The Flyer (35 page)

CHAPTER 33

The clerk in charge of records didn’t appear at all surprised by William’s request.

‘So you want to know where you’re buried, sir. Though it isn’t actually you, of course.’

‘Yes, that’s right. The records ought to have been changed to show that it’s Captain Wright.’

The clerk’s expression was sceptical. ‘I doubt that. But let’s have a look. If you’d like to wait here I’ll see what I can find out. Would you like a cup of tea or something, sir?’

‘No thanks, Sergeant.’

‘Right then. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

In fact he was gone for more than an hour, and William had begun to think the man had forgotten about him. Eventually, though, he returned and his smile was evidence of success.

‘I was right about one thing, sir. The records haven’t been changed, but I’ll put in a request right away to get it done. There’s a bit of a backlog as you can appreciate, sir. It’s the lucky ones’ get their own graves, but even then you can never really be sure who they’re burying. A bit of this and a bit of that. I suppose it doesn’t really matter though does it, sir. Dead is dead, as they say.’

‘I expect you’re right.’

‘Bit of a funny one this, though. Unusual. No wonder you couldn’t find the grave. It’s not in the cemetery that’s why. He was buried in a village just outside Amiens.’

The records clerk showed William the documentation, though it told him nothing other than what he’d just heard.

‘Do you know why he was buried there?’

The clerk shrugged. ‘No idea, sir. Perhaps you could ask at the hospital. Somebody there might know. He wasn’t French was he?’

‘No. Not as far as I know, anyway.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it then, sir, shall I?’

‘Yes, thanks for your help, Sergeant.’

‘Pleasure, sir.’

When he got outside William lit a cigarette. He decided to go to the village right then and see the grave for himself. After returning to the hospital he managed to find an ambulance that was returning to the front and cadged a lift. He arrived late in the afternoon. The village was little more than a handful of cottages that had grown up in the protective folds of the landscape, sheltered from the elements. A hollow by the river that trapped the heat. It was June and the weather had changed. A single dusty road was the only way in or out of the village. It passed beneath shady trees and ran alongside a low hill where a wall made of grey stone surrounded the churchyard.

‘I can wait if you want, but only for a few minutes,’ the ambulance driver offered after William climbed out.

‘No, it’s alright, thanks. I’ll walk back.’

As the ambulance drove away a brown dog roused itself from a patch of shade and ran after the vehicle barking half-heartedly, and then duty done trotted back and collapsed in a panting heap. The sound of the engine faded to silence.

He climbed the path to the empty churchyard. The most recent graves were at the back behind the church, where the view over the wall stretched across fields and woods of dark green. He could see the red roof of a farmhouse in the distance. From the woods came the staccato echo of a woodpecker, and from the other direction the rumble of guns.

He found the grave under the branches of a yew. The headstone was made of polished marble, inscribed with his name and the dates of his birth and supposed death. He looked around. It was a peaceful place, a green idyll far from the war. It reminded him of Scaldwell. He sat down to think. He wondered if it was Elizabeth who’d arranged for him to be buried there, though it was odd that she hadn’t said anything. He wondered why.

By the time William arrived back at the hospital it was late in the afternoon. While he was packing his things, Elizabeth came into the ward.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.

‘I went for a walk.’

She watched him fold his clothes. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘Yes. My orders came this morning. I was going to tell you.’

‘Are you going back to England?’

‘No. I’ve been posted to a new squadron.’

She tried to hide her reaction, but he thought some things are impossible to conceal. She looked away so he wouldn’t see the tears she held back.

‘Elizabeth…’

She looked at him and tried to smile, wiping her eyes. He thought about the grave where Wright was buried and he wanted to go to her and put his arms around her, to hold her and feel the softness of her hair, breathe the scent of her skin. Neither of them moved.  

*****

They met at seven o clock at the hospital gates and walked towards the town. Elizabeth was quiet. When he glanced at her she was looking at the ground, her brow creased in angry lines.

‘They shouldn’t be sending you back,’ she said at length. ‘I’ve heard that other men who’ve escaped after they crashed have been treated as heroes.’

‘They’re desperately short of pilots,’ William said, though he suspected there might be other reasons for the decision to keep him in France.

‘Then they must need experienced men to train new ones. Surely you’ve done your part.’

‘No more than anyone else.’

‘It just doesn’t seem fair.’

‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘I’ve been posted to Christopher’s squadron.’

She stared at him in disbelief.

