Chapter Nineteen
Chronicles of the Damned
They say fate rides on the shoulders of untested kids. Shit, they got that right.
I stood looking out over the room. I had, counting heads amongst the hubbub and babble of conversation…
“I hope you gentlemen are ready to fly today.” I greeted them.
Eleven pilots, and I had asked for three squadrons. One fellow in particular didn’t hear me, although the others all shut up. The group stood there with an air of hushed expectancy.
“Luckily we have enough planes to go around.” I began. “We’re here to develop formation tactics, both offensive and defensive, in order to create a higher level of training and to increase the life expectancy of our people…”
The bugger kept chatting and so did I. Annoyed looks from the other students failed to get through to him.
“I requested three instructors at a minimum. Instead all of you have soloed, and you all have a few hours in the air. Several of you will become my instructors.” There was a collective gasp.
“We will also learn single tactics, escort tactics, and aircraft recognition…”
Except for that one fellow, with his back turned, patiently explaining something to another fellow, who was aware of the situation, but chose not to interrupt. The chap who was still reluctantly listening, both to me and the idiot, had a funny look on his face as he caught my stare. The old, ‘not my fault, skipper,’ look.
Looking the bugger straight in the eye, I remarked, “I would appreciate it if you would pay attention. This is for your benefit.”
The talkative one spun around, face flushed with color, hopping on one foot.
He was quiet now. His erstwhile listener had kicked him in the shins, and none too gently.
My little speech went something like this.
“I’m not a stern disciplinarian, I’m not here to bust anyone’s balls.” I lectured. “I’m here to learn alongside of you men, and then we’ll be going into action. We’ll have an edge that no other group has ever had. We have the opportunity to train together, as a team, and to develop tactics that work in life-or-death, combat situations.”
“Andrew is a one and Biggs, you’re a two. You fly together until death do you part, or until I say otherwise.” I was reading from a page.
“Cowings and Dexter, ones and twos, where’s my shoes.” Within about three minutes I had them assigned a number and a position in our first twelve-plane squadron.
This was drawn on the blackboard, in colored chalk.
“Write your name in the assigned position. You. Grab a piece of chalk and get up here. Yes you, I’m telling you to do it. You’re number seven right here. You, who’re you? You’re right here, number five. Odds are ones, gentleman, twos are even. Your positions in the squadron were determined alphabetically. Sorry, but I have to have a system. ”
I paused briefly.
“Write his name up there. Do it now, son, do it now. If you’re, ‘odd,’ you’re a one, if you’re ‘even,’ you’re a two. We have a twelve-plane squadron.”
Mr. Chalkboy needed to hear the other chap’s name again. He wasn’t listening too well. Not yet. Too busy grinning like a fool.
“A-flight is Red, B-flight is Green, C-flight is Blue. I wouldn’t have a yellow flight.”
The men chuckled a little at that one.
“We have three flights of four aircraft. Number one is the killing partner. Number two is the wingman. He covers number one’s ass and never, ever leaves him. In the event of interception and combat, which doesn’t always happen, for the enemy doesn’t always engage with us, you end up with a flight of four aircraft. A flight has two elements of two aircraft.”
I had their full attention now. But I really didn’t have much to go on without seeing them fly.
“O.K. everyone, into the flight gear, and you have fifteen minutes to shit, piss, get changed and be on the flight line. I’ll show you what I mean, but the lectures are important as well.” I concluded. “You will learn. You will be taught.”
My one sergeant, just one, stood by the door.
“Right this way, chaps.” Called Sergeant Jaeckl and they all bucketed for the door.
The dummies hadn’t bothered to look around. They had no clue as to where all the equipment, other than their own personal flight suits, which everyone bought in those days, was kept.
The smart ones would show up on the flight line half dressed, the others late, but it was day one. The talkative one stayed behind for a moment.
“I’m sorry about that, sir.”
“Which one are you.” I asked. “Edgar Powell?”
He nodded glumly.
“No harm done. I wanted to talk to you anyway. You’re my first instructor.” I told him. “Now get out there and instruct them buggers exactly how to pre-flight a plane, and check out mine real good, because you may be flying with me.”
