War Story (19 page)

Morale in Cleve-Cutler's flight improved. They scored a couple of kills and after that nobody went sick. It was lucky that the Fokker monoplane was in decline, but every good leader needs a bit of luck. Soon Cleve-Cutler became senior flight commander, then acting CO. Now, overnight, he was a major, posted to Pepriac as new CO of Hornet Squadron.

He arrived at noon. The first thing he did was assemble the officers in the mess anteroom.

“Major Milne is dead,” he said. He was pressing a couple of fingers against the side of his mouth to hold his face in a suitably neutral expression. “It seems that he killed himself by ramming an enemy machine on the other side of the Lines last evening. One of our observation balloons saw him cross the Lines, and later saw the collision. My name is Cleve-Cutler and I now command this squadron.” He released his face, and the roguish smile slowly restored itself. “Later on I shall meet each one of you individually. For now, all I shall say is this. There is soon going to be the most enormous battle near here, and the war will be over by Christmas. Which Christmas, God alone knows, and I personally don't much care, and if the lieutenant at the back doesn't stop picking his nose I'll come and pick it for him. Of course, all these umpteen infantry divisions camped around here could be just an elaborate deception. Maybe the real battle will be elsewhere. But in any case, the Hun can't ignore us, so there will be large numbers of Hun aeroplanes to be shot down, which is all they're good for. Finally, I invite you to sample Cleve-Cutler's Patent Pink Potion For Pale People, several gallons of which are now waiting at the bar. For convenience I think it ought to be re-named Hornet's Sting. That's all. Thank you.”

Private Collins was at the bar, ladling out glasses of a blood-red drink from a small brass-bound keg. Frank Foster
took a glass and sniffed it. “What's in here, Collins?” he asked.

“I'm allowed to mention the plum brandy, port, eggs, Cointreau, Cognac and linseed oil, sir, but not the special secret ingredients, I'm afraid.”

“Why not?”

“Bombay curry and vodka, sir. You might develop a bias if you knew about them.”

Foster took a sip. His eyebrows came together like shutters being closed. “Jesus wept,” he muttered. “What a wallop.”

“That'll be the rum, sir.”

When everyone had a glass, Cleve-Cutler stood on a chair. “There is a very ancient squadron tradition which I have just thought of,” he announced. “This drink must always be drunk with both feet off the ground to the words ‘Hornet's Sting'.” There was much scrambling onto chairs and sofas and tables. Cleve-Cutler raised his glass. Everyone shouted: “Hornet's Sting!” and drank. Mayo said later that it was like swallowing a whizzbang, only noisier. Douglas Goss fell off his chair, but that was normal, nobody paid any attention. He complained that he had broken his shoulder. Nobody paid any attention to that, either.

After lunch the new CO interviewed the officers one at a time. The interviews were short.

“Brigade want me to put up one of our flight commanders to be CO of another scout squadron,” he said to Foster. “You seem to qualify.”

Foster kept the shock from his face but Cleve-Cutler saw it in his eyes. “No thank you, sir,” he said.

“Why not? Major Foster. Colonel Foster. Brigadier, even. Sky's the limit in this Corps.”

“I honestly don't think the war will last that long, sir. One big push and the Boches will crack.” Foster found it hard to breathe properly. He might get posted whether he liked it or not. Today, even.

Cleve-Cutler held his resolutely cheery smile until Foster had to blink. “This Etonian Flight of yours,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Awfully cosy, isn't it? I'd better break it up, hadn't I? Then there's no risk of your chums trying to take advantage of you. Right?”

Foster hunched his shoulders as if to protect himself from further blows. “You must do as you think fit, sir,” he said. “I can only say that I rate the value of friendship very highly.”

“So do I. Just wanted to see how the idea struck you. Personally I think it stinks. If a chap can't keep his chums, what can he keep? Send in the next customer, will you?”

For a moment Foster's face tightened with resentment. Then he nodded and almost smiled, and went out.

Several interviews later, O'Neill was facing Cleve-Cutler.

“Australian,” the CO said. “Waltzing Matilda and so on.” O'Neill's file was on the desk in front of him.

“That was a long time ago,” O'Neill said. “Before I got transported to England.” All trace of his flat Australian twang had disappeared; he talked like an Englishman. “That's how the colonies get rid of their riff-raff, you know.”