They went to a café where they had been once or twice since Christopher left. The owners were friendly and the food was good.

‘Christopher will be glad to see you,’ Elizabeth said when they were sitting at a table in the corner. ‘You can look after one another.’

‘How is he?’

‘I worry about him. Now I’ll have to worry about both of you.’

The café was busy with people who had stopped for a drink and a snack on the way home from their work. Like everywhere else, there were very few men under the age of forty five. The women worked at jobs that would have been the realm of men before the war. The owner’s wife brought them a bottle of Bordeaux.

‘When did you last hear from Christopher?’ William asked, offering Elizabeth a cigarette.

‘He writes every few days. I think things are difficult. He says the new planes are very good, but there still aren’t enough of them.’

‘It will get better,’ he said, trying to reassure her.

‘Will it?’ she said sceptically. ‘I’ve heard that our squadrons have been attacked by as many as thirty German planes at a time.’

William had heard the stories too. The German jastas had developed a new tactic of concentrating their numbers where they were needed, sometimes flying missions en masse. The pilots referred to them as flying circuses because of the garish colours the German’s painted their machines.

‘They’ve had the upper hand, but it’s changing,’ he said. ‘The SE5 is making a difference and I’ve heard Sopwith are making a bigger version of the Pup. With the new French Spads and Nieuports arriving as well, the tables are turning.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He could see she wanted to believe him, and by all accounts what he was telling her was true, though the new planes weren’t arriving in sufficient numbers yet, and there was a serious shortage of experienced pilots.

Despite William’s efforts to be positive, Elizabeth was unusually quiet during their meal, and no matter how hard he tried to take her mind off the war he couldn’t lighten her mood. She looked tired, he thought. Though on the surface she was still the young woman he’d once known and loved, she had changed. She rarely laughed. A memory came back to him of the day he’d taken her flying and shown her Scaldwell. If Christopher hadn’t been waiting for them when they returned he would have asked her to marry him. Would that have changed anything he wondered? It seemed to him that too many things in life went unsaid, and opportunities for happiness were missed and later regretted.

‘I went to Thierry this afternoon,’ he said.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she put down her fork. ‘How did you know?’

‘So it was you. I thought it might have been. I wanted to find out where Wright was buried so that I could write to his family.’

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I am.’

They looked at one another, their silence speaking more than words could ever express. The colour of Elizabeth’s eyes had always fascinated him; the startling clarity of green that made him think of light on the surface of the sea, illuminating the depths underneath. In some ways there was nothing more intimate than gazing openly into the eyes of another person. One felt exposed in a way. Nothing could be hidden. It made his heart race. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. A kind of freedom.

They smiled at one another as if sharing their thoughts.

‘There’s something I want you to know,’ Elizabeth said. ‘When we were in Cannes, Christopher and I both knew we’d made a mistake. When I look back now, I see how heartless I must have seemed to you. I can’t excuse what I did. I’m not even sure I can explain it entirely, but I think you knew I was in love with Christopher, or at least imagined myself to be. You asked me more than once if I was and I denied it. The truth is, I’d been in love with him for years. But it was more an idea than an actual feeling. All I ever wanted was for him to feel the same way about me. But he never did. He never saw me the way he saw other girls. The way he saw Sophie. And then I met you and without even wanting to, or realising or understanding what was happening, I began to fall in love with you. I was very confused.’

William listened to her speak, watching her mouth, her eyes, the way she fiddled with her wine glass. The ring she wore, Christopher’s ring, flashed in the light.

‘After we came back I tried to find you,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘I tried everything I could think of. But you seemed to simply vanish. I didn’t know who to ask, but I tried everyone. Nobody knew anything.’

He thought back. The weeks after the fire were unclear. ‘I went to Birmingham,’ he said. He’d worked for a coachbuilder and then an engineering firm. He had lived in lodgings and nine months of his life had disappeared in a black haze. Eventually he began to think about flying again, but shortly afterwards the war began and he had decided to join the Flying Corps.

‘Yes, I know. You were sent to Shoreham.’

He was surprised that she knew, and then she told him how she’d travelled to Shoreham and sent a letter to the camp and waited for a reply that never came. ‘I didn’t receive a letter.’

‘You’d already gone by then, but I only found that out months later. My letter was returned. By then I was living in London, training to become a nurse and you were in France.’

