Hornet’s Sting (45 page)

“What's different above ten thousand?” Cleve-Cutler asked.

“Weather. Half a gale is enough to shove the shells a hundred yards sideways. Gunners don't want strong winds.”

“And what else don't you want?”

Champion sighed. “Sudden changes of altitude. If you chaps go up or down several hundred feet, then we can't change the fuses quickly enough.”

“I know the safest place to fly,” Mackenzie announced.

Paxton closed his eyes and let his head drop. The C.O. said, “Share the fruits of your wisdom, do.”

“Close to the Hun, sir. It's the one place enemy Archie never fires.” Half the squadron groaned. “That's my experience, anyway,” Mackenzie said.

“Thank you, major,” the C.O. said. “Most enlightening.”

“It's worth a try, anyway,” Mackenzie said.

* * *

The adjutant enjoyed the squadron's absence. He even tolerated Lacey's playing records of Beethoven string quartets. “At least those blighters can keep in step,” he said. “Not like that long-haired anarchist friend of yours who started the riot in Paris.”

“Stravinsky. It was the audience who rioted.”

“Wanted their money back, I expect.”

“No, they wanted their childhood back.”

Brazier didn't even try to make sense of that. He filled his pipe while he glanced at the paperwork that Lacey had put on his desk. “Well, well. Brigade quartermaster's got his jam back at last. How did you manage that?” Lacey said nothing. Brazier nodded. “Better I don't know ... Two hundred pounds of raspberry?” He lit the pipe. “I thought it was strawberry.”

“Opinion was divided.”

“Divided, was it?” Brazier blew smoke at the flies. They did not panic as they used to. Maybe they were beginning to like the taste. Flies were cleverer than Huns. A million dead Huns was a solid achievement, but flies seemed to thrive on death. “The Q.M. seems to have given up on the cheese.”

“He was always more comfortable with jam ... Some items here require your approval.”

Brazier looked at the list. “A squash court?”

“Portable. It's wooden.”

“Where in God's name did you find a squash court?”

“All it needs is a foundation. I can get racquets and balls from Harrods.”

Healthy exercise, Brazier thought. Who could possibly object? “Approved. What's this? Silk flowers?”

“A genius in Amiens. I challenge you to tell his silk roses from the real flower without touching.”

“Where do we put the bally things?”

“On the dining table at guest nights,” Lacey suggested. “In patriotic colours.”

“Get two bunches. We'll see ... What's next?
Silk sheets
. Are you mad, Lacey?”

“Silk is very practical. It's warm and hardwearing. This is a cancelled order for a Paris bordello. Those people understand beds and bedding and —”

“No. Definitely no. Whatever next? Eunuchs in the orderly room? Lipstick in the flight huts?”

“Some French pilots wear lipstick,” Lacey said. “Very effective against chapped lips, I believe.” But he knew that silk sheets were out. Since Mata Hari, the Allied armies were taking no chances.

* * *

During lunch, Major Champion suggested that, unless Cleve-Cutler's lads had to hurry back to Gazeran, they might like to see what use the army made of the excellent photographs taken by the R.F.C.

They drove to a warehouse on the outskirts of Poperinghe. Champion got them through the guard of red-capped Service Police, and led them into a well-lit space as big as a ballroom. Aerial photographs lined the walls. Officers with magnifying glasses studied pictures spread on tables. The place smelt of developing fluid, with a faint aroma of coffee and chicory lingering behind it.

A shirt-sleeved officer introduced himself as Lieutenant-Colonel Kerr-Scott of the Tank Corps. He led them to a large table. Polished
brass shellcases held down the corners of a map. It showed the area of the coming battlefield, with the Ypres Salient in the middle, poking like a blunt arrowhead into enemy territory. “Beyond the Salient it's nearly all farmland,” Kerr-Scott said. “A few very small villages – Langemarck and Poelcappelle to the north, Gheluvelt and Becelaere to the south, Zounebeke and Passchendaele to the east. In the piping days of peace, farmers hereabouts got fined heavily if they allowed their dikes and culverts to become clogged. What you are looking at, gentlemen, is a well-drained bog. This map shows how it looked ten days ago, when our bombardment began.”

