Francis Meyrick

Ch. 31
AN ACCIDENTAL ENCOUNTER

There came a point when he started to feel bloody silly.

By the time he had accidentally on purpose trotted past the entrance to her farm three times.
This could go on forever. When ever he managed to get away – which was very rare – the chances were poor indeed that she should happen to be coming in or out. It was more likely that she had just finished a ride, or was out and about. He realized he could spend a month of Sundays ‘happening to amble by’ and still miss her.
More drastic action was needed.
What?
Letter? No. Ride up to the house? Hardly…
He brooded on it all. Where could he go from here?
It was hard to know. Very hard.

At least he had discovered a decent little cafe. He turned the horse’s head in that direction, and reflected on his situation. He tied the beast in the stables around the back, and entered the cafe. The proprietor, always obliging, smiled warmly at him, and poured him an extra large cognac. He was glad to see the pilot. He hoped there would be more. Business had not been the same since that terrible affair with poor Genevieve. The old gang had evaporated, embarrassed no doubt, and his business had evaporated with them. If only… he shook his head. A terrible affair. Marion had warned her, but she had taken no notice. Terrible. Really terrible.
Throughout these sad deliberations, he kept a warm smile on his face, and showed the airman to his usual corner table. He obsequiously wiped the table, and fussed a bit, expressing his delight at seeing Jeremy again.
Then he withdrew tactfully. A born businessman.

Jeremy enjoyed Cognac. It warmed him, and gave him courage. He liked to sit quietly in the corner, smoking and drinking, and nobody bothering him.
He never noticed the mousy haired girl, who came out from the kitchen, stopped, stared, and beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

“Are you sure it was him? “, a flushed Genevieve inquired off Marion.
“Eh, bien sur! Of course it was him! Papa says he has been in several times in the last two weeks. He says he has never seen him before that! ”
Genevieve reflected on the news. The cafe was only half a mile from her farm. The airfield was six miles away.
It was no coincidence. But why did he not write or call?
Was he shy? A pilot who kills Germans, shy of meeting a girl? The thought warmed her heart in a way. He was human. He had to be kind. She was right. There had been some misunderstanding. At the same time, she couldn’t help feeling a small amount of irritation. Charles Nungesser would not have been so shy. He would have roared up in an expensive motor car, and swept her off her feet…
Suddenly, she was glad that she had written.
Marion was studying her closely. They had been inexplicably distant after Genevieve’s ordeal.
Now they were at least closer again. She wished she could help more. A nice man in Genevieve’s life would do her good, and help her overcome past hurt…

The opportunity arose a few days later. It was a foggy morning. The airman turned up at the cafe again, and sat in his usual corner, sipping Cognac. Marion, tipped off by her father, hurried around to the farm, and caught Genevieve lying in bed. Dressing hurriedly, she saddled up Pecadillo in record time, and galloped the surprised animal the half mile down the road. Pecadillo, used to a gentle warm up, soon entered the spirit of the chase, and fairly streaked across the ground.
They both arrived within sight of the ‘Cafe Brittanique’ slightly the worse for wear, and she pulled off the road to regain her composure. Pecadillo, slightly bemused by it all, stood there steaming quietly, froth blowing around the bit. Uppermost in his mind was the thought that he had not had breakfast, and this puzzled him greatly. Peering through the bushes, Genevieve watched the cafe, hoping fervently that her quarry was still within those ancient walls.
They did not have long to wait. The figure of a uniformed man could be seen walking – slightly unsteadily, so it seemed – around the back, and presently the same figure on horseback could be seen riding around to the front. She realized her pulse was beating fast, and wondered if he would turn her way or back to the airfield. He appeared to hesitate, and debate that choice himself. Then, to her great pleasure and relief, he turned unmistakeably in her direction. She swiftly mounted Pecadillo, who had been disconsolately nibbling at some tufty grass, and had a quick last minute self inspection in a small round mirror. Then, kicking Pecadillo in the sides, they set off towards a meeting.
She rounded the bend and the die was cast.
There was no going back now. She saw, even from the distance, an electric shock pass through his frame. He was suddenly sitting much more upright, she noted with satisfaction.
Slowly, they ambled towards each other. Pecadillo, interested now, speeded up of his own accord.
Company!

Jeremy’s mind raced. He wanted so much to talk to her, but had no idea how to begin. He was glad he was fortified with Cognac. He felt disconcerted now, but he knew it would have been infinitely worse if he had been stone cold sober. Alcohol blurred the edge of reality.
A good thing too…

“Now or never, Jeremy boy! “, he whispered softly to himself.
A few seconds later he was adopting an incredulous expression; a ‘fancy meeting you here’ look of surprise.
Genevieve too was wearing a mystified look, and wondering what to say. He looked even more handsome in his uniform than she remembered. She looked at his face, and was glad he was smiling. She decided the moment was right to beam back a huge smile.
“Bonjour, Genevieve! ”
“Hallo, Zjeramy! ”
Pause.
“You’re looking great, Genevieve! ”
“You too, Zjeramy! ”
Pause.
Both features worked flat out on a controlled exterior.
A vague smile now, not too over or understated. Both hearts wrestled with undercurrents of deep emotion.
It was Jeremy who relaxed first, suddenly, and became himself.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Genevieve. I… I’ve missed you. ”
There, it was out. Good old Cognac. If she was offended and rode off, he could always go back and get some more.
She only smiled however.
“I’ve missed you too, Zjeramy. We had a misunderstanding, non? ”
He nodded vigorously.
“Yes, I think so. Can we talk somewhere? ”
From there on in, it was plain sailing for a long time.
They ended up back at the farm.
He told her he had thought he had told her too much, too quickly. That she had ended up embarrassed. That in turn had angered him. She shook her head, and told him it was not that.
He, earnestly, had said:
“You were suddenly so sad. You bit your lip. I thought you were about to cry. Then you were raking the fire so as not to show your face to me. I knew you were upset. What happened? Was it me? Then you wrote to me. I was so glad to get your letter. It has been hell this last few weeks… ”
His voice had broken off with a tremor. He had gazed longingly at her, and she had returned his gaze, with an equal longing.
“Was it me? Did I tell you too much, too soon? ”
That wonderful, honest, open, caring look again; she loved him so much for that! There was nothing bad in this boy!
She shook her head, half smiling, half crying. Again, vigorously.
“Non, Zjeramy. It was not you. You were so honest.
I was sad… because of what happened to me also. ”
She debated going on, agonized for a second, and then…
plunged straight in. Diable! Hell! Spit it out! Get it over with! It would be better that way. Spit the poison out. Come to terms with it. She could trust him. Her secret was safe with him. She wanted, no, she needed to tell him.
“That night club where you were… ”
She trailed off, and started again.
“Zjer-ami. You said there was a ‘funny red bird’ over the door of that night club you went to? ”
“Yes? “, he looked surprised.
“Well… ” She looked out the window, up at the sky, as if searching for inspiration.
“…it is meant to be a canary, Zjer-ami. A RED canary. It is the name. The ‘red canary’. ”
He nodded, wondering where she was going.
She continued, with difficulty, yet also with determination.
“I went there… oh, August last year. With some pilots… from your squadron. ”
She smiled a sad little smile, and shrugged her shoulders as if trying to make light of it. Jeremy was surprised, but said nothing.
“They got very drunk. Everybody got very drunk. Like you, I thought it was… degoutant? ”
She searched for the word. Jeremy’s lips curled as he remembered his own impressions.
“Disgusting “, he helped out.
“Oui, oui, disgusting. Very disgusting. It is like you say. Everybody pretends to be very happy. But it is all pretend. It is false. The jokes they play… they are cruel. Like what they did to you… ”
She looked at him, and her eyes were soft with pity. He said nothing, and reflected bitterly on the truth of what she said.
“Everybody is carried along. You have to laugh, and be happy. You must laugh at all the jokes, even if they are not funny. Everybody is drunk… ”
She paused, and drew a deep breath.
“I left. I was… disgusted. I walked away, on my own.
I wanted to walk back to the ‘centre de ville’, and get a hotel for the night. It was so late… ”
Jeremy stirred. Somehow, he suspected what was coming.
“You went out on your own? And they let you? ”
She smiled sadly. One of them, Alan, he came out after me. But… ”
She paused again. Jeremy, frowning, was about to ask “Alan who? “, when he suddenly decided to keep quiet for the moment.
“…he tried to kiss me. I slapped him hard, and he fell down. I ran away. Then… I got lost. ”
She discovered she needed to swallow hard, and she had also gone strangely rigid. Her face was pale and white, and Jeremy knew that whatever had happened, had utterly shattered her. Instinctively he reached forward, and took hold of her hand. She glanced at him, gratefully, and returned her gaze to the fire. Then she struggled on.
“It is an area for… des femmes. How do you say? ”
“Prostitutes “.
“Oui, for prostitutes. There were these men everywhere, looking for… prostitutes. Some of them called for me. I passed on quickly. Then I saw a man in a uniform. A British soldier. I thought I could trust him. I went up to him, and asked for directions. He seemed very nice… ”
Jeremy felt his heart sinking. He knew what was coming.
“He gave me directions. I believed him. I went up this narrow street, and… ”
She was rocking herself backwards and forwards, and her bottom lip was trembling. Her eyes watered, and Jeremy, with a purity born of his kind heart, at that moment would have fought lions to save her.
“…and he… dragged me into a dark building. ”
She was trembling all over now. Jeremy’s eyes widened in alarm. He was stroking her hand gently, wondering if she should go on. Something again told him to remain silent.
“Then he… took my clothes off… and tied my hands behind my back. ”
Jeremy felt the blood drain away from his face.
“He… laughed… ” She said it wonderingly, with a disbelieving half laugh.
“He played with me, and used me. He… made love to me… ”
It was out. She had told him the story!
“And… I spent a long time in hospital… I couldn’t face up… to life. I spent weeks in bed here. I wouldn’t get up. I had nightmares… I was frightened… ”
She turned to face Jeremy, looking him deep in the eyes.
“Zjer-ami, I was so frightened! I was frightened of all men! I was frightened of you, when I met you the first time! I wanted to run away… ”
His heart bled for her.
“Then… when you told me of your experience… what they did to you… I remembered everything he did to me.
That is why I was sad. Do you understand, Zjer-ami?
She turned to him, and searched his eyes again.
He nodded slowly. It was all clear now. Perfectly clear.
Alan who? Alan Ross? Probably. That would be his style, all right.
“I am glad I have told you this, Zjer-ami. You don’t… ”
Tears were beginning to pour down her cheeks now. Her voice was choked with sobs.
“You don’t think… any bad now of me, do you? ”
The appeal in her eyes pierced his heart. He took her easily, without any self consciousness, into his arms, and held her there, tightly, for an eternity. She sobbed her heart out, and held on tight to him, relieved, frightened, and heart broken, all at the same time.
He rocked her gently, and kissed her hair and neck, over and over again.
He would die for her, he knew. He would die for her, a thousand times, rather than let anything like that -ever- happen to her again.

