The Burning Shore (16 page)

Michael came out on the quarter of a solid black Albatros with scarlet wings on which the black Maltese crosses stood out like gravestones. As he crossed, he laid off his aim for the deflection of their combined tracks and speeds, and fired for the radiator in the junction of the scarlet wings above the German pilot’s head, attempting to cook him alive in boiling coolant liquid.

He saw his bullets hitting exactly where he had aimed, and at the same time noticed the small modification in the Albatros’s wing structure. The Germans had altered the Albatros. They had been forcibly shown the lethal design fault, and they had relocated the radiator. The German ducked from Michael’s field of fire, and Michael pulled up the nose of his machine.

An Albatros had picked on one of Michael’s new chums, sticking on his tail like a vampire, within an ace of the killing line. Michael came out under the Albatros’s belly and reached up to swivel the Lewis gun on its Foster mounting, aiming upwards, so close that the muzzle of the Lewis gun almost touched the bright pink belly of the Albatros.

He fired the full drum of ammunition into the German’s guts, waggling his wings slightly to spray his fire from side to side, and the Albatros reared up on its tail like a harpooned shark, and then fell over its wing and dropped away in its death plunge.

The new chum waved his thanks to Michael, they were almost touching wingtips, and Michael signalled imperiously, Return to base! and then gave him the clenched fist. Imperative! Get out of here, you bloody fool! he shouted uselessly, but his contorted face emphasized the hand signal, and the novice broke off and fled.

Another Albatros came at Michael and he turned out hard, climbing and twisting, firing at fleeting targets, turning, turning for very life. They were outnumbered six or seven to one, and the enemy were all veterans, it showed in the way they flew, quick and agile, and unafraid. To stay and fight was folly. Michael managed to reload the Very pistol, and he fired the green flare of the recall. In these circumstances it was the order to the squadron to break off and run for home with all possible speed.

He came round hard, fired at a pink and blue Albatros, and saw his bullets cut through the cowling of the engine a few inches too low to hit the German’s fuel tank.

Damn! Damn it to hell! he swore, and he and the Albatros turned out in opposite directions and Michael had a clear run for home. He saw his remaining pilots already tearing away, and he put the yellow machine’s nose down and went after them, heading for the ridges and Mort Homme.

He swivelled his head just once more, to make sure that his tail was clear, and at that moment he saw Andrew.

Andrew was a thousand metres out on Michael’s starboard side. He had been separated from the main dogfight, engaged with three of the attacking Albatroses, fighting them single-handed, but he had given them the slip and now he too was running for home like the rest of the British squadron.

Then Michael looked above Andrew and he realized that not all the German Albatroses had come down in that first attacking wave. Six of them had remained up there under the clouds, led by the only Albatros that was painted pure scarlet from tail to nose, and from wingtip to wingtip. They had waited for the dogfight to develop and for stragglers to emerge. They were the second set of jaws to the trap, and Michael knew who piloted the allred Albatros.

The man was a living legend on both sides of the lines, for he had already killed over thirty Allied aircraft. It was the man they called the Red Baron of Germany.

The Allies were countering the legend, trying to smear the invincible image that Baron Manfred Von Richthofen was building, by calling him a coward and a hyena who had built up his score of kills by avoiding combat on equal terms and by singling out novices and stragglers and damaged aircraft before attacking.

Perhaps there was truth to that claim, for there he was, hovering above the battlefield like a scarlet vulture, and there was Andrew, isolated and vulnerable below him, his nearest ally, Michael, 1,000 metres away, and Andrew seemed unaware of this new menace. The scarlet machine dropped from above, the shark-like nose aimed directly at Andrew. The five other hand-picked veteran German fighter pilots followed him down.

Without thought, Michael began the turn that would carry him to Andrew’s assistance, and then his hands and feet, acting without conscious volition, countered the turn and kept the yellow SESa roaring on its shallow dive for the safety of the British lines.

