Goshawk Squadron (28 page)

Finlayson's flight consisted of Richards and a new boy called Tribe, a big, broad New Zealander. Finlayson spent fifteen minutes teaching Tribe the signals, and describing the blind spots of enemy aircraft. He emphasized the need to hold height; to keep searching around, above, below, behind; to get in close; to fire short bursts; to go for the pilot, not the plane. It was a waste of time. Tribe barely knew how to fly. On takeoff he almost crashed into a hangar. In the air he never mastered the throttle setting, so that he either fell behind or pulled ahead. He seemed physically uncomfortable in the cockpit. Once Richards had to dive out of the way as Tribe, twisting and stretching in his straps, lurched across the formation. After that, Finlayson did his best to get Tribe to fly a hundred feet below them, but the man kept wandering up.

They reached the fighting at a height of eight thousand feet. Finlayson searched around for something simple to blood Tribe on. There was nothing simple, only tangled dog-fights. After five minutes the decision was made for them: they were jumped by six D-Vs which came dropping out of a stretch of dirty cloud.

Finlayson had no time to protect Tribe. Within seconds each man was twisting and skidding away from the attackers.
Richards zigzagged violently as two D-Vs got behind him and took turns to fire. Each burst ripped the air like split canvas. He felt the SE kick, and tasted hot tracer fumes on his breath. In desperation he faked a dive and hauled the SE up on a tight loop. He glimpsed the enemy overshooting and banking steeply away, half-rolled and took a snap shot at a dappled D-V, then saw Finlayson behind it and yet another D-V behind him. Richards sprayed shots wildly and saw the second German swerve away. Where was Tribe?

He climbed and saw three Germans circling a lone SE and firing at it. The SE was doing nothing but loops. Loop after loop. Richards raced over and broke it up. The Germans turned on him, blocking his escape. Richards glimpsed Tribe, still laboriously and pointlessly looping. A D-V flashed across, firing and missing; Richards got off a burst and saw his bullets rip open the fuselage. He skidded hard in the opposite direction, anticipating attack, but none came. The enemy was diving away, for no reason, unless they were out of ammunition. Or low on gas. He scanned the sky, suspicious of tricks and ambushes. There was nothing. They had decided to call it a day, that was all. Extraordinary.

Finlayson came toiling back up, and Tribe was at last leveling out. Richards flew alongside, waiting for Finlayson. Tribe stood up and hammered at his gun. He pointed at it and waved his hands in the wash-out signal. Richards pointed homewards, which was behind them, and turned to escort Tribe across the Lines.

Tribe paid no attention. Richards came back and signaled more clearly, but Tribe was busy with his gun again. Richards fired a few rounds. Tribe looked up, waved, and went back to work. Finlayson reached them and Tribe repeated the pantomime. They were flying steadily eastward, deeper into enemy territory. Finlayson pointed backward, toward home. Tribe looked back, studying his tail, trying to see what they saw wrong with it. It looked all right. He worked the rudder pedals to show them. Nothing wrong there. It was the
gun
that was jammed.

Finlayson gave him the wash-out signal several times, and turned westward. Tribe was puzzled, but he followed. When they were well inside the British Line Finlayson motioned Tribe to go on home, while he and Richards went back. Tribe mistook the signal for the “enemy aircraft” warning, and searched the sky. He gave up looking and found that he was on his own. He wheeled around and chased after them.

Tribe caught them up as they were attacking a pair of two-seaters which were climbing away from the British Line, if there still was one, having just bombed an artillery position. Tribe knew better than to join the attack, unarmed and gunless. He circled above it, watching, in case there was anything he could do; until a passing Albatros fell on him and hammered a dozen bullets into his engine. Other aircraft joined in the fight, and before it could make a second attack the Albatros found itself under attack.

Tribe, not knowing how to fly when the propeller stopped turning, glided heavily eastward and crash-landed in a field full of German infantry, who were having a meal before going up to join the attack. His machine struck several of the soldiers and actually killed one. Some German military police took Tribe prisoner and locked him in a barn, where they shot him fifteen minutes later.

