Spring Morning

I

THE persistent shaking of his shoulder defeated him. He opened an eye and peered. There was a glimmer of gray daylight.

‘Nearly five o’clock, sir. Early patrol, sir.’

He cursed. The man let go his shoulder and stealthily retired.

He put his feet out and sat on the edge of the canvas bed, holding his head. He felt extremely low. He gazed bleakly at the calendar from home, hanging on the wall. April 1917 . . .

For a few hours the previous night he had obtained a little relaxation, but it had taken a lot of liquor. He was toughened to it. His head was clear, but his mouth was indescribable.

He felt the damp cold. He pulled on clothes over his pyjamas; he hunted for things and made some noise. There was a stir in the beds occupied by the other two Flight Commanders, and a muffled protest was heard. He was too bitter to reply. He finished off with a long woolen muffler wrapped round and round his body, pulled on his heavy leather flying coat, and strapped it tightly. He stalked down the bare wooden stairs of the little château and walked up to the airdrome.

The morning air was cold on his forehead. It pulled him together. The familiar habit of responsibility braced him; by the time he reached the canvas hangars he felt and looked sourly competent. Six machines were drawn up in a military line. The six propellers were turning over slowly. The mechanics and riggers had been up half an hour earlier, and the big engines had been started ten minutes before. The arrangements all went like clockwork — on the ground.

He looked up into the gray. The men had consolations; while he was climbing up into the cold sky they would be getting their breakfast. At this hour there was not even a cup of coffee for the pilots, and he fumed at the injustice of it. There was never any coffee before eight o’clock. He had protested, they had all protested. There was still no coffee.

The pilots were in their cockpits or standing by their engines. He paused behind each machine and listened. The wicked-looking little gray and brown pursuit airplanes quivered slightly with the vibration. When he came to the third machine his indignation about the coffee increased. Number Three was the new man’s. He had gone to bed pretty early. Probably he had n’t slept too well, for this was his first show. The Commander listened to the engine with particular care and eyed the pilot narrowly. He was a goodlooking kid.

‘You stick to the formation like glue.’

‘Yes, sir!’

The greatest risk of losing the boy was during the first few shows. The Commander was going to keep a close eye on him and so was everyone else; he did n’t have to tell them. He nodded and went on. The boy looked pleased that his machine had passed inspection. The Commander had gone over it with a fine-tooth comb the previous evening, but the boy did n’t know that.

Each machine had a different number and some individual mascot put on by its pilot for luck. For example, the right interplane strut of Number Four was wrapped around with a fragment of a pair of ladies’ corsets. . . .

The Flight Sergeant saluted and reported that all was well, while the Commander insinuated himself into his little cockpit. He buckled the broad belt and opened the engine up. As he did so he pulled the control stick back against his stomach to hold the tail down.

He looked at his wrist watch — five minutes yet. He watched the various dials. He settled his flying cap and mask comfortably on his head and saw that the goggles were clear and clean. He gave the engine full throttle. The roar drowned out the world. The airplane trembled and thrummed; the wheels pressed against the wooden chocks. Ho got full r.p.m.; he held it there for a minute and turned the throttle back. He looked down the line. One by one they throttled back and waited for him. He looked at his watch again.

II

Time! He raised his hand above his head. One by one they all did the same as a signal that they were ready. He waved. The mechanic pulled away the chocks in front of the wheels. He taxied out into the clear, turned, opened up. A short rush and he was climbing steeply. He turned on the climb until he was headed east.

Around three thousand feet the light grayed as he passed through the clouds. Then he saw a great sea of ragged cloud tops and streamers, all motionless. It was about ten miles to the Lines.

He throttled back to let the others catch up and get into formation. Slowly they closed in and formed into their allotted positions behind him. They passed seven thousand feet. He intended to cross the Lines at about twelve thousand.

Now the cold began to get him. He had n’t much to think about and sat glumly in his seat. The sun was still low on the eastern horizon. To the south and below him he saw a large congregation of airplanes wheeling in a great circle, a bombing raid getting into formation over the rendezvous, while the escorting pursuit squadrons took up their places above. Ahead he saw an occasional speckle of tiny black puff balls — the anti-aircraft batteries were awake on the other side of the Lines. He felt the cold most in his arms between the elbow and shoulder, but was chilled all over.