* * *

“So you see, gentlemen, that is the master plan! ” Baxter leaned back in his chair, looking pleased with himself. Around the room, there were mutterings of approval.
The half dozen leading airmen relaxed and stretched, or drank deeply from tall glasses. Squadron leader Bob Matherson lit his pipe, and chuckled to himself. He eyed Baxter, winked, and blew out a huge cloud of smoke.
“Well, you can rely on the Sopwith Pups! ”
Bernie Owen, who along with Reg Greenhall represented
Jeremy’s old home, 66th Squadron, laughed drily.
“Ace idea. We’ve tried surprising them before, but they either see us lurking topsides, or there were never enough of us to really hurt ’em. This way… ”
He trailed off, nodding approval. Jeremy, sitting quietly in a corner, caught his eye accidentally. He felt embarrassed and out of place. He was in effect sitting at a table with several of his old teachers, ostensibly as an equal. He found it impossible to make any input, and instead concentrated on making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. What on earth was Baxter playing at by including Jeremy in such a distinguished gathering? He didn’t belong here. How long had he been leading ‘A’ flight? Four weeks? Maybe it was more. What did he know about the air war? He just went up and tried to survive. Tried to keep his men alive. He hadn’t lost anybody – yet. He thought of his wing men. Little sheep at first, they had followed him blindly, trustingly, so innocently. He had had to mould them into fighting men, make them think. Teach them how to shoot.
Funny lot. Mac Dillon. Stocky little gunslinger. Always ready to have an enthusiastic shot at anybody; including, on one unfortunate occasion, his leader. Jeremy grinned quietly to himself as he remembered Mac’s horrified face as he had been shown the rows of bullet holes through Jeremy’s favorite rudder. Silly sod…
“One thing I want to look at… ”
Baxter’s voice droned in and out of Jeremy’s consciousness. “…is the matter of redundancy. If one of the leaders gets shot down, I don’t want everything to fall apart because nobody else knows the game plan. So… ”

Dek. Dek Moriarty. Strange fish. Never quite knew where you were with Dek. Thoughtful chap. Quite serious. Could suddenly go off at a tangent to everything agreed. Good flyer, lousy shot. The only man of ‘A’ flight still without a kill. Oh well… Time would fix that.

“If the enemy split into different sections, I want them all chased and destroyed. We should have way superior numbers, and I emphasize, gentlemen, I emphasize…we must destroy these blighters. Hit ’em really hard. ”

Tiny Tim. The fourth man of ‘A’ flight. Who needed a cushion to have a decent view over the edge of the cockpit. Aggressive little sod. Typical little man. Had to prove something all the time. Jeremy smiled faintly as he remembered their first little difference. Little Tim answering back to Jeremy. Shouting back, in fact. Cheeky sod.

Bob Matherson was talking. On the subject of range and endurance. Jeremy frowned. He was making it ever so complicated. Nobody was going to have time to do complicated calculations in the air. Why not draw a few fan lines on the map? Allow for wind and drift in the usual way, and that way it was easy to work out a maximum range point, beyond which pursuit of the enemy was impossible. Oh well…

Mad Mac, the gunslinger…
Dodgy Dek, the unpredictable good flyer/lousy shot…
Tiny Tim…

Jeremy had surprised himself that day. Tim had been rude and downright disrespectful. Jeremy had been totally taken aback. Then, suddenly, somebody else had bawled Tiny Tim out. Somebody very… what was the word? Angry? No. Ferocious? No. Authoritarian? Maybe. At any rate, Jeremy had let him have it right between the eyes. Tiny Tim had shriveled up, and been as good as gold – where Jeremy was
concerned – from that day on. Interesting character.

Baxter was talking.
“That just about wraps it up, Gentlemen. My own reserve man will of course be Jeremy here, who will take over if I depart the scene unexpectedly. Good. Any questions or reservations, Gentlemen? ”
Jeremy groaned inwardly. What on earth was Baxter playing at? Reserve leader? Why him? Well, at least the chance of Baxter going down was very small indeed. The man was invincible. The best pilot Jeremy knew.
As for reservations… Apart from Matherson’s weird ideas, no. He would go and fight, as usual. As long as he could.
No problem. It was his life. Or what was left of it. He thought of Genevieve. Was he good enough for her?
Probably not. What on earth did she see in him, anyway?
Strange life. Thank goodness the bloody meeting was nearly over, anyway. Maybe he could get back to his book now…

“Jeremy? ”
Baxter was looking straight at him.
“Sir? ”
Baxter put his head to one side, and a quizzical half smile crossed his face. “Reservations, Jeremy? ”
Baxter knew his flight leader well.
All eyes turned to Jeremy, who felt embarrassed. A red flush spread out from his cheeks.
“Well, Sir, just one small thing really… ”
Oh, heck. Why didn’t they leave him alone? He’d probably make a complete fool of himself. Oh, well…
“With respect to squadron leader Matherson, Sir… ”
Baxter looked at him steadily.
Jeremy expressed his views, and there was a short debate, at the end of which Jeremy’s ideas were incorporated in the game plan.
The meeting broke up then, and only Baxter, Owen, and Greenhall were left.
It was Owen who cautiously raised the subject of Jeremy
Armstrong with Baxter.
“Sir, if you don’t mind… ”
Baxter looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Jeremy Armstrong, Sir… ”
Baxter grinned. “I know what you’re dying to ask. What makes him tick? ”
Owen nodded. So did Greenhall.
Baxter looked at the door, and frowned. “Half the time, I’d swear he lives on another planet. In the beginning, he’d sometimes stop listening. Just wander off… ”
He paused, reflectively.
Owen murmured: “When he left us, he had two victories “.
Baxter smiled, appreciating the implied question.
He studied Owen and Greenhall. “How many do you think he has now? ”
Both men shook their heads.
Baxter looked suddenly serious.
“Four-teen “, he said slowly. Owen whistled. Greenhall started.
There was a silence. It was Owen who spoke first.
“I’d heard he’d got some, but I didn’t know it was that many. ”
Baxter mused on the subject.
“Oddly enough, he could have had more. ”
A lot more, he thought to himself.
“I gave him ‘A’ flight just over a month ago. He hasn’t lost a man yet, and you know how unusual that is. ”
It was Greenhall’s turn to whistle.
Baxter continued, studying the faces of the two men opposite him.
“I can also tell you he frequently has to be prodded into making combat reports. I have a feeling that if you asked him straight how many aircraft he’s shot down, he would be hard pressed to answer accurately. ”
Owen and Greenhall exchanged glances.
“Also, two of his three wingmen have scored. Mac Dillon has three. Tiny Tim has two. I know for a fact that Jeremy either shot away the escort, or otherwise set the target up for his wingmen. He takes his responsibilities very seriously. ”
Greenhall spoke:
“I’m amazed. ”
Baxter looked sad. He played absently with his pen, looking at the table. “I’m not amazed. He’s a very, very intense young man. The problem as I see it is that very intensity. He hates the war. Somehow, he’s lost himself.
He has no idea what I see in him. He didn’t want to be here today, and I could see him groan inwardly when he knew I was making him my deputy… ”
There was a long pause, interrupted by Owen.
“I know he had some kind of a mental problem when he was still with us, Sir. He got shot down early on, and a member of the blue Albatros fraternity tried to machine gun him on the ground. One of our guys, chap called Baines… ” Owen grimaced as he remembered back.
“… he’s dead now… ”
Greenhall moved restlessly, and Owen ploughed on.
“…Baines arrived in the nick of time, and clobbered the Albatros. Jeremy was cowering in a ditch, and Baines reckoned he could see him shaking from two hundred feet. Jeremy didn’t seem to realize that Baines had shot the Albatros down, and stayed in the ditch. Baines flew off, and when he got back, we all went off on the search.
We found this old French woman, who flagged us down.
She was in tears… ”
Owen stopped, lost in memories. After a pause, Greenhall continued the story.
“She was going on about Jeremy talking to the dead. The look on her face showed she was scared out of her wits. When we arrived, Jeremy was standing beside the body of the German. Just standing there. Like a statue. It was Baines who went up to him. Jeremy followed him as meek as a lamb. The two of them were very close after that. Very close… ”
Baxter, listening intently, understood more and more.
A truly amazing story. There was a lot to Jeremy Armstrong.
Owen picked up the thread again. “Jeremy was off flying for a couple of weeks. It was supposed to be ‘concussion’, but… ” He shrugged expressively.
“He changed dramatically then. He had been friendly, outgoing, open. He clammed up. He’d sit there for hours, without saying a word. A few weeks later, Baines went down, more or less out of control, with his tailplane half shot away. Ten miles behind the German lines.
He landed really hard, and didn’t appear to be getting out. We were in deep trouble, and we should have been beetling back. Jeremy however… ”
Owen shook his head, half smiling.
Greenhall chipped in: “Jeremy went down and landed. ”
Baxter almost whistled. He could picture the scene.
He rose to his feet, walked over to a drinks cabinet, and poured everybody a stiff drink. They all drank deeply.
Owen was still shaking his head. “Stupid bastard! There were Huns racing in from all over. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. We think Jeremy got close to Baines. And we think Baines was still alive, struggling to get out. His machine blew up then, and burned like crazy. Jeremy was burned in the face, and his flying suit was singed black. We’ll never really know what happened, because Jeremy… ” He looked at Greenhall, who nodded agreement. “…because Jeremy would never talk about it. ”
Baxter drank again, and asked the obvious question.
“How did he make it back? ”
Owen chuckled wryly. “Through a hedge “, he said thickly.
“Straight through a platoon of Krauts who were coming to arrest him. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’d still have been goners, but Matherson’s lot… ” He jerked a thumb expressively towards the door through which the bearded man had recently departed.
“…came and picked us out of the manure. After that… Jeremy became a complete loner. He used to spend hours locked up in his room, listening to his gramophone. Said something once about music ‘softening the soul.’ I thought it was a lot of bilge at the time. I went in once, and he was sitting there, eyes shut, lost to the world…
I believe he writes poetry. ”

Baxter worked it all out in his mind. He thought of the man who had briefly tried to socialize at his new squadron, and had then given up so completely. Only the responsibility of ‘A’ flight had brought him back to at least mix with his own wingmen. It all fitted together.
“Well, gentlemen… ” Baxter fingered his glass.
“I think young Jeremy’s nerves are shredded to pieces. The difference with the rest of us, although we’re all tired… ” That was a safe statement. “…is that we don’t feel things as deeply as Jeremy. By comparison… we’re a bunch of rough old sods! ”
He downed his liquor, and pulled the bottle over. He refilled all the glasses, and the three men drank in silence, each lost in his own introspective thoughts.