Killion had Shufflebotham and a replacement called Beattie in his flight. He told Beattie to climb as high as he could and watch what happened, but not to join in the fighting. This Beattie did, and learned a lot.

When they landed, Finlayson came over to ask if they had seen anything of Tribe.

“Who's Tribe?” Killion asked.

“Tribe is, or was, a bad joke,” Finlayson said morosely. “He nearly killed me, he nearly killed Richards, and then his gun jammed before he could do any real damage.”

“Never saw him.” They watched Woolley's flight land, and went indoors. Major Gibbs was waiting for Finlayson with
some typed papers. “Just sign these for me, there's a good chap,” he said.

“What are they?”

“Oh … depositions and arraignments and things. Legal junk to foozle the frogs.
You
know.”

“I want nothing to do with it. Sign it yourself.”

“Oh, come now, be reasonable. Nothing personal in this, you know. We're depending on you to cooperate, surely you see that?”

“I want nothing to do with it. If you don't like it, bloody well arrest me.”

“Me too,” Lambert said. “I'm as guilty as he is. In fact I demand to be charged alongside him.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Killion. “Charge us all, charge us all, or don't charge anyone!” The others applauded.

“No, dammit, you can't
all
be scapegoats,” Gibbs said, “that would be absurd … Finlayson, you really must do your bit, you know. I mean, one scapegoat is enough
as long as he does his bit.”

“Nonsense.”

“Look here …” Gibbs sat down and thought. “All right, I'll tell you what we'll do.
You
make a statement
denying
everything, professing innocence, know what I mean? I'll get it typed up. That'll do nicely. Also, we need a photograph.”

Finlayson laughed coarsely.

“But dammit,” said Gibbs, exasperated, “we must have
something
to put in the French papers.” Woolley, Gabriel and Callaghan came in. “Can't you do anything with him?” Gibbs appealed to Gabriel. “I don't see how you can defend him unless he either denies everything or confesses something.”

Gabriel smiled winningly at Finlayson. “Moreover Abishai the son of Zeruiah slew of the Edomites in the valley of salt eighteen thousand,” he said. “Imagine that,
eighteen thousand”

“You seem bloody bright this morning,” Richards said.

“Ahah! I got two flamers.” Gabriel swung his arms.

“And what good did that do?” Lambert muttered.

“Oh, what good does any of it do?” Rogers interrupted. “We kill them, and they kill us. The war still goes on downstairs, doesn't it? We're just a rotten little side-show up in the sky. Do you realize—all this was going on exactly the same
last
March? And the March before?
And
the March before? And d'you think that anyone will remember us next March? Or care?”

“That reminds me,” Lambert asked him. “What became of our young friend?”

“I don't know. He folded his wings,” said Rogers. “He sent in his resignation. Another triumph for gravity.”

Beattie turned white. “You don't mean Tom King,” he said.

“I thought that was the capital of China,” Killion murmured.

“Was that his name?” Rogers shrugged.

“How did it happen? Was he shot down?” Beattie was agitated. “Did you see it? Are you sure he crashed?”

“What does it matter?” Rogers was fed up with the subject. “All I know is he spun in from five thousand on half a wing.”

“You mean he wasn't shot down? So he could have jumped, then.” Beattie turned on Woolley. “Why don't they give us parachutes, for God's sake? You never knew him, you never knew what he was like …” Woolley looked at the twitching, furious face, and turned away. He scratched his armpits.

“I don't think I'll do any more flying today,” Finlayson said. “I think I'll go to the pictures.” He stared across at Woolley, but Woolley stared back. “I'm no good up there, anyhow,” Finlayson said complacently. “I run away all the time. Don't I, Major?”

“I'd dearly bloody like to know what we're supposed to be achieving, that's all,” Lambert bitched. “They're all over us in the air, and we can't stop them on the ground. We're just going through the motions.”

“Until the Yanks come,” Killion muttered.

“Then let 'em come,” Lambert said, “and we'll keep the war
warm for 'em, but for God's sake don't tell me I'm helping to knacker the Kaiser by farting round in a clapped-out one-gun flying coffin, because I've seen too much of it.”

“The frogs have the right idea,” Finlayson said. “‘We won't attack. We'll defend, but we won't attack.'”