Kerr-Scott moved the shellcases and let the map roll itself up. Beneath was another map, spattered with blue.

“The same area, three days later. Thanks to your comrades performing photo-reconnaissance, we have been able to make a record of the destruction of the drainage system. Every time a shell destroys a drain, it creates a small swamp. Blue indicates swamp.”

He moved the shellcases once more and revealed another map. “After five days of bombardment.” The spatter of blue had spread and begun to connect up and form larger blue patches.

The next map showed lakes and rivers and blotched streams of blue. “This is the swamp map after seven days of bombardment,” he said. Swamp covered so much of the planned battlefield that there were gasps of laughter. “I know,” Kerr-Scott said. “But wait. There is more to come. Here is yesterday's swamp map, after ten days of bombardment.” There were a few chuckles but they quickly died. The map showed scarcely any dry ground in front of the British Lines. Almost everywhere was blue; almost everywhere was bog. This was the ground the P.B.I. would be expected to take.

“We've also made a raised map, out of plasticine,” Kerr-Scott said. “It might give you a better idea of what the area looks like from the air.”

The crews strolled over to the raised map. Cleve-Cutler stayed to talk. “I take it our lords and masters know about all this, sir,” he said.

“Yes and no. We sent copies of the swamp maps to G.H.Q. Yesterday we received orders to discontinue the practice.”

Cleve-Cutler nodded. “A reasonable request. If you discontinue making maps, perhaps the gunners will discontinue making swamps.”

“That's a pretty thought. But look here: we mustn't be too hard on
G.H.Q. We'd probably do the same, if we were in their shoes.”

Cleve-Cutler was startled. “Ignore all
this
, sir? Surely not.”

“Yes, we would, old chap. How many rounds have our guns fired, already? Two million?” It wasn't an argument; Kerr-Scott's voice was gentle. “If you shoot off two million shells at the enemy and then you
don't
attack him, he's won a victory, hasn't he? The important thing to remember about G.H.Q.'s battle plans is that they have no reverse gear. Unlike my tanks.”

Cleve-Cutler wanted to ask if the tanks would reverse out of the swamp; but he was only a major, and such a question might be tactless; so he said nothing.

“Please thank the pilots who took these photographs, if you have a chance,” Kerr-Scott said. “Very brave men.”

But the photographs are wasted, Cleve-Cutler thought. “I'll try,” he said.

The crews filed out of the warehouse and climbed onto the transport.

“Not quite what I expected,” Major Champion said. “Still, food for thought. Eh?”

“Perhaps the rain will hold off,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Perhaps the sun will bake the bog and save our bacon.”

“It never has yet, so it's certainly overdue.”

The squadron flew back to Gazeran.

They took off and landed by flights.

Paxton's was the last flight to land, and Mackenzie was the last in the circuit. This meant that when Paxton touched down, Mackenzie was still half a mile away, three hundred feet up, and edging closer to the Biff in front.

It was flown by Drinkwater. He was a serious young man who always did his cockpit checks twice and who never forgot his first instructor's warning that most accidents happened during take-off or landing. He was scanning the aerodrome, looking for wrecks or ambulances or other obstructions, when something alarmed his peripheral vision, and he glanced left and saw the right wingtips of Mackenzie's Biff overlap his own left wingtips and create a six-inch sandwich.

Drinkwater's instinct was to escape to the right. But any bank or sideslip might cause the machines to touch. The thought frightened
Drinkwater and he flew absolutely straight and level. He risked a look at Mackenzie. The man was without helmet or goggles and he was grinning. Now the pairs of wingtips were separated, but only because Mackenzie had let his Biff drift back a little and wander even further to the right. His propeller arc was only eight or ten feet from Drinkwater's wings. Both machines were shaking and bouncing in the combined turbulence. By now Drinkwater was so frightened that he did not think; he just whacked the throttle open and climbed. His mouth was dry and no matter how hard he swallowed, it refused to summon up spit. He looked down. Mackenzie, hair blowing in the wind, waved.

By the time Drinkwater had circled and lost height and lined up another approach, Mackenzie had landed.

Drinkwater got down safely. He spoke briefly with his gunner. They agreed Mackenzie had been insanely stupid; that left nothing more to be said.