As he struggled to absorb what Elizabeth was telling him, it struck William how arbitrary life was. How fickle timing and circumstance could turn a person’s life toward a hitherto unforeseen direction. It was as if the forces that governed their existence had conspired to keep them apart, but still, somehow, they came to be sitting together at a table in a café in Amiens. He could understand how the Greeks had believed the gods meddled in men’s affairs for their amusement. And perhaps they weren’t finished yet. Though he and Elizabeth were only separated by the width of a table, they were bound by loyalty as surely as if they were chained. The table may as well have been a chasm.

Elizabeth told him about the day the burned pilot was brought to the hospital and the confusion over his identity. ‘I wanted him to be you, because the alternative seemed to be that you were dead. And when he died at least I had sat beside you and told you the truth, and I clung to the idea that you heard and understood everything I said.’

‘What did you say?’ he asked, wanting to hear her speak the words.

‘That I love you. That I’ve always loved you.’

Did any other phrase in language express so much of what was truly important in life, William wondered.

Elizabeth looked at the ring on her finger. ‘When Christopher asked me to marry him, I agreed because in a way I love him. I love him like a friend I’ve known all my life. But more than that I agreed because I believed I would never see you again, and Christopher was alive and he needed me. He still needs me. He needs to believe in me.’

William understood what she was saying, but he already knew it. There was solace, at least, in the knowledge that he loved her and that she in turn loved him. He smiled and reached across the table for her hand and that was enough.

CHAPTER 34

JULY 1917
 

The barrage on the German positions had been going on for nearly a week. A thousand guns were raining shells onto the ground that rose towards the ridge overlooking Passchendaele, with the intention of destroying the heavy enemy fortifications. The German artillery were responding and had put up a balloon to assist their gunners, and it was this balloon that William and Henry were about to attack.

It was a quick raid, meant to take the Germans by surprise so that they would have no time to winch their spotters down to safety or telephone one of the aerodromes to summon a squadron of Albatrosses. Unless they were unlucky enough to run into a patrolling jasta, William hoped they would slip across the lines and complete their mission and be back in time for lunch.

Henry was on his right as they climbed for height on their own side of the lines using the cloud for cover. The Hispano Suiza engine in his SE5 growled steadily as the altimeter climbed above ten thousand feet. The plane was steady and had proved to be fast in a dive. It could out climb an Albatross, though it was not quite so quick in a turn. The Lewis gun above the top-plane was loaded with standard ammunition, but the Vickers mounted on the cowling in front of William was loaded with incendiary bullets, designed to ignite the helium in a balloon and make it burn.

He entered heavy moisture-laden cloud, and for a few minutes he couldn’t see Henry, but he trusted him to hold his course. Henry had taken the place of William’s normal wingman, who was giving the other two pilots in William’s flight some shooting practise. They were replacements for Kirk and Wilson, who had both been shot down within a week of each other.

At thirteen and a half thousand feet the cloud thinned, and then moments later William flew into bright sunshine. Automatically he looked all around, searching for enemy planes. The greatest danger when flying was being taken by surprise. Both sides habitually patrolled close to their effective ceilings, using cloud and the sun to their advantage, always hoping to pounce on vulnerable two-seaters working at lower heights. For the moment he couldn’t see anything. To the north, a slab of heavy, dark cloud covered the landscape at about five or six thousand feet. Between there and his current position the drifts of cloud were layered at varying heights, and in between were oceans of blue. It was a landscape of a thousand hiding places, where danger could lurk unseen until it was too late. Far below, the earth was a dull canvas of muted greens and browns. In the air, the dimensional perspectives were reversed. The cloud made towering mountains and deep valleys and endless plains that stretched to the far horizon.

Henry’s plane emerged from the cloud and William checked his compass before changing course to follow a bearing that would take them over the lines south-east of the ridge. They sailed on through clear sky, accompanied by the reassuring note of the engine and the wind humming in the wires. He looked over the side of his cockpit at the ruined swathe of the Ypres Salient. Flattish, waterlogged land being churned to more mud and craters in preparation for yet another momentous battle. Explosions appeared silently, like ripples on a muddy pond.

William began to look for the balloon and soon he saw it far below. There would be a basket underneath with a crew reporting by phone to the artillery below. If they were alert, one of the crew would have his glasses trained to the sky searching for danger.