(c)
Francis Meyrick

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on September 1, 2008, 2:21 pm

Ch.30

A huge log fire blazed up the chimney.
Shadows played around the room, eerily giving life to the ancient oil paintings.
Portraits. Nearly all of them.

Four thoughtful men relaxed around the fire.
Some of them wore their high ranking uniforms unbuttoned casually, especially around the waistline.
A fifth man, rather younger, stood awkwardly behind the chair of one of them, wishing he too could sit down. He fumbled from time to time with a writing pad and pen.
An ancient butler hid in the shadows, his face expressionless, his heart sorely troubled.

The man with the potbelly held his glass up, and enjoyed the rich color of the brandy. He swilled it absently around the huge glass, and reflected on its excellent quality. After a truly superb meal of Salmon with lots of trimmings, he enjoyed nothing better than a good brandy. Courvoisier. Exquisite. There was nothing better than a good brandy. Except, perhaps, a good snooze in front of the fire.

The bear-like man with the bushy eyebrows, the huge nose, and the small forehead, coughed noisily, and wiped his facial edifice slowly and meticulously. It was a prolonged task. His tiny eyes darted around suspiciously, and the ancient butler, from his discreet vantage point, kept a cautious eye on him. For he knew only too well that the man had no patience. No patience at all…
At military school, many decades ago, the bear-like man had earned the nickname ‘Grizzly’. It was an indication not only of the man’s ferocious appearance. It was also a clue to his slow, meticulous, unstoppable ascent through the ranks, and through every military problem hurled at him. He merely lumbered forward, ignoring the pain. He expected others to do like-wise. It never occurred to him that men are different.

The third man was altogether different. He was lean and hungry looking, with a dramatic scar running from the corner of his left eye down to his bottom jaw, and then along to his chin. He had earned the scar in a military encounter thirty years earlier. It had embittered him at the time. However, as he had discovered, it had not damaged his career in the slightest, giving him a hard fought image with a distinctly swashbuckling flavor. The nick-name ‘Old Scar-face’ had soon pleased him. He had learned to act the part, always exhorting his men to greater sacrifice, although he himself had stayed well away from action almost since that day. He was a most cunning man, whose face could instantly assume what ever expression he thought most expeditious at the time. Expeditious – to him. He was a shrewd judge of other men, and had combined his gifts to advance his career to the very top.

The fourth man was Colonel Raymond Lawrence Rimmell.
He was the lowest ranking of the four senior officers, and his enjoyment of the excellent meal was marred by his troubled mind. He was also finding the conference hard work. Hard work indeed.
The General’s aide shifted his weight casually from one foot to the other, wishing they could get on with it.
He studied the rhythmic rise and fall of his chief’s potbelly, and knew the man was close to falling asleep. Given a chance, the man would lapse into a snooze, and then he could discreetly retire to a chair in the corner.

Colonel Rimmell gathered his thoughts, and decided to have one more go at the thorny issue of the parachute question. He knew it would be frowned on, but, what the hell… He cleared his throat, and thought he detected a slight tremor travel quickly through the general’s frame.

“General, on the issue of wearing parachutes, I spoke with Major Baxter today, and, once again, I must report the same feedback, namely that the men earnestly seek the use of parachutes… ” He glanced at Scar-face, who had moved suddenly. Rimmell hurried on quickly, before the inevitable interruption stopped him. He decided to try and be tactful.
“… I believe myself of course, that you have a very important point when you express the reservations you do. Obviously, the possession of a parachute could indeed impair a pilot’s nerve when in difficulties… ” Rimmell saw Scar-face study the reaction of the General, and knew his time was strictly limited. The moment the general showed the first sign of irritation, Scar-face, true to form, would take his cue and launch a diatribe against the wearing of parachutes…
“…but nonetheless, there is a solid body of opinion amongst the officers in the field… ” He placed as much emphasis on the ‘officers in the field’ as he dared.
“… that the issue of parachutes would be more than compensated for by the saving of experienced pilots who find themselves trapped in hopelessly blazing aircraft. Although doubtless there would be some abuse – and this would have to be dealt with very severely – it is felt that the advantages would be rather greater. Major Baxter, whom you all know as a very fine airman, tells me he knows personally of twenty-three cases, were an RFC pilot could have been saved to fight another day. Instead, all men were lost, either due to in flight fire, or due to smashing into the ground in uncontrollable aircraft. Major Baxter… ”
The General’s face had remained impassive throughout, but now he seemed to give a slight start, and a look of annoyance passed across his features. His aide groaned inwardly, and shifted his weight again.
Now the stupid old bugger had woken up again…
Scar-face, watching the general like a hawk, chose his moment exactly right. He rounded on Rimmell, and launched his broadside.
“Really, Colonel Rimmell! I must interrupt you there. We have talked this subject over in detail now several times. Major-General Sir Henderson is seriously opposed to such an idea. General Groves quite rightly is of the view that smashed aircraft generally fall with such velocity that there would hardly be time to think about the parachute. I for one heartily endorse this view! ”
Scar-face finished his last comment with an obsequious nod in the direction of the man with the potbelly. This worthy allowed a faint smile to cross his features, which instantly disappeared. He settled himself more comfortably…
Rimmell groaned inwardly. How he hated that servile sod! He wished, not for the first time, that whoever had given him that scar had aimed a little better, and chopped the bastard’s head off… He debated pressing on, but the ferocious look from Scar-face made him hesitate. He looked to the bear-like man for support, but found none. The small eyes under the bushy eyebrows regarded him only with reproach, as if he were making an unworthy suggestion. Rimmell sighed, and lapsed into silence.

A few minutes passed. The bear-like man made an imperious gesture, and had his glass refilled instantly. Rimmell wished somebody else would speak. Nobody did. Flames flickered up locally, and died away as suddenly, without achieving anything. Elsewhere a fountain of sparks would burst out, and be sucked up the chimney.
The underlying logs were incandescent now, and slowly losing their shapes, settling on a red and white bed of pure heat.
At length, Rimmell could stand it no longer. He drank deeply of his brandy, and launched forth on a different tack.

“We haven’t quite decided how to deal with the Flying Circus problem. We know the Jastas are organizing into bigger and bigger units. They appear to be willing to denude considerable areas of scout planes, in return for the ability to launch massed attacks when they do strike.
We have to admit that they have been very successful. Our losses… ”
He paused. There was no need to pursue that tack. The dismal figures spoke for themselves. At times he marveled that they still had any aircraft left.
“… speak for themselves. Now. Major Baxter is being troubled severely by the Blue Albatros outfit. We don’t know who their leader is, but apparently, like Richthofen, he is of aristocratic stock, and his men regard him highly… ”
The man with the potbelly stirred, and appeared to nod approval. An aristocrat! Yes, well, of course!
Rimmell paused to see if the general was going to say anything, and then carried on.
“Certainly, he has transformed the Jasta’s fortunes. They have changed from a defensive style to a remarkably offensive campaign. Their scores have been multiplying, and Baxter is losing an increasing amount of men and machines to them. We know who they are, of course, by their unique color scheme. All aircraft are mostly blue, with green used for different features. Thus, one aircraft will have a green rudder. Another, green ailerons. Yet another, green interplane struts. And so on. Only the leader wears an all blue livery… ”
The General’s aide wondered why on earth Rimmell wouldn’t just shut up. The man never stopped…
“McAllister’s squadron has been hit even harder than Baxter’s. I’ve been there several times, and… ”
The bear-like man had suddenly come alive at the mention of the name of McAllister. He looked across at Scar-face.
Rimmell, noticing the movement, trailed off, wondering.
It was Scar-face who spoke, with unaccustomed warmth.
“Ah yes, McAllister! Good man that, don’t you think? ”
Rimmell, surprised, frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, of course. A little formal with his men perhaps. I seem to remember being there on one occasion when he appeared to be struggling a little to retain the respect of his men… ” Scar-face waved away the comment smilingly.
“Watch that man, Colonel Rimmell! A good man, I can assure you! Excellent stock. Pedigree background! I know his father well. He will go far, mark my words! ”
The man with the potbelly approved of what he heard. A good background.
You couldn’t beat fine breeding…
Rimmell nodded politely to Scar-face, and wondered about McAllister. Strange fellow. Didn’t seem to be hitting it off at all well with his men. What was the name of that chap he had wanted court-martialled? Armstrong. Yes. That was it. Armstrong. Major Baxter, on the contrary, thought the world of Armstrong. Rated him very highly indeed.
Funny business. Why did Scar-face rate McAllister so highly?
He coughed, and continued.
“Well, Major Baxter has come up with a plan to tackle the Blue Albatros brigade. What he wants to do is combine his SE5’s with McAllister’s, and then tag on Matherson’s team of Sopwith Pups. That should produce a formation of over thirty aircraft.
He then wants to send up three aircraft as bait. The idea… ” He was warming to his theme now, and was incapable of keeping the enthusiasm out of his eyes and voice. Scar-face regarded him coolly and calculatingly, whereas the bear-like man scowled darkly.
“…the idea being as follows: firstly, the bait flies over to the German side, and swans up and down. Secondly, the main formation climbs as high as they can, but stays well out of sight. A single two seater machine positions itself half way between the bait and the main formation. If… ”
He stressed the ‘if’.
“If… the enemy spot the single machine as well, it will not deter them from attacking in force. At that stage, the bait continues to swan up and down, pretending it is unaware of the threat. However, they signal to the single -intermediary- machine by a pre-arranged code. One machine will appear to leave the formation carelessly, and lose height. This will act as a signal to the intermediary aircraft, which will in turn signal to the main formation, which is standing by just out of sight. ”
The man with the potbelly seemed very immobile. His aide’s hopes rose again.
“All the bait has to do is hang on for a few hectic minutes. In the confusion of battle, the main formation has a sporting chance of sneaking down and swatting the blighters! Like that! ” He smacked a fist expressively into the palm of his hand, and upset his glass over his trousers with his elbow.
“Oh, damn! ”
In the resultant confusion, the ancient butler moved forward quickly to repair the damage, and the man with the potbelly seemed to start suddenly. Scar-face, appraising the situation quickly, decided to sum up the plan quickly for the benefit of the general.
He ended by remarking: “Seems a good plan to me. What do you think? ” This to the bear-like man. The latter licked his lips thoughtfully, and the small eyes studied Rimmell thoughtfully from beneath his small, receding forehead.
Rimmell wondered, not for the first time, how this man who said so little, had ever risen to such exalted rank.
What thoughts brooded behind those small eyes?
The bear-like man nodded slowly: “It’s a good plan, provided… ” He scowled, and looked suspiciously at Rimmell, “…provided it is executed with utter determination. ” He smiled suddenly. A weird expression, Rimmell decided. The bear-like wagging finger only added to the incongruous picture: “And no parachutes! ”
The bear-like man laughed, and Scar-face joined in heartily. The man with the potbelly laughed more quietly.
Rimmell knew he had the go ahead. Major Baxter would be at least partially pleased…