When they entered the flight hut Mackenzie was there alone, sitting on the table, swinging his legs. He was obviously waiting for them. Drinkwater hung up his flying gear and gave Mackenzie time to apologise. His gunner busied himself and kept his mouth shut. Mackenzie combed his hair. The gunner got bored. He wanted his tea. He waved a hand and left, briskly.

Still Mackenzie was silent.

“I don't know why you're here,” Drinkwater said. “You needn't be afraid that I shall report you to Paxton.”

“You poor fish. You're not brave enough to report me to the man in the moon.” There was a lot of vigour in Mackenzie's voice, and a little contempt. “You hate taking risks. You shouldn't be flying a fighter. You should be driving a tram.”

“Awfully kind of you to care what I do.”

“Do? You don't do a damn thing. You play safe. No risks! That'll get you nowhere except the grave. What are they going to say about you? Here lies young Drinkwater ... um ... he nearly took a chance once, but then he funked it.”

“Look: that idiocy of yours upstairs,” Drinkwater said harshly. “I don't care what you do to me, but you nearly killed both our gunners. That's intolerable.”

Mackenzie jumped down from the table and strode over to him and
punched him in the belly. Drinkwater was winded and sank to his knees, wheezing. “You swine,” he whispered.

“Well, you said you didn't care what I did to you.”

After a while, Drinkwater staggered to his feet. At once Mackenzie tripped him and he fell on his rump.

“I knew a very nice chap at school who said you should never kick a man when he's down,” Mackenzie said. He kicked Drinkwater in the ribs. “Personally, I've always thought it was the best time to kick him.” He put his cap on and went out.

* * *

The C.O. had got out of his flying kit and was heading for the mess and a cup of Earl Grey, when he saw the adjutant trotting towards him. This was a signal in itself: in Uncle's army, officers never ran, except when playing games or leading an attack. Then the C.O. saw two men in civilian clothes, and he felt a harsh tightening of his chest. Civilians always brought trouble. “If they're from the Paris embassy, I won't see them,” he said.

“They're not.”

“Russian embassy? Brazilian embassy?
Daily Mail?
It's been a foul day, Uncle. You look after them.”

“They're Americans. Bliss said we must be nice to them. He was on the phone. Be charming, he said.”

“What do they want?”

“They seem to be looking for the secret of success.”

“Should have stayed at home, then. Come on, we'll pour Scotch into them. Perhaps we'll win a goldfish in a jam jar.”

The Americans wore dark suits and Homburg hats. They stood near the biggest Buick the C.O. had ever seen. Brazier made the introductions. Mr J. J. Dabinett was tall and thin and cheerful. Mr Henry Klagsburn was stocky, and when he shook hands he looked hard at Cleve-Cutler as if memorising his face. Both men were clean-shaven and about thirty years old. “How can I help you?” the C.O. said.

“Sir, we're here to sell the war to America,” Dabinett said.

“You should have come three years ago. It was brand spanking new then. It's got a bit shop-soiled now, a bit tattered and torn. Been left out in the rain too long.” Cleve-Cutler remembered that he was
supposed to be frightfully nice. Sod it. Too late now. Like the Yanks.

“That's exactly why we're here, sir,” Dabinett said.

He spoke quickly and clearly. A group of Chicago businessmen, all millionaires, were very concerned about the indifference, the apathy of many Americans towards the war in Europe. Enthusiasm was a weapon as important as any gun. So they had sent Dabinett, who was a journalist, and Klagsburn, a cameraman, to make a film about the war to be shown in the U.S. and thus boost morale there. For the past month they had been all over the Western Front, searching for suitable material.

“Seen Verdun?” Cleve-Cutler asked.

“Yes. Impressive but ... not encouraging.”

“The Boche say they had a quarter of a million casualties at Verdun. Same for the French, probably. Only five miles wide, you know. Five miles of battle, half a million dead or wounded, and stalemate.”

“We can't find what we're looking for in the French Army, sir.”

“Neither can the French Army, Mr Dabinett.”

Pessimism made Brazier restless. “I think you'll find the British Army is made of sterner stuff. Listen to those guns. We'll blast the Boche out of Belgium, you'll see.”