“Sir.”
He clicked his heels and went nipping out the door right smartly. I didn’t take it too personal. That’ll teach the little bastard. His one saving grace was that he had more hours in the air than any of the others, and only two crashes. He had eighty-seven hours in total.
Edgar did okay on the written tests as well.
For the first couple of days, until I got more men, and mechanics, and pilots, and a few other things, I was pretty much making it up as I went along. No question that these men needed all the hours they could get. The problem was that we had a deadline.
***
“Ladies, if you haven’t seen one before, this is the Bristol fighter.” I began without fanfare.
It took a while for them to catch onto that little gimmick. These gentlemen must learn to watch me like a hawk, and listen as if their lives depended on it. Which was nothing more than the truth, naked and unadorned.
“Today all I care is that you use the buddy system. Number one, you’re the lead hand. Number two, you stick like glue. We’ll be using these aircraft here. Ones and twos. Red flight is first, and Blue can go up second.” I explained. “You boys just sit and watch. We can learn a lot by watching other people fly. You can learn a lot about a man by watching his takeoffs and landings.”
A small circle of faces eyed me warily. No training plan was ever operated like this. They probably expected six weeks of bookwork and then a few flights, and then some kind of fancy cap-badge.
“Anyone here nervous about flying in pairs, in close proximity with a partner?”
A thin, dark man raised his hand. He seemed a little older and possibly more mature than the rest.
“Yes?”
“I’ve never seen a Bristol Fighter before in my life.” He said in no uncertain terms.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “Michael Black, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Black. You’re new instructor number two. Any suggestions?”
“Well, you could bloody well let us read the manual, at least.” He fumed, embarrassed at being centred-out.
And no doubt aware that he was totally unqualified to be an instructor, or possibly even to take off in a Brisfit. That made him smarter than most, if not all of the others.
Really, they all should have protested. He had seventy-nine hours in total.
“I can’t be an instructor.” He spluttered.
Black was unusually tall, almost as tall as me.
“Don’t sell yourself short.” I said sweetly.
The rest of the men broke up in laughter.
“People look up to you.”
More laughs. Black stood there looking nonplussed.
“All right, lads. See if you can scare up a manual around here. Maybe ask the sergeant, here.” I instructed.
Just by coincidence, Sergeant Jaeckl was standing there with a dozen manuals. It shouldn’t be a problem to keep up with my students. The Biff is a sweet-handling aircraft for its size. I took one up the day before, just to try it out. I know they can fly it. Do they know they can fly it?
That’s the vital question. Confidence is everything.
“Listen up, gentlemen.” I called in stentorian tones.
“The Bristol F.2 is undoubtedly the finest machine that was ever provided for your combat pleasure. This aircraft is a fighter. However, it was originally designed as a reconnaissance machine. The prototype first flew before September 1916. The performance was so good, that it was re-designated and ordered into mass production.”
“I heard these are deathtraps.” Someone muttered.
“That’s not true.” I avowed firmly. “What happened, was that four out of six of these machines were shot down on their first combat patrol. That is true.”
“Well, then, what happened?” Asked Black.
I like Black. He has to have the courage to ask a question, to admit that he knows nothing. To understand that the instructor is not the enemy. The Germans now, they are the enemy.
“They had the great misfortune to run into von Richtofen and his gang on their very first patrol.” I explained. “Courage and honor mean nothing, when confronted by superior tactics and greater experience.”
“The gentleman leading the patrol didn’t understand two-seater tactics, even though a finer and braver officer never lived,” I explained firmly. “These are not sailing ships at Trafalgar. How to maneuver, how to use the field of fire of the observer’s gun, and how to use the gun in the nose, is what I propose to teach you. If you are interested.”
“The simple fact is, they were taken by surprise by a superior formation,” I added.
(How the hell would I know? But it sounded good.)
“You will be taught how to avoid being taken by surprise, and what to do if you are taken by surprise.” I went on. “But even more importantly, you will learn to take them by surprise instead.”
They were all silent, eyes locked on my face.
