Francis Meyrick

Ch.26

Heidi’s world went on collapsing around her.
She missed her little brother more and more as time went by, with that deep seated maternal loving that knows no consolation. That perhaps feigns recovery to cope with the world. But never, ever forgets.
She missed all the little things she used to do for Hans. Wash his clothes, help him with his homework, comb his hair, tidy his room. She used to cheerfully polish his shoes, regardless of her little brother’s inconsiderate ways. Perhaps she had spoiled him a bit, she knew that. Now that he was gone, however, she went through bitter self recriminations; it was all her fault – she should have fought her against him going. She should have supported her father against her tyrannical mother. The poor old man had bravely spoken up, and condemned the war. Heidi’s mother had gone berserk. Hans had listened to her. With a head full of ideas of glory and the good of the fatherland, he had finally marched off to war. And now… he was dead.

Dead. The awful finality of it.
Even now she ached to run her fingers through his curls, and to hear his delightful laughing. She ached to love and care for him, and to be able to go running to him when he came home. The thought of him lying alone in a grave, somewhere in France, drove her to distraction. With all her heart she wanted only to flee there, and throw herself down upon his grave.

Then her innate common sense and level headed self
would take over, and she would lavish on her sickly father all her pent up loving desire. He would seem to understand, and often would just sit in the garden with her, saying nothing, just holding her hand. Sometimes he would kiss her hand, very gently, or stroke her nose.
She was now even more terrified of anything ever happening to him, and one night pleaded with him not to die.
“Father, don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it! I would have nobody left to love! Please don’t leave me! ”
The wise old man had said nothing for a while. He had not commented on his wife’s exclusion from his daughter’s expression of love. He knew if he had commented, that Heidi would have instantly dissolved into guilt feelings, and would have protested that she DID love her mother.
It was better not to mention his wife…

Instead, he found himself laughing quietly.
It surprised even himself, and it stunned Heidi. She had lifted her head from his shoulder and exclaimed in dismay: “Father! You’re laughing at me! ”
The old man had shaken his head.
“No, love, I am not laughing at you. I am laughing with you. I love you very, very much. I know we shall meet up again, you know. We shall only be a short while apart. It doesn’t matter. Think how happy we shall be when we meet again! ”
Heidi had stared him earnestly in the eyes for a long, long time.
“Father “, she had asked eventually. “Will we ever see our Hans again? ”
Her voice had ended on a quiver, and tears had sprung into her eyes. The old man had kissed her hair.
“If the Good Lord wills it, then we shall. That I can promise you. There are many things we do not understand. Things that we can only feel in our hearts. But God is good, Heidi, God is good… And he is always near. ”
Heidi had buried her face in his shoulder again.
In that position they had remained, without speaking, until the front door had banged, and a loud, shrill voice had imperiously demanded:
“Heidi? Heidi! Goodness, where is that child now?
Come here, girl! Didn’t I tell you to polish the kitchen mirror? Look at this! It has streaks all over it! What have you being done? Useless girl! ”

Father and daughter had quickly slipped apart, but not before she had placed a delicate kiss on his temple.

* * *

Was it possible that Germany would NOT win the war?
The Hunter pondered the question, quietly. The tide was no longer flowing in their favor. Losses were mounting.

He stared in the mirror, and studied this man, whom many regarded as a living legend. They said he was invincible. Was he?
A faint feeling spread through him. It started in a deep, long forgotten part of his nervous system. And spread momentarily. Was it fear? he? Afraid?
Nonsense! Resolutely he shrugged off the emotions, and disciplined his heart and feelings. That was better!
He checked his uniform, and noticed the cuffs were getting a little shabby. That would not do. He would order himself a new jacket. That would be a good idea.
He clicked to attention in front of the mirror, and gave himself a smart salute. That was better!
Then he strode out of the room, disciplined, unswerving, and super human.
Afraid? He afraid? Rubbish!

The highly polished black boots clumped on the ground as he exited into the sunshine. Two men stood to attention.
He swung gauntily into his stride, reveling in his authority and success.
His boots mercilessly ground out his flash of humanity of a moment before. It swirled away into the timeless dust…

* * *

The problem, Mr Armstrong felt keenly, was that Mrs Armstrong was just not playing her part. She was simply becoming more and more hysterical. At the merest hint of anybody being cheerful about the war effort, she would simply explode. Start talking about the hospital where Emmy worked, about the injured, the suffering, the pointless waste. It was all decidedly unpatriotic. More than once she had rounded on him, in front of guests into the bargain.
She had accused him of being a warmonger, and insensitive to the cost of war. He had felt hurt. Of course he understood the cost! He was not inhuman…
And in front of his friends as well. Unforgivable.
It was a sad reflection on his marriage. He would have to speak to her sharply. It was simply not good enough.

* * *

The little French priest walked slowly around the cemetery, tending the graves of the fallen airmen. He pulled up a weed here, arranged some flowers there, and prayed a wordless praise to his God, in whom he had the deepest faith. He came to the grave of one Digsby, and remembered the conversation with the tall English pilot, the serious looking one. He sighed, and faced the evening sky. His kind heart prayed lovingly, full of trust, knowing beyond any doubt that the Creator listens to all men’s prayers.
“Lord, he is only a boy. Guide him to your ways. Make him seek your paths… ”

The old priest loved God, and the war had not hurt his faith in the least. It had only heightened his awareness of Man’s desperate need for God…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.25

“Come into my parlour,
said the Spider to the Fly;
the place is very comfy,
the ceiling nice and high.
Your wings could do with leisure,
they look quite beat to me
come in and fill your measure
of jam and toast for tea. “

“Thank you kindly, Spider,
the simple Fly replied,
(the empty tum inside ‘er,
helping her decide)
“I’d love some jammy munchies
it’s been a long hard day
and have you any crunchies,
to go with my entree?

The Spider smiled all nectarine,
and promised goo galore
“As much as you have ever seen,
you’ll never wish for more. ”

The Spider kept his promise,
the Fly could only wail
“Oh why did I so misconstrue
the meaning of your tale?
I should have guessed quite easily,
the menu of the day;
but here I land so queesily,
smack in the old puree.

Which only goes to show anew
that smiles are mostly thin
and if a Spider welcomes you
you should never trust his grin…

The journey back to France was almost a bitter affair.

Jeremy reflected on what had transpired, and knew he had humiliated his father. His mother had been hurt and shocked, but had not uttered a word of criticism. His father had made up for that…
His conversations with Emmy had been totally superficial. Gone was that easy closeness and familiarity they had always enjoyed. He guessed it was because he had changed. And Robert. Her alleged boyfriend.

He was glad to be gone from home.
He was not glad to be going back to France. However, there was not much sadness either. Indifference seemed to be the dominant emotion, and a weary resignation to whatever lay ahead.
On the way down, he was billeted at a friendly squadron, where he bumped into his old ukulele playing acquaintance from his first journey to France.
This worthy was now basking in the unimaginative nickname of ‘Uke’, and appeared to be immensely popular and a good flier. Jeremy was invited for drinks in the Officers’ Mess, and accepted for a ‘quick one’, rather than be rude.
‘Uke’ pretty soon had the whole room singing, cheering, clapping and dancing, with his virtuoso performance.
His fingers appeared to move quicker and quicker the drunker he became, until in the end it seemed to Jeremy they were little more than a blur.
As soon as he decently could, with all eyes and ears on ‘Uke’, Jeremy slipped away to his room for the night.
There he lay awake for hours, wondering and brooding, and listening to the wild clapping and cheering that accompanied ‘Uke’ and his stunning music. It was a source of mystery to him how it seemed that ordinary people could be so happy and gregarious, whereas he seemed to feel crushed, and anxious for solitude. Vicious thoughts accused him of being a misfit, and mocked him.
Without realizing it fully, he was on a dangerous slide downhill, on the way to losing his self esteem…

* * *

“There’s some guys from the Lafayette squadron having drinks upstairs. You fancy meeting them? ”
Bernard Mann smiled ingratiatingly.
Jeremy, greatly relieved at any chance of escaping the heaving crowd, was glad to agree.

It had not been his idea. For two weeks he had resisted all invitations from his new squadron mates to have a ‘night on the town’. Eventually, in a moment of weakness, he had agreed. He had hated it from the start. The dingy cafe was packed to capacity, and the air was foul with tobacco smoke, and stale air. The music played loudly and discordantly, and it was impossible to drink a pint without having part of it spilled by careless, drunken, passers by. Ordering drinks was a nightmare. Moving anywhere meant running a gauntlet of elbows, knees, and shoulders. Normal conversation was, frankly, impossible, but this did not prevent everybody from trying. The result was a cacophony of sound, which Jeremy hated. He also hated the attention of the ladies of the establishment, who were attracted by his good looks and air of good breeding. He simply was not even remotely interested in them.
Now, glad of an excuse to get out, he followed Bernard out the front door, and around to the side of the building. An ornate wrought iron staircase wound its way up to the first floor, and Jeremy vaguely puzzled at the architectural lay out. He presumed that there were private drinking rooms upstairs. In that case, why were the stairs not internal? The attraction of a more private function, meeting some interesting fellow pilots, away from the muddle of the drunken plebs, was uppermost in his thoughts however. He was grateful to Bernard for thinking of him. It wasn’t like the man to be considerate. Maybe he had misjudged him.
They reached the top of the stairs, and Jeremy shivered in the cold. If it had been daylight, he would have had a reasonable view across town here. All he could really make out now was a long series of shadowy low roofs, running towards a row of lighted buildings in the distance. The roofs near him appeared very run down, with broken tiles and smashed sky lights. Looked like old warehouses. Stables, maybe.
The landing ran all along the side of the building, with half a dozen doors leading off. On one of these, Bernard proceeded to knock loudly in a familiar way. One long tap, followed by four quick half ones, terminated by two emphatic final ones. He didn’t wait for an answer, but opened the door, and, standing aside, politely motioned Jeremy in. Very politely. Jeremy stepped past him into a large brightly lit room, elaborately and expensively furnished. His eyes took a second to adjust, and fixed on the huge crystal chandelier. He was standing on a soft, deep carpet. For a second it seemed there was nobody there, and then a figure moved to his left. He turned to look, when suddenly several things happened simultaneously. The lights dimmed down to about one quarter of their previous intensity – he noted this in astonishment – and this was followed by a sharp push between the shoulder blades, that propelled him unceremoniously forward. The door slammed shut, somebody outside was whooping it up in triumph, and several platoons worth of footsteps were thundering along the landing. More shouts joined in with the initial cheering.
Jeremy’s senses reeled with it all. The figure gliding towards him resolved itself first into a female shape.
Then Jeremy became aware that she was very elegantly dressed, with bare shoulders, a diamond necklace, and a figure hugging black satin dress. His mind worked painfully slowly. Then he recognized Mimi, one of the leading ladies of the tavern. His heart sank. Her expression said it all, even without the howling, baying mob outside.
It was a trap. He had walked right into it…

* * *

The question, Genevieve was slowly beginning to ask herself, was really if she would ever trust a man again.
She had come more to terms with what had happened, but deep mental scars still remained. Was she going to let that animal ruin the rest of her life? There came a point when one had to… move on. Write off the past. Dwelling on it only kept the ordeal alive. She had played it over in her mind enough times. It was time to… try and trust.

And yet… she felt a loathing for men.
If that was what happened… did she want a lover?
What if she relived the experience with a man she thought loved her?
Was it worth the risk?
“All men are bastards! “, she had commented more than once to Aunt Agnes.
“I don’t EVER want to get involved with another man. ”
Aunt Agnes, with the wisdom of age, wisely said nothing.
* * *

Shrinking away from the approaching femme fatale, Jeremy sprang back to the door. Half clutching for the handle, half measuring Mimi’s rapid approach, his movements were speeding up rapidly. He found the handle, and tried to turn it. To his further amazement he discovered that it was held firmly from the outside…
A simultaneous sniggering from the other side of the door told its own story. “Hey! “, Jeremy shouted, panic rising in his voice as he saw Mimi reaching towards him, a strange look in her eye.
“Not until you screw her, Jeremy honey… “, sang a disharmonious chorus of male voices.
Angry now, he hammered on the door.
“Let me OUT! ”
In answer, the same chorus line was repeated, in slightly better harmony. It was too late anyway.
Mimi was on him, tugging manfully at his trousers. He was amazed at her strength. Trying to fend her off took up all his energy, and he had to release the door handle.
He tried to reason with her.
“No! ”
He held his hands up.
“Je ne veux pas! ”
A burst of hysterics from outside…
She wasn’t even listening. Taking advantage of his foolishness, she loosened his belt, and unbuttoned most of his fly in one smooth, well practiced movement. He gasped, and renewed the struggle. Suddenly she relaxed her grip, and moved fluidly to one side. A colossal kick behind the knees brought tears to Jeremy’s eyes, and his legs folded momentarily. She grabbed his flailing arm, turned her back to him, and – all in one supple movement – he was sailing through the air. He landed on his back with a crash that knocked all the breath out of him. In an instant she was upon him, grabbing an arm and trying to pin it back. Something cold and metallic touched his wrist. It terrified him, and he wriggled away. Struggling to his feet, his breath coming heavily, he faced Mimi. She seemed quite unconcerned, definitely not out of breath, and regarded him with undisguised amusement, mixed with something that could have been contempt.
When she spoke, it was with precision, and there was steel in her voice. Although it was pitched low, even seductive, there was no mistaking the strength that underpinned the words.
“You are going to be a good boy, yes? ”
He felt like punching her hard in the face, but knew that such a move – although it would relieve his feelings – was out of the question. She wagged a finger at him in a school teacher’s manner.
“You take your clothes off now, my fine British friend… ”
She raised her voice deliberately.
“…or I will take them off for you! ”
Wild cheering from outside. She smiled faintly, as an actress acknowledging the applause of the audience.
Jeremy could only shake his head. What else could he do?
He cast around for escape. There was only one door. One window, which would have led out onto the landing anyway. They would never let him out that way…
Slowly, as if on a stage, she removed her long black gloves, dropping them carelessly on the Louis Quatorze table. Her black satin dress followed, with much rustling. She now stood before him in a clinging pale blue leotard. She posed for him, sideways, tucking her flat stomach in, and then twirling around like a ballet dancer. It was performance that might have aroused many a frigid male.
In Jeremy it only aroused loathing.

His legs seemed to be wobbling infuriatingly, and he desperately tried to communicate some rigidity and strength to his wayward limbs. He cursed the amount of drink he had consumed. She eyed him thoughtfully, and then, with a final ballet flourish, she went straight for him. He backed off as far as he could. This time she charged him head first, ducked at the last minute, and butted him painfully in the stomach. They rolled over into a heap. Her strength again amazed him, and his drunkenness only served to weaken his resistance further.
She got on top of him with relative ease, and was grabbing at his left wrist. Jeremy was flailing desperately with his right arm, but getting nowhere.
The light caught something, and he saw a metal chain appear miraculously across his left arm. She threw herself across his chest, and with both hands fumbled at his wrist. Exerting all his strength, he heaved up, and managed to half roll onto his side. She rolled away, and sprang – catlike, he thought – to her feet. Cold metal enveloped his wrist, and he realized with horror that she had partly manacled him. A length of chain swung free, with another manacle dangling ominously. Jeremy swore, and tried to free himself. It was no use. He was getting angry now. He glared at her, and saw her cool eyes studying him intently. Once more she sprang at him, and again they rolled together. This time though he swung wildly with his right fist. It contacted the side of her head with a glancing blow. She grunted in pain, and immediately smacked him as hard as she could across the face. He saw only stars, and his eyes filled with tears.
When his vision cleared, she was standing before him, a vicious looking whip in her hands. He shrank back into a corner, his eyes wide in horror. She smiled in silent acknowledgment of his fear, and spoke again, quietly, unhurried, the mistress of the situation.
“Little boy, you will undress yourself NOW! You are NOT leaving here until we make love… ”
Wild cheers from outside.
“You cannot undo the chain yourself… ”
She indicated the piece of iron with the whip.
“…and you will have difficulty in explaining it to your officer… ”
More wild cheers from outside, quickly subsiding into a breathless silence, with a million ears straining themselves as never before.
“…if you want to be a naughty boy… ”
She waved the whip again.
“…if you DARE to hit me… ”
Her ferocious look struck terror in Jeremy’s innocent heart.
“…I will whip you so hard you will NEVER strike a woman again! ”
This last statement was delivered with such a murderous look of revenge, and such a devastatingly loud crack as the end of the whip sailed past Jeremy’s head, that he flinched, a sob rising at the back of his throat.
The whip lashed forth again, like a serpent whipping out its forked tongue, and a vicious sting on his left cheek made his eyes water again. It hurt unbelievably. He was unaware of the nasty red welt, and the tiny drops of blood. At the same moment, his spirit caved in.
Somewhere, somebody was giggling delightedly.
Whatever it was that made him acquiesce, it was not lust. It was more pure fear. The woman had an extraordinary power about her, and her words were not to be taken lightly. He wanted to get away from that room, free himself from the cold chain dangling from his wrist, and disappear across the horizon, as fast as he could.
Any price was worth paying to effect his escape. Anything. Even his virginity.
His voice, when it came, was a mixture of a groan, a sob and a whine. It spoke of a crushed spirit, to which the proud and indomitable Mimi was gloriously, totally, utterly insensitive.
“Oh all right, all right… ” He couldn’t believe he was saying the words. They belonged to a stranger.
His pride, shattered, dismal, nonetheless tried to salvage some battered remnant of his self esteem.
He forced some aggression into his voice:
“Just keep that bloody whip to yourself! ”
He realized he was shaking like a leaf.
Mimi smiled ruthlessly, and chucked the whip into the far corner.
“Take your clothes off! “, she commanded, and raised her arms above her head, fingers together.
Then she started snaking her hips again, and moving her stomach in and out. He watched her in horrible fascination, and she watched him. When she turned sideways, she turned her head, and watched him still.
It was a nightmare. He felt sick. If only he’d never come! What a disgusting, depraved, stinking mess to have got into…
He had no choice. He eyed the whip in the corner out of his right eye, and tried to blink away the tears in his left. If only…
There was that damn giggle again. It sounded loud and sniggering. It sounded female…
He removed his jacket, sliding it with difficulty over the length of chain. Then he fumbled at his shirt buttons, and slowly, oh so reluctantly, removed that garment in the same way.

Mimi’s roving eye took in his white skin and reasonably hairy chest with a connoisseur’s eye, wishing he would hurry up. She had customers waiting… The noise from the band downstairs echoed around the room, and she thought of the fat Legionnaire. She had left him dead drunk, and if she didn’t get down soon, he would be unconscious. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Fat men were really boring when they were impotent with drink into the bargain.

His boots. He had to take his boots off. He reached down, and the back of his knees – where Mimi had kicked him – hurt badly. Where on earth had that woman learned her wrestling tricks? She was lethal! He thought of Emmy, and wished she was there to protect him. Emmy! If only she was there. What would she say if she saw him in his present situation?
He pulled the boots off with difficulty, aware he was trembling again. His trousers next. He fingered the buttons on his fly, and realized they were already undone. Mimi’s work. He groaned, and slowly lowered his trousers, revealing his white underpants. Somewhere, somebody giggled again. It wasn’t Mimi.

She performed her erotic routine without any conscious effort, and although she watched him like a hawk, and amused herself with betting on the size of his cock, her main thoughts were elsewhere. There was the fat Legionnaire, the red headed English pilot – what was his name? Maurice? Yes, that was it – and the funny little sergeant. They were definite. The absent looking moody one near the piano was a probable, and so was the one with the big moustache. A profitable evening already, and lots more money to come. If only this stupid little baby would hurry up!
She looked at his little white underpants appearing slowly, inch by inch, and tried to keep the contempt out of her face. As long as the little bastard had a hard on!
Then she could get a move on. The money was good – his comrades had had a whip round – and the orders were clear. He was to lose his virginity. She had promised, and it was a matter of professional pride to see it through. Even if it was getting really boring. Pathetic little creature! She wondered who was going to be best in bed of her waiting customers. Probably the funny little sergeant. The little men somehow all had inferiority complexes. Every single one of them, she had found, needed to prove something all the time. He would probably bonk himself into a state of near apoplexy, and then want a professional judgment on his prowess. The art then would be to strike the balance just right in her response. Too glowing, and he would regard himself as having surpassed her sexual level. Maybe then he would feel he could go on to new conquests, leaving her behind. Too cool, and his male ego would be upset, and he might end up in a huff. The art was to hit just the right balance, and make boring blighters like the little sergeant want to come back to prove more…

Jeremy, feeling humiliated beyond belief, stepped out of his trousers in an agony of reluctance. He looked at her miserably, standing in his white underpants. He was quite oblivious of his socks.