It was getting late. Colonel Rimmell stood up, and made his farewells. The other men remained seated. Scar-face had a last instruction for the Colonel. “Give McAllister my best regards, will you, Rimmell? We were at the same school, you know “, he added knowingly. He could have added, more to the point, that they belonged to the same secret society as well, but refrained from doing so. Rimmell was not a member, nor would he ever be. “And watch McAllister, Rimmell. A good man, you’ll see… We might consider him for promotion soon, eh? ” Rimmell, surprised, started to mutter something inconsequential, thinking to himself: “McAllister? Ready for a step up? “.
But he was interrupted by a voice from the chair nearest the fire. It was a resoundingly clear voice, that had not been heard for several hours.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway! ” The general’s face appeared around the high sides of the comfortable chair, and he winked boyishly at Rimmell, who stared in disbelief. The old boy was not that fast asleep!
Scar-face carefully ensured that not a trace of irritation showed on his face, and showed all his teeth in his best smile. His thoughts however, were substantially different.
The bear-like man showed no emotion at all.

The ancient butler showed the visitor out, and bid Colonel Rimmell goodnight. Then he shut the door quietly, and made his way slowly up the stairs, back to his post in the shadows.
He thought -as he often did- of his grandson, fighting the war in the sky in the French cause. Poor little Charles. He was such a beautiful boy when he was little.
And now? Risking life and limb every day. A hardened soldier. The ancient butler shook his head. He was proud of the Nungesser name, and proud of the fame his grandson had brought the family. Still…
The old man paused wearily at the top of the stairs, and thought of the loving little boy who had played on his knee, and demanded to be bounced up and down.
He had only wanted to grow up and ride horses in the cavalry. Now… Now he rode horses in the sky.
And killed people. Routinely.

The old man sighed.
He missed the little boy, who was lost, and gone, forever.

F.M.
(c)

Ch.29

12000 feet… Cold. Bright.
Seven machines in loose formation.

He missed her. A thousand times, he tried to forget her, and stamp out the memory firmly. A thousand times the echo of her footsteps reverberated through his mind.
It was no use, he had to admit ruefully. He missed her.
Had she really spurned him? Or had he reacted altogether too hastily, misinterpreting her reaction? It was hard to know. Easier by far to wallow in a melancholic rut, and waft self sympathy in copious amounts around his battered ego. Or was it self pity? He shook his head. What the hell, anyway. Did it matter? Did anything matter?
They would all be dead soon, anyway.
It was easier to fight when you were cold at heart, with nothing and nobody to live for.
He had ceased to care about dying. It was also easier to kill that way.

His roving eye spotted a tiny speck. He moved his head slightly. The tiny speck didn’t move. It was no oil splatter. Then he spotted another. He started counting.
He reached eight, and groaned. It was going to be one of those days…

* * *

She patted Pecadillo absently on the hindquarters, and wondered what – if anything – to do about it. Should she just forget him? In moments of anger, she would decide never to go out with a man again. Never. Ever. The intensity of the emotion would comfort her, make her feel hard done by. Men! They were all the same. Hard. Selfish. Untrustworthy. Sexually rampant. What woman in her right mind would possibly want to get lumbered with such a pest? The grief wasn’t worth it.

Time would pass. Hours later, she would suddenly realize that her anger had burnt itself out again. She would pause in the midst of grooming her hair, or reading a novel, or munching an apple, and suddenly become aware that her thoughts had returned to Jeremy.
Occasionally she felt guilty. She had no right to inflict her inner turmoil on him. He was fighting a war! He might, even now, be dead or dying, somewhere up in the blue sky above. It was a discomforting thought. She had been wrong to behave so emotionally. It was clear that he had seen right through her. Why had she not composed herself? He was the man who was really up against it! She was not fighting a war!
A little voice would argue that point. She would become restless. Was she fighting her own private war? An inner war, the result to determine the shape of her character, her outlook, and her life to come?

* * *

For him, a seasoned veteran, a dogfight now always involved the same emotions. Doubting. Worrying.
He checked the formation around him. Seven machines.
No reserves. Eight enemy identified. Anybody else lurking?
They got closer and closer, and then – as always – the ordered symmetry would fall apart. The familiar routine ceased. The sky would be full of weaving, diving, screaming aircraft. Tracers and bullets would chase each other around the sky. In some odd way, he was relieved at that stage. He could fly instinctively. Change course at a moment’s whim. Follow for himself the course of battle. As he had grown in experience, he had learned to evade his attackers more easily. They would peel away from him, searching for easier prey. He knew their game, and read their minds. On two occasions before, he had successfully latched onto an enemy machine that was attacking one of his squadron. In an instant the black crossed machine had been relegated from attacker to victim. He had learned how to direct his fire, hosing the enemy cockpit with lead. How many victories had he now?
Seven? What did it matter?
He hauled back on the stick to evade a pursuer, half rolled easily off the top of the loop, and immediately saw another target passing beneath. He dived after it, aware that his emotions were cold.
He felt empty.

* * *

She rode Pecadillo past the airfield, by chance, with no deliberate forethought. Then she would crane to peer over the hedges and fences, to catch a glimpse of the activity. Sometimes she saw machines taking off, or landing. Was he in one of them?
It was no use pretending. She wanted to see him again.
How? A note? He might not get it, or ignore it.
Should she call? She might see those idiots of that terrible night. That was more than she could bear.
Should she send someone? Aunt Agnes? That idea she dismissed as utterly ridiculous straight away.
What then?

* * *

Sky. Earth. Tracers…

Thoughts that whirl. Detached thoughts. Urgent thoughts. Cruel thoughts.
Indifference…

Shoot! Too late! Damn.
Airspeed! Nose down! Behind you! It’s okay… here! Roll over hard. Go for it! Who’s that? Idiot! Look behind you! Blimey! The sky’s black with aircraft again! What’s that!? Sod it! Where is he shooting from? Ah… pull up hard! Wait… wait for it… now! Kick on hard right rudder! That’s better. He’s giving up… Oh, no you don’t! Go for easier prey, eh?… Fat chance!… here I come!… turning right?… nice of you, I can close the gap now… tracers… where the hell?… that looks like Baxter… give ’em hell, chief!… how am I for fuel?… plenty of ammo… daylight?… engine running smooth… bloody oil… gets right up your nostrils… warm the guns… Emmy, if you could see me now… I think I’m going to kill that sod… closer… closer… warm the guns… haven’t seen me, have you, you silly bastard?… too busy trying to kill little English boys…
steady…
that’ll do!!

TACA-TACA-TACA-TACA!!!

God!… bloody noisy… smell… and again!

TACA-TACA-TACA-TACA!!!!

Got you!… serves you bloody right…
I bet that hurt…

He knew he had hit the pilot. It was easy to see, the sudden stiffening, the unnatural response from the aircraft. He checked over his shoulder. All clear. Only novices got carried away with chasing their prey.
He fired off a final five second burst. It was unnecessary.
Yellow flames licked back along the enemy’s fuselage.
Ruptured fuel line. He peeled off. The explosion, despite its violence, failed to shock him in the slightest.
Number eight…

I just killed somebody… and I couldn’t care less… Emmy, I couldn’t care less… you’d never believe that, would you?

* * *

She reached the decision one afternoon, when the day was quiet, and the sky a thin, cold shivery blue. She gazed up, and vowed she would try again. She wanted him. He was kind, and gentle. She found herself whispering to the clouds, hoping he would hear.

Jeremy, my love… be careful. I love you, and I want you to come back safely. Fly cautiously, mon brave. I am waiting for you. I don’t know what happened, but I know I want you… come back to me.

* * *

He taxied in, switched off, and relaxed. After half a minute of silent reflection, he peeled off his goggles and flying cap. They had suffered losses. ‘A’ flight had lost their section leader. Another machine of theirs had gone down, but he had been too far away to recognize it.
Oh well…
A tear stained face appeared at his cockpit. A very distraught Bernhard Mann appeared, gushing thanks. The man was beside himself with emotion, shock, and gratitude. Jeremy took very little interest. He gathered he had shot away a German from Bernhard’s tail, and also that Alan was dead. He was not surprised. Alan Campbell had been a lousy pilot. Jeremy climbed stiffly out, wishing the weepy Bernhard would go away. He left him in mid-gushing-sentence, and headed for his room. He was quite oblivious to the stares that followed him. Somebody summed up the thoughts of all the airmen there:
“For a queer, he fights like the devil! ”

His combat reports were brief, and he did not exult in victory. Even the fact that Baxter seemed very pleased with him, failed to raise his spirits. He accepted the occasional clap on the back, and said no more.
Baxter regarded his phlegmatic pilot with more than interest, but said nothing.

The day came that Jeremy was sitting slumped in a chair in the mess, reading a two day old newspaper with an air of boredom. He had already flown – and fought – once that day, and was expecting to have to go up again. He hardly cared.
The tap on his shoulder caused him to look up, and he frowned when he discerned the blunt features of Corporal Smiley. The man was singularly mis-named. He rarely smiled, resented any wisecracks on the subject of his name, and was the source of lots of gossip. He also had a pronounced predisposition towards alcohol.
“Yes? What is it? ”
Jeremy tried hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. He had become solitary, almost surly, and resented the intrusion.
What the hell do you want, man?

Smiley’s face gave away nothing.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but there’s a young lady at the gate what wishes to speak to you, Sir! ”
Jeremy started, his brain racing.
“She was very insistent, Sir! “, Smiley added in his melancholic voice, deliberately pitched loud enough for the entire mess to hear. He was enjoying the discomfort he could see in the Lieutenant’s face. Serve the snooty bastard right. Maybe she was pregnant…

“Thank you, Corporal “, Jeremy muttered.
He stood up, and his gaze traveled for a split second around the room. Every face was turned towards him, and each visage registered a huge question mark. He stumbled out, trying hard to look nonchalant and composed. His pulse was racing, and he tried to figure it all out.
Genevieve? It had to be.

