Death on the Ice (2 page)

He stared down at the trenches below, imagining the faces staring back. Where was the Archie? On his most recent runs he’d been peppered by anti-aircraft fire. Now, not so much as a single flaming onion streaked up towards them. Nor were there any protective scouts, no sign of a Halberstadt or an Albatros in the cloudless sky.

Count your blessings, he reminded himself.

As they came closer Grant could make out the sausages’ suspended gondolas. Ground crews often panicked and began to wind the balloon down as soon as an Allied plane appeared. Or the observers jumped, putting faith in their parachutes opening before they crashed to earth, swallowed by mud in a tangle of broken limbs and silken cords. Or the balloon crew fired on the approaching scouts with their new lightweight machine guns.

None of this happened. The inflatables floated, as vulnerable as the unsuspecting Weddell seals laid out on the ice around their water holes had been.

The two Sopwiths separated, fanning out to their respective targets, and Grant armed the twin Vickers, his feeling of disquiet growing. The balloon was beginning to fill his vision now. He could make out individual ripples in the skin, see the steel tethering cable, slack in the still morning air, the smaller telephone wire that sat next to it, and pick out the crew in their gondola. A crew who weren’t, he registered, moving. Where was the usual funk at the appearance of the ‘Soppies’?

He checked his rear once more, and then looked across at Thompson. His wingman had taken the Camel’s nose down and had begun firing. His glowing tracers punctured the envelope at the midline, the shape already collapsing in on itself, pulsing like a jellyfish. Thompson was going to Stoke the Briar. This was a stunt that involved flying through the flames of the falling balloon, much as you might quickly put a hand through a candle flame. Except your hand wasn’t filled with volatile petrol.

Grant was at perfect range for his first shots now, but he yanked the little plane left instead. A growing feeling of dread was making him hold his fire. The same unease that had once stayed his step on a snow bridge that had collapsed seconds later, that had made him bury himself in ice moments before the burning pumice from an eruption by Mt Erebus had fallen around him. He had no explanation for it, but he had learned to trust the sensation of foreboding.

You’d better be right, Trigger, he told himself.

The flash of the explosion from within Thompson’s balloon dimmed the weak sun. A rolling sphere of black smoke and red flame reached out and engulfed the Sopwith. Even at that distance, Grant felt the blast buffet his airframe. The metal-tipped ends of his propeller sparked as it ploughed through a hail of debris. His left goggle lens cracked. Blood spattered on to the other, which smeared as he tried to clear it.

Thompson’s plane was momentarily lost to the detonation’s cloud, before it punched out from the other side trailing white vapour, its doomed canvas already aflame. The pilot was slumped back, head facing to the heavens. Grant pulled on the stick, which took him above the remnants of the sausage, and watched as the front end of the stricken Camel burst apart, spewing a darker, oil-filled smoke, diving like a comet towards the German lines.

He scanned the immediate area for enemy planes. At any moment, he anticipated the impact of bullets from a hostile, but there was nothing. Just empty sky, soiled by the oily column that marked Thompson’s crash site.

Grant mouthed the Prayer for a Drowned Sailor—there was none he knew for downed airmen, not yet—and turned the plane for home, trying to piece together what had happened. He listened carefully to the engine note, alert for any damage caused by the flying metal.

The temptation was to drop down and run low for safety, but he knew that would be a mistake. At low altitudes the Sopwith could not use its one major advantage, its manoeuvrability, the devastating fast turn to the right, the effortless loops it could perform. The Camel needed elbow room to be at its best. So he climbed, his head twisting back and forth, anticipating the growing dots of marauding planes bearing down on him. Behind him, the sky was still smudged with smoke, but there were no enemy scouts to be seen. He stood the plane on its wingtip and checked beneath him. Nothing, apart from a few puffs of ineffective anti-aircraft fire.

The blighted earth of the front lines quickly gave way to the golds and yellows of an unmolested autumnal countryside bathed in strengthening sunlight. He allowed himself to breathe more easily. Ahead was a flight of SE5s, four abreast, friendly shapes which would watch his back.

