’d had that much. ”
“My grandfather collected butterflies. ”
“Well, he does like a drop. ”
“Had some beautiful big ones. ”
“What, knockers? ”
“No, you imbecile, butterflies. ”
“Read a book once… ”
“How awful for you. ”
“…about this guy… ”
“I say, chaps, Jeremy’s read a book about a guy. ”
“…who desired this gorgeous young female… ”
“butterfly? ”
“Worm? ”
“effalump? ”
“…no, you ass, a female… you know, knockers, and all that jazz… ”
“I knew there was knockers in it ”
“sounds like a crackin’ good book to me… ”

It was late, extremely late, before a deliriously happy
squadron fell towards their respective beds. The singing, as always, took on epic dimensions of clarity, purity, and visionary beauty.

My bonny lies o-ver the ocean,
my bonny lies o-ver the sea.
my bonny lies o-ver the ocean,
oh bring back my bonny to me, to me
Bring back, oh bring back, oh bring back my bonnny
to me, to me,
Bring back, oh bring back, the silly old cow to me…

Slowly, the ballads petered out, and the last modified rendition of ‘ten green bottles’, never quite made it to the very end.

Four lil’ fokkers, riding thru’ the sky,
four lil’ fokkers, quietly passin’ by,
and if ONE lil’ fokker, were to come to fall…
there’d be three lil’ fokkers, sittin’ on the wall…

Only one solitary voice struck up ‘Three lil’ fokkers…’
and hearing no support, merely muttered something about
“fokkin’ hell “, and drifted away mercifully on the wings of sleep.

In the abandoned mess, the flames slowly died down, until only the embers remained glowing, like furtive, malevolent eyes that watched and waited. The flames were gone, the dancing shadows had become fixed, and soon there would remain only total darkness.
The room was hollow now, bereft of Life, with only echoes remaining.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 9, 2008, 2:25 pm

Ch.32 A PLEA FOR MERCY

For the next week, the ‘Master Plan’ was continually postponed. The weather -ironically- was too clear. Baxter wanted a certain amount of cloud around, to afford concealment for the main body of thirty odd aircraft.
‘A’ Flight flew several times, and Jeremy divided his operational time between intensive flying, carrying out simulated attacks when the enemy failed to show up, and long ground briefings. His three wingmen were improving steadily, and even Dodgy Dek had managed his first victory.

A squalid affair, Jeremy thought. The victim was a haplessly blundering Rumpler two seater, who appeared to have got quite lost. ‘A’ flight had sneaked up carefully, staying well up in the sun. Jeremy had suspected a trap, and had held off two thousand feet higher, keeping Mac with him. With well rehearsed hand signals, he had motioned Dek and Tiny down to attack the Rumpler. The two had taken it in turns to attack the slow German, and it had been Dek’s burst which had killed or disabled the unfortunate observer. Realizing his success, he had stayed on the enemy’s tail, emptying all his ammunition into the defenseless Rumpler. It had taken surprisingly long, but eventually Fate had smiled – cruelly – on one bullet, which had penetrated the fuel tank. Deadly liquid had sploshed straight over the left magneto. The resultant conflagration had been spectacular, and even from Jeremy’s vantage point, it had seemed that the outlines of the aircraft were almost lost in a continuous sheet of flame, with pitch black smoke billowing away from it.
Why do they always burn?
Jeremy had shuddered, and mentally hoped for a quick death for the poor pilot. In many ways it was an unremarkable, classic kill. Sneaking up on a careless or preoccupied enemy, keeping an extremely good look out everywhere, move in fast, hit hard, and get out fast. It would have been filed away quickly with other best forgotten memories, but for two extraordinary sequels.

The first corollary had been on the ground, afterward.
Dek had been quite beside himself with exultation. He had leaped out of his cockpit, and danced around the aircraft, shouting: “I got one! I got one! I bagged my first Hun! ” Then he had waltzed off to the mess, leaving a bemused Jeremy half in, and half out of his cockpit.
He had tried to figure it out. Was this the real Dek Moriarty? What had happened to the serious, thoughtful chap, who didn’t smile a lot? The man was delirious. Ecstatic.
Tiny seemed quite amused about it, and sportingly refrained from either staking a half claim, or making any mention of his part in the proceedings.
A couple of hours later, Jeremy had absently walked into the mess, and accidentally flopped down in a chair that Dek had just – temporarily – vacated. Jeremy’s eye had dropped to a large writing pad, and a half written letter. He had read the first sentence before he realized what he was doing. His immediate initial reaction then had been to jump up, and move to another seat. Something had drawn his gaze back to the letter. Guiltily, but unable to help himself, he had devoured the rest.

