Inherit the Skies (58 page)

At first, a prisoner of her own grief, Sarah had neither known nor cared very much what he was feeling but as she surfaced to at least some semblance of normality she had begun to realise that Max was experiencing no such relief. He had taken it all inwardly, throwing himself into his work to relieve the pain and succeeding only in burying it deeper so that it bubbled away inside him like the lava at the heart of a volcano. All his friends in their turn had tried to reach him, all had been turned away. He was fine, he assured them testily. He simply had work to do and he would be grateful to be left alone in peace to do it. But as the days and weeks went by and Max became more and more of a recluse Sarah began to fear for his sanity, and she decided that whether he appreciated it or not she must make one more effort to break through the shell with which he had surrounded himself.

The rest of the rooms in the wing which housed Max's office had been shut up when his top-secret project had begun – for security reasons it was not practicable to have any number of people wandering in and out of the building. As Sarah opened the front door it creaked from a winter of disuse and a musty smell came out to meet her. A crack of light showed from beneath Max's door. She tapped and when there was no reply tapped again. After a moment Max called out: ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me – Sarah. Can I come in?'

She heard him shuffle over to the door and turn the key the door opened a crack, no more.

‘What do you want Sarah?' He sounded impatient.

‘To talk to you.'

‘No-one is supposed to come in here.'

‘Oh for goodness sake surely you don't think I've come to spy on you! Don't be so silly, Max. Let me in – please!'

The door opened slowly and she was shocked by the sight of him – thin, pale, his hair standing on end, his collar studs undone, tie missing.

‘Very well then. Come in if you must,' he said grudgingly.

She went in, closing the door behind her and looking around in disgust. The office was a mess. Unwashed coffee cups littered the desks and floor, overflowing ashtrays gave the air a stale smokey smell. On the window sill, surrounded by several dead flies, was a plate with a half-eaten portion of bread and cheese – the bread looked dry and the cheese had grown a dark sweaty crust.

‘For goodness sake, Max! This place is like a pigsty!'

A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye, making him wink irritably.

‘If that is all you came to say, Sarah, I'll thank you not to waste my time.'

‘Of course it isn't, Max,' she said, regretting her lack of tact. ‘I've come because I'm worried about you. We all are.'

‘There is no need to be,' his eyes darted over her impatiently. ‘ I am perfectly all right. All I want is to be left alone to get on with my work.'

‘Oh Max!' she sighed. ‘You can't go on like this.'

‘Why not? You don't seem to realise, any of you, how vital it is that we come up with an answer to the Fokker and the Albatros. The lives of our fliers depend on it. And so may our very hope of victory.'

His good hand was working incessantly; she reached out and took it.

‘I know how important it is, Max – and I know too that if anyone can do it, you can. But if you go on this way you won't be any good to anyone.' Her eyes flicked disgustedly over the stale bread and cheese. ‘When did you last have a decent meal for a start? You would work a great deal better with some good food inside you.'

‘Nonsense. I simply go to sleep on a full stomach.'

‘And that's another thing,' Sarah said, looking round. ‘Where do you sleep?'

‘Well there of course.'

‘Where?'

‘I can snatch all the sleep I need right there in that chair.' He indicated a dilapidated wing chair which like the desk was littered with sketches, calculations and screwed up balls of scrap paper.

Sarah shook her head. ‘That is all very well for one night or even two. But certainly not for weeks on end. You will make yourself ill.'

‘I'm all right, I tell you.'

‘So you say. Oh Max, it would break Annie's heart to see you like this.'

His face changed. Briefly all the pain and naked grief were there in his eyes and she thought she had broken through to him. Then as swiftly as it had fallen the barrier came up again. ‘Annie is dead,' he said harshly and it was almost as if he was torturing himself with the words like a monk putting a hair shirt onto skin already chafed and raw. Sarah decided it might be prudent to change tack.

‘How are you getting on anyway, Max? Are you any nearer to a design you think will work?'

