Hornet’s Sting (12 page)

“I can never get any rest in those things.”

“No. Ours was a bit rackety.”

They went to their room. “Rackety,” she said. “I've never heard it called that before. Rumpty-tumpty. Hanky-panky. Jig-a-jig. Lots of things. But never rackety.”

“Well, that's our word. Our password.”

“Oh.” For the first time, she seemed unsure of herself. “You mean ... whenever ...”

“Just say rackety.”

“Heavens above. And to think that Father keeps complaining that the art of conversation is lost.”

“Does he? Well, next time you see him you can tell him we found it again. Tell him it was in the bed. The maid must have left it there.”

She glowed with pleasure, and this gave him some idea of a stern but loving father whom he had no wish to meet. “Is it too early for me to say rackety?” she asked.

“It's odd ... In an aeroplane, at fifteen thousand feet, I feel okay. But when you look at me like that, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.”

“I don't know much about men's anatomy.” She loosened his tie. “But I don't
think
the pit of your stomach comes into it, actually.”

Cleve-Cutler tried to grin, and failed, and realised it was a wasted effort because his face was hooked into a grin anyway. He was trapped by his own desires. Part of him itched to peel off her clothes, and his, and to carry on where they had left off in the sleeper. Another part cringed away from the prospect, scared of failure. His balls ached while lust sent his heart pounding. Make up your bloody mind! he told his body. “Oysters,” he said. “Let's go out and eat a bucket of oysters.”

Taggart saw them leave hand-in-hand. “I thought you two were going to have a nice lie-down,” he said.

“Oysters,” she told him, smiling like a bride.

Taggart went into his office and spat on the fire. He really disliked loving couples. They peacocked around as if they knew the answer when they didn't even know the bloody question.

* * *

All across the Atlantic, masses of air jostled and spun and drove east. What began as a warm front off New England dropped its rain into the ocean and matured into a sequence of brisk westerlies that swept across Europe and gave the fields a chance to drain and dry. Thanks to the Chinese labourers' ditches, the aerodrome at Pepriac dried quickly. Soon Hornet Squadron was flying again. As usual, Wing wanted Deep Offensive Patrols.

* * *

For three more days they were never apart, and then he had to go back to France.

He wanted to say goodbye in London. “Dover is dreary. Nothing but troops. Worse than a garrison town. You'll hate it.”

“I've never been to Dover,” she said, and put the medallion in her eye like a monocle. “This is Field Marshal Haig speaking. Don't sulk, or I'll get Taggart to kick you.”

“I'm not sulking, I'm furious.”

“Well, you're a soldier. You're paid to be furious.”

“Why aren't you furious?”

“Oh, Hugh, just look at me.” She let the medallion drop into her hand. “Poor butterfly. Can you imagine a furious butterfly? People would think I was drunk.”

On the way to Victoria, he stopped the cab at a music shop and bought a record of “Poor Butterfly”.

“This is for you. A keepsake.”

But she wouldn't take it. “Being a butterfly is bad enough.” She was pleasant but firm. “I'd rather not be reminded.” Which left him feeling foolish, carrying a gramophone record that neither of them wanted. Why the devil couldn't she just take the thing and throw it away later? Why did she have to be so damned honest?

They had little to say on the boat train, and not much to see through windows streaked with rain. They travelled with a bunch of cavalry officers who spoke gruffly among themselves about polo.

At Dover the showers had all blown away, the sun was out, and it was a lovely day for anything except what they were there to do.

They stood on the platform while a porter got his bags out. “There's no point in your coming down to the harbour,” he said. “You'd just have to come back here again.” His voice was hard. Almost accusing. He wondered why, and he made himself laugh. “Why are we so gloomy? I don't understand.”

“Look at that,” she said, and pointed high behind him. “What is it? You must know.”

He turned and squinted at the bright blue sky. “Sopwith Camel.” He had heard the rasping buzz of its engine and he had resisted looking; now he could get his fill. “First-rate machine. They get ferried to France from here. Wish I had them on my squadron. Climbs
like a rocket, turns on a sixpence, twin Vickers to blow the Boche to bits. Beautiful.”

“I can't compete with that,” she said, without bitterness. “No woman can.” She kissed him on the lips: one quick kiss. “Off you go and enjoy your war. It won't last for ever.”