He emerged into the outside air, and walked briskly towards the gate. Disappointment hit him like a sledge hammer. He could see a small, almost mousy little girl, with curly hair and a shabby overcoat. She was standing beside a rusty looking bicycle, looking uncomfortably around her. The two soldiers in the guard hut were studying her with undisguised interest. Jeremy felt the beginnings of anger in his chest. What the devil…? He could do without this. He marched up to her, and inquired her business in a peremptory manner. She regarded him with a nervous smile, that flitted across her face, and then disappeared.
“For you “, was her only comment; she handed him an envelope. He took it, dumbfounded, and stood there, awkwardly. She said nothing, turned, and, without another word, mounted the battered machine and pedaled off. Jeremy became aware of the staring soldiers, stuffed the letter in his pocket, striving to look nonchalant, and stomped off to his room.
He was unaware of the curious looks from the windows of the mess, and the excited speculations going on inside the fevered minds.
“It’s his girlfriend! ”
“Rubbish! His boy friend’s sister, more like! ”
“Or his mother! ”
“Don’t be an ass, ….! ”
“Ass… ass!? Who said ‘ass’? ”
“Oh, shut up! ”

Jeremy slammed his door, and flung himself onto the bed. He tore open the letter with hands that shook, and read the three line missive hungrily.

Dear Jeramy,

I would like to see you again, and talk.
I think of you a lot.
Maybe we have a misunderstanding?

Love,
Genevieve

He read it again. Then he sank back, and lay still, thinking, for a long time.

* * *

“Didn’t he say anything? “, she asked anxiously, searching the face before her for any trace of a clue. Marion, the daughter of the proprietor of the ‘Cafe Brittanique’, shrugged her shoulders expressively. “I tell you, he said nothing. He just looked… ” She paused, not wishing to hurt her friend’s feelings.
“…vacant. ” She could have said ‘irritated’, but didn’t.
Genevieve thanked her kindly, and half regretted embarking on the venture.

Maybe I should just try and forget him. Maybe he just … laughed at my letter. Maybe he’s showing it around, and just making fun of me. Why on earth am I still interested in men? They’re all animals. What on earth possessed me to write to him?

* * *

The object of her confused thought processes was lying, at that moment, stretched out, flat on his back, gazing up vacantly at the ceiling. Following the patterns, the cracks, the rivers and the glaciers. He watched a fly buzzing around the room, and wondered idly if he would blunder into the tiny spider’s web that waited in the corner. His thoughts were roaming far and wide, and he felt he was drifting along on an invisible sea. He was tired. He needed to sleep.

So… the saga of Jeremy Armstrong’s love life.
He studied the new lecturer who had come to address his class of students. His attention was heavily focussed on the lecturer, and he ignored the chaps around him. Odd. He knew that face. The features of a stranger – was it Captain Kershaw? – changed mysteriously into those of McAllister, before resolving themselves fluidly via Baxter’s into the catlike face of Mimi.
The dreaded Mimi… she wore a huge black mortar board, with her hair curling down from under it. An equally black teacher’s gown, from which her massive breasts poured forth, suspenders, and black boots. She wielded a long wooden pointer, which she waved around dangerously.
Triumphantly, and completely aware of her power, she crashed the base of the pointer on her desk, and there was instant silence. Jeremy could not take his eyes off her. She regarded the room full of men – all were pilots, he realized – with utter contempt. Her gaze swept around the room, and everyone in the beam flinched and shriveled up. Onwards her haughty look swept, until she settled on him. He felt his blood run cold. The sneer was unmistakable. She crashed the base of the pointer on one of the front row of desks, and the pilots sitting there made themselves as small as possible.
When she spoke, she started quietly, but there was no mistaking the edge to her voice. All the time, she stared hard at Jeremy.
“Today, we shall look at the Saga of Jeremy Armstrong’s love life! ”
A titter ran around the room, and Jeremy froze.
“We shall study the psychological profile of a degenerate weakling in the affairs of Love, and contrast and compare his sexuality, such as it is… ”
She rolled her eyes to the heavens, and there was more tittering. Jeremy felt himself turning beetroot red.
“… with his career as a methodical killer “.

Jeremy’s thoughts raced.
Where was he at?
In the school of murder and destruction, he had scored quite well in some ways. How many men had he killed? Allowing for the two seaters, about ten for certain. How many men had succumbed to his trench strafing, he had no way of knowing. Say, another twenty or so? That made thirty men killed. If there was a God, then he had broken the seventh commandment in rather grand style.
But where was he at in the school of Love and Seduction?
Nowhere. He knew that. Everybody knew that. They all laughed at him. Everybody laughed at him. They thought he was queer. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t help being shy. He wanted a girl friend. But…
They were all laughing at him. Great gales of laughter. Tidal waves of derision. They were all looking at him, and pointing. He wished he was dead. It was so humiliating. So awful. He wanted to escape. But he couldn’t. For some reason they had tied his hands together, and tied something around his neck.
He screamed.
“Let me go! ”
They laughed all the louder.
Desperately he searched about for an escape. The door was closed. Then it opened a fraction, and a face peeped through. A shy, beautiful face.
He knew that face.
Genevieve…!
They all jumped on top of him, and the big black girl grabbed him by the nose. He fell over backwards… backwards…

He woke with a start, and the fly departed his nose quickly, buzzing angrily. The ceiling was still there.
He was soaked in perspiration. It took him a few minutes to calm down.
Where the hell was he in the league of Love and Seduction? Compared with his flying?
Not even at the first solo stage, he decided.
Not even at the first solo stage…

He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he remembered the sordid session in the seedy company of Mimi and her lesbian slaves. Mimi’s expression floated in front of him. The way she had looked at him, as she had approached him for her final onslaught. The horrible smile, almost a sneer, that she had bestowed upon him, just before she had closed her mouth around him, and driven him frantic.
He had struggled desperately, but in vain. The giggly one had been in hysterics of delight, and Mimi had kissed him incessantly, her tongue rolling around inside his mouth. When he had tried to stop her by clamping his jaws together, she had simply pinched his nose until he had run out of air. He hadn’t dare bite her tongue, for fear of her retaliation, and in the end he had been forced to yield to her. The black one’s attention meanwhile to his loins had been equally irresistible. He had felt his erection grow harder and harder, regardless of his fear and disgust. That astonishing look she had thrown him!
He had felt so vulnerable, so used, so utterly taken.
So dirty. Even before she had let go with her hands, and had changed her position to sit on him.
He had struggled helplessly, watching like a spectator.
She had wriggled and squirmed until he had been inside her, and then she had driven him nuts.
He had felt a sudden amazing release then, and it had been as if he had surrendered to her… She had laughed horribly, and sneered at him again. He had felt completely in her power…

Was it time to come to terms with it? It had happened several weeks before. He had been gutted by it. Infuriated with his mess mates, humiliated, and angry. Disgusted.
Was that what love making was all about? Was that what women wanted? If that was so, then he would stay a bachelor, that much was certain.
But was it? He thought of Emmy. He couldn’t possibly imagine her indulging in oral sex. Bondage. Emmy?
He tried to figure out what making love to Emmy would entail. It was hard to imagine her naked, never mind lusting for her private parts. Weird. Utterly weird.
He liked Emmy, and he was jealous as hell of… Robert?
What was he like? Would he take Emmy to bed and make love to her?
He contemplated the matter, and found it hard to imagine, but knew he would be insanely jealous if he found out.
Why was it so hard to imagine Emmy naked? She was far from being frigid. Reserved, yes. But she was not above a gentle flirt. A very feminine lady. He liked her dresses.
What would she be like in bed? He had no idea. A guess?
Probably stunningly good.
He pondered the enigma. How about Genevieve? She was different from Emmy. Genevieve positively oozed sex out of every pore. The way she dressed. Tight clothes. The way she wore her black hair long and luscious. The way she rode her horse. No elegant side saddle for her!
He thought of her soft breasts. Her face smiled at him.
Was she a virgin? Probably not. With a body like that?
No, more than her body. It was her confidence with men.
Emmy had none of that. She was much more… retiring?
What should he do in the wake of Genevieve’s letter?
He missed her, and they had only met a few times!
Why had they quarreled? Had they quarreled? What had happened? Was she interested in him? It seemed that way.
Why him? She must have loads of men friends!
He decided he wanted to see her. There only remained to decide how…

The fly crashed spectacularly into the tiny web, and immediately set up a loud, panic stricken buzzing. An astonishingly large spider for such a tiny web exploded into view from nowhere, and reached the hapless fly in an instant. The tone of the buzzing changed abruptly to a higher note. It lasted for thirty seconds, and then slowly died away.
Jeremy felt sorry for the fly, and debated climbing up and swatting the spider.

* * *

The shooting party had been Baxter’s idea. He had invited Jeremy to accompany him on a duck shoot, and had refused to accept any excuses. Jeremy had done very little game shooting, and had not been very keen. His protests had been waved away though.

He now found himself in knee length waders splashing through a reed bank. His mood was less than euphoric. He was cold and wet, and had missed two good chances so far.
Baxter on the other hand had bagged three ducks and a wood pigeon with only four shots. He had also snickered quietly at Jeremy’s misses, which had only made matters worse. Jeremy was by now determined to score a kill, if only to prove he could. He bore no malice towards ducks in general, and had little or no desire to kill game. He would normally rather have watched them. It was different when they mocked him however.
He stumbled, and swore quietly.
Baxter was to approach from the opposite end of the reed bank, but had promised Jeremy the first shot.
It was all or nothing now. He simply had to get his shooting sorted out. Three successive misses was more than he could bear.
He stepped into an unseen hole, and plunged almost to his hips in the water. His waders couldn’t cope, and a horrible cold sensation worked its way down his thighs, past his knees, and on downwards towards his feet.
He forgot himself and swore loudly this time. Instantly, a duck flew up, and quacked loudly. It looked like a very old duck, the way it feebly beat its way up into the air.
Jeremy aimed quickly, fired, and the lake reverberated with the dull boom of his shotgun. The old duck turned to look at him, throwing him a look of indignation and disgust. Then it quacked loudly, as if to say: “Mind what you’re doing, young fellow! ” Jeremy gasped in amazement, and aimed again. The duck continued its flightpath without swerving. With desperation in his heart, Jeremy fired the other barrel. The duck continued on its way unswervingly, slowly and arthritically, quacking indignantly and casting looks of poison at Jeremy.
A voice at Jeremy’s elbow snapped: “Here,take mine! “, and Baxter handed Jeremy another gun, whilst hurriedly grabbing Jeremy’s. Jeremy obeyed, and as he squinted up the new barrel, he noted that the geriatric duck was – amazingly – still well within range, passing rather stupidly from left to right across his field of fire.
His fifth shot boomed out loudly, with the same demoralizing result: disgruntled quacking and zero deviation from intended flight path. An unusual strangled noise reached Jeremy’s ears from behind him. He dismissed it, and concentrated all his energy, skill, determination and prayers on his last -sixth – shot.
The boom of the explosion alone should have been enough to frighten the duck to death, but as Jeremy watched in awe, the old duck just shrugged, flew on, and added a farewell quack to its look of disdain. Jeremy, open mouthed, could only stare in astonishment. It was altogether too personally insulting. What had he done wrong?
He wished fervently for a machine gun. He turned to communicate this desire to Baxter, only to discover his leader red faced and suffering an attack of hysterics.
On seeing Jeremy’s hurt face, Baxter finally let forth his pent up laughter, and ended up with tears pouring down his face. Jeremy reloaded his gun, thinking pure death was too good for that old duck…
“Are you leading with your gun? “, Baxter wanted to know.
“Yes “, an embittered Jeremy answered.
“Are you allowing for the shot falling? “, was the next question.
Jeremy wondered. It was like a bullet dropping below its target. Had he allowed for it?
“I’m not sure “, he replied honestly. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he probably hadn’t.
Interesting.
“Well, Jeremy, something else for you to think about. ”
The jocular voice had suddenly gone serious. Jeremy looked up sharply. Baxter was eying him closely, all traces of mirth gone.
“Because you’re going to need all your shooting skills with a Lewis gun when you lead ‘A’ flight! ”
So that was it… Jeremy wondered if he was surprised.