For a moment he stared at her as if he had failed to understand a word she had said. Then his eyes focused sharply as if his brain had suddenly clicked into gear and he nodded.

‘Yes. Yes, I think I am. It's a single seat biplane, you know, better synchronised than anything we have at present and a good deal more manoeuvrable – or so I hope. Have a look. See what you think.'

He crossed to his desk, motioning Sarah to join him and rearranged his board with fingers that shook slightly. ‘Speed and manoeuvrabilty – they are essential for a fighter plane,' he went on, launching into a description of technical detail, totally oblivious to the fact that she was no mechanic – and if she had been he would have been breaking the strict rule of secrecy. But for the first time he seemed to have come alive, his face bright, his voice full and firm, and she did not stop him.

‘Well, what do you think?' he asked eagerly when he had finished explaining.

‘I think it sounds good,' she said truthfully though she had scarcely understood a word.

‘Yes, I think so. Just as long as they give it a fair trial. It will be totally different from anything those boys have ever flown and they will have to learn new techniques in order to gain the full advantage from it …' He broke off, making a minute adjustment. ‘Still that is not my problem is it? All I have to worry about is giving them what they need to win the war. Learning to fly it is their contribution.'

‘It is brilliant, Max,' Sarah told him. ‘You are a genius and Annie would be proud of you. But take my word for it you do need some relaxation and a good square meal.'

‘I haven't time. I thought I had explained that,' he said, irritable again.

‘An hour or two won't make that much difference. Come out to my cottage and I'll make you supper. One of your favourites – liver and onions, perhaps, or bacon with the fat fried crisp.'

‘Sarah …'

‘I won't take no for an answer,' she said firmly. ‘ I am fond of you, Max, and I don't want to see you run yourself into the ground. What is more, for Annie's sake I am going to make sure you don't.' She crossed to the door. ‘ I won't press you for a firm arrangement now but you know you are welcome any time at all. Just come when the time seems right to you and I'll have the pan ready for that crispy bacon. All right?'

‘Yes … yes …' But already he had returned to his drawing board. Sarah hesitated in the doorway looking back at him but he seemed unaware now that she was even there. She sighed. How much good had she done? She did not know. Probably no more than any of his other friends. But at least she had tried. For the moment she could do no more. She went out, closing the door after her and leaving Max to his solitary mission.

In the spring of 1917 Adam, who had also been awarded the DSO for his exploits over the Somme the previous autumn, was appointed Flight Commander of a new squadron which was being formed to try to break the supremacy of German air power. Equipped with the fast new Scout Experimentals and staffed by hand-picked pilots, the birth of the new squadron had caused a few raised eyebrows for many of the old guard preferred the old idea of spreading excellence thinly in the hope that it would generate more excellence amongst what might otherwise be mediocre. So-called ‘crack squadrons' were not something the British went in for, they proclaimed rather sniffily, being far more suitable to the flash continentals.

Adam, however, felt nothing but enormous relief at the departure. He had become unutterably depressed by the constant stream of inexperienced young pilots the training schools were feeding to the front. Most of them were so green they were unable even to manage their own aeroplanes with any degree of safety if they handled differently to the ones on which they had been trained and when faced with the deadly prowess of the Richthofen Circus they stood no chance. Adam had written too many letters of condolence to next-of-kin which were little more than a fiction – and risked his own life too many times in efforts to extricate some raw young pilot from the dangers into which lack of experience had taken him. It was a relief now to know that the young men under his command would be the cream of those emerging from the flying schools, and the planes were fast enough and manoeuvrable enough to give them at least an even chance against the Bloody Red Baron and his cronies.