She had to force herself to keep the contempt out of her face and voice. God save us from virgins!
Not only did the little bastard not have a hard on – the undisturbed outline of his white underpants revealed that sad fact clearly enough, he was still wearing his socks! At least they weren’t white…

How old are you, you English baby!? Early twenties? Unbelievable. Where have you been all your life? In a monastery? Ooh-la-lah-la-lah! Still, here goes…

She smoothed her face into a smile, and, still snaking her hips, she brought her elbows together in front of her face, until only one eye was peeping out at her client.
In her most seductive voice – damn that little wimp – she prompted him as sweetly as she could.
“You ARE going to take your socks off, aren’t you, my dah-ling? ”

PLEASE take your socks off, you silly little man! I’ll burst out laughing in a minute, and then you’ll never get it up… Your sort are next to damn useless! Do you know what age I started sex? Ten! That would shock you, wouldn’t it, you well brought up little boy? You’d be even more shocked if you knew it was my father, wouldn’t you? Oh, hurry up for goodness sake… Roll on the little sergeant!

The luxurious rug on the floor felt soft and warm under his feet, but the warmth could not reach his soul.
A cold hand clutched his very heart, and he wished again that he could flee a thousand miles away.
Now what? He couldn’t possibly remove his underpants.
Now what? Now what?

She wrenched her mind back from the funny little sergeant, and wondered how best to handle the present situation. Blow job, probably. The trouble was, there was no way he was going to submit kindly to THAT. She pondered her next move, unhurriedly, and without concern.
She knew things would progress of their own accord.
She was right, as usual.

What to do? What to do? Panic almost engulfed him to the point of wanting to scream.

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Emmy, if you could see me now… And who the hell is doing all the giggling?

Again, he thought he could hear it. He was about to dismiss it as before, and put it down to his imagination and intoxication, when something in Mimi’s eyes made him alert. Something crafty, that slid her gaze – just for a moment – to a curtain at the end of the room.

What the hell…!?

In a second he was crossing the chamber. She made no move to stop him. He made it in four quick strides, and ripped the heavy curtain aside.
The sight that met his eyes staggered him…

* * *

Emmy tried to concentrate on the book, but it was no use. Jeremy. Always Jeremy. She missed him more than she cared to admit. Was she in love with him? Or was it more a maternal caring? She shook her head. They had often agreed that they were more like brother and sister than a couple. Was that the truth? Or was it a convenient cover up to
hide the awkward truth? The truth that she actually fancied him too, and was ashamed of her emotions?
What would it be like to make love with Jeremy Armstrong?
Probably very powerful, she thought. All that inner tension… if that found an outlet in sex… he would probably be insatiable. Did that frighten her?
Was the real reason for the long standing brother/sister act nothing more than that she was frightened of his passionate
make-up? Or…
The unpleasant little thought refused to go away.
Was she more frightened of her own, deep, innermost desires?

The thought was squashed away, deep down, and brushed over quickly with the dust and leaves of a thousand comfortable defensive strategies…
* * *

Behind the curtain, a low bed could be seen, with all sorts of soft dolls and animals. Chains and manacles hung from the wall, as well as other instruments, which Jeremy could not recognize. What really took his breath away however, was the sight of two naked girls, one black, one white.
They had been standing there, bent over, as if they had been peeping through holes in the curtain. Upon their discovery, they now straightened up, quite unalarmed, smiling, almost triumphant. The black girl had huge breasts, bright red lips, and blew a kiss at him. The white girl, smaller, with multiple shades of bright paint daubed liberally all over herself, was evidently the giggler, as she now produced a sample. Then she writhed her hips, and licked her tongue expressively around her lips.
Jeremy, stunned and horrified, backed away as she advanced towards him, stroking her writhing hips. Enjoying his discomfort, both peeping mamas now advanced towards him. Jeremy, utterly dismayed, could only stare at the pink and white breasted female giggling incessantly, and the big black girl, blowing kisses, whilst he retreated. So mesmerized was he by the enemy he faced, that he quite forgot the redoubtable Mimi. That was a mistake. A rope descended past his face, and a split second later he felt a terrific tug. At the same moment, his arms were pinned painfully against his sides.
Struggling in terror now, he gasped as the little pink and white breasted girl unceremoniously punched him hard in the solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for breath.
His three tormentors swarmed over him with ropes and chains. Within seconds he was trussed helpless, gasping still for breath. The room was swimming. The door creaked open, and a grinning face poked itself through the gap.
It belonged to Bernard.
“Having a good time, Jeremy dah-ling? ”
He sang the question in a curiously high pitched voice.
Jeremy, in between gasps, managed a reasonably infuriated snarl:
“Help me, you fool! ”
The grinning face disappeared, and was replaced by another.
This time Mimi took charge. “Eh, vous! ” The finger wagged authoritatively at the voyeurs. “Sortez! We have work to do! You! Go! Maintenant! ” The hyenas disappeared obediently. She walked across and locked the door. Then she removed the key. Jeremy’s heart sank even lower. His mouth was hanging open, but he wasn’t aware of it.
Mimi walked around to face him, looking down in mock disgust.
“You call yourself a man? ” Her look was withering. The pink and white breasted one giggled.
Mimi placed her face close up to Jeremy’s.
He recoiled, trembling.
She stood up again, and slowly, very slowly, started to remove her leotard…

* * *
The Hunter regarded the lady he was with close attention, and decided she was probably the very devil in bed. Was it worth finding out?
He yawned. Everything in due course, he reckoned.
They would win the war first. Then he would settle down and start a family. He still believed they would win the war.
It was going to be harder and tougher than he would have liked, but…
‘War was the father of nations’.
It was an unavoidable process. He wondered what it would be like to have children. Probably a lot of fun.
That he would be a good father, of that he had not the slightest doubt. The process of fathering them, of conquest and victory over the slender figure beside him, filled him with a reasonable amount of curiosity, but no more than that.
When the time came, he would be very good at it, like everything else.

To her, he was not unkind. A trifle arrogant perhaps,
but surprisingly gentle. Considering.

* * *

Mimi naked was an impressive sight. Her torpedo shaped breasts jutted forward voluptuously, the nipples hard and erect. Jeremy had never seen a naked woman before, and he could not stop himself staring at her in awe. His feelings were partly influenced by the position he was in, lying flat on his back, naked, manacled, and the object of the tender attentions of Mimi’s two assistants. The giggler was on her knees beside him, alternating bouts of passionate kissing with fits of hysterical high pitched giggling. The black Amazonian was busying herself around his nether parts, and rubbing him in a manner that was both horrifying and laden with extraordinary sensation. He was torn in different directions; on the one hand, fear and loathing. On the other, a grudging admission that he was fascinated with Mimi’s naked body. He could not remove his eyes from her, and she towered above him as the mistress of ceremonies, supervising the work of her assistants. Jeremy’s horribly fascinated attention was dragged back to the Amazonian, who had now fastened her red lips firmly over his manhood.

NO! For crying out loud! NO! Let me go! LET ME GO!

He realized he was groaning; he couldn’t help it. It was a mixture of horror, fear, breathlessness, and ecstasy.
The Giggler and the Amazonian were doing things to him he was utterly astonished by. Horrified. Disgusted. The whole thing was depraved. The animalish noises from outside only served to intensify his loathing, and he tried desperately to maintain some kind of silence. The two girls kneeling beside him merely laughed, and redoubled their attentions. It was no use… and he found himself groaning and gasping again, even louder this time. When the Amazonian, in one supple, fluid movement, disengaged her mouth and rolled on top of him, he was powerless to resist. He felt the fingers that guided the missile to its target, felt the entry, and shivered in strange spasms as his body surrendered to age old urges and instincts. It went on and on, the writhing, the groaning, the ecstasy, the shivering, the pleading…
He hardly registered the fact that the Giggler had swopped positions with the Amazonian, and was now delightedly bobbing up and down in a kneeling position.
He was gazing only at the ceiling, at a knot in the wood above his head, and trying desperately to suck enough oxygen into his bursting lungs. Mimi, meanwhile, like a sentry overseeing a prisoner, maintained a watchful guard, calculating, measuring, plotting, thinking…
remembering…

You really were a nice boy, weren’t you? You really were as white as the wind blown snow, weren’t you?
I used to be like that. Once, a very long time ago. How many men have I had since? Hundreds. Maybe close on a thousand… All because I met up with men bastards who didn’t see me as anything else but as a plaything.
I was like you, once. What right have you to condemn me? And you do condemn me, don’t you? You think I’m worse than dirt, don’t you? Just because you lived somewhere nice, in a big house probably, surrounded by a caring, loving, protective family. That makes you clean, does it? How would you have coped if you had been in my shoes? With a weak mother, who lived in terror of a bullying, drunken husband? No money, and the rent overdue two weeks?

She stopped herself. It didn’t do to get personal. She snapped at the Giggler, who obediently slid off. Mimi settled down unhurriedly, lying full stretch on Jeremy, her face only inches from his. She established the right rhythm, and listened to his groaning with satisfaction.
Then she kissed him full on the lips.
Was that a kiss of love? Or do I just want to
prove my power over this nice little boy? Am I capable of loving any more? Has the loving part of me long since died and gone away?

In a strange way, she was attracted to this man. She could sense his kindness, his compassion. He was not like the others…
Jeremy turned his face away, surprised. She noticed he was covered in perspiration. His eyes were staring. She continued to try and drive him wilder and wilder, and kissed his neck and throat. He struggled, but quite weakly. Drink and exhaustion were taking its toll. She discovered to her slight surprise that she wanted him to kiss her full on the lips.

Well, hello there… What’s gotten into me? I really WANT you, you big baby! I WANT you to kiss me. NOW. Kiss me, kiss me, NOW!

Jeremy struggled, his eyes shut now, squirming his lips this way and that, trying to avoid her kissing. She felt a long forgotten pang, and grabbed his face in both hands. Then she forced their lips together, and smothered him with kisses. No response. Only a mouth, grimly shut, eyes, shut tight, blocking out the horror.

Damn! I want you, you bastard!

She pinched both his nostrils shut, until he ran out of air. The instant his mouth gasped open, she was in with her long tongue, probing around inside his mouth.

Kiss me back! Kiss me back now! The hell I know why I should want you!
But I do! The first man I’ve really wanted for years! So kiss me! Now!

She redoubled her efforts, watched coldly and indifferently by the Giggler. The Amazonian was more observant, and watched with increasing interest…
It was no use. Jeremy could not help responding to the sexual stimuli, but something in his lips betrayed the lack of human warmth. Mimi felt it, and the hurt of rejection burnt unexpectedly hot and deep. She withdrew slowly, staring intently at the deep blue eyes that looked fearfully up at her.

So that’s the way you feel. Have it your way then…

She composed herself quickly for the benefit of her two assistants, and raised herself to her full height. Staring down at him, with a show of proud disdain, she addressed him and the hidden audience in almost regal tones:
” The English gentleman is no longer a virgin. ”
There were loud cheers from outside, dying down quickly, as everybody strained to hear the next words spoken.
The Giggler emitted her trademark, and the Amazonian put an arm around her shoulders.
Mimi continued:
” Do you approve of us women? ”
She placed an odd emphasis on the word approve. Already her mind was planning ahead to the rest of the evenings clientele. It was a throw away line, a final comment. The show was nearly over, and in another second she would have been getting dressed, half way towards forgetting him. Her momentary gentleness and higher longing was being brushed under the carpet. Ignored. Put down as just one of those odd moments of weakness. The Amazonian gently nibbled the Giggler’s earlobe, who responded by absently massaging her partner’s left breast. If Jeremy had kept quiet, or said nothing untoward, he would have savored the relief of his clothes and his freedom within minutes. Just another client…
He blew it. Unknowingly, unwittingly, he blew it in grand style. He watched the two assistants beginning to warm to each other’s embraces – the Amazonian was beginning to purr delightedly as the Giggler’s fingers explored further – and cold fury came into his eyes. His expression even arrested the black girl’s attention, and, at his words, she whistled, whilst the Giggler stopped what she was doing.
It was only partly what Jeremy said. It was more the way he said it.
“You DISGUST me! Call yourselves women! You’re cheap, nasty, filthy… ”
His words died away. Too late. Mimi, furious, sprang forward and smacked him hard across the face. Her face was white. Jeremy shrank before the expression.
With an anger that surprised even herself, and stunned her assistants, Mimi held him by the throat.
“Don’t you DARE talk to me like that… I’ll show YOU, my fine English friend! ”

The fat Legionnaire was never destined to get his oats that night. Dead drunk, he slid slowly down the wall, quietly singing the words of a sad little song that nobody else could hear. The red headed pilot went off with another Madam, and the funny little sergeant was so busy laughing his socks off at the Englishman who had lost his virginity, that he quite lost his passion. He was too busy gloating in the misery that was written in large letters all over Jeremy’s face. To Jeremy, the rest of his ordeal was pure hell. Round and round the drinking rooms they went, the three girls, scantily clad, dragging the bound, helpless spectacle of Jeremy, naked as a newborn babe, save his socks which Mimi had insisted he wore. In triumphant procession, the ex-virgin was paraded out onto the street, much to the amusement of drunken bystanders, and the misery of the victim. All the while Mimi, brandishing the whip, conducted the spectacle with the passion of a conductor directing his own work for the first time. All revelers were encouraged to ‘baptize’ the ex-virgin in his ‘new life’, which they did, with gay abandon. Beer, wine, cognac, whiskey, cheap schnapps and expensive Port, all were poured freely over Jeremy’s head. His private parts were equally thoroughly ‘baptised’, and there was nothing, but nothing, that a distraught Jeremy Armstrong could do about it. He tried shouting, but no one voice could possibly raise itself above the inferno of noise that erupted at the procession’s approach. Every man, so it seemed to Jeremy, was shouting and cheering at the top of his voice, every woman was screaming, tables were being knocked over in the rush, and legions of unseen feet were stamping on the floorboards. It was a nightmare. He soon was reduced to stumbling through it, reduced to the level of a zombie, a passive spectator to his own humiliation. His mess mates didn’t lift a finger to help, and blurred in with the mass of bodies shouting, screaming, cheering, chanting, pointing, laughing, choking, and gesticulating.
He wished he were dead.

When, eventually, he was deposited unceremoniously back upstairs in the room where his ordeal had began, he was too stunned to appreciate the help extended to him by the one figure who stayed behind to help him find his clothes, and get dressed. The same figure tried to wash and clean some nasty cuts and grazes he had incurred whilst being half dragged past walls and furniture. He however shrugged her off, and staggered, like a debilitated old drunk, out the door and down the staircase. He fell the last ten steps, and picked himself up only slowly, painfully. Then he slowly disappeared into the merciful night. Away. Away from that place.

He was quite unaware of the same figure watching him disappear. The Amazonian, who was above all else lesbian with no real sexual or romantic interest at all in men, watched him go with pity in her heart. Compassion stirred, and she felt that Mimi had gone way over the top.
It was strange. She had never seen Mimi react so violently to a mere insult like that.

Why had the airman’s angry remark pierced her emotions so deeply? The Amazonian, in a gentle mood, felt sorry for Mimi. And the English pilot.

Life, she decided, was strange…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.24

Major W.A.McAllister, R.F.C., recently promoted, was thoroughly enjoying his leave.

The High Society reception, the umpteenth one he had managed to get invited to, was in full swing. Surrounded by beautiful ladies, the center of doting attention, he was in his element describing his adventures.
The wine and champagne had gone slightly to his head, but he was too shrewd to miss an opportunity. There were some very prominent business men around, and it was a matter of necessity to explore his options for once the war was over.
Some had their daughters with them, mostly remarkably desirable, and these he used shamelessly to secure introductions to wealthy and influential people.
From there, it was an easy step to adopt a modest, deprecating attitude towards his past battle victories.
It all followed a pattern…

First: check out which father belongs to which daughter.
Second: Select daughter. Ignore buck teeth, bad breath, incessant chatter, and age.
Third: Be very modest.
Fourth: Wait to be introduced to father.
“Oh, Daddy, this is William! He’s a MAJOR in the Royal Flying Corps! He shoots down Germans. He’s bagged ever so many, haven’t you, darling? ”
Fifth: Squirm with feigned embarrassment. However, allow the truth to be dragged reluctantly out of you.
Sixth: When Father asks anything about future post-war plans, look very concerned, hang your head just a little, and say it is a matter that concerns you greatly.
Seventh: Wait for the inevitable avuncular talk about the wonders of being a member of a particular profession.
Eighth: Fingers crossed, and you might even get a “Come and see me sometime, my boy, come and see me… ”

* * *

He should not have taken leave, he reflected regretfully. It had been a mistake. Same as last time. A mistake…
He gazed across the great divide at Emmy, and longed for her in a way he had never felt so intensely before. She, on one sofa, he, across the room on the other.
Her parents had tactfully gone out, and left them together. Jeremy had been relieved at that, but had soon grown sick at heart as the afternoon had progressed.
The conversation they were having was going nowhere, and they seemed at loggerheads in a way that had never happened before.

Emmy could not understand his apparent indifference towards the men he had killed.To her questions of how he really felt about it, he had shrugged his shoulders, and felt only a great emptiness. Unusually taciturn, he had fidgeted, looked embarrassed, and tried to change the subject. Emmy, resolutely, had steered the conversation back each time to his inner feelings, probing deeply, and asking him what had caused the change in his being. She had felt a frustration, as well as a deep puzzlement.
How this gentle man had changed! He was a killer now…
The thought was abhorrent. She thought of all the broken bodies she attended every day, and felt almost angry at times at this instrument of brutality…
…that was sitting quietly in the half shadows of the early evening, sipping tea, and answering in increasingly monosyllabic grunts.

Jeremy sat and reflected how he had rushed to Emmy’s house on his second day back. How he had entered her house with beating heart, how beautiful she was, how gentle, how feminine… and how vile and sordid and depraved he was. With Emmy… he had once talked of Man’s Destiny, of God, and Death, and noble causes… and now… he had become a tool of… stupidity.
Robert… was she in love with Robert? That…wimp? Why… why did she never ever show any true feelings for him? Was he that far gone?

At length he prepared to take his leave, with aching heart. He stood in the hallway, muttering polite goodbyes, tears strangely not far away. He forced them away, and made an effort to appear relaxed and nonchalant.

Emmy looked as best she could into his eyes, and sensed a great volcano bubbling dangerously. She took a step back, and her hand came up to her mouth. She realized the depth of his struggle at the precise moment the volcano erupted.

He grabbed her roughly, wrapped his arms around her, hurting her ribcage, and clumsily tried to kiss her on the mouth, not knowing what he was doing, but desiring her with all his might.

She hit him across the face as hard as she could, at the same time pushing him away with all the force she could muster.

He reeled back against the wall, his face moving strangely, and flushed crimson.

Then he fled, panic stricken, out the door…

She bolted the door hurriedly.
Then she sank back, and sat on the floor, her back resting against the oak door. She tried to analyze her emotions.
The shrill indignation seemed to drain away remarkably rapidly.
She found herself….puzzled more than frightened.
Puzzled at her own feelings…

* * *

It really was marvelous being a war hero, he decided.
He rolled over in bed, and gazed at the ceiling, placing his hands behind his head.
Another brilliantly successful foray into the world of the rich and famous.
Perhaps… a career as a stockbroker…
There was a lot of money in that.
And there was Philippa. Her father was rich… and she was crazy about him. She had cried at the thought of his going back to war.
War… his forehead creased. Could he wangle another week’s leave by feigning illness?
A stomach bug perhaps?
No… it wouldn’t do. After all the tearful goodbyes from the lovely ladies…
It would spoil the image to go down to a stupid tummy bug.
War…
He HAD to survive. Cost what cost. The others could do the dying. He had done enough. Had he not shot down six Germans? It was enough. He had risked his life,many times. He had done his bit. It was up to the others now. Simple as that…

* * *

Jeremy had managed to avoid gatherings of any kind for the remainder of his leave, but his father had in the end almost pleaded with him to attend some major affair. Apparently there would be many of his father’s customers there, and Mr Armstrong Senior was anxious to ‘introduce’ Jeremy. Mrs Armstrong, for different reasons, had also been anxious to encourage her son to have a night out. Observant as most mothers are to their offspring’s psyche, she was secretly worried about the changes she could sense.

