The Flyer (22 page)

PART TWO
 

CHAPTER 20

FRANCE APRIL 1917
 

A line of poplars along the banks of the river Lys marked the edge of the aerodrome where No. 28 squadron of the Royal Flying Corps was based. The officers were housed in a farmhouse and its surrounding outbuildings, while the other ranks lived in tents near the canvas hangars.

On a cold afternoon, Lieutenant William Reynolds climbed into the cockpit of an RE8 reconnaissance plane in front of Smale, his observer. A mechanic grasped the propeller and gave it a half turn to prime the carburettor.

‘Contact?’

‘Contact.’ William flicked the switch on and the engine fired and then exploded into life in a brief cloud of smoke. In another identical two-seater to his left, piloted by Pervis, with Thorne as the observer, the same procedure was followed. William opened the throttle and his plane bumped across the grass and lifted into the air.

There was very little wind. At five thousand feet, a grey mass of cloud threatening rain covered the landscape. The bombardment on the ground signalled that the offensive at Arras would begin shortly. The sound of the guns was continuous. Geysers of mud and dirt erupted around the German positions as the artillery shelled the enemy in preparation for the attack, though most of the shells were falling beyond the intended target.

When William was in position at two thousand feet, his observer, Smale, began to tap out instructions in Morse code, which were sent by wireless to the artillery. The artillery shortened their range, and on the ground the explosions crept closer to the German positions. At the same time the German anti-aircraft guns opened fire, and black clouds of smoke began to unfurl in the air. At first the gunners struggled to find the correct range, but gradually the explosions became closer and the plane was buffeted and rocked by turbulence.    

As Smale continued to do his work, William scanned the sky all around. There were a dozen or more two-seaters working nearby. Pervis and Thorne were less than a quarter of a mile away and a lone DeHavilland scout was patrolling above, keeping a lookout for enemy machines, though his presence gave William little comfort. Apart from the DeHavilland being a hopelessly outdated design, the German scouts hardly every flew alone.

An explosion rocked the plane violently and shrapnel whizzed through the air. William took the plane down a few hundred feet and changed direction to put the gunners off. A hole had appeared in the starboard wings, and looking down he saw a group of German troops had come out of their dugouts where they’d been sheltering from the British barrage. One of them was aiming his rifle into the air to take another shot, though the plane was not their principle target. A reconnaissance party from the British lines were pinned down in no-mans land, and the Germans were setting up a pair of machine guns to catch them in a cross fire.

Turning in his seat, William gestured to Smale, who saw what was happening, and understanding William’s intention he put his radio set away and swivelled the Lewis gun on its mount so that he could aim it over the side of the plane. As William brought the plane around for a run along the enemy positions, the British soldiers looked up at them. There were five or six of them left alive, huddled in a shell hole. They must have crawled across no-mans land during the night to reconnoitre the enemy positions, but somehow had become trapped before they could get back. At least half of them had been killed already. All at once the German machine gun crew opened fire from their mound, and immediately one of the British soldiers threw up his arms and fell backwards into the crater. His companions slithered down with him until only their heads were above the water while the ground around them was torn to pieces by bullets.

With the throttle wide open, William pushed the two-seater into a shallow dive, and then levelled out to make a pass in front of the German lines. Smale took aim and the Lewis gun kicked and barked. As they climbed again William looked back. Smale had killed the machine gun crew, but almost immediately others came to take their place. Almost immediately, they too were suddenly spinning and falling and looking around, William saw that Pervis had followed his lead and was also attacking. The British soldiers took their chance and began to squirm and slide on their bellies from the shell hole back towards their own lines, though their progress was painfully slow.

