Chapter Forty-Two
A gorgeous day
'Twas a gorgeous fine day, as we cruised at 20,000 feet, heading east.
A brief scuffle with a squadron of the enemy. Light bombers, on their way to Arras to stem the tide. A hopeless task. They tried, and they died. They didn’t know they were beaten. They just didn’t get it.
A few got away. Several jettisoned their load of bombs, scurrying like cockroaches before our guns.
One for me, two for you.
Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Look at them little fuckers go.
A couple of the Biffs have had a rough time of it, as they re-formed, and the whole squadron began to turn left, in a 180-degree turn for home. The Camels above them turned in the opposite direction, tight as can be, maintaining their relative position.
They were covering our butts. Good job. The Camel Jock in the sun.
We turned left, along with the Angels. There are only eight, where were the others?
We turned in the other direction, and quickly the entire group was going west. At that point I was cheered to see a pair of SE’s coming up from behind. My heart was thudding from the heady wine of adrenaline, shock, trauma and triumph. My mind was busy trying to count smoke columns on the shaggy green carpet that was the land below us.
Who’s still missing? Just then, one of the strangest, most unusual, and bizarre, I can’t even come up with enough hyperbole, to describe what happened next. It was a strange sight.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I bellowed into the nothingness of blue sky as he passed over me, less than thirty yards from my head.
It was a plane, upside down, slowly rolling, rolling right. There was a man beside the plane.
Oh, God no.
He was hanging on to something. German? One of ours. Oh, my God, I thought, now I have to watch one of my boys die. My heart almost shot out of my mouth. A twitch caused by sheer nervous shock, almost caused a snap-roll.
That was a selfish thought, but the man, one of my guys, he was kicking, and turning, and kicking, and one arm kept shooting out to try to find something. I was following him down by now, just an instantaneous reaction. I had no idea where my winger was.
Probably gave him a nasty scare.
The man’s legs kicked up, and then the plane rolled a little more upright, even as it dove ground-wards. Closer now, he was holding onto the butt of the Lewis.
The plane rolled upright, as he bounced off the wing, clutching, clutching, the bloody plane flipped over again. I thought he was gone, but still he hung on.
The Lewis…his other hand grabbed the gun’s mounting rail. I had no idea who it was. I was almost afraid, in fact I didn’t even think to look at the plane’s number, but they were right there in front of me.
It’s Snotty. Oh, Jesus Christ. One more kick. One foot vaguely grabbed with toe and instep at the cockpit’s rim. The foot slipped off. The backdrop of blue sky and white clouds skittered by, around and around some more, and we were climbing again.
“Come on Snotty.” I yelled at his back and now I was probably fifty yards away.
To get much closer would be to endanger my own aircraft, possibly him as well.
The last thing I wanted was for Snotty to fly through my prop, and so I hovered off to the left. His next kick missed. Snotty’s legs were flailing, his body bucking left and right in the slipstream.
Try again, please, Snotty. Nothing but blue sky…two dark blobs, one big, one small.
Snotty tried again. All the while he was spinning, and flipping, and gyrating, and I was sure his fucking hands, his wrists, couldn’t take much more of this. He tried again, and suddenly he had a toe.
Snotty has a toe. With a start, I remembered to check the altimeter.
There were several Camels buzzing around, the Biffs were coming up…
We were at about 11,800 feet, or thereabouts, and now Snotty had one toe in.
Suddenly another foot caught the rim, and in a jiffy too quick to believe, Snotty was in the plane. The plane leveled out pretty sharply, and I throttled back and tried to stay with him.
Snotty’s white-rimmed, terrified eyes looked directly into mine from less than twenty yards.
He pointed to the west.
I nodded, vigorously, trying to catch my own breath, which I badly needed.
We just stayed at that level, and flew a nice, straight and level course for home. I saw Snotty working in the cockpit, trying to do up his safety straps.
A brief moment of what could only be considered hysteria. It was a good thing as CO that no one else saw or heard it. It took a moment to shake that one off. I won’t repeat what I said. It’s too dirty…it’s too long.
“Oh, my God. Well, that will teach him.” Was about all I could say that’s printable.
It was among the worst nervous shocks I have ever encountered. In the shortest possible time, I might add in qualification, without being wounded or almost killed myself.
The funny thing was, I had seen good friends die before.
But on that day it dawned on me that fate, luck, chance, fortune, whatever, plays a mighty strong role in what happens to a man.
Missing…who else was missing?
Nothing but blue sky do I see. The rest of the formation coming along behind us…aborted the patrol on their own initiative. Finally we were all back together again. The last fifteen minutes were so oddly peaceful. Even the ground-fire was quite benign. A few dozen lazy black puffs and then, it too was over.
A gorgeous, fine day.
‘Twas indeed a good day to die.
We just got lucky.
