Hornet’s Sting (20 page)

“You were on patrol, sir.”

“Still, two hundred pounds ...” Cleve-Cutler looked at the general, who was in a chair by the stove with his arm in a sling. He was waiting for his car to be repaired.

“I know a joke about jam,” the general said.

“The quartermaster at Brigade is being a bit officious, sir,” Lacey explained.

“You can turn a raspberry patch into a pot of jam,” the general said. “But it's not so easy the other way around.”

“How very true, sir,” Lacey said. The C.O. signed, and Lacey slid the form away from his fingers, to uncover the next.

“Sounded a lot funnier when I heard it. Mind you, we were all a bit squiffy at the time.”

Cleve-Cutler scribbled his name on the rest of the forms, threw them all at Lacey, and threw the pen at the door. “Come on, general,” he said. “You can wave us goodbye.”

“I nearly got a bit squiffy last night,” the general said. “That vodka creeps up on a chap.”

After a mild night and a sunny morning, the grass was dry and the air was sweet. The adjutant bicycled about, searching for the two Russians, and found them in one of the flight huts, playing poker with a mixed bunch of pilots. They were all drinking a hangover cure devised by the doctor. It consisted of raw eggs beaten up with cayenne pepper, Worcestershire sauce and toothpaste, and it wasn't doing much good. When Brazier opened the door, most flinched as from a blinding light.

“Signal from Brigade H.Q.,” Brazier said. “Your Paris embassy says you've got to swear an oath to the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch.”

“Yes,” Nikolai said. “Is stinking lousy smelling fucking shitting Pig.”

“A very decent oath,” McWatters said.

“More than you deserve, Uncle,” Simms said. “Bursting in here, shouting and stamping and frightening the children, you should be ashamed.”

“I brought this,” the adjutant said to Count Andrei. It was a Bible, large and leatherbound. “Not in Russian, I'm afraid. Any use?”

“I don't swear,” Nikolai said firmly.

“Yes, you do swear.” Andrei took the Bible and whacked him on the side of his head, and then swung backhand and whacked the other side. Nikolai rocked and gaped. A string of saliva swayed from his upper lip.

“Golly,” Heeley whispered. Nobody moved. This was better than poker.

Andrei slammed the Bible on the table and pointed. Nikolai placed his hand on it. So did Andrei. He said: “We swear allegiance to Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch, by the grace of God, sole ruler of all
the Russias.” He kicked Nikolai on the leg. “I swear,” Nikolai said. He sounded twelve years old.

Brazier took the Bible and left.

“I now pronounce you Mappin and Webb,” McWatters said. “You may shoot the bride.”

Nikolai stood up. His face was working hard to seem adult and strong, but the high cheekbones were wet with tears. He went out.

His cards lay face-down. McWatters turned them over. “Queens on tens,” he said. “Fancy that.”

Munday began collecting the cards. “Little Nicky is a pest,” he said. “At my school we'd have toasted his tiny bottom over a hot fire. All the same ... was it wise to box his ears? He just
might
be Tsar one day.”

“Nicky is finished. The Romanovs are finished. There will never be another Tsar.” Andrei stirred his cards with his forefinger, but he left them lying. “It's all up to the Socialists now.”

“If Nicky's done for,” Simms said, “what about you? Suppose there's a revolution. You might ...” He shrugged.

“Count for nothing,” Heeley said.

“Heaven help us!” Munday said. “The boy Heeley has made a joke!
Count for nothing
. Did you hear?”

“It was an accident,” Heeley mumbled, blushing.

“I count for nothing because I am not a count,” Andrei said. “I hold no rank in Russian nobility. My father is an engineer. I studied chemistry at London University. When Duke Nikolai was sent here, he must have an aide who could fly and speak English. Nothing less than a count would do. Unfortunately the Tsar was feeling a little low that week. He went to bed and refused to see his ministers or his generals. So I was not elevated. I am a counterfeit count.”

The poker had come to a halt.

“I still don't think you should have hit him,” McWatters said. “I mean, what if the Cossacks put the Tsar back on the throne? He might turn very shirty about blokes like you clouting his cousin.”

Andrei said, “There were riots in Petersburg, and the Cossacks refused to fire. So the Tsar had to go.”