Once again William turned to make another pass. When he had first seen the trapped men, he’d wanted to try to help them, even though he knew the odds were long. Now he desperately wanted them to survive. He had witnessed enough of the conditions on the ground to know they must have imagined their fate was sealed. Trapped in the open, their only choices were to either cower in the freezing mud and water until the Germans directed artillery fire to tear them to shreds, or else to climb out and be killed by the machine guns. Suddenly, they had been given a chance. On either side of them, millions of men were ranged with artillery and guns. When the offensive began, tens of thousands would perish, all for the gain of a few feet of mud that would probably be lost again the following week. There was nothing that William could do to prevent the senseless carnage, but the lives of the handful of men below were somehow all the more important because of it.

A pair of German soldiers ran to the machine gun to replace their fallen comrades and Smale opened fire with the Lewis again. More German troops appeared from their dugouts, and began firing rifles from the trenches both at the British soldiers and the plane. Several bullet holes appeared in the fabric of the wings, and a sharp crack sounded as the edge of a strut was hit. A splinter of wood hit William’s cheek, but his face was numb from the cold and he barely felt it. He held his course and Smale fired again. A German soldier toppled, his rifle spinning from his grasp. For an instant William saw his upturned face. He was young, his mouth opened as he cried out in pain or surprise as the bullet struck his chest and then William could no longer see him as he pulled back on the stick for height.

Pervis followed them again, and the air was full of the crack of bullets as the planes became the Germans’ target. William thought it would be a miracle if they managed to get away. On the ground the British soldiers took advantage of the situation and ran at a crouch for their lines, dodging this way and that. One of them fell, but the others made it, and the last William saw of them was a hand raised in acknowledgment or thanks. He continued to climb away from the hail of fire, afraid that a bullet would hit the engine, and when he glanced back he saw Pervis still following.

Within a few minutes they were at three thousand feet again. During the climb they had drifted back over the German rear positions. The fuel gauge indicated half a tank and William deliberated whether or not to continue their observation work. As he automatically scanned the sky all around for danger, he saw four machines fly out of the clouds two thousand feet above. He recognized the shape of the German Albatross’s at once and gestured frantically to Smale, who froze for a split second before he hurriedly started reloading the Lewis gun.

Pervis had seen the danger too, and though both planes turned and dived for speed, William knew they were too late. He looked over his shoulder as the Albatross’s split into pairs. There was nothing he could do but race for the lines and hope that Smale could fend them off, though a single Lewis gun against the Spandaus of an Albatross meant they were hopelessly outgunned, as well as being slower and far less agile than the German fighters. Within moments Smale opened up with the Lewis gun, which was immediately met with the heavy thump of the Spandaus. Lines of tracer cut the air on either side of the plane. William banked hard and turned to try to put the German pilots off their aim, but the RE8 was a lumbering, unresponsive machine and straight away his port wings were filled with holes. The engine took a hit and coughed a slick of oil, and then an Albatross went past on either side, each of them banking and climbing to attack again. The Lewis was silent as Smale desperately worked to change the drum.

William put the plane into the steepest possible dive he dared to in a last ditch effort to gain speed. He knew of he could reach no-mans land they had a chance. Looking over his shoulder he saw the Albatrosses turning to give chase. The RE8 was rattling and shaking as if it was going to fall to pieces. The engine leaked a steady stream of oil. Underneath them the ground rushed up to meet them and William pulled back on the stick with all his might. He thought he had left it too late even as the nose began to inch upwards. All he could hear was the roar of the exhaust and any moment he expected to feel German bullets rip them apart.

Then suddenly the machine responded to the controls and began to level out and they roared above the lines at less than fifty feet. In the trenches men cheered and William glanced behind. The Albatross’s had broken off their attack. Either they were low on fuel or else unwilling to risk crossing the lines. There was something arrogant, almost disdainful about the way they chose not to finish them off. It was the same arrogance that made them paint their machines in garish colours to identify their jastas; red for Richthofen’s, green or purple or some other combination for the others. It was an expression of their utter confidence in the superiority of their machines. Or perhaps, William thought, the German pilots had a more prosaic reason for turning back. Perhaps they thought they had already done their job.