***
As luck would have it, we were just de-briefing Snotty in the quiet of my private office, which seemed to be the least I could do, when a motorcycle-sidecar combination sputtered to a halt outside.
“Who the hell is that?” Groaned Howard-Smythe, his curiosity tickled by the men’s excited jabber.
He went to the door, and then came back.
“We have yet another visitor.” He grunted, then went out.
Snotty sat there in our one really good stolen armchair. His knees were still knocking, his hands shook, and he just stared at the rug, a drink untouched beside him.
“Take a deep breath and relax, son.” I told him with a big, happy grin. “I’ll bet your arm hurts.”
Let him take his time, as I glanced through some papers.
Finally he drained the glass in one big gulp, after knocking it around on his front teeth and lips first. He swallowed, and came up for air. Murmuring could be heard in the outer room, but it wasn’t my problem. Not yet.
“Are you going to be all right, Snotty?” I chuckled.
I poured him another good shot of rum, about the only thing the Navy does well.
They know what rum is, and what it’s good for.
Suddenly his shoulders slumped.
“I really fucked up there, didn’t I boss?” He sighed.
“You did great.” I said firmly.
“At some point there were a couple of Boche planes following me.” He said. “Any idea what happened to them?”
“Probably died laughing.” I murmured.
At first he was stunned, perhaps, by the callousness of that remark. Then he smiled.
Ruefully.
“Howard-Smythe will put it in the book. Two ‘probables,’ as it were.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so.” And it appeared that his shaking had settled down some.
He snorted the second drink in one gulp, and so I poured him another.
“What were you thinking up there, Snotty?” I asked gently.
“I don’t know, sir. That was the longest two or three minutes of my life.” He added, in a ponderous kind of profundity.
Snotty was having a hard time talking. I practically had to pull the words out of him. It was like each word was dragged out on the end of a string. Two or three minutes. Holy fuck.
He sipped at the rum, and I could see that he was very, very tired, and so I read a few more papers.
Finally he asked, “Can I go now, sir?”
“No. Snotty, you are always the last one to show up for a briefing. Your shoes are always untied. You forgot to check the oil last week and burned up an engine.”
“Yes, sir.” The poor guy could barely be heard.
“You could really use a shave and a haircut once in a while.” I added while the going was good. “You lost your map, you lose your goggles every fuckin’ day, at least once.”
“Yes, sir.”
What else could the poor little guy say?
“There are no accidents, Snotty. Things are caused to happen.” And then I dismissed him, making sure to give him a pat on the back as he went out.
“I want you to fly again tomorrow, and then I’ll send you and a few other boys on leave.” I said kindly. “You’ve earned it, after all.”
“Yes, sir.” He replied, cheered up only a little at this news.
One subdued individual, our Snotty.
As I went into the larger, outer office area, Howard-Smythe was beckoning. A rather diminutive Asian man in a Guards uniform stood stiffly at his side, preparing to give, or was it receive? A salute.
I glanced at the papers, an envelope with a big official seal on it.
Shit. I sensed trouble.
Of course, trouble is my business.
“This is Prince Sakahaji.” Said my aide-de-camp, in a formal tone that indicated he wasn’t kidding.
“Ding hao.” I said, and bowed low at the waist.
“That means, ‘very good,’ Howard-Smythe.” I intoned majestically.
Patting myself on the sternum with my right palm, I told the man, ‘Ko-dali,’ which as I’m sure the reader will remember means, ‘the tall one,’ in Mongolian.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He responded in a cultured Cambridge accent, with the surly Rugby School sulkiness that always comes across so well in the nobility.
I’ve never heard a future head-of-state drawl so well.
“Will’s a great kidder.” Gasped Howard-Smythe, who seemed a bit flabbergasted by our new problem, oops, I mean, ‘guest.’
“Well, that makes two, ‘Sacks,’ around here.” I told Howard-Smythe, who paled and wilted just a little.
“Please don’t feel like a gaijin. You are an honored guest when you are among us.” I told the Prince, holding my hands in a formal prayer-like position with finger tips touching.
“That means outsider.” I told Howard-Smythe. “You Englishmen probably aren’t capable of understanding the whole sempai-kohai relationship between a fatherly older man and the eager young apprentice.”
“I brought a bottle of rather excellent Dom Perignon, ’05.” Smiled the Prince. “It’s not exactly rot-gut, but it will have to do.”
His eyes took in the bottles of rum visible as Howard-Smythe rummaged in a drawer for some suitable booze holders. We weren’t all that squeamish, but the man was a freakin’ prince after all.
The Prince wasn’t such a bad guy, once we got to know him.
Soon we were sipping our champagne and swapping bullshit. Turns out he was a qualified pilot, with experience. A half-dozen flights, in twin-engine bombers, and a few flights in a combat zone. He flew in the back end of a two-seater reconnaissance craft several times.
