The Burning Shore c-8 Read online

  There was a .303 Lewis gun on a Foster mount set on the top wing, a light, reliable and effective weapon firing over the arc of the propeller, and below it mounted on the fuselage ahead of the cockpit was the heavier Vickers with interrupter gear to fire through the propeller. Two guns, at last they had two guns and an engine powerful enough to carry them into battle.

  Michael let out the highland yell that Andrew had taught him, and Andrew unscrewed the cairngorm and sprinkled a few drops of whisky on the engine housing.

  Bless this kite and all who fly in her, he intoned, and then took a swig from the flask before handing it to Michael.

  Have you flown her? Michael demanded, his voice hoarse from the burn of whisky, and he tossed the flask to the nearest of his brother officers.

  Who the devil do you think brought her up from Arras? Andrew demanded. How does she handle? Just like a young lady I know in Aberdeen, quick up, quick down and soft and loving in between. There was a chorus of cat-calls and whistles from the assembled pilots, and somebody yelled, When do we get the chance to fly her, sir? Order of seniority, Andrew told them, and gave Michael a wicked grin. If only Captain Courtney were fit to fly! He shook his head in mock sympathy.

  go Biggs. P shouted Michael. Where is my flying jacket, man? Thought you might want it, sir. Biggs stepped out of the crowd behind him and opened the jacket for Michael to slide his arms into the sleeves.

  The mighty Wolseley Viper engine hurled the SE5a down the narrow muddy runway, and as the tail lifted Michael had a sweeping view forward over the engine cowling. It was like sitting in a grandstand.

  I'll get Mac to strip off this piddling little windshield he decided, and I'll be able to spot any Hun within a hundred miles. He lifted the big machine into the air and grinned as he felt her begin to climb.

  Quick up, Andrew had said, and he felt himself pressed down firmly into the seat, as he lifted the nose through the horizon and they went up like a vulture in a thermal.

  There's no Albatros been built that is going to climb away from us now, he exalted, and at five thousand feet he levelled out and swept her into a right-hand turn, pulling the turn tighter and tighter still, hauling back hard on the stick to keep the nose up, his starboard wing pointing vertically down at the earth and the blood draining from his brain by the centrifugal force so that his vision turned grey a nd colourless, then he whipped her hard over the opposite way and yelled with elation in the buffet of wind and the roar of the huge engine.

  Come on, you bastards! He twisted to look back at the German lines. Come and see what we have got for you now! When he landed, the other pilots surrounded the machine in a clamorous pack. What's she like, Mike? How does she climb?

  gi Can she turn?

  And standing on the lower wing above them, Michael bunched all his fingers together and then kissed them away towards the sky.

  That afternoon Andrew led the squadron in tight formation, still in their shot-riddled, battered and patched old Sopwith Pups, down to the main airfield at Bertangles and they waited outside No. 3 hangar in an impatiently excited group as the big SE5as were trundled out by the ground crews and parked in a long line abreast on the apron.

  Through his uncle at divisional headquarters, Andrew had arranged for a photographer to be in attendance. With the new fighters as a backdrop, the squadron pilots formed up around Andrew like a football team. Every one of them was differently dressed, not a single regulation RFC uniform amongst them. On their heads they wore forage caps and peaks and leather helmets, while as always Andrew sported his tam o'shanter. Their jackets were naval monkey jackets, or cavalry tunics, or cross-over leather flying coats, but every one of them wore the embroidered RFC wings on his breast.

  The photographer set up his heavy wooden tripod and disappeared under the black cloth while his assistant stood by with the plates. Only one of the pilots was not included in the group. Hank Johnson was a tough little Texan, not yet twenty years old, the only American on the squadron, who had been a horse tamer, or, as he put it, a bronco buster, before the war. He had paid his own passage over the Atlantic to join the Lafayette Squadron, and from there had found his way into Andrew's mixed bunch of Scots and Irish and colonials and other strays that made up No. 21 Squadron RFC.

  Hank stood behind the tripod with a thick black Dutch cigar in his mouth giving bad advice too the harassed photographer.

