Goshawk Squadron (30 page)

It was a single Albatros, and it chased him for a couple of miles until Finlayson got desperate and aimed the SE quite suicidally between two tall trees. The German wisely banked away. Finlayson squeaked through the gap and was free.

He knew that the reserve tank was small, and climbed for home, bearing 270 degrees. But the compass refused to settle and he found himself circling, with no idea which way was west. He climbed higher to search for landmarks and saw a vaguely familiar wood off to his right. It was shaped like a blunt diamond. He twisted his head, trying to remember how it lay and where it pointed. An old Fokker Triplane crept up behind him, easing in from the blind side. Finlayson saw a town he knew, and calculated that he was flying north. He banked left just as the Triplane opened fire, and took the bullets in his gas tank instead of his body.

A long plume of white vapor sprang from the tank and trailed, flaring, in his slipstream. Finlayson switched off the engine. It was not inevitable that the vapor would catch fire. Not inevitable. He smelled the stench of gasoline drowning the clean air. It was soaking into his boots, chilling his legs. He glided easily into the sun. He was at about five thousand feet. Where was the Triplane? Flying alongside, watching.

Finlayson fished out his Colt revolver and fired three shots at the Triplane. The bastard didn't even move. The drenching gasoline crept toward the SE's red-hot exhausts and the whole aircraft went up with a rush. Finlayson shot himself in the head.

“Damn,” said Major Gibbs. “The French won't like that.” He threw his briefcase on to the desk. “I was afraid something like this might happen, you know,” he said. “Just when we were doing so well, too. I have a photographer coming over in an hour.”

“It can't be helped,” the adjutant said.

“I suppose there's no doubt? A forced landing, maybe …”

“Some chaps in 46 Squadron saw it happen. They even got his number right.”

“Ah.”

“I suppose you'd better see the old man. I take it you'll need a replacement.”

Gibbs nodded gloomily. “The pressure's still on. The French won't be satisfied until we produce the goods.” He paused in the doorway. “What about using Dickinson? I could stall them until he gets out of hospital. It's worth a try.”

“Didn't I tell you about Dickinson?”

“No. What? Not available?”

“Afraid not, Gangrene, or something. Last night.”

“Oh dear.”

“Sorry. I thought I told you. I
meant
to tell you, only all this rushing about …”

“Quite. Oh, well.”

They found Woolley in the bomber squadron's bar, which Goshawk pilots were allowed to use. All the survivors were there, standing in a wide circle, holding drinks. The atmosphere was uncomfortable; even the bomber pilots looked on warily. Woodruffe and Gibbs got themselves a drink and waited for Woolley to stop talking. He was saying something to Rogers about cricket: asking a question or checking an opinion. “Of course,” Woodruffe murmured to Gibbs. “Squadron party. Rogers' M.C. came through today. Celebration.”

“I remember!” said Woolley brightly. They looked at him apprehensively. “G. W. Grace, that was it. He was pretty good, wasn't he?” He suddenly sounded forty years old.

“W. G. Grace, you mean,” Rogers mumbled.

“Ah!” Woolley said. “Yes? He was good at cricket, was he? I mean … you know, as good as all that?”

Rogers stared at his drink and cleared his throat.

“I'd heard about him,” Woolley said. “I thought I'd ask you.” He wiped his nose carefully, tucking the handkerchief up his sleeve. The gesture fascinated Lambert. “I knew that cricket was a hobby of yours, of course.”

“Of course. Yes.”

Woolley smoothed his face and shaped his chin. He looked at the light fixtures, and tugged at the skin over his Adam's apple. Richards whistled a tune, but it sounded wrong, so he let it die.

“Um,” Woolley said. He looked sideways, his chin down. “Are we all here? I don't see … Mr. Killion. Is he coming, does anyone know?”

None of the pilots spoke. The adjutant said: “I think he's gone down to the village, sir. He has a girl-friend down there, an English girl. He spends all his spare time down there, now.”

“Ah. Lucky chap, eh? I wish I …” Woolley hunched his shoulders and stared at nothing. Richards cleared his throat, a tiny sound. Woolley looked at him. “He was going to be a doctor, wasn't he? Medicine … It's a grand thing, isn't it, medicine?”

“Is it, sir?” Richards said woodenly.

“Oh yes. Yes, I think so. I mean, where would we be without doctors?”

He looked at their faces in turn, and they all looked away, pretending to consider the question.

“How is Shufflebotham, sir?” asked Beattie.

“Funny thing, that.” Woolley seized on the subject. “Nobody actually saw him. Big field like this, you'd expect someone to see, but no. Nobody actually … saw it.
Heard
it, yes. Funny thing, that, isn't it? Odd …” He had stretched the subject as far as it would go, and now he stood trying to stretch it further. Lambert put down his glass and knocked over an ash tray. Woolley looked at him worriedly.
“You
didn't see him, did you, Lambert?”

“No, no, no,” Lambert muttered. He went off to get another drink.

“So … how is he, sir?” Beattie repeated.

Woolley looked at Beattie for a long time. “Not very well, I'm afraid,” he said softly. “Broken … things. Arms. And head. You must be … Mackenzie.”

“Beattie, sir.”

“Really? Oh. We had a Beattie last year … I don't remember much about him, though. Would anyone like a drink?”

Nobody answered.

“It's on me, you know. CO's treat, this time.”

Nobody spoke.

“I saw a horse, in a field,” Woolley said. He looked around and found Richards and told him again. “Saw this horse, in a field. Not far from here.” When Richards looked away, he said: “You're keen on horses, aren't you? I seem to remember …”

“Sir.”

“We ought to get some. For off-duty.”

“Sir.”

“You could teach the others, perhaps. Chaps like me.”

“Sir.”

