Gunns' patience was wearing thin as the corporal disappeared under his dark cloth for the umpteenth time and fiddled about with God knows what at the back of his camera. There was something annoying about this chap; fussing and clucking as if his machine were about to deliver the fatal blow of the war, he reappeared blinking like an owl and bade them stand ready, raising his flash powder he paused yet again before finally squeezing the bulb. Shortly thereafter an unimpressive whumpf accompanied a flash of light which left the men grouped around Gunns' SE5 blinking in some discomfort.
The pilots mistook this minor assault as their cue to disperse, and ignoring the corporals' protestations Gunn turned to Captain Finn and offered his hand, which was warmly accepted.
"Sorry to see you go Sir." Gunn had quickly grown to like these rough hewn southerners, and made a promise to come out and visit Finn when the war ended. Finn assured him there would be plenty of work for a good pilot back in Australia, a country so large you could fly all day and barely move across the map. The prospect appealed to him.
The photograph had been Colonel Lightmans' idea. Gunns' brief report of their recent action was a shot in the arm for the RFC. The brass hats valued propaganda highly, and the Colonel wasn't one to let an opportunity like this slip away. Gunn knew his part in it had been minor; the risks to himself during the action were little more than those faced on any training flight. It was the men of 'B' Flight who had fought the Fokkers, and he felt somewhat fraudulent being painted as their leader in the adventure. However, he knew the value of good news and could only hope the Australians would forgive him this little bit of theatre.
The Colonel had sent him a double missive; he'd read a report of an action involving their old squadron, currently based at Soussons near Amiens, a squadron of SE5's from Villers-Bretonneux and a squadron of DH4 bombers from an airfield just outside Amiens. Apparently they were engaged by three jasta some considerable distance behind enemy lines and had given a very good account of themselves. Gunn was commanded to alter his schedule and attend each squadron in turn post haste, in the hope of apprehending some new information that could lead to insights about how the RFC might better tackle the Hun as he rose up in ever larger fighting units.
Gunn had mixed feelings about visiting the Skeleton Crew. On the one hand he wanted to see his old comrades in arms. In opposition to this was a deeply buried subconscious relationship between his prior illness and the squadron in which he'd been struck down, which manifested itself as a vague sense of foreboding. He flew to Amiens first, then on to Villers-Bretonneux, so that when he finally arrived at Soussons he had a good understanding of the action in question.
As he taxied across the bumpy field he could see Sherlock standing alone on the flight line ready to greet him. Cutting the motor he climbed down to shake his friends' hand vigorously, their breath puffing vapour like a couple of steam engines. Sherlock patted the painted tusk on the SE5a.
"Nice. The African connection." Gunn had spent several years in South Africa, his father settling the family there temporarily after serving in the Boer war. It was a raw, visceral place, a good start for a young man going on to war. Sherlock tipped his head toward the skull painted on the rear fuselage. "Still flying the squadron colours I see."
"Gives them something to aim at other than me." Gunn grinned, slightly abashed at having his new persona so quickly exposed. "It wasn't actually my idea..... Colonel Lightman insisted I make a good show if it...." the excuse sounded lame, even to him. The fact was he'd come to enjoy the charade. Sherlock slapped him on the shoulder smiling courageously; Gunn noticed, suddenly troubled.
"Good to see you again Skipper. How about something to wash the oil down?" Ingestion of castor oil from the engine (and its' effects) was an embarrassing secret amongst aircrew of tractor aircraft, the engine up front blowing oil and oil fumes straight back into their faces. Relief from the symptoms was often sought in the ingestion of yet more lubrication - in the form of strong spirits. The two men walked slowly towards the chateau while the erks got about their business servicing the Majors' machine. The Corporal airframe fitter looked it over and whistled at the fanciful paintwork. Some of these pilots had high opinions of themselves. Nobody gave out medals for working through the night, fingers frozen and bleeding, nails torn and falling asleep on your feet. A few hours aloft and back for hot tea and muffins, this lot. Still, he thought to himself, rather them than me. Frowning suddenly at a sagging flight wire, he gave it a wiggle, grunted, and went off to fetch his toolbox.
Gunn was glad to be back in the Officers Mess of his old squadron; the accommodation might change but the familiarity remained. Old Bones still sat in the corner grinning as if at some sinister joke. Some of the trophies adorning the walls were his own; a spandau machine gun, a piece of fuselage fabric with nine small RFC roundels painted on it, an altimeter graduated in metres. He felt a warm sense of belonging, as if this was his home. But there was a drawn look on Sherlocks' face as he poured them both a stiff drink. Something was up.
"So where is everybody?" Sherlock failed to meet his eyes for a few moments, and Gunn felt suddenly sick, dreading the bad news he knew must be coming.
"Williams and Taiters were wounded a week ago. They're in a stationary hospital in Amiens. Fips was hit too, on the same job. Quite badly I'm afraid." Sherlock was quick to elaborate as he watched the concern in Gunns' eyes intensify. "He's gone back to Blighty, the quack said he'll be o.k. in a few months. A couple of new lads have gone missing, but they could still show up somewhere I suppose. What's left of the squadron went up to Amiens this morning, they drove up in the Crossley staff car." That didn't sound promising. Gunn asked the first dreaded question:
"How many?"
Sherlock placed his drink on the bar and offered Gunn a Woodbine.
