Stolen image, which is par for the course around here...
Louis Shalako
Don't fall asleep. My buddy's dad had the '66 Cadillac, with the four
doors and the 512 cubic inch engine up front. Bob borrowed it one night, we
grabbed a six-pack of Brador or something. A malt liquor, 6.6 % alcohol, which
was more than sufficient for a couple of sixteen, seventeen year-olds. We
headed out of town, on paved roads all the way, which was better than giving it
a wash when we got home. Fifty cents is fifty cents, after all. At some point, Bob let me drive it. Coming home, we
headed north out of Wallaceburg, eleven o'clock at night, on Kimball Road.
That's 80 kilometres per hour these days...I took her up. I took her up
all right, she's floating along like a cloud, with that soft suspension and the
long wheelbase. I had her at a hundred and ten miles per hour when poor old Bob
woke up on the passenger side, so I had to let off and bring it on into town at
a more reasonable speed. I kind of feel sorry for Bob—even more so for his dad,
who had to pay the bill, but within a very short time, a day or two later, the
thing was knocking and sputtering. I don't know if we burnt a valve or spun a
bearing, but that was pretty much it for what had once been a pretty nice car.
Fuck, I wanted to drive Formula One, something awful it seems looking
back. Which would almost be safer on some level, much more professional than a
couple of kids in daddy's car...some of us were just plain dangerous. Quite
frankly, it affected my judgement sometimes.
***
Okay, let’s say we were thinking of writing our
criminal memoirs. One, you’re talking about your friends here, and two, now you
got to think up a whole bunch of fake names…for people who were often known by
nicknames and various handles to begin with. Some of those names are pretty
colourful. It’s not like they read books anyways. And I can use a fake name of
my own. And where would I start? At the beginning I suppose.
***
My first scam was the old Puss ‘N Boots free roll of
film scam. This was a popular brand of tinned cat food at the time, late
sixties, early seventies at the latest. If you cut on the dotted line, and
peeled off the paper label, there was a coupon. You filled that in, mailed it
to the company, and you would receive a free roll of colour film in the format
of your choice, whether it be 120, 126 cartridge, or 35-mm format. Limit one
per family or household, and of course here is where the scam comes in. I sent
in at least three coupons, also borrowing stamps and envelopes from my mother’s
stash. Stamps cost money you know. There comes a time when they go to pay the
bills and there are no envelopes, no stamps and of course they sort of wonder
where all that went. Right up until the point when you, a nine or ten year-old
kid; gets a mysterious package in the mail and you sort of come home from
school one day to find they simply could not help themselves, but had no choice
but to open up that fucking package…and now they’re starting to catch on.
Then they get two or three more, but by now they know
it’s just a roll of film, and oh, yes, you’ve borrowed dad’s Baby Brownie from
the 1950s and also, your brother and sister and the kid next door and the
family down the street and your buddy Willy three blocks away are getting free
rolls of film in the mail, and while mom and dad are sort of appalled at the
thought of all those rolls of film, and firecrackers, and model planes and
rockets and small explosions going off in the backyard, they are also sort of
marvelling at your enterprise and quite frankly, your imagination. This is what
you get for having a cat, and of course they have to eat pretty regular and
stuff like that.
The cat, I mean—
Also, you want to be a photographer someday and you
can always take over camera duties on Christmas day, right. As I recall, that
was the year my folks made the serious tactical and strategic error of giving
me a cheap-ass Kodak Instamatic 126-cartridge camera, complete with a couple
more fucking packs of film and those all-important flash bulbs. Which you can
short out with a bit of metal across the electrodes, or even just use an empty
camera to send short, brilliant light signals across Germain Park in the middle
of the night, (when you really should have been in bed or doing your homework);
assuming one of your friends’ parents have been thoughtful enough to give them
such a camera for Christmas as well…
Right?
**
So there you are, ladies and gentlemen, when sometime
later, (after all of this logical progression of events), ah, you find yourself
laying on a sheet of plywood, up in the rafters of my old man’s garage, sheets
we picked up out of a local park, after some guy got drunk, stole a Datsun
240-Z and took it through Germain Park, yet forgetting the sort of green
plywood enclosure for lacrosse of all things, smashing through it and tossing
bits and pieces all over, and trying to get a good picture as your buddy snipes
at plastic ship models with a .177 calibre pellet rifle. Someday, I will tell
you all about filling them up with fireworks, solid stuff from model rocket
engines, Christmas bulbs with gasoline and firing pins and the powder from
dismantled shotgun shells and how, ah…Bob, (not his real name), lit that up,
and how the battleship Yamato went up
with a series of big bangs as we sort of sheltered in my 1969 Austin Mini,
which I bought for $50.00, dragging it up and out from the weeds behind H &
S Sports Cars, which was on the corner of Ontario Street and Russell, (I
think). My old man and I dragged it home on the end of a rope, one end of which
was attached to his old Volvo and the other end attached to me and that Mini. I
was only fifteen, and I suppose we putted along about twenty miles an hour on
back streets…The Hood, the Bismarck and the Rodney didn’t fare much better, looking back through the mists of
time. I’ve been towed once or twice since then, to be honest with you. I
remember, we opened up the garage door and this big black cloud came out.
He (Willy, not his real name), once shot some Chinese
girl in a plastic raincoat, right in the ass with that thing. The range was
short, and we figured it went right through the raincoat. She swatted at her
ass and turned to look, right. The front room in his folks’ place had these
really old-fashioned windows, where there were three holes drilled along the
bottom for ventilation, and a hinged wooden bar you lifted to let a little air
in. There wasn’t even a fucking screen. He fired the shot, and dropped the
stick, and we crouched there, giggling like schoolboys, which we were at the
time.