“But surely … to win the war—” Shufflebotham's voice was drowned in laughter. Rogers and Lambert, Killion, Finlayson and Richards lay back and guffawed and waited for Woolley to do something about it. They watched him with sly greediness. For once they had him by the balls.

“You don't want to fly,” Woolley said.

“It's bloody mutiny, Major,” Finlayson said cheerfully. “Don't you tolerate it. Have 'em all shot. That'll make 'em respect you.”

“If you don't want to fly … What do you want to do?”

“Speaking for myself,” Rogers said, “I want to live.”

“I think I'll have the whole bloody lot of you transferred to the infantry,” Woolley said. There was an unreal atmosphere, like a courtroom where the jury has decided to impeach the judge.

“Oh, you can do that, certainly,” Lambert told him. “You can throw your weight around. What you can't do is tell us what good we're doing up there, day after day. Can you?”

“There is no alternative,” Woolley said. “It's not a question of good.
This fucking war has to be fought.
So there.”

“The terrible part about that,” Richards said, “is that it's perfectly true, and it's also the stupidest thing ever said.”

Woolley swung on him, eyes staring, brows raised, face stiff. The adjutant pushed open the door and cleared his throat. “Corps on the phone, sir,” he said. “We're off again. Squadron's transferred to Rosières. It seems that this field is in some danger of being overrun.”

As he spoke, the crack-thud of anti-aircraft fire sounded. Woolley shoved past him. A two-seater was cruising overhead at six thousand feet. The white balls of flak looked close, but Woolley knew better. Suddenly there was a heavier explosion, drowning the guns. A fountain of earth and smoke
erupted in a nearby field. “Cheeky bastard!” Woodruffe said. “He's bombing us.”

“He's not,” Woolley said. “He's spotting for their batteries. We're being shelled, old cock.” A second explosion blotted out a length of hedge. Woolley shouted into the hut: “Get in the air! Quick as you can!” As Rogers came by he grabbed him, “That's right, isn't it? You do want to live, don't you?”

Rogers twisted free and pounded across the grass. Woolley watched, and smirked. A shell scored a direct hit on a gas tank, and he felt the wave of heat from fifty yards off. He made for his aircraft, walking fast.

Jane Ashton heard the shelling as she was packing to get out of her cottage. She opened a window and listened.

“They're bombing the aerodrome,” she said. “I wonder—”

“Get a move on, before they start bombing us too,” Mary

told her. “If we don't get on that truck we'll be
walking
to Doullens.”

“It sounds very heavy.” She sat on the bed and chewed at a thumb-nail. “I feel so damned helpless.”

“That's because you
are
helpless.” Mary was stuffing wet towels into a dirty pillowcase. “What are we going to put the food in?”

“My God!” A violent explosion rattled the windows. “Surely they can't make them fly through that, can they?” She stared at Mary, white-faced.

“I don't know what that question means, so I certainly can't give you an answer. Have we any more string?”

“I bet they move the squadron. It must be too dangerous up there now. They
must
move them. Mustn't they?”

Mary shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps they moved them already.”

Jane stared. She turned and dumped everything out of her suitcases.

“We'll never get a seat, my girl, unless you buck your ideas up,” Mary said sharply. “You haven't time to fiddle-faddle about like that.”

“I'm not coming.” She was sorting out her clothes, packing some in the smaller case, throwing the rest aside. “You go on as soon as you're ready, don't wait for me.”

“I can't possibly manage all the kitchen stuff on my own.”

“I don't care. Leave it behind. It doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter?”

Mary picked up a woolen scarf. “Are you leaving
this?”

“You have it, if you want it. Take anything.” Jane changed her shoes to a heavier pair. “I'm not coming to Doullens. I've just realized, I can't come with you, Mary, I'm sorry. No, I'm not, I'm not sorry, I'm glad.”

“You're not making very much sense, I can tell you
that.”

“I'll let you know where I am when I know it. Soon.”

“You're off after that stupid squadron. You're chasing that—”

“Goodbye, goodbye,” Jane said to shut her up. “I have to go, don't you see?” She grabbed the case. “How can I go one way when he's going the other? How can I?”