Beyond them was the Bellecamp airfield, the welcoming cruciform shape etched on to the farmland. For Grant, spotting it was always like the sensation of finding a depot flag in a blizzard or the first sighting of a mountain hut at twilight, after a long day’s skiing. He let the nose drop and flipped off the engine to lose airspeed. The last thing he wanted to do was come in too fast now. Not with what he knew.

Once the Camel was parked, he left it to Doyle to assess any damage and crossed to the old stable block. He reported his suspicions about the balloons to Captain Dawson, the branch intelligence officer, who, once he had logged the details, told him that the squadron commander had requested to see him as soon as he returned.

‘Me?’

‘You. Major Gregory was most insistent. And you have a visitor. A female visitor. Best tidy yourself up a little. And, you know, sorry about Thomo.’

Grant didn’t answer, merely nodded. It happened far too often for Dawson to have genuine emotion about the loss. Within hours, Thompson’s belongings would be packed away and a replacement shipped in from the flying school at St Omer to take his billet. ‘No empty places at breakfast’ was the rule. In two days, Thompson would be just another fading face, his features already blurred in his old comrades’ minds, his name mentioned once or twice and then nevermore.
San Fairy Ann
, as they said: it didn’t matter. Thompson wouldn’t have expected anything else, because he was once the green replacement for a long-forgotten flyer.

The squadron commander’s office had once been the living room of the fortified farmhouse, the centrepiece of the estate they had requisitioned to create the airstrip. It was still furnished with heavy pine dressers, tables and chairs, although these had been pushed aside to make way for Major Gregory’s own desk, made of fine polished cherry wood, which had been shipped over from the family seat in England. The S.C. was sitting behind it now and facing him, in a brocaded armchair, was the woman Grant had spotted emerging from the car just as he took off for the balloon sortie. She had removed her hat and coat to reveal a deep maroon velvet dress, with ivory buttons. The neck was a little too scooped for daywear, Grant noticed.

It was when he drew his eyes up from the pale skin of her throat that he felt a shock of recognition. He made an effort to keep his composure.

‘Lady Scott, may I introduce Lieutenant Grant.’

‘You know, I am not really supposed to be addressed as Lady Scott,’ she scolded him lightly. ‘I was given the status of a widow of a Knight Commander of the Order of Bath, but not the title.’

‘Nonsense,’ huffed the major. ‘As far as the world is concerned, you are Lady Scott.’

She smiled and nodded, obviously not too distressed.

Grant swept off his cap as she rose to her feet. Kathleen Scott was as striking and imperious as ever and, judging by the S.C.’s flushed face, just as bewitching. His superior officer no doubt thought Grant’s shock was simply fluster at being introduced to such a handsome woman.

‘I am very pleased to meet you, lieutenant. I hear you are giving the Albatroses a run for their money.’

The voice was lower in tone than he recalled, but still had a rich timbre that seemed on the verge of breaking into laughter. ‘I’m trying, ma’am. How do you do?’

They shook hands. He waited for some sign that she knew his real identity, but there was none. Perhaps she didn’t recall. After all, he had last seen her seven years ago, in New Zealand, when she had only had eyes for her husband and once more, fleetingly, under very different circumstances, two years later. And he was thinner, more lined than the gauche lad she had met back men and his hair was peppered with premature grey. Even his younger self might have trouble placing this gaunt flyer. She held his gaze and said: ‘Well, lieutenant. And you? You’re hurt?’

He reached up and touched his forehead. Grant had only had time to perform a perfunctory dusting down, which had mainly consisted of wiping the protective Vaseline layer from his face. The minor wound, a gouge created when something sharp had nicked him above his left eyebrow, was untreated. He didn’t answer Lady Scott directly but turned to Gregory.

‘We lost Thompson, sir. A new trick. The sausages were filled with high explosive and metal. Nails and the like. Either the balloons or the basket or mannequins in it, I’m not certain. But when it detonates, you fly into the shrapnel and the engine sucks in the metal.’

‘How dreadful.’ It was Lady Scott who spoke, sitting once more.

‘And the pilot doesn’t stand a chance. Thompson must have been cut to ribbons.’ He pointed to his own brow, leaving them to imagine the effect of a thousand more bolts and washers. ‘We’ll have to outlaw Stoking the Briar.’

‘You’ve told Dawson?’

‘Sir.’