Jeremy had been dragged around by his father, and shown off as a prize poodle. He felt he was on a chain, and was insanely tempted to offer to do some tricks. Perhaps he could ‘fetch’, or balance a ball on his nose. His father’s insistence on telling everyone that his son had shot down two Hun aircraft soon came to almost nauseate him.
What he could see in people’s eyes was mostly awe, or simply undisguised delight. The older men talked of ‘bagging Huns’ as if they were talking of a grouse shoot. War seemed to everybody to be a jolly good sport.
And God Bless the bloody King, I suppose…

Digsby was on his mind. That awful funeral. Those rows of tidy little white crosses.
Baines…
Screaming. Screaming in the middle of the night.
The words came back, hauntingly, eerily…
It’s a girl. This beautiful girl. She’s lying face down on a bed. Crying. Crying her eyes out…
It’s always the same. I move to go towards her, to comfort her. She hears me coming, looks around at me, and screams in terror. She backs into the corner, petrified. I keep asking her what it is I’ve done… I end up shouting, pleading with her…
Oh God, Jeremy, I’ve killed so many more people than I know of…

The evening dragged on with horrendous slowness, and Jeremy wondered over and over again what had possessed him to give in to his mother.
He no longer belonged in this society. What mattered here, what preoccupied people’s minds, was an irrelevance to him.
Do these people know there’s a war on? Not a grouse shoot, but a war, with people getting hurt and dying…

It was a good question, Jeremy reflected. He tried to swallow a mouthful of Saumon d’Ecosse, discovered he hated it, and flushed it down with a hearty swig of Chateau Neuf du Pape. At least the wine tasted good.
He became aware of a bespectacled young lady, wearing a ridiculous shade of face powder (it seemed to turn her face into a mask; a death mask, he thought), who was frowning at him severely. He sighed to himself, unnoticeable to anybody else, twisted his face into a smile, (hating himself while he did it), and addressed her as pleasantly as possible (raising his voice just sufficiently above the hub-bub of supercilious table talk):
“Lovely salmon, isn’t it? ”
He remembered he had been introduced to her. Her father was a stockbroker or something, and a bosom pal of his father’s. He couldn’t remember her name. She pursed her lips primly, and remarked, with a condescending nod of her head (she thought this young man -although splendid in his uniform, of course- a trifle uncouth):
“Of course, it’s Scottish! Don’t you speak French?
Ecosse... That means Scotland! ”
Jeremy, by now a fluent French speaker, sighed. He did not bother to correct her assumption. There was no mistaking the trace of indignation. Her accent was affected. She was from somewhere up Edinburgh way, he guessed. (Although he couldn’t have cared less).
He had better try and make conversation. People would start noticing that he had said nothing for ages.
Although, what was there to say? What, indeed?
He felt as if he were on a different planet.
Lord save us from civilized luncheons!
He cast a despairing look down the table, five or six animated conversations away, to where his parents were earnestly involved in something terribly important.
Lord save us from Saumon d’Ecosse!
He pulled himself together, and decided to make another effort. He looked back to the bespectacled lady with the ridiculous shade of face powder. She was still observing him, (quite fixedly it seemed to him), chewing determinedly on a -presumably- tough piece of bloody old Scottish fish.
He tried smiling again, (guessing she would probably see through his despair immediately), and commented in complimentary terms on the quality of the wine.
She was not impressed with him, however.
“I can’t see how you can tell, young man! “, she said cattily.
“The way you knock it back, I’m surprised you taste it at all! It’s not like drinking beer, you know! ”
He tried hard to smile, but it was hard going.
It transpired she regarded the drinking, no, the sipping of wine, as a sacred ritual.
“First “, she said, picking her glass up delicately,
“…you have to sniff up the bouquet “.
She made a great show of examining the red contents, exaggeratedly sniffing up the delicious aroma of the grape (she hated red wine, preferring sweet white).
“Then you must draw in a mere trifle of wine, sucking in across the surface of the wine in your glass. ”
She demonstrated all this, rather neatly, she thought.
He tried to look studious.
How revolting she looks…
“…and then you must play the wine around over your tongue… ”
At last she swallowed the blessed nectar (how she hated it, give her sweet white any day), and looked at Jeremy with an air of “See? It’s not that difficult with a little practice! ”
No breeding… she thought to herself.
Simply no class at all… such a pity…
He smiled his grateful thanks for the guidance to the betterment of his table manners, and comforted himself with idle speculation.
What, for instance, was the worst they could do to him…
…if he knocked her teeth right down her catty throat?

After luncheon (exquisitely served, of course, a veritable barrage of tidy waitresses scurrying back and forth), he was handed a fat cigar, and the men retired to the smoking room. Jeremy once again felt like a prize exhibit, being shown off by his parents ( “How do you do? “, “So PLEASED to meet you? “), until he reeled under the onslaught of friendly, smiling faces, that fooled him not at all. He wondered at the cutting jibes behind his back, at the jealousy, the petty envy. His father, proud of his son, leading Jeremy around like a show winning pink poodle, basking in the limelight, reveling in the attention.
My son…
My son…
MY son…
MINE…MINE…MINE…

Who, Jeremy reflected grimly, strode along, playing his role, shaking hands, smiling grittily, behaving impeccably (apart from the disaster with that powder puffed scarecrow and the wine drinking lesson), whilst secretly nursing a peculiar desire to scream at the top of his voice…
Do these people know there’s a war on?
Everybody was smiling. Fed to bursting point. Drinking.
Most of the men were overweight. Flabby jowls competed with perspiring, florid foreheads (beads wiped away discreetly with white handkerchiefs which the butler had practiced for hours to fold just the right way) for attention and peer esteem.
Smatterings of conversations reached Jeremy’s ears, but barely registered in his mind.
That letter in The Times…
all quite disgraceful really…
Still, it’s a worthy cause…
Beautiful painting, isn’t it? I got it for a song, really. Hundred guineas. I’d have paid double, you know…
Edward, my dear boy, you’re looking well!
…raise it in the House… quite outraged… amazing technical range of Dickens’ writing… doing well in the Bank, the dear boy… I see possibilities in mining, myself… return on investments…

Jeremy tried to join in once or twice, but found his thoughts returning to the same subject over and over again.
Do these people know there’s a war on?

All the conversations were so animated. There was no regret, no revulsion at the bloodshed. Just a stoic denial of everything that tasted of human feelings or pity for those butchered in the name of King and Country. There was a strange certainty, that theirs was the right way, the only way, and that England and the Empire could be grateful for such sterling manhood as present in this gathering of the creme de la creme.
Yes, he could see the perfect sense. Perfect, beautiful logic.
Saumon d’Ecosse and Chateau neuf du Pape.
Yes. Quite.
That just summed it all up…

Jeremy emptied his nearly full glass in one hit, gulped it down…
turned…
flung the empty glass into the fire place…
watched it shatter…
savored the bouquet of tinkling glass…
the explosion of sudden stunned silence in the room…
turned smartly about…
and marched stiffly left-right-left…
left-right-left-right-LEFT-RIGHT…
out of the smoking room…
down the hall…
past the shocked faces…
past the butler…

and out of polite society…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.23

They were at 9000 feet, and had been patrolling up and down their sector of the line for some forty five minutes. Jeremy was flying formation on Baxter’s right, whilst a funny Scotsman named Mac Robertson formated on Baxter’s left. Occasionally Baxter had waggled his wings, and pointed to principal landmarks. A railway line, a viaduct, a triangular lake, and various sundry major features. This familiarization mirrored the thorough briefing of the morning, during which Baxter had taken pains to acquaint Jeremy with the lie of the land. Jeremy had appreciated the long briefing, and had thought back several times to his early days at Breuve-sur-Pont, and his disastrous landing in the potato field. If only he had received such a briefing off McAllister!
Jeremy’s respect for Baxter only increased as he slowly came to appreciate that Baxter missed nothing. On one or two occasions Jeremy’s mind had wandered back to Breuve-sur-Pont. Maybe a slight glazing of the eyes had betrayed him, but each time Baxter had brought him back with a sudden question. “So tell me, Armstrong, if you’re here… ”
(the pointer would stab the wall map, and maybe there would be a slight emphasis on the ‘if’), “…and you wanted to come home in bad visibility, how would you arrange your track? ” Each time Jeremy would be forced to hurriedly concentrate his mind on the navigational problems involved. On one occasion he had drifted off sufficiently to be stumped by the question. Embarrassed, he had been forced to admit it.
“Errr… sorry Sir, I missed that. ”
He had expected a telling off. A McAllister style stream of sarcasm. He was wrong. Baxter, without a trace of irritation, explained it all once more. Jeremy breathed again. However, at the end of the lecture, Jeremy had been minutely examined on his new knowledge. The re-examination had been startlingly testing, and Jeremy was left with no illusions: with Baxter around, student diligence and one hundred per cent participation were an absolute necessity.
It had been a relief to get airborne. And actually quite interesting to follow Baxter’s outstretched arm, and try to identify the feature indicated. He also learned to appreciate Baxter’s funny methods. Baxter made his people rely less on the compass and more on using line features.
There were numerous examples. A long driveway up to a posh chateau, also pointed straight at their airfield. To distinguish it from other driveways, Baxter had pointed out the ornamental lake half way down. There was also an interesting curved lake, with what looked like a dam across the middle. Baxter referred to the lake as the ‘bow’, and the dam as the ‘arrow’. Follow the arrow, and you arrived at… the chateau. Clever stuff. It was a whole new way of approaching the problem of low level or bad weather cross country navigation.

Jeremy’s respect for Baxter’s caution increased when they spotted what were almost certainly enemy aircraft in the distance, across the lines. Five little dots, in loose formation, heading south. Baxter had specifically briefed that he wished to avoid combat unless the aircraft were engaged in reconnaissance over the British sector. “Until we’ve had a good look at your formation and dogfighting skills “. Considering that Jeremy was no novice, fresh out of training school, he appreciated the concern for his welfare. Contingency plans existed however for the event a scrap was inevitable. Again, Baxter had briefed astonishingly thoroughly in this aspect, and covered all the possibilities. In the event of a large force, Baxter would signal Jeremy to return to base immediately, and then engage the enemy with Mac. In the event of a single scout, or a single photo observation aircraft, then Jeremy would tag along, observe Baxter and Mac engage, whilst keeping a respectful distance, and a sharp lookout. In the event he spotted approaching aircraft, and Baxter and Mac, engaged in combat, did not, then, for that eventuality too, he had been briefed. He was to turn and face the approaching aircraft, waggle his wings, and fire his guns whilst pointing vigorously.
In the event, once the enemy force was spotted, Baxter kept a safe distance. The opposing formation was staying firmly over on their own side.

Soon, they were on the way home. Here once again, the incredibly detailed Baxter briefing came to fruition. At a signal from the leader, a nervous Jeremy took over to lead the formation home. He had never led a three ship formation, and was both excited and frightened by this new challenge. He had been warned to concentrate on navigation, and not to study the aircraft formating on him. Even so, he could not resist a sneak glance at the aircraft on his right, which seemed to be trying to stuff its propeller though Jeremy’s favorite starboard aileron. It was so close, that he could hear the Wolseley Viper engine above the racket his own made. It made him nervous. He glanced quickly. It was Baxter’s machine. Immediately, he saw a hand come up, jabbing a forefinger in a forwards direction. Eyes ahead! Baxter missed nothing!
On the way home, Jeremy made one mistake. He caught it after a few minutes. Again, the briefing had covered this eventuality. He had been told that if he made a mistake, the others would follow him for a limited period of time, typically no more than ten minutes. Then, one or other would slide forward and take over the lead. Jeremy, well past a turning point, realised he was heading well out of their area, and panicked. Far too keyed up, he swung his nose around in a hurry, forgetting for a moment that he had an aircraft following him closely. For one brief second in time he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a silhouette floating towards him. Situational awareness flooded back to him, and he flinched, his brain whirling. He had been briefed to perform all turns gently, and now he had broken that cardinal rule! Within a split second, the silhouette had gone, and Jeremy rolled out on his new heading. Forcing himself not to look back, he concentrated fiercely on his navigation. But it was some time before his breathing returned to normal. He arrived back at the airfield, and, obeying the briefing, he orbited the field at five thousand feet. He saw Mac’s aircraft peeling away to land, and watched Baxter distancing himself at the same altitude. Jeremy thought back to the briefing, and licked his lips nervously.
He now had to demonstrate to Baxter that he could fly all basic manoeuvres well. He had to start with steep 360 degree turns, both to the left and to the right. He had been briefed not to lose any height.
The left turn went quite well. But he lost height in the right turn. That meant he had to do it again. He climbed back to five thousand feet, and tried again. Better. But he was out of balance, and wrestling with the controls. He seemed to lose a lot of airspeed.
He moved on to stalls, and flew half a dozen recoveries, with and without power. The powered recoveries were quicker, with virtually no height loss, whereas recoveries without power resulted in a loss of two hundred feet or so.
Then came deliberate spins. He had not practiced spinning since he had come to France, and the prospect frightened him. His first attempt was a rushed affair. He closed the throttle, and eased the stick back to prevent the nose dropping. The aircraft slowed down quite rapidly, and he watched the airspeed needle fall towards the danger area.
Then, as he slowed to the stalling point, he continued to pitch the nose up by exerting more and more back pressure on the stick. The aircraft wallowed and buffeted, and nodded its nose. Still he maintained the back pressure, awed at the slowing propeller blade, and the unnatural feel of the stick in his stomach. Abruptly the nose dropped, indicating a stall, and in that precise moment he kicked on full left rudder. As well as dropping down, the nose of the aircraft also started to slither off to the left.
This indicated the start of the spin, and was too much for Jeremy. Before the nose had yawed very far at all, he rushed straight into the recovery technique, without waiting any longer. Full opposite rudder to stop the nose sliding away, stick forward to get the air moving smoothly over the wings again, and full power.
The Wolsely Viper roared into life again, and the SE5a accelerated easily away from its unnatural attitude.
Jeremy realized he was trembling like a leaf. How he hated spins! Baxter had told Jeremy he wanted to see one good spin recovery. More, “if he felt like it “.
Jeremy wondered if he would leave well enough alone. It had been a feeble little spin really. Would he do one more for luck? He decided not to. Then changed his mind. Then became angry with himself. In this unhealthy frame of mind, he closed the throttle roughly, and watched the airspeed indicator needle dropping back. Instead of easing the stick back, counteracting the tendency for the nose to drop with smooth application of elevators, he abruptly hauled the stick back into his stomach, and then, -determined bravery overcoming caution-, he booted on full left rudder.
The results were amazing. The aircraft seemed to take on a will of its own, and the sequence of events of the next several seconds blurred together. It appeared that the aircraft reared nose up for a split second, before tipping dramatically over onto its back. It seemed to rotate around a full circle upside down, before the nose dropped away, and the aircraft continued spinning wildly to the right. Jeremy, open mouthed, long since a passenger and no longer the pilot, could only stare in wide eyed amazement as earth and sky chased one another around. Only when the aircraft adopted a reasonable erect spin, with the horizon somewhere reasonably where he expected it to be, did Jeremy’s brain slowly unfreeze.
Haltingly, he went into recovery mode. He applied opposite rudder, feebly at first, then more firmly as he felt the aircraft responding, and the spin slowing down.
The stick went forward, and, once the aircraft was no longer spinning, but diving in a straight line, he pulled back on the stick and leveled out. His heart beating madly, and blood rushing in his ears, he was aware he had forgotten something. It took him several seconds to remember to open the throttle again. The reassuring beat of the Wolsely Viper returned, and he checked his altimeter. 4300 feet! He had never lost that much height in a spin before. Baxter would be furious!
Slowly he climbed back to 5000 feet, knowing he was in for a big dressing down. Why practice spins anyway! It seemed a pointless exercise to him. He could not ever imagine accidentally entering a spin. So why bother?
He searched and found Baxter’s aircraft, and imagined cold eyes following his every move. He groaned, wishing he could go in and land. He could imagine no better place to be than in his room, with the door locked, shut away from everyone. He felt sick.

The next stage called for Baxter to simulate an attack on Jeremy. Jeremy was to take all evasive action he thought appropriate, with only one overriding consideration: he was expressly forbidden to dogfight below two thousand feet. “On pain of death “, Baxter had said, wagging a finger in front of Jeremy’s nose. “Pretend the ground starts at two thousand feet “.
A wing rock from Baxter would indicate the duel was over.
Jeremy found himself wishing the fight was over now. He longed to land, and walk away. Forever, across the horizon, never to return to France. What insane urge… had driven him to want to fly in the first place?

He leveled at 5000 feet, and with a sick lurch of his stomach, he noticed Baxter breaking off his watchful orbit, and heading straight for him.
Obeying what training he had received on the subject of dogfighting techniques, Jeremy turned to face his attacker. He was surprised how quickly Baxter seemed to close the gap, and how long it seemed to take to complete the turn to confront him. He realized his airspeed had bled off a bit in the turn. He was down to 65 knots, but before he had much time to do anything about it, Baxter was on top of him, filling the sky.
With eyes widening in horror, Jeremy wondered what to do, until suddenly Baxter seemed to climb up incredibly quickly. Jeremy watched the other SE5a appear above his top wing, and, not knowing what to do, flew straight on, whilst staring in amazement at the other machine. Baxter did something, and his aircraft responded crazily, going from high speed to low speed very quickly, and from a nose up climbing attitude to a nose down dive almost instantaneously. Too late Jeremy saw the danger, and tried to turn around. He was only too well aware that Baxter now had both height and speed in hand to coil round onto Jeremy’s tail.
Try as he might, he could not prevent Baxter from securing a good position.
By now the spirit of the hunt had gripped Jeremy, and the fear that rose in him at being the hunted was sufficiently real to shake him into frantic action. He tried to tighten the turn to slip away, put, although he had the stick in his stomach, a quick backward glance showed Baxter now glued to his tail. His airspeed was also bleeding off rapidly, and he shoved the stick forward into a dive. His speed increased, but he knew without looking that Baxter would not be troubled by such a simple manoeuvre. His brain raced, and he hauled back on the stick again. His machine zoomed into a steep climb, and simultaneously Jeremy tried a steep turn. He turned through 180 degrees in a climb, and then shot a backwards look: Baxter was still there.
Jeremy cursed. He rammed the stick forward, picked up speed again, and tried the same evasive manouevre once more.
A steep climb, followed by a tight turn. He went the other way this time, but fared no better. Baxter was still there.
By now anger was setting in. The fear and foreboding he had felt earlier was being replaced by a flip reaction: aggression. He dived once more, a steep climb this time, picking up plenty of speed, and then entered the steepest climb he ever had. He seemed to shoot up almost vertically. Then he tried to turn steeply again, but in his haste his coordination between stick and rudder was poor. He applied right stick but forget to match it with right rudder. What made matters worse, he still had some left rudder applied. The aircraft seemed to hang in an unnatural manner nose up for several seconds, before it fell away to the right, rolling partly upside down before the nose swung down, the fields came up, and he found himself pulling out of a screamingly fast dive. The acceleration forces working on his body were more than he remembered experiencing, and they seemed to want to crush him down in the cockpit. He wondered if the wings would hold, and was relieved to find himself flying along straight and level. He looked around, just in time to see Baxter pulling out from behind his tail, and manoeuvering into a position alongside. The other SE5a’s wings rocked, and Jeremy, hot with battle nerves, wasn’t sure if he was relieved or sorry. He followed down, and allowed Baxter to get well ahead.

The wind was westerly, and Jeremy faced into wind at 800 feet. He was a bit high, and closed the throttle to increase his rate of descent. Below he could see Baxter taxying in. Doubtless he would watch Jeremy’s landing carefully.
Let this be a good one!
Mentally he clicked through the landing drills. He had to remember not to float too high. He could see a lot of folk around.
His first landing at his new squadron! It just had to be a good one…

The approach felt good, and he sailed over the hedge feeling comfortable. At the right time he eased back on the stick to round out. Not too much so he would hurtle skywards again, not too little so he would fly into the deck. His speed was rapidly decaying now, and it felt just right.
Gently now…
The wheels were sinking closer to the ground.
Unhurriedly, he allowed her to settle down, resisting all temptation to rush things, or to make violent stick movements. She settled down nicely, with only the very slightest of bounces, and stayed running smooth and straight. Just before she stopped, he applied a burst of power plus a boot ful of rudder, and turned towards the hangars.
He grinned.
It was one of his best ever landings.