I’m going to be in charge of ‘A’ Flight…

Suddenly he was a lot older.

* * *

On the way back, a young duck beat a hasty retreat, speeding as fast as he could. Jeremy swung his gun up, aimed, allowed for the shot falling slightly, and fired.
The duck fell like a brick, without even a flutter.

F.M.
(c)

Ch.28

He looked at her, longingly, yet frightened.
It was a strange sensation. He was both attracted, and repelled.
This was confusing him.

It was their third meeting at her house. Their third supper together. They seemed to have known one another for years now.
Aunt Agnes had tactfully retired an hour earlier, and the young pair were on their own, gazing into the fire, sipping wine, talking, and being silent. He had at first been shy to look at her. Now that he had overcome that, he could hardly take his eyes off her.
Different emotions came and went. Different memories. Different scenes. Mind games…
How he had hated that blasted cafe! That woman Mimi and her lesbian lovers! How he had wished he had never gone there! He was now so far removed from his squadron colleagues, that it hurt. He was lonely, confused, and unhappy. Youth rested on his shoulders as a burden, not a blessing.
He was aware he had been painfully formal. Apart from that scene in the forest… apart from that, he had found himself unable to touch her. He had taken his leave from her that first night, grateful beyond words, wanting to kiss her, but instead he had merely shaken her hand. How he had wanted to embrace her! Place his arms around her.
Kiss her. Bury his face in her hair! Hold her as tight as he could…
Why was he frightened? Why was he reluctant? It was as if he had to ‘let go’ of something that held him back.
Why? It was all very odd.
Powerful emotions coursed round inside his heart, occasionally bubbling momentarily to the surface. A tremor in his voice, a sigh, an involuntary movement.
Then the iron grip would descend again, the rigid self control, and his features would carefully remove all trace of the boiling cauldron beneath.

Genevieve too marveled at the intensity of her feelings. Maybe it was just a reaction, she told herself. The suddenness with which she had gone from six months of hating men, to feeling desperately sorry for one particular man. Maybe she was confusing compassion with love? She looked at him, staring into the fire.
Was that true? Women were different from men. It was hard for a woman to distinguish between compassion and love.
Men were different. Harder. Less sensitive.
More like animals…

The momentary bitterness of her thoughts surprised her, and she tried to repress the memories of that horrible back street stable as quickly as possible. That vile man… would she ever be able to forget his fingers pawing her like some piece of cold chicken?
She studied Jeremy’s face. Was he an animal? Was he capable of such sexual bestiality? Such wanton cruelty?
Surely not. Surely not.
He sensed her gaze, and turned his face to her. Her heart skipped a beat. That face… it was a handsome face, yet also tragic. The eyes were kind, yet also… tired? Old?
Vacant? What was it that was so expressive about his face? That moved her so much? He smiled, a fleeting quick, passing smile. It was there, and then it was gone.
There was something… self deprecating about his smile.
As if he was apologizing for something. The way the corners of his mouth turned down quickly. What was he apologizing for? His shyness? His manhood? No, that was ridiculous.
What then? Inadequacy?
What a strange, sad, hurt, lost little boy she had found and brought home!

Jeremy’s thoughts were on a different track, that somehow, nonetheless, kept leading back to his feelings for Genevieve.
Why do they all treat me as if I’m a bloody queer? Just because I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a painted whore!

The intensity of the flash of anger gripped him. He repressed it quickly.
Genevieve moved, and he turned to look at her. Her deep green eyes met his, and this time neither turned their gaze away.
“I’m sorry “, he found himself mumbling.
“I’m not very exciting company… ”
She made a small movement of her head, as if to signify:
“Oh yes you are. ”
Again that voice that hardly seemed to belong to him.
“I’ve told you about the war, Genevieve. You know about the killing, and the way I feel about it. ”
She nodded, inviting him to go on.
“What I haven’t told you about, is… the way I feel about… ”
He faltered, regretting his sally into the treacherous wastelands.
She spoke quietly: “Tes femmes? How do you say? Your girl friends? ”
He started, and she smiled. He was confused, and she laughed quietly.
“Zjer-ami, you cochon! Have we not discussed everything except? Am I a child? ”
She laughed again, but there was no unkindness there. He recognized that fact, grinned sheepishly, and nodded.
“You’re ahead of me, Genevieve. ”
He gazed into the flames, and chuckled to himself.
“Again… “, he added, as an afterthought.
Then he drew a deep breath, and plunged in quickly, before he could worry about it any more.

An hour later, he had covered Emmy, her letter informing him that she was courting the shadowy Robert (to which he had replied so formally), his virginity, and the experience at the bar in town. His interest in religion, but the difficulty of combining the experiences of war with a loving God. He had even covered the squadron’s suspicion of his homosexuality.
Genevieve had made it all easy. She had listened patiently, without interrupting. What ever views she had formed herself, she spoke nothing of them. Occasionally, she had spoken his thoughts, when he had been in danger of sinking into embarrassed silence. It had all been very easy. Now that it was all out, he felt better, although he was also astonished how relieved he felt. It had all been weighing him down. It was good to have ventilated his suppressed emotions. They had chuckled a few times as well. As when he had skirted around his virginity for a while…
He had approached it by expressing that the view of the squadron appeared to be that if you hadn’t yet had a woman, then there was something wrong with you. Then he had lapsed into silence.
“What is wrong with a man being a virgin? “, Genevieve had asked. She pronounced it ‘vir-zjeen’.
“Nothing “, he had answered. It had been obvious that she agreed. From there it had been only a small step to announce that he wanted a ‘special relationship’, not just a passing… passing…
“Fuck? “, she had inquired brightly, her eyes sparkling mischievously, her head tilted questioningly to one side.
He had looked shocked, then laughed. She had joined in the laughter.
He had been intensely curious as to her views on the subject, but for now, she was keeping those to herself.
He admired her. Very self possessed, she was obviously a woman of the world. She was a good listener. What a blessed relief! It was surprising how few questions she had asked. One stuck in his mind, although he didn’t know why. She had inquired what the name had been of the bar he had visited so unhappily with his squadron mates.
He had been unable to recollect it.
“There’s a picture of a crazy red bird hanging over the door “, was all he could remember. She had nodded, but given nothing away.
He looked at her with new found trust and confidence. He had opened his heart, and the treasures of sensitive yearnings had come tumbling out. She had not mocked, ridiculed, or trodden on his riches. One disapproving look from her, one sarcastic rise of an eyebrow, one hint of disdain, one slight curl of a mouth corner perhaps, and their relationship would have been finished there and then. He realized he had been sitting on the edge of his chair. Tension? He slid back, relaxed, and felt his shoulder blades comfortably nestling against the velvet back. A blessed relief indeed to be able to offload!
The picture of Emmy floated by. Emmy… This was the way they had talked, for hours on end. Had he found a new friend? Yes, if she was also willing to open up.
A slight anxiety sneaked in the door…

It would not do if she only listened, and didn’t reciprocate. His pride raised its head. He was not a mental patient! He looked at her, and watched what he had perceived to be a warm, kind, soft heart reveal itself as a composed, cool, tight lipped exterior.
He started to regret being so open.
No! He reminded himself. His mind was playing tricks. This was the woman who had held him tight in the forest, who had wept with him.
He gazed into the fire, frowning to himself, wondering if he had gone too far. Suddenly, fearfully, wishing he had not rushed along head first. Maybe he should have taken it more slowly. This was only their third meeting together at her house…

Jeremy, if only he had known it, wholly misread the struggle going on inside Genevieve, just below the surface. Her thoughts were in a whirl.
Now I understand. A funny red bird over the door…!

It had to be. The same blasted place. The same damn hell hole. He had been there. She had tried to suppress the experience, and listen to him. He was interesting. She liked him. Eventually he had come to a stop, and had sat there, gazing into the fire. She pondered on what he had said. It all made sense. She thought of her serious lover, Henri. He was harmless. Not a bad man at all. Immature, frightfully so, very romantic, very sentimental, but a bit like a wet blanket. She had felt safe with him.
She looked at Jeremy, staring into the fire, frowning.
Why was he frowning? He had looked quite relaxed a minute before? She felt puzzled, went to say something, and decided against it.
The silence struggled on.

Her mind switched back to the dimly lit stables, and she shuddered. The hands started pawing her again. She tried to push the memory away. It went, and came back, relentlessly. She pushed it away. A minute later, the hands had reached her breasts, and were playing with her nipples. Despite her fear and terror, she had felt her nipples growing hard. This had pleased her tormentor, who had played with them all the more, gloatingly.
He had whispered obscenities, and licked her ear. She had tried to struggle but he had been too strong…
Damn the memory! She had to push it away!
She discovered her bottom lip was trembling slightly.
Oh that blasted nightmare!
The coals! She would rake over the coals, and busy herself with the fire!