I swear to God, that place must have been built by a
Newfie.
Willy blew me up one day. He called, and he said,
‘come on over’. He was out in the garage, one of our hangouts. Yes, back then,
you weren’t nothing if you didn’t have a garage to hang out in. I get off my
bike, and he’s watching, literally timing it from the time of his call. He hits
a little switch, a little electrical model rocket engine igniter goes off, and
about three rocket engines, all taken apart and just powder and blocks of
propellant, goes off right between my feet, right in front of the side door of
his garage. I was wearing shorts, I had a few singed leg hairs but nothing real
serious. You know me: I had to phone my brother straight away. I told him to
get on over to Willy’s place.
I couldn’t really talk on the phone, but there was
something he just had to see.
Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be.
Louis Shalako.
The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver.
The food was good—very good.
It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more
than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some
aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were
engaged in a labor of love.
Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten
acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction
to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.
Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single
ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table,
obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied
ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.
Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was
being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was
time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the
ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand
dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The
lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann
had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece,
unexpectedly fixating on him, and
giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around
her.
He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid,
as he hit on the end of his own cigar.
Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet,
inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.
Off in one corner was a platform, and a small
orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the
program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and
silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A
distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start
up soon enough—
And then there was the dancing. Margot.
She had eyes too, right.
Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging
slightly.
They would cross that bridge when they came to it,
with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.
Margot was laughing at him.
Again—
That, was one very dangerous woman.
Her mouth opened and she stared.
He turned to look.
“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and
shook her head.
Oh, my, is that Joseph...???
They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.
The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a
fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which
would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two.
Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else,
he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…
Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see
LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted
remarks as the noise in the room picked up.
Would it never end.
There was that wine glass again.
The future is always rosier when viewed through the
bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas,
which he had read as a boy.
They said woman, the unfair sex, (wasn’t that Ambrose Bierce,
the noted literary cynic?), was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, encompassed by
an enigma, and a few more things besides. Bierce, as he recalled, had
disappeared under mysterious circumstances…
Somewhere in the southern
hemisphere. The Mexican Revolution or something like that.
Margot, on the other
hand, was right there, they were literally rubbing elbows.
It was an uncomfortable
discovery that she smelled like a garden of flowers, and in a mysterious
fashion decipherable to women, or woman,
the world over, for surely there was only one woman—yes, they were all sisters
under the skin, where men were mostly rivals, all of it written on the outside
and sitting there like a big chip on the shoulder.
But it seemed that she
had nipped out to the lavatory and slipped into a dress, a dress that could
only have cost some money, real money. Had she run out and bought that
yesterday? He didn’t care to dwell upon it.
An electric blue kimono, not a straight line upon it, but
all the hems and the lines had been cut in curves. It was loose where it
mattered, plunged, also where it mattered, and it clung in all the right
places. Just loose enough, one could still dance in it. The shoes were
revealing enough in their own way—she had one of the little bun hats, a short
fringe all around the rim, and a fur stole around her shoulders. She had her
working outfit, a professional working woman sort of outfit, in a shopping bag
and that would be going home with her. Practical enough.
Gilles was uncomfortable
in his thoughts.
Home, what the hell is
that.
Home is where the
heartache is.
Home is where they send
the bills.
She seemed to be ignoring
him, the pair of them perched, facing backwards, on the fold-down jump-seats of
the big black Citroen. Cigarette smoke enfolded them in its intimate embrace as
Alphonse’s skilled hands guided them though the usual evening traffic, only to
pull up sooner than expected in front of the hotel. Flunkies in top hats and
tailed coats stepped forward smartly to open the door and hold it against the
wind. Yes. Let’s all clamber out now.
She looked over
unexpectedly, and the liquid-clear eyes were something else.
“Don’t worry, this will
all be over soon enough.” A good quote, from four out of five dentists.
He nodded, reassuringly,
dry in the throat all of a sudden.
Margot laughed and looked
away, Alphonse’s quick glance in the mirror was appreciative. Roger’s companion
looked over, right in the eyes, and then looked away. Something lurched in his
guts, and then a quizzical-looking Roger made a universal gesture—Gilles
reached into a pocket and pulled out one of his interminable dark little
cigars. That was what people called them.
“Thanks, Gilles. I
honestly have, ah, given them up. But this seems like a special occasion…” He puffed.
“My, God, but that snow is really coming down.”
The lady was wearing
evening gloves, in some kind of revelation as he thought about wedding rings
and things like that.
He still wore his, habit
as much as anything else, a kind of shield perhaps…
Gilles...???
Merde.
Poor old Maintenon hadn’t had a moment to think all the damned day long, what
with three new cases, a conference with Langeron, and a few other things
besides. More wind, more gusts, more darkening skies…same old fucking shit,
right, only there was this one complication. He hadn’t gotten a nap, either,
small surprise that was.
Think of it as a party, Maintenon—
Argh.
As for poor old Gilles,
he’d taken a late-day shave in the men’s room, changed his shirt, brushed the
old teeth with a wet toothbrush but nothing else. The shoes looked well enough
for a cop’s shoes, and hopefully, they could remain in the background and just
observe. Show the flag and go home early, God willing…he could have shaved
again, and it wouldn’t have made all that much difference—whiskers seem to
speed up or something, getting faster with age or something. He could have
shaved in the car, just outside the front door and it still wouldn’t have made
any difference at all.
Who in the fucking hell
cared what he looked like anymore…it was damned cold out there.
Having gotten rid of the coats and hats, there was
only one thing for it, but to head on in and mingle.
Roger and the wife, (he was pretty sure by now), moved
off in one direction and Gilles and Margot split, his first instinct being the
fireplace and a grouping of chairs and settees, and her for the bar. Long,
narrow, the room was a couple of hundred feet long, more a large hallway than
anything else, with big doors on both ends, and the sort of formal entrance
from the outdoors. That was on the west side, as he reckoned, trying to orient
himself.