"Six. Whiskers, Raymond and Snakeman; Gosling, ah you might not know him, he's new. Although he did come through your training unit" Gunn nodded, he remembered him quite well. The young 2nd Lieutenant had been a standout. "Watts is away on a one week furlough," Sherlock continued, "and I'm filling in for Fips as X.O." His voice was lower now, the words pregnant with grief. "At least I was until yesterday." This last spoken so quietly Gunn almost missed it. They stood there, stock still and silent, one in sudden shock as realisation dawned, the other already deep in mourning. Gunn looked stupidly at his cigarette; there was an inch of ash drooping out from it, ready to fall. He flicked it into an ashtray almost mechanically and took a long pull on it, turning his head to expell a stream of grey smoke away from the bar. Old Bones sat mocking him from the other side of the room, a macabre reminder of an old truism; live by the sword; die by the sword. Gunn looked back at Sherlock, who was now the acting C.O, feeling suddenly empty, void of emotion. His voice was flat. Almost inhuman.
"How did it happen?"
Sherlock recounted the mission painfully. Doc had attacked the sausage alone. Ringed by antiaircraft guns, protected by fighters, pilots of both sides dreaded these balloon busting assignments. If you got past the fighters you still had Archie to deal with. The observer in the basket slung underneath would spot for the artillery, calling down the fall of shot by telephone, or take photographs and spy on troop movements. A well placed balloon could wreak havoc along a broad front; the loss of a few pilots and aircraft was considered a small price to pay for interrupting their activities. And it was often merely an interruption. At the approach of enemy fighters the balloon could be winched down in under a minute. If things got too hot the observer would leap clear with a parachute. Even if the balloon were destroyed, the observer killed, another would likely take its' place within a few hours. Battle hardened men wept at the mere thought of it.
As for the attacking pilots, there were no parachutes. The brass hats, in their infinite wisdom, the same wisdom that saw millions of men butchered in sacrificial charges on heavily defended lines, declined to provide even this dubious safety device, believing that its' availability would encourage desertion in the face of the enemy. The General Staff clearly had little idea of the calibre of men serving under them. But when they sent orders to eliminate a balloon they were effectively sending someone to their death, and this they knew only too well from bitter experience. Doc knew it also, and refused to let his men volunteer, although all had tried.
He'd gone in from the south, Whiskers and Snake quickly despatching two Albatross, covering Doc until they reached the outer ring of anti aircraft guns. The two escorts then turned away reluctantly, as ordered, circling just outside the ring of fire. Doc flew through a solid wall of Archie, the balloon was part way down and sinking fast so that he had to dive to fire upon it, but his first pass failed to ignite the thing. He'd loaded the required incendiary rounds himself, and driven home his attack to within a few yards. Incendiary rounds were notorious for causing blockages, so the likely explanation was that his guns had jammed. It was at this point that he should have dived to safety; not so the Doc. He circled up and back, no doubt clearing the blockages, Archie going off like popcorn all around him.
The observer was long gone. He'd jumped clear before Docs' first pass and was floating gently down to the northeast. Some sort of malfunction had caused the winch to stop, the unmanned balloon stuck at about 600 feet, which was well below the agreed altitude for breaking off the attack. At that height Doc would be exposed to intense ground fire, machine guns as well as Archie. Under normal circumstances he would no doubt have followed this rule, the balloon would be descending fast, a few short seconds from recovery. But it just sat there turning slowly in the wind. It was even possible the Hun commander was taunting him. Doc knew that even the few short hours it would take to replace this balloon could mean hundreds of lives spared.
The first hit nearly tore him from the sky then and there; the SE5 staggered as it turned in on the balloon, almost going over on its' back. As Doc righted the machine and dived, more shells poured into it, and very quickly flames were licking back over the c0ckpit. Whiskers and Snake watched in horror. He had ordered them on pain of death not to penetrate the outer ring. At any rate there was nothing to be done. The SE5a, burning fiercely, flew on toward the sausage guns now blazing. Still the thing refused to die. The two merged, there was an explosion, and Doc was gone.
Gunn turned away without another word and stepped outside into a cool autumn breeze. Taking a deep breath, he lowered himself down onto the grass and sat with his arms around his knees, looking out toward the aircraft parked along the flight line but not really seeing them. And here again, he realised, something else had changed. Doc, always cheerful, full of fire, with the biggest heart he'd ever known; a born soldier with a natural wisdom, as if he were a thousand years old. Gunn couldn't see a point to any of it anymore. What fate the world if men like Doc fall? They were tearing it all down, piece by bloody piece, and at the end what?.... the ruins of civilisation crawling with the worst of men; the best all gone, discarded in the name of King and Country.
Gunn was sick at heart. Death had failed to claim him, so Death had sent Fear to do its' ugly work. Fear came close, almost took him, but he finally saw his own small time and place in the infinite flow of the Universe; came to realise the futility of his deathly grip on life. And he let go. Now this new beast was upon him, tearing not at his body but at his very soul. He didn't know its' name, but knew instinctively that this fight would be the hardest. If there was any fight left in him. He thought perhaps not. Not without armour. Not without some kind of shield. He'd need to be alone. Outside the reach of further loss. What value friendship? Death can lay its' hand on friends and through them lays its' hand on you.
In the cavernous dining room of the chateau Sherlock threw back the last of his drink, poured himself another, and dropped into a chair near the open fireplace to wait. After awhile he heard the barking cough of an Hispano-Suiza coming to life. At first he thought the mechanics must be test running the Majors' SE5a, but very soon he heard it bellow, slowly diminishing in volume as it lifted off and flew away.
It seemed that he might be waiting for some time.
Last Updated Wednesday, March 31 2010 @ 07:49 PM MDT|77 Hits 