Heart of War (102 page)

Bert gazed at his two visitors through swollen eyelids. His lips and nose were puffed and his face bruised, but none of that hurt as much as his wounded foot.

Wilfred Bentley said, ‘It's a disgrace … bestial treatment. I'll see that this is brought to the attention of the House of Commons. I know two members well.'

‘It won't do no good,' Bert said. ‘I'll just get banged up some more … What's the news?'

Rachel said, ‘Nothing really … but now that Russia's out of the war, and has become a real socialist republic, Mr Russell thinks the allies will realize that they must come to terms with Germany before they – the Germans – can attack in the West next spring. So now's the moment for us to redouble our efforts in the No-Conscription Fellowship.'

Bert said briefly, ‘You're farting against thunder, Rachel.'

No one spoke for a time, then Wilfred Bentley said, ‘I've asked Rachel to marry me. She has said yes.'

‘In a church and all?'

Rachel said, ‘Wilfred insisted, and, well, I don't mind.'

Bentley said, ‘We must be friends, and work together.'

After a while Bert said, ‘All right … can't shake hands here.'

Wilfred said, ‘Thank you, Bert … We'll see that your house is in good order when you come out, all neat and clean and swept and ready for you. Rachel will still be in it, as we're not getting married till the new year.'

John Merritt, wearing long greatcoat, and wool gloves and campaign hat with the red cords of the Field Artillery, stood at the upper deck rail of the liner, looking down on the massed soldiery on the foredeck below. A match flared from among
the other officers standing behind and to each side of him. Officers and men were smoking on the crowded decks still, for the ship was gliding almost noiselessly down Upper New York Bay, past the Statue of Liberty, dim green under a quarter moon, out into the Upper Bay. The beat of the propellers quickened as the ship gathered speed, heading for the Narrows.

‘On our way, at last,' Rudy Anspach said. Rudy was a friend from Harvard days; by chance a fellow student at the School of Fire; their fates, now still more closely intertwined when they were both posted to Battery D of the 137th Regiment, Field Artillery. Five days after they had reported to the regiment, it entrained for Hoboken. On December 24,1917, it sailed for France, with the rest of the division, in six ships.

‘We're on our way,' John repeated after his friend. For him, it would be a return. But this time he'd be seeing France, and the war, with other Americans, as part of his own country's effort, not a spectator, or a guest, of someone else's.

‘Think we'll be thrown straight into action?' Rudy asked.

John said, ‘I doubt it … unless the Germans attack and we have to go in to help … but that's very unlikely in mid-winter.'

‘What'll we do then?'

‘We'll be held in general reserve, training, until we can take over a sector of the line.'

Anspach nodded. John had found that his short spell in France with the regulars of the U.S. 16th Infantry had endowed him, in the eyes of his classmates at Fort Sill, even of the instructors, with what amounted to universal knowledge of trench warfare. His opinion was always asked, and deferred to.

He had thought about advising Captain Hodder, the battery commander, about his need for leave to go and see his wife as soon as they reached Europe; but had decided to say nothing until they were actually there, and settled in. He wished he could be with Stella for Christmas, but here it was Christmas Eve, and he three thousand miles away, at sea, blacked out, wearing a life preserver.

Heroin … it was disloyal of him even to think of the word, let alone the idea that his wife might have been using it … but the word, at least, would not be dismissed for long from his mind, ever since Lieutenant Aquila had mentioned it at Jean Burress's cocktail party. Thank heavens he had never had to
see
her
again … heroin: produced from the juice of unripe seed capsules of the opium poppy,
papaver somniferum –
C21 H23 N 05 – an acetyl derivative of opium – legitimate medical uses for treatment of severe pain, diarrhoea, cough … used to achieve euphoria; as an escape; as a substitute for aggressive and sexual drives; for rebellion … high potential for psychological dependence, tolerance, and physical dependence … long-term effects: constipation, loss of appetite and weight, temporary impotence or sterility; painful and unpleasant withdrawal symptoms …

The ship entered the Narrows, the loom of Staten Island to the right, the low Brooklyn shore to the left, the Sandy Hook lightship flashing ahead. The ship's siren boomed tremendously, three times. On the foredeck the sergeants barked, ‘Out cigarettes, pipes, cigars! Take emergency stations … move your butts there!'

