Goshawk Squadron (24 page)

When he looked back the gas-bag was roaring, a spherical furnace illuminating the early dusk. The basket was still there. Then it became detached. Lambert dived, but nobody came out of the basket. It dropped fast, keeping its upright stance at first, then turning as if emptying itself, and the men fell out. No parachutes opened. Lambert watched the tumbling bodies until they were little spinning, waving irrelevances; and turned away.

The kill infuriated the gunners. They sent up a thick screen of flak between the Goshawk planes and the second balloon, damning anyone who tried to break through. The usual haphazard spray of machine-gun fire sprinkled the air, inaccurate and half-spent at that height, but it only needed one bullet in the head to destroy a whole aircraft. Lambert was now very afraid. Something smashed into his instrument panel and thin oil streaked his goggles. He circled, looking for the other two, and then found he couldn't level out: the outer half of the left wing was shredded, as if by hailstones.

Lopsided and vulnerable, he tried to climb the barrage and get to the second balloon. The barrage climbed to meet him. He saw Kimberley and Killion curling in from either side, and wondered that they were both intact.

Weaving and dodging, the three planes shuffled across the blotched and shuddering sky. Continuous eruptions created a wilderness of blast and air pockets; they barely recovered from one sickening jolt before something hurled them in the opposite direction, or the plane stumbled into a vacuum and hit bottom fifty feet down. Often Lambert lost sight of the other two. He slumped inside the cockpit as far as he could, out of sight of the pounding high-explosive, protected by old canvas against jagged shell-fragments; and dimly recognized the familiar sensation of hot urine soaking down his right leg.

Like flies in a thunderstorm, their very lightness carried the British planes through. Anything short of a very near miss
merely blew them away. Three strong men could lift an SE5a, fully loaded; so blast blew the planes about, aged them, weakened them, but it did not destroy them. Lambert raised his shaking head to see the sky ahead clear of flak, with the balloon in the center. There were also three circling Fokker Triplanes.

This balloon had not descended. Lambert realized that far below the barrage was still pounding away; that the observers' reports were still going down the telephone wire, correcting ranges and bearings, selecting new targets from the shop window of the British Front. This attack was important to the Germans.

Hence the Triplanes. They came out of their circuit one by one and bore down on the SE5as, each of which was now heading for the balloon from a different quarter. Lambert saw his German change from profile to head-on-view: a black, kite-like pattern, edged with gold, dropping out of the pure purple of the dusk. He turned slightly to meet the attack. The German fired a couple of rounds to clear his guns. Lambert blinked to rid his eyes of a sudden haziness, and then the German was on him, with a curiously muffled stutter that swelled and was lost in the bellow of their engines as they passed in a blaze of flashing muzzles and white-hot exhausts and shining propeller blades.

Lambert heard something crack and thrash itself to death in the slipstream, but the plane still flew and although there was a stink coming from the engine it was not on fire. While the Triplane recovered and returned he closed in on the balloon. Killion and Kimberley were keeping the other Germans honest. The balloon rotated gently in the evening breeze, presenting its serial number to him. With the Triplane boring in from behind he fired a long burst at the dead center of the bag, and saw the fabric split and flare.

Lambert dropped his right wing and dummied to go around the right of the balloon, and just as the Triplane started firing he banked steeply to the left and got away. He missed the burning bag by ten feet, standing his plane on its
tattered wingtip, and held the turn until the whole scene came in sight again. The observers were straddling the side of the basket. Then they jumped.

Lambert hesitated, finding excuses in wanting to oversee the complete destruction of the flaming balloon, or wondering where the Triplane was, or perhaps they had a third balloon somewhere … The parachutes opened like conjuring tricks, and still he circled. A hundred yards away a smoke-ball appeared: the flak was back. The parachutes drifted away, controlled now by their own laws, out of the war. Still Lambert circled, uselessly, neither doing nor not doing.

