Hornet’s Sting (52 page)

By the time O'Neill arrived, Brazier had decided that understatement would draw most blood. “Maybe I'm old-fashioned,” he said, “but this is a curious way to salute the loss of Captain Paxton.”

“He put sheep in my room.”

“Sheep. I see. And you replied with pigs. Why?”

“Paxton's a horse's arse.”

The adjutant lost patience. “Paxton's missing, you great oaf! Went down behind enemy Lines. Certainly missing, probably dead. Shouldn't an intelligence officer know that?”

“He's not dead. He'll be back. You can't kill a fart like him.” O'Neill's voice was harsh and unforgiving. “You wait and see.”

“Get your stinking pigs out of here,” Brazier ordered. “Do it now. I don't care where you found them or where they go. Pigs out, and hut clean and ready for the next occupant, even if you have to scrub it yourself. Christ! What a smell. What do pigs eat that makes a stench like that?”

“Apples,” O'Neill said. “I gave them apples. And lots of plums.”

Brazier and Lacey went back along the duckboards. “Extraordinary fellow,” the adjutant said. “How the deuce did he get hold of seven pigs?”

“I believe it was the other way around,” Lacey said. “The pigs won him in a raffle.”

“It's no laughing matter, sergeant.”

“Certainly not, sir. The pigs took a very grave view of the whole affair.”

The adjutant knocked the ash from his pipe. “You're too clever for your own good, Lacey. The British Army does not like cleverness.” That ended the discussion.

* * *

Griffiths saw the forest first.

It made a dark shape, large enough to disappear into the gloom of the rain. From a thousand feet it had a comfortable, cushioned appearance; but Paxton had seen what happened to aeroplanes that hit trees. “Risky,” he said.

“So are fields. If you put her down in a field it's certain to be a bog, and then we'll go arse-over-teakettle.”

Paxton thought about it, while the wind played sad tunes in the wires and the Biff lost another two hundred feet. The forest was dark green, almost black. Maybe it was all evergreens, like Christmas trees. Tall and thin and elastic. Maybe not. Maybe it was stuffed with oaks.

“We'll get captured if I land in the open. Somebody's bound to see the bus. We can hide in the woods. Get out of this lousy rain, too.”

“You're the driver. I'm right behind you.”

It was only when they were much lower that Paxton realised how strong the wind was. He could see tree-tops lashing. The entire roof of the forest seemed to be in turmoil. What's more, the storm was hustling the Biff along and it was far too late to attempt to turn into wind. He tugged the nose up, flirting with a stall, while he searched for a soft landing. Under the thin leafy branches thrashing about he saw swaying timbers that would welcome a fight with an aeroplane. He glimpsed something away to his left: a patch of giant Christmas trees. “Hold tight,” he said.

The Biff had a tiny windscreen. As the wheels brushed the tree-tops, Paxton ducked below the cockpit edge. At first he heard a mild clattering: the wings were clipping the topmost branches. The Biff lurched and hit something big and hard; Paxton felt the shock through
his boots and his backside. His waist-strap tried to cut him in half. His top-half was flung forward. His head whacked the instrument panel. The pain rose like a red tide and faded as the light drained from his brain. The last thing he remembered was the sound of trees being ripped apart. It sounded like he felt.

“Thank God for that,” Griffiths said.

Paxton heard the words clearly, although there was a roaring in his ears. He couldn't see clearly, so he rubbed his eyes, but his hands were sticky. Blinking did some good. He took a close look at his hands and smelt chocolate.

“Thought you were a goner,” Griffiths said, “until I heard you throw up. Any bones broken?”

Paxton wiped his hands on his coat and made them worse. “What a smell,” he said. His feet seemed to be trapped so he tried to kick them free. Everything lurched and the gunner shouted in horror. “Keep still, for Christ's sake,” he said. “We're fifty feet up.” Paxton looked around. Nothing but branches and leaves, all moving. The roaring in his ears was the wind.

An hour later they were cold and wet and still trapped in the same shaky situation. The Biff had smashed the tops of several trees and now it was caught up in a tangle of broken branches. The light was failing and the storm was getting worse. Griffiths wanted to climb down. “We'll starve to death up here,” he said. “Nobody's seen us. We'll freeze.”