Ten thousand; he looked back. His men were close behind him in V formation. There was no suggestion of any motion except in the shimmering circles of the propellers. Sometimes the machines altered height a little in respect to one another, slowly, as though they were being pulled up and down on invisible strings. There was no sensation of speed, but the air-speed indicator read one hundred and ten. He glanced over the side and picked up landmarks through the haze and broken clouds. He tightened up and looked at his oil pressure, r.p.m., gas pressure, height; they were about twelve thousand. He leveled off.

In the spade grip on top of the control stick was a little push lever, and a flexible cable ran from it toward the nose. It was the gun control. On either side of the top of the fuselage was a machine gun pointing ahead through the propeller. The propeller caused pulsations in the neat hydraulic arrangement which interrupted the firing of each gun as the propeller blade passed the muzzle. The streams of bullets converged a short distance in front. Aim was by aiming the whole airplane, and the back of every bullet was hollowed out and filled with intensely inflammable substance.

As he approached the Lines he tested the guns. His gloved thumb rested against the gun button; he pressed. There was a stutter from each gun and he felt the vibration of the recoils. He only fired a short burst. A chorus of sizzling tap-tap-taps came to his ears as the rest of them tested their guns.

This was the signal for the formation to close up; from now on they might have to go into action at any time. His two wing men crept in closer until the tips of their wings were only a few feet from his tail surfaces. They were a trifle above him. A little higher yet came the next two, their planes nearly touching the wing men’s tails. The second in command brought up the rear. The new kid’s machine was the rear one on the right and he noted that his second in command was keeping close behind the boy. No one was going to be able to dive unexpectedly on the rear of the formation while his second in command was there. Except for the new man, whom he had to teach, they all knew their jobs. Now it was up to him.

III

They crossed the Lines. He was keenly on the lookout — north, south, east, west; down, up, and especially toward the sun, for he could not see far in that direction. He began to be very busy. It was up to him not to miss anything. On this hazy morning he might sweep the sky carefully through his goggles and see nothing; less than a minute later several formations might be in sight. Coming head-on with aggregate speed of four miles a minute might bring them into combat in a few seconds, and from bitter experience he knew that it would be death for about half his formation if he let them in for a surprise attack. Unceasingly, with a mechanical system, he quartered the air with his eyes — to the left, above, below, and ahead; then a little left rudder so as to open up the blind area ahead of the engine cowling, and below, above, and ahead again, shading the sun with a gauntlet for long moments while he gave this direction particular scrutiny. Then a long curve half right, through which they all followed him as closely as ever. He searched the air behind them. Directly he had finished one such cycle, he began another, after a glance at his instrument board and one at the ground. He sat in his seat, cold and bad-tempered, but alert.

The air directly in front of them filled with black shell bursts; they heard the venomous crackling of exploding shells, curiously muffled through the roar of their engines. They dashed through the dark smoke. The Flight Commander felt a sense of relief. The first burst from a battery was the most dangerous. Now he was warned that the guns were ranging on the formation, and could dodge. He started to count. At the height at which the planes were flying it took about ten seconds for the shells to reach them, after the guns had been aimed and fired. Immediately after the first burst the enemy would fire again, into the path ahead and with a correction of the first error. When he had counted up to eight he swung the formation suddenly to the right. Two seconds later there was a cloud of shell bursts where the formation would have been had he not turned. He counted again. He banked his machine slightly, without any rudder, and sideslipped while still pointing on his new course. The others followed instantly. He lost height through the sideslip; this would be difficult to detect from the ground.

The next burst was above them and to the left. From the number of shells he knew that several batteries at different points were firing, triangulating one another’s aim. This time he kept straight on, but throttled down. It was a lightning game of chess, striving to anticipate the other’s move. He was betting on their expecting him to turn, so he did n’t.

‘. . . Seven — eight — nine — ’

Right and left of the formation the air burst into familiar black smoke. The enemy had aimed for a turn.

He had them beaten — so far. He opened up full throttle and started to count again. He kept straight ahead, climbing hard. He glanced around for the first time and saw with satisfaction that the whole formation was close together. The next salvo from the batteries was below and far behind. So much for that! More salvos. He kept up the counting and dodging, but in the crowded action of a patrol flight the situation had definitely moved over into second place in his mind. He was moving on to the next incident. Left, right, behind, he resumed his search even more carefully. His sense of having everything under control had been momentarily disturbed by the anti-aircraft business. Within a minute everything was calm again. The formation swept eastward over the enemy territory.