Dear Helen!

I got my first Hun today…! At last!
I ROASTED the little bugger! What a lovely sight!
We were out as usual, and Armstrong must have spotted this Rumpler from a long way off. We went sneaking around, twisting and turning the whole formation in the sun, whilst we slowly snook up on the little rat.
Armstrong sent me and Tiny down to attack, whilst he and Mac stayed on guard upstairs.
I got the observer right in the face. He suddenly let go of his gun, and clasped both hands to his ugly Kraut mush. Great! I knew I had them then. I could get quite close, and raked the whole machine with gunfire. The pilot kept looking around at me, and trying to swerve away, but the SE5 is easily more maneuverable, and I followed him no problem. At one stage he was waving a white cloth or rag, and started to fly dead straight. He kept looking at me, as if he was pleading. Maybe he thought he could surrender. Stupid bastard. I wasn’t having any of that, and I kept firing. By flying straight, he only made it easier for me. I must have got the petrol tank next, because suddenly there was a really amazing explosion, and you’ve never seen such a fire. The whole aeroplane was absolutely enveloped in flame, and I had to side slip smartly. Still, I followed him down, and got a grandstand view of the pilot beating at the flames with his hands.
No more sausages for that boy! I can’t wait to get my next one…

Jeremy had been appalled. Almost sick.
The sheer bloodthirstiness amazed him. Is that what it was all about? Is that why he trained his flight so carefully, so that they could achieve – and enjoy – results like that? Had the German been trying to surrender? Had that been a plea for mercy? It had happened before.
Christ almighty! What a war!
Dek had come bouncing excitedly back in, and Jeremy had evacuated the chair, torn between different and conflicting emotions. Guilt. Anger. Bewilderment.
He tried, as so often, to analyze his emotions.
Why feel guilty?
The guilt was odd. He had seen as bad, or worse things himself. But somehow the picture of the poor pleading pilot was burned into his mind all the sharper for NOT having seen it. The fire raged in his mind, which was worse than seeing it in real life.
Should he have spotted it, and taken over? Impossible. He had been flying two thousand feet higher.
Why feel angry?
That was easier. Bloody Dek! He would talk to that guy later. After the evening patrol, he would clobber that feelingless moron, and get to the bottom of this.
Struggling to keep a neutral expression, Jeremy was aware nonetheless that he felt an emotion which was near to hate, as he studied his fellow airman from across the room, through narrowed eyelids.

I could wring your greasy little neck! Have you got zero imagination!? Or worse, have you got nil compassion? What kind of human being are you? God, what a world! Has it come to this? We revel in another bastard trying to beat out the flames with his hands? We think it’s bloody FUNNY? My God…

A different thought struck him.

Is it me? Am I missing the point? Is Dek, from another point of view, the ideal soldier? The perfect killing machine… Maybe he should be congratulated, and promoted on account of militarily useful emotional insensitivity. Maybe the RFC and the Queen would be better off with many more Dodgy Deks, and fewer Jeremy Armstrongs?

He thought back to his questions at Sainte-Breuve-sur Pont, and the raised eyebrows and quizzical looks rose up again in his mind, with an intensity that had not lessened with the passage of time. What was it that they had said? Was he a Bolshevik? Whose side was he on? He remembered his hurt at their rejection, as they all busied themselves intently in their papers and magazines, coughing theatrically and humming – idiots! – Rule Britannia!, as if to state a point.
Why feel bewildered?
Soddin’ war! The whole, stupid, bloody, pointless friggin’ mess!

He had gone for a walk, anger being the dominant emotion.
A fury that expressed itself in each heavy footstep that thudded down with military precision. He held his shoulders back, and marched – left,right,left – to God knows where.
Left, right, left.
Nothing made sense anymore. But he was a soldier, and he could still march.
Left, right, left.
There was comfort in the military walk. Maybe he could switch his mind off. Deaden his feelings.
Left, right, left.
Here comes the soldier! Make way!
Despair, loneliness, and bewilderment skipped delightedly along behind.

