“You can have the bodies, sir, if you like,” the lancecorporal said. “I suppose.”
They lay about twenty yards away, side by side, half hidden in the grass, twisted and shrunken and blackened by the fire. Both faces had gone; only black smears remained. An arm was raised as if to shield the eyes of one body from the sun, but there were no eyes. By some fluke, the right foot of the other man had survived, white and intact. Perhaps the boot came off when the bodies were dragged clear. Paxton tapped the toes. “That’s funny,” he said. “His foot’s the wrong way round. See? It’s back-to-front.”
“You find that funny, do you?” the lieutenant said.
Paxton wasn’t listening. He had noticed a button on what had once been a chest. Perhaps a regimental button. He tried to work it clear with his stick, but succeeded only in making a deep scrape. “Blast,” he said. His nostrils twitched, and he sniffed. “I say…” He swallowed, and sniffed again. “I say, isn’t that…?”
“Mustard, or horseradish sauce?” the lieutenant said.
Paxton stared, and then roared with laughter. The lieutenant sighed and looked at the lance-corporal, who had the brains to look at a distant observation balloon.
“I want a picture of this,” Paxton said. “There’s a camera in the car. You can keep the guns, I’ll take these gunners!” He smiled broadly and triumphantly.
The lieutenant said nothing until they reached the car. “I can walk from here,” he said. “You fellows really enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you? I suppose it’s the only way you can do your peculiar job. Thank God I’m just a gunner.” He didn’t wait for an answer.
Paxton found the camera and walked back to the wreck. The lance-corporal took two pictures of him standing beside the bodies, one smiling, one serious. On the way back to the car he saw something purple lying in a little hollow. It turned out to be the tail unit. He collected the rudder, which had crosses on each side. It rounded off a very successful day.
Milne returned to Pepriac at about six o’clock. A car was waiting for his passenger. All the other guests had long since gone, including Colonel Bliss. Most of the pilots and observers were sitting outside the mess, drinking gin-and-tonics or – if they were due to go on patrol – tonics without gin.
Milne waved to them and went to his quarters. Captain Dando left the drinkers and caught up with him as he was opening the door. “You can come in but you’re not going to examine me,” Milne said.
“Suits me,” Dando said. “I wouldn’t find anything new anyway.” He was about thirty, small, with a smooth, white face, and a rounded jaw, and neat, strong lips. “How was Brighton?” he asked.
Milne stretched out on his bed. He was still in his flying kit. “I had a damn good cry,” he said. “Can you believe that? They were refuelling the plane and I went and sat under a tree. Oak. Enormous. I looked at it and I thought of all the people who’ve come and gone while that tree was growing, and hey presto – I got the weeps. Sergeant saw me, came over, thought I was drunk. Very embarrassing. For him, I mean. I couldn’t give a damn.”
“Perfectly natural,” Dando said.
Milne turned his head and looked at him. “I expect you’re accustomed to this sort of thing.”
“It’s happened before. I don’t think you ever get accustomed to it.”
Milne watched him for a long time. Dando rarely blinked. “The funny thing is,” Milne said,”I sometimes have a great desire to go and blow a general’s head off. One of ours, not theirs. Isn’t that strange?”
“Well,” Dando said thoughtfully,”it’s certainly a sign of life.” Milne laughed at that, and Dando joined in. Milne laughed until he exhausted himself. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “Dear oh dear oh dear.”
“Sorry,” Dando murmured. “Not meant as a joke.”
“Write it down. Tell Bob Bliss. He thinks I’m a bad boy.”
“He’s going to have to know the truth soon.” Dando took a seat “I didn’t tell him anything yesterday, because our tests aren’t always completely accurate and anyway I wanted to see you before—”
“Very kind of you,” Milne said harshly. “Just spare me the medical niceties, they’re wasted… Oh, bugger,” he barked. “I’m starting to bloody well cry again.” He found a handkerchief and spread it over his eyes. “My manners are going to hell, aren’t they? I should be ashamed… There was nothing wrong with your tests, old chap. They hit the bullseye. I’ve known for a month it wasn’t dyspepsia. Such a rotten coward. Didn’t want to do anything.”
“There’s not a lot that can be done,” Dando said.
After a while Milne took the handkerchief away. “What a lovely evening.” He got off the bed and went to the window. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a marvellous evening. God must be getting good at it. Makes no sense, does it?”
“Nobody ever promised that anything would make sense,” Dando remarked gently.
Milne sat on the bed and blew his nose. “I shan’t lead the patrol this evening. Tim Piggott can do it. Would you tell him for me?” Dando nodded. He waited to see if Milne had anything more to say. Then he left.
‘A’ Flight took off about half an hour later. Milne, still sitting on the bed, heard the engines fade to nothing. He went out and found Alice. He rode the mule at a slow walk to the far end of the airfield. There was nothing to do there, so he did nothing.
The sky was slowly gathering its strength for another grand finale of a sunset. Milne had always seen the sky as his workshop: sometimes dirty and full of rubbish, sometimes clean and full of flying. The weather came from the west and the Huns from the east. Now, for the first time, he took delight in its colours and shapes: the clouds were dazzlingly white, the blue was inhumanly pure and deep. With a bit of imagination, the blue became ocean and the clouds were islands that drifted…
Alice looked around. The padre was bicycling towards them.
“I saw you out here all alone, old chap,” he said. “I wondered if you planned to come and have some dinner.”
Milne shook his head.
The padre dismounted. “You know me, Rufus,” he said. “A bad ball hit for six beats the best sermon ever preached.” He fed Alice a sugar lump. “Nonetheless, when a chap’s spirit is troubled… Well, there’s a trick I’ve learned that’s worth a try.” He handed Milne a Bible. “Open it anywhere you like and let your finger fall, and just see what verse you get.”
Milne did this. “Numbers, Chapter 21, verse 9,” he said.”‘And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived’.” He returned the book, still open.
“Stuff and nonsense,” the padre said. “I don’t believe it for a moment. Do you?” He studied the page, and grunted. “According to verse 6 the real serpents wouldn’t even have been there if God hadn’t sent them to bite the people. I must confess that there are times when it strikes me that the Almighty throws his weight about a sight too freely.” He tore out the page and screwed it up.
“Bad luck,” Milne said.
“Worse things happen at sea. Anything I can do for you?”
Milne combed the mule’s mane with his fingers, teasing out the tangles and the burrs. He smoothed its ears until the animal had had enough and shook its head. The padre got onto his bicycle and waited. “There is one thing,” Milne said. “You could tell them to start up my machine. And tell them to put ballast in the front cockpit.”
“Ballast? Ballast.” The padre pedalled away. “Ballast, ballast, ballast,” he repeated, the words growing fainter each time.