Derek Robinson - War Story

But he never forgot. And now this young soldier, no bigger than Dick had been, touched the same chord. “How old are you?” Paxton asked.

“Seventeen, sir. I think I’ve got it.” He did something to some wires. “Your electricals was all loose, sir.”

“Ah. I had a small crash, you see.”

The soldier started the bike, revved the engine, let it stop.

“Splendid!” Paxton said. “You’re a genius. Jolly good stuff.” He stood up. “What’s your name?”

“Watkins, sir. Private Watkins.”

“Jolly good.” The more Paxton looked at him, the more he remembered Dick. He very much wanted this man to smile, the way Dick had smiled. “Aren’t you awfully young, to be in the… whatever it is you’re in?”

“Bradford Pals, sir. There’s younger than me.” Still no smile.

“Bradford Pals? That’s one of those battalions full of chaps from the same place, isn’t it? I met one the other day, in the Highland Light Infantry. Glasgow Tramways, they call themselves. I couldn’t understand a word they said.” Paxton chuckled. Still no smile. “It must be great fun, being with your pals.”

“The whole street joined up, so I joined up too. Didn’t know what I was doing. Just followed the others. Didn’t want to be left on my own.”

“Good man.” Paxton straddled the bike. “I expect you’re looking forward to the Big Push, aren’t you?”

“No, sir.”

“No? Why not?”

The answer unrolled like dirty puttees. “Fucking trenches, fucking lousy food, fucking sergeant hates my fucking guts, fucking fritz is going to blow me to fucking bits.” He picked up his rifle and helmet. “Sir.”

Paxton was shocked. Watkins clearly meant what he said. Briefly, Watkins was in command: he spoke from authority, greater authority than Paxton had. “Perhaps I see things differently,” Paxton said,”but believe me, from upstairs it’s pretty obvious that the Hun is on the run, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Just when he least expected it, Watkins smiled. “I wish I could fly,” he said. “I’d give anything to be able to fly.”

“Would you? Well, come and see me, and I’ll give you a flip in my plane.” Paxton started the bike. “I’m at Pepriac,” he shouted. “Lieutenant Paxton.” It was a reward for Watkins’ smile. Watkins would never be able to claim the reward, but it’s the thought that counts. He roared off, zigzagging until he got the hang of the lopsided handlebars.

It was like trying to sneak up on a guard dog. At a certain point the dog began to snarl. Get closer and it barked. Push your luck and you’d probably get bitten. Back off and the dog would shut up. But it was always watching.

Frank Foster in one FE and James Yeo in another had crossed the Lines to see how near they could get to an observation balloon before the dogs barked and bit. Only one balloon was flying that day, opposite the southerly end of the British sector, near the river Somme. The wind had probably grounded the others. It was strong and gusty. Even from a distance Foster could see the basket swinging as the balloon wallowed. What was worse, the gusts sometimes forced the balloon sharply down, making the cable go limp; then as the wind eased, the balloon leaped again. The observers must have had strong stomachs and their observations must have been urgently needed.

At first the two FEs had pretended to bypass the balloon, as if they were flying from north to south on some other business and the prevailing westerly wind just happened to push them near to it. It was a poor excuse and nobody believed it. A few ranging shots came and went, high and low, looking as harmless as tufts of black wool. Within twenty seconds the German batteries had adjusted for height. A string of shells burst in quick succession, starting wide and racing in for the kill. The last missed by less than fifty yards. Foster heard their gruff barks. The closest was as loud as his engine. Maybe its blast shook the plane, maybe the wind gusted. He dropped a wing and turned away. Yeo left by a different route, just to divide the targets.

For the next half-hour they tested the defences. Nothing made any difference. Come too close and you got shot at.

Yeo loathed archie. The FE gave him a lovely view of the world but no protection in front. Other planes had a big heavy engine in front, something to hide behind when the shell splinters came fizzing through the air. Nothing to hide behind in the FE, not even your observer, who was sitting in the stalls while you were in the balcony. It wasn’t the risk of death that upset Yeo. Where would the Army be without death? Like roulette without chips. You had to have something to lose, otherwise what’s the point? Nothing wrong with killing people in war. That was the only way to win medals, and Yeo accepted pain and mutilation and blindness and all the other unpleasantnesses as unavoidable side-effects of the process. But what he loathed and resented about archie was its stinking ugliness. It was worse than being attacked with a filthy bayonet by a chap who needed a bath. It was squalid. It was unmilitary. He despised the Hun for having dirty archie. British archie was white, or at least off-white.

Foster waggled his wings and pointed upwards. Yeo looked up and saw, very high, a formation of aircraft, at least six. How odd. He had never seen more than four planes together over the Lines before. Six was a crowd. It was like seeing six bishops or six Red Indian chiefs: you wondered what on earth they were up to. His observer put down his binoculars and shouted: “French.” Yeo nodded. “Nieuports,” the observer shouted. So that was all right. Clever little plane, the Nieuport. Came to pieces in a long dive, sometimes, but that was because the frogs were too cheap to tie it up with really strong string.

Foster gave a signal and the FEs separated again. There was one final test to be made: they would approach the balloon from opposite sides at the same time and see how the archie liked that. Then home for tea.

It took three or four minutes to get into position. When Yeo saw Foster’s FE lined up with the balloon he opened his throttle to the full, and turned. The six-cylinder Beardmore vibrated like a threshing machine and everything Yeo saw was blurred. Bloody awful engine , he thought. Why don’t they give us decent engines? He began worrying, in a remote, detached sort of way, what would happen if a piston snapped or a crankshaft broke, here and now. Collapse of stout party. Prisoner-of-war camp. He’d forgotten to bring his shaving kit, too. Parents would get a War Office telegram, Missing, believed killed. Hullo, hullo! Where was the German archie? Surely he must be within range by now. This was odd. He throttled back to cut the vibration and something hit him an almighty blow in the back, a huge thump that flung his body forward and jerked his head back. He crashed into the joystick and made the plane dive. His head slammed against the instrument panel, shattering glass and turning his face into a red ruin. Not that it mattered. Yeo was dead.

The observer did his utmost to reach him and shove him off the joystick. The FE was diving almost vertically, its wires screaming, its engine working hard to help it on its way. The observer was young, strong and fit, but it was like trying to climb up a cliff face and lift a rock that weighs as much as you do. The wires screamed, and in the end the observer screamed with them not from fear but from rage and frustration. He never knew what killed Yeo, and he was facing the wrong way to watch the ground come hurtling up to kill him.

“D’you know,” Paxton said,”that’s the fourth swimming pool I’ve seen being dug in the last week.” He aimed his mug of tea at a gang of Chinese labourers working a few hundred yards away. “Good show, isn’t it?”