The second corollary had come that same evening.
They had been on escort duty, protecting the usual lumbering artillery spotter, along with ‘C’ Flight, when they had been attacked by a large mixed force of Albatri, Fokker Triplanes, and, oddly, two examples of the Pfalz biplane. ‘C’ Flight had lost a machine immediately, but ‘A’ Flight’s well rehearsed instructions had worked out well. Jeremy had dispatched Tiny – flanked by Dek – to attack two enemy machines, whilst he himself – protected by Mac – had attacked a blue Albatros with a green tail. He had promptly hit the cabane struts, severing at least two with withering fire. The machine had lurched sickeningly, before losing its top wing. Jeremy had peeled off then, and turned to rejoin Tiny and Dek. He was just in time to see Tiny score cleanly, by shooting a Fokker Triplane pilot through the head. The machine reared up, stalled, and kicked over viciously into a spin. It could have been a sham, designed to escape, but Jeremy doubted it. Tiny, flushed and pleased with himself, knew for sure.
The battle plan called for mutual support, with no man fighting on his own. As far as Jeremy was concerned, two was the minimum number. It was his own theory, and many flight leaders would have disapproved.
Somebody raked his machine with fire, and he skidded violently sideways. His head pivoted in all directions, and within the space of several frantic seconds, he snatched glimpses of Mac firing at an unseen opponent, Tiny firing at another Triplane, and Dek… Dek had been peeling away from Tiny, and diving recklessly after a retreating Pfalz. Jeremy had registered the departure from the often hammered out strategy, but before he could have done anything about it, more bullets had ripped through his lower starboard wing.
It had been a brave deflection shot, remarkable for its accuracy, and Jeremy had hauled himself around in a screamingly steep turn. His engine had run a bit rough, and coughed, and he had lost a few seconds worrying about that. When he next had looked, an all blue shape had been streaking down after Dek, who had already opened fire -from too great a range- on the Pfalz. Jeremy had rolled over hard, and dived after the blue shape, but he had stood no chance. He didn’t even need to look closely at the attacker. He knew it was all blue, with not a trace of green…
A quick look around had shown his tail all clear, with Mac faithfully shadowing his leader. When next he looked… the burst of fire from the Blue Albatros could not have lasted longer than five seconds, but its effect had been deadly. Dek’s machine had gone into a steep dive, and Jeremy had immediately suspected the worst. He had fired a burst from an absurd range, purely in hope. The Blue Albatros had followed Dek down, firing in short, well aimed bursts.
Then, as the dive became impossible, he had pulled out, studying Jeremy over his shoulder. More aircraft from both sides had arrived, and Jeremy, low on fuel and out of ammunition, had dived for home. Mac had followed, and before they had got home, a vigilant Tiny had also rejoined the formation.

The debrief on the ground had been short and bitter. Nobody had seen Dek actually hit the ground. ‘C’ Flight had lost two machines, with a returning pilot hit in the abdomen. He was in agony, and his legs were soaked in blood.
A bad day.
Hope lingered for a while, but faded with a report from an observer post of an SE5 seen going down in the correct location.
Dodgy Dek was dead. The fact that it was his own bloody fault was no consolation.
To Jeremy fell the task of clearing up the man’s personal effects. The first thing he saw, open on the dead pilot’s dressing table, was the writing pad. He checked, and his lip curled. Dek Moriarty hadn’t even finished his triumphant letter…

* * *

To Genevieve, to be going out with a flier was not only exciting. It was something to be proud of. She wrote long volumes to her absent Parisian friends.
Jeremy was a hero. He shot down Germans.
The thought perturbed her not in the slightest.
She saw things black-and-white. The Germans were the enemy. They were bad. To kill them was good.
It was as simple as that.

If somebody had suggested to her that she wore Jeremy like a badge, like a trophy, she would have been dumbfounded. If that same person had asked her if she could love the man behind the success, she would have reacted angrily. The fact was that she did not distinguish between the two: the man, and the image.
To her, they were one and the same. Inseparable.
Jeremy was kind and gentle. Weak? Never! Insecure? Not at all. Jeremy was a tough soldier, an airman, who was good at killing Germans. Like Charles Nungesser.

* * *

Heidi’s father was declining in strength.
She watched it with horror and fear. She was so far removed emotionally from her mother, that the idea of losing her father to Death was more than she could bear.
He was losing his grip on reality a little, and slowly slipping into senility. He would ramble for hours, often making no sense at all.
Then, suddenly, he would talk, in the most lucid and stimulated manner, of his childhood. Of his father, whom he had loved.
At other times, he would talk about the war, and talk of the stupidity of politicians, and the lack of loving in ordinary people. He would grip Heidi by the arm, and address her urgently, as if what he had to say was of the utmost import to the whole world.
“Love, Heidi. It all does boil down to Love. The Bible is right, you know, it’s right. It all makes sense. All of us are challenged to love. All of us make choices between Good and Evil, every day. God, Heidi, I can see it so clearly now…