Cleve-Cutler chuckled. “I see you came here with a chap called Chivers.” O'Neill was silent and expressionless. “In fact I see you
trained
with Chivers.”

Long pause. O'Neill chewed his lip, but that could have meant anything.

“He's dead, of course,” Cleve-Cutler said brightly,”so we can be quite candid about the bugger. Dirty, greedy, fawning little sodomite who sponged off his friends, hadn't the guts to go near a Hun, lied like a rug about his so-called kills, and did us all a service by flying into a Jerry shell. Yes?”

O'Neill, his face as stiff as a stone, gave that a lot of thought. “Well, it's not a funny joke,” he said at last,”so you must have some other reason for inventing all that poison.”

“Good!” Cleve-Cutler said. “Now understand this. It doesn't matter a hoot whether T. Chivers was shit or sunshine. He's dead. Agreed? But the entire squadron, including cooks and clerks, tell me that you refuse to accept that fact.” The stoniness of O'Neill's face was becoming tinged with pink. “Every time you take off you're looking for Chivers,” Cleve-Cutler said. “That's bloody silly, and if you keep it up you'll find him sooner than you think. When you do, remember to ask him what good it did either of you.” He slammed the file shut. “Next!”

Paxton, being the most junior officer, was the last to be seen.

“You've only been here four days,” Cleve-Cutler said, his
expression as jaunty as ever,”and everyone hates you. Mmm?” He cocked the other eyebrow.

That hurt. “I can't understand it, sir,” Paxton said. Nobody had spoken to him all morning. “Whatever I do, nobody likes it, even when it's right, even when …” That was a low blow, saying
everyone hates you.
“I don't want to play cricket, I want to
fight
.” He could very easily have cried. Tears were ready, waiting to leak out. He placed his right heel on his left toes and made enough pain to defeat the tears. “Nothing's gone right from the start, has it?” he said angrily. “I flew that blasted Quirk all the way from England, which was more than the others could do, and Major Milne burnt it. Deliberately! Set fire to it! Is that the way to win the war?”

“Yes. Give me your hat.” Cleve-Cutler took it, and opened a penknife. He slit the fabric at the end of the peak. “What's wrong with Quirks?”

“Nothing. It's a topping machine. It almost flies itself.”

“Exactly. It's not built to be dangerous, it's built to be
safe.
The bloody silly thing's so stable it stays straight and level when you want to chuck it all over the sky.” He was tugging the wire stiffener out of the peak. “The Quirk isn't a fighting aeroplane, it's a pussy cat. Major Milne was right to burn yours.” He squashed the peak with both his hands. “All the Quirks in France should be burned, then maybe we'd get sent something livelier.” He sat on the cap, bounced up and down, then tossed it to Paxton. “Now you'll look more like a flier and less like a captain in the Church Lads' Brigade.”

“I don't care about that,” Paxton mumbled. But he did care. He liked his cap now that it looked properly broken-in, more like the rest of the squadron. But he wasn't going to say so. “I got an Albatros yesterday,” he said. “That was from a Quirk. There's nothing wrong with Quirks.”

Cleve-Cutler picked up a pen. “You're grounded,” he said. “In fact you're undergrounded. Your flight commander told me you were a turd, so I'm putting you in charge of the men's latrines.” The half-grin had hardened into a glittering scowl. “Start now.” He pointed to the door.

A few moments later, Corporal Lacey tapped on the door
and came in, carrying a bundle of files and documents. “Good heavens, sir,” he said. “What did you say to Mr. Paxton? He looks quite deathly.”

“Suicidal?”

Lacey thought about it. “Murderous.”

“That's all right, then … Look here, I'm not going to read all
that.”

“Certainly not, sir. There's a summary and conclusion on a single sheet.” He placed the bundle on the desk. “I've kept everything as simple as possible.”

Cleve-Cutler rocked back on his chair and put his pen between his teeth like a cigar. “I did go to school, Lacey. Quite a good school, actually.”

“Yes, sir. Marlborough. Not noted for mathematics, however.” The CO looked away. “Still less for fraudulent accountancy,” Lacey added softly.