She turned and looked, and he gave her a nod and a
thumbs-up.
There was a chair if he wanted it, but he stood, back
to the fire and idly looking around the room. There were at least thirty or
forty people, not two or three hundred…not yet, anyways. There was still a half
an hour to go. A few more people came in…
Nervous laughter, titillating; up and around from one
small group, and shortly after, a real belly-laugh from a group of mostly
males…some of those guys had what looked like whiskey in their glasses, and
that was a good thing to know too.
So far, no one seemed to have taken any notice of him,
or them, or all of them really.
Margot returned, bearing wine glasses.
“Ah, thank you.” This one was very red, very grapey,
if that was indeed a word, and just the perfect balance of dryness had been
struck.
When he got a minute, he’d take a quick peek at a
label and maybe write that one down.
Margot sipped, nodded as if reading his thoughts.
“Hmn. This might not be so bad after all.”
“Huh.”
Merde—she’d
removed her wedding ring, but there was a discolouring, an indentation of the
skin due to long occupation by aforesaid ring. Sometimes, there was nothing but
bad compromises, all around.
As for her—
She grinned, looking around, where animated
conversations were taking place, all well-dressed people and no sign of
Sherlock impersonators.
“…so this is a bunch of mystery writers.”
He nodded, spluttering in the midst of a swallow.
She thought, studying them perhaps just a bit more
carefully…
They seemed rational enough at first glance. Judging
by the clothes, the shoes and the hair, there seemed to be money in it. Someone
here was going to win an award, after all. These were the successful ones, she
realized. The one percent or less, in other words. The ones-in-a-million. They
could afford the price of admission.
There were a couple of big doors wide open on the
interior side, and on the other side of that, a banquet hall with dozens of
round tables, chairs, with a crisp white linen, floral arrangements, place
settings for what looked like a few hundred at least. Was it silver, or more
likely, silver plate. Who cared. One had to admit, it looked all right.
People were still arriving at both ends, some from
inside the hotel, obviously, and some from the street as another blast of cold
wind made its presence felt halfway into the room.
“Well, I don’t know about you.” He indicated a chair.
“I think you might be right about that.” Margot was a
sensible woman, it had been a long day and that chair looked very nice right
about how.
***
Nom de Dieu...
The head table was all reserved, as one might expect
and they didn’t want to be there anyways. Everything else was first come, first
served. A certain type of person, a certain kind of group, naturally gravitated
to the front of the room. Some groups filled a table or two, and they sort of
clumped together, all very chummy, noises predictable. Then there were the
ones, the twos and the threes, looking at a bit of social awkwardness as they
tried to decide whether to sit here, or there, or perhaps somewhere else might
be better. Gilles and Margot had grabbed a couple of slots, about halfway up
the room. There was already another couple there, and another couple, not
caring too much either way, decided this was about as good as anything…there
was always room for one bore, as the gentleman said.
Gilles chuckled dutifully as bright blue eyes regarded
them all.
The male looked up, waved, and two women, perhaps
single but at least acquainted, accepted the idea and the gentleman held their
chairs. These people at least all seemed to know each other, authors or their
fans. They’d seen each other already, at events, panels or just around the
hotel. A full table, and there were still an empty few in the corners and the
back of the room, which might fill out as time went on and the fashionably-late
straggled in.
Gilles was gratified to see waiters burst forth from
the kitchen doors on the end. Carts and trolleys and platters and in the meantime
there were hot buns, butter and getting to know one another.
“…it’s all right, Gilles,
and I will understand if you can’t do it—”
“No, no, that’s fine.”
“Anyhow, Hector’s
youngest will be doing the eulogy. A small, private affair, although one or two
of us will be making an appearance.” Due to the news people, it might be better
if he didn’t show up at all.
So far, Maintenon’s name
had been kept out of the papers. That would only last so long.
“Yes, sir.”
“So here’s the thing. We
get these complimentary tickets, they’re not addressed to anyone in particular.
Public relations people do it all the time, sending them out all over the place
in the hopes of attracting publicity, good reviews, or whatever.”
He cleared his throat,
the internal line crisp and clear just this once.
“It’s not a costume ball,
Gilles, and it’s not entirely a formal affair, although the master of
ceremonies may be in, ah, tails, Gilles. No, just a suit and a tie—the food may
be all right, and you can leave any time you want. No question of a speech, as
far as I can tell—”
Gilles sighed, deeply.
“Very well, when is
this—”
There were six tickets,
according to Langeron, and he could dispose of them at his own discretion. As
to whether Roger was going, that seemed unlikely.
“It’s the International
Mystery Writers Guild, their annual awards banquet, and if nothing else, it’s a
free meal—a few grip-and-grins with the attendees, eh, Gilles.” He was
referring to photo opportunities…sweaty-handed fans, no less.
The whole thing stank to
high heaven, as Roger put it, and yet it could still be the highest form of
coincidence. A shitty little coincidence, and yet he felt it should be followed
up.
His instincts were
telling him all kinds of things, and Maintenon was forced to agree. It was
better than doing nothing.
It was better than
thinking like a Frenchman all of the time.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have that sent
right over, Gilles. And thank you. I won’t suggest that you have a good time,
because I suspect that isn’t going to happen…” There was a program, the whole
thing should wrap up by midnight, assuming they could stick to any kind of a
schedule.
Other than that, please
try and keep an open mind.
Gilles glanced up, noting
the clock and the fact that the room had quickly emptied.
Nothing is as painful as
the clock.
And there it was.
Another drop-kick, le savate, right to the nuts.