I’m not sure why he was even doing it. Perhaps some mistaken idea that a king or whatever should be some kind of warrior-god. He was, in fact, a demi-god in his own home town, which must have been a rough way to grow up. The man was a frickin’ divinity.
It takes work, commitment, and focus to become a pilot. He had that much going for him. Even I could see that. Why not put the arrogant little shit to work?
“It would be a great honor if you would be gracious enough to fly with us.” I suggested.
Of course he wants to fly with us. We’re the best. His people will love him for it.
Sakahaji smiled and bowed ever so humbly.
“We name all our planes, by the way.” Said Howard-Smythe, filling in the brief conversational gap.
“Yes, I noticed some of the artwork.” Said the Prince, eyes alight with an inner fire.
“We could name a plane for you.” I added. “Fly a couple of missions with us, and we’ll give you the plane as a gift in honor of the people of your great and ancient land.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, really.” The Prince protested.
Bullshit. Bullshit. It’s why he’s here after all.
“If I might suggest, ‘hayabusa,’ that’s peregrine falcon.” I told Howard-Smythe. “Or perhaps something more poetic, such as, ‘hana-saku, hana-saku.’”
“That sounds very nice.” The Prince agreed.
“What does that mean?” Asked Howard-Smythe, perturbed by my cunning linguistic abilities.
“Flowers abloom, flowers abloom.” I translated. “We could give him Kowalski, as gunner, or better yet, Saul.”
Howard-Smythe’s eyebrows rose at that one.
Plince Sakahaji. An Arregory of death.
It was an allegory of death. The bright red flowers that bloom when men die. The bright red flowers that bloom when men are torn apart by shells, and bullets, and missiles.
The Prince, I could tell he liked it, as we raised our glasses in toast.
“Et muratori re salute,” the Prince intoned dramatically, in his deep and cultured voice.
His Latin wasn’t that good, but he had an amazing voice. Surprisingly deep and sonorous for such a small man.
We who are about to die salute you.
Nice touch.
***
We were very drunk. But then, the future always looks rosier out of the bottom of a glass.
Soon the musical instruments came out. There was a bunch of us in the big briefing tent. Bernie, or, ‘Hell-curees,’ as he was really called, according to the Prince, dragged out his violin. He scraped away mournfully at it in the corner. Poor old Sakahaji had a banjo-like thingy and he plucked away in a bluegrass-with-an-oriental-twist fashion. He was finger-picking, and rubbing the strings with a little metal pocket knife, in some kind of contrapuntal mode.
Sherlock Holmes played the violin, ‘rather badly, according to that Watson guy,’ and Bernie wanted to be, ‘les detectif.’ That was his ambition in life. Well, you have to have a goal, right? Model yourself after someone successful, right?
I heard that somewhere.
Would that work with a fictional character?
“I used to play in a band.” I told the gathering, as Kowalski was tuning up his clarinet.
“Oh, really?” Kowalski asked, no doubt impressed. “What instrument do you play?”
“The triangle,” I said innocently enough, and the whole damned crowd burst out in laughter.
“I did.” I insisted, unaware of what all the fuss was about. “It was in Miss Pribble’s class, in a little one-room schoolhouse. Back in Enniskillen Township.”
They all rocked in hysterical laughter.
“I remember waiting and waiting, as the piece was being played, and every so often holding up two fingers and the teacher just ignored me.”
The were holding their sides in pain.
“I had to crap something fierce.” I noted for their benefit.
They were stomping their feet now, out of control.
Doubled up on the floor, in the case of Kowalski.
“In any case, finally it was my time, and I rang the fucking triangle, and then bolted for the door.”
I went running full-tilt out to the outhouse behind the school, holding my ass with both hands.
“Was it a little red shithouse?” They all yelled.
Somebody has to let me in on that effing joke, as I felt the first tint of anger in my cheeks.
“Yeah, with a little red schoolhouse out front.” I bellowed, a little louder now.
How much have I had to drink? Probably enough, I reckoned, but I’m not taking their shit. I’m the fuckin’ CO around here.
Attempting to be serious, Kowalski asked, “What grade were you in?” But choked up and burst out in an apoplectic paroxysm of further merriment.
They all did.
“Bastards.” I told them. “I was in grade five…and I was good…”
I told them but they just kept on laughing. Even the Prince, who wasn’t such a bad guy, once you got to know him.
“We got an, ‘A,’ for it.” I insisted, and they all broke up again.
Hell, you should have been there.
***
A couple of planes roared overhead, circling for a little height after a night-time takeoff. A spoon rattled softly in the lamplight.
“I can’t let you fly at night.” I told the Prince. “Let me see you fly, and then we’ll go from there.”
He nodded, intent on some peculiar passage of Bernie’s, ‘Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor,’ or something like that.
“Bernie’s got a German bomber, stashed at St. Omer.” Offered Howard-Smythe.