“Politics is a squalid business,” McWatters said.

“The riots were about bread,” Andrei said. “Hunger beats politics. Hunger beats anything.”

“I never heard about any riots,” Simms said. “I suppose you've got some secret supply of intelligence.”

“I read it in
The Times.”

“Really? Damned heavy going,
The Times
. I stick to the racing page.”

Outside, a klaxon blared. They got up and collected bits of flying kit.

“What I don't understand,” Maddegan said, “is why you swore your great steaming oath to the Grand Duke Thingummy, when you reckon the whole royal kit and caboodle has gone down the drain.” He yawned and stretched, and accidentally hit Heeley in the face. “Sorry, chum,” he said.

“It was a small courtesy to the adjutant,” Andrei said. “And it will keep the Paris embassy quiet.”

They left the cards on the table for the next squadron, and shut the door and walked to the aircraft. Dash edged alongside McWatters. “Remember that night at Rosie's?” he said quietly. “The business with the deserter. You made him stand on the table.”

“Oh,
that
. That was years ago. What of it?”

“Well ... what happened? What did you ... What became of him?”

“As a matter of fact, we killed him. A deserter, you see. We court-martialled him, on the spot, and he confessed. Only one sentence. Little chap. Didn't take much killing. Threw the remains in the midden. Wet as a bog. Sank like a stone.” They had reached the Pups. They stopped and looked at each other. McWatters was wearing sunglasses and Dash wanted to knock them off, but he wasn't brave enough.

“I don't believe you,” he said.

“Of course you don't.” McWatters moved to his machine. “You could always look in the midden,” he said. “I expect he's still there.”

The squadron took off in order of flights, with the Russian Nieuports the last to leave. The general stood on a tender and waved them goodbye. A sergeant-fitter helped him down. “Cavalry of the clouds,” the general said. There were tears in his eyes, and he stumbled as he walked to his car. What's he got to cry about? the sergeant wondered. He's not likely to get a burst of tracer up his arse. Silly old sod.

Sleepers wakened. Small objects upset. Doors swing open or closed
.

“It's the poor bloody aeroplane I feel sorry for,” Paxton said.

“Then you're a twat,” Woolley told him. “It's just a Pup, for Christ's sake.”

“It did its duty in France. It deserves a decent end in England, not to get bashed to bits by silly buggers like Mackenzie.”

“Stay off the gin, Pax. Gin makes you come over all weepy.”

They watched the Pup come in to land. The engine made brief belching sounds as its magneto was switched off to lose power. A small gust of wind shook the wings and slewed the machine, and the pilot lost confidence in his approach. The engine roared as he tried to make the Pup climb. It was too late. The Pup dropped ten feet and bounced. Then it stayed up and cruised across the field, head high, gaining speed, and wobbled over a hedge.

“I wish he'd break his bloody neck and get it done with,” Woolley said. “Then we can all have a beer.”

“Is that true, what you said about gin?” Paxton asked. “When I was at Sherborne, the chaplain was always droning on about the evils of liquor. He said gin attacked a chap's manhood. I must say mine seems to be standing up to the challenge.”

“I went to Bog Street Elementary School,” Woolley said. “Couldn't afford gin. We drank the ink.”

“That was a joke,” Paxton said. “Standing up to the challenge. Very clever joke.”

“Couldn't afford jokes in Bog Street. We had to make do with rickets.” A different Pup made its approach, coughing and wavering, and it landed. “That's one of my blokes,” Woolley said, and walked towards it.

“Anyway, if I'm a twat, so are you,” Paxton shouted after him. “We're all twats. Only a twat would do this twattish job.” Woolley
tossed his hat high in the air, and the breeze caught it and sent it bowling along the grass.

* * *

The aerodrome took the name of the nearest village, Coney Garth. A branch line to Bury St Edmunds passed through the village, so travel to and from London was easy. This made Coney Garth a far more attractive posting than the many training fields which were stuck in the wilds of the Yorkshire moors or the Lowlands of Scotland. Coney Garth had half-a-dozen flying instructors and they all got out of the place as fast and as often as possible. They were experienced pilots being rested after a spell at the Western Front. Paxton and Woolley had been at Coney Garth for five months. After France, five months was a lifetime: five lifetimes. Paxton spoke of getting married, if only he could find the right girl. Woolley was learning to play the saxophone. They had plenty of time.