  Come on, Hank, Michael called to him. We need your lovely mug to give the picture some class Hank rubbed his twisted nose, kicked into that shape by one of his broncos, and shook his head.

  None of you old boys ever hear that it's bad luck to have your picture took? They booed him, and he waved his cigar at them affably. Go ahead, he invited, but my daddy got himself bit by a rattle snake the same day he had his picture took for the first time. There aren't any rattle snakes up there in the blue, one of them taunted.

  No, Hank agreed. But what there is, is a whole lot worse than a nest of rattle snakes. The derisive cries lost their force. They glanced at each other and one of them made as if to leave the group.

  Smile, please, gentlemen. The photographer emerged from beneath his black cloth, freezing them, but their smiles were just a shade fixed and sickly as the shutter opened and their images were burned into silver nitrate for posterity.

  Quickly Andrew acted to change the sombre mood that held them as they broke up. Michael, pick five, he ordered. The rest of us will give you ten minutes start, and you're to try and head us off, and make a good interception before we reach Mort Homme. Michael led his formation of five into the classic ambush position, up sun and screened by wisps of cloud, blocking the return route to Mort Homme. Still, Andrew almost gave them the slip; he had taken his group well south and was sneaking in right down on the ground. It would have worked with duller eyes than Michael's, but he picked up the flash of the low sun off the glass of a windshield from six miles and fired the red Very flare to signal Enemy in Sight to his group. Andrew, realizing that they had been spotted, climbed up to meet them, and the two formations came together in a whirl of turning, diving, twisting machines.

  Michael picked Andrew's SE5a out of the pack and went for him, and the two of them locked into an intricate aerial duet, pushing the big powerful machines harder and still harder, seeking their outer limits of speed and endurance; but evenly matched in skill and aircraft, neither was able to wrest the final advantage, until quite by chance as Andrew came up on his tail, almost into the killing line, Michael kicked on full rudder without bank and the SE5a tail skidded, turning flat, whipping him around with a force that almost dislocated his neck, and he found himself roaring back head-on to Andrew's attack.

  They flashed past each other, only the lightning reflexes of veteran fighter pilots saving them from collision, and instantly Michael repeated the flat skid turn and was flung violently against the side of the cockpit, striking his partially healed shoulder on the rim so that his vision starred with the pain, but he was round in a flash and he fastened on to Andrew's tail. Andrew twisted desperately, but Michael matched every evasive twist and held him in the ring sight of the Vickers, pressing closer until the spinning boss of his propeller almost touched Andrew's rudder.

  Ngi dla! Michael howled triumphantly. I have eaten! the ancient Zulu war cry that King Chaka's warriors had screamed as they put the long silver blade of the assegai into living flesh.

  He saw Andrew's face reflected in the rear-view mirror on the cross struts of the wing above his head, and his eyes were wide with dismay and disbelief at that incredible manoeuvre.

  Andrew fired a green Very flare to signal the recall to the squadron and to concede victory to Michael. The squadron was scattered across the sky, but at the recall they re-formed on Andrew and he led them back to Mort Homme.

  The moment they landed, Andrew sprang from his machine and rushed to Michael, seizing him by both shoulders and shaking him impatiently.

  How did you do that, how the hell did you do that? Quickly Michael explained
.

  It's impossible. Andrew shook his head. A flat turn if I hadn't seen it- He broke off. Come on. Let's go and try it again. Together the two big scout planes roared off the narrow strip, and only returned as the last light was fading.

  Michael and Andrew jumped down from their cockpits and fell on each other, slapping each other on the back and dancing in a circle, so padded by their flying clothes that they looked like a pair of performing bears. Their ground crews stood by with indulgent grins until they sobered a little and then Mac, the head mechanic, stepped forward and tipped his forage cap.

  Begging your pardon, sir, but that paint job is like my mother-in-law's Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, sir, dull and dirty and God-help-us. The SE5as were in factory drab. A colour that was intended to make them inconspicuous to the enemy.

  Green, said Andrew. A few of the pilots on both sides, German as well as British, desired the opposite effect.