A destroyer appeared out of the night, a white bone in its teeth, no flag flying from its lean black silhouette. John and Anspach parted, each to his emergency station on the boat deck. The men shuffled silently to their places. All doors were closed, above and below decks. The beat of the engines increased to full speed. Sandy Hook light sank into the sea astern, the half moon shone more brightly. John waited, his back to the lifeboat, facing the ranked Enlisted Men, all swaying in unison to the new roll of the ship.

Stella … He remembered the time he had come in late from work and found her drunk. Betty had warned him. Now he had left her for nine months, more lonely than ever
…as an escape
... When this war was over, he'd never leave her again. He'd find a little house. Where? Was he going back to Fairfax, Gottlieb as his father expected him to? It would be hard, after all that he had seen and done, the independence he had enjoyed since 1914 – three years! A little house perhaps, say in Westchester, looking across the great river at his father's house … why, he could have a big mast put in the front lawn, and he and Dad could signal to each other, with naval flags – ‘Come over for dinner tomorrow' … ‘Cocktails being served …' Inside the house – just the two of them, husband and wife… well, a baby or two or three …
temporary sterility
…

He shivered. Captain Hodder came round – ‘Stand down from emergency stations. All ranks below decks by midnight.'

The soldiers dispersed, mostly heading for the foredeck. Someone lit a cigarette, to be greeted by a furious bellow from First Sergeant Jesus Montoya, and a dull thud as of something hard being struck against a body. The cigarette went out.

A voice beside John said, ‘There sinks our innocence, with the Sandy Hook light.'

John recognized the voice and shape of Lieutenant Walden, a strange lank man of about thirty from somewhere in the Middle West.

John said, ‘You think the French girls will corrupt our men?'

‘That, of course,' Walden said, ‘but much more … There's a deep, universal corruption over there that they won't recognize, because it looks like a mediaeval castle, or an '08 Clos Vougeot, or a beguiling countess … beautiful, subtle, full of hidden decay … and it will corrupt them – you and me, too, of course … When America comes back home after this war, it will never be the same again. Over there, it will eat of the fruit of the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Farewell, barefoot boy with cheek of tan!'

He wandered off along the deck. John thought, Walden's a little crazy. But not very: for he himself had already eaten some of that fruit.

The six ships turned in concert, four points to starboard, beginning the irregular zig zag course they would follow all the way to St Nazaire. The destroyers on either bow leaned over to reach new positions farther on the flank: The destroyer astern hunted across the wakes, shuddering and heaving and shaking to the increasing thrust of the waves. Ice began to form on stanchions and bollards and railings, and on the decks. The fast troop convoy raced for France.

Guy Rowland pulled the stick gently back toward his stomach and the Sopwith began to climb, passing through six thousand feet over Ypres, heading east. The remaining aircraft of the flight followed their leader's course, in stepped-up echelon behind and above him. The desolate battlefields of Flanders slid back under the wing. He stole a glance down. During the long Ypres offensive God only knew how often he'd flown over here, when the weather permitted, and sometimes when it hadn't. The shattered ruins of Broodseinde, Passchendaele, Poelcapelle, Nollehoek,
Zonnebeke and a dozen others had grown sickeningly familiar to him, like ulcers in the bloodsoaked mud-stained corpse of the land.

He looked up and round. His job was to search for enemy planes up here, not try to imagine how his father was surviving down there … and he couldn't imagine if he tried, even though he had several times visited the trenches. It was still impossible to imagine the reality.

