'Fair enough,' Cundall said, mildly. 'Courtney, pick an observer and take the Harry Tate.'
The pilot - a Tasmanian, Winthrop had learned - groaned. The RE8 was not a popular kite. They were called 'flapping ducks', close relatives of the sitting variety.
'I'll fly the tip of the formation. Don't fret so, Courtney. I'll baby you through.'
Courtney theatrically clutched his heart. For his part, Winthrop was pleased the flight commander was choosing the men for this patrol rather than delegating the task.
'Since we had such little fortune with the As last time,' Cundall said, cruelly, 'we'll put the Bs in the air this show. Bigglesworth, Ball, Brown, you're up. And, to add a little alphabetical variety, let us, by all means, have a Williamson to balance things out.'
The pilots began climbing into their Sidcots and hauling on fleece-lined boots. Albert Ball, bent the wrong way in several places, wriggled into flying kit by unorthodox but efficient means. Roy Brown, the sour little Canadian, drank from a pitcher of milk and cow's blood.
'Tummy trouble,' Ginger explained. 'Brown's soothing his ulcer.'
Brown looked pained but kept drinking. Winthrop understood how a man in this line of work could nurture an ulcer.
'I say,' Courtney said, 'my usual dance partner in the Harry Tate is Curtiss Stryker and he's off sick. Ate someone who disagreed with him, I fear.'
Allard looked grim, expecting to be volunteered. Instead, Cundall turned to Winthrop, smiling evilly.
'Winthrop, my precious prince, have you ever fired a Lewis gun in anger?'
'I know which end to hold.'
'That'll do you.' He thumbed towards the ceiling. 'Ever been up?'
'I've been given a lift across the Channel a couple of times. I've even held the stick and not plunged to earth.'
'A veteran,' Courtney snorted.
'Topping,' Cundall said, 'you won't puke or anything. Care to come along on this jaunt? After all, it is Diogenes' show. Not mandatory, or anything. Just thought you might like the trip. The scenery is terribly picturesque at sunset.'
'I'd love to come,' Winthrop said, evenly. He was not entitled to be afraid.
'Good man,' said Cundall. 'Ginger, find our friend some kit, would you? He's a warm one, so we'd best keep him that way.'
Whatever the patrol was like, it could not be as bad as hanging around waiting for it to come back. If it came back. He had the impulse to jot a few lines. He pulled out his pocketbook and a stub of pencil.
Last will and testament?' Courtney asked.
No, just notes. Gathering intelligence is a matter of making notes."
'Whatever you say, old son. I always cheer myself up thinking of people I owe money to. If I go west, plenty will be mightily browned off.'
Winthrop thought hard, and wrote 'Dear Cat, if you get this, I've run into serious bother. Don't let it knock you too much. Love you desperately. Edwin.'
It was feeble but it would have to do. He begged an envelope from Algy Lissie and gummed the letter in. It was a duty done.
Ginger returned with full flying kit. Winthrop did not ask who had last worn it. Like a discreet valet, the vampire helped him dress. First, he was required to empty his pockets of documents which might interest the Boche if he were captured. A couple of enigmatic despatches from the Diogenes Club went into a shoebox. He chose to keep his matches, cigarette case and a picture of Catriona.
'Pretty girl,' Ginger commented. 'Swanny neck.'
Winthrop shivered a little and signed a form pasted to the top of the box. 'I swear on my honour that I do not have on my person or on my machine any letters or papers of use to the enemy.'
Over his khaki shirt and trousers, Winthrop put on two ragged wool pullovers and a pair of Arctic pyjama bottoms. Then he clambered into his Sidcot, a loose gaberdine one-piece lined with lamb's wool. Paying careful attention, Ginger practically mummified Winthrop's head: applying first a silk scarf to the neck, then a liberal smearing of cold whale oil to the cheeks and forehead, a thick balaclava helmet, a non-absorbent Nuchwang dogskin face mask and, finally, triplex goggles tinted for night-flying. The outfit was completed by thigh-high boots and muskrat gauntlets. With everything buckled together, Winthrop was completely swaddled, a rotund snowman, his arms stuck out and he waddled rather than walked.
'It's getting hottish in here,' he said.
'It'll get cold sharpish up there,' Ginger said. 'Now put your cross on this.'
Ginger presented an FS20 for signature. Winthrop glanced at the form as he scribbled his name. After a list of the gear issued to him, it stated These are property of the public. Losses due to the exigencies of campaign must be certified by the officer commanding.'
'Grand,' Ginger said. 'Now, if you go down in flames, the RFC will dun your widow and orphans for the cost of your underwear.'
'I'm not married,' Winthrop said, thinking of Catriona.
'That's probably for the best.'
'Good old bloody old Harry Tate,' Courtney said, patting the side of the RE8. The two-seater spotter was supposed to be sheepish in the air, which was why Cundall was putting up five Sop with Snipe fighters as guard dogs.
Winthrop gave Dravot his letter and told him to forward it to the addressee if anything untoward happened. The sergeant nodded, understanding, and did not try to tell him he was certain everything would be all right.
Courtney helped Winthrop climb into the rear cockpit. It was not easy to slip his clothes-expanded bulk past the ring-mounted Lewis. Once he was in the wicker seat, the handles of the machine-gun stuck uncomfortably into his chest.
The pilot hauled himself up and hung on the machine's side, peering into Winthrop's cockpit. He showed him how to fasten the Sutton safety harness: four straps for shoulders and thighs, fixed together with a central pin held by a spring clip. If struck just right, the whole thing came apart allowing swift escape. Not that there was anywhere safe to go at 6,500 feet.
'A tip, old thing, if you see anything flitting past with a Maltese cross on its planes, fire about fifty yards in front of it. If you point at its side, it'll be gone by the time the bullets get there.'
'What if it's coming straight at me?' Winthrop asked.
Then empty your drum into its nose and pray. Because there'll be a Hun behind a pair of Spandaus with exactly the same idea.'
'Where's the camera lever?'
Courtney tapped a toggle.
'I'll tell you when I'm taking pictures so you can steady the aeroplane.'
'You can tell me what you like but I doubt I'll hear a thing. It's noisy up there.'
He remembered his Channel flights. Even on a still day, the rush of wind was a roar. And even in mid-summer, the thermometer quickly fell below freezing. Recalling the stabs of colicky abdominal pain that had made a howling misery of his first flight, he summoned a mighty burp. At height, intestinal gases swelled to double their volume on the ground. Courtney did not pass comment on the big belch, but looked a fraction less worried about Winthrop.
'How's our new ace?' Cundall asked. The flight commander, helmet in hand, was looking over the RE8.
'He'll be the Hawker of 1918.'
The pilot was ragging him. In November 1916, Major Lanoe Hawker, VC, DSO, was Britain's highest-scoring pilot. Shot down and killed by Manfred von Richthofen, he was the Red Baron's eleventh victory.
'Just look after him, Courtney.'
'Not a hair on his head will be harmed. This I pledge on the honour of Cundall's Condors.'
'I'm a lost cause then.'
Winthrop no more truly felt brittle bravado than Courtney. It was how pilots were supposed to act, so they all did their best.
Courtney ducked under the wing and dropped into the forward cockpit, jostling the stick. The movable feast of Winthrop's Lewis was augmented by the pilot's fixed Vickers.