  With them it was a matter of pride that their paintwork should be bright enough to advertise their presence to the enemy, a direct challenge. Green, Andrew repeated.

  Bright green to match my scarf, and don't forget the flying haggis on the nose. Yellow, please, Mac, Michael decided.

  Now what made me think you would choose yellow, Mr Michael? Mac grinned.

  Oh, Mac, while you are about it, take that awful little windshield off her and tighten up the rigging wires, won't you? The old hands all believed that by screwing up the rigging wires and increasing the dihedral angle of the wings, they could put a few knots on their speed.

  I'll see to it, Mac promised.

  Trim her to fly hands off, Michael added. The aces were all fusspots, everybody knew that. If the SESa flew straight and level with hands off the controls, the pilot could use both hands for the guns.

  Hands off it is, sir! Mac grinned indulgently.

  Oh, and Mac, train the guns for fifty yards- Anything else, sir? That will do for now, Mac, Michael answered his grin, but I'll work on it.

  I'm sure you will, sir. Mac shook his head with resignation. She'll be ready by dawn. There's a bottle of rum for you if she is, Michael promised.

  And now, my boy, Andrew threw his arm around Michael's shoulders, how about a drink? I thought you would never offer, Michael said.

  The mess was full of excited young men all eagerly and loudly discussing the new machines.

  Corporal! Lord Killigerran called over their heads to the mess servant. All drinks tonight will be on my book, please, and his pilots cheered him delightedly before turning back to the bar to make the most of the offer.

  An hour later when all eyes were glittering feverishly and the laughter had reached that raucous pitch which Andrew judged to be appropriate, he hammered on the bar for their attention and announced solemnly, As Grand Bok-Bok Champion of Aberdeen and greater Scotland, not to mention the outer Hebrides, it behaves me to challenge all corners to a bout of that ancient and honourable sport. Behaves, forsooth! Michael cocked a mocking eye at him. Kindly pick your team, sir. Michael lost the toss and his team was required to form the rugger scrum against the far wall of the mess, while the mess servants swiftly stowed away all breakables.

  Then one at a time Andrew's lads took a run across the mess and landed with all possible force upon the scrum, endeavouring to collapse it for an outright win. If, however, any part of their anatomy touched the ground in the process, it would have meant an immediate disqualification of their team.

  Michael's scrum withstood the weight and violence of the onslaught, and finally all eight of Andrew's men, making sure that not a toe or finger touched the ground, were perched like a troop of monkeys on top of Michael's pyramid.

  From the top of the pile Andrew asked the crucial question which would decide glorious victory or ignoble defeat. Bok-Bok, how many fingers do I hold up? His voice, muffled by the weight of bodies above him, Michael guessed. Three. Two! Andrew claimed victory and with a dismal groan the scrum deliberately collapsed itself, and in the ensuing chaos Michael found Andrew's ear within inches of his mouth.

  I say, do you think I might borrow the motor-cycle tonight? he asked.

  Pinned as he was, Andrew could not move his head, but he rolled his eyes towards Michael.

  Going out for a breath of air, my boy, once again? and then when Michael looked sheepish and could find no clever reply, he went on, All I have is yours, go with my blessing and give the lucky lady my deepest respects, won't you?

  Michael parked the motor-cycle in the woods behind the barn, and carrying the bundle of army blankets sloshed through the mud to the entrance. As he stepped in there was a flash of light as Centaine lifted the shutter of the lantern and shone it in his face.

  Bonsoir, monsieur.

  She was sitting up on top of the bales of straw with her legs tucked under her and she grinned impishly down at him. What a surprise to meet you here.

  He scrambled up to her and seized her.

  You are early, he accused.

  Papa went to bed early- she got no further, for his I mouth covered hers. I I I saw the new airplanes, she gasped when they broke apart to breathe, but I didn't know which was you. They are all the same. It troubled me not to know which was you.

  Tomorrow mine will be yellow again. Mac is re-doping it for me. i We must arrange signals she told him, as she took the blankets from him and began to build their nest in between the bales of straw.

