Hornet’s Sting (53 page)

“See a dozen stiffs, you've seen a thousand,” Klagsburn said. “Now here's where I nearly got myself killed.”

The film cut to a view of the battlefield. Smoke from shellbursts appeared in the distance, looking no more dangerous than garden bonfires. A line of duckboards wriggled between craters. Men carrying ammunition boxes walked slowly. “Step off those boards and you're a goner,” Klagsburn said. “Drowned in the mud.”

The film showed a ruined farmhouse, with troops sheltering behind it. “I needed a bird's-eye view,” he said. “The stairs were sort of rickety, but...”

“You're mad,” O'Neill said.

“Yeah.”

The next shot was through a ragged hole in a wall. It looked down on a sea of craters. There was nothing but craters. They touched and sometimes overlapped. The camera slowly swung and searched, and everywhere it saw craters. The craters reflected the sky because they were full of rain. The entire picture was abruptly destroyed by a black explosion. Tons of mud raged upwards and outwards. “Time to quit,” Klagsburn said. He stopped cranking.

Nobody spoke for a while.

“I never thought the swamp map would turn out to be quite as frightful as that,” Cleve-Cutler said.

“Bloody frog weather,” O'Neill growled. “Always lets you down.”

“We made the holes,” Woolley pointed out.

“What are you suggesting?” McWatters asked. “No barrage?”

“Got to have a barrage,” the adjutant said. “Can't have a Push without a barrage.”

Cleve-Cutler thanked the Americans. “You're welcome,” Dabinett said. “That stuff's no use to us, sir.”

“I suppose not. Still, the first film was jolly good, wasn't it?”

“Ripping,” Klagsburn said. “Dashed ripping.”

* * *

The sight of a German sentry, hands in greatcoat pockets, walking
along a forest path, made Paxton feel a bit better.

When he came out of the daze caused by bashing his head on his knee, he lay and licked at the blood still trickling from his nose and wondered why the Huns hadn't caught him.

He guessed he was about ten miles behind the fighting; still, the area should be thick with Jerry troops in reserve. Probably the storm had hidden the noise of his crash.

He stood up faster than his heart liked and he staggered and went down on his hands and knees. It was a good position in which to search for chocolate. No luck. He found Griffiths, lightly covered with leaves. “Just like Goldilocks,” he said. Griffiths' left leg looked wrong, so he tried to straighten it, and failed. He saw a splintered chunk of cockpit with his Very pistol clipped to it. Also a few signal cartridges. “Not edible, alas,” he said. He put them next to Griffiths. “Must keep the place tidy,” he said. “It wasn't Goldilocks. It was Hansel and Gretel. Get it right, for God's sake.” His tongue hurt. He must have bitten it. He stopped talking and began walking.

Several other parts hurt: ribs, right foot, knees, head. Walking was terribly hard work. The forest floor was one long obstacle course of brambles and fallen branches. He was sitting on a log, getting his breath back and licking dried blood off his lips, when he saw the sentry.

Paxton was too tired to run. He didn't care if he got captured. He sat and let happen what was going to happen. The man never looked up. He had seen trees before. He had more important things on his mind. Food, probably.

Paxton watched him pass out of sight, and followed.

The trees thinned. The spaces between them had been cleared. Barbed wire channelled the path. Even before he saw the guard hut, he knew what this was. Ammunition dump. And, by the look of it, empty. All used up in the battle. That's why the sentry didn't care. Nothing left to guard.

Smoke streamed out of a chimney. Somebody laughed. At least two men were in there.

Paxton walked back into the forest and found the Very pistol and cartridges, and he walked all the way out again. He got lost, he tripped on thorny snares, he tore his hands and twisted his ankles. It took him an hour. Now all he had to do was go over to the guard hut and
open the door and shoot two Huns. What for? For their rations.

Paxton knew that his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. His growling stomach was doing the thinking. He sat down, leaned against a tree and told his stomach not to be so bloody stupid. Impossible to shoot two Huns. He'd have to reload the Very pistol. That took far too long.

His stomach sulked and he began to feel drowsy. He must have dozed off because the slam of the guard hut door awoke him. He peered around the edge of the tree. It was the sentry again, but now he was walking his beat in the reverse direction. Boring job. Anything for variety.