Michael stared over his shoulder and superimposed on the pattern of swirling aircraft was Centaine’s beloved face, the great dark eyes dark with tears, and her words whispered in his head louder than guns and screaming engines, Swear to me you will be there, Michael! With Centaine’s words still ringing in his ears, Michael saw the German attack sweep over Andrew’s solitary aircraft, and once again miraculously Andrew survived that first deadly wave and whirled to face and fight them.

Michael tried to force himself to turn the yellow SE5a, but his hands would not obey, and his feet were paralysed upon the rudder bars. He watched while the German pilots worked the solitary green aircraft the way a pack of a sheepdogs might round up a stray ewe, driving Andrew relentlessly into each other’s crossfire.

He saw Andrew fighting them off with a magnificent display of courage and flying skill, turning into each new attack, and facing it head-on, forcing each antagonist to break away, but always there were others crossing his flanks and quarters, raking him with Spandau fire.

Then Michael saw that Andrew’s guns were silenced.

The drum of his Lewis gun was empty, and he knew that it was a lengthy process to reload it. Clearly the Vickers machine-gun on the cowling had overheated and jammed.

Andrew was standing in the cockpit, hammering at the breech of the weapon with both fists, trying to clear it, and Von Richthofen’s red Albatros dropped into the killing line behind Andrew.

Oh God, no! Michael heard himself whimpering, still . for safety, stricken as much by his own cowardice running as by Andrew’s peril.

Then another miracle happened, for without opening fire the red Albatros turned away slightly, and for an instant flew level with the green SE5a.

Von Richthofen must have seen that Andrew was unarmed, and he had declined to kill a helpless man. As he passed only feet from the cockpit in which Andrew was struggling with the blocked Vickers, he lifted one hand in a laconic salute, homage to a courageous enemy - and then turned away in pursuit of the rest of the fleeing British SE5as.

Thank you, God, Michael croaked.

Von Richthofen’s fight followed him into the turn. No, not all of them followed him. There was a single Albatros that had not broken off the engagement with Andrew. It was a sky-blue machine with its top wing chequered black and white, like a chessboard. It fell into the killing line behind Andrew that Von Richthofen had vacated, and Michael heard the stuttering rush of its Spandau.

Flame burst into full bloom around the silhouette of Andrew’s head and shoulders as his fuel tank exploded.

Fire, the airman’s ultimate dread, enveloped him and Michael saw Andrew lift himself out of the flames like a blackened and scorched insect and throw himself over the side of the cockpit, choosing the swift death of the fall to that of the flames.

The green scarf around Andrew’s throat was on fire, so that he wore a garland of flame until his body accelerated and the flames were snuffed out by the wind. His body turned with his arms and legs spread out in the form of a crucifix, and dwindled swiftly away. Michael lost sight of him before he struck the earth 10,000 feet below.

In the name of all that is holy, couldn’t anyone have let us know that Von Richthofen had moved back into the sector? Michael shouted at the squadron adjutant. Isn’t there any bloody intelligence in this army? Those desk wallahs at Division are responsible for the murder of Andrew and six other men we lost today! That is really unfair, old man, the adjutant murmured, as he puffed on his pipe. You know how this fellow Von Richthofen works. Will-o’-the-wisp, and all that stuff. Von Richthofen had devised the strategy of loading his aircraft on to open goods trucks and shuttling the entire Jagdstaffel up and down the line. Appearing abruptly, with his sixty crack pilots, wherever he was least expected, wracking dreadful execution amongst the unprepared Allied airmen for a few days or a week, and then moving on again.

I telephoned Division as soon as the first of our planes landed and they had only just received the intelligence themselves. They think Von Richthofen and his circus have taken up temporary residence at the old airstrip just south of Douai- A lot of good that does us now, with Andrew dead. As he said it, the enormity of it at last hit Michael, and his hands began to shake. He felt a nerve jumping in his cheek. He had to turn away to the small window of the cottage that the adjutant used as the squadron office.

Behind him the adjutant remained silent, giving Michael time to collect himself.

The old airstrip at Douai- Michael thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them still, and he drove his mind from the memory of Andrew to consider instead the technical aspects -those new gun emplacements, they must have moved up to guard Von Richthofen’s jagdstaffel. Michael, you are commanding the squadron, at least temporarily, until Division confirms or appoints another commander. Michael turned back, hands still in pockets, and nodded, not yet trusting his voice.