“Of course it won't. Anyway, I'll be back soon.”

“No, you won't.”

She was calm; he was baffled. He said, “I will, I tell you. I'll write. We'll meet.”

“No, we shan't.”

The porter was waiting.

“Don't take it so badly,” she said. “You haven't done anything wrong.”

“But this is absurd.”

“Yes, it's absurd.” And she limped away.

On the boat, he brooded over the bloody silly mystery of women. In mid-Channel he took the record of “Poor Butterfly” and sent it skimming into the waves. By the time they landed in France he was actually, and to his great surprise, looking forward enormously to getting back to the war, back to Pepriac and the men he commanded. It was a relief to be out of England. Taggart was right: England knew nothing.

* * *

Dusk came early to Pepriac. Grimy clouds drifted out of the west and built a barricade too strong for the setting sun. Electric lights burned in the orderly room and the kettle sang on the cast-iron stove, which glowed a soft mauve in places. Occasionally rain rattled on the roof and the odd drop plunged down the chimney and died a martyr's death.

Sergeant Lacey was listening to the gramophone playing Ravel's string quartet, while he practised the signature of Daniel T. Latham. It was difficult because
Daniel
was much bigger and bolder than
T. Latham
. Usually there was a final flourish to a signature, but this one ended in a weak dribble of ink. Perhaps, Lacey thought, Lieutenant Latham hadn't liked his name. Perhaps he hadn't respected his father or his family.

He made ten more attempts and then reached for Latham's cheque
book and dashed off the signature. The cheque was payable to the Polperro Home for Distressed Mariners, in the amount of twenty-five guineas. It was dated six weeks earlier. Lacey slid it into an envelope and addressed the envelope to Polperro. He threw the experimental signatures into the stove just as Ravel reached his closing chord and Cleve-Cutler came through the door, grinning like a shark. “God's teeth!” he cried, and went straight to the adjutant's room.

“I trust you enjoyed a good leave, sir,” Lacey said.

“None of your damned business.” He kicked the adjutant's desk and came out. “What's the score? Nobody in the mess, nobody at the Flights, nobody here. Where's Brazier?”

“At the churchyard, sir. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh.” The C.O. came to an abrupt halt. “Churchyard, eh?” He found himself looking at the gramophone and he twisted his head to read the record label. “Churchyard. Well I'm damned. The usual?”

“Mr Cooper and Mr Radley, sir.”

“Good Christ.” All the way from Boulogne, Cleve-Cutler had been enjoying a mounting gusto for the war. Dorothy was a dear sweet woman, but his memory of her faded with every mile until now it was almost erased. He was impressed by his own callousness. Still, he hadn't bargained on coming back to
this
. “Accident or ... or what?”

“Archie, sir.”

The C.O. grunted. “Rotten luck.” Yet he was relieved: at least they were killed in action. And probably quickly. Archie was all or nothing. Either Archie missed, or he blew you to bits. But invariably the bits came down in Hunland. “Sure it was Archie?”

“No lack of witnesses, sir.” Lacey was making tea. “It was British Archie.”

“Sodding bastards,” the C.O. said. “Blind murdering sodding bastards.”

“The battery commander sent his apologies.”

“Stuff 'em up his arse.”

“Also a pair of wreaths.”

“Ten francs each. Twenty francs, two pilots. What a rotten waste.” All his gusto had gone, and bitter rage had taken its place. The military part of his brain reacted quickly. Losses, it told him, just losses, that's all, you've had 'em before, don't stand there mumbling, do something! “Where are the replacements?” he demanded.
“And where's the bloody adjutant, for God's sake?”

“Still at the churchyard, sir.” Lacey was pouring the tea.

“Churchyard? That's not his job, it's the flight commander's job. Tim Lynch's job.”

“Mr Lynch died a week ago, sir. We buried him the following day.”

Cleve-Cutler took a mug of tea and sat on the nearest desk. “God speed the plough,” he muttered.

Lacey took the record off the turntable and slipped it into its brown-paper sleeve. “Perhaps I should tell you everything, sir.”

