“Then there were two,” Milne said.
“After lunch on Monday we took off and I honestly thought we’d be here by teatime, sir, and we would have been, definitely, if Dexter’s propeller hadn’t bust. It just went all to pieces. He was jolly lucky to get down at Treizennes, sir, but of course they only fly DH2s there so they had to send back to St. Omer for a spare. We got off again at six o’clock, sir, and the next thing that hit us was fog. Really awful, thick, clammy stuff, sir. My compass was worse than useless – it kept whizzing around like mad – and we flew above the fog as long as possible, but eventually we had to come down into it, and then of course we lost each other. I made a forced landing in a field and bent the undercarriage. Miles from anywhere. Slept in a barn. Next morning – that was Tuesday, yesterday -I walked for hours until I found a village. They phoned the nearest ‘drome, which was Beauvois. A tender came out and collected me and together we found the BE2c. They patched up the undercarriage and put in some petrol and I managed to take off and get to Beauvois. Then they mended it properly. That’s where I heard about poor old Dexter. Hit a church. Then today I set off once more, sir. They told me to keep Amiens cathedral on my right and I couldn’t miss Pepriac but… I don’t know… Anyway, here I am. I’m sorry about the other four, sir, and I’m really frightfully sorry I’m so late, because I know how frightfully keen you are to get your hands on these Quirks.”
The fly had come back in. Milne stood up and waved his hat at it, meaning no harm.
“Let’s go and take a look at what you’ve brought us, anyway,” he said.
They strolled across the grass towards the hangars. It was mid-afternoon, and skylarks sang as if in celebration of the sunlight and the giant blue sky.
“All of ‘A’ Flight are away on leave this week,” Milne said.”‘B’ Flight are up on patrol at the moment, and ‘C’ Flight have gone swimming. Nice to have a bit of peace and quiet, isn’t it? Damned traffic never stops, of course.”
Paxton saw the tops of vehicles moving on the other side of a distant fence and heard the grumble of engines. “Are we getting ready for a Push, sir?”
Milne smiled. “I expect so,” he said. “We usually are.”
The flat tyre had been replaced. The damaged tailplane had been restored to shape, and the canvas patches were getting a final coat of dope. Paxton was amazed by the speed of the repair, and said so. “They’ve probably done it before,” Milne said. “That stuff should dry quickly in this weather. Tell you what: when it’s ready, why don’t you take off and spend a couple of hours getting to know the landmarks around here. Arras is more or less north-east of us. Pick up the main road that runs south-west from Arras and follow it to Doullens, then pick up the road south to Amiens. After Amiens go north-east towards Albert, then cut back north to Pepriac. You can’t miss it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Faxton. He had been expecting a hot bath and a change of clothes.
“And while you’re up,” Milne said lazily,”after you’ve gone round the houses a couple of times, you might as well finish off with… what shall we say… six practice landings? And let’s see you do the last one from… oh… three thousand feet with a dead engine. Suit you?”
“Yes sir,” said Paxton. The day was very warm and he desperately wanted to scratch his armpits and his crotch, but he dared not. “I don’t suppose there’s the chance of a cup of tea before I go, sir?”
“Listen to those birds!” Milne said, and strolled away.
“Bugger the birds,” said a fitter when the CO was out of earshot,”begging your pardon, sir. Let’s have a listen to this engine.”
They listened, and the fitter wrinkled his nose. All the plugs had to be changed. While that was being done, someone took a blowtorch and a dixie behind the hangar and made a quick brew-up. They gave Paxton a pint of sweet, milky tea. He drank it with such obvious enjoyment that they gave him a refill. The Quirk sounded much healthier with new plugs. He flung the dregs of his tea onto the grass and clambered into the cockpit.
‘A’ Flight came back as Paxton took off. Milne heard the fading buzz of the Quirk being absorbed by the deepening drone of four Beardmore engines. He opened his office window, perched his backside on the sill, and watched the tiny pattern of dots grow into a neat diamond formation. The FEs were no more than a hundred feet up as they passed. Milne knew the flight leader was watching him, so he raised an arm, and got half a wave of a gloved hand in return. That meant: quiet patrol; nothing doing. He watched the flight curl away and lose formation. FEs in the air reminded him of dragonflies. Not from the way they moved, which was hardworking rather than brilliant, rather like a London taxi; but from the way they were put together. Just like a dragonfly, everything important was clustered at the front, the machine was all wings and nose, with a few long bare poles reaching back to keep the tail in place. Milne closed one eye and half shut the other. He ignored the pusher propeller spinning behind the wings and the tricycle wheels hanging down and the Lewis gun poking up and the struts and the wires and the British markings, and all he saw was a khaki blur in the sky. But when he opened his eyes it still reminded him of a dragonfly.
The grub is Okay specially if you like bully beef but what I wouldn’t give for a pint of mild at the Dukes Head as the froggeys got no idea how to make beer and the vin blong gives me wind something chronic.
You wont never guess who I met last week Bert Dixon what a surprise! His mob just come out the Trenches he says half got trenchfoot and they all got lice big as your finger! Bert says to me Ted you got a nice cushy number you stay out them trenches Ted they are murder which I am sure is correct, Bert should know. Bert says any time a plane comes near they all fire at it they never waits to see is it a Hun or not they all fire nobody better tell our major!
“Have no fear,” murmured Corporal Lacey. He was a slim young man in well-tailored khaki. He had an auburn moustache, full and heavy, which made half his face look bigger and stronger than it was. He dipped a small camelhair brush into a pot of india ink and painted out almost all the second half of the page, starting with the line His mob just come out the Trenches… He gave the jet black shape neat, rounded corners and straight sides, so that it formed a deep frame surrounding the only words he had not obliterated. These were: which I am sure is correct.”And who dares deny it?” Corporal Lacey said. He put the page in a patch of sunlight to dry.
He was alone in the orderly room. A kettle was simmering on a Primus stove, and a gramophone was playing a record of string quartets. The music had a harsh, driving urgency. Lacey’s eyes widened as the quartet cut the theme into pieces and flung them together again, the same only different. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “Stand no nonsense.” The door opened and Captain Piggott came in. Lacey stood up. “Did you have a good patrol, sir?” he asked.
“Dud. No Hun, no fun.” Piggott was red-haired and restless. He noticed the gramophone and went over to it. “Is the adjutant in?” His head twisted as he tried to read the spinning label.
“Captain Appleyard is not back from Contay yet, sir.”
“Contay? What the devil’s he doing in Contay? That’s Kite Balloons, isn’t it?” Piggott abandoned the label. “What’s this bloody awful music, Lacey?”
“Dvoř ák, sir.”
“Sounds foul. What is it, German?”
“Bohemian.”
“Just as bad.” Piggott found a typewriter with paper in it and began poking the keys. “They’re all Huns, over there. When’s the adj going to be back? I want to play some cricket.”