* * * *

As he switched off, and climbed out stiffly, he saw that Baxter had already moved off. A very ancient looking groundsman, who looked as if he should have been in a rocking chair, inserted the wheel chocks, and then bent up, stretched painfully, and looked at Jeremy.
When he spoke, it was a quiet,slow, thoughtful voice.
“Major Baxter will see you in his office, Sir. ”
Jeremy nodded, and tried to keep the mixed bag of emotions he felt out of his face.
“Been here long? “, he inquired, with his usual kindness to the lower ranks.
The ancient groundsman looked at him thoughtfully, and seemed to study him a long time. Jeremy, his thoughts muddled, and preoccupied with his flight, was about to turn away, when the groundsman spoke. He was even quieter than before, and had the air of a man who said very little.
“Long enough, Sir, long enough. ”
There was a pause.
“Nice landing, Sir. ”
Jeremy looked at him sharply, then grinned. He was pleased with the compliment. Then he was serious again, his face changing abruptly back to reveal his worries.
“Thanks. I wish the rest of the flight had been as good. Major Baxter decided to put me though my paces. ”
The ancient groundsman studied him quietly again.
He seemed to complete his observations, nodded slightly, and looked into the distance.
Jeremy slung his scarf over his shoulder, brushed his hair back from his forehead, and started walking away.
A voice floated softly behind him.
“You’ll be alright with Major Baxter, Sir “.
Something made Jeremy stop in his tracks, and he turned around, smiling. It was unusual for the lower ranks to make such comments about superior officers.
The old man’s face was serious.
When he spoke again, his voice had an earnest ring to it.
“He’s a good man, Sir. ”
Jeremy nodded, and walked on.
Funny. The Old Man had sounded almost as if he had been defending Baxter…

* * * *

When Jeremy entered Baxter’s office, he was not sure what to expect. He was quite sure he was in deep trouble over his sudden turn whilst leading the formation, and his second spin. He guessed he hadn’t done that wickedly bad, considering, on everything else. Then again…

Baxter was writing, and in the thirty seconds or so while he was finishing, Jeremy’s morale started to dive. Maybe… maybe he had made a right pig’s ear of it. Maybe…

Baxter’s opening round took Jeremy by surprise.
“Well, what do YOU think? ”
It was a neutral question. Nothing could be divined from the way Baxter had expressed it. Jeremy found himself at a loss for words.
He would have to get used to Baxter’s style. McAllister would never have started a debrief like that.
“Well… “.
He played for time, trying to marshal his thoughts.
“I know I made some bad mistakes. ”
Baxter’s eyebrows rose up, and a slight angling of the head seemed to say: “Really? What were they? ”
Jeremy decided to play straight.
“I turned to the right too sharply when I was leading the formation. That was dangerous. It happened because I realized I’d got lost. The second spin… ”
What could he say about the second spin? He was completely confused about it. He shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“The dogfight… I guess if you’d have been a Hun I’d have been dead. ” He paused, wondering whether to go on, and decided to leave it at that.
Baxter eyed him with interest. When he spoke at last, his voice was cold but calm.
“Yes, you did make some serious mistakes,and,yes, if I had been a Hun, you’d have been stone dead. ”
Jeremy’s heart sank. The cold, clinical voice proceeded with a very detailed debrief on the entire flight, punctuated with lots of questions. After an hour, Jeremy was very tired, and feeling the effects of a long hard day. He was also mystified. He had expected a drubbing over his second spin, but that had only been mentioned in passing. Baxter had said he ‘liked it’. Nothing else.
Jeremy was relieved when Baxter asked him if he had any further questions. Jeremy had shaken his head. He had been dismissed, and got as far as putting his hand on the door handle, before he remembered the second spin.
He paused, wondering whether to bring that subject up again. It was inviting a telling off, but still…
He turned around, and saw Baxter was observing him closely.
“Sir, there was one more thing… ”
Baxter’s eyebrows rose up questioningly.
“That second spin… ”
Jeremy stopped, unsure how to continue. Baxter seemed amused.
“So you HAVE got further questions? ”
He motioned Jeremy to take his seat again.
Jeremy, confused, sat down again. His discomfort was not eased when it became obvious that Baxter expected him to proceed with his question. He felt a fool.
“Sir… I have to be honest and say I haven’t really got a clue what happened. ”
There. He had blurted out the truth, and now he was in for it. Still…
To his surprise Baxter did not seem remotely surprised. Or angry. He just seemed to be nodding his head gently.
When he spoke, it was a soft murmur.
“No, I dare say you haven’t. ”
Jeremy was now completely confused. If Baxter suspected that, why hadn’t he brought it up?
Baxter grabbed a piece of chalk, and walked over to a blackboard. Jeremy tried to imagine McAllister’s stylish office with a blackboard.
“Tell me, Armstrong, what is a spin exactly? ”
Jeremy groaned inwardly, and tried to remember back to flying school.
“Sir, it’s a… simultaneous rotation around all three axes. ”
Baxter eyed him.
“And what does that actually MEAN, lieutenant? ”
Jeremy winced. He tried to explain, with hand movements, but got quite confused. Baxter patiently let him dig himself into all sorts of holes, asking questions based on Jeremy’s explanations, which only confused Jeremy further. Baxter had a funny knack of taking everything his student offered to a seemingly logical conclusion, which on closer examination however turned out to be a quiet mockery of Jeremy’s explanations.
Jeremy was pretty sure that his first definition was right. Something he had learned parrot fashion at flying school. But to Baxter’s logic he had no answer.
“If the aircraft is rolling around all three axes, does that mean it ends up upside down? ”
“Errr…no, Sir “.
“Come come now. You just told me that the imaginary line running through the aircraft from propeller tip to tail is the longitudinal axis. Yes? No? ”
“Errr… yes, Sir “.
“Well then. If the aircraft rolls around that axis in a spin, then surely it must end up upside down? ”
Baxter had picked up a model, which he proceeded to roll upside down with gusto.
Jeremy wished he had never asked. He was now completely confused.
At length, Baxter seemed to relent, and sat himself down.
Jeremy wondered if he was being laughed at. His suspicions deepened when Baxter suddenly flashed a huge big beaming smile at his victim.
“You give up? ”
Jeremy nodded.
Baxter was suddenly all serious again.
He placed his fingertips together, and eyed his student severely.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Armstrong. ”
Jeremy winced inwardly.
“You will never, repeat NEVER, get into trouble for asking questions when you don’t understand something. I want you to learn. It’s difficult to learn when you’re afraid to ask in case you get your head blown off. ”
Jeremy thought of McAllister, and found himself nodding in agreement.
Baxter eyed him closely.
“But. You WILL get into trouble for NOT asking questions when it’s obvious you haven’t got a clue what’s happening to your aircraft… ”
Jeremy knew Baxter was referring to the second spin.
“I was hoping you would ask me about your little adventure… ”
Jeremy wondered if ‘little adventure’ was an apt description.
“…because now we can make some progress. ”
Jeremy was baffled. This man’s logic was totally different from what he was used to. But… he liked what he heard…

There followed a detailed analysis of Jeremy’s ‘little adventure’.
By the time he left Baxter’s office an hour later, it was as if a great light had gone on inside his head. So THAT was what had happened.
Very interesting.
He walked to the mess, musing quietly to himself.
Somewhere, deep down, he had a feeling he had been put to the test that day. And he had not failed.
The Old Man’s earnest words came back to him:
“You’ll be alright with Major Baxter, Sir. ”
Jeremy thought it over.
He rather suspected the Old Man might be right…

* * * *

Baxter smiled to himself as he studied Jeremy’s file again. He read and re-read the entry he had just made.
“Honest fellow. Admits his mistakes. Tries hard. Willing to learn. Will make a good pilot one day. ”
He replaced the folder in the filing cabinet, slid it shut with a bang, and headed off for a bath.

He was humming quietly…

* * *

The next day, Jeremy’s long awaited leave came through,
and he found himself packing for two weeks of home.
He had been waiting for it for so long, that it now took on
on an unexpected dimension: he found that part of him
was sorry to go. The emotion puzzled and perturbed him.
It made no sense. He shook his head as he debated what he wanted to do most when he finally got home. Oddly enough, no one thing stood out.

He decided he was probably just tired. A rest would do him good. It would be terrific to see the old gang again.

He convinced himself that he could hardly wait…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.22

It was a full three days before Jeremy was summoned once again to McAllister’s office. He used the time to rest and recuperate. The strange experience of sitting around, inactive, in a mess with a war going on, made him go deeply introspective again. He had many serious conversations, as well as one crazy drunken binge.
He was convinced McAllister was going to get him slung out of the RFC. Everybody was sympathetic.
“Bit of bad luck, old chap, eh? ”
That seemed to be the general opinion. There was warmth and genuine enthusiasm at his safe return, Jeremy reflected sourly. He was being welcomed back to go and try and kill himself again. So why, oh why, did he feel grief stricken at the thought of being drummed out of this crazy war?
He wrote a pile of letters to his parents, relatives, and Emmy. He mentioned the incident, although not the likely repercussions, and the accusations that McAllister had made.

Standing in front of McAllister’s desk again, Jeremy felt stoically resigned to what was coming. McAllister was on his back now, and had given his own pre-conceived interpretation to the whole incident. Now he was having Jeremy booted out of the service. It was perhaps just as well. He could go home and forget the whole stupid war. The inevitable shame and tittle-tattle that would surround him was just something he would have to grin and bear. He could resume his interest in building aircraft, and take up writing poetry again.
He hoped his equanimity showed in his face. He did not want McAllister to see hurt or shame there.

McAllister busied himself for a long time with his paperwork. When at length he looked up, he seemed almost reluctant. He studied Jeremy for a while, and then cleared his throat.
“I have forwarded my… aaaah, recommendations to Group, Armstrong, and I have now received their reply. ”
He waited for a reaction. None came. Jeremy stared woodenly ahead.
“They have studied your record, and they agree with me that… ”
He paused. Jeremy wondered why his chief was so reluctant to pronounce the sentence.
“…that your record needs looking at. Accordingly, you are being transferred to forty five squadron at Aix-en-Chapelle, where you will report to Major Raymond Baxter. ”
McAllister tried to look as sternly as possible.
“You will find Major Baxter a very… determined person. You are to leave immediately. That is all. Goodbye, Mr Armstrong. ”
Jeremy wished his Commanding Officer goodbye, saluted smartly, and left the office.
His brain was numbed by the unexpected turn of events.

Your record needs looking at…

What did that mean? Why was he being transferred? Not booted out? Astonishing! Still, any place had to be better than this god forsaken hole, and the thought of at last getting away from McAllister filled him with relief.

He packed hurriedly, and found he did not want to say goodbye to anybody. The driver picked him up, and without a backward glance he passed through the gates, sitting stiff and erect, and outwardly unemotional.
Underneath it all, he felt choked up.
He was going to miss those guys…

* * *

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before the car pulled up at Aix-en-Chapelle, and he was left standing with his bags outside what looked like an old farmhouse.
A sign read ‘Forty-five squadron’, and he entered.
A spotty faced young serviceman with a disagreeable manner sullenly directed him to the duty sergeant’s office, and he soon found himself ushered in to Major Baxter’s office. The Major rose to meet him, and shook hands firmly. Jeremy was motioned to a chair, and studied his new C/O. He found himself looking at a man in his late thirties, gaunt, erect, with a bushy mustache and penetrating eyes. Baxter was smiling, but some sixth sense warned Jeremy not to cross this man. His immediate gut feeling was that this was a man he would respect a lot more than Captain McAllister.
Baxter had been reading a report in front of him, and Jeremy guessed he him self was the subject.
Baxter was eying Jeremy carefully, whilst lighting a cigarette. He offered Jeremy one, which was gratefully accepted. Jeremy tried to imagine McAllister offering him a cigarette. He couldn’t visualize it.
Baxter blew a large smoke ring towards the ceiling, and settled back comfortably. When he spoke, it was quite mildly. Jeremy was on guard however.
“I have read your file, which I must say is very detailed. I have also read of your recent adventures. I now have a good idea of how your former C/O. sees your abilities as an officer and a gentleman… ”
Jeremy wondered if there was a slight amount of mischief in those eyes.
“I would now like to hear your side of the story. Tell me how you feel about your services to King and Country. Eh? ”
Baxter’s eyebrows had risen quizzically, but there was no sarcasm there. It was just a neutral inquiry. Jeremy was a bit taken aback.
It was not what he had expected.
He coughed, and wondered how to start. Baxter motioned with his hand.
“Take your time. Use your own words. Tell me in detail. There’s no rush. I’m a good listener. ”
Jeremy believed him. He drew a deep breath, and started…

“Well Sir, I think it is fair to say that Captain McAllister and myself were unable to… ”
He paused, frowning hard. He looked at Baxter. His gaze was returned quietly, devoid of expression.
“…we were unable to… strike up a good mutual relationship. ”
There wasn’t even a flicker from Baxter, and Jeremy continued haltingly.
“Captain McAllister… feels I am a bad pilot. He also suspects me of cowardice… ” Jeremy paused again, unsure how to continue. Baxter looked at him with interest.
“And you, Mr Armstrong, do you think you’re a bad pilot? And a coward? ”
The voice was calm, neutral.
Jeremy hesitated, then took the plunge.
“No Sir, I do not. I’ve made mistakes, but so does everybody. I’ve learned from them. As for the cowardice… that arises from the recent incident. With respect to Captain McAllister, Sir, he’s wrong. ”
Jeremy ended on a firm note. Baxter thought it over, but refrained from comment.
“Tell me about your landing in the trees “.
Jeremy obliged, trying hard to copy Major Baxter’s pragmatic unemotional style. He tried to be honest about his mistakes, but at the same time firmly stuck to his version of events. He finished with a determined “And that’s the truth, Sir “. Then he sat back and waited.
He wondered if he was now going to be roasted alive. Was this the point at which Baxter jumped up and down and started shouting at him?
But Baxter merely grunted. More cigarette smoke. Then a quiet order:
“Show me on the map where you crashed. ”
Jeremy obliged. Baxter said nothing for a while. Then, mildly:
“I know that area. Very heavily forested. Quite craggy as well. Bad place for an engine failure. ”
Jeremy was about to blurt out: “Precisely, Sir, perhaps you could inform Captain McAllister! “, but checked himself just in time. Baxter had however noticed his reaction.
He raised his eyebrows again:
“Yes, Mr Armstrong? ”
Jeremy shook his head.
“Nothing, Sir. ”
Baxter studied him quietly for a while.
“Anything else you want to say? ”
Again, Jeremy shook his head.
Baxter stood up, a sign that the interview was over.
“Tomorrow we fly, you and I. I’ll show you our sector, and we’ll do some simulated dogfighting on the way home.
Any questions? ”
Jeremy thought, and answered “No, Sir “.
He had reached the door before Baxter’s voice spoke again, lazily:
“By the way, Jeremy, do you ride? ”
Jeremy was momentarily confused.
“Ride, Sir? ”
“You know, horses. Four legged creatures. Bloody nags. Can’t stand ’em myself. Make me sneeze. ”
Jeremy found himself relaxing into a half smile.
“Yes, Sir, I do enjoy riding actually. Used to ride with the hunt. ”
Baxter nodded absently.
“Thought you might. There’s a good stables down the road.How they’ve hung on to them in war time God only knows. But they’ll rent you some good nags if you turn up in uniform. The patron has a son in the French Armee de l’Air. ”
“Thank you, Sir, I’ll bear it in mind. ”

He left Major Baxter’s office in deep thought. The contrast between McAllister and Baxter was startling, to say the least. He had a feeling he was being looked at very carefully. He also had a feeling that to cross Baxter was an infinitely more dangerous activity than arguing with McAllister…

Baxter watched from his window as his new officer walked away. He drummed his fingers on the sill, and then returned to his chair. He opened Jeremy’s file again, and studied it once more. Then he picked up a pen, and scrawled the words: “Comes across very reasonable at interview. Admits his mistakes. Not a bad egg. Personality clash with previous C/O? ”
Then he studied the report again.
When he was finished, he walked back to the window.
He reflected on the interview. Interesting. Very interesting. Colonel Raymond Rimell at group HQ always sent him the oddballs. He thought of the phone call he had received. Quite obviously Rimell was suspicious that there had been something altogether too eager, too obsessive in McAllister’s insistence that the book be bashed hard over Jeremy Armstrong’s favorite head.

Hmm… He looked forward to figuring this guy out.
One thing was for sure. Lieutenant Armstrong had certainly upset Captain McAllister.
In a big way.

McAllister had wanted him court-martialed…

* * *

The crushed little girl who left hospital after two weeks, was only a shadow of the proud young woman who had once flirted so gaily with the menfolk. The good sisters came out and waved her an enthusiastic ‘goodbye’, but she hardly even responded. Although she didn’t want to stay in hospital, she didn’t want to leave either, somehow preferring the familiar.
Once home, it was weeks before she would even leave the house. She suffered constant nightmares, and frequently woke up screaming. The dark terrified her, and she would run, sobbing heart brokenly, out of her bedroom.
She refused to eat altogether at first. Her distraught father, not knowing what to do, had eventually enlisted the services of a distant aunt, who was old, motherly, and wise. Aunt Agnes had been on the planet a long time, and unlike some of her generation, had few illusions left. She combined a down to earth realism however with a cheerful pragmatism and great patience.
When she first saw Genevieve again, she had been privately shocked. The child she remembered as a healthy teenager had lost over two stone in weight. Her eyes were sunken and dull, yet could suddenly dart around fearfully. Sudden noises, sudden movements, all would bring about an unmistakable reaction of fear. Fingers that would clutch together, shoulders that would hunch down, a mouth that would drop open in a silent cry.
The eyes… The saddest part. The fearful look of the hunted, terrified animal.

Aunt Agnes camouflaged her true feelings with a breezy demeanor, and first set about quietly obtaining her charge’s confidence. They knew one another only vaguely, having met only four or five times. Mostly at funerals.
This process consisted of trying to coax the hurt mind out into the open again. To talk, communicate.
As time went by without success, Aunt Agnes kept up a pleasant flow of gossip, humor, and funny stories. She also read out stories. Flaubert’s ‘Madame Bovary’. Balzac’s ‘Pere Goriot’. With the latter tale, she saw the first smile flit across the face staring at the wall, and she almost cheered. The recovery was underway.
At times, when Genevieve slipped away into blessed sleep, aunt Agnes too would ponder the life time of hurt inflicted in a matter of minutes. Poor child. The physical pain meant little. Pain passed. But the mental pain. The loss of trust. The strange guilt feelings.
It would always be with her in some way…
Poor, poor Genevieve.
Her time would come however. She would pull through. Maybe meet a man. A kind man. Who would show her what real loving was all about.

Then the old lady would think of her late husband. How long was he dead? Twenty years? She still missed him. How kind he had been. How utterly in love, all his life. She smiled. Maybe the passing of time had blinded her a little to his lesser virtues. A love of spending money. Irritability first thing in the morning. Lack of diplomacy.
She smiled. A good man though. A good, kind, decent man.

She would tuck her charge up, and try and tip toe out.
If she was lucky, she too would get some sleep. For a while at least. If not, screams would echo around the house. Aunt Agnes would run as fast as she could, and start talking even before she opened the bedroom door.
“It’s all right, child. I’m here! It’s only a dream! ”
She would fling open the door, and rush in to comfort.
Occasionally she would find the bed empty, the covers flung aside. Then she would have to look around the room.
She would find Genevieve cowering terrified behind the curtains, or beside the wardrobe, or even underneath the bed.
“There’s a man! A man! There! There! ”
A trembling finger would point at the shadows. Aunt Agnes would throw her arms around the little bundle of misery, and cuddle her, swaying gently back and forth.
“There now, child, there now. It’s only a dream. Only a dream… ”
A shadow would appear in the doorway. Genevieve’s father, tears pouring silently down his face, would stand there, helpless, grieving for his child.

Sometimes, aunt Agnes reflected grimly, it felt as if that wicked man had wantonly wrecked not one, but two lives…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.21

Dawn came slowly, and found Jeremy sitting on a fallen tree trunk, barely alive. He was utterly exhausted. He had tripped and fallen many times, and he was quite unsure of the direction in which he had traveled. The ground mist had thinned out a bit during the night, enabling him to plot a rough course from the stars. He had recognized the Plow, Orion, and the Polar Star. But towards dawn, the ground mist had formed again, aided by a very slight breeze. He had lost sight of the stars, and, fearful lest he freeze to death, he had stumbled on blindly.
Now he could go no further. He was almost resigned to his fate. Surely nothing else could go wrong.
Surely…

He had reached the edge of a large clearing. It seemed about half a mile wide. He wondered if he had reached the edge of the forest. Perhaps he would be coming to the lines soon. He wondered about turning himself in to the first German sentry. He was hardly in any shape to try crossing back to his own side.
It was while these sombre thoughts trickled like old syrup through his numbed brain, that a rifle shot suddenly rang out. It was surprisingly loud. He jumped to his feet, wondering if it had been aimed at him. Looking around, his heart sank as he observed a row of soldiers, spread out in a line, advancing up the clearing towards him. He swore, produced his pistol, and fired a quick shot in their general direction. With that he turned and fled back into the wood.
He cursed himself for sitting in such an exposed position. Now he would soon have half the German army after him. He ran as best he could, but it was a pitiful stumble. He could no longer feel his feet, and he seemed to be permanently out of breath. His chest hurt, and his lungs seemed on the point of being cut to ribbons by the piercing cold air.
How long he stumbled along for, he didn’t know. Occasionally he heard shouts behind him, but they seemed to grow weaker and further away. After what seemed an eternity of fighting pain, he sank to his knees, and cast around him for a hiding place. But no sooner had the comforting thought crossed his mind to rest up for a while, than he was forced to dismiss it. Only a blind fool could fail to follow his tracks through the frost and snow. Tears came to his eyes again, and he forced himself to his feet. By keeping as much as he could under the trees, and by sticking to hard ground, he dragged himself onwards, striving to leave as little trail as possible. Once he thought he heard dogs baying in the distance. That terrified him. But the sound seemed to fade as quickly as it had come.