Gibbs touched the adjutant's arm and steered him away. “What the devil's he up to?” he whispered.

“I should have thought it was obvious,” Woodruffe said softly. “He's trying to make friends. God knows why.”

“Strikes me he's making a bloody fool of himself … Anyway, I need to get on with the other thing.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Gibbs walked over to Woolley. “Awfully sorry to barge in on your celebration binge like this,” he said.

“Don't mensh,” Woolley said. “You know everybody here, don't you?”

“It's about … Finlayson, you see.”

“Very little you can expect me to do about him, I'm afraid.” Woolley smiled a gentle smile which included everybody.

“No, but … Well, I need to go ahead, just the same.” He waited for Woolley to suggest something, or tell him to come back tomorrow, or forget the whole damn thing. “Corps has promised the French their pound of flesh, you see. That's the only reason why … I mean, you know how the battle is going, we're in Queer Street … I agree, it's scandalous, but
Corps says we must have a scapegoat. Pure politics, you see. My hands are tied. Absolutely tied.”

Woolley let him finish. He chewed his lip while he thought about it, glancing cautiously at Rogers, Richards, Gabriel, Lambert and Beattie in turn.

Woodruffe broke the silence: “Let's face it, the whole damn nonsense is a complete … nonsense. I mean, it might as well be
Kitchener
on a charge as any one of us.”

“Captain Rogers,” Woolley said at last. “This seems to be your day for fame.”

Rogers hunched his shoulders and stared at Woolley's feet. There was a profoundly unhappy silence.

“Right, then,” Gibbs said. “I'll get the documents altered tonight.”

Lambert walked out and slammed the door. Woolley stood with an empty glass in his hand, and blinked at Gibbs' empty sleeve. Richards drank up and left. One by one the others followed, until only Woolley, Gibbs and the adjutant were left.

“Funny business,” Woolley said.

A telephone rang, and the barman answered it. “Major Woolley?” he called out.

“That must be Kitchener,” Woolley said. “I expect he wants to plead Not Guilty.”

The guardroom was warm and dim, and smelled of toast. Two corporals were guarding her. They saluted Woolley. “No identification, sir,” one said. “Found wanderin' over by the hangar, sir. Distressed condition, sir. Says you can identify her, sir.”

“My dear Margery,” Woolley said. “What on earth …”

“It was dark and I fell over a rope.” Her voice shook. “They ran up and captured me.”

“And about time, too. I've been trying to find you for ages.”

“No, you haven't.”

“Honestly.”

“How can you talk about honestly? Or honesty. Or whatever it is.”

“My dear Margery—”

“No I'm not, I'm
not”
She jumped up and ran to the door, but he grabbed her and she stumbled and they ended up holding each other.

“I take it you can positively identify this lady, sir?” the corporal said.

“But where've you
been?”
Woolley asked her.

“Waiting. Bloody waiting.”

“Where?”

“Sign here, sir, please.” The corporal gave Woolley a pen and held out a form on a clip-board. He signed for her and took her outside.

“I called you three times at the hospital,” he said.
“Four
times. They said you weren't there.”

“I wasn't there, I was near you. Just outside Achiet. In the pub at Bihucourt … to be near you. I couldn't stand going back to that rotten hospital, miles away from you, and waiting for the rotten telephone. I couldn't stand it, so I didn't go back after last time, I stayed. I've been there for ten bloody days.”

“But I didn't
know.
I kept calling the hospital and they said—”

“No you didn't, because I told them where I was going and if you called they were going to telephone me at the pub and tell me and then I'd know. But you never called so I stayed at that rotten pub. You never called.”

“I
did
call. Four times. I gave up because they said you were never there. I thought—”

“Then they must have forgotten. Or something. Is that it?”

“I don't know. I don't care. What does it matter? Where are we going?” He stopped and brushed the hair from her eyes. “I'd given up. I thought you'd gone off home, or something … Are you all right? You look—”

“I just couldn't keep going back and forth between you and
the hospital, I
couldn't.
I wanted to be near you, even if you … I used to walk out to the airfield and watch the planes landing. I wanted you to call …” The tears came.

“Oh God,” Woolley whispered. “Oh God. I thought you had gone. I really thought you had gone for good. Never do that again. Never.”

The dawn was an overdone backdrop for an expensive opera when Woolley strolled in through the gates of the airfield. The sentry saluted; Woolley touched his forelock and said, “Thank 'ee kindly.” Inside the hut the guard corporal turned, stared and reached for the telephone.

Woolley walked as far as the aircraft and stood looking at the extravagant pinks and creams flooding the eastern sky. From the horizon came the irregular, muffled noises of artillery, grunting like sleeping hounds. He stretched, and stood with his legs apart, hands clasped on his head.

“Thank God you're back,” Woodruffe called, hurrying over. “Corps's been on the phone all night, they want you to do two patrols as soon as possible, both frightfully urgent, there's a counter-attack, it's all down here.” He pushed maps and papers into Woolley's hands, and stared anxiously.

“What a glorious day,” Woolley said, fanning himself with the documents. “Look at that sky.”

“What? Listen, they're in a terrible state up at Corps, they seem to think if this counter-attack doesn't work it's the end of the world. I don't know, you'd think they'd have learned better by now, but still … They wanted me to go out and
find
you, for God's sake …”

“I've been down at the inn, Woody, and it wouldn't have done you any good to come looking, either.” The adjutant
was not listening; he was looking at his watch and peering anxiously about him. “And back to the bloody old inn I shall go just as soon as I can,” Woolley added.

“Quite. Quite,” Woodruffe said. “I just hope to God they're all up by now. I ordered breakfast for ten minutes ago. Corps was
furious
when I told them I couldn't guarantee anything until you got back. They wanted—”