For the pupils, it was different.

In less than three years the war had killed about half a million men from Britain and Ireland, plus a couple of hundred thousand from the Empire. A million more had been wounded and might as well be dead for all the use they were to the generals. The Royal Flying Corps was one of the smaller departments of the army. In 1917 the Corps accounted for only 2 per cent of its manpower in France; and of these, only a few thousand made up the pilots and observers who actually flew against the enemy. On the other hand, the R.F.C lost its fighting men far more rapidly than any other unit. By the spring of 1917 it was rushing its pupils through their basic training, and then giving them little time to learn how to fly and fight. Some instructors despised their jobs, some were impatient, some just didn't care. There was no room for an instructor in the Sopwith Pup, so the pupils mainly taught themselves. Many did not reach France. For every airman killed by the German Air Force, two died in training in England.

Coney Garth was a fairly typical training field. On average there were four crashes a week and a dozen deaths a month. Paxton and Woolley had been sent home to be rested from the war, only to find it waiting for them, hungrier than ever.

* * *

“I think I'm getting the hang of it, sir,” Mackenzie said. He had got the Pup down at the third attempt. One undercarriage leg was cracked. A mechanic squatted to examine it, looked up at Paxton, shook his head.

“Come with me, Mackenzie,” Paxton said, “and we shall find a quiet corner where I can shoot you without disturbing your friends and colleagues stumbling around the firmament.”

Mackenzie followed, unbuttoning his Sidcot suit. “Why would you wish to shoot me, sir?” he asked.

“Economy, old fruit. Think what the War Office will save. The cost of shipping you to France. Meals. Toilet paper. Sheets and pyjamas. You'll want a bed, I suppose? And then an aeroplane all to yourself, guns loaded, tanks full of petrol – have you any idea of the price of petrol? – so you can fly over the Front and get yourself blown to blazes. Just add it all up. Britain can't afford it, you know. You're bleeding the old country white, Mackenzie. That way lies defeat. Whereas if I shoot you now, the cost is trifling, a few pence only, which includes cleaning the weapon afterwards. So you see where my patriotic duty lies.”

“Yes, sir.”

They reached a heavy roller and sat on it.

Paxton looked long and hard at Mackenzie, who blinked occasionally. Mackenzie had boyish features and hair that curled enthusiastically. Only his eyes seemed fully adult: they were grey and watchful. “It's a funny thing,” Paxton said. He found his pipe and his pouch, and took his time over shredding a slice of tobacco. “You look rather like a girl I used to know.” As soon as he heard the words he regretted them: that wasn't what a chap said to another chap, especially to a chap of lower rank. But another part of him said: Who gives a fuck?

“What did she look like?”

“Delicate,” Paxton said. “Very slim, she was a dancer. Turned out to be something of a bitch.”

“Sir,” Mackenzie said. “Shouldn't you be teaching me how to beat the Boche?”

“Oh, bugger the Boche. You'll never be a fighter pilot.” Paxton stood up. “Get your things packed, report to the C.O. You're sacked.”

“Why, sir?”

“Oh ...” Paxton was suddenly tired of Mackenzie. He regretted mentioning the elfin-bitch. “You're too young. Too small. Not strong enough. Try again next year.” He strolled away. He was thinking of lunch when he heard a squeaking and clanking behind him. The noise grew louder and he turned and saw the roller coming at him. Mackenzie was pushing it by its handle, his body so low that all Paxton saw was the head and shoulders. He jumped aside. Mackenzie let go. The roller rumbled past, and Paxton felt the turf tremble. The roller stopped. Its handle wagged.

Mackenzie, ten feet away, cocked his head and waited.

Paxton got hold of the handle and heaved. The roller moved, but not much.

“All right,” Paxton said. “You are strong enough. But you're still sacked. Your gunnery's rotten. Flying's no good if you can't shoot. Your scores are pathetic.”

Mackenzie put his forefinger to his head. “Bang,” he said.

“Missed. See what I mean? Now put this thing back where you found it.”