Paxton squirmed his bottom around the tree so as to stay out of sight as the man passed. Then the footsteps stopped. Paxton stood up. No sound. He did something very stupid: he peeked around the tree. You fathead, he told himself. What he saw was not a Hun pointing an angry rifle. He saw a Hun with his back turned, flexing his knees and turning his toes outward and going through all the motions of urinating against a sturdy pine. Paxton tip-toed over to him. Just as the sentry released a deep sigh of gratification, Paxton seized his neck and began to strangle him.

A pilot developed strong hands and arms, working a joystick for hour after hour. The neck was thin and stringy. The man struggled a little, and his helmet fell off. Paxton was looking at a bald head with a fringe of grey. Quite soon the sentry was a dead weight and Paxton had to drop him.

The guard hut was quiet. Nobody had seen. Why should they? Nevertheless, when Paxton had lugged the body away and put it out of sight he felt a great gush of triumph. What a risk! What recklessness! He looked at his fingers, and was astonished at their speed in killing a man. “Pip-pip, old chum,” he said to the body. “If you'd gone before you left, this wouldn't have happened.”

He put on the greatcoat and the helmet and took the rifle; also the man's papers. He was Ernst somebody, aged sixty-three. His false teeth were slipping out. Paxton shoved them back. “Don't mensh,” he said. “Least I can do.”

Now he was play-acting. None of this was real. He walked to the hut and opened the door. Another grey-haired soldier was standing on a chair, arms raised, about to hang an oil lamp on a beam. Paxton
fired the Very pistol and a glaring red signal flare hammered him in the chest. It knocked him into a corner of the room and then it ricocheted loudly from wall to wall in a blaze of light and smoke. At last it smashed a window and escaped.

“Crikey!” Paxton said. “Never expected that!” The soldier was groaning and waving his arms, so Paxton shot him with the rifle, a thunderous bang. The soldier stopped waving but kept groaning. Paxton shot him again. The air was rank with the smell of cordite, tinged with something interesting. Paxton found a pot of stew bubbling on the stove. Saliva leaked into his mouth, and helped him speak. “Where d'you keep the spoons?” he asked the dead man.

* * *

At Gazeran the gale had blown itself out and there was even a promise of sunshine. The Americans seized the opportunity to set up some filming.

“You dash to the Nieuport, and your mechanic helps you get in,” Dabinett said. “It's very simple, sir.”

“Nobody runs to his bus,” Mackenzie said. “Not in these boots and this coat. What's the point? You save twenty seconds. A patrol lasts a couple of hours.”

“Nobody in America knows that, sir. Running makes it look more urgent.”

“Huh.” Mackenzie tied a spotted green scarf around his neck. “America doesn't seem to know much about this war.”

Dabinett was growing tired of having to explain and defend his country. “America knows one thing, sir. The war is kept going by big dollar loans. If the Allies lose, a lot of American businesses will go bust.” He could see that Mackenzie wasn't listening. “Chicago is in the trenches too, sir.”

“Really? Well, I'm not going to live in America, so I don't give a damn. Ready.”

He jogged to the Nieuport and climbed in. Klagsburn, standing on a stepladder, filmed him. The engine was ticking over: more urgency. “Stay there,” Klagsburn called. “I want a close shot.” Mackenzie opened the throttle, taxied away, turned into the wind, and took off. “Now where's the son-of-a-bitch gone?” Klagsburn said.

“Where d'you think?” Dabinett said.

Mackenzie was at eleven thousand feet when he crossed the Lines and fourteen thousand when he levelled out. At that height, in the blast of icy air, a flying helmet and goggles were essential; without them, his head would have been painfully cold and his eyes would have been clenched almost shut.

The sky was not busy, but it was not empty. Far to the north a scrap was taking place; machines were swirling at such a casual pace that they seemed like dancing insects, until one became a vivid spark and fell. “Ta-ta,” Mackenzie said. He had no wish to get involved in somebody else's fight. Twice, British patrols changed direction to come and look at him, solitary Allied aircraft being unusual over enemy territory. He waved. They did not reply. They had no time for eccentrics, especially one flying such a lightweight frog bus.

He cruised around for twenty minutes until the enemy discovered him.