“In the air this equates with a high rate of attrition, i.e. dead pilots,” I explained. “Let’s make sure they’re German pilots.”
“Look, if you guys are willing to work with me, we can shoot down large numbers of the enemy, save our own lily soft and our mate’s big hairy white asses, and maybe we all get to live through this.”
They all smiled. They seemed to be listening now.
The answer was a pretty positive affirmative, albeit with reservations. Can’t say as I blamed them for that. Who knows, maybe the Old Man’s a queer?
“Alright. What is the maximum take-off weight of this aircraft?” I asked.
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| Maximum takeoff weight, about 2,800 lbs. |
The sergeant called out, “About twenty-eight hundred pounds.” This as everyone hemmed and hawed.
There was another little burst of laughter. The sergeant had read the manual.
Still, I had their attention and they were a good bunch of lads.
“All you men. Listen up. Black, Powell and I, will check the others out on a takeoff and a landing. You, you and you, stand by the nearest three planes. The rest of you wait. And I don’t like horseplay. Horseplay leads to accidents.”
“Oh, yeah, and why not read those manuals while we’re up.” Grimaced Mr. Black.
He had some leadership skills, thank God. It was so hard to tell from written reports.
One or two of them were opening the books. Good for them. Maybe some of them weren’t hopeless after all. One or two of them got closer to the nearest plane, gazing down into the cockpits. One even had the brains to open up the bonnet and begin drinking it all in. That guy had some potential.
My two instructors each grabbed a student pretty expeditiously. They took a quick glance at a relevant page or two in their books. Powell’s aircraft sputtered up after some chit-chat with the ground crew, of which I had exactly five men.
“Andrew?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What are we looking at here?”
I had my eye on this kid. This one was a ‘sleeper.’ Thank God, at least one person on that committee must have liked me.
This kid was my Forlorn Hope. My Billy the Kid, Pat Garret, Jim Lacey, Doc Holliday. The Dead Shot Kid. Someone told me about this one, and I was happy for the warning. But you never can trust a rumor, no matter how reliable the source.
“Rolls-Royce Falcon III, liquid-cooled, inline engine.” He began. “Maximum speed one-hundred-twenty-five at sea level, service ceiling…”
Andrew Jay hadn’t looked at the book.
“All right, that’s enough. Now take us up and shoot down Red One.” I ordered, leaping up into the rear cockpit, and with shaking, trembling fingers rushed at the job of strapping myself in.
I’m a pretty good actor, I thought inconsequentially, as I worked the theatrical mode of presentation.
“I’m Blood and Guts Tucker, and I’m rarin’ to go. Yee, hah.”
The kid moseyed over to the wing like he didn’t give a damn what anyone in the whole wide world thought. But, we were prepared, like Boy Scouts. That’s why the corporal began throwing firecrackers out of the shadows inside the hangar door.
“What the…?” The kid twittered, jumping in dismay as one nearly hit his foot.
Bang. Bang.
All of a sudden I blew off a couple of blank rounds from the Lewis.
“Come on, you asshole.” I bellowed in mock rage. “They’re fucking getting away.”
He climbed in then, the little shit.
“Come on.” I bellowed.
Bang. Bang. More firecrackers. The mechanics raced up and they’re all yelling at him, he’s yelling at them, the motor goes sput, sput, barap. Barap.
Off we went down the greasy little field. He lifted off after waiting a good long time, but he had the speed now, the little bastard. He pulled hard back on the stick, zooming up over the trees and the barns. He looked pissed off.
We went tearing off in search of Red One. Hey. Not bad. Looks like we got us a ringer.
“Jesus loves me, this I know...for the Bible tells me so…”
I was singing like a meadowlark.
No one could hear it in the racket we were making anyway.
Back on the field I could see one other plane, lining up to take off.
A whole bunch of men standing around with their jaws open. We’ll see about them later. In the meantime, Andrew had control of the machine, and I told him to take us home.
“We’ll burn the Hun bastard next time.” I bellowed.
“You’re goddamned right we will, sir.” The kid called in excitement.
