Derek Robinson - War Story

“Jimmy couldn’t think ahead. You get a Hun diving at you. Say he’s in front and a bit to the right. Coming down at two o’clock, say. No good aiming straight at him is it?”

“No. You’ve got to aim at where he’s going to be in the time it takes the bullets to reach him. He’s diving, so you aim ahead of him.”

O’Neill waited for more, and shook his head. “We’re dead,” he said.

Paxton stared. He could see that Hun; he could hear the hammering Lewis, follow the streaming tracer. “Aim a bit to his left, of course. To allow for our own speed. I mean, that’s bound to push the bullets to the right.”

“We’re still dead.”

Paxton finished brushing his hair. “Maybe the gun jammed,” he said lightly, and wished he hadn’t.

“He’s high, we’re low, you’re firing uphill. What about gravity?”

“Oh yes. Bullet-drop. Aim high to allow for bullet-drop. I took that for granted.” He picked up his cap and twirled it on his finger. “Coming to lunch?”

O’Neill didn’t move. “It only takes one bullet, you know,” he said. “You won’t even know it hit you.”

“True.” Paxton’s voice sounded thin. “Very true,” he said more confidently.

“You want a steady gun-platform. I can do it. I can fly straight and level. That’s perfect for you. It’s also perfect for the Hun. You miss him, and he’ll definitely kill us.”

Paxton cleared his throat. He could think of nothing to say.

“Now that Ross has gone, Gus Mayo’s the best gunner in the squadron,” O’Neill said. “For Christ’s sake go and talk to him”

“Right,” Paxton said.

Next day Frank Foster and Gus Mayo saw a trail of smoke at six thousand feet. It was being made by a Fokker monoplane with terrible engine trouble. The Fokker tried to dive to safety when it saw them but its wings got the shakes and it had to pull out. Foster cruised underneath it and Mayo shot it down. “You wouldn’t believe so much smoke could come out of such a little plane,” Mayo told Brazier. It was no great triumph. Certainly no cause for serving Hornet’s Sting.

Dando was awoken at three in the morning by the howling of an animal. It rose and fell with a regularity that would have been musical but for the desperation behind it.

Rain was drifting, making a soft, fine mist. Dando put on his boots and tunic and took an umbrella and a flashlight. He traced the sound to Captain Foster’s tent where the dog Brutus was making an unhappy noise. But the howling was coming from Foster, who was having a nightmare. His face glistened like wet marble, and his eyelids flickered non-stop.

Dando shook him awake and the howling died in a gasp of terror. Foster’s eyes were as clear and empty as a child’s. Dando kept talking, repeating their names, making reassuring noises while he lit a hurricane lamp. Foster’s head was drenched and his pyjamas were soaked. “I’m coming back,” Dando said. “Don’t get up.”

He roused Foster’s batman. They got Foster out of bed, stripped off the drenched pyjamas and towelled him dry. All the time he stood, shoulders slumped and knees wavering, with his mouth open and his eyes half-shut, and said nothing. Dando got fresh pyjamas on him while the batman changed his bedding. He was asleep before they got him into bed. Dando checked his pulse: it was bumping along like a cart on a stony lane. The batman had found half a bottle of rum. They each had a tot, and Dando gave Brutus a mouthful in a saucer for good luck.

At breakfast it was obvious to Dando that Foster remembered nothing of the night; he was good-humoured and seemed refreshed. Dando found an opportunity to tell Cleve-Cutler. “So what, old boy?” the CO said. “Half the squadron has nightmares. I have nightmares. Don’t you have nightmares?”

“No, sir.”

“Something wrong with you, then. Sometimes I wake up in the small hours and this camp sounds like Christians versus Lions. All quite normal.”

However, at lunchtime Foster bought Dando a drink and took him aside. “Was it you made Brutus squiffy?” he asked.

“Guilty.”

“Don’t do it again, old boy. You probably don’t know this, but there have been attempts to poison the poor hound.” Foster looked squarely into Dando’s eyes.

“Why would anyone do that?”

“I’m surprised you find it necessary to ask.”

“Well, I’m a newcomer here, remember.”

Foster took a long look around the room. It was noisy and cheerful as it filled up for lunch. “You can tell them this from me. If they want to kill Brutus they’ll have to kill me first.”

Dando signalled for more drinks. “Do you have any particular person in mind?” he asked.

“Second-lieutenant Paxton,” Foster said.“I’ve been watching him. He enjoys killing. Well, I’ll enjoy killing him. I say, Paxton!” he called, and beckoned.

“I honestly don’t believe he means you any harm,” Dando said.

“Look here, Paxton,” Foster said, amiably,“you’ve got a reputation as something of a ladykiller. What?”

“Oh, not half. Why?”

“Somebody killed my girl in London. She cut her throat. Wondered if it was you.”

“Not me, old chap.”

“On your honour?” Now that it was obvious that Foster was mocking him, Paxton’s only reply was an uncomfortable smile. “No honour, you see. Paxton doesn’t really belong in this squadron,” Foster told Dando. “He’s a common tradesman. A merchant of death to home and industry.” And he winked. Dando noted the brittle glitter in his eyes, and wondered how much of it was drink.

In another part of the room, Gerrish was telling Tim Piggott: “I worked out where Jumbo’s idea went wrong. He was going to use the balloon crew as his shield while they parachuted down. But he was more or less directly above the balloon when he was shooting at it, so I reckon his bullets went straight through it and killed the crew in the basket, so they never had a chance to parachute. See?”

“Maybe there never was a crew,” Piggott said. “Maybe the basket was empty.”

“A decoy? Bit expensive, isn’t it?”

“Dunno. Look what they got: one FE, Jumbo, his observer. Or maybe it was just a test flight. Testing the balloon.”

Gerrish kicked a chair. “The old man said it was a lousy idea.”

“Got your replacements yet?”

“Arrived this morning. Pilot’s thirteen, observer’s twelve. Shout loudly and they burst into tears.”

Somewhere a dam had burst. It was a huge dam, stuffed with thunder, and in its rush to escape, the thunder rolled over itself and made a double thunder, and then the double thunder exploded with a roar, and the roar swelled until the air was swamped with noise. Fifteen miles away, lying on O’Neill’s bed, Paxton thought the hut would collapse under the weight of noise. A pane of glass fell from a trembling window and shattered. He rolled off the bed just as O’Neill came in. “You’ve been signing my name on your mess chits, you prick,” O’Neill said, pitching his voice to penetrate the roar.

“Well, you’ve been signing mine on yours, you turd. What the hell is that?”

“Guns. They go bang. Didn’t you know?” He began rummaging in Paxton’s trunk. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much starch put in your shirts… Is this my bottle of rum?”

“I expect so.” Paxton was in the doorway, looking to the east. He expected to see a distant sign of such a colossal roar, but there was nothing. A few panicking pigeons clattered overhead. “Is this the Big Push?”

“Christ knows. Is this my toothbrush?”

“I expect so.”

“Jesus… Can’t you get your own?”

“I did. You took it. How long will this last?”