William gestured to Henry, who had already seen their target anyway. They had a method for attacking balloons. Because they had to attack at such a low height they took it in turns. On the first run Henry would stay up at around ten thousand feet to keep watch for enemy planes and draw them off if any should arrive. Both jobs were dangerous in their own ways, so after William had made two passes - if the balloon hadn’t been destroyed - they would change places. Henry had argued the point, saying that he ought to go first because he needed the experience. The truth was, he simply wanted to claim the ‘kill’ for himself. He had already shot down five German planes and he was keen to add a balloon to his score. But in this case, William had overruled him.

William cocked his guns and scanned the sky for a final time. There was nothing there. At least nothing he could see. As he pushed the stick forward and opened the throttle to maximum his heart was hammering. He felt alert in a way that he never did at any other time. Every nerve ending, every ounce of sinew and muscle, every electrical pulse of his brain was sharpened and focused on what he was about to do. He was aware of the plane as if he were part of it. He could feel the vibrations from the wires and the frame running through the stick and the pedal, felt the power of the engine as the growl of the firing pistons became a roar. The wind tore at his face and the humming of the wires became a wail of protest. Fear and excitement became one. He was appalled and exhilarated at the same time. In front of him, the balloon grew rapidly larger and clearer, the ground took on more and more definition. In a few minutes he would kill or even be killed himself. The thought struck at his bowels, a momentary terror threatening to cause him to lose control of his functions. Then all at once there was no time to think of anything but what he had to do, and a curious calm descended over him.

The balloon crew on the ground were nervous that day, it seemed. Before he was within range, William saw the first puff of dark smoke unfurl in the air ahead of him. Others soon followed, but the anti-aircraft gunners were struggling to find their range and the explosions never threatened him seriously. He was more worried about the threat of being hit by the machine guns on the ground, but he couldn’t think about that. He concentrated on his target. Already the ground crew were winding in the cable and the balloon was losing height. He attacked from above at a steep angle. When he pulled the trigger the Vickers barked and tracer flashed in a line dead into the centre of the balloon. He was aware of the figures in the basket, the flash from their rifles as they fired back at him, and then as he roared past, he twisted around to see if the balloon was burning. Though he knew he’d hit it, the balloon appeared undamaged, and he pulled back on the stick and banked to port to come around for another pass.

On the ground, the machine guns opened up. Above the noise of his engine, William heard the crack of bullets in the air. He lined his sights up on the balloon and opened fire early, a long burst that once again seemed to score a direct hit, though there was still no sign of fire. At the last moment, instead of climbing past his target he levelled off and reached for the Lewis gun to fire a burst into the belly of the basket. A figure threw up his arms and toppled over the side, and for an instant William felt both exultation and horror. But still the balloon refused to burn.

He looked up, searching for Henry, and glimpsed him circling in position. He should climb and exchange places, William thought, but by the time he did that the balloon would be very low and Henry ran the risk of being an easy target for the machine guns. He made a decision and banked in a steep turn, pushing the nose down again. If he didn’t get it this time they would break off the attack and run for home. For a third time the balloon filled his sights, and this time he started shooting as soon as it was in range. He followed the tracer in a straight line with the throttle wide open. Bullets hit his wings and splinters of wood flew off a strut, but when he glanced at the damage the wires were intact. He held his course. The crew were plainly visible, one of them waving his arms and frantically gesticulating to the winch party below, while another aimed his rifle. The tracer found its mark, but nothing happened. William kept his finger on the trigger, and as he got closer the balloon seemed to fill the sky until he thought he’d left it too late to break off. As he banked hard to port he was aware of a pale, terrified face, and at the same time he saw a lick of flame grow like the petals of a flower unfolding. There was an explosion, and the balloon collapsed on itself and fell in burning fragments. William felt the heat on his face and feared it would burn him too, but then it was behind him and he pulled back on the stick and began to climb and turn for home.

When they landed, Henry jumped down from his cockpit and pushed brusquely past one of the mechanics. He ripped off his goggles and strode to William’s plane.

‘You were supposed to exchange places after your second run,’ he said angrily.

‘If I had, it would have been too low,’ William answered.

‘I could have got it,’ Henry insisted petulantly. ‘That would have been my first balloon.’

‘It doesn’t matter which of us pulled the trigger,’ William pointed out. ‘We had a job to do and we did it.’

But he knew Henry didn’t see it that way. Henry turned and stamped off towards the chateau like a child who’d lost his favourite conker.  

*****

‘There you are,’ Christopher said, turning from the window as William came into the room. ‘It looks as if it’s clearing.’