He’ll do, for starters. This one can coach some of the others in the basic stick and rudder skills. At least he can fly. I’ve heard he can shoot, as well. Thank God for small mercies. First thing that has to go is the idea that I’m a normal person, easy to please and that he can just go on doing well enough to be better than all the other boys.
What he doesn’t get is that his buddies are just plain bad. And they’re not the ones he’s supposed to be shooting down. Some of those boys are really, really fucking good.
Andrew’s not going up against professional killers anytime soon. Not if I can help it.
“Congratulations, Andrew, you’re instructor number three.” I yelled over the prop noise as we swished over the boundary fence.
He made a nice, squeaky little landing as both tires hit at once and the tail-skid came right down like nothing. We taxied smoothly back.
“Was there ever any doubt?” He joked.
Cheeky bastard.
Sometimes silence is golden.
I wondered where she was now and what she was doing.
And if she was thinking of me.
***
In less than a week, I had found a suitable field in the Norfolk area, scouting it with the help of Toby, and Betty’s faithful auto. As long as The Crown was buying the petrol, he didn’t mind driving it. I talked to the landlord, and the fellow didn’t cause any problems as far as occupying the land.
As far as noise, or low-flying aircraft, the man laughed.
“We’re pretty remote, me mum’s deaf and I could use the rent. We’ll make do.”
I had the impression the old gomer was retired, an Indian Colonel, but I just made the arrangements. We got out of there, to make some telegrams and rustle up tents, tools, trucks, an unbelievable amount of kit.
I was as busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest, and I was tired when I got home at night. But I was also a young man. Now was my chance to win Betty and hold her, so we went out a few times. We went out to dinner, dancing, music hall shows, the theatre.
One Friday night, a week or so before Christmas, I took off a little early after handing out a fistful of weekend passes. I sent all my boys home or to the city for some rest and recreation. I was up to twenty-two pilots by now and about thirty ground crew, so my mind was busy, busy, busy. Not that I was neglecting the domestic front, where I was very happy. Unbelievably so. But to put the facts plainly, there was a bit of a shortage of tents and beds. So I sent the boys off, the lot of them.
We were, roughing it in the bush.
Very labor-intensive, and it gets tiring.
It was quite dark, about five-thirty or so, when I put the bike in the coach house. Closing and locking the place, for the motorcycle was a prime target for thieves, I went up to the back door.
Just as I was about to stomp my feet to shake the crud off, I saw her sitting there. Just the way the light came down from above, like a halo. Just the way she worked so intently, then looking up, and flicking her hair back, she checked the clock that hung on the kitchen wall. The Lady Fontainebleu-Higgins was darning the toe of a pair of skunky old socks. On the bloody kitchen table, was a book. This beautiful woman brought home a book on sewing so that she could darn my socks.
I stood there watching.
It was like watching my future life.
And what I saw was good.
“Why not open up the door and go in, lad?” A calm voice queried from behind.
“Who’s that?” I asked, turning to peer into the gloom.
It was a Bobby.
“I’m just enjoying the view. Come up quietly and have a look.” I offered.
“What’s all this then?” He asked suspiciously, probably thinking me the dumbest Peeping Tom in all of human history.
“She’s fixing the holes in my socks.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
We watched for a moment.
“Looks like you have two choices. Open up the door and go in. Or turn around, walk away and never look back.”
He studied me in the light by the door as we stood quietly. I didn’t need this, actually, but he was a Bobby.
“Thank you.” I replied. “I feel a lot safer, with you on the beat.”
“You’re not drunk, and that’s my main concern,” he observed acidly.
Stumping off down the steps, he turned again.
“You’ve got your wits about you. I suggest you use them.”
“See here.” I began like a pompous ass. “I…”
I never got to finish it. The flatfoot spun around, and looked me square in the eye.
“I’ve walked this neighborhood for twenty-six years, laddie, and it’s about time a man of your parts learned to get in out of the rain.”
Then he was gone, clomping off through the gloom.
He was right, damn it. Opening up the door, I got in out of the rain.
END
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| Louis spent 2 1/2 years writing this book. |
Images. That Louis guy, with a bit of help from the internet.
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Thank you for reading.