But for all that he was no longer under any illusions as to his chances of surviving the war. The earlier gentlemanly comradeship which had existed amongst the flying fraternity even though they were on opposing sides had gone now – fighting had taken on a new and ugly face. Now it was every man for himself – the German spiralling earthwards trailing black smoke and orange flame would not be the one to put a bullet through your own petrol tank – or head. But to replace him there were always a dozen more, well-equipped, well-trained young fighting machines with the legendary names of Immelmann, Richthofen and Boelcke to inspire them and sooner or later even the greatest of aces met their doom – the law of probability determined it. Fly often enough and eventually you would be bound to be shot down, cornered or run into some mechanical trouble. Perhaps you would be brought down by the error of one of your own friends as Boelcke had been, his wing torn off by the wheels of Erwin Bohme as they pursued two DH2s of Major Hawkers 24 Squadron. Perhaps in a state of dangerous elation brought on by fatigue you would simply fail to spot the enemy lurking in the cloud cover until it was too late. Whatever, the risk was high and the odds grew shorter with every mission flown. Death lurked in every shadow and Adam knew it.

The knowledge sharpened his senses making him aware of sights, smells and sounds to which he might have been oblivious before. It made him irritable, impatient with petty inconveniences, intolerant of the boisterous antics of the young fliers who turned the mess into a bear garden and – when he came home for a short furlough before taking up his new appointment – equally impatient of Alicia's shell-shocked officers who seemed to overflow into every room in Chewton Leigh House with the exception of his bedroom.

But it also made him realise how much he wanted to see Sarah and spend a little time alone with her. They had wasted too long already.

When he arrived home Alicia greeted him coolly.

‘You won't expect me to drop everything and spend time with you, I hope,' she said off-handedly. ‘I am afraid I am much too busy for that.'

‘No, I don't expect you to do anything, Alicia,' he said, thinking that if Alicia had suddenly been overcome with a fit of wifely duty it might have been awkward and restrictive to say the least. As it was she was so thoroughly bound up with her war work that it was easy for him to make his own plans and do as he pleased with his short furlough.

Only the thought of Eric acted as a mild deterrent to his plans. He liked Sarah's pleasant, unassuming husband and regretted that he would almost certainly be hurt. But regret was where it began and ended. Eric had had too much of Sarah already. In love as in war it was every man for himself when the chips were down.

Adam's face hardened. Until he had turned his blazing guns on a stricken aeroplane he had not realised just how ruthless he could be. Now nothing mattered but that he and Sarah would have a little time together. God alone knew it might be all they would ever have.

He thought about going to see her in her office at Chewton Leigh and decided against it. They would have no privacy there and he would have lost the element of surprise. No, there were better ways than that. Adam, with just two days to spare before the start of his new appointment, knew exactly what he was going to do.

Sarah had eaten her evening meal and was clearing away the dishes when she heard the knock at the door. She looked up, startled. She seldom had a visitor – unless it was her neighbour begging a cup of sugar. Sarah had hoarded a good supply of sugar at the beginning of the war in case of shortages although she knew it was against the law and she faced severe penalty, perhaps even imprisonment, if it was discovered, but she had never been afraid to take a risk or two and the sugar was her secret, scarcely touched since sweet-toothed Stephen was no longer here to demand it on his stewed fruit and cereal. But once in a rash moment she had whispered its existence to her neighbour, who sometimes came under cover of darkness armed with a small screw-topped bottle and a pleading smile.

Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and went to open the door. She was tired – the days were long and busy – and she hoped her neighbour would not be in a chatty mood. She would have to tell her the sugar supply was almost exhausted, Sarah decided.

She ran a hand across her hair, smoothing a stray end into place, and lifted the latch. Then as the door swung open she gasped.

‘Adam!'

He stood there in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the moonlight.

‘Hello, Sarah.'

She could not move; her knees had gone weak. She had known he was home, of course – Gilbert had been full of it, but she had declined his invitation to dine at Chewton Leigh. It was too painful to see Adam with Alicia, much as she had longed to see him the reality was simply too much to bear. Now she looked at him wordlessly feeling the uneven beating of her heart that only he could inspire.

‘Can't I come in?' he asked.