The engine spluttered and emitted another slick of oil. He could feel the loss of power. It began to miss, and he wondered if he would make it to the aerodrome. Nearby, Pervis was also in trouble, his machine trailing a thin stream of smoke. He was flying erratically and it looked as if Thorne in the back was slumped across his gun.

Ten minutes later William was descending towards the poplars alongside the river. The engine note rose and fell, and it was difficult to keep the speed up, but as the grass rushed up to meet the wheels, William kept the throttle open and found another surge of power in the nick of time. As soon as the plane came to a stop, he and Smale jumped out to watch Pervis come in to land. A few of the riggers and mechanics came out of the hangars, and William shouted at them to fetch water. There was now thick smoke pouring from the front of Pervis’s machine.

‘He’s going too fast,’ Smale muttered.

The plane was weaving drunkenly, and losing height but not speed. Everybody stood in silence, powerless to do anything but watch and hope. When it landed, the plane bounced twenty feet, and then almost in slow motion tipped on one side. When it came down the starboard wings were sheared off in a mass of splintered wood and trailing wire, and the engine was pushed back into the fuel tank which immediately ruptured. Within moments a sheet of flames engulfed both cockpits.

The men who rushed to help with buckets of sand and water were driven back by the heat. In the back seat, Thorne remained still and William thought that he must already be dead, but in the front Pervis managed to climb onto his seat, where he paused for an instant as if to jump. His clothes were on fire. Flames danced greedily about his head. The air was thick with the smell of petrol and roasting flesh. He began to scream, his arms beating at the flames, but the fire was feeding on the fats in his body. He threw back his head, and amidst the yellow and orange was a dark ragged hole from which came a final anguished cry before his vocal chords melted, and Pervis slowly collapsed with his arms outstretched.

It took several minutes for the flames to begin to die down. The grotesque remains of Pervis and Thorne fell free as what held them was reduced to charred ash. A streak of white revealed bone laid bare.

*****

By the time William left the hangar and made his way across the field, the rain had stopped, though it was cold. He thought of the poor devils in the trenches living in their muddy burrows. It must be especially miserable in the winter, forever cold and never entirely dry, and often under fire from shells or snipers. By comparison, his own existence was comfortable. The aerodrome was well behind the lines, out of reach of the enemy guns. Occasionally they had to put up with a German plane sneaking over to try and drop bombs on them, but the anti-aircraft gunners usually saw them off.

Light from the windows of the farmhouse beckoned with a warm glow. He could hear a gramophone record playing, a ragtime tune played on the piano. Somebody laughed, an unnatural sound, and it was followed by a chorus of voices. His fellow officers were playing some sort of drinking game, drowning their morbid thoughts in whisky and wine. He continued on to the barn, which had been roughly partitioned so that each officer had his own private area big enough for a bed and somewhere to keep clothes and personal effects. After he’d washed and changed he joined the others in the room that served as the officer’s mess. The table was laid for dinner.

Major Thompson, the squadron CO, threw William a curt glance and looked pointedly at his watch. ‘There you are, Reynolds. I was about to send somebody to find you.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir,’ William murmured.

‘Dinner is served at eight I clock. I expect my officers to be in the mess promptly by half past seven.’

A mess steward approached and William asked for a whisky.

‘These things matter,’ Thompson continued. ‘The moment you allow standards to slip, discipline breaks down, and without proper discipline the army cannot function. Where have you been anyway?’

‘I was over at the hangars. My machine was shot up today.’

‘You could have let the men sort that out. That’s what they’re for.’

‘I prefer to look after my own machine, sir.’

‘Yes, well I’m not at all sure I approve of that. You’re an officer, Reynolds, not a damned mechanic.’

The arrival of the steward with William’s whisky saved him from having to reply. As the officers took their places at the long table, Captain Wright took the opportunity to speak quietly to William.