Paxton had a brutal headache that made it hard for him to think. “It's awfully dark down there,” he said. “You'll get lost.” He didn't want to be left alone.

“I'll get help.”

“You'll get shot.”

“I'd sooner be shot than starve.” Griffiths climbed over Paxton and got onto the remains of the wings. This transfer of weight made the wreck sway. Paxton cried out in alarm. Griffiths was poised to jump for a branch but he hesitated, afraid that the thrust of his jump might be too much, might break the fragile cradle. “Bloody hell,” he said miserably.

“Go on, go on,” Paxton urged. “You can't stay there.” The machine groaned and slipped, and dropped a foot or so. It was enough to knock Griffiths to his knees. He got up very slowly, and Paxton
could see that his hands and head were trembling. “For Christ's sake, jump,” he said, “or we'll be here all night.”

But now the branch was further away. Griffiths sat down. “Just a minute,” he said. “Just a minute.” The minute stretched into two, and three. Paxton stared at him and could think of nothing to say. He had grown used to the roaring of the storm and the swaying of the trees. He paid no attention to a gust that howled like an express. Immediately behind it was a greater gust. It ripped into the wreck of the Biff and sent it tumbling. If Griffiths screamed, Paxton never heard him, nor saw him fall. He felt the wreck whirl, and his battered head bounced from one side of the cockpit to another, and the forest rushed upwards. A splintering crash destroyed the remains of his chair and left him dazed with pain. Leaves and bits of branches fell on him. All he could do was groan. It hurt to groan. Far away and high above, the storm kept up its stupid noise.

He dozed. When he woke up, the pain was no worse than a total ache. There was no light. He found a bit of branch poking into his neck, so he threw it away. It took a little time to hit the ground. He thought about that. He threw out another bit of branch, and listened.

No doubt about it. The ground was still a long way below him.

The night was long and wet. He slept a bit. Even in sleep he never moved in case he fell again. Dawn was in no hurry to penetrate the forest. When it reached him he saw that the wreckage was caught in the fork of a tree. The trunk of the tree was as smooth as a pillar. He was about thirty feet up. Griffiths must have been mistaken. They must have been more than fifty feet high. Not that it made any difference, especially to Griffiths, who was lying in that broken and twisted position which Paxton had so often seen when he flew low over the battlefield. This time it was someone he knew. Paxton gave up the unequal struggle. He lay back and let the rain pelt him. He didn't care.

* * *

The rain eased, but the wind grew stronger. All Channel crossings were postponed. In Paris, a church was blown down. Several Allied observation balloons were ripped from their moorings and last seen racing towards Germany, no bigger than beans. All along the Western Front, buildings already gutted by shellfire were tumbled by the gale.
Throughout the R.F.C., signals went out cancelling orders for patrols.

Everyone at Gazeran enjoyed the rest, especially after the previous night's party. Paxton's replacement arrived before lunch: Captain Morkel, a South African. The adjutant took him straight to the C.O.

“Morkel, Morkel,” the C.O. said. “Didn't we have someone of that name, Uncle? Also a South African?”

“Briefly, sir.”

“It's a common name where I come from, sir,” Morkel said. He was the opposite of the first Morkel: slim, and swarthy, with a permanent frown. Cleve-Cutler liked that frown. He wanted his flight commanders to worry. “I've given you a good flight,” he said. “I expect you to work 'em hard. What d'you think of this Wipers show?”

“Well, sir ...” A blast of gale thumped the C.O.'s office and made it creak. “If this doesn't put the wind up the Hun, I don't know what will.”

Brazier chuckled. “Damn right,” Cleve-Cutler said.

They walked to the mess, clutching their hats against the wind. The Buick pulled up alongside them. “I guess nobody's flying, major,” Dabinett said. “We've just had some of our film developed. If you think they'd like to see ...”

“Yes. After lunch. Thank you.”

Klagsburn put the Buick in gear and drove on. He said sourly, “It's all crap.”

“No,” Dabinett said. “Only half of it is crap. The other half is bullshit. There's a difference.”

* * *

Hunger was worst.

The pain in his head had receded to an ache like wearing a hat two sizes too small. He was shaking with cold. Every time his clothes began to dry, another squall came along and soaked him. But hunger was the worst. It refused to let him sleep. It bullied him into trying to save himself. The infuriating thing was that half a block of chocolate was lying somewhere below him. It must be down there. He'd had it in the cockpit and now it was gone, like most of the cockpit.