  If I lift my hand over my head like this, that will mean that I will meet you in the barn. tonight, he suggested.

  That is the signal I will look for hardest. She smiled up at him and then patted the blankets. Come here, she ordered, and her voice had gone husky and purring.

  A long time later as she lay with her ear against his naked chest and listened to his heart pumping, he stirred slightly and then whispered, Centaine, it's no good! You cannot travel to Africa with me. She sat up quickly and stared at him, her mouth hardening, and her eyes, dark as gunmetal, gleamed dangerously.

  I mean, what would people say? Think of my reputation, travelling with a woman who was not my wife. She went on staring at him, but her mouth softened into the beginning of a smile.

  There must be a solution, though. He pretended to puzzle over it. I have it! He snapped his fingers. What if I were to marry you! She put her cheek back against his chest.

  Only to save your reputation, she whispered. You have not yet said "yes"."Oh, yes.

  Yes! A million times yes! And then, characteristically, her next question was pragmatic. When, Michel? Soon, as soon as possible. I have met your family, but tomorrow I will take you to meet mine. Your family? She held him at arm's length. Your family is in Africa. Not all of it, he assured her. Most of it is here. When

  1 say most I don't mean numbers, I mean the most important single part of it. don't understand. You will, ma cheri, you will! he assured her.

  Michael had explained to Andrew what he had in mind.

  If you get caught I will disclaim any knowledge of the whole nefarious scheme. I will, furthermore, preside with great enjoyment at your court martial, and will personally command the firing-squad, Andrew warned him.

  Michael had paced out the firm ground at the edge of North Field on the side of the de Thiry estate furthest from the squadron base. He had to slide-slip the bright yellow SE5a down behind the line of oaks that guarded the field, and then as he skimmed over the seven-foot stone wall, he shut the throttle and let her drop to the soft earth. He pulled up quickly, and left the engine idling as he clambered out on the wing.

  Centaine was running out from the corner of the wall where she had been waiting. He saw she had followed his instructions and was warmly dressed: fur-lined boots under her yellow woollen skirt, and a yellow silk scarf at her throat. Over it all she wore a lustrous cape of silver fox fur, and the hood dangled down her back as she ran.

  She carried a soft leather bag on a strap over one shoulder.

  Michael jumped down and swung her in his arms. Look! I am wearing yellow, your favo
urite. Clever girl. He sat her down. Here! He pulled the borrowed flying helmet from the pocket of his greatcoat and showed her how to fit it over her thick dark curls and buckle the strap under the chin.

  Do I look gallant and romantic? she asked, posing for him.

  You look marvelous And it was true. Her cheeks were rouged with excitement, and her eyes sparkled.

  Come on. Michael climbed back on to the wing and then lowered himself into the tiny cockpit.

  It is so small. Centaine hesitated on the wing. So are you, but I think you are also afraid, no? Afraid, ha! She flashed a look of utter scorn at him, and began to climb in on top of him.

  This was a complicated business. which involved lifting her skirts above her knees and then balancing precariously over the open cockpit, like a beautiful bird settling on its clutch of eggs. Michael could not resist the temptation, and as she came down on top of him, he ran his hand up under the skirts, almost to the junction of luscious silk-clad thighs. Centain squealed with outrage. You are forward, monsieur! and she plopped down on to his lap.

  Michael fastened the safety-belt over both of them and then nuzzled her neck below the edge of the helmet. You are in my power now. You cannot escape. I am not sure that I wish to, she giggled.

  It took some further minutes for them to arrange all Centaine's skirts and furs and petticoats, and to make sure that Michael could manipulate the controls with her strapped on to his lap.

  All set, he told her, and taxied to the end of the field, giving himself every inch of runway that he could, for the earth was soft and the strip short. He had ordered Mac to remove the ammunition from both guns and drain the coolant from the Vickers, which saved almost sixty pounds in weight, but still they were overloaded for the length of runway available to them.

  Hold on, he said in her ear, and opened the throttle and the big scoutplane bounded forward.

  Thank God for the south wind, he murmured as he felt her unstick from the mud and strive mightily to lift them into the air.