The awkward silence had extended itself into a burning wasteland, and then there was a movement beside him. The woman in whom he had confided everything slid into his field of vision, and started raking the coals with an excess of energy. He started at the pallor of her face. She was angry! Angry?
In a flash, realization poured over him like a freezing cold water fall. He had been too forward! He had been too intimate! He had prattled on like a fool, and she had been merely polite! He had revealed his inner core to an unwilling observer! Idiot!
Pride leaped up, pointing an accusing finger: “I told you so! Never, ever, talk so openly! Now, go! Go, now! Leave with dignity. ”
He felt sick. It was all a big mistake.
She was obviously not the girl for him. If she couldn’t handle his inner feelings… what was the point.
Pride marched closer, waving a furious finger in his face. “If she can’t handle your inner feelings, then she is not WORTHY of you! Leave, with dignity, for God’s sake! Do it NOW! ”
The room seemed to sway, and part of him wanted to cry out.
Pride stepped on any chance of that, and Anger took the place of tears. How dare she lead him on!
Oh, damn and blast anyway!

The fingers had temporarily finished playing with her breasts. The beast had tied her hands firmly behind her back, ripped off her remaining clothes, and she knew she was naked now. Her mind was trying to fend off the destruction. It was a dream. A horrible dream.
The fingers reached her navel, played there for a while, and marched on to her pubic hair. She wanted desperately to scream and scream, but she couldn’t. Something…
something in her mouth.
Push it away! It was all in the past! It was buried! Gone, forever!
A picture of the sign of the ‘Red Canary’ floated past.
Another picture of the teeming mass of bawdy humanity inside.
Go away! Go AWAY!
She had raked the fire into a roaring inferno now, quite unnecessary at this late hour. She was aware of his silhouette seated beside her. He would notice soon!
Relax! Relax! It is nothing to do with him!

Idiot! Fool! Imbecile! He wanted to run. Get up, grab his coat, and run. Dive on the motorcycle, and roar back to the safety of the airfield. How to make the retreat? He tried to compose himself, and a surge of will power over compensated the other way.
He became cold, aloof, lofty. If his feelings were not masculine enough for her…

The fingers had reached and entered her vagina, and in spite of herself, she felt herself lubricating. Her stomach muscles contracted, and primordial hormones and reactions flowed through her body. She was as powerless to stop them as she was helpless in the beast’s clutches.
She writhed hopelessly, and heard his voice only distantly. Felt his tongue playing over her face and breasts only remotely. Even when he bit her nipples, she felt the pain only dully. But the entry of his penis she felt with an electric shock of realization.
He was entering her body! He was defiling her with his penis! He…
She redoubled her feverish struggling, which delighted him. He laughed out loud, saliva trickling down his chin, and dropping onto her throat. It was no use…
She felt the rhythmic thrusting of his penis inside her, heard his breathing break into a series of gasps. The last gap was the the most agonizing, he stiffened strangely, and then the gasp broke off into a contented moan… She felt a tidal wave rush through her, and terror, loathing, horror and disgust merged with an age old sexual submission…
This was crazy! She had to stop these thoughts! Jeremy was sitting there beside her! He would notice!
She put aside the poker, and turned to face him. A certain trembling inside her seemed to want to erupt to the surface. She suppressed it, and tried to smile.
It was a feeble effort. Then she saw his face…

Hard. His face had gone hard. Why? What had she done?
What had she said? Could he read her thoughts? Did he know about her? Had he heard stories from the others at the airfield? Did he think she was cheap?
“Zjerami? ” Her voice contained a question. She was thoroughly confused now. The inner trembling arrived at the surface. Her bottom lip succumbed, followed by her shoulders. She was frightened and bewildered.

He completely misread the symptoms. He thought she was angry with him. He retaliated with anger towards her.
He stood up, briskly, and picked up his coat. The gesture was unmistakable.
“Thank you for a pleasant evening, mademoiselle! ”
She eyed him, her mind numb, her facade struggling to maintain dignity. He saw only the dignity. He marched to the door. She didn’t know what to say. He turned round, looked at her – he would never see her again – and saluted, briskly, formally, and absurdly. Pride. He was a man. He might have feelings, but he was a man. His movements implied a curt ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Sorry for bothering you. It won’t happen again’. With that, he exited. A moment later he was out in the darkness, groping his way towards his motorbike.
He kicked the starter with as much violence as he could.
The large single piston misfired once, then caught steadily. She threw herself at the door, put her hand on the handle, and froze. What could she say? What was happening?
The seconds ticked away. She turned and leaned her back up against the door. Sounds of gravel being disturbed.
The motorcycle accelerated, and the single beat of the Velocette started down the drive. She flinched as if struck with a whip. The machine passed through the gate, and accelerated on the open road. Soon the noise started to die in the distance. She listened in horror, rigidly.
The sound died away slowly. Then it was gone. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, and she slid slowly down the door onto the floor. There she remained, immobile, crying silently, for a long time…

* * *

“Gentlemen, we have to do something about this situation. ” The speaker was a thoughtful man, and as he looked around the circle of senior RFC officers, he felt they were on his side. He could ask for ideas, as opposed to ordering.
“Basically, we’re taking a jolly bad licking. Many of our pilots are lasting mere days. A pilot is now a veteran if he survives a few weeks. I need new ideas, and fast.
We have more aircraft than the Hun, yet he blasts us out of the sky at will. I want you all to come up with your best proposals for a new strategy. Go home, give it some thought, and let me know. Gentlemen, I’m asking for your input! ”

There was a subdued murmur of approval. One or two officers shrugged their shoulders. One or two others had a strange gleam in their eyes. A positive light of determination.

One of these men was Major Baxter, of forty-five squadron, Aix-en-Chapelle…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.27

He was glad to be back on a good horse, and out in the fresh air. Baxter had been right, and the patron of the stables near the airfield had been delighted to acquiesce to Jeremy’s request for a horse. He had watched approvingly as Jeremy picked out one of the best animals with the cool eye of an old pro.
This English pilot knew his horses!

To Jeremy, it was a heaven sent opportunity to get away from the squadron. He could get away from the grinning faces, the sly digs, the stage whispers. He could even – briefly – get away from the war. Explore the country side. Think.He needed to think.

He knew he was changing a lot. Two months in war time was like ten years of ordinary life. The debacle at the hands of Mimi and her assistants had affected him deeply. Another factor gnawing at him was the fact that he still grieved for Baines. He was also sleeping poorly. It was a relief once more to be in the saddle, exploring a new wood. The trail had already taken him past a small lake, and through a shallow stream. The trees became taller, and stood closer together.
He arrived in a small clearing, surrounded by pine trees. A fallen tree in the middle sprouted a tangled crop of roots. He tied the gray to a tree, and sat down wearily.
What the hell am I doing? What’s the purpose of it all?

He knew well that his spirits were sinking lower and lower. Death. The stupid, hopeless, pointless horror of it. Emmy. Baines. Digsby. His father. Death. Misery. More death. Did he really want to live? No matter if he did.
He would soon be dead anyway. It was only a matter of time.
It was all like a dream. You thought you were alive. You’d expect it to last forever. Then, suddenly,
Poof!, all dead. Bye-bye, world.
What for?
What in hell for?
Joke. Bitter joke. Why bother with Life? Waste of time.
There’s only one outcome, whatever that funny old priest might say. One moment there’s Life, the next, there’s nothing…

He thought of the gun he wore in a holster. He always brought it along. Flying or riding. It gave him a comfortable feeling. Latent power. Silently, the weapon waited for him. Silent, but deadly. He took it out, and examined it. Six bullets.
Only one through my head would solve all my problems.
He shuddered. It was an eerie thought. The sneering expression of Mimi rose up before him. McAllister’s voice was ringing in his ears.
…and thirdly, rank cowardice.
…rank cowardice… rank cowardice…
Bullshit! That was what McAllister was full of. He was a fine one to lecture on cowardice…
Hell, no. It’ll be a German bullet that blows me away.
He started to put the gun away. But Mimi was laughing. Everybody was laughing. Cheering. Stamping their feet. Whistling. Gesticulating. Why wait for it? Why not get it over with? Now, here, cleanly, quickly, as opposed to dying painfully, horribly, slowly? The end result is going to be the same.
You lose your virginity. You lose your life. So what? What’s the difference? Who the hell is going to care? Really care? Life goes on. There’s thousands of blokes getting theirs every week.
Nobody takes any notice. Not really…

He shook himself. That was crazy thinking. While there was Life, there was hope. What was it the Bible said?

“Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and puts them into practice, I will liken him to a wise man, who built his house upon a rock. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; but it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock…

One of Emmy’s favorite verses. She had this bright theory that the ‘house’ was in fact symbolic of a person’s life. Perhaps…

One thing’s for sure. I’ve had plenty of rain and floods and winds in my Life! It’s all but beaten the door in…

Emmy. She had ditched him. For some nurd who read poetry to her.
She prefers poetry to guns, and I’m stuck with more guns than poetry…
Well, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He fingered the gun, put it down, picked it up again. He wanted to shoot something. Anything.

God… if you’re up there, where the hell are you…
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a war going on down here…

No, it was all too far fetched. Too good to be true. You had to be naive to swallow all that stuff. He put the gun down, and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

The first thing she saw was the horse. Tethered to a tree, a dappled mare nibbled away contentedly at her reins. That contentment was not echoed by her rider, who sat on a fallen tree stump, head in his hands. Beside him on the stump lay an evil looking revolver.
She took all this in simultaneously, and her heart leaped. Then she recognized the uniform. A pilot!
What was the gun for? Was he…?

She would have turned quickly, and fled away, but for the fact that he suddenly looked up, and then leaped to his feet guiltily. She probably still would have excused herself as quickly as possible, but then she noticed his eyes. They were red rimmed. Curiosity overcame her fear, and she smiled engagingly. Her first smile at a strange man for five months.
He… smiled back, rather shyly, she thought, and self consciously holstered the gun. They entered into an inconsequential conversation. About the weather, the cold, and their horses. After a few minutes, she found herself sliding out of the saddle.
Even as it happened, memories of her ordeal came back, and she cast an anxious look around the forest. Deserted. Nobody would hear her scream. He could do anything he liked with her. Why was she taking such chances?
She stumbled.

I must be mad. He could do anything to me. Rape me. Beat me. Strangle me. Kill me any way he likes.

She wanted to flee…

Come on! You can’t let that other bastard spoil the rest of your life! Come on! Just… talk to the man!

She tried to pass off her stumble with a smile and a little laugh. But she didn’t recognize the high pitched nervous sound that emanated from her lips. Suddenly she became aware that she was shaking like a leaf. Shaking so violently, that she felt it must be obvious to him.

He can see! He can see! He knows I’m helpless! He knows… everything. He was probably there! They told him! He knows I’m nothing. Nothing…

With a supreme effort of will and courage, she took a grip on herself. If only she knew it, her actions and behavior – far from meriting shame or guilt – were worthy of the highest accolade for courage. Courage in the face of Man’s cruelty…
It was better now. She had her breathing back to the point where her heart was merely beating hell out of her ribcage, and no longer sledge hammering her entire frame.
Could this young man before her be another animal? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Or, in this case, pilot’s clothing?