Drowning in a sea of
loneliness, we clutch at straws—Roger was a friend, in some odd way, some words
that had never been expressed.
There was nothing to do
but listen. It was one of his skills…a flashback, in real time. To a
conversation he’d just had. We clutch at
straws.
“What
are you trying to tell me, Roger.”
“Well, it’s just the
usual thing, Gilles. Except—except, this one feels different. It’s too much of
a coincidence. We get this beautifully-written letter, all on official
letterhead, and the fact is, it’s genuine. We had a junior officer check. It’s
not addressed to anyone in particular, except the public relations department,
and it’s not asking for anyone in particular. Other than that, it’s a handful
of complimentary tickets, to the awards banquet of the Mystery Writers Guild
International. They would be ever so honoured if someone would turn out, if
not, please distribute these to friendly members of the press. One of whom
might have been Hector. Er, not exactly the exact words, Gilles. It’s just an
event. Which just happens to be held in Paris this year. Last year, it was Los
Angeles, and the word is, next year, Tokyo is a strong contender…”
There was more, of
course, there always was.
For one thing, Roger had
his instincts, as he put it.
Roger has his instincts, as he put it...
***
There was a click and
line was dead. Just like a lot of other things.
The thoughts, the
thoughts, the lines, had tumbled over
and over in his head.
He’d said something else
that was interesting: they’d probably been doing it for years, the free tickets
and everything, and yet there was no record of anyone ever attending. That
being said, such things tended to get tossed in the wastebasket, glossed over
without much thought.
***
“Mao…?”
“Ah, Sylvestre.”
The cat, lord of the
manor and man of the house during normal, daytime hours, bored out of his skull
and not exactly overworked on the mousing detail, sat in the hall doorway, and
Gilles felt a moment of guilt.
Truth is, the cat hasn’t
seen much of me lately—and that was just sad.
When he got home, the cat
was there, the mail was there. A bill or two, with the due date, and almost
indecipherable with the small charges, the hidden, bogus fees, and other sneaky
stuff which he had taken to despising without actually doing much about it. One
of these days, he would have to call these people; and give them a little piece
of his mind.
The kitchen smelled like
food, although Sophie had gone by now. He had the feeling that he had missed
something, perhaps even lost something. People had to tell him everything twice
these days, or so it seemed, before he got it—really got it.
What in the hell was
wrong with him these days?
And the answer,
surprisingly simple, was probably not
much at all.
***
It was the morning after
the day before.
“So. How do you want to
play this?” Margot had one very good question.
“It is a request from higher authority. I can’t
order anyone to do this.” Or won’t.
He stood regarding a
handful of tickets to the ball on the scarred maple desk.
“I can, however,
authorize the overtime.”
She pursed her lips on
hearing that one.
By any examination, they
were just like any other ticket, six of them numbered in sequence. No
indication that they were freebies. In his experience, a doorman would hardly
even look at them, and they might have been available not just from a box
office but any number of other locations…his thoughts sort of raced. Mailed
with a fairly generic letter from the public relations department, going out to
all kinds of media outlets and useful elected fools, celebrities of one sort or
another. There might have been quite a long list, just fishing, as it were. An
equal number of programs, on thick, heavy paper, decoratively printed in some
Art Deco, fin de siècle font…
All very convincing, and
genuine as far as anyone could determine on short notice. And here it was
again, one more line of inquiry, one more line of bullshit—one more big waste
of time and resources. One more oar in the water, one more finger in the pie.
One more cook, bent on spoiling the broth.
As Gilles put it bitterly
enough.
“Hector would have gone.”
Joseph—
Maintenon’s face
hardened.
“Seriously, Gilles.” The
little man went on. “Think of the opportunity—two fucking hundred Sherlocks,
all in the same room. Him and his bag of cameras, shaking hands, talking to
people, and listening. Really, really listening…”
The one skill that
couldn’t be taught, but could only be learned.
And maybe even getting
quite a lot out of it, as Joseph said…more than just a story and some pictures
in a magazine.
“It’s an open bar,
Gilles.”
Yes, Hector would have
loved that. You could almost see the man at work.
Gilles nodded.
Roger
had his instincts.
It really did stink, didn’t it? Roger had suggested two things, one; wear a
bullet-proof vest, and two, bring your own little pistol, as he had put it.
“Va
te faire foutrez…”
Joseph threw his head
back and laughed.
Margot nodded.
Margot would not miss it for the world.
“I’m in. Quite frankly, I
would not miss this for the world.”
He had the feeling she
meant it, too. Take one for the team, all of that sort of thing, and that was
good to know as well.
“Think about it, Gilles.
It’s a fucking party. They’re not asking for a speech. It’s not a costume ball,
although at least some of them will be that dumb. It’s not a black-tie,
fancy-dress ball, either. Just some fair-to-middling food, and that is a pretty
good hotel as I recall.” Joseph, arms crossed and feet dangling from the chair.
Music, dancing, and a
little light entertainment, all culminating in a rather prestigious awards
ceremony—yes, he was lucky.
They had not asked him
for a speech…
Gilles sighed, deeply.
“Well, that’s three of
us, anyways.” He’d ask the others when they came in.
Some of them, any of
them, all of them. Three more tickets.
“Wasn’t there a monkey in
one of them old Conan Doyle stories?” LeBref had this look on his face, and Margot
was openly laughing at him.
“Well, if that is what
you think is best, Joseph…although you’ll have to get a move on, if you want to
find a costume in time.” She winked one over his way.
Hell, even Gilles had to
smile at that one. In the end, Joseph would do his job, as well as anyone else,
and he was always a good man to have around.
