Griffin was squatting beneath the wing of a Nine, trying to see why an armourer was having so much trouble with the bomb-release mechanism, when he became aware that a couple of mechanics were suddenly standing at attention, and he straightened up too quickly and banged his head and lost his cap.
“Colonel Kenny, sir,” the adjutant said. Griffin grabbed the cap; an R.A.F. officer couldn’t salute bareheaded; besides, he was the C.O., for Christ’s sake. The man he saluted was a giant. Griffin was looking at the ribbon of Britain’s supreme award for valour. This was worse than being in the presence of royalty.
“We should have been flying twenty minutes ago, sir,” he said. That sounded apologetic. It pained him more than the bang on the head. “Problems with bombs. Too many duds.”
“I know how you feel. We had the same trouble with grenades on the Somme. Infuriating, isn’t it?” Kenny’s massive hand squeezed his shoulder. “Never mind, old chap. Soldier on.” It was meant to sound comforting. Griffin didn’t want to be bloody comforted. He wanted to get on with his blasted job. He had to say something. He grunted.
“I’m doing a tour of the battlefields,” Kenny said. “Mission H.Q. sent me. While I’m here I give a little talk, tell your chaps how this show fits into the Grand Strategy. These are bombers, are they?”
“Yes, colonel. These are bombers. Those are fighters. And that rabble over there are pilots and observers.” Sarcasm leaked into Griffin’s voice. Nothing was going right. Hangover. Unfit pilots. Unready bombers. Now this interfering hulk of a hero.
Kenny laughed. He seemed easily amused. “D’you know, I’ve never been up in a machine. Could I fit in a, what d’you call it, a cockpit?” He stepped onto the wing root of the Nine. “Ah, the faithful Lewis gun. Jolly reliable weapon, the Lewis…” He paused, and cocked his head to listen. “Are those more of your chaps returning?”
“You’re too big, sir. You won’t fit.” Resentment simmered inside Griffin. His R.A.F. competence was being challenged by a colonel in a kilt. “Please get off that aeroplane and let these men work on it.”
“Somebody’s definitely coming.” Kenny searched the sky, trying to locate the sound. “Hear them?”
Griffin heard. “Not ours. Not Pumas, not Le Rhônes…” He suddenly realized the stupidity of his words, and turned and ran towards the air crews. Some had heard, and were standing. “Take off, take off!” he shouted. “Reds! Reds! Start up all machines! Get in the air!” Everyone ran. Ground crew sprinted. Pilots, heavy in flying kit, lumbered. Kenny got down from the Nine and joined Brazier. “By Harry, this is a stroke of luck,” he said. “Never expected to be in the thick of the action so soon.”
“There’s a dugout nearby, sir.”
“No fear. Front-row seat for me.”
The noise became a roar and ten Red fighters in a ragged line abreast flew over the hangars, fifty feet up, low enough for Kenny to see a pilot’s face when he looked down. They passed overhead before they had time to attack. A few were two-seaters. As they went out of range, their gunners squirted brief bursts. The bullets made clods of grass jump like frogs. The line kept going.
“Not interested in us,” Brazier said. “They’re after the White squadron over there.”
“Golly,” Kenny said. “Sitting ducks.”
All around, mechanics were trying to start engines. The procedure could not be hurried. Rush it and the engine would choke on fuel. Griffin and Hackett had ground crews who rushed nothing. They got it right and the Camels taxied fast and the tails came up and they were flying. Wragge’s machine was moving, but slowly. Dextry followed. Jessop and Maynard made clouds of black exhaust and went nowhere. One bomber began to taxi. The other three coughed as their propellers kicked and stopped, and ground crews cursed and pilots sat and waited.
“I suppose those are Reds, too,” Kenny said. A thousand feet up, a neat arrowhead of three twin-engined aircraft had appeared.
“Big brutes, aren’t they?” Brazier said. “Probably got big bombs, too.”
Griffin’s Camel was still cranking up its airspeed — seventy, eighty miles an hour. It wasn’t a fighting speed. He turned away from the enemy and climbed. Height gave advantage.
Hackett was behind him and below. He counted the Red fighters. Two Spads, two Nieuports, maybe a Fokker, and the rest were strangers. As he watched, the Reds dropped to twenty feet and stretched their line and hit the White squadron with a blaze of fire that was speckled with tracer. It was perfectly timed, lasted three seconds and then up and away. Hot stuff, Hackett thought. Some of the White DH9s had collapsed, others were burning. He looked down. Now Wragge and Dextry were in the air, and the other two Camels were finally moving. Give them a couple of minutes; the odds would be ten to six. Bloody sight better than ten to two. When he looked, the C.O. had gone.
Hackett wasn’t altogether surprised. Once you reached five or six hundred feet, the immense sky could quickly swallow a little fighter like a fly in a ballroom. He searched above him until he was defeated by the glare of the sun. He searched to right and left and saw nothing among the pink images turning green. He tipped the Camel on its side and scanned below. Nothing.
By then Griffin was far behind him, and heading flat-out for the Red fighters.
They were at five hundred feet, cruising lazily while the three Red bombers made their runs over the smoking wrecks of the White squadron. Griffin saw the bombs tumble out, just specks, too small to do much damage but their explosions sent a blast wave that made his Camel shudder. “Damned cheek!” he said. “You think you can just wander in here and…” Then he was amongst the enemy fighters, working rudder bar and stick as he hunted for a target.
Even in loose formation, the ten Reds made a swirling cloud. An all-brown Spad loomed up and soared away just as he thumbed the gun-triggers. Other guns were firing: bullet holes made a slick row of tatters in his lower left wing and he chucked everything into a right-hand bank, the Camel’s best escape, made a vertical turn on a sixpence, and he was rewarded when a chequerboard two-seater wandered into his sights and all he had to do was fire and his twin Vickers battered the cockpit. The pilot threw up his arms. “No surrender!” Griffin shouted. That was his last word on the subject. Crossfire from a second two-seater smashed his propeller. Now he was easy meat. A Spad’s guns shot him in the back. A burst from a Nieuport tore into his petrol tank. The Camel ignited, blew apart, trailed long sheets of flame on its brief journey to the ground.
Kenny was watching through binoculars. “Damn,” he said. “That doesn’t look good.”
“It never does, sir,” Brazier said.
By now the rest of the Camels, and all but one of the Nines, were in the air. The crew of the broken Nine got out and walked away. Mechanics had removed the cowling and were looking at the engine.
“What next?” Kenny asked.
“It’s what’s called a tactical withdrawal, sir.” The Nines and the Camels had grouped and were droning to the west, away from the enemy. “We’re outnumbered. If we do battle, we might lose all our bombers. Let’s hope the enemy don’t give chase. Low on fuel, perhaps.”
“Perhaps. But they’re coming this way.” It was true: the line of Red fighters was recrossing the aerodrome, dropping low as it came. Now they were in line astern.
“Dugout!” Brazier snapped, and ran.