“More deaths, you mean?” Lacey nodded. “Telephone the mess,” the C.O. said. “Tell them I want a bottle of whisky sent over.” Lacey went into the adjutant's office and came back with whisky. “Totally irregular,” the C.O. said. “Someone will pay for this.” Lacey poured whisky into his tea. “Is Brazier a secret drinker?” the C.O. asked. Lacey shook his head. “The adjutant before him was an awful soak,” the C.O. said. “Applegate, Appleford, something like that. I had to send him packing. Bit of a crook, too.” He drank his tea-and-whisky. “Hell of a crook, in fact. Applecart? Appletart?”

“Appleyard, sir.”

Lacey leaned against a wall, arms folded. He watched and waited, and wondered why the C.O. was being so evasive. Casualties had never upset him before. They had caused regret, but not distress. Death struck and life went on, that was Cleve-Cutler's style. Brisk. Positive.

“Well, I suppose you'd better tell me,” the C.O. said.

“Mr Lloyd-Perkins in A-Flight was a landing accident, fractured skull and internal injuries. Died in hospital. Mr Lynch was shot in combat, it seems. He managed to return, but by then he had lost too much blood and there was no time to take him to hospital. Wing has sent us Captain Crabtree to take command of B-Flight, but as yet we have no replacements for Mr Cooper and Mr Radley. In C-Flight Mr Shanahan has a touch of pneumonia and a broken nose.”

“From flying?”

“Only a very short distance. His motorcycle hit a cow and he flew into a ditch.”

“A
cow?
Was he drunk?”

“The night was dark, sir. And the cow was black.”

“And Shanahan's an idiot.”

“The mess bought the cow, sir, at a very fair price.”

Cleve-Cutler stared. “Well, that's all right, then, isn't it? As long as we get our steak-and-kidney pie, the squadron can go to hell, can't it? What? Straight to hell!” he banged his mug on the desk. Tea slopped. “Dammit,” he said.

“We also lost a rigger,” Lacey said gently. The C.O. took a deep breath and held it, while he looked at the roof. Then he let it out. “He obtained a small German bomb as a souvenir,” Lacey said. “He attempted to defuse it and blew the fingers off his right hand. Corporal Blunt. The obvious jokes have been made, sir.”

“Oh?” The C.O. thought about that. “Jokes, you say. Some people think it's funny, do they?”

“I believe I see the adjutant coming, sir.”

Brazier shouldered the door open. He was carrying a wreath in each hand. “Hullo, sir,” he said. “Good leave?”

“What the blazes have you got there?” Cleve-Cutler snarled. “You look like a two-handled teapot.”

“If I'd left them in the churchyard, the goats would have eaten them.”

“Best thing could have happened. Get 'em out of my sight. Where are the flight commanders?”

Brazier frowned. “Now let me see ...”

The flight commanders were quickly rounded up and sent to the C.O.'s office. He shook hands with the new man, Captain Crabtree, and welcomed him to the squadron. He thought Crabtree was the most unpleasant officer he had ever seen. A thin face, slightly twisted so that one corner of his mouth sagged; a chin raddled with acne scars; hostile eyes; ears like rudders; and hair that was uniformly white. God dealt you a bloody awful hand, the C.O. thought. If there is a God. If He plays cards.

“I'm sorry you couldn't join us at a happier time,” he said bleakly. “For this unhappy state of affairs I blame myself entirely. I go away for ten days and when I get back I find my squadron in tatters. It won't happen again, I assure you.”

“That's a bit hard, sir,” Plug Gerrish said. “Lynch was leading his flight when he met a flock of Fokkers, and he copped a bullet. That's no disgrace. He did his best.”

“No doubt. Did Lloyd-Perkins also do his best?”

“He was out of petrol, he had to land, there was a rainstorm. He made a pig's ear of it. I might have done the same thing.”

Ogilvy said, “And if you're going to ask about Cooper and Radley, sir, nobody's to blame for Archie, especially when it's British Archie. A shell hit Radley, and it blew Radley into Cooper.”

“And Shanahan?”

“Well, Shanahan's a bloody idiot, sir.”

“He's another pilot I haven't got. Five pilots in ten days. At that rate the whole squadron will have gone west in a month! Well, I have news for you.” Cleve-Cutler's artificial grin was frozen. “I am going to revive a quaint, old-fashioned notion called
discipline
. We are going to tighten up this squadron until every man squeaks when he salutes! You will
train
your flights to fly together, fight together, kill together and land back here together, in one piece, ready for orders from Wing to go off and do it again! Do I make myself clear?”