It seemed he had made good his escape. He eased up a bit, and congratulated himself. As long as he kept going steadily, he would be fine. This mood of satisfaction made a pleasant change from the miserable depression he had suffered during the night, and an almost juvenile sense of ‘mischief carried out successfully’ settled upon him.
It was therefore a great shock when he rounded a tree, and crashed with a painful grunt straight into a rifle toting soldier coming the other way. Jeremy’s world turned turtle for the second time in twenty four hours, and he landed painfully on the back of his head. Stars erupted everywhere. Struggling to a sitting position, he hauled his revolver out, but, before he could take aim, a figure dived on top of him, pinning his gun arm. A spasm jerked the trigger, and the percussion made his head ring even louder. The bullet whistled harmlessly up through the branches, but Jeremy was now struggling like fury. Men were shouting nearby now, and he lashed out with his free fist at the man on top of him. A satisfying crunch followed by a little cry of pain indicated at least partial success, and a well judged kick in the groin finished Jeremy’s assailant off. Jeremy struggled up, but was hardly on his feet when two more figures hurled themselves on top of him. This time there was no escape. He found himself flat on his back, with all his breath crushed out of him, looking down the barrel of a deadly looking revolver. At the same time a furious face, six inches from his, spat out an unmistakable warning.
Very unmistakable. A parade ground voice bellowed:
“You even THINK of batting an eyelid and I’ll blow your bloody head ‘orf! ”

* * *

In his office, Major McAllister sat staring thoughtfully out of the window.
So Armstrong was down. Probably dead.
Did the loss hurt him? Or was he glad? He tried to analyze his feelings. Was he past caring? Had he lost the ability to care?
Would he ever care about anybody again?
He rested his head on his arms. To his surprise he found himself crying. he shook himself, fearful lest somebody would come in.
Why in hell was he crying, anyway?
For Armstrong? Or himself? Hell…
He had to be hard. Shrug things off. Give up caring about anything except himself. With practice, maybe things would not hurt so much anymore, and then he could enjoy life by simply looking after number one.Y es, he had to be hard. That was it. Hard.
He had made the choice. Only one thing mattered:
His career, his ambitions.
Sod everything else…

He wiped away all traces of tears, and walked over to the mirror. Carefully he inspected his uniform.
Then he adjusted his face to impassivity, and his heart to indifference.

* * *

Jeremy, reeling with shock, refrained from batting an eyelid. To be on the safe side, he decided not to breath for a moment either. Slowly and carefully his captor stood up, but the burning eyes and the ugly looking Webley never relaxed their concentration. Jeremy found himself surrounded by three other soldiers with rifles, as well as the infantry captain with the Webley. Every weapon was pointed at him, and he felt compelled to utter some kind of explanation.
“I say… I’m frightfully sorry… I thought… I thought you were Germans! ”
His brain reeled with amazement, as he tried to come to terms with this turn of events.
The captain, a man in his mid thirties, satisfied that no spy could possibly emit such an unmistakable English public schoolboy accent, slowly relaxed, and replaced his Webley in its holster. He said nothing, and Jeremy felt obliged to explain further.
“I had an engine failure yesterday evening, and crashed in the forest. ”
The captain regarded him sardonically. “I know “, he said curtly.
Jeremy suddenly sat upright. “I’m being chased by a whole platoon of Germans! They’re not far behind me! ”
He pointed to the direction from where he had come.
But the captain seemed unruffled. “Tell me, young man, have you ever seen a German soldier? ” Jeremy stared stupidly.
The captain continued, quietly, casually.
“Have you ever seen a BRITISH soldier? ”
Jeremy started to speak, stammered, fell silent. He looked at the faces of the soldiers. They looked mean and hard, especially the man with the cut lip and rapidly reddening eye. There was a pause, and voices indicated the arrival of more men. The captain produced a pipe, and started to fill it slowly. He cleared his throat.
“Because if you HAD ever seen a British soldier, you might have known the color of his uniform! ”
His voice had ended harshly.
Jeremy was aghast. Jerking his thumb back in the general direction of the clearing where the recent encounter had taken place, Jeremy protested:
“But… but… they FIRED at me! ”
His voice was shaking.
The captain remained unruffled.
“No we didn’t “, he said, lighting his pipe.
“We fired a shot in the air to attract your attention “. He puffed out smoke contentedly.
“We’ve been up all night looking for you, and we’re tired walking. I had hoped you would head towards us. Instead of which… ”
Another cloud of smoke punctuated the captain’s tale. “Instead of which you took a pot shot at us. Then you legged it, and we’ve been chasing you ever since. Jolly unsporting, you know… ”
He sucked his pipe, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
He seemed to be regaining his good humor.
Still sitting on the frozen ground, Jeremy felt uncomfortably like a complete fool.

It transpired that he had crashed two miles on the right side of the lines. This astonishing fact greatly amazed him. He could only guess that in the gloom he had missed the criss cross of trenches in the snow. Struggling to his feet, he brushed himself down, and started to mutter apologies. But a dismissive wave of the pipe stopped him.
“Save you breath for later, lieutenant. You’ll need it. ”
With that he had turned, and set off at a brisk walking pace. Jeremy and the soldiers had followed. Little had been said. Left alone with his thoughts, Jeremy had quietly cursed the whole affair.
If only... he could have saved himself a night in the freezing cold, if he’d known where he was.
How… could he have missed crossing the bloody lines?

After what seemed like a ten mile hike, they finally arrived at a small road, which looked neglected and in need of repair. Three trucks were parked up, and a cook was handing around mugs of steaming hot tea. Jeremy gratefully received one, and tried to retire to a quiet corner. In this he was singularly unsuccessful, and he found himself quickly surrounded by a hord of curious Tommies. From their conversation and questions, Jeremy quickly gathered that he in fact had been the reason for the three trucks turning out, with a full complement of search parties.
“Quite a flap “, was the opinion of one soldier.
A crusty old sergeant made a comment about aviators getting lost on the ground, and Jeremy gathered the impression that the humor of the Tommies was increasing in leaps and bounds now they had completed their mission, and were able to get at some grub again. Even the fact that shots had been fired in anger by a pilot against his own side seemed to become funnier in the telling. As other search parties returned, summoned by a green flare, each new arrival was told the story with greater and greater merriment, until in the end even Jeremy found himself joining in with the laughter. By now the tiredness of utter exhaustion was making his head rock back and forth as he kept being about to go asleep. It was therefore with a feeling of utter relief that he at last climbed into a truck for the journey back. They set off, rattling and jolting, but Jeremy slid mercifully away.

He was awoken all too soon to continue his journey by car. The captain said good-bye, eying him thoughtfully.
He made some remark which sounded half apologetic about ‘having to put it all in his report’, but Jeremy was hardly listening.
He recognized his new driver as one of the squadron fitters, who was full of curiosity to hear of Jeremy’s adventures. Jeremy however was past telling stories, and disappointed his chauffeur by making himself as comfortable in the back as he could, and promptly dropping into a snoring half sleep.
He had to be shaken very firmly by the shoulder when they arrived back home, and as he stood outside the car, his only thoughts were to get into bed as quickly as possible. He had started to stagger in that direction, when sergeant Brinklow stepped up, saluting smartly.
“Welcome back, Sir, and Major McAllister would like to see you right away in his office “.
Jeremy groaned loudly, turned in his new direction, and dragged himself in the required direction.
He was wholly oblivious of the curious stares that followed him.

* * *

He sat and waited on a hard wooden seat outside Major McAllister’s office for what seemed a long time. He could just hear what seemed to be a long telephone conversation going on. Occasionally he could hear McAllister saying “Yes “, and “I see “. But he was resigned. He wasn’t sure if he cared about anything in the whole world anymore.
As with his previous set to with Major McAllister, he comforted himself with the knowledge that it would soon be over, and then he could go to bed. He resolved to say as little as possible, and with any luck McAllister would let him go off soon.
It was just a formality, he told himself. Just paperwork.

When he was shown in, he tried to carry himself erect. He saluted, and stood to attention. He was dog tired, and expected to be shown a seat. Instead however, McAllister ignored him studiously, and continued to write.
Jeremy felt irritation rising in him. He was being treated with studied contempt, and he sensed lots and lots of trouble in the air.
At length McAllister put his pen down wearily, and looked up at Jeremy. He leaned back in his chair, and slowly placed his finger tips together. He appeared to contemplate the man standing stiffly to attention before him for a very long time. Jeremy, with mounting fury, stared strictly over McAllister’s head at a space on the wall.
It started gently, but Jeremy knew better.
“So, the wanderer hath returned… ”
Jeremy said nothing.
“A trifle muddy and dirty, but remarkably in one piece… ”
Jeremy gritted his teeth. He sensed a regret in McAllister’s voice. It sounded as if it would have suited the bastard well if Jeremy had never returned.
“Luckily everybody else is in one piece as well… “, McAllister continued. There was a pause. Then his voice suddenly sounded much harsher.
“Which is quite amazing considering there is this idiot RFC officer running around taking potshots at his own side! ”
Jeremy tried to stay calm, but he was aware his breath was coming more quickly.
“Sir, I can explain. ”
But McAllister’s look of disgust only intensified.
“You can explain, can you, lieutenant Armstrong? Well now, that changes everything. That means I can contact captain Merville of the 7th Warwickshires and tell him that, no, we don’t harbor complete goofballs here at Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont, and, yes, it’s perfectly normal for pilots to burn their aircraft when they feel like it, and, so what, if they feel like some target practice and they shoot at the army, try and kill a captain, physically assault and injure a private, well… it’s all part of the service, is it, Lieutenant? ”
The sneer was all too evident.
Jeremy fought down an urge to punch the face in front of him as hard as he could.
“Sir… “, he started, then thought better of it.
He shut up. Better be quiet and get it over with, he thought.
But McAllister was a long way from being finished yet.
He indicated a piece of paper on his desk.
“I have here a report written by a pilot from seventy six squadron. I gather he saw you go down? ”
Jeremy nodded. McAllister continued.
“He seemed reluctant to go into detail, and I had to have him leaned upon from above before I got this report from him. It makes interesting reading. Would you like to hear it? ” It was not a sincere invitation. Jeremy knew it was going to be read out regardless of what he said.
McAllister continued after a slight pause, fingering the document.
“…I was returning from a routine patrol with two other squadron aircraft, when I observed a lone SE5a flying very low above the lines. After a while it became evident that the aircraft was in difficulty, as no sensible pilot would remain that low in such an exposed position for very long… ”
McAllister looked up, his eyes hard.
“Do you hear that, Armstrong? He says no sensible pilot… ”
Jeremy felt his cheeks flush.
McAllister continued.
“I signaled the other two aircraft to continue home, and I dived to intercept. Because of superior height and speed, I managed to draw close, but was unable to attract the attention of the pilot… ”
McAllister looked up, distaste in his eyes. Jeremy felt an artery beating unnaturally in his throat. McAllister remained silent, as if in thought, before he droned on.
“…The pilot appeared to have an engine failure, but was flying erratically. He saw me eventually… ”
McAllister lingered on the word.
“…and I was able to communicate to him that I was aware of his predicament. He seemed to aim for a site which would have been unsuitable for a forced landing in any event. However, he obviously misjudged his glide, and maneouvered out of range. He then appeared to panic, and crashed quite unnecessarily into a wooded hill. I noticed no signs of fire, and returned to organize a search party. Upon landing back, I was informed that a search was already under way, the aircraft having been observed by a British anti aircraft battery, as well as troops in transit on the main road nearby. I contacted Major McAllister at Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont who requested a written report… ”
McAllister looked up, and tapped the report to add effect to his words.
“So, my friend, can you explain WHY your valuable aircraft apparently burst into flames five hours later? WHY did you believe yourself on the German side of the lines when in fact you had already crossed over to our side? ”
Jeremy swallowed, trying to marshal his thoughts.
“Sir, I… I was cold. I lit a small fire to keep warm, and somehow a spark must have ignited the fuel. She went up quite unexpectedly. As for the mix-up with the ground troops, they… I… ”
He tried hard to figure out how he had managed to cross the lines without knowing it.
“I guess the engine must have quit before I got to the lines. Then I was so busy looking for the cause, and looking for a flat field, that I was not really looking for trenches. With all this snow on the ground, they’re a lot harder to see. ”
He felt like adding a comment to the effect that if McAllister would do more flying instead of hogging his office, that he would know for himself how the snow and frost changed the landscape.
McAllister pretended to listen earnestly, but Jeremy knew he was merely psyching him out. He watched in disgust as the Major pulled out a cigarette, inserted it in a long ivory cigarette holder, and lazily struck a match.
Jeremy would have enjoyed a cigarette, and in his exhausted and bedraggled state, he felt his temper rising all the time.
Something told him to shut it, but something else thought:
“Aw, what the hell… ”
“And as regards the value of the aircraft, Sir, by the time I had landed and finished with it… ”
He left it at that, a wholly irrational, mischievous, mental chuckle cheering him up rapidly.
The squadron leader turned slowly red. When he spoke again, it was all very soft. Dangerously soft.
“Do you know what I think, Armstrong? I think you flunked it. I think you decided to give yourself up to the Huns because you couldn’t stand a little bit of cold, and that you lit the aircraft to guide them in. Then, when you realized that the approaching troops were British, you panicked. You realized you’d be up to your scrawny little neck in it for destroying a valuable aircraft, and so you faked that whole ridiculous little incident of shooting at the patrol and running away. I think you’re in big trouble, my friend. There are three charges for me to consider:
firstly, recklessly endangering and then losing a perfectly good aircraft. Secondly, endangering the lives of fellow British soldiers, and thirdly, rank cowardice… ”

It was too much for Jeremy. He had listened in rising astonishment, but now the dam burst. He exploded into a cold temper:
“If you think all that, then good luck to you. That is the biggest load of old cock I’ve ever heard. Yes, I made a mistake which side of the lines I was on. It’s easily done. Which you would know if you flew some more combat patrols as opposed to fighting the war from behind your desk. I was also being fired at by enemy ack-ack. I had my hands full trying to find a site suitable for a forced landing. The whole place is wooded. As for the forced landing. Yes, I misjudged it. But I didn’t just then crash any old how. I did the best I could in the circumstances. As for deliberately setting fire to the aircraft so the Huns would come and pick me up, and firing deliberately on our own troops… ”
He controlled the fury within with a super human effort.
“I categorically deny that allegation. ”
He tried to breath steadily. “Sir “, he added as an afterthought.
McAllister eyed him steadily. There was triumph in his voice as he continued:
“And fourthly, I could add a charge of rank insubordination to a superior officer. ”
Jeremy stared woodenly at the wall.
McAllister was enjoying himself.
“And as for the ack-ack, Armstrong, artillery can shoot across the lines, you know “.
Inwardly, Jeremy cursed. On that point of course, McAllister was right. It also explained of course why the ack-ack had died off during his last two thousand feet. He had been out of range below the horizon. At the time however, with a high workload, he had simply not twigged onto that fact. It was infuriating. And that self righteous ponce from seventy six squadron… Who was he to make judgments on other people’s flying? ‘Flying erratically’, ‘seemed to panic’, ‘crashed quite unnecessarily’… the words stung deeply.
Still, he had to keep the cool. Anything he said would only make matters worse. McAllister would twist everything anyhow.
The Major was speaking, but Jeremy was hardly listening. His thoughts were bitter, and far away. It was with a shock that he heard the words: “…meanwhile, you are grounded whilst we decide whether or not the RFC should continue to avail itself of your services… ”
His head was on the chopping block! He risked being packed off home in disgrace!

He left the office in quiet, weary disgust.
He needed sleep desperately. But anger had now lit his mind with a bitter fire, and he sat on his bunk for a long time. Eventually he rose, and went to wash his face.
The face that regarded him from the mirror was hard to recognize. Caked in dried blood, mud and filth, with two shiny black eyes, it stared emptily at him.
He sighed. He was in disgrace – again.
Whatever about the cost to the Germans of Jeremy’s War, i.e. two Hun machines destroyed, his own side had now also lost two, plus two cracked up.
What a miserable life.

He washed carefully and painfully, and then lowered himself gently onto the bed. Not for the first time of his life, he lay there with bitter thoughts. Dog tired, but unable to sleep, whilst his mind played the same scenes over and over again, without seemingly finding any answers…

F.M.
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 27, 2008, 4:28 pm

Ch.20

Part of the problem was that they talked and thought too much. He would listen to the conversation at mealtimes sometimes, and pretend to be lost in his own thoughts.
His mind was razor sharp however, and he excelled in the quiet comment from the top of the table, interjected dryly at just the right time. It was gratifying when his remark went straight home, and brought the house down, or changed an introspective conversation into a ribald session of cheery optimism. Morale was important. It did not do for the men to dwell too long on death and killing. That way lay neuroses of guilt and remorse. No, he could stomach so much philosophy, and then he liked to swing the mood back to the Prussian fighting man’s spirit.
There was the time they all were marveling at the British resilience. The conversation had become hushed and awed. Hartman – not a bad pilot, but inclined towards sensitivity – had been banging on about the incredible way the British obligingly returned, daily, to be shot down in droves. One would think they would get the message, Hartman had said. What did they know that we did not? What if the tide changed? If the British were willing to keep attacking when they were being so obviously beaten, what would they be like when advantage returned to their side? Perhaps with a technical break through? What of these new machines, the S.E.’s?
There had been an uncomfortable stirring around the table, and the Hunter had decided it was time to intervene. Quietly. Deadly.

Hartman had, unwittingly, provided the perfect opening, with a heartfelt:
“I wish I knew WHY the British keep coming back, every day! ”
The Hunter had cleared his throat, and every head at the table had turned towards him. He, for his part, had smiled sweetly, with a comical expression of innocence, and purred softly:
“My dear leutnant… is it not better if the customers come to the shop? ”
They had all laughed, there had been much thumping of the table, a toast had been drunk, and the mood of optimism and determined panache had returned with a vengeance.
They were going to win the war. Of that there was not the slightest doubt…

* * *

Gable Cottage
Fairfolk End
Sussex
March 23rd

Dear Jeremy,

I got your letter. I’m glad you wrote honestly how you felt. Better that than making pretense. I couldn’t ever imagine you reveling in somebody else burning to death.
Yours is a gentle nature. I’d much rather you write the way you feel. I never thought of you as a hero. What is a hero? Somebody who shoots and kills lots of people?

We have a hospital full here of casualties. If you could spend a week here, or even a day, you would know what I mean. Everybody is suffering. There is so much unhappiness. For what? I don’t understand. Move outside the hospital, even just a hundred yards, and suddenly every body is wildly cheerful and patriotic. “Women say YES ” posters. Send your men to get slaughtered. I wish they would all take five minutes away from their war drums, and come and visit us.
I think I have an inkling of how you feel. If you were to breath a word of how you really felt, you would be branded a coward. Or a Bolshevik. You could even be shot. If I was to breath a word of how I felt, nobody would shoot me, but I would instantly be ostracized, or verbally abused, and possibly they would get really nasty. I’ve heard stories of women speaking out and getting their hair shaved off. I don’t know. It’s a mania. Everybody is so bloodthirsty.
Write to me as often as you feel, and write what you feel. You know anything you write will go no further.

I’ve met a nice young man called Robert. He’s a law student, and he helps out in the hospital. He and I went for a boat trip recently. He likes poetry, like you.

I hope you like this scarf. I knitted it myself, and it has taken ages. I know it’s rather bright and long, but you can wear it with a tail thrown over your shoulder. It’s all the fashion here.

Write soon, and look after yourself,

Love,
Emmy

* * *

This time it was Plueschow. Poor little Plueschow, the shortest man in the squadron. Going on a little too much about the bravery of the English and French fliers. The Hunter frowned as he observed, forgotten for a moment, the reaction of his men. Nods of agreement. They all thought the British and French pilots were very brave.
The mood was going introspective again. A little maudlin. The wine again. Too much wine was not good. After a hard day’s fighting, and the painful loss of a comrade, too much wine loosened the tongue beyond that which is proper fighting men’s talk. He followed the proceedings, and waited his chance.

Allmenroeder – (good boy! He could see the mischief in the man’s eye) – provided the opening. He turned to the Hunter, and asked quizzically, one eyebrow rising in betrayal of a secret inner amusement, the question to which he knew there would be a terse reply.
“Plueschow, why don’t you ask the Baron how he feels about the bravery of the English and the French pilots? ”
All heads had turned to the top of the table.
The Hunter had grinned inwardly, mentally thanking Allmenroeder.
Then he had carefully wiped any hint of amusement off his face, pretending to think hard.
“Bravery? Yes, the British are brave. But it is a bravery that has the touch of foolishness about it. ”
He had made a significant gesture, his hand (an aeroplane, with three middle fingers together, thumb and little finger outstretched) had zoomed up into the sky, rolled inverted, and crashed spectacularly onto the table cloth. There had been grins and chuckles. He had however, remained straight faced and unsmiling.
“As for the French… In a Frenchman, bravery is quite exceptional and if you do meet it, it is like a glass of lemonade and very soon goes flat. ”
They had all laughed, although not quite as heartily as the Hunter could have wished.

