Goshawk Squadron (31 page)

“Breakfast,” Woolley said. “Now I could do with some of that.” He set off for the mess, papers spilling from under his arm. Woodruffe rescued them and hurried after. “You know the difference between men and women, Woody? I'll tell you, I've just found it out, and it's bloody significant, too: men find causes to die for, and women find causes to live for.”

“So I've heard. It's not exactly original, you know.”

“By Christ, it's original to me.”

“Corps wanted Rogers to take over. I had to tell them he was sick. They didn't go for
that,
either, I can tell you. Then they got on to Gibbs, wanted to know why he hadn't set up the court-martial yet.
That
did even less good.”

“Why?”

“Gibbs had been drinking. With Rogers. He told Corps that you were off your—that you were unreliable. I think Corps fired him, I'm not sure.”

“Is
Rogers sick?”

“He's
been
sick. Several times. I should think he's horribly hung over now. He and Gibbs got through a bottle of Scotch and decided to—to sort you out.”

“Sort me out? How?”

“Well … beat you up, if you must know. Anyway, you weren't there so they smashed up your room instead. Then they started on the gin. All the Scotch was gone. Every time Corps came on the phone, Rogers insisted on talking to them. He kept blowing his whistle and shouting, ‘Under the top! Under the top!' I've had the devil's own time, what with Corps wanting to know what the hell—”

Woolley stopped with his hand on the mess door.
“Under
the top?”

“Oh, don't ask me, some kind of a joke. Instead of over the top.”

“Oh.”

“Over the top was no good anymore, he said. The chap was blind drunk. Potty.”

They went inside. Woolley said: “Morning, gents. Drink up your slops, it's dragon-slaying time again.”

All conversation ceased. Richards pushed his plate away and sat hugging his stomach. Gabriel continued to eat heartily, buttering toast and sucking at a mug of tea while he chewed. Lambert slowly turned his back and stretched his legs. Beattie and Callaghan looked nervously at the others; Killion yawned. Rogers made no move, but sat holding his head in his hands. A bowl of porridge lay in front of him, and as Woolley walked past he squinted at it. “Are you going to eat that, Dudley?” he asked. “Or have you already?” Callaghan tittered, then flushed at the others' silence.

“Make me a bacon sandwich,” Woolley told the mess orderly. “Make it nice and fatty. And put some Daddies Sauce on it.” He poured himself a mug of tea and stirred in a big spoonful of condensed milk. They watched or ignored him with hostility, apprehension or indifference.

“To your new commanding officer!” he said, raising the mug. “A man of unquestionable honor, chivalry and patriotism, by whom you will find it a real pleasure to be misled!” He drank noisily. Killion raised his eyebrows at Woodruffe, who shrugged.

“Don't forget that Corps want me to call them as soon as possible about that patrol,” the adjutant said wearily.

“Eat! Eat!” Woolley shouted. He pointed at Richards' plate. “Gallant sailors drowned to bring you that bit of fried bread, cully. Christ, just because you work in a knacker's yard you don't have to be squeamish about your grub. You do a bloody awful job, sewer men to the sky by royal appointment, but why make it worse?” He took the sandwich from the orderly's plate and waved it about. “Why make the worst of it when you can make the best of it? Right? The condemned
man ate a hearty breakfast, three cheers, everyone feels better for that. What about the poor old bloody executioner? Nobody comes over and asks him if his egg's too hard. Look after yourself, no other bugger will.” He bit into his sandwich and tore away a length of streaky bacon. “Isn't that right, Gabriel?” he said through the food.

Gabriel put down his tea. “For the indignation of the Lord is upon all nations,” he announced, “and his fury upon all their armies: he hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to their slaughter.” He glanced around to make sure that they understood. “Their slain also shall be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood.” He snapped his fingers to indicate the thoroughness of the destruction.

“Good,” Woolley said. “I'm glad somebody's enjoying his war.”

The telephone rang. Woodruffe took it. “Corps,” he whispered savagely, although his palm covered the mouthpiece. “They
must
know
now.
When can you send the first patrol? Target A.” He pointed to Woolley's documents. They could hear the angry crackle continuing to demand action.