“Are you always as familiar as this with your Commanding Officer?”

“That depends how much he wants to borrow my Elgar records.”

“My God, you're a spy. I should have you shot. Have you got the violin concerto?” Lacey nodded. Cleve-Cutler sighed. “Damn. I might compromise and have you lightly maimed instead. What the devil is that?” It was a distant popping, like the bursting of many balloons.

“It's the officers, shooting at empty bottles,” Lacey said. “If the Hun ever attacks with empty bottles, we shall be ready for him.”

About half an hour later, Cleve-Cutler telephoned the adjutant and asked him if he could spare a few minutes.

Appleyard splashed some eau-de-cologne on his cheeks and the back of his neck: it tightened up the skin and stopped him sweating for a while. He chewed a peppermint lozenge, sucked in his gut until he could tighten his belt, picked up his clipboard and set out. Tiny silver sparkles danced in front of his eyes, and his ears were singing. He thought of loosening his belt; instead, he went back and took a swig of medicine. He chewed another lozenge and set out again, eyesight and
hearing clear. “Got a touch of the old Afghan Curse today,” he said. Corporal Lacey paused in his typing and smiled sympathetically.

Cleve-Cutler gave the adjutant what seemed like a welcoming smile. “I make it just over a thousand pounds,” he said. “On a captain's pay it'll take you about three years to repay that. But you won't be a captain, will you? You'll be a nothing, once you've been court-martialled. Isn't that right?”

Appleyard turned away from that appallingly jaunty expression. He could feel his gut slipping until it was below his belt. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. The singing in his ears had started again.

“It's too late to ask me what on earth I mean,” Cleve-Cutler said. “That's a card you play immediately or not at all. Anyway, you're sacked.”

“I can explain,” Appleyard said.

“Start by telling me where it's all gone. Not even you could spend a thousand pounds on booze and still be standing.”

“It's a damned lie.” The adjutant was on the edge of a stutter. “Who's been feeding you these lies?”

“All this stuff came out of your office.”

“I see. I see. I see.” Appleyard took a quick trip up and down the room. “My office. My papers. This is what the British Army's come to, is it? Well, I'll fight it. I've fought for my country, I've fought the bloody Boers, the Afghans, the Zulus, black as your hat, bullets won't stop ‘em—”

“No, I don't think you will,” Cleve-Cutler said.

The adjutant shut his eyes and rubbed the lids with his fingertips, several times. When he looked again, the CO was still in the same place with the same expression. “All I can say is I'm glad you find it so bloody funny,” he said.

Cleve-Cutler glanced through the papers again. For a long minute there was no sound but the soft rustle as he turned a page. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let's forget all that's been said, and start afresh. You've stolen just over a thousand pounds from this squadron. Now where on earth did it go?”

“Horses,” Appleyard said. “It went on the horses. There's still lots of racing in England. Chap in Amiens, used to be a
bookie, now he's a lieutenant in the Signals, he runs a book on the English races. I lost most of it through him.”

“And the rest?”

“Drank it.”

“Now we know.” Cleve-Cutler stood up.

“I don't suppose …” Appleyard blew his nose. “I mean, you wouldn't consider …”

“You're sacked, Uncle. Message ends.” He held the door open for him.

Foster lay on the grass outside the mess, his head resting on a cushion, and studied the sky through binoculars. “Remarkable,” he said. “Amazing.”

Some of the officers were resting in deckchairs. Most were half-asleep. “There's damn-all up there,” Ogilvy said drowsily. “You've got a pigeon-dropping on the lens, Frank.”

“No, no. I heard it, and now I can see it. Definitely a Hun.” That aroused them. Foster's eyesight was phenomenal: on patrol he was invariably the first to see the speck that turned into an aeroplane. An anti-aircraft battery stationed at Pepriac crossroads opened up and rapidly battered the afternoon quiet to bits. “Told you so,” Foster said. “Daddy's always right, children.” Two miles high the shells burst against the blue like little splatters of spilt milk.

“Any good?” Elliott asked.

“Well, they nearly hit a cloud. Not the cloud our Hun has gone behind, however.”

Charlie Essex settled back and closed his eyes again. “Bloody nerve,” he grumbled. “Probably a tradesman. Tell him to go around the back, Frank.”