* * *

She had tried really hard to enjoy the afternoon, but, reluctantly, she had to admit to herself that she was bored and restless. Poor Robert had tried so hard. So very hard! There was something quite touching in his attempts to humor her. It wasn’t his fault. He had rowed her up and down the river, told funny stories, and recited poetry.
But…
Her thoughts kept going to Jeremy. Was he all right?
Why was she not sitting here with him? Robert was a nice man, but his very harmlessness made her long for the dangerous smoldering intensity of Jeremy Armstrong. She was uncomfortable with that intensity, yet oddly fascinated by it. He desired her, of that she was certain, in that peculiarly instinctive feminine way.
Yet, he respected her, and would never hurt her.

What was the strange attraction of Jeremy’s intensity?
She thought of all the long late night conversations she had enjoyed with Jeremy. His face floated in front of her.
She longed to be with him. In the back ground, Robert’s voice, reciting Wordsworth, faded away to a distant meaningless flow of words.
She sighed, and Robert looked at her quickly.
She started, realizing that her composure had been slipping, and slammed down the shutters on her soul.
“Sorry, Robert, could you repeat that last stanza? I must have dozed off… ”

* * *

Unseen drafts flickered the candles, and caused shadows to dance and dart across the walls.
Allmenroeder listened absently to the after dinner table talk. The newcomers eyes were lapping it all up, and the old hands never tired of repeating the tale. It was, admittedly, an astonishing saga. However, the constant recounting of it… What would the Baron say?
It was as well he was not there. He would not approve.
Allmenroeder sipped his wine thoughtfully. Somewhere, conscience stirred. He wondered if it was his duty to interfere in the conversation, the way the Baron had, that memorable evening, on the 17th September 1916.

They had all… been touched by it.
It had been so uncanny, so ghostly. One moment, they had been flying along in tight formation, seven of them. Passing a cloud bank. He remembered the moment with photographic accuracy. The sun had been bathing the cumulus in that sort of dazzling light that hurt the eyes. He had been staring at it, wondering idly if they had been passing too close. But no, it was too thick and dense a cloud. No allied machine would be hiding in there.
When the enemy machine had suddenly, startlingly, erupted forth, the effect had been that of a wolf launching itself from an unthought of hiding place into the midst of the sheep. Everybody had scattered in all directions, and several near collisions, hasty corrections, and muttered invocations to the Almighty – not to mention curses to Hell – had followed in the next petrifying seconds. The enemy machine had pounced right into the middle of the Jasta…
He himself had found himself hanging on his propeller (courtesy of a frantic heave over the top of the charging enemy), trying to look in six different directions at the same time. Where were the enemy’s comrades? For that it was a massed ambush, he had not doubted. He had seen none. Only the one lone BE 2C. He had redoubled his efforts, aswith all his colleagues. Where, oh where, were the other English?
The sky was empty. What was going on?
What extraordinary battle plan was the British two seater
carrying out? They had all managed to compose themselves, and whirled around after the enemy. Seven aircraft chasing one British two seater. Who had flown on in a straight line! Incredible!
One by one they had all lined up behind the BE 2C, and fired until their guns ran out of ammunition. The enemy had simply ignored them! They had made no effort to alter course, or fire back. The pilot had continued to stare, dead ahead. The observer, sitting back comfortably, had simply stared at them, quite unmoved by the rain of lead whistling around his ears.
Had he been out of ammunition?

Allmenroeder twiddled his wine glass. The astonished gasps of the newcomers greeted every pregnant pause left by Plueschow, who was reveling in his role of story teller.
He was helped, no doubt, Allmenroeder reflected, by the dark night, and the wind howling outside. A foul night. Ideal for story telling.
For some reason, he thought of Goethe’s ‘Faust’.
The invocation. The mysteriously approaching ‘shadows’.
What forces had Faust unwittingly called up by his ceaseless probing of the purposes of Man?
Some things were best left alone, Allmenroeder decided.
He wished Plueschow would shut up. It had been altogether too unnerving. That crazy observer! Just staring. When it had been Allmenroeder’s turn, he had lined up not more than six yards from the enemy’s rudder. He had noticed the faint smile on the observer’s face. They all had said the same, afterwards. The damn idiot had just sat there, smiling.

I’ll soon wipe that smile off your face, my fine British friend!

He had raked the machine ahead with bullets, watching with satisfaction as the fabric rippled as the bullets entered the wings and fuselage. Splinters flew off the struts, and he could have sworn he hit the observer. If he missed, the miss was a near one. He had run out of bullets, and, taking a last look, he had peeled away, making room for the next of his colleagues to attack the enemy.
He had watched as the BE2C disappeared into another towering cloud bank. Unhurriedly, almost serenely.
They had seen it no more.
That night every man had told the same story. The observer had smiled faintly, serenely unafraid of them. The pilot had sailed on, as if impervious to their bullets.
Incredible. Most of them had brought down machines in flames with less than half the bullets. This aircraft had survived the combined onslaught of seven machines. Not a bullet was left between all of them. It had all been to no avail. The BE2C had shrugged it all off. What did it mean? Was it an omen? It was uncomfortable, to say the least. They had drunk more wine, and debated the enigma all over again. All swore that they could not have missed. All remembered having seen bits fly of the enemy machine. All commented on the peculiar smile of the observer. The man had either been an imbecile, or very brave indeed.

Then the phone had rung. The message had come through.
A BE2C -it had to be the same one!- had been observed to make a perfect landing in a field, thirty miles behind the German lines. It had been a gentle, smooth landing, with barely a bump. One such as a novice would have dreamed of, and a veteran would have been secretly proud of. The mark of a master airman…
When the German soldiers, excited, had rushed over to capture the Englishmen, they had been struck by the calm of the two occupants. Both had simply stared into the distance, with complete equanimity.
Quite dead…
The machine had not a drop of petrol on board. Each occupant was riddled with bullets. So many, that the examining doctor gave up counting. He reported ‘more than fifty bullet wounds in each man’, and thought that this remark covered all eventualities nicely.
Further inquiries revealed that the two seater had been riddled by a squadron from another Jasta, some minutes before it had so dramatically ambushed Jasta 11.
The men, presumably, had been killed in the first attack.
Jasta Eleven had expended the entire flight’s ammunition in shooting at two corpses. Who, in silent peace of Death, had mocked the attempts of the living to score over the Dead. With a final farewell, the two British airmen had proved the impotence of the living.
Their machine, once more, had flown on, and executed a perfect landing, all by itself, despite the combined attempts of two squadrons…

Allmenroeder sighed, and filled his glass. Plueschow had trailed to a dramatic end, leaving the newcomers wrestling with the awful mystery of death.
Allmenroeder studied their faces quietly, and decided something had to be done. He cleared his throat, and
began softly:
“Plueschow, my friend, you forget what happened after… ”
Plueschow looked across, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
“The toast, my friend. ”
Allmenroeder had raised his voice.
“You forgot the Baron’s toast. ”
The newcomers stared at him. Allmenroeder, addressing them, continued the story:
“The night of 17 September 1916, we were all sitting here, and the Baron… ” He nodded at the empty chair at the head of the table, and thought of the Baron in Berlin, visiting the Great and the Royal.
“…the Baron realized that we were getting despondent.
He hammered on the table… ”
Allmenroeder imitated the action, raising his voice. ”
…and called for a toast! ”
He raised his glass.
“A glorious death! Fight on and fly on to the last drop of blood and the last drop of petrol! – to the last beat of the heart and the last kick of the motor; a death for a knight – a toast for his fellows, friend and foe. ”
Allmenroeder, quoting his leader, felt a burning sensation rise up within him, and his look challenged anybody to disagree with those famous words. Nobody did.
All drank, deeply, approvingly. At least outwardly.
The Baron was right. Onwards for the fatherland!

Afterwards, Allmenroeder almost marveled at his own words. He had quoted the Baron word for word, without ever having consciously realized he had remembered the Baron’s saying.
What an impact this man made on them all!
Aloof, proud, always aristocratic. Some would say arrogant. The man never unwound, always insisted on protocol. And yet… Allmenroeder knew he would follow this mighty leader anywhere.
Even unto Death…
He drank deeply from the wine. It might yet come to that.
Death…
Well, he would just have to face it when it came.

Outside, the wind howled and moaned. In the corner of a distant German hangar stood, forlorn and lonely, a bullet saturated BE2C, its crew long since buried.
The wind whipped up dust and dead leaves, and deposited it all irreverently over the proud squadron insignia…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.19

First came the slow awareness that something was going on. Something… was most definitely occurring. Something which warranted his attention, only…
At times it was like a dream tossed sleep. A knowledge that had not yet achieved the awareness of self. A consciousness that tried to grapple with that which seemed very important.
Time went by. There seemed to be another dimension to the awareness now. A sort of… feeling. A feeling of… what?
It stabbed to a degree, but there was as of yet not sufficient thought power to identify the sensation.
Pain….!
That was it. Pure physical pain.

It was the wood pigeon that did it in the end. The screech -just- penetrated Flt. Lt. Jeremy Armstrong’s brain. It left an impact. Although the stimulus was not identified, it served a useful purpose. It rendered Jeremy’s brain just a little more receptive. Thus it was, that a certain insistent staccato sound started to irritate Jeremy. He found himself getting positively annoyed, in fact. Why couldn’t they just let him sleep! He tried hard to ignore the intrusion, but it was no use. The obstinate sound insisted on continuing, as much as he wished it would go away.
But there was more than sound. There was also something else. His brain tried hard to grapple with the sensory inputs, but found no interpretation satisfactory. Both the pain and the overwhelming smell of fuel continued to fester and grow. Until in the end, even Jeremy’s severely shocked and concussed mental consciousness flickered into life. He listened for a long time, while he wondered if he would ever see again. That he had gone blind was obvious: he couldn’t see anything.
He accepted his blindness with surprising equanimity. What worried him a lot more was the pain. He seemed to be suffering agonies. He slowly became aware of an object exploring his face. At the same time the pain was dissolving itself into distinct components. His back hurt. And his legs hurt abominably. His head was exploding.
And his face…
The object he could feel on his face seemed to be responding in some manner to his thoughts. He concentrated hard, and became aware that he was clenching his fist. He deliberately unclenched his fist, and located with some degree of precision where his hand had ended up. With another mental effort, realization came flooding in that he was very uncomfortable. That was his right hand he could feel. What had happened to his left arm?
He struggled feebly, and it was as if the slight movement turned a switch in his brain. The stench of petrol engulfed him, and he gagged momentarily. His struggling intensified, but he seemed to be pinned down.
A groan came to his ears. He wondered idly if the groan was something to do with him. He groaned again experimentally, partly to test his theory, and partly because he hurt all over. He recognized his own voice, and was aware this time of his lips moving. He licked his lips, and tasted something horrible between his teeth. He gagged again, and spat the strange substance out. His struggling intensified, but achieved very little.
“Damn! ”
The curse sounded a bit more positive. He drew a certain amount of relief from his ability to swear.
“Hell, damn, and blast! ”
It was louder this time.
“And damn you to hell, Captain McAllister! “, he added as an afterthought. The picture of the captain briefly fleeted past, and Jeremy felt a desire to punch him as hard as he could.
His left arm had miraculously materialized, and with both hands operable, Jeremy explored his face and environment.His nose was smashed. Blood everywhere. A sticky, caked mess, that seemed smeared everywhere. He licked his lips again, and spat out more dried blood. No wonder he was blind. He had lost his eyes.
Panic was setting in now, and he struggled again against his unseen bonds. The movements taught him something important: he was still strapped in the cockpit. He felt around for the straps, puzzling at the same time why there was a strange pressure on his shoulders. He located his shoulder straps, and tugged at them. They were very tight. He felt strangely light in his seat. He tried to puzzle it out. In frustration he pulled at his mitten, and it came off surprisingly easy. He fumbled and lost it, and to his surprise he felt it glance off his face.
The penny dropped: he was suspended by his straps upside down!
“Bloody Nora! ”
The oath made him laugh, despite the pain. He said it again and again, enjoying the sound of his own voice, and beginning to really feel alive again. The panic subsided as he busied himself with the next question: how high was he above the ground? If only he could see!
He felt gently for his eyes. His goggles had disappeared, and his cheeks were caked in congealed blood. He wiped his eyes, and blinked hard. Nothing. He was really blind. Panic started to rise again, but then a very slight glow arrested his attention. He focussed on it with all his might. He could just make out a dim airy lightness above and ahead. But there was too little to discern any details. He shut his eyes, shaking his head, wishing he could clear the pain. His nose was broken, that was for sure. Maybe his back and legs as well. Everything hurt.
Moreover, he was cold. Bitterly cold. As if to reinforce that sensation, his teeth started to chatter. He was lucky he hadn’t frozen to death! He groaned again. An exaggerated groan. He blasphemed. Then he thought deeply.
There was no point in staying in his present position. He would soon freeze to death if he did. At the same time, he had no idea of how high above the ground he was. Ten feet? Fifteen feet? More? And he was upside down to boot.
If he undid the harness, he would probably fall straight onto his head. That would be the ultimate irony. To survive a crash like that, and then to break his bloody neck falling out. At the same time…
The whole weight of his body was on the shoulder straps. That fact was quite clear, the more he wriggled. He tried to grab the sides of the cockpit to see if he could pull himself up, but it was hopeless. There was only one way out.
“Bloody Nora! ”
It wasn’t funny anymore. He was scared.
“Hobson’s bloody choice! “, he announced angrily to the world. There was no reply. He thought briefly of God. Should he pray?

Our Father,
Who art in Heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
thy kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on Earth as it is done in heaven,
give us this day our daily bread,
forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive them that trespass against us…

The mental picture came to his mind of the blue and green Albatros, and the grinning pilot, waving cruelly, and the bullets whizzing down past him as he cowered in the filthy ditch. Hatred rose up inside him, and boiled over into a raging inferno.

Forgive them that trespass against us…

Forgive that Boche bastard? No bloody chance!
With the Lord’s prayer unfinished, he gritted his teeth.
Then, sucking in air in great lungfulls, he shouted
“BOLLOCKS! “…
at the top of his voice, pulled the quick release pin, and fell spectacularly five feet to the frozen ground.

* * *

Slowly, she turned over the yellow scarf.
I hope he likes it…
Emmy was not a natural at knitting, and this project had taken her a long time. She felt the soft material, and examined the stitches again minutely. She sighed, and hoped Jeremy would wear it flying. It would be nice to think of him wearing her scarf… it would keep him warm.
She wondered what he was doing at that instant.
How nice it would be to talk to him…

* * *

The massive impact knocked the breath out of his body, and hurt terribly. Winded, he rolled half over, gasping for air in a pathetic series of sobs. The only sound was a high pitched whining noise, like an old man dying feebly. His lungs battled to supply the oxygen his body so desperately needed, but it was some minutes before he could breath without difficulty.
He lay there exhausted, aware of pain, the smell of petrol, dull moonlight, and cold snow. But he was too sick and weak to do anything about it. He tried to raise himself onto one elbow, but the movement defeated him. His stomach contracted, and he vomited with gusto. The painful retching joined forces with all the other aching to further torment him, and he wondered when it would all end.
Panting deeply, he lay still for several minutes, resting and gathering his spirit. The vague realization crept in that he had felt better when he was cursing. He thought of the cynically smiling McAllister, and addressed him warmly:
“You pompous, sly, stupid looking BASTARD! ”
He breathed deeply, and felt better. Carefully, he rolled over and studied his whereabouts. His eyes seemed to be adjusting to the dim light better now, and he sensed that there was still a small amount of tired moon light fighting its way down to the ground. Dimly he could make out the shape of his crashed SE5a, inverted, with the remains of the lower port wing somehow crumpled over the top of the cockpit. He struggled slowly and painfully to his feet. Standing up, he slowly stretched himself.
Amazingly, he had obviously not broken his back. Or his legs. If only the excruciating throbbing from the site of his nose would go away, he would almost be human again.
His teeth chattered, and he decided to look for his mitten. He groped around with difficulty underneath the wreckage, and reflected that it was hardly surprising that he had assumed himself to be blind. It was pitch black underneath the fuselage, and the crumpled wing blocked out what little light scattered down.
He retrieved his mitten, but not before he banged his head painfully fumbling about. Eventually he stood beside the wreckage again, mitten recovered, debating what next to do.
He had been very lucky. Of that there was no doubt. The degree of destruction to the aircraft surprised him. Although the wings had absorbed a lot of the impact during the initial contact with the two fir trees, there had been still sufficient energy to wrench the engine almost clear of the airframe. It lay at a strange angle, pointing almost backwards. This he discovered partly by sight and partly by touch.
The fuselage had somehow rotated, losing the horizontal tail plane and rudder in the process. Only the crumpled fin remain attached to the fuselage. The interplane struts had splintered, and lay entangled with smashed wing ribs. Oddly enough the spars had snapped quite cleanly, and his roving fingers followed the smooth, varnished contours up to the first breakage. He reflected sadly on the diligent handiwork of the many craftsmen who had combined to produce this fine aircraft. Their work was in vain now.
This machine would never fly again.
He thought wryly about his squadron companions. Unlike him, they had no regard for their aircraft, and demonstrated not the slightest appreciation of the craftmanship involved. He remembered back to Hendon, and with savage revulsion he thought of Dicky putting his flying boot through the fabric on his lower wing, and laughing uncaringly. Buffoon! Despite his injuries, Jeremy felt a sadness at the demise of his machine, and reflected on the strange way that a machine that took five thousand patient man hours to create, could be so utterly annihilated in less than five seconds.
Still, it was clear that his SE5a, in dying, had saved his life. The force of the impact had been absorbed in a progressive process of destruction, and the deceleration, although violent and painful, had nevertheless been survivable. It was also only by amazing good fortune that the fuel had not exploded. He thought back to his action of switching off the magnetos. One spark from them…
He shuddered, and thought back gratefully to his old instructor, Kershaw, and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ for the endless ‘practice engine failure’ drills.
He backed away from the wreckage, and tried to focus his brain on the problem in hand. He was cold. Hungry. And behind enemy lines. Now what?
The knowledge that he could have been home in another ten minutes made him bitter. But there was no point in pursuing that sort of wishful thinking. He had to decide what to do. He stamped his feet, and tried to look around him. His nose hurt abominably, and for some reason his eyes kept watering. Carefully he explored around the aircraft, by touch as well as feeble sight, and was soon moving in ever widening circles. There was no sign of any kind of a path, and he was disappointed, although he knew that he was many miles from civilisation.
He would just have to head west, and try and cross the lines.

Try and cross the lines?

The thought made him almost want to laugh. Certainly, it had been done by some pilot in the Beauvais area, but…
The chances of being shot had to be very high indeed.
The risks would be colossal. Even if a German sentry didn’t get him, there was no guarantee that one of his own side wouldn’t pop him off just as easily.
Still… the thought of simply walking into captivity didn’t appeal to him either. He had no idea what his treatment at the hands of the Germans would be like, but he had no reason to expect it to be very cordial.
He thought longingly back to the warm mess at Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont. Even with his generally strained relationship with his Commanding Officer, and the nerve destroying stress of war, at that moment the mess room seemed to him to be the most desirable place to be on earth.
He shivered again, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was no good. He had to keep moving. A strong urge overcame him to lie down and rest. Just for a few minutes. Would he fall asleep though? And perish from exposure? He swore quietly, and kicked out at the silhouette of a fallen branch. How long had he been unconscious? No way of telling. Then again, it couldn’t have been that long, or he would have frozen to death and never woken up. The temperature was far below zero.
Which way was West? He didn’t know. He didn’t carry a pocket compass, so that left only the aircraft compass.
He crawled back under the wreckage. It was no use. He would never see. He groped by feel, and discovered his compass smashed, the fluid drained out, and the needle pointing out at an unnatural angle. His spirits sank again, and he wondered about lighting a fire. There was no way he was going anywhere until daybreak. But a fire…? It could easily attract the Hun. Doubtless they had seen him go down, and the anti-aircraft battery would probably have organized a search. Not for his welfare, he reflected grimly, but to be able to claim another score.
Lighting a fire was definitely not on.