Author’s note. I began this novel in 2020, wrote about
20,000 words, and then petered out, same thing again in 2021. When I started up
again in late 2022, the novel stood about 39,000 words. Now it’s 46,000 and
counting. I hope to finish the book this winter. Other than that, the initial
spurt seemed a bit repetitive, but all of that sort of thing gets smoothed out
in a hundred reads, re-writes, and just filling out the book after the author
gets to the end of the plot. I have to know how it ends, and then if necessary,
I can go back and throw in a clue, here and there, and hopefully make sense of
it all in the end.
For
a boy who grew up in the flat farmlands of Lambton County in Ontario, Canada,
the southern coast of England had a fascination that transcended its natural
beauty.
This
was the land of Shakespeare, the land of Chaucer, the source of so much of my
own country’s culture and literature. So much myth, and legend, fairy tales and
nursery rhymes. A land of heroic tales, and damsels in distress. A land of
mystery, bidden goodbye, but not forgotten, by my ancestors long, long ago.
Elves and trolls and fair maidens in towers.
“Ring
around the rosy, a pocket full of posies.” And all that.
In
my head I can hear the joyful voices of the children singing.
Keeping
in mind that I had never lived on a seacoast, it was all new, and refreshing to
the soul after northern France. Rolling hills, valleys, coves and harbors,
fishing smacks at sea, and small ships coasting along. Cruising a few thousand
feet over the water, you could see for miles. We could fly out to the Isle of
Wight, or fly up to Southampton and come back by way of St. Alban’s Head.
The
wheeling gulls, white against the azure water, seen from above. The shadow of
an aircraft, speeding across a hammered metal sea, leaping the cliff in an
instant. That same shadow bouncing along, up and over the hillside. Sheep
scattering in panic. The look of a motorcar from above. A train, looking like a
toy as it chugs along the embankment, with cotton-puffs of smoke hanging over
it, and the shadows stretched out alongside.
Stick
figures, children in a schoolyard, staring with upturned faces and waving in
delight.
Flying
is pretty enjoyable when there is no reason to fear. No one to shoot at you. I
was totally relaxed in the air, and that came across to the students.
It
came as something of a revelation that compared to the boys, and a few of the
other instructors, I was smooth.
Dodging
in and out of the clouds, waiting for the other training groups to be in just
the exact position, then bouncing them. Out of the sun, from above and behind,
using speed and surprise.
The
fledgling pilots would just ignore us and soldier on, or sometimes they would
break in every direction in panic. Sometimes they pounced on us in revenge, and
while it was technically against the rules, we all did it.
Among
the instructors there was a never-ending, ongoing, all-engaging feud to prove
who was the best. All in good spirit, of course. I think it helped, in some
way, or the boss would have put his foot down hard.
Sometimes
I popped off a couple of flares at training flights led by the more asinine
instructors. Once I caught a blast of shit from up the chain of command.
“I
want my students to seize the initiative and to keep it.” This was my official
reply. “My students have an offensive attitude engendered by a keen competitive
spirit and a desire to win. And that’s why we won the rugger match we played
against your lousy class last Sunday afternoon. So come on down and harass me
again some time when you learn how to do it properly.”
Goddamn
soreheads. Leave me alone.
I
never heard another word about it.
***
Zoom
along the country lanes, between the rows of trees. Up and over the telegraph
lines. Smell the moist earth. In snatches of conversation try to advance the
fledgling’s basic skills. Bring her right back down again, heading for the barn
at the end, where the road turns to the left.
“Whoopsy-daisy.”
My
student was thoroughly frightened.
Or
at least he should be. This one’s a thoughtless little blighter, and I planned
to soften him up just right, then have a little chat…pull up to 1,500 feet.
Snap
off the master switch. The engine sputters to a stop.
“All
right, laddie. What are you going to do now, Peter?”
Think
quick, you little prick. Porridge in my flying boots. I know it was you, and if
it wasn’t you, then you did something else. Somewhere along the line.
Peter
was good, I’ll give him that much. Confronted with a maze of small fields,
irrigation ditches, hedgerows, laneways and farmyards, he did a quick turn
fifteen degrees to the right. He flicked in some down elevator as he did it. We
touched to earth as light as a feather. To watch Peter sideslip into that
little pasture, wind whistling gently through the wires, was rather
enlightening.
I
blipped the throttle several times in the descent, to keep the spark-plugs clear
of oiling and fouling up. Each time I did, the sudden surge of power was
swiftly and expertly controlled.
Nothing
seemed to faze this fellow.
Why
was he such a problem?
“Out
you get.” I ordered, clambering over the cockpit side.
I
gingerly tramped around in the long grass.
There
were green, grassy hummocks and what looked like a fox-hole or some kind of
ground-dwelling animal burrow. Everything else was a shade of brown or grey,
faded in the winter sunshine. My lower back was pretty stiff. All the usual
aches. I walked over to a dripping hedgerow and stood there to urinate. He
stood beside the machine.
Making
my way back, my mind was made up. Very little in my career had prepared or
entitled me to exercise authority, or to impose discipline on anyone. Yet I had
the right.
Theoretically,
I had the right.
“You
have some porridge or something on your tie.” And he gave a guilty start.
“I
heard a funny story the other day. Some Bobbies in the village were pelted with
rotten tomatoes and boy, oh, boy. Were they livid with rage. Luckily, that
Corporal Hendry, he’s a good friend. You could say he’s the brother-in-law of
one of them.” I added. “He was on duty at the gate, when those Bobbies showed
up. About the same time you and your mates were coming in through the back
fields.”
“Yes.
Sir.”
The
cub stood there, stock-still. He looked a little pale. But not contrite. Not
yet.
“You
know, Dilling, if you want to substitute a raw egg for a hard-boiled one, well,
frankly I don’t see a whole lot of harm done. It’s actually pretty funny,
especially when you have the sense to pull it on your bone-headed partner. I
also appreciate the fact that the CO had the opportunity to witness what was
indubitably, a star performance.”