Five monoplanes came in sight. Only the German Air Force had monoplanes, so these must be Fokkers. Although they tried to outclimb him, Mackenzie knew that the twin wings of a Nieuport would always create more lift than the Fokker's single wing, and he wasn't surprised when they stopped climbing and flew at him.

With odds of five to one, he should have run away. He let the interception develop, and was irritated when three Camels came out of the sun and turned the tidy formation into wild confusion. Mackenzie flew into the centre of the confusion, banked steeply and circled, looking for trouble. All he saw was a whirl of Fokkers and Camels chasing each other. He flew through a squall of streaks of tracer, and a rush of terror pumped up his pleasure. A Fokker looped. Not a clever move. You got out of the scrap, but you lost a lot of speed. Mackenzie expected the Hun to half-roll out at the top of the loop and be right-side up, ready for anything. It didn't happen. He remained inverted, and fell. Mackenzie aimed the Nieuport at the bottom of the loop and got there only slightly later than the Hun. As they converged they were about a length-and-a-half apart. Later, the Camel leader's report said he thought they collided. Mackenzie saw useless details: neat canvas patches on the fuselage; engine oil on the pilot's face when he glanced back. Mackenzie began to fire and counted: “One elephant, two elephants ...” He never reached three.

Streams of fire from the Vickers and the Lewis merged as they ripped through the Fokker and killed its pilot. His arms went up as his body was hammered forward. Mackenzie made a mental note of the time and place and he went home as fast as he could.

* * *

Paxton did not want to wake up, but the dream was unbearably sad. At first he thought he was at home in England, in the orchard. Birdsong, wind in trees. When he was a small boy, the orchard had been his favourite place to hide from grown-ups. He opened his eyes, and these were the wrong trees.

A fragment of his dream sidled into his mind: he had strangled his father and shot him and strangled him again. It sidled out, leaving the gloom of guilt. “No, no, no,” he said aloud. “Not bloody true.” That made him feel better. He had eaten the stew and half a loaf of bread. He had found a bowl of fried potatoes and some pickled beetroot; also a jug of milk. They went down too. Food had transformed him. He stopped wandering in never-never land and became a fighting soldier again.

The second guard's boots fitted him, more or less. He hid the body: heaved it into a bramble bush. The flying boots followed it. He tidied the guard hut, stuffed some rags in the broken window, lit the oil lamp, put a kettle on the stove. Sausage and cheese went into his pockets. Two grey blankets went over his shoulder. And still nobody came. But why should they? Who gave a damn about an empty shell dump? He walked until he found a hiding-place behind a stack of logs, and slept.

Now he was warm and dry, wrapped in stolen blankets. It made a nice change from the fear of falling from high trees. He curled up and enjoyed the comfort. His cheek itched, so he scratched it and saw scabs of black blood on his fingers. The fingers provoked memories of the tired old neck that had put up no sort of fight at all, and Paxton groaned. He didn't like the sound of the groan. “Him or you,” he argued. “Him or you.”

He was awake, and his scabby face kept itching.

He got up and found a stream. There was still enough light to make a reflection. What he saw shocked him. Bruises and dried blood were
bad enough, but the eyes that looked up at him were frightened. Careful soaking got rid of most of the blood and muck. “What are you afraid of?” Paxton asked his face. “They're dead and you're alive.” Water dripped onto his reflection and scarred it. The eyes were not persuaded; they still looked unhappy. He moved his head an inch and made the drips destroy the eyes.

With heavy cloud everywhere it was hard to judge the time. He guessed early evening. Better move before nightfall. The Very pistol went down a rabbit hole; he kept the rifle. A wide detour took him away from the guard hut and the ammunition dump. Sooner than he expected, the trees ended and he was looking at a river. Upstream, just around a bend, the tops of rows of tents were visible.

Paxton tried to go downstream and he walked into a bog. He backed out, mud to the knees. On the other side of the river was a road, with a lot of German troops marching or waiting or eating. A pair of Rumpler two-seaters flew overhead. Paxton felt very conspicuous. He walked upstream, trying to look like a sentry.

The camp turned out to be big. Going around the outside of it might look suspicious. He made for the middle. His rifle was shaking, pain was attacking his chest, his heart was pounding, demanding attention, until he gasped and realised that he had been holding his breath. His lungs pumped again and the pain faded. He was slightly encouraged by the sight of a lot of dirty, unshaven, weary men in filthy uniforms.