He stuck to his resolution for several hours. During which time he suffered more than he ever had in all his life. He had never known that it was possible to be so soul destroyingly cold. It was as if Life itself was being remorselessly sucked out of him. Slowly, despite all his earnest endevours, he found himself slipping into a sort of trance like condition, in which the severity of his situation became less and less meaningful. He had started out jumping up and down, and running on the spot. But soon it was all he could manage to stay standing up, leaning up against a tree trunk. His eyes also seemed to want to close all the time. He endured for as long as he could, until the moment he realised his shoulders were slipping down the tree. Barely conscious, he found himself in a sitting position. He fought the insidious urge to close his eyes, just for a moment, and struggled with difficulty to his feet. There he stood, swaying unsteadily.
There was nothing else for it. He would have to light a fire. The risk that he would be caught was infinitely preferable to the near certainty that he would otherwise freeze to death. Slowly and painfully, each step an ordeal, he gathered a small pile of twigs, ripped fabric, and splintered wing ribs. It seemed a pathetically small heap, barely filling a small hollow in the ground, beside a fir tree, some fifteen yards from the sad remains of his machine. He was by now seized with an uncontrollable shivering. With difficulty he searched his pockets for the matches he knew he had there. His fingers closed on the familiar box, but as he tried to extract a match, he dropped the box, spilling matches everywhere. Dropping to his knees, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He needed heat desperately. He couldn’t take much more of this. Groping around he located the box, and with difficulty managed to strike a match. It went out the moment he offered the flame to some fabric. So did his second, third, and fourth matches. An idea struck him. He returned to the aircraft, and, following his nose, he tore out some fabric from a section which appeared to be soaked in fuel. He made the trip several times, and then struck a match. The result was spectacular. Instantly, with a rushing sound, a large flame leaped up, and the assortment of kindling quickly began to take light. The fire seemed to throw an oasis of light around, and instinctively he looked around over his shoulder. He was surrounded by trees, which in the eerie flickering light took on an even more unreal, other worldly appearance. Warmth quickly started to enter his frozen body, and he removed his mittens to warm his hands. He found himself chuckling hysterically, greedily lapping up the warm comfort. After ten minutes he was feeling much better.
On an impulse he backed away from the fire. From a distance of twenty yards, it was already harder to see, surrounded as it was by trees and shrubbery. He felt reasonably sure that nobody could see it from afar.
Returning to the aircraft, he collected more of the wreckage, including a section of the top wing, which had all but been torn off. He now had an almost unlimited supply of combustible material. He could hunch close to the fire, whilst breaking the wing section into small pieces. That way he had something useful to do, and he could keep the fire going steadily, without letting it get too big.
The night wore on. He was feeling much better now. His nose still hurt fiercely, and he felt hungry, but his head had cleared satisfyingly. He realized he had been close to dying of hypothermia.

It was almost pleasant sitting there, feeding the fire, watching the sparks floating up and away, listening to the crackling of the spruce. He gazed into the flames, and thought of Emmy. She would be in bed now, fast asleep, with no idea that he was sitting in a forest in France, behind enemy lines, burning pieces of his crashed aircraft in order to keep warm. It was a strange world.
He found his thoughts wandering. He thought of school, of his parents, and learning to fly. The next day seemed far off, and he resolved to face those events as resolutely as he could. One thing was certain, he was not going to be taken prisoner easily.

The explosion, when it came, completely deafened him.
One moment he was hunched by his fire, thinking of what Emmy would say, his mind relaxed; the very next second his brain was numbed, and he was scrabbling away on all fours from a blazing inferno. He ducked behind a tree, and lay there trying to grapple with this extraordinary event. Grim realization was not long in coming. His aircraft had blown up…
A stray spark had obviously floated across, and ignited the fuel. He was amazed at the force of the explosion. Flames had appeared everywhere, and his hair and eyelashes were singed. A burning sensation around his neck told its own story. Looking down, he could see that even the fur on his flying jacket was burned.

He stood and looked at the inferno. It was like a dream. Flames were shooting up into the night sky, and had to be visible for miles around. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ammunition started to explode as well. He groaned, turned around, and started running wildly.

* * *

Sheer terror had numbed Genevieve. It was unreal. A waking nightmare. Harsh, cutting unreality. It was a mistake. It couldn’t really be happening. Maybe…
No! Please! No!
The rough wall against her back bruised and grazed her, but she didn’t even feel it. Her mind was shutting down protectively, and what was happening wasn’t true; it was just a distant dream.
No! Please! No!
This just wasn’t happening. The hands that pawed her everywhere… everywhere… Not her. Not her.
No! Please! No!
She could smell him. She could hear him. Why couldn’t she see him properly? There was only this crazy interplay between light and darkness. His looming shape, the awful breath on her face, and the outline of another building through the window. Beyond the roof line, she could see stars…
Please…

The sudden increase in light failed to register. His shocked gasp, and the sudden slackening of his grip around her also went unnoticed.
It was only when the hate-filled voice snarled out, that she was vaguely aware. But only vaguely.
A loud explosion rang out, and her attacker disappeared.
Somewhere, somebody was groaning in agony.
It meant little to her. Even the hands that untied her, and the gentle, soothing voice that wrapped her in a long trench coat, were a source of only distant puzzlement.
She presumed dully that this was what happened after you had been raped. Somewhere, somebody was screaming in agony.
Odd…

Later, more funny images. Being carried, a car, doors being opened, long corridors, a bed. Gentle voices. A lovely, soft, warm bed. She sank into it, the lights went out, and she started to slide asleep.
Asleep. Glorious sleep…

* * *

The local papers two days later carried a very short story about a British infantryman found shot dead in a back alley.
That was all.
The tall, white haired, distinguished looking army Captain who filed away the newspaper cutting winked at his sergeant. He felt a quiet, ruthless satisfaction. So did his sergeant. Both men had daughters.
It had been close. But the journalists had understood in the end. Bad for morale. Never mention suicide during war time. Just leave it out. Don’t mention the bullet through the temple, chaps.
Wouldn’t do now, would it?
He smiled grimly. No journalist would ever get to hear about the other bullet. The one that had entered the victim’s groin, smashing a testicle on the way. Nor would they ever discover that the two shots had been fired ten minutes apart.

The bastard had died screaming…

* * *

Her recovery was slow, and was to take weeks, months and years. In several stages.
First, there was only the hospital room.
Long, dark nights, incessant nightmares.
She would be walking down a pathway, or an alley.
Strange, shadowy figures would stalk her quietly, always just out of sight. Out of the corner of her eye, she would catch sight of a furtive movement, and spin around. Nothing. She would break into a run, but all of a sudden a towering black figure would leap out of hell and grab her. There would be a horrible cackling laugh, and she would fight and struggle and kick in vain against powerful arms that locked her tight. She would become hysterical. The terror would give her super human strength, but even that would be insufficient. She would end up in a frenzy, unable to breath, and to all her other dread would be added the terror of choking.

Voices would slowly penetrate her mind. Faces. Many hands. Light.
Slowly, so slowly, she would relax a little. The man with the sneer had gone. There were other voices now. They spoke to her quietly. Did she detect a note of kindness there? She would relax a little more. She would realize her face and neck muscles were rigid.
A quiet voice would come in, soothingly. A woman’s voice.
“There, there, my child. It’s all right. You are safe now. You are here, in the hospital. Relax, child… “
She would look up, into a kind, smiling face.
Realization would come back. It would be Sister Agatha. Or Sister Beatrice. Or Sister Maria.
She would slowly stop trembling, and hold on to somebody’s hand tightly. Only when they were sure she was calm, would they leave her again. They would make her promise to call the moment she needed them, and then, uncomplainingly, the nuns would glide away to tend to a hospital full of the sick, the wounded and the dying.
Cocooned away in a little room by herself, Genevieve saw nothing of the misery, and was unaware how little time the nuns had to themselves. Or how unselfishly and oddly joyously they served others, as if each patient was strangely special in some way.

Her physical wounds took only a week or two to heal. The bruises, the cuts, the scrapes soon faded.
Her mental scars were what troubled others. They ran deep. At first, the nightmares. Many times, every night.
This became gradually less severe, but the same nightmare would return occasionally years later.
Then, the withdrawal. Alienation. A silent brooding. A stare that focussed on infinity, somewhere above the ceiling. A stare that didn’t waver no matter who came into the room.
A male nurse, Jean Devaux, popped in regularly. He was a man in his early fifties, but he looked much older. Tired lines caused by a deep weariness of man and war, had reduced his once handsome face. He worked crazily long hours, and his faith in Man was at a low ebb. The injuries of war, the pain, the suffering… it all affected him deeply. He had none of the religious faith that the holy nuns so enjoyed. Nothing to really help him through. He was distant from his wife. They had two sons, grown up and leading independent lives. How he would have loved to have a daughter. His own little girl. Who might have grown up like this. Beautiful, soft, feminine.

He would take a few minutes off, and come and sit beside her…
She would ignore him, seemingly impervious to his presence. He would take her hand gently, and hold it.
Sometimes he would stroke it. She never replied to his questions, so, haltingly, he took to telling her stories.
He told her about his sons, and he invented a daughter.
Genevieve’s distraught father had been a great source of information, and from him the good carer knew of Genevieve’s love of horses. So his imaginary daughter had a horse, and rode around the country side, falling off occasionally, and having funny adventures.
Whatever else, he seemed to relax Genevieve, and often her regular breathing and closed eyes would seem a reward to him greater than gold. He would look at her for long minutes, studying the relaxed features. Blessed by sleep, the terrible stare would be gone. She would be peaceful, relaxed, and so beautiful.
A young woman with her life ahead of her…
Why, oh why, could men be so cruel?
He would ponder the enigma that had defeated him all his life. The sheer, utter depraved cruelty. He would think of the amputations. Young men, pleading with him, tears pouring down their faces. He would patiently try and explain, over and over again, the meaning of that awful phrase: “I’m afraid gangrene is setting in… ” They would argue, beg, shout, curse.
Usually he managed to reason, to convince them. Occasionally he failed. Then they would have the awful task of physically restraining the patient, before they could knock him out. The end result was always the same. A figure, lying motionless. Staring into nothing. Broken.
The odd outline of the body under the sheets would give away the loss. The betrayal of man by his fellow man.
Keen swimmers with one, occasionally no legs. Keen rugby players with one, or no arms. Enthusiastic painters, with no fingers. Husbands, lovers, with no genitals. Half a stomach. One lung. No lower yaw. No nose. A cheek blown away, so the teeth showed horribly white from mouth to ear.
The physical scars were bad enough. What mental wounds were inflicted? He could only guess. You couldn’t see.
The physical hurt camouflaged the mental. It distracted, took away attention from the deeper damage.

In this girl… it was different.
Her physical damage was inconsequential. The bruises where he had beaten her to subjugate her will and throttle her spirit, the cuts, the grossly inflamed nipples where he had bitten her viciously, drawing blood… all that would heal quickly.
The marks his fingers had made as they pawed her, played with her, explored her, were already fading away.
But the mental damage. The loss of trust in all things two legged and masculine… these things grieved him. It made him ashamed to be a man. His heart bled for her, and he racked his brain as to what was the best he could do for her. She seemed to trust the nuns, and she trusted him now. But when a male orderly had entered, she had gone hysterical, and tried to jump out of the small window. Her screams had reverberated along the wards, and brought a stunned silence, in wards used to screams and pain.
But no scream of pain could compare with her screams of terror…
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes as he studied her, asleep, at peace for a while. What, oh what could he do for her? Would men ever know how many months and years of terrible hurt could be caused to a woman by one selfish act? A few minutes or seconds worth of indulgence to male sexual lust? How had her attacker viewed her? As a piece of meat? A fresh green apple, to be devoured whole, with the pips spat out carelessly? He stroked her hair gently, and wondered at the years of love he would have gladly given a daughter like that. Her attacker had given nothing of value, but merely taken what was priceless. Trust. Innocence.
He hoped with all his heart that she would meet a fine young man one day, who would give her true love. And restore her trust in some men, if not all.
He tip toed to the door, cast a last look back, and closed the door gently behind him.

She stirred in her sleep, and moaned quietly.

F.M.
(c)

Ch.18

Mr Armstrong Senior (‘Thomas’ only to one or two old friends) was annoyed. Very annoyed.

Lunch at the club was not the same. He cut at his steak with wanton ferocity, as if it personified the very devil he loathed so much.
He would have to have a word with the Ministry, that was all there was to it. Prices had to go up. Nothing else for it. They would have to understand that raw materials were up, labor was up, everything was up. Only profits were down. Seriously down.
It wasn’t good enough.

He was worrying about it.
Waking up at night, fretting about it, in fact.
He hated that.
Anyway, what was wrong in making a decent profit? The way Mrs Armstrong had snapped at him, you’d think there was something positively immoral about a businessman making a profit during war time!
They never understood, the detractors.
Nobody comprehended the simple facts: a healthy business has to make a healthy profit.
Always.

Damn it all. Look at that two faced liar Stephenson…
That man, that impostor, was positively creaming it out of supplying the troops with ‘strawberry jam’.
If there was a single strawberry anywhere in that vile mush, then he, Thomas Armstrong, was… a gipsy!
On top of that insult to the catering corps, ‘Stephenson’s Best Strawberry Jam’ was positively coining it in. He had just bought himself a red bricked mansion at the top of Queen’s Cross.
Ridiculous!
The man was an upstart, a social climber, with not a fiber of decent breeding in him.
Infuriating.

If a minor item like strawberry jam could be rewarded so richly, then surely to God “Armstrong’s Best Boots “, in which the troops marched to war, were worthy of a far higher reward.
The whole thing was absurd.
He sipped some Mouton Cadet, and felt a righteous indignation. Nobody understood the pressure he was under.
His contribution to the war effort was immense. Inestimable, in fact. The men could eat a variety of jam. Food was food. Jam was jam. But they could only march to battle on one pair of boots.
They couldn’t go barefoot, could they?

It was a good line of argument.
He would remember that for the Ministry.
Maybe he would try it out on Mrs Armstrong.
He frowned. Maybe not.
She was becoming more and more hysterical.
She was going on about the profits of war now…

She didn’t mind living in luxury, did she?
It all had to be paid for though.
Did she stop to think about that?
Ever? No! They never did.
Criticize, criticize, criticize.
Nobody understood the worries of the business man. If he lived well, this was small recompense for the sacrifices he made. The stress he suffered.
Small sacrifice indeed.

* * *

It was their turn at last. ‘R&R’. ‘Rest and recuperation’. Thank God. A few days in rear areas, away from the immediate front line.
Away from the hell of death, destruction, madness, and fear of dying. First however, there was the small task of the march back.
Five miles. A long way for weary men, with sore, aching, blistered feet. If only some damn fool manufacturer would provide some decent waterproof boots, then there might even be an alternative to constantly wet feet, which led to trenchfoot. It got so that after a time, even a short walk was agony. Even a walk to the rear areas.

They could either walk along the top, keep their feet dry, and risk getting shot or shelled; or, they could just accept it, and wade through the stale, muddy, smelly pools at the bottom of the communications trenches, and aggravate their maladies. The further you got away from the front line, the greater the temptation to climb out and walk along the top. Some guys took too many chances.
Occasionally they copped a shell. If they were lucky, they died instantly. If not…
You had to be careful. If the other side twigged the fact that you were moving troops, well… they really banged down hard on that. Yes, sir.

They traveled in a loose column, without consciously trying to march on parade. Everybody was dog tired. Bushed. Whacked. Lack of sleep. Lack of dry clothes. Those damn useless wet boots. No facilities.
However. It was all in a good cause. They were all volunteers. All friends. King and Country. Nothing else mattered, did it?
They trudged on, sinking up to their knees in the mud. Occasionally the water rose to their middles. They splashed on. Incredibly, there were still the jokers about. The wisecracks. Did your heart good.
The cartoonist, Bruce Bairnsfather, had -amongst others -published a cartoon of two soldiers up to their chests in water, rain lashing down.
One says to the other:
“They’ll be torpedoing us if we stick ‘ere much longer, Bill “.
Another one showed a hat floating around in a trench. An officer inquires:
“What’s that hat doing floating around there, Sergeant? ”
The sergeant studies the hat, thinks about it, and replies:
“I think that’s private Murphy sittin’ down, sir “.
But the best known was that of two soldiers sitting in a shell hole. All around them, shells are exploding. Bullets whine past, mortars whistle overhead. One man is looking rather unhappy. He has obviously dared to complain. His partner snarls back:
“Well, if you knows of a better ‘ole, go to it! ”
The men had laughed. They had recognized themselves.

Four miles gone. One mile to go. A lot of men hobbling painfully. Blasted boots. Oh well. Nearly there.
Keep your chin up, Smithers… Nearly there, lad!
The word that was passed back along the ranks. Along the snaking column. From man to man. “Top Brass ahead! ”
Uh-huh. Nobody was really that interested. Still, all news gratefully received. Top brass, eh?
They rounded a bend, and at last stepped out of the trench onto a paved road. It was a relief to be away from the mud, but for some men the hard, dry surface was almost the last straw for their bleeding, wretched feet.
Who designed those bloody boots anyway?

They were about to be marched around yet another bend. A staff car was pulled over to one side, to let the column through. Some smartly groomed men were standing beside it. Ah… That must be the top brass. Come to look at the front.
A slight flicker of interest. Murmured comment.
“Must be a general! ”
-I’m going to ask him for a lift!-
“Fat chance! He’ll have you done for insubordination! ”
-Well, he can bloody try walking in these boots then!-
The column shuffled on. Tired, weary feet. Those men who got closer to the top brass pulled their shoulders back a bit. Puffed their chests up. Tried putting a little bit of bounce into their feeble plod. Instinctive really. Fly the flag. Show a bit of color. British troops. Can’t beat ’em, you know. Proud to be in the army, Sir. Proud to serve the King, Sir.
They were level with the general now. He was frowning. Severe look of disapproval. Odd. What’s biting him?
Miserable sod. We’re doing our best…

The general turned in disgust to his adjutant.
“Make a note, Bennet! Those men are DIRTY! Not good enough! ”
The adjutant scribbled a note. The men heard, and passed by. Out of earshot, stunned voices were raised.
“Did you hear that? ”
-Bloody right I did!-
“What does he soddin’ well expect? Boy scouts? ”
-Bloody hypocrite!-
“Has he ever BEEN down a trench? ”
-No chance.-

They shuffled on. The feeble bounce had gone.
“Those men are DIRTY! ”
Four words.
Eight men heard them from the general’s own lips, but within a few days the story was all over the regiment.
One man was to remember it all for seventy years…
It changed him, and made him bitter.

* * *

Ruefully, The Hunter reflected on the new strategy.
The improved alert system worked well, but it did have one draw back. It was excellent the way the forward artillery spotted the British aircraft coming across. Excellent the way they telephoned the news direct to the Staffel. However, it was a damn nuisance it always had to be at four o’clock in the morning! It interfered with a fellow’s sleep.
He tried hard to ignore Kramer’s knocking. If he tried hard enough, it could be a dream, and maybe it would go away. Maybe.
“Herr Baron! Herr Baron! The English are coming! Six Bristols coming across from Arras in the direction of Douai! ”
Oh, damn and blast. Go away, Kramer.
“Herr Baron! Herr Baron! ”

Oh, all right then. For God’s sake…

He dressed in no great hurry. When he walked out, the others had already departed. His own all blue Albatros stood ready at the doors of its hangar.
He climbed in, yawning, and took off.

* * *

One and a half hours later, nine machines circled the airfield. A few minutes later they were taxying in. They switched off, and climbed stiffly out. Waste of time. Nothing to show for the sortie. The damn Bristols kept escaping into cloud. Not even a decent fight.

Gerhard grinned at Kurt Wolff, and shrugged his shoulders.
The others joined them, commiserating. Waste of time. The English had been too clever. There had been no way of bringing any of them down. Pity.

Gerhard wondered why his brother hadn’t come.
Unusual for him. Somebody cracked a joke about nice, warm beds.
Gerhard laughed too. It was the Baron’s privilege to stay in bed if he so chose. Still, they would rib him about it. Him lying in bed, whilst they were up there freezing their socks off, trying to fight the slippery English?
They would make a meal out of that!
Ribald laughter split the air. High spirits, despite the cold.

It was Karl Schaeffer who first pointed at the Baron’s Albatros.
Mechanics were swarming all over it. Mysteriously, they were changing the ammunition belts.
The little group of pilots altered course, and wandered closer to the blue machine. The closer they got, the more they quietened down. Puzzlement replaced banter. Oil stains. The damn thing had been flying!

Gerhard collared the nearest mechanic, who seemed surprised. Yes, the Baron had been up. Yes, the Baron had been in a dog fight. Yes, he had shot down a British plane. A Sopwith 1 1/2 Strutter. East of Givenchy.
Where was the Baron? Sorry. He didn’t know.

The little group of pilots walked back in silence. How did the man do it? Single handedly he had pulled off what nine of them together had failed to do.
Where was he?
They searched for him, but couldn’t find him. Gerhard decided to check in his brother’s room.
He was about to knock, when, on impulse, he turned the handle quietly. He stuck his head round the door, and stared in amazement.
There was his brother, stretched out, peacefully asleep, a faint smile on his face.
Carefully, Gerhard closed the door again. He stared at the Lewis gun decorating the entrance, and shook his head slowly.
How many victories did his brother have now? That one made it thirty three. Thirty three aircraft driven down, most of them in flames.
Nothing seemed to bother the man.