His fevered eyes would become over excited, and she would try and sooth him. Mostly, he would acquiesce.
At other times, he would lie there, chuckling quietly.
“Heidi “, he would say, “I love you more than I can ever say. You will find God too. He is always near you… ”
Then he would reach out, and grab for her hand. She would feel her heart breaking, as the tired old man clutched feebly at her.
“Never give up on Love, Heidi…
He would cough, a pathetic old man’s cough. Racking, eyes closed, with spittle running down his chin.
But then the eyes would flash open. Bright. Excited.
“Heidi, I’ll be waiting for you. Hans is there as well.
We’ll be waiting for you… ”

* * *

Jeremy slammed into his room, and aimed a ferocious kick at a defenseless chair. It smashed against the wall, one leg hanging at an odd angle. He ripped the pictures off the wall, and smashed them to pieces. Books and ornaments were swept off the shelves, and went flying through the room. He kicked at the walls, screaming at the top of his voice. The grotesque vase with the dirty yellow butterfly
flew through the air, and smashed into the mirror with a colossal crashing, shattering noise. Outside, two passing airmen stopped in surprise, and one started off to investigate. The other, wiser, placed a restraining hand on his colleague’s arm.
“It’s Jeremy. He lost Dek today. Better leave him to it… ”
They walked on, without looking back, pretending to the world they couldn’t hear the extraordinary cacophony.
A bystander might have thought it almost comical, the way they adopted expressions of studied innocence.

Jeremy, red faced, panting, with perspiration standing on his forehead, had been wielding his tennis racket – still in its wooden press – to remarkable effect. He was about to close on his gramophone, but common sense stayed the executioner’s hand just in time. It was too precious a possession. The club froze in mid air, and was slowly lowered. He glared at the gramophone, and then tossed the mangled remains of the racket he had once won the school final with, carelessly into a corner. He aimed a vicious kick at the remains of the bookcase. Books and magazines slithered across the floor, and some of his anger was spent. Some papers slid out of the ‘Works of William Shakespeare’ – one of Baines’ old books – and Jeremy, surprised, stooped to investigate.
The copperplate handwriting was unmistakeable. Only Baines wrote like that. Carefully, Jeremy picked the sheets up, and realized he was staring at some poetry.
His fury forgotten for the moment, he sat down on the bed, which was mercifully intact, and flicked through the poems. One caught his eye.
‘A Man Is Waiting In The Sun’. The title arrested him, and he read on curiously. So Baines had written poetry as well…

A MAN IS WAITING IN THE SUN

A man is waiting in the sun,
his soul is fierce and scarred;
He speaks the language of his gun,
his eyes are blue and hard.

He is a man I can’t befriend,
from whom I cannot run;
Fate knows the day the hunt will end,
somewhere in the sun.

He stopped reading, and thought bitterly of the times he had peered up into a blinding sun, eyes hurting, searching for an enemy who might – or might not – be at that very moment watching his every move. No matter how high you flew, there was always the risk that the enemy had flown even higher, and was still, despite all your efforts, grinning down viciously at you. Baines was right. It all happened up there, ‘somewhere in the sun’.

His patience adds a cutting edge,
the gaze that studies me;
way high upon a cloudy ledge
he waits revengefully.

I wish I knew the day he planned
to strike the exit blow
so many days he lay and scanned
the sunlit plains below.

I landed back amongst my own
surprised he’d let me go.
Perhaps a fading, distant drone,
betrayed my waiting foe.

Each day could write my epitaph,
if someone cared to try;
although I doubt my autograph,
would move the hard blue eye.

His careful aim is cold and clear,
no pity lingers long;
such weakness merits but a sneer,
his mouth is tight and strong.