Who, luckily for him, was stone-deaf, or about thirty percent of normal hearing.
“Perhaps you might like to have a look at it?” He added.
Sakahaji nodded sage-like and owl-wise and just kept on scratching and picking away.
And I think that’s where the beginnings of an idea began to tickle my subconscious.
Something cold on the back of my neck. I swear to God there’s oxygen seeping into this room from somewhere. Looking around, craning my neck, and there by the door was a figure, standing beside some big suitcases.He opened up his mouth and Russian poured out.
“Yuck shia-mush.” He said with an impish grin, pulling off a pair of gloves even though it was getting on for early summer.
Rocking a little on the two back legs of my chair, startled recognition dawned.
I had my feet up on the desk, to ease the strain some. It’s one of my favorite positions.
Then came a stream of other languages, for example, ‘Com’ es state,’ that’s Italian for, ‘what do you got to say?’ and, ‘Besa me dupa,’ which I think means ‘kiss my ass,’ in Hungarian.
“Bert.” I yelled, then my chair went over backwards, with my arms and legs all akimbo.
***
Bert was an old acquaintance.
Once I got over the indignity of going ass over tea-kettle, we got the man a drink and made introductions. Bert was something of a world traveler. Quite frankly, poor old Bert has caused a bit of a problem for historians. He flew for both the Bulgarians and the Serbs in the First Balkan War. Then he went on to fly for the Turks against the Brits, before the U.S. entered the war in 1917. Bert was an American citizen. He flew with the Greeks, and something called, ‘Smyert Spionam,’ a ‘nascent underground movement of worker-council members and their affiliates, seeking peaceful democratic change.’
No one quite knew what to do with Bert after he joined the French Armee de le Air.
Out of sight, out of mind. At least he was on our side now, right?
It was quite bizarre, to take him in. He wore a Bulgarian colonel’s jacket, tall fur kepi, rows and rows of medals, from about seven different and even mutually-hostile countries, yet he wore hob-nailed boots, and grey gabardine trousers. With stripes.
One couldn’t help but note Bernie’s twinkling green eyes studying the man. Yes, I wondered what the Belgian, known far and wide, and even on the next block for his sartorial splendor, would make of this.
“Are you seeking employment, Monsieur Hall?” He asked conspiratorially.
Bernie must have had a pretty good buzz on, but he wasn’t slurring too badly.
Bert just shrugged.
“I’m always open to offers.” He said, and tipped up a short glass of schnapps, having brought his own.
The thoughtful type, Bert was something of a loner, and no one quite knew what to make of him. A mercenary, he knew everyone by name. He had many acquaintances, in surprising places, in all walks of life, and at all levels of society. Poor old Bert had no true friends.
“What brings you up this way, Mr. Hall?” Asked Corporal Whittington, who was supervising a bit of a clean-up operation.
Some of the boys were bringing in food, and steaming urns of coffee. The mess crew were unobtrusively clearing up bottles, emptying ash trays, and when they could squeeze in amongst the officers, taking a swipe at the table with wet rags.
Whittington was only paying half attention to his own question, prodding his minions to greater and hopefully quicker, efforts.
“I was in the neighborhood.” Bert murmured in a calm, cool, collected and neutral tone.
I played cards with Bert once or twice. He’s a lot easier to beat than he thinks he is, but oddly enough the man can fly pretty well.
“You have twin-engine experience?” I asked Bert.
His eyes lit up, then he got it under control and regained that heavy-lidded, dozy look.
“Yeah. Sure.” He assured us.
“We’re always looking for pilots, Bert.” I acknowledged.
Bert was in the Lafayette Escadrille, he was in the Escadrille Americain, which preceded it, yet if he caused problems for historians, he also caused a few other problems, and diplomatic headaches, along the way. Armies, governments, countries, all would like to speak with Mr. Bert Hall.
If they could only get their hands on him.
Bert couldn’t turn down a drink, nor could he neglect the opportunity to make a pass at a pretty girl. And he liked bombing and strafing things as well, especially when his pay-cheque was late. Bert Hall would make a pass at the Pope’s daughter, if he had one, as someone once said. So we had one or two things in common.
Plying him with drink, we soon talked Bert into joining us for, ‘a few test flights.’ It took less than three minutes.
 |
| Apple pie. |
We munched on our snack. The boys in the cookhouse had a few left-over turkey pies, and they whipped up a dozen clubhouse sandwiches, with bacon, lettuce, tomato, ‘et cetera.’ I like mine toasted, with a little mayonnaise. The food was beginning to absorb and dull the alcohol, a lot of alcohol, in my belly.
Bert packed away a club-house and a turkey pie. I waved him over to the sideboard for a second fill-up, which I was doing myself.
“I’ve been meaning to try the apple pie.” I noted.
END
I can also play the #triangle
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