You will have to draw up a new duty roster, the adjutant prompted him gently, and Michael shook his head slightly as though to clear it.

We can’t send out less than full squadron strength, he said, not with the circus out there. Which means that we can’t maintain full-time daylight cover over the designated squadron sector. The adjutant nodded in agreement. It was obvious that to send out single flights was suicidal.

What is our operational strength? Michael demanded.

At the moment, eight, four machines were badly shot up. If it goes on like this, it’s going to be a bloody April, I am afraid. All right, Michael nodded. We will scrub the old roster. We can only fly two more sorties today. All eight aircraft. Noon and dusk. Keep the new chums out of it as much as possible. The adjutant was making notes, and as Michael concentrated on his new duties, his hands stopped shaking and that corpse-grey pallor of his face improved. Telephone Division and warn them that we will not be able to cover the sector adequately. Ask them when we can expect to be reinforced. Tell them that an estimated six new batteries have been moved up to-’Michael read the map references off his note-pad -and tell them also that I noticed a design modification on the Albatroses of the circus. He explained the relocation of the engine radiator. Tell them I estimate the boche have sixty of these new Albatros in Von Richthofen’s Jagdstaffel. When you have done all that call me, and we will work out a new roster, but warn the lads there will be a squadron sweep at noon. Now I need a shave and a bath. Mercifully, there was no time during the rest of that day for Michael to dwell on Andrew’s death. He flew both sorties with the depleted squadron, and although the knowledge that the German circus was in the sector worked on all their nerves, the patrols were completely uneventful. They saw not a single enemy machine.

When they landed for the last time in the dusk, Michael took a bottle of rum down to where Mac and his team of mechanics were working by lantern light on the damaged SE5 as and spent an hour with them, giving them encouragement, for they were all anxious and depressed by the day’s losses, particularly the death of Andrew, whom they had all adored and hero-worshipped.

He was a good un. Mac, with black grease to the elbows, looked up from the engine he was working on, and accepted the tin mug of rum that Michael handed him. He was a real good un, the major was. He said it for all of them. Don’t often find one like him, you don’t. Michael trudged back through the orchard; looking up at the sky through the trees, he could see the stars. It would be flying weather again tomorrow, and he was deadly afraid.

I’ve lost it, he whispered. My nerve has gone. I am a coward, and my cowardice killed Andrew. That knowledge had been at the back of his mind all that day, but he had suppressed it. Now, when he faced it squarely, it was like a hunter following a wounded leopard into cover.

He knew it was there, but the actual sight of it as they came face to face turned a man’s belly to water.

A coward, he said aloud, lashing himself with the word, and he remembered Andrew’s smile and the tam o shanter set jauntily on his head.

What cheer, my boy? He could almost hear Andrew’s voice, and then he saw him falling down the sky with the burning green scarf around his throat, and Michael’s hands began to shake again.

A coward, he repeated, and the pain was too much to bear alone and he hurried to the mess, blinded by his guilt so that he missed his footing and stumbled more than once.

The adjutant and the other pilots, some of them still in flying rig, were waiting for Michael. It was the senior officers duty to begin the wake, that was squadron ritual.

On a table in the centre of the mess were seven bottles of Black Label Johnny Walker whisky, one for each of the missing airmen.

When Michael entered the room, everybody stood, not for him, but as a last respect to the missing men.

All right, gentlemen, Michael said. Let us send them on their way. The most junior officer, briefed by the others in his duties, opened a bottle of whisky. The black labels gave the correct funereal touch. He came to Michael and filled his glass, then moved on to the others, in order of seniority. They held the brimming glasses and waited while the adjutant, his briar still clamped in his teeth, seated himself at the ancient piano in the corner of the mess and began to bang out the opening chords of Chopin’s Funeral March. The officers of No.21 Squadron stood to attention and tapped their glasses on table-tops and the bar counter, keeping time with the piano, and one or two of them hummed quietly.