The trunk of this tree was only about five feet away. He could probably reach it, but if he did, he knew he couldn't get his arms
around it. Too big, far too big. Too smooth. Nothing to grip. Too far to fall. Thirty feet at least.

In the next tree, a squirrel ran along a branch, stopped, and looked. “I would welcome any suggestion,” Paxton said, “no matter how fatuous.” His voice was weak. The squirrel dashed along the branch, flung itself into space, found another tree, and raced away. “That's just showing off,” he said. Something caught his eye, something swinging in the wind, hanging from the wreckage. It was a piece of control cable.

He kicked a hole in the cockpit. That was easy; everything was split or broken already. It was also stupid: suppose the cable got knocked loose and fell away? He felt sick. But the cable was still there, and he hauled it in. Ten feet, at most. Not enough. He searched, and found another length of cable buried in the shattered root of a wing. He tied them together. He tied one end to a branch. The cables were stiff, his hands were shaking, the knots were poor. “Best I can do,” he said, and found that he was gasping for breath. He lay back and looked up through the space in the forest at grey sky a hundred miles away, and heard the moan and bluster of the wind. Then he slid down the cable.

With the help of his flying gloves he managed to slide fairly slowly. When he reached the end he was still a long way from the ground. While he was looking for a soft landing, a knot parted and the ground came up and hit him so hard that he folded like a jack-knife and beat his face against his knees. This was the third hammering his body had taken in less than a day. His brain knew the drill. Loud daylight faded to black silence.

* * *

“Another day dawns,” Dabinett announced, “on a crack fighter squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, somewhere in France.”

They liked that. They were gathered in the anteroom, curtains closed, fascinated by the flickering images of Gazeran that Klagsburn was projecting onto a screen. A pianist improvised sunny, tinkling music. Each clip of film got a roar of recognition: the Duty N.C.O. raised the flag; a despatch rider was met by the adjutant; pilots strolled to breakfast; the one-armed shepherd grinned at the camera. When he
spoke and spat, everyone shouted “
Sale Boche!”
Troops saluted briskly.

“The intrepid aviators are eager to get to grips with the Hun,” Dabinett said, and there were shots of flight commanders pointing at maps, of crews nodding vigorously and smiling broadly, of Biffs being started, Biffs taxiing, Biffs taking off. The pianist played bits from “The Entry of the Gladiators”. Everyone cheered.

“Back from the battle!” Dabinett declared. “And victorious!” Biffs landed. Pilots and gunners shook hands, grinning. Mechanics cheered, silently. Dingbat Maddegan poked his finger through bullet-holes in the wings. A jubilant Mackenzie danced on the keyboard of a piano. More Biffs landed. The pianist played “Rule! Britannia”: And still they cheered.

It was the shock of recognition that excited them. Nobody had seen himself on film before. The fact of being on the screen was reassuring: this must be a special squadron, and so membership must be special too. When Klagsburn began showing close-ups of men swimming and diving, playing cricket, singing at the piano, sprawling in deck chairs outside the mess, the feeling of pride grew even greater, until everyone knew that he must be a hell of a fellow and here were moving pictures to prove it. There was rather a lot of Mackenzie. In fact Mackenzie was rarely off the screen. Who cared? It was all a splendid stunt. It even made Uncle laugh.

There was a huge groan of disappointment when the screen went black. Then came warm applause. Servants opened the curtains.

Dabinett murmured to Cleve-Cutler, “You might like to see what we filmed at Wipers, sir.”

“Might I?” Something about the American's tone of voice made the C.O. cautious.

“Then you could decide if you want the rest of your squadron to see it.”

The C.O. kept his senior officers and told everyone else to clear off. The curtains were closed. Klagsburn fitted a new reel to the projector and began cranking. This time there was no jolly piano.

“Pilckem Ridge,” Dabinett said.

It didn't look like a landmark. Every part of it was broken and pock-marked. Nothing grew. Rain flickered and made it more dreary. The film jumped to the top of the ridge. Stretcher-bearers picked their way across the ruined ground and grinned self-consciously as
they stumbled past. The camera turned and showed them adding their corpse to a line of bodies. The camera took a closer look. Some of the dead were incomplete. None of the faces seemed at rest.