A sheet of flame created itself away to his left, like a scrap of brilliant paper, and a Triplane was on its back, trailing smoke. Kimberley came pounding across the sky to the parachutes. Lambert saw his own Triplane diving to protect them and he plunged after it, far too late.

Kimberley let fly at the dangling men from a hopeless range. He dueled briefly with the Triplane, lost it, and came round in a wide, searching turn. He flew into an anti-aircraft shell with the precise catastrophe of a drunken driver speeding into a wall. The gas tank exploded in a bloom of yellow and red, and then there was only a lot of smoke, with bits falling: bits of wing, bits of wheel, bits of pilot.

Lambert held his dive. The Triplane came after him and made a long, angled pass, but he was unaware of it. He reached the parachutes and killed the observers in two attacks from close range. Then he dropped to rooftop height and fled for home through the deepening dusk. Killion landed right behind him.

“I'd like to introduce myself,” said the replacement. “My name is Shufflebotham. I just came today.”

“Oh.” Rogers looked at him. The man was neat and clean and nervously ingratiating. “I'm Rogers. Do you have somewhere to sleep?”

“Oh, yes. The adjutant—”

“That's all right, then.” Rogers went back to oiling his cricket bat. He seemed anxious about its condition.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Got one.” Rogers indicated the half-full bottle of Scotch on the floor between his legs.

Shufflebotham watched him work for a few moments. “Sorry about my name,” he said, unconvincingly. “Damn silly name, really. I ought to do something about it.”

“Oh?” Rogers said. He waited. “Oh,” he said.

Shufflebotham wandered away. Lambert was putting records on the gramophone. He was drunk, and he dropped one. Shufflebotham picked it up for him. Lambert played a record.

“Jolly little tune,” Shufflebotham said.

“What?”

“I don't think we've met. My name is Shufflebotham. Awfully sorry …”

“Nonsense.” Lambert blinked at the blur of the spinning label. “That's a waltz. Know it anywhere.”

“No, no. My name is Shufflebotham.”

“Never heard of him. Not in this squadron.” He picked up his bottle and tramped away, treading on Dickinson's feet.

“Who's that?” Dickinson said, waking up.

“Shufflebotham,” Lambert said angrily. “Not in this squadron, never. Fellow has the wrong squadron. Never, never,
never.”
His narrow, bloodshot eyes glared at the replacement.

“Wait a minute,” Finlayson said. “You're a bloody liar, Lambert. Wait a minute. I
know
you're a bloody liar.”

“Where?” Lambert demanded. “What?”

“There
was
a Shuttlecock in this squadron,” Finlayson said. “I'm almost bloody certain of it.” He sniffed morosely. “You always were a bloody liar, Lambert. Hey,” he turned on Dangerfield. “You remember the bastard, don't you?”

“Who's that?”

Finlayson looked back at Lambert. “Come on, then, who was it?”

“Nobody,” said Lambert. “There never was one. Never.”

“I'm afraid it's all a bit of a misunderstanding,” Shufflebotham said with a light chuckle.

“Who is this screaming hysteric?” Finlayson said.

“You mean
Shackleton,”
Dangerfield announced. “You remember old Shack, Dudley? Came down in a tree and broke both his legs. You remember, he used to do those tricks with matches.”

Rogers thought. “No,” he decided.

“Oh, come on,” Dangerfield protested. “How can you forget old Shack?”

“I never knew him,” Rogers said. “Before my time probably.”

“I win, then,” Lambert said loudly. “You're all bloody liars.”

“Listen,”
Finlayson said. He went up to Lambert and hiccupped rum fumes into his face. “Listen, I can remember this fellow whatshisname as clear as you.” He waved at Shufflebotham. “Clearer.”

“All right, then,” Lambert challenged. “AH right, ask old Woody.”

“You
ask old Woody.” Finlayson closed his eyes to help him think. “The burden of the evidence rests on the other side to
di
sprove whatever it is, and not on the
other
side to disprove the other side's evidence. That's English justice.”