But somehow he looked harmless. Exhausted, done in, and definitely not rampant. They introduced themselves.
She liked his name. Jeremy. He had a nice accent.
“Are you a pilot? “.
She asked the question eventually, knowing full well that he was. She pronounced it the French way, with the emphasis on the second syllable. Despite his misery, Jeremy felt charmed by her. They sat down on the fallen tree now, five feet apart.
“Yes “, he said vacantly without elaborating.
He felt neither pride nor elation at being asked the question. There was a pause. She was dying to ask questions, but his diffidence was obvious. Eventually she whispered quietly:
“Do you like it? ”
Although she half expected his answer, it shocked her nonetheless.
“No. ”
She slipped into French again: “Pourquoi? I mean, why not? Is it not wonderful? ” She put the emphasis again on the last syllable, and pronounced the ‘u’ in a strangely French manner. He smiled again despite himself.
“The flying is marvelous, Genevieve. It is the killing I hate… ”
His face crumpled a little, and his voice sounded unsteady. Her heart missed a beat, and she felt a warmth towards him. He was human, flesh and blood.

Definitely not a wolf…

“But Jeremy… ” She pronounced it ‘Zjer-am-me’, with the accent on the last syllable. He liked it.
“You are killing the Bosche, non? ”
He nodded absently.
“That is good, non? ”
He smiled, and it pleased her to see it. He made no effort to reply however. She noticed his fingers moving oddly. They seemed to tremble slightly, whilst they stretched forward. Then they would bend into claws, and his thumbs would rub along the inside.
The silence grew longer. He was staring ahead now, making no effort whatsoever to chat her up.
Suddenly she wished he would…

* * *

Forty seven miles away, at an airfield that Jeremy had not even heard of, the sound of an aircraft engine could be heard in the distance. It approached slowly, and became louder.
In the hangars and the maintenance sheds, heads turned, and ears strained. Misfire? Sounded rough. Very rough. People called out the others from inside. Somebody pointed. Low above the horizon, far lower than normally, the outline of a biplane could be seen. Excited shouts. Black smoke could be seen, pouring forth. The fire crew raced to their machine, and started the engine.

* * *

In a way, she wanted to leave. It was getting late.
But this man… he needed her.
No, she told herself, that was crazy.
I hardly know him, for goodness sake! Come on, it’s time to leave. Forget the memories…

But the Memories that had been stalking her steadily now flooded back, and the shadows seemed to have lengthened suddenly. Maybe he was just waiting his chance. Maybe…
Maybe he is only waiting until it gets darker! Maybe he’s only pretending not to be interested in me! Maybe…

She stood up suddenly, and bid him goodnight.
Strangely, he hardly reacted, and seemed lost in a world of his own. She walked to her horse, suddenly acutely aware that her back was turned towards him. Fear overwhelmed her, and she felt… a hand clasping across her mouth, and a hungry paw grabbing at her breasts!
Oh, my God!

Her ears twitched, waiting for the sound of steps. None came. On she stumbled, half running, half walking. The twenty yards distance to Pecadillo had suddenly stretched to a quarter of a mile. Fear prevented her from looking back. In her mind, she saw only the crouched figure of a man, waiting to spring on her. Tears stung at the back of her eyes…

Jeremy watched the retreating figure sadly, wishing he could have talked more. But the words had failed him. Her company had been nice. Now she was going. It was his fault. He noticed she stumbled awkwardly.

Climbing into the saddle, Genevieve cast a quick look at the silent airman. He was still sitting where he was, looking at her. His red rimmed eyes were sad. She paused for a second. What on earth was that man thinking? She smiled, nervously. He smiled a little smile back, and made no effort to rush over and grab her. Puzzled at her own feelings as well as the strange manner of the airman, she turned Pecadillo around, and broke into a trot.

Soon a tree obscured her from his sight. Jeremy sighed, and buried his face in his hands. What in hell was wrong with him? Emmy? Fear of death? Was he going the way Baines had gone? Loopy? Round the bend? Why these thoughts of death all the time, this morbid preoccupation with suicide? Maybe he was just lonely. Desperately lonely. He seemed to be swaying, and dropped his hands away from his face. The clearing stood quite still. What was wrong with him? A strange sound was buzzing through his head. It was getting louder and louder. He had experienced it before, but never as loud as this.
What in heaven’s name…

He shut his eyes, and shook his head. The buzzing sound only increased in volume. He stood up, swaying unsteadily. Suddenly, a wave of sadness came over him.
A tremendously powerful urge to throw himself on the ground, and burst into tears. Crazy! It made no sense! With difficulty, he tried to take a firm grip on himself.
He was a pilot! A soldier! He was a veteran fighter! This made no sense… The girl came into his mind, and he wished she had stayed. Wished with all his might that she was there, and that he could try and tell her how he felt. But she was gone. He had given her no encouragement. Now, it was too late. It was always too late. He was lost, and lonely, and frightened. Nothing made any sense any more. Baines. Pinky. Digsby. The blue and green Albatros. The pilot, cynically waving at him… Emmy…
He stood in the middle of the clearing, swaying like a drunk. He was talking to himself.
Calm down, old son. Take it easy. You’re all right…

His voice sounded croaky. The trees closed in on him.
He stared at them.
Huh!?

Then they moved away again, and his knees sagged. It was a trap! Suddenly, the ground ripped up, and bullets were flying all round him! The blue and green Albatros was screaming down behind him, intent on killing him.
His mouth fell open, and saliva trickled down his chin.
He screamed, and watched in horror as the silhouette of the pilot gave him a cheeky thumbs up.
The ditch! The ditch! Where was the ditch!??

The trees closed in on him again, and his mind reeled.
Mimi laughed cruelly, and McAllister shook his head in weary disgust.
Rank cowardice! Rank cowardice! Rank cowardice!
He screamed, and threw himself on the ground, rolling over and over, covering his head.

* * *

The crash made even the hardened wince. Pieces of wood and fabric went flying, the undercarriage collapsed, and the nose dug itself into the ground, tearing up great clods of earth. The tail rose up, higher and higher, until the whole aircraft shuddered as if to fall over onto its back. At the critical point it stagnated, and remained where it was. A figure fell out, and rolled away. The petrol tank ignited, and burning fuel sloshed over the pilot’s face, arms and hands. He screamed. A peculiar, high pitched scream.

* * *

Jeremy felt the first waves of comfort.
He was being held firmly. He didn’t even know what it was for a while. He was lying on the ground, trembling, curled up, with his knees in his stomach, arms folded on his chest. The green and blue Albatros was retreating. Baines had come. That was it. Baines had come and shot the bastard down. Good old Baines.
A voice broke into his mind.
Baines is dead!

It couldn’t be. Baines had just shot down the Albatros.
Baines is dead!

It couldn’t be. Baines was here, holding him, trying to lead him away. He could feel his strong arms around him.
His mind relaxed a little, and he slowly looked up. The grip around his shoulders relaxed a little. He saw the hair first. Long, black hair, that brushed his face.

Baines…?

A beautiful face looked down on him, full of compassion. He stared in stupefied amazement. A hand touched his face, and wiped away the tears. He realized he was crying. His face was soaked. It was the girl. The girl on the horse.
What was her name again?

Genevieve…

* * *

“His hands are a right mess. He’ll never play the ukulele again, and that’s a fact. ”
Nobody spoke. Everybody remembered the man’s music.
“He’ll fly again, once his hands have healed, but it’ll never be the same again. They’ll work, but without the agility and sensitivity he needs for playing… ”
The sergeant sighed deeply. He could have added “The same applies to minds that get hurt – they’re never the same. ”
But he decided not to.

Somebody brought the instrument from the man’s room. They hung it from the mess wall.
Nobody quite knew why.

* * *

He was holding on to her tightly, tears still trickling down his face. The wonder of his situation registered only dully in his brain. He could smell her, and it was wonderful. She had said very little in the last thirty minutes, once she had assured him that it was all right.
He had started to stammer an apology, but she had waved it away. He was recovering, and trying to deal with the facts that faced him.

Genevieve was also reflecting on their situation. Wondering. What women’s intuition had made her tie up Pecadillo, and creep back the two hundred yards or so to the clearing? She had watched him furtively from a concealed place for a few minutes, fearful lest he see her. He had walked around strangely, talking softly to himself. Then, all at once, his knees had simply given away, and he had sagged to the ground with a whimper. Astonishing…
She had run to his side, but he had been oblivious to her presence. She had found herself in tears. Tears of helplessness. But she had – somehow – understood. A hurt mind. Some terrible experiences.
She could relate to that. She certainly could…
She thought of Charles Nungesser. Suddenly he seemed a far away cold and heartless shadow, compared with this warm human being in her arms. He needed her. She needed him to need her. Was that it? It didn’t matter.
She loved him. Of that she was certain.

* * *

‘Uke’ lay in the hospital bed, studying his hands. Or rather, the large white bandages, which completely hid them. Although his face and arms hurt abominably, it was his hands that grieved him most. He knew without being told that the damage was grievous. His hands. His precious hands. Nothing would ever be the same again.
His life had revolved around his music.
He put his head back on the pillow, and gazed at the ceiling.
War. Life. Death. What did it matter? Any of it?

* * *

It was nearly dark before Jeremy unsteadily climbed to his feet. Genevieve stood beside him, her arm around him.
He had told her much of his experiences, and she had actually got as far as telling him that she too had been terribly hurt. She had omitted the details, and he had not pushed her.
They rode back slowly together to her house, and she invited him in. He demurred politely, but she insisted.
While he went to wash the stains off his face, and tidy up his muddy uniform, Genevieve quickly whispered the few facts to Aunt Agnes and Madame Pegoud. Her father was away. The old aunt registered not a flicker of surprise, and nodded sympathetically. Madam Pegoud, equally pragmatic, went off to organize soap and hot water.

The meal was sumptuous, and afforded Jeremy a chance to regain strength and compose himself. Aunt Agnes quietly observed the young man, and liked what she saw. She was amused at her charge’s mothering of the airman. Good.
This was more like the old Genevieve.
Was that true? No, this was a newer, better, wiser, kinder Genevieve. Reaching out. Life had made her more complete.
She studied the airman again, noticing the shadows under the eyes, and the odd way his fingers moved. A slight tremor in his voice at times. This poor young man had been through hell as well. Would it make him better, kinder? Or would the war brutalize him, turn him into a vicious animal like the soldier who had raped her niece?
Would he hurt Genevieve?

Looking at him, she somehow doubted it.

F.M.
(c)