Woolley picked up a piece of paper. “Ten minutes,” he said. The paper was upside-down. “A quarter of an hour,” Woodruffe told the telephone. It grated viciously in reply. “Oh my God,” he said. The instrument delivered one final harshness, then clicked dead. He stared at it as if it had spat on his hand. “They've sent a colonel to find out what's going on,” he said. “Corps have sent a colonel. They say he'll raise hell. He left half an hour ago.”

“Always glad to welcome our chums from Corps,” Woolley said. He put his head on one side, trying to read the upside-down writing. “Anybody here understand Hebrew?” he asked.

Someone knocked on the door. “That can't be him already,” Killion said before he could stop himself.

It wasn't. It was two very young replacement pilots. “Shut the door. I hope you last longer than the last two,” Woolley
told them. Abruptly, Rogers was sick into his porridge. “Thank God for that, I thought he was dead,” Woolley said. “Now that you're fit and well again, Captain Rogers, you can lead the first patrol. Gabriel and Killion will fly with you.” He turned the paper round and read it properly. “You're to attack a big old house which Jerry is using for his HQ, or something. It's all down here.” He flicked the sheet across. “Go in low, blast it, get out fast. Ta-ta.”

Killion pulled the flying-coat around Rogers' shoulders and fed the other trembling arm into a sleeve. “You don't have to go, you know,” he said, trying to make it sound matter-of-fact. “You can tell him you're sick. You
are
sick, anyone can see that.” He buttoned the collar under Rogers' stubbly chin. “I'll tell him, if you like.”

Rogers looked up at him until the light hurt his eyes. “I wouldn't give the fucking bastard that pleasure,” he said. “Hold that flask.”

Killion held the whisky and let Rogers suck at it. The spirit ran down his chin. He coughed, and pushed the flask away, and spat untidily. Then he tugged the flask back and drank some more. He stopped, and lay back. “Fucking G. W. Grace,” he said.

“Lambert, one,” Woolley said. He chalked the name on the wall. “Richards, two. Me, three. Beattie, four. Callaghan, five.” He drew a line around them. “Say five. Only it's three, because I'm not going to take Beattie or Callaghan. There's bound to be more flying later on. I'll save them.” He put down the chalk. “Okay?”

He and Woodruffe were standing in Woolley's billet. All that was breakable had been smashed. His accordion lay huddled in a corner, ripped and battered.

Woodruffe looked at the names, and then rubbed his tired, unhappy face. “Three won't be enough, will it?” He felt a hardness inside, as if his stomach contained stone. “They'll never agree, it's too important. It's a
counter-attack.”

“Yes, but Beattie …” Woolley put his head on one side and examined the name. He took back the chalk and tidied up the double-t. “He hasn't the experience. They both need training. They've only been out here a couple of days.”

“Three days.”

Woolley wrote 3 on the wall and looked at it. “No, no,” he said.

Woodruffe picked out a paper from the bundle of maps and documents. “Corps order,” he said. “Every available pilot flies, irrespective of experience. We're to send up seven machines on the second patrol or give a written explanation why. It's all down here.”

Woolley went over and picked broken glass from a window. “Things seem to have been taken out of my hands,” he said.

“You see, they know that the replacements are here,” the adjutant told him. “They sent them. And this colonel is coming over to make sure they all fly.”

“Then he can bloody well tell them himself!”
Woolley shouted. He seized the remains of a crate of Guinness and hurled it into a corner. A broken bottle emptied black liquid on to the floor, choking on its own foam. He went to the door and looked at the sunshine. “Dear God …” he said quietly. “That wouldn't do any good, though, would it. Better send them over here and let me talk to them.”

Woodruffe went out and then turned back. “What shall I tell Corps?” he asked. There were tears in his eyes.

“Tell them to keep the war going. We'll join in as soon as we can.”

Gabriel was waiting by his SE when Rogers and Killion came out. He watched them trail over to their machines, and on an impulse he hurried across. His long stride, his high shoulders, his bony forehead, his intent expression: Gabriel meant business. “Oh Christ,” Rogers muttered.

Gabriel raised an arm, signaling for their attention. “For it is the day of the Lord's vengeance,” he called, “and the year of recompenses for the controversy of Zion.”