Lambert turned to Dickinson. “Is that right, Dicky?” he asked, confused.

“Better ask old Woody,” Dickinson said.

“That's what
I
said,” Finlayson confirmed. “You ask old Woody.”

The adjutant came in, followed by a one-armed major. “Aha!” said Dangerfield. “Now for a duel between giants. Lambert wants to ask you something, Woody.”

“Fire ahead.”

“I forget,” Lambert said. There was a chorus of booing and laughter. “There never was one, that's why!” he shouted.

“Are these the officers named in the arraignments?” the major asked Woodruffe.

“Yes. Manslaughter and fraud all round, more or less, and
rape, arson and assault sort of sprinkled through. This is Major Gibbs,” he told them

“Have a drink,” Dangerfield offered.

“It's damn ticklish, really,” the major said. He accepted some whisky. “Thanks. I've been sent down to arrange your indictments before a French civil court on all these charges. Cheers.”

“But it's all bull,” Richards said, emerging from behind a newspaper. “Tell them to go to hell.”

“It is their country,” Woodruffe pointed out.

“They don't deserve it. We're fighting much harder than they are. Besides, look at the rations they sell us. Look at the eggs we get, they're tiny. It's scandalous.” Richards was trembling with indignation.

“Well, never mind about that,” the major said. “We can't get you before a French court anyway, as long as you're all awaiting court-martial.”

“I'm not awaiting court-martial,” Gabriel declared. He put down his pocket Bible and looked around with a certain grim satisfaction. “Nor am I charged with any crime under French civil law.”

“Good,” said the major. “Then maybe you can give me a hand. We have to get one set of charges or the other in motion, and I'm your defense counsel.”

“We plead guilty but insane,” Lambert said.

“I shall have nothing to do with unrighteousness,” Gabriel stated firmly. “The soul that sinneth, it shall die.” He looked calmly from Gibbs to Lambert. “But if a man be just, and do that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live, saith the Lord God.”

“I don't think you understand,” said Gibbs. “I just need someone to help with the paperwork.”

“Oh no. That's quite impossible. If ye shall despise my statutes, or if your soul abhor my judgments, I will even appoint over you terror, consumption, and the burning ague. And I will break the pride of your power.” He tapped his Bible with his finger. “You see, it's out of my hands.”

“Jesus Christ,” Finlayson growled in disgust.

“Who else?” asked Gabriel.

“What about the other girl who lives here?” Killion asked.

“She's hiding behind the curtains,” Jane Ashton said. “Why are you shivering? Perhaps you'd better put some clothes back on.”

“Who's shivering?” He swished the wine around in his glass to disguise the tremble. “Anyway, I've had a hard day.”

She stepped out of her skirt and undid her hair. Killion watched from the corners of his eyes. “Let's bring the mattress through here, in front of the fire,” she suggested. She cocked her head. “If you can wait that long, that is.”

Killion turned away, pretending to look for somewhere to put his glass. “All right,” he said. “Are you sure it will go through the door?” He picked a china ornament off the mantelpiece and looked at its base. “Neat, but not gaudy,” he said. “Is it yours?”

She came up and put her arms around him. “Oh
Jack,”
she said. Killion felt the warm and cool curves and points pressing against him. He put the ornament down very carefully. It fell over. “It's all very well for you,” he said meaninglessly. “You live here.”

“Oh, come
on.
Stop muttering away to yourself.” She reached down and began tickling toward his groin, and he broke away.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

They dragged the mattress through, and stood panting with exertion on either side of it. Killion said: “You really do look absolutely wonderful.” There were tears in his eyes, and he did not look away.

“Thank you.”

They lay down, and started to begin the endless discovery of the pleasure of each other, and the endless pleasure of each discovery; while outside there was a faint, remote rumble which could have been shell-fire, or heavy traffic, or even a loose window vibrating in the wind.