The
poor little fucker, and I’m a head taller than him, he’s beginning to sweat
now.
It
crosses my mind that he thinks I’m going to beat the shit out of him. He can
think what he likes.
“I
realize that it may, when required, be difficult in the extreme to
un-substitute an egg. How could you know the CO would bring a friend? A lady
friend? A very important lady friend?”
He’s
definitely beginning to sweat now, and it’s mid-December.
“Um,
um, I’m sorry, sir.”
“How
could you know, that your chum would graciously pass off the offending egg? To
the aforementioned lady? A very important lady she was, too. The daughter, and
the apple of her daddy’s eye, of a very well-known figure in the government.”
Eggs
were rationed, precious and priceless objects to a hungry flier, or even a
lady.
A lady might like a soft-boiled egg.
“And
what about that fountain pen?” I fumed, strutting back and forth in front of
the prankster.
His
guts were quaking now.
“Smith-Barry
was signing leave chits. Our leave
chits.” I bellowed and he flinched.
“You
lack maturity. That’s what it is.” I told the fellow. “I don’t like it when
people waste my time.”
Then
I walked over and climbed up into the cockpit. I never even looked at him, but
he did finally move around to the front of the plane.
“Have
you taken a look at this field, boy?” I asked him in a more reasonable tone.
“Do you know just exactly how you’re going to get us up out of here?”
“Yes,
sir.”
Peter
was very reserved and cool towards me, but you can’t really blame him.
Sometimes
it’s not too pleasant to see ourselves through the eyes of another. I was only
a couple of years older, after all.
He
did fine on takeoff, which was just as I expected. Nothing seemed to disturb
this young man’s equilibrium.
The
blighter was ready. Not that it gave me any pleasure right now.
I
don’t like being the hard case, but sometimes it’s a requirement. It’s all part
of the job. Like I said earlier. I prayed a lot even during practice flying.
Right now I prayed for his future.
Because
while he could fly well enough, he had an arrogant streak that could kill him.
And
I certainly didn’t want that to happen to any student of mine. Those old boots
will wash out. And some of the other pranks were reasonably funny. At least I
thought so.
***
The
Avro 504 was by no means a crate. Around since the start of hostilities, it was
obsolete. Originally used as a fighter, now it was a training ship. The
airframe was covered in the finest Irish linen, and it was framed up with
spruce spars, hickory and ash, braced with piano wire internally and braided
aircraft cable externally. Bad writers say they were canvas and baling wire, but that’s bullshit.
First
flown in 1913, Avros were involved in the bombing of airship hangars at
Friedrichshafen in 1914. It was a fun plane to fly. I loved it, and wasn’t
ashamed to say so.
Every
once in a while, we had to wreck one. If a machine was less than fifty percent
damaged, it would be taken to a depot for repair. Ah, but if it was more than fifty percent damaged, we
could put in a claim and get a new one.
This
was one of my favorite jobs. A little specialty of mine. Let’s face it, I don’t
want to hurt anyone, least of all my students. The problem was, the rotary
engine threw so much oil, and with the open cockpits, enough came inside to
thoroughly soak some of the components. The aircraft gradually, over time,
might become a little tail heavy, enough so that we couldn’t trim it out. Maybe
even a little dangerous.
After
dropping Peter off in front of our group’s buildings, I taxied her out for some
practice at picking up a handkerchief. There were wire rods sticking out from
the front of each lower wingtip for just this purpose.
I
could see him watching.
I
think he hated me right then.
He
survived the war, incidentally. I heard later.
Sooner
or later something has to go wrong, but it helps to keep the skills up. It also
offered a chance to survey the aerodrome. Late Friday afternoon, on a bitter
autumn day. The place was predictably deserted of senior officers, as I took a
quick peek from above at areas where they might have a motor-car parked.
Not
much going on down there. Now was my chance. Time for some crazy flying.
Whack.
Goes the left wing tip, then whack. Goes the right wingtip. This was a little
hairy. I had to appear out of control, like the drunken man style of Asiatic
fighting. And I grabbed up the old rag on a stick as I went by.
Up
with the nose, down with the tail, wings at a drunken thirty-degree angle as I blipped the throttle on and off. I
had the nose up way too high. She was in a stall, but at ground level, and the
left wing scraping along the pavement was all that kept it from going over.
That and a heck of a lot of hard right rudder kicked in frantically as the
power came on and off.
The
tail hit, crash, smack, whoa. One of
my wheels took off and seemed to accelerate off to one side. Speed is relative.
And I crunched the plane into a corner of the hangar, where by some strange
coincidence a few baulks of timber were leaning up against the wall.
That’s
because I had put them there earlier.
I
sat in a cloud of smoke, shakily peeling off my gloves and goggles. From nowhere,
a half-dozen men and a couple of vehicles arrived in a flurry of breathless
activity.
“Nice
work. A little more speed or a little more height, and you might have been
injured.”
“What
are you implying? Just pure, dumb luck.” I assured him.
Quiet
English understatement.
Judging
by appearances, this plane was about eighty-nine percent of a write off. No
sense in doing it by halves.
“Well,
sir. You nailed that hanky just so. Like pig sticking. Now where did it get off
to?”
A
willing set of hands searched around in the debris and gave it to me.
I
promptly blew my nose on it, drawing a laugh from the assembled crowd.
“Are
you injured?”
The
crew around the plane simmered down in the presence of authority, parting like
the Red Sea for Moses.
“No,
sir.” I told the boss. “Just caught out by a burst of sneezing.”
“That’s
a nasty cold that’s going around.” Smith-Barry muttered.