“For Christ's sake get rid of the silly bastard!” Rogers told Killion, but Gabriel's gaze was keen and his voice was firm.

“The sword of the Lord is filled with blood,” he proclaimed. He pointed to the east. “The Lord hath a sacrifice in Bozrah, and a great slaughter in the land of Idumea.”

“Piss off, Gabriel,” Killion said. He gave Rogers a lift-up to help him climb on to the wing, and then boosted him into the cockpit. “Piss off!” he repeated as Gabriel came closer.

“For behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind—”

“Go to hell!” Rogers shouted. “Go and run up your ass!” He coughed painfully, and spat, and the breeze carried some of his spittle on to Gabriel's sleeve.

Gabriel looked down at it, and looked up at Rogers. He was pale, and he frowned fiercely. “Therefore will I number you to the sword!” he shouted. “And ye shall all bow down to the slaughter: because when I called, ye did not answer; when I spake—”

The engine fired as a mechanic swung the propeller; the roar drowned out Gabriel's threats. Killion was already halfway to his own plane. Gabriel stood for a moment in the gusty slip-stream, blinking and glaring, then he turned away. He was close behind Rogers when they took off; uncomfortably close, thought Killion.

“Lovely day,” Woolley said. He stood in the doorway of his ruined billet and snuffled at the sunshine. “You must be … uh … Mackenzie and … uh …” A yawn overtook him.

“Wallace and Cowie, sir. I'm Wallace.” The replacement spoke alertly but respectfully, and tried not to look at the stains on Woolley's breeches.

“Yes. I expect you're right. Had breakfast? Let's take a walk around the field.” They strolled away from the aircraft. Woolley walked lazily, hands in pockets, and blinked at the blue sky. Wallace and Cowie did an uncomfortably slow march and tried not to swing their arms. They covered a hundred yards without speaking. Once, Woolley stopped to
watch a bird. He yawned frequently. Finally Wallace lost patience. “The adjutant says we'll be flying this morning, sir,” he said. “Jolly lucky, that, isn't it?”

“Lucky?” Woolley thought about it, then gave up. “Are either of you married?”

They construed this as a possible obstacle, and said no.

“There's a lot to be said for it, even out here. Maybe
especially
out here. When you think about it, it's obvious really.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A lot to be said for it … Done lots of flying, have you?”

“As much as we could, sir,” Wallace said. “The weather hasn't been awfully good in England lately.”

“No. Still, I expect you're okay on turns.”

“Turns, sir? You mean … banking? We all did banking—”

“No, no. Turns. Tight turns.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Chase-your-tail turns.”

“We haven't actually done those yet, sir,” said Cowie.

“Struth. Well you
should
have. What about … Immelmanns? Rolls? Spins?”

“Not much, sir, I'm afraid,” Wallace said. “Hardly any, really.” He was afraid Woolley might take them off the morning patrol.

“They said we'd get all that when we got to France, sir,” Cowie explained. “We did mainly banking. And takeoffs and landings, of course.”

“But you have to be able to turn,” Woolley said anxiously. “I mean, that's what it's all about, turning.” He rubbed his eyes, and looked at them, searching for improvement.

“I can do the loop, sir,” Cowie said helpfully. Wallace was silent.

“Well, how many hours do you have, anyway?” Woolley asked.

“I have eight, sir, and he has ten,” Wallace said.

Woolley stopped. “Solo?”

“No, sir. All told.”

Woolley turned away and looked at the countryside. The fields lay empty in the easy sunshine.
I could order them to
go, he thought.
I could command them to walk away from this place and never come back. And I could go too.
“And how many hours in SEs?” he asked.

Each waited for the other to speak. “Oh, for God's sake,” Woolley said. He began walking again. “I don't suppose you've done any low-level flying either,” he said. “Or any air-to-air firing. In fact I don't know what in God's bleeding name you're doing here at all.”

“We've fired machine guns in the butts, sir. We can—”

“Listen, listen. Just stay out of trouble. Don't go anywhere
near
a Hun. If anybody even looks at you, fly away. Just get back home, that's all that matters. You shouldn't be in this, understand? It's all a mistake, you're not ready for it.”