The picture of a merciless face, aiming down the gun sight at Baines’ unprotected back, was disturbing. Jeremy had witnessed the event that Baines had foreseen. The Blue Albatros had struck again, cold, merciless, and quick.
Who was that man? His tactical thinking was superb. His ability to punish a mistake quickly and ruthlessly was second to none. It was rumored he had scored fifty victories…
Had Baines foreseen his own death? There was no great achievement in that. The chances were loaded against long term survival. No matter how hard you tried. The day’s events had proved that. The picture of Dek going down in flames, his killer on his tail, filled Jeremy’s mind, and he felt the rage rising within him again. The Blue Albatros – always! The bastard was clever. So damn clever. He never fought overwhelming odds. Never fought the strong ones. No, he always went for the weaker ones, and avoided the experienced enemy. That is why he had broken off from the duel with Jeremy…
Was it the Blue Albatros that Baines had in mind, when he wrote ‘his eyes are blue and hard’ ?
What sort of man killed so professionally, so calculatingly, so clinically, in such vast quantities? Did he feel anything? It seemed unlikely. Baines was right. The man was hard. Without feeling. His only ideology projected out of the barrel of a gun. Cruel. Cynical. Murderous. Pitiless. He had killed Baines, a man infinitely more deserving to live.
The swine deserved to die…
The sudden rush of pure hate that poisoned Jeremy’s soul made him almost choke with suppressed rage. He clenched both fists, gritted his teeth, and bent his head.
The piece of paper fluttered onto the floor.
He would kill the Blue Albatros! He would kill the bastard as sure as he would stamp on a bug. For Baines’ sake, for Dek’s sake, for everybody’s sake… he would kill the bastard. His arteries were swollen, his fists beat his head, and his mouth contorted grotesquely.
The scream of undiluted rage was heard over a wide area, and heads turned, and faces frowned, at the hysterical note that sounded in the voice that screamed, over and over again:

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU BAAASTAAAAAAAARD!!! ”

The renewed sound of thumping, banging and crashing only served to accentuate the unreal nature of what was going on.
Nobody laughed. The furtive looks that were exchanged, indicated only too clearly that everybody understood only too well that this rage was in homicidal earnest.
Suddenly, six pistol shots crashed out, one after the other. The sound was unmistakable. In the mess, everybody dived for cover, and those caught out in the open ran for shelter. Now what was the crazy idiot doing? Had he shot himself?
A sudden deafening sound of breaking glass drew some careful heads above the parapets. Very cautiously, they tried to identify what object had just been hurled through the window. When they recognized it, the eyes grew bigger…

Out on the path, in the midst of broken panes, furniture, books and ornaments, lay the tragic, smashed remains of a gramophone…
Kicked and stamped to pieces, and riddled with bullets.
The brave heads exchanged even more furtive glances, and ducked away quickly. Everybody knew that Jeremy Armstrong’s gramophone had been his most cherished possession…

For the next few hours, anybody passing anywhere near his room, did so on tip toe.

* * *

It was late now. Darkness had come several hours before.
Jeremy had not emerged from his room. The squadron held its breath. The guard room was aware of the shooting – no one could have missed it – but, lacking orders to investigate, they were glad to be able to wait this one out. Had they been able to see the inside of Jeremy’s room, they would have been even more worried about his sanity than they were.
The man who had caused all the commotion, was sitting unconcerned on the floor, surrounded by unrecognizable pieces of wood, crockery, and broken records. There was no longer a bed to sit on. He was calm now, and the storm had passed. His mind was back to contemplating the poem he had been reading. What was it Baines had written?

Fate knows the day the hunt will end,
somewhere in the sun.

It was true. They would fight it out, one day, in the sun. How many times had they already met? Many times.
How many times had the Blue Albatros studied Jeremy, without attacking?
He thought of the poem, and wanted to read it again.
Scrabbling around in the ruins, he sought the piece of paper. Earnestly at first, he became increasingly desperate. Where was the bloody thing? Books and other papers went flying around the room, and the spoken commentary started to increase in both volume and vocabulary. Then he found it, wedged under the remains of the wardrobe. He smoothed it out, relieved, and settled down on the floor to read it again. There was nowhere else to sit.
It was only then that he realized that he had not finished it before. There were two more stanzas.
His mind full of cold fury, and determination to kill the enemy, he devoured the remaining words.

I’ll have to meet him in the end,
relying on my gun;
Fate knows the hour we two will blend
somewhere in the sun.

I hate him not and know his sort
perhaps surprisingly,
but then again, the truth we fought?
the man I hunt – is me.

The second last stanza at first fitted in well with his bloodthirsty thoughts. The last stanza totally confused him. He read it again, several times.
Then he re-read the second last stanza, and got stuck on the choice of verb: ‘blend’.
Blend? To ‘mix together’? Funny choice.
Surely Baines didn’t mean: ‘to become one and the same’? Jeremy scratched his head. Was he missing something? Did Baines mean that he himself had become a ruthless killer, deserving of his fate? Rubbish! Surely!
Surely…

It was a long time before he carefully replaced the poem in ‘The Works of William Shakespeare’.
He stayed quiet for a long time, thinking.

This time, his anger was wholly spent.

Francis Meyrick
(c)