He
frowned a little, and then asked, “What’s all that wood doing here?”
“Some
idiot wants to make a rabbit pen.” I told him. “I thought we’d better ask for
your position.”
A
little sarcasm, but it went right over his head. He was famous for rabbits. He
had ‘em in France, on the aerodrome.
“Yes,
that’s fine.” His face once again cleared of doubt.
Smith-Barry
had a lot on his mind. We tried not to heap additional problems on him.
That’s
why I didn’t tell him my knee hurt, or that I had really smashed my funny bone.
I
didn’t have a cold, but I had tears in my eyes. My left hand was totally numb,
and I wondered if I would be able to get my boots off. Thank God for a
fortnight’s leave.
“I
can give you a lift, Old Boy.”
I
gratefully accepted with one proviso.
“I
need some time to get my things. Can you hold up for ten or twelve minutes?”
His
intelligent face lit up with a huge grin.
“Have
a shower and a shave. You’ll feel a lot more civilized.” He suggested. “I have
a few calls to make. We’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Damn.
Now I had to fake a cold, for the drive up to London, and then remember not to
limp or do what I call an accidental
curtsy, when my knee gave out on a set of stairs or getting out of the car.
***
Bob is on the left, and I believe his former commander, Waldron on the right.
Smith-Barry
was right.
A
long hot shower, and I did feel better.
A
good slug of Navy rum sure didn’t hurt my feelings either. He pulled up to the
door in his big silver car with flags on the front fenders and red, white and
blue roundels on the doors.
“Nice.”
Was all I could say.
“This
is Jennifer.” He said by way of introduction.
“I
meant the car.” I said meekly.
That
car smelled good inside.
“I
know what you meant, old boy. Still, I thought you might like to know.
Jennifer, would you meet Will Tucker?”
“Yes,
I would.” She agreed.
Hmn.
This trip might be interesting, as I gazed at her little feet peeking demurely
out of her frock. Mmn. Dark as it was outside, the scenery in here was just fine.
Even if one couldn’t see much of it. Yes, sirree, Bob.
Funny.
I went to sleep for an hour, maybe more, and then discovered we had dropped her
off somewhere. Perhaps I would get a better look some other time. Still
thinking about Melissa. They say memory is a reconstructive process. The way we
remember things cannot be exactly as they occurred. Memory is curiously
subjective. My own recollection, and I’m not certain how I know this, is that
at about 9:30 a.m., September 4, 1917, a door opened up and she walked in. The
moment I saw her I just knew she was the one.
The
perfection of her skin, her pink, shell-like ear. Her soft, berry-like lips.
The
tiny glint of an earring against her elegant and supple neck.
Ah,
yes.
I
was pretty well trained in the art of observation.
But
Jennifer wasn’t bad.
Men don’t make passes at girls who wear
glasses.
Glasses off...
Whoever
said that never saw Jennifer, glasses perched on her nose, pale-blonde page-boy
haircut and blue eyes twinkling. She had a nice chin, too. Full, pink pouty
lips, perfect smile.
The
man opposite was speaking and I wondered how long? What had I missed?
“Do
you have any recommendations this week?” He asked, plucking a pad and pencil
out of a bulging briefcase.
“I
would have preferred to stay to see them graduate.” I said. “But Peter can go
now, if you need him. One or two others, maybe Cochrane, and Gilchrist.”
My
other classes were a month or so away from graduation.
“Any
thoughts?” The boss murmured.
“Peter
should go somewhere like maybe fifty-six, or sixty, or eighty-five squadron.
Definitely somewhere on fighters.”
He
scribbled in the dingy light of the car, silently purring over the motorway.
“And
why is that?” He asked once caught up.
“Peter
needs to be humbled. They’ll take care of that in a couple of minutes.”
Smith-Barry
grinned.
“And
he needs to be challenged. Surround him with a star-studded team, and he will
shine. Or die quickly.”
Bob
grimaced at that one.
God
knows, the first squadron I was posted to had been a very humbling experience.
“Yes,
I see.” Replied the boss. “And the other two?”
“Well,
they’re competent enough to be sent where the complaints are loudest.” I said.
There
was always a shortage of good pilots.
“That’s
usually the way, isn’t it?” He admitted. “I looked at that Foster character, he
seems to be coming along.”
“Yes,
you were watching. I saw you. Foster did a couple of good landings that day. He
needs another couple of weeks, in fact all the rest need two or three more
weeks.”
He
nodded. I tried to remember to sniffle from time to time.
“Where
did you have this baby stashed? The car, I mean?”
“Hangar
number one, old bean.” Came the absent-minded reply.
The
boss’s thoughts were already elsewhere. Reports lay on the seat beside him. The
boss man had a huge brain, I mean a really brainy guy, and he tended to work on
fifteen jobs at once. He handed over a folder, and I clicked on the dome light,
noting we were under superior-quality craftsmanship in terms of the cabriolet
top.
Top Secret, it said.
I
left it un-opened, being able to guess what was in it.
“There
have been some troubling developments.” He reported. “Last year’s figures
showed that pilots had a life expectancy of about two hundred and six hours
before they became a casualty, whether from injury, death, capture, or a mental
exhaustion case.”
I
digested that thought.
“And
that includes an average of seventy hours in training?”
“Right.”
He acknowledged. “Although some efforts were made over the last year to improve
the situation, we had to draft men out of the system as quickly as we were
shoving men into the ‘improved,’ system. And this year, the life expectancy has
dropped to a little over one hundred and eighty hours. The signs are, it will
drop further.”
“That’s
bad.” I said.
“Very
bad.” He noted.
“So
what’s all this?” I asked, proffering the file.
He
snorted.