Outside, the rain was easing. The solid sheet of grey that had severely restricted flying since the beginning of the attack at Passchendaele was fading to a heavy drizzle. Since William’s balloon busting mission four days ago the squadron had only flown two patrols.

Christopher gestured to a chair and poured himself a drink from a decanter on his desk. ‘Whisky?’

‘Just a small one thanks.’

The library of the sixteenth century chateau where the squadron was based, served as Christopher’s office. There was a large fireplace, and two of the walls were lined with shelves filled with books. Since his posting there, William had spent his spare time, such as there was, reading Proust and Voltaire.

‘Thanks.’ He took the drink Christopher gave him and they both lit cigarettes.

‘If it continues to clear like this we’ll be flying in the morning,’ Christopher said. ‘HQ are desperate to know what’s happening. I gather the entire thing is a complete mess.’

‘I can’t believe they went ahead with the attack in this weather,’ William said. ‘You can imagine what it must be like out there.’

‘Yes, well, I expect these things are planned well in advance. If there’s a delay the element of surprise is lost.’

‘I very much doubt that there’s any such thing as surprise anymore.’

‘You’re probably right. Anyway, the fact remains that the reconnaissance squadrons will be up as soon as the weather breaks, and that means the Huns will be out to stop them. I think we can expect to be busy. At least Henry will be pleased for another chance to add to his score.’

‘Yes, I expect so,’ William said.

Christopher gave a wry smile. ‘You’re not overly fond of him are you?’

‘He’s a good pilot,’ William said diplomatically. ‘And a brave one.’

‘He can also be a pompous ass.’ Christopher smiled. ‘You don’t have to respond to that. Henry may be my brother, but that doesn’t make me blind to his shortcomings. I had to speak to him the other day, actually. I don’t like his attitude towards the men. I heard him giving some poor fellow what for. He was complaining that his gun had jammed and putting all the blame on this young fitter. He said he’d have him on a charge if it happened again.’

Though William hadn’t seen the incident himself, he wasn’t surprised. He recalled the first time he’d met Henry years ago at Pitsford. He’d thought him a bully then for the way he used his position against people who couldn’t defend themselves for fear of losing their jobs.   

Christopher emptied his glass and lifted the decanter. ‘Another?’

‘I’m fine thanks.’ Christopher was drinking a lot, William thought, but then Christopher wasn’t alone in that respect. When William had passed the room they used as a mess earlier, most of the pilots were sitting around reading or playing chess, all of them drinking. Over the past few days they were often drunk before dinner, and then afterwards there would be drinking games and music until the early hours.

‘There’s no news of Hunt, by the way,’ Christopher said, referring to a pilot who’d been seen to go down a few days ago. One of the others thought he might have managed to land and there had been speculation he might evade capture and turn up again one day.

‘Are we getting somebody to replace him?’

‘Yes. He ought to be here tomorrow. I had a letter from Elizabeth this morning,’ Christopher said. ‘She sends her love.’

‘Thanks. Send mine back would you.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Is she alright?’

‘Yes I think so. She’s working very hard. They’ve been overrun with wounded since this latest push.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘Yes.’ Christopher frowned and looked out of the window at the rain. ‘I was hoping to get up for a night to see her, with this weather. But it’s not really possible at the moment. Anyway, I expect she’s been run off her feet.’

‘How long before you’re due some leave?’

‘Leave?’ Christopher sounded despairing. He shook his head at the impossibility of the idea. ‘I find it’s best not to think about it. I try and take each day as it comes.’ He picked up an envelope from his desk and William saw Elizabeth’s handwriting on the front. ‘About the only time I can contemplate any sort of future is when I write to Liz. I often talk about Pitsford, what it will be like when we’re living there again. I can almost believe it will really happen.’

‘Of course it will.’

‘I wonder if you believe that? I can’t help thinking it’s a dream. A fantasy. I want to believe in it, but I don’t think I really do.’

There was a worrying fatalistic note to some of the things Christopher said, William thought. He sometimes talked as if he’d given up hope for the future, though never if any of the others were present.

‘Can I ask you something, William? As friends?’

‘Of course.’

‘After you crashed and you met that woman who helped you… what was her name?’

‘Helene.’

‘Helene. Yes. Liz said something to me. She thought you might have been in love with her. I’m not asking if you were, it’s none of my business, of course. But I know you cared for her. I couldn’t help wondering, in that case, whether you ever considered staying there?’