Not even shooting down another Englishman before breakfast…

F.M.
(c)

Ch.17

The day it happened, it couldn’t have occurred at a more unreal time.
He was returning home alone from a late evening patrol which had been more or less uneventful. He had checked his guns, which had promptly jammed. Pointing in some disgust at the stupid things, he had waved at Owen, and given a thumbs down. Owen had waved him home, and carried on with Patterson and O’Gormen.
Initially, it had been a novelty being on his own.
But…
It was so cold, so soul destroyingly cold; he felt sick and quietly terrified. That was nothing really unusual, but without company… it was somehow worse.
His eyes hurt from the freezing temperature and the blast of viciously cold air as he peered over the side, or craned around to look over his shoulder.
Search the sky.
Nothing.
Search the sky again.
Nothing.
Hunch down behind the windscreen to escape as much of the icy blast as possible.
Slight -imagined – relief.

Ten seconds would go by. Twenty. Sometimes nearly a whole minute.
Then the Fear would return.
The mindless terror at the thought of the unseen pursuer stalking him, swinging around onto his tail, grinning behind oil spattered goggles, fingers tightening on the trigger.
Gone would be the small comfort he had enjoyed being hunched down behind the windscreen. Replaced in an instant by the realization that he was giving up, surrendering his life to some unknown assailant, who would pinch out his tiny living flame without a thought of pity.
He would rally himself, and the restless searching would start all over again.
Seek…
Nothing.
Seek again…
Nothing.
Find the seeker…
Nothing.
Before he finds you…

He wished he were home. Home. Home to warmth, food, beer, companions. Home, having survived, against all the odds, yet another day at the front. Home.
Which home? Sainte-Breuve-sur-Pont? Or his Family home?

He would write a letter tonight. About time he wrote to Emmy. From the heart. Sober. Without seeking refuge in wine first. Yes, he would write, and tell her how he felt. That he was in love with her. That he wanted her to wait for him. He would write to Emmy. Little, faithful, reliable Emmy.

At that precise moment, the engine quit.
No warning, no misfire, nothing abnormal. Everything just a whole lot quieter and the propeller slowing, slowing…
…stopping.
Dead.

He stared at it stupidly, his brain frozen.
A quick look over the side showed him over a heavily wooded area, with early night time ground mist snaking ominous tendrils around what few open spaces there appeared to be. With a shock he observed that the terrain was remarkably hilly to boot. Adrenaline now reactivated his exhausted brain, and his eyes rapidly scanned the cockpit for clues.
Fuel? Mixture? Mags?
What the hell?
He calculated again his flying time since take off. No, there was no mistake there. With full tanks he should have had another fifty minutes.
What the…?
He heard the voice clearly above the swish of the slipstream. It came back to him as from a stranger.
A pathetic, purposeless wail.

“For Chrissake! I could have been HOME in ten minutes! ”
Furiously, he pounded the cockpit coaming.
“I’m COLD, and I’m HUNGRY, and I’m TIRED! ”
The altimeter no longer indicated a constant altitude.
“Why NOW?? ”

It was pathetic, and he knew it.
Childish.
As if to reinforce his depression, some desultory archie started to burst around him. The enemy gunners were probing for him.
He tried to marshal his thoughts, behave coolly, logically; but renewed frustration boiled over inside him. He screamed at the aircraft, aiming his remark in the general direction of where he knew the engine to be located.
“You want to end up as SCRAP, do you?? ”
The continuing silence was getting on his nerves.
A sob rose in his throat.
Frantically peering down in the gloom, he searched desperately for a landing site. It looked hopeless.
Miles and miles of trees, with steep hills and valleys.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God! ”
He had now lost two thousand feet, and he now also realized he had been turning in an aimless semi circle. This observation further infuriated him. Another tirade rent the air, aimed not so much at the aircraft this time, but at his own foolhardiness.
“The lines! You’ve got to cross the lines you imbecile! ”
Peering around frantically, he could see it was getting darker rather more quickly now. The snow covered ground doubtless hid all manner of obstacles, and combined with the long shadows to give a wholly surreal appearance to the landscape.
Some archie burst uncomfortably close, and he knew he was becoming a better and better target the lower he descended. He started flying a zig zag course, but although this doubtless made him less of a sitting duck, it also had the effect of increasing his rate of descent.
Fear made his stomach lurch, and he searched the landscape ever more desperately.
Nothing.
There was nowhere any sane pilot would ordinarily even dream of attempting a landing. He looked for signs of a farmhouse, but saw nothing remotely suggesting of any human presence. This doubled his worries, for he realized only too well that even if he survived the impending crash, he might well still freeze to death alone and unprotected in remote and barren country on a freezing night. For the first week of March it was bitterly cold.
More and more archie seemed to be finding him now, and one particularly close burst seemed to ping metal particles off the tail somewhere. He seemed to feel a slight kick through the stick, but dismissed it from his mind. He simply had to find a landing site. Twisting and turning to confuse the enemy gunners, he peered frantically first over one side of the cockpit, and then the other.
Still no site.
All thoughts of enemy aircraft had been superseded by more pressing matters, and it was therefore with a lurch of terror that he turned suddenly, and found himself staring at another aircraft, flying alongside him, the pilot looking across.
He was so surprised that he spent two full seconds staring in incomprehension at his foe, before his gaze caught sight of the roundels, and recognized the silhouette.
Another SE5! Not from his squadron.
He pointed at his dead propeller, which was now windmilling slowly. The other pilot nodded vigorously. With not a moment to waste, Jeremy resumed his study of the ground. The altimeter was now dropping below three thousand feet.
There was nowhere…
unless…
…he could just make that small snow covered clearing.

On a slight slope, it looked about his best chance, despite some fallen trees, and one jagged stump that looked as if it had been struck by lightning. He aimed for it, mentally trying to remember the drill for forced landings without power.
Wind? Which direction was the wind?

Fool! It’s calm, as well you know. Look at that mist!

Fuel. He had to switch it off.
Mags. Off..
Harness. Tight.
He heaved on the straps with all his might. The uncomfortable memory of the crash of Fisher’s pupil at Hendon came back to haunt him.
Was the instrument panel going to spread his face just as much as it had that pilot’s? He glanced apprehensively at the panel, which had suddenly taken on a rock hard angular appearance.
The altimeter was dipping below two thousand feet now.

But he looked a lot lower suddenly…
He stared at his intended landing site, and then at the surrounding hills.
His frown deepened.
Now that he was a lot lower, he could see that what had at first sight appeared to be modest hillocks, were in fact quite steep small mountains.
He winced at some craggy snow covered faces, and tried to work out his sudden height loss.
The altimeter!

You FOOL! You never reset the altimeter! Sainte-Breuve-sur-pont is much lower than here! You’re up in the mountains! The altimeter is overreading!

With panic now well and truly set in, he fluffed the approach to his selected site. Fearing he would undershoot and crash into the trees, he racked the machine around in a steep turn, hoping against hope to be able to locate another convenient field. Instead he found himself staring in open mouthed horror at what appeared to be a vertical cliff face. The sheer dreamlike quality of his experience made him start to shout all over again, at the aircraft, at himself, at Fate…
For pity’s SAKE…!

For a moment he was going to yank back on the stick, and try desperately to glide over the top of the hill ahead.
But the top was already hidden behind a dirty gray smear…

NOOO!! How the hell do you know how HIGH that beggar is?!

Another frantic turn took him away from the granite rocks that reached up for him, but in doing so he lost more precious height and energy. The machine shuddered on the edge of a stall…

IDIOT! Now what are you trying to do? Spin into the ground?

Beyond terror now, he pushed forward on the stick, and leveled the wings. A sea of pine trees stretched out before him. There was no way of avoiding them. But at least… Kershaw’s face floated into his mind…

If you’re going to crash, pick your spot. Take her in level, straight, and slow. Above all, don’t spin.
Make a decision, and go for it.

The words echoed through his mind.

Make a decision, and go for it.

Fifty feet. Gently, he pitched the nose up a little to slow down as much as he dared. The speed bled off, and for a brief instant in time, the aircraft descended no further. The trade of speed against height was one-sided however, and a gentle shaking of the aircraft warned him of the onset of a stall. If he maintained the stick position, the airspeed would continue to decrease, until the aircraft stalled, and fell out of the sky. Or even worse, it might drop a wing as well, and spin in.

Make a decision, and go for it…

He aimed at a tiny pocket handkerchief of frosty ground he could see.
Twenty feet.
Two trees, ten feet apart, seemed to float up towards the aircraft…
Ten feet.
He braced himself, teeth clenched, left hand pushing against the instrument panel, right hand clutching the stick as if to squeeze a little more life into the doomed aircraft…
The aircraft bucked slightly, lurched, and the noise of snapping branches reached him. The two trees he was aiming between were now beginning to tower above him.
He could suddenly see details very clearly.
Branches, twigs, snow, tree roots.
Even the light from the sky suddenly seemed brighter, more radiant than he had remembered it a few moments before.

Make a decision, and…

There came an ear splitting rending noise, one stupendously loud ‘crack!’, then, quite astonishingly, the sky disappeared, and he rolled over upside down, slowly, almost (such a crazy sensation) gracefully, whilst all around him a noise like a simultaneous salvo from dozens of rifles continued to batter his senses.
He had time to wonder ( “how weird this is… “) when it was going to start hurting, and then a sudden sledgehammer cracked him like an explosion full in the face.
As his senses slipped away into darkness, he wondered with a last childish bewilderment ( “this is a bit much… “) who the person was who had so sneakily crept up on him with a sledgehammer.
And why.
His mind groped feebly for an answer, (it was important to concentrate), before reluctantly giving up the hopeless task…

Above it all, a lone SE5 circled for a few minutes, and then, seeing no movement or sign of life, did a low pass, and headed west.
Soon, silence reigned again in the small clearing.
Only the sound of petrol dripping from a ruptured tank onto the frozen ground remained to alert any chance passerby to the changed circumstances of one Flight Lt. Jeremy Armstrong, R.F.C.

* * *

Genevieve had quickly discovered that the foggy days were the best to catch the airmen at the ‘Cafe Normandie’. They would inevitably give her a rousing cheer as she rode past, and she regularly noticed new faces. They were always very drunk, and very jolly.
They arrived and departed in a remarkably battered old truck, and sometimes they would move on to other places.
Genevieve was used to receiving many invitations, but always declined. Still, as time went by, every time when the rowdy truck load disappeared from earshot, and she was left with the old folk, she began increasingly to reconsider.
Boredom bit deeper as the season continued, and the company of the patron’s shy daughter was scant consolation. She might have gone if Angelique had agreed to accompany her. But of that there was not the slightest chance.
It was therefore interesting when the usual truck load of airmen turned up one day with several young girls in tow.
The invitation was repeated, and Genevieve accepted on condition that they pick her up from home. This would give her a chance to ride Pecadillo home, wash, and change into something more chic. A cheer went up at this, and they readily agreed to pick her up at 8 p.m.
The intention was to travel to a nearby major town, and visit a night club.
Genevieve thought of her encounter with Charles Nungesser, and remembered the gay and elegant Parisian clubs she had been to. She assumed they would be going to something similar, full of charming men and cheerful dancers.

She thought long about what she would wear, and finally decided on her favorite yellow dress. It hugged her shoulders tightly, yet flowed easily and elegantly from the hips. On top she wore a floral silk shawl.
She twirled round in front of the mirror, and laughed aloud. She had to admit to herself she was looking forward immensely to the night.
Happy memories of Paris flooded back…

* * *

The sound cracked like a whip, and echoed up the street.
She had smacked his face as hard as she possibly could.
Furiously, she stomped away from him, up the street, and around the corner.
Alan swayed unsteadily, and started to stagger after her.
“Hey! Genevieve! ”
She didn’t hear him, and if she had, she would have ignored him.
She couldn’t remember ever being so angry.
Alan tried to run, but stumbled drunkenly, and ended up falling headlong. He hurt himself, and sat up, moaning softly, holding his knee. After a few minutes of maudlin self pity, he staggered back inside.
“Bloody bitch! ”
He grumbled angrily, pushed the door open, and headed back with difficulty through the tightly packed crowd to their table.
Genevieve meanwhile was still fuming, reflecting on a thoroughly unpleasant and seedy evening.

It had been a disaster from the word go.
The truck that had come to collect her had been late. This meant that her father had been worrying. To top it all, when it did arrive, with a crash of gears, and loud backfiring, the sound of drunken singing had heralded its arrival.
It had been touch and go that she would have changed her mind. Only Brendan, stepping down lightly, saluting her father grandly, and offering her his arm, had prevented that.
She had entered the back, and been offered a seat, which had felt sticky to her touch. It had been too late by then, and they had set off, rocking back and forth.
She had worried about her dress.
There were four girls and six airmen. As well as Alan, Brendan and Ray, who Genevieve knew, she recognized two of the girls. They were excessively painted, very giggly in a silly sort of way, and reeked of brandy and cheap perfum.
The truck had dropped them off in the city center, where they had visited two cafes, everybody getting progressively more and more drunk.
Genevieve, less and less enamored with her companions, was getting fed up fighting off lecherous airmen with rampant paws.
After the two cafes – why were Englishmen so incapable of coping with drink? – the decision was taken to proceed to the nightclub, which Genevieve assumed was somewhere nearby.
In fact it was a brisk walk, or, as in this case, a lengthy stagger. They passed into a less salubrious area, and the odd women standing around in groups, exchanging crudities with the passing menfolk, disgusted Genevieve. It was obvious that they were passing into a brothel belt.

The nightclub had been, nonetheless, a shock.
A band played loudly and discordantly, the air was solid with smoke, and the place was packed like a sardine can.
Everywhere bottles and glasses were stacked in disarray, and bodies lay across tables in stupor; women with too much paint and strident voices competed with childlike drunken men to see who could shout or laugh the loudest, talk the most, drink the most, and tell the bawdiest jokes.
Genevieve had put up with it for several hours, wishing fervently it would be time to go home. At some time past two o’clock in the morning, she could stand it no longer, and she asked one of the girls pointedly what time they would be going. The slurred answer, to the effect that ‘last time we left at dawn’, accompanied by a lot of silly giggling, had finally snapped her temper. She was NOT staying there for another five hours. Her expensive dress was stained with beer and wine, and had been trodden on many times. Somebody had been sick in a corner, which had raised loud cheers, much clinking of glasses, and a vile smell. The smoke made her feel sick. Furiously, she announced she was going out for a breath of fresh air. Alan said he would accompany her, and made a funny face behind her back, more in longing than in expectation.
More cheering.

Outside, his crude attempt to chat her up, followed by an even cruder attempt to embrace and kiss her, had been the last straw.
Smack!
That was it! She would spend the night in a hotel, and make her own way back in the morning.
Imbeciles!
The whole lot of them…

* * *

After ten minutes, Genevieve reluctantly had to admit to herself that she was utterly lost. She had been trying to head back to the city center, where she had seen several hotels. The whole excursion had been a terrible mistake. Longingly, she remembered her friends in Paris. Some of the colossal anger had at least now burned itself down, if not out. She started thinking practically. She needed directions. She headed towards two men who were talking, but changed her mind when they turned to look at her, grinning drunkenly. She didn’t like their leering, and crossed over quickly to the other side of the road. A certain fear was now beginning to register. She reconsidered her departure from the drunken mob, and half wished she had not acted so hastily.
Still, she would be all right when she got to the hotel, she told herself.
She passed another group of drunkards, one of whom slurred, “Hey, lovely! “, raised his finger, and started to come after her. His friends, drunk but not stupid, restrained him, knowing full well their mate had mistaken the elegant apparition as a prostitute.
She was now walking very fast, almost running. How had she ever managed to end up in this position? She kept looking over her shoulder, and, in doing so, nearly ran slap into a solitary soldier leaning against a wall.
It was only when he lit his cigarette, and the end glowed brightly, with smoke billowing up, that she suddenly stopped, instinctively raising her hand to her mouth.
Her frightened eyes caught the light from the street lamp. Then she recognized the uniform. A British soldier.
Thank goodness…
She smiled nervously, and asked for directions to the city center.
“Where do you want to be in the town? “, the voice purred back.
“Any hotel actually “, she answered innocently.
“I see “.
Her savior thought about it.
“Well, take that alley there on the left “.
He pointed down the road to an unlit side street.
“After thirty yards you will see a sign on the left marked ‘Hotel Bellevue’. It is not very expensive… ” Genevieve thanked him profusely, and flashed him a dazzling smile, all white teeth and full red lips.
“Would you like me to accompany you? “, the voice purred again.
Genevieve thought only of the salvation of a hotel door a short walk away. Having had enough of men for one night, she politely declined, and almost skipped up the road.
The eyes followed her, and studied her figure. As she turned the corner, he dropped the cigarette, stomped it out, and cast a furtive look up and down the street. Observing nobody near, he stooped low, and darted towards the corner around which she had disappeared…

* * *

Alan almost fell back, but managed to stagger on to where the party was sitting. It was one of the girls, the giggly one, who first asked.
“Where is Genevieve? ”
Alan only grumbled, too preoccupied with his aches and pains. The question was repeated, this time from Brendan.
Alan wondered if he was going to be sick. He tried hard to stop his stomach muscles from moving on their own initiative. He had drunk too much. He could do with some food…
A hand grabbed him by the throat, and a face loomed close to his. The face was angry. He wished the face would go away.
“WHERE’S GENEVIEVE? ”
He knew he was going to be sick now. If only they’d stop the room going round…
He vomited across the table, and the girls screamed. He could hear that quite clearly, even above the raucous music.
Somebody slapped him hard, but he couldn’t care less.
Stuff you lot.
I’m going to sleep…
He was snoring even before Brendan and Ray had darted out the door.

* * *

Thirty yards on the left…
‘Hotel Bellevue’, he had said.
Gosh, it’s awfully dark…

She was walking down a narrow cobblestone alley way, with what looked like warehouses on each side. There were several doors in the shadows, but no lights to guide her.
Odd…
You would have thought they would have a light of some sort.
Where on earth…

The figure swept out of the shadows so suddenly, so quietly, that it took her breath away.
A hand clasped hard over her mouth.
She found her arms were pinned, and that she was being half carried, half dragged further down the alley.
Utter astonishment robbed her of all strength.
They rounded a dark corner, and the sound of a boot kicking a door open reached her. Then they were inside a low building, that smelled oddly of horses and hay.
The world revolved spectacularly, and she found herself lying flat on her back on a bed of straw, a heavy weight pressing down on her.
The hand was still clasped firmly over her mouth. Terrified, she gazed up wide eyed into a hard face, that seemed to sneer down.
A smell of alcohol swept down, and the sound of heavy breathing. With his free hand, her attacker was grabbing at her clothing.
She struggled frantically.
He was strong, and held her pinned. He succeeded in undoing her jacket. There was a ripping sound, and her blouse tore off her left shoulder, revealing her bare flesh. She struggled with the strength of the terrified now, and tried to scream.
But the weight of the hand on her mouth snuffed out the screams, and all that emanated were helpless muffled sobs.
He laughed.
A cruel laugh.
He was enjoying himself.
The free hand redoubled its efforts, and ripped the remainder of her blouse away from her breasts. Still she struggled frantically, sheer terror driving her on.
It was no use. Her bra followed her blouse off, and then the hand was groping her bare breasts.
Again that horrible laugh. Her brain was reeling now, and her efforts were weakening off. Still she struggled, but shock was setting in, and a terrible realization that she was about to be raped.
The horrible laugh sounded triumphant, and the animal on top prepared to fulfill his desire. Utter lust had long since removed any trace of compassion from his heart, and, now he sensed his victim’s struggles dying away, he resolved to take his time. Ripping and tearing at her beautiful clothes, he soon had her largely naked. She was barely struggling now, gazing at him only with big, terrified, shocked eyes.
He debated entering her roughly there and then, while she was dry, but decided against it. He was so excited, he would probably come straight away.
No, I’ll play with this one first…

Still clasping her mouth, he continued ripping and tearing, until she was completely naked. This gave him a savage pleasure. He leaned down, until his mouth was close to her ear, and whispered delightedly:
“You are naked, mademoiselle. Not a stitch left! How does it feel, eh? ”
She stared back, numb with terror.
Slowly he fumbled for his jacket. He produced a tie, and gagged her firmly. She barely struggled at all. Next he tied her hands behind her back, and stood her up roughly against the wall. Slowly and steadily, he stroked and fondled each part of her body, starting with her face and neck.
Spending a lot of time on her nipples and breasts, he worked his way down to her navel. Her stomach muscles recoiled at his touch, which gratified him.
She was shivering uncontrollably now, whimpering miserably, but he couldn’t care less. He laughed again, horribly. He reached her pubic hair, and, savoring only his primitive power over a defenseless young woman, he lowered his trousers, sniggering loudly. Roughly, he reached his left arm around her waist, holding her tightly. His right hand closed on her pubic hair, and prepared to guide his throbbing penis in…
He felt gloriously powerful, pitiless, and utterly devoid of any instinct of mercy.
You, little lady, I am going to take, slowly and delectably.
For free…

He would pump her full of sperm, and she would groan and wriggle in vain. He could spend as long as he liked, as opposed to thirty minutes worth of expensive, timed passion. This one was class.
Maybe a virgin.
Marvelous. He had her in his power.
All his to enjoy.

He nibbled her nipple, and laughed out loud.