“Those
Who Must Be Obeyed. Rubbish, mostly. They think we don’t understand that
aircraft cost money. They sacrifice tens of thousands of men in a day. If we
lose twenty or thirty pilots in a day, that doesn’t sound too bad to their
Lordships or to the public when reading about it in the paper.”
“In
fact, it sounds gallant.” I prodded.
But
pilots are free, sort of. They don’t come with an invoice of hundreds of
pounds. They knock on your door and beg to be let in…
“I
hate that word.” He groaned. “As we are all too aware, activity on the ground
may come to a halt, but in the air it never ends.”
“Money,
money, money.” I grumped. “Do they have any idea how long it takes to train
these people? Do they have any idea of the average skill level of our
opponents?”
Even
in the midst of all the work, Smith-Barry never faltered, but drove himself
even harder. It was well-known that from time to time he went to France. He
kept in touch with developments at the Headquarters of the RFC. He was always
conferring with Boom Trenchard. My
boss believed deeply in the vital importance of our efforts, not just for
England, but for aviators everywhere, even after the war. He was a real live
wire.
“They
don’t understand how fast pilots burn out.” I told him. “Flying at twenty
thousand feet, means working at a temperature of about minus thirty, minus
fifty.”
He
grabbed his pad and pencil. No, he wouldn’t have done that, not on his old
squadron.
“Your
hands and feet go first, then the back and the chest, then finally the abdomen
and legs.” As I watched him write it all down. “I remember one occasion, when I
felt the cold through five pairs of gloves. Warming up involves quite a painful
process. Everyone agrees with it. But do they understand it? It exhausts a man.
Shaking and shivering. It just wears you out.”
People
who have never been there, they just don’t get it.
“We
lose pilots due to exhaustion as much as any other cause.” I explained. “Even
in training.”
Like
it or not, Smith-Barry was the man. Everybody wanted him, and it was crucial that
he succeed. That’s a lot of pressure. And all of his personal knowledge was out
of date as well. A kind of revelation.
“Anything
I can do to help?” I asked.
He
waved an arm at the pile of papers in the car.
“Read
on, MacDuff.”
It’s
all part of the job.
“Oh.”
I had almost forgotten, just a silly little idea that had been running round in
the back of my mind for a few days. “I’m sorry.”
“What
is it, Will?” He asked with a grin. “Piles acting up again?”
“No.
No. It’s just an idea, a little hard to put into words.” I began rather
hesitantly.
This
was a good, or at least semi-original idea.
“We
need to shoot down some of the enemy aces.” I explained. “Knock some of their
top scorers out of the sky, thus proving our, or, excuse me, your methods.”
“Go
on.” Smith-Barry murmured in his cultured voice, with his eyes downcast, and I
felt somehow shabby, a kind of ruffian.
Taking
a deep breath, I went on.
“I
know it’s not sporting, and of course it would have to remain, ah, Top Secret,
but just think about the blow to enemy morale.”
“Have
you been working on this? Could you put it in writing?” He asked casually.
“I’m
not illiterate, sir.” I quipped, drawing a quick glance and a grin from Bob.
“What
sort of resources you might need, how many pilots? I suppose that’s easy. Easy
enough to say.” He corrected. “I can’t promise anything, anything at all…”
“I
figure maybe a couple of squadrons.” I started off, thoughtfully, but picking
up speed as my things clarified. “A license to roam along the front, good
intelligence of the whereabouts of various units, et cetera.”
“Anything
else?” He asked casually. “As if that weren’t enough?”
An
independent command would go very much against the grain in certain quarters.
He
had a quizzical grin on his face, and I guess I didn’t think my idea would go
too far. If he even remembered it.
“I
need at least a dozen Camels, a dozen SE’s, and a dozen two-seaters would be
nice.”
I
outlined my ideas.
May I please have a dozen Sopwith Camels.
“Think
about it, Bob. Real two-seaters, doing real missions, escorted by nice,
competent pilots with good training.” I told him as he stared into my eyes.
Presumably
in disbelief.
“And
I need to train the SE pilots how to kill Camels, and I want to train Camel
jockeys how to kill SE’s. And then train them all how to kill each other. Only
then take to the air over the Western Front.” I noted somewhat superfluously.
“Bear in mind that I might not be the man to lead it. I have a few ideas on the
training and tactics.”
“And
if it was all nice and secret?” Robert asked.
“We
could nail the Red Baron, or Kaiser Willy if you want. We could nail Jesus H.
Christ Himself, if He came down with all the angels of heaven.”
The
boss reddened a mite at that. Let him stew on it a while.
How
about a drink, I thought in silent prayer.
“Have
a drink, old top.” He said it carelessly, eyes glazed over with something in
his head, and I reached for the little cooler box between the rear seat and the
jump seats.
Obviously,
the idea intrigued him. Little did I know what a juggernaut had just been set
in motion. Grateful to see a cold bottle of wine, as I had been working very
hard myself in the previous months. Ever since my crash, rehabilitation and
return to duty.
“You
do realize that heroes are officially discouraged.” He muttered. “When you say
Top Secret, I don’t think you quite realize what that may imply.”
Oh, I think I do.
But
I left it unsaid. Some things are better that way. It would require a very
special group of people. The kind of men who could live away from the
limelight, and stick to it like glue. Professionals.
The lights
of yet another wet village swung by as the vehicle slowed over the cobbles. Our
chauffeur was silent. Presumably a trusted friend, for the man across from me
didn’t appear to care if we were overheard.
“If…when
this war ends.” He began, in an almost dream-like tone. “The world must change.
It can’t stay the way it is.”
I
never discuss politics with my employers.
Experience
has taught me.
“Yes,
sir.” I said politely, watching the world of darkness speed by as we made our
way through the night.
“Of
course, we have to win first.” He added with a significant look.
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