Derek Robinson - War Story

Fidler came in with mugs of tea at 4 a.m. and got cursed for his stupidity. “Don’t blame me, sir,” he told O’Neill,”blame Mr. Haig. He’s decided to have a battle.”

‘A’ Flight ate boiled eggs for breakfast and took off at twenty to five. The dawn came up, glowing with goodwill to all men, and German archie spattered the sky like slum kids throwing mud at someone’s washing. The four FEs separated and went looking for troop movements behind the German lines, as briefed, but there was thick mist everywhere. Away to the east, enemy planes could be seen rising from their airfields like hatching flies. ‘A’ Flight landed at ten to six, with little to report to Brazier. “Our guns are still hammering away fifteen to the dozen,” Paxton said. “But of course you can hear that.”

He was hungry for real breakfast: eggs and bacon, fried tomatoes and devilled kidneys, toast and Cooper’s Oxford marmalade. The mess was full, including a couple of new faces. Private Collins poured coffee for Paxton and O’Neill. They clinked mugs in a toast. “Fuck you,” O’Neill said. “And fuck you too,” Paxton said. The newcomers stared.

Cleve-Cutler was scribbling with chalk on a blackboard, consulting bits of paper, changing, adding. At length he dragged the easel around so that everyone could see the board. The buzz of conversation got knocked on the head. Chair-legs scraped as men turned to look.

“The balloon goes up in an hour,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Seven-thirty prompt. Umpteen officers will blow umpteen whistles and over the top will go the poor bloody infantry. Now I’ve written here a very large figure given to me in strict confidence by a very drunken gunner. One million, five hundred thousand. That, he assured me, is the total number of shells fired at the Hun Front Line during the past week. Can a drunken gunner be trusted? Of course not. He was guessing. But a drunken gunner’s guess is as good as anyone’s and my guess is he’s not far out. That means that each area of the German Front Line approximately the size of Paxton’s tennis courts has received about twenty shells. And who knows? Several may have exploded. So much for my simple arithmetic. Next…”

The steady thunder of the barrage expanded to a degree of savagery that was far greater than anything they had heard before. “My goodness,” Cleve-Cutler said. He had to pitch his voice to cut through the noise. “You see what happens when you poke fun at the artillery. No sense of humour at all.”

Everyone laughed. It was time for a joke. Might as well laugh now while you still could.

“I’ve made some changes,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Frank O’Neill is the new flight commander. He takes over ‘C’ Flight.”

Paxton stared at O’Neill. “Jesus Christ,” he said before he could stop himself.

“No, I couldn’t get him,” Cleve-Cutler said. “He hasn’t won his wings yet.” More laughter. “And I’ve reshuffled a few people, as you can see.” He went through the changes, ticking them on the board, until he suddenly stopped. The next names were Goss/Stubbs. ”How did they get there?” He wet a finger and rubbed them out. “Nothing personal, Dougie,” he muttered.

After the briefing there were ten minutes to spare before the squadron began taking off at seven. The sun was starting to melt the mist. It would be a hot day. ‘C’ Flight gathered outside the pilots’ hut.

“I suppose you’ll be twice as bloody obnoxious now,” Paxton said.

“Stand to attention when you snivel at me,” O’Neill said. “I like to watch the drool running down your chest.”

Ogilvy belched, resonantly. “That’s better,” he said. “I really shouldn’t have had those tomatoes, they’re death to my tubes.”

“I knew a chap at Cambridge who swallowed tomatoes whole,” Essex said. “Party trick. He said they did him good.”

“Did they?”

“Dunno. He copped it at Mons.”

“Everyone copped it at Mons,” Ogilvy said. “That’s where I learned to run backwards. Very educational show, Mons was.”

“Today’s going to be different,” Paxton stated. “Today’s going to be a walkover.”

“Today’s going to be a balls-up,” O’Neill said.

“Piss off, Bunny.”

“Today’s going to be a balls-up, because every battle is a balls-up. The generals always cock everything up, and they’ll cock this up today. You watch.”

“Bet you.”

“How much?”

“Fiver.”

“Done.” They shook hands.

The mist was still thick enough to hide the flash of the guns when ‘C’ Flight crossed the Lines, but its surface was disturbed by the thousands of shellbursts beneath it. It reminded Paxton of a time when he had seen a big shoal of fish create ripples in the sea. Must remember that , he thought. Judy will be interested in that. The enemy balloons were up already. Seemed pretty pointless, in all this mist, but Master Fritz knew best. In fact Paxton found it hard to believe that anything special was about to happen down below, it all looked so bland. Then, to the north, there was a massive flash that printed itself on his eyes. A hill of earth climbed through the mist, and kept climbing until it was as high as the aeroplane, and higher. The first mine had been exploded. Cleve-Cutler had told them to expect large mines to go off under the German trenches, and to keep clear of those spots. Paxton had expected a big bang but this was volcanic in its violence. When its noise reached them it was a clang as if the sky had split and its halves had collided. It tossed the FE on its ear. The column of earth seemed to hang, indifferent to gravity. And it was only the first mine: eight more followed. Paxton was enormously impressed. Nobody could have survived that.

‘C’ Flight’s orders were to go trench-strafing in support of the attack, but the mist would have to clear first. O’Neill hung about until the archie became a pest. It was curious how they could see him up here when he couldn’t see them down there. He changed height and course, and flew near some British Nieuports having a scrap with some Fokkers. It was none of his business until a Nieuport dropped out, looking unhappy: one wing down, dirty smoke pumping from the exhausts. It was heading west at no great speed and being overhauled by one of the Fokkers.

O’Neill flew an interception course and arrived in time to make a nuisance of himself. Paxton fired a drum at long range, the Fokker got distracted, the Nieuport limped across the Lines. O’Neill was ready to leave it at that but the Fokker was determined to fight someone. It wanted to make a flank attack while O’Neill preferred a head-on attack, so they had a head-on attack. Paxton welcomed it. The Lewis clattered cheerfully, the enemy blossomed in his sights, tracer drifted towards the Hun as if it were being hauled in by hand. The enemy tracer flicked harmlessly past, as it always did. Someone stuck a red-hot poker through his right arm, ripped his hand off the Lewis and flung him back in his seat. Then the sun went in.

It came out again, but the sky was not blue. It was a milky white. O’Neill’s fixed Lewis was banging away. The Fokker was twisting and dodging. Paxton reached out to grab his own Lewis and discovered a right hand and arm covered in blood. There was so much blood he couldn’t work the trigger. There was so much blood, the slipstream blew it along his sleeve. The funny thing was, his arm didn’t hurt. He used his other arm to feel it. That hurt. Oh Christ, did that hurt! The sun went in again. Night fell early.

The really funny thing, the thing Paxton tried to tell everyone at the Casualty Clearing Station, was the way getting shot in the arm turned other people deaf. It was really very funny. He could clearly remember O’Neill and someone else lifting him out of the cockpit and O’Neill asking something, or at least his mouth kept opening and shutting but no sounds came out. Same with Dando, when Paxton was lying on a stretcher. Much mouth-action, no sound. Which meant they had all gone deaf, and that was very funny, you must agree. Paxton tried to tell everyone. Some smiled, some didn’t. They were all deaf, too. In the end he gave up. It was awfully tiring, talking to deaf people. He fell asleep.