He waggled his wings and heaved the Camel over in a gentle turn. But she could turn tight and sharp if she had to, and that was what made her a great scout … and a menace to the unwary. The Three Threes' pilots had complained long and loud when their S.E. 5 As were taken away, and it became known that they were to be re-equipped with Sopwith Camels. They wanted Triplanes, instead – steady, manoeuvreable, predictable, easy to fly and a good sturdy fighter in battle. Guy had had his doubts, too, for the Camel came with an ominous reputation, of pilots killed, crashes for no apparent cause – especially on landing – spins when all seemed well – but a few days in the cockpit, and above all a dogfight with von Rackow's Jasta 16, when Guy had shot down two Fokker Dr. I Triplanes in his new Camel, and damaged a third – those had convinced him that the same qualities which made it a tricky plane to fly made it an almost ideal machine for battle – the light touch on the controls, the instant reaction or even over-reaction, its nervous, darting mannerisms in flight. These qualities had saved his life, when one of von Rackow's pilots had got on his tail while he was shooting down his second victim. He had only escaped by a climbing turn that stood the Camel on its tail, whence it slid down tail first two hundred feet, apparently out of control, before he eased it into a gentle spin, and a moment later, started climbing back to the fight …

A speck caught his eye … four, five specks … seven. ‘Tally ho!' he shouted, knowing that no one could hear him, and waggled his wings and pointed his gloved hand. The flight closed up tight and he pulled the stick back farther, forcing the Camel into a straining climb.

It wasn't von Rackow's Jasta this time … no Triplanes, though 16 had had them since October. These were Albatros D V As, biplanes.

The seven dots grew fast. Guy continued flying straight at
them with his four Camels. Attack, attack, General Trenchard insisted; we are masters of the sky and must remain so, at all costs.

The leading German opened fire first, at very long range. Guy relaxed his lips in relief. He always liked to tackle pilots who opened fire when out of effective range. The Albatroses were painted in black and white checkerboard fashion, each with different coloured wheels – red, yellow, blue, one with concentric circles. They were coming on in arrowhead, stepped-up. Guy picked the machine in the middle and flew straight at it. Two seconds later the German dived down to avoid collision. Guy did not dive after him, for that would have given the next German a beautiful target; but swung slightly and as he passed through the German formation, put a burst into the machine that had been next to the leader, on his right. It turned away, and Guy fired on another … clouds rolled up and they all disappeared into them … a minute, flying straight ahead, watching the instruments, thick wet wind, moisture pearling and running across the windshield … out into the winter air, cold, cold, his hands cold inside the big gloves … an Albatros, alone, dead ahead, going away. A sitting duck. He closed up, throttle wide and opened fire from a hundred feet. The biplane burst into an enormous orange ball of flame, momentarily singeing the skin of his face, and fell away, a few shreds and wires rattling against Guy's plane as they were hurled in all directions by the explosion.

He circled carefully … cloud enfolded him again … bump, heave, lurch … damp, rain … colder, ice forming … out … two of his Camels in sight, one vanished. No Albatroses. One of the other pilots pointed down and Guy saw, faint in the east, four black and white biplanes heading east, racing low above the ground … they must have got three. He looked at the numbers on the remaining aircraft of his flight … damn, Bunny Fuller was missing. He was a good pilot and a good sport. Perhaps he was all right … had had to go home or make a crash landing. He might have had to come down behind the German lines. The R.F.C. lost a lot of pilots that way because of Trenchard's insistence that the fight must be carried to the enemy. Trenchard had been posted to London, but his spirit still imbued the R.F.C. Have to wait and see. Twenty minutes' petrol left. He turned toward base, and the other two followed.

One of the Fokker pilots had been wearing something like a lady's silk stocking tied to his helmet. Florinda had given Guy one of her stockings after their night together, and he had thought of wearing it on his helmet, but decided against it. The fellows would want to know whose stocking it was, and there'd be nudges and good-natured jokes and innuendoes, not very subtle. He'd … By God, he'd end a flaming wreck if he allowed his mind to wander. Sulphuric Sugden's stern face came before him, and his harsh emphatic voice – ‘A Scout pilot's life depends on
continual
all-round look-out, even when on the way home, plus concentration.'

He wiped his mind blank of everything except the sky above, below, to both sides – and what was in it.

The base came up. He picked out the huts in the foggy morning air down there and lined up by the windsock. If you were wise you landed a Camel with the same sort of intense concentration with which you attacked a Fokker Triplane.