Gregory was silent for a time. Perhaps he was thinking about Thompson. But then he said: ‘There are new Uncle Charlies from Wing for you, Grant.’ The fledgling RFC had adopted the phrase from the army to mean any fresh set of orders. Quite who Uncle Charlie was or had been, nobody was entirely sure. ‘Russia.’

‘Russia?’ Grant knew that the country was in the midst of upheaval, but not that the British had any role to play there.

‘Yes. I imagine the Brass think you Canadians know a thing or two about the cold.’

Kathleen Scott laughed and Grant caught a twinkle in her eye. Of course he knew all about cold. But would she appreciate that?

‘There’ll be promotion. But I hate to lose you. Especially with Thompson gone.’ He was quiet for a while longer and Grant knew he was already formulating the letter he would have to write to the grieving parents. As an eyewitness and friend, Grant would, of course, write his own account and tribute. ‘But first, Lady Scott would like to interview you.’

‘To do what, sir?’ The S.C. repeated the gist of the sentence. An interview. Well, he was an Ace, he supposed, and had been recommended for the Military Cross, but Grant felt himself squirm at the thought of promulgating his lies in print. His flimsy story would fall apart. He’d have to admit who he was. And, besides, it was always unfair to single out any one pilot as somehow special, he felt. They all did their part. It had been the same with the expedition; the damned press was always looking for heroes within the group to promote. They had all been heroes for just being there.

‘Interview me?’

‘For
The Graphic
,’ she said. ‘An issue on how the colonies continue to support us during the fighting in Europe.’

‘But I don’t think that’s entirely appropriate.’

‘Nonsense. Females drive some of the ambulances these days, why should they not be journalists?’ said Gregory, misunderstanding his objection. ‘Lady Scott is taking you into town for a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘I have a car waiting,’ she explained. ‘With a chauffeur, in case you are worried about a woman’s driving skills. Shall we?’

While Grant was struggling for a reply, Lady Scott fetched her hat and coat and slid her arm through his, almost frog-marching him out of the office. Grant glanced over his shoulder at the major, hoping for a reprieve. Gregory simply winked and signalled for him to go. Then Lady Scott whispered something in his ear that made him hurry along. ‘For goodness’ sake, come along, Trigger, time is pressing.’

Trigger.
So she knew exactly who he was.

They had just stepped from the farmhouse when the German scout appeared. It was a venerable monoplane Fokker, the one with the noisy Oberusel power plant, but it approached low and downwind, ensuring the sound of its engine only became apparent as it burst over the trees. The instant he recognised it as a hostile, Grant leaned against Lady Scott, pushing her into the doorframe. He should have buried his head to protect his face, but he was unable to take his eyes off the intruder. It came in level and the pair of dark objects hurled from the observer’s position fell directly towards the centre of the field. As soon as the deadly cargo was unloaded, the engine note sharpened and the Fokker banked away, flashing the twin black crosses on its underside like an obscene gesture.

One bounce, thought Grant, watching the payload spin through the air. Two bounces. Must be on a timer, rather than an impact fuse.

Now he turned away and hunched his body over hers, tensed for the blast. Three.

Four bounces. Then silence. He risked a glance. The bombs had rolled to a halt.

For what seemed the slowest of minutes, nobody moved. Eventually, several air mechanics and riggers appeared from behind their cover, looking around sheepishly. Willis, the chief rigger, strode over to where the German device had come to rest. Gingerly, he kicked at it, alert for traps, before he hoisted the object up in the air.

‘Boots!’ Willis yelled.

There was some relieved laughter, but also much muttering. Grant felt a flash of anger at the insult, but suppressed it. The Germans would be hoping a bunch of reckless hotheads would take off in pursuit of the Fokker, wounded pride blurring their reactions. In their haste, the English pilots might not even notice the red triplanes awaiting them, hidden by the sun.

‘Can I breathe now?’

Grant realised he had pressed his entire weight on Lady Scott. ‘Sorry.’

‘I think you ought to apologise to my hat.’ She pressed it back into shape and placed it on her head. Grant helped her slip into her coat. She glared at the sky. There was no trace of fear when she spoke, simply irritation. ‘Really, what was all that about?’

‘The boots? That’s just to let us know the Germans think we’d be more suited to the infantry.’