IV

He reached in his pocket and fumbled for a bar of chocolate. His fingers were clumsy. He peeled off the silver paper without looking, his eyes searching the thin air. He munched the nuts in the chocolate, wondering how the new man had been affected by his first fire.

‘Lucky for him it was n’t worse . . . long way to fall . . . in flames, maybe. . . . Bet he was scared. . . . Oh, well, who would n’t be?’

Suddenly he stiffened. He craned his masked head forward. A little gathering of midges had appeared, ahead and to the left. Attack!

One hand jerked the throttle wide open. The other pulled the control stick. He began to climb, with a slight turn toward the sun. He glanced hurriedly over his shoulder and noted that the rear machines had fallen behind a little; they had been caught by surprise. As he climbed, the Commander rocked his machine from side to side, a signal to his formation that he was preparing to attack. Less than five seconds had passed since the enemy was sighted; the first manœuvre of the action was under way.

His brain was working with incredible intensity. He prayed that they had not been seen. The two formations had been flying almost parallel courses in opposite directions. He was turning slightly away from them. Two necessities were clear — to gain height on the enemy and to get between them and the sun. Height, even a hundred feet, meant everything. Whoever was lower must perforce be on the defensive. Whoever got started first — two seconds, even one — seized the advantage.

They were getting closer. Now he knew that they had sighted him, for their leader’s nose went up for height.

‘Too late! Too late!' He yelled in exultation. He had them.

V

He was several hundred feet higher than they and he was definitely up sun. They could not outclimb his formation. They could not get around him. Vigilance was rewarded. He turned rapidly toward the enemy, then on to a course parallel to theirs. He could afford to take his time. Unless their leader were insane, they would not attempt to dive away. In this swift work in the sky the one thing that for single-seaters was utterly, irretrievably fatal was to turn tail and let pursuers empty their machine guns into the planes’ defenseless backs.

They were close now. Against his advantage of height and sun, the enemy formation numbered nine. They were flying in a tight V formation, as careful as his own. He throttled back a trifle to let his rear men close up. He was utterly cold. He felt neither anger nor excitement; his mind was racing at the greatest intensity of purpose. He was too old a hand to rush in recklessly. He was out for every advantage that experience had taught him.

He looked around again and momentarily he felt a glow of pride. His two wing men were almost touching him, their wing tips close to his tail. Behind them were the next two — just as close, in their turn. He noted the new boy’s machine; his second in command was fifty feet higher, at the rear.

He snapped his head back to look at the enemy again. They had not changed position. He held on for a few more seconds. He could see the enemy leader looking up at him, watching every move. He throttled down a little, falling back toward the enemy’s rear, and made a quick turn toward them. The shadow from his formation flicked across the others.

Now!

He rocked his wings once and threw the stick forward. Engine wide open, he dived, one hand on the throttle, the other grasping the control stick firmly, with his thumb against the gun button. The air screamed through the wires. Every nerve in his body was focused on the leader’s machine on to which he was diving. It increased in size at an enormous rate. Suddenly it leaped up in a swift climbing turn to let him by and then dive on to his tail. He turned wide, then pulled the stick back, still following. The seat drove up against him, his shoulders hunched under the terrific strain. No pretty flying here — just pull and kick where she had to go, at full throttle. No time, even, to pray that everything would hold. No possible scrap of time to think of such a thing.

The enemy was still in front, rushing round in a vertical turn, trying desperately to shake him off. Several times his sights came full on, but he did not fire — he was concent rated on flying.

They turned, both of them, and whirled like madmen. By some strange clairvoyance he sensed the enemy’s next move the instant it was conceived. Suddenly the quarry’s nose flashed up, up past the vertical — Immelmann turn, keeping on until he was upside down, then rolling over sideways, ready to dive back and become the attacker.

The Commander foresaw the manœuvre, an old one, and hurtled around in a vertical climbing turn. Halfway, he realized that he was a fraction slow. They came level again. The enemy had opened out the gap, but he failed to seize the advantage and delayed his next turn a second. The Commander had a fierce prevision of victory.

The two machines flashed about with increasing violence, but he was drawing closer all the time. His guns never spoke, and he could see from the other’s manœuvres how dismaying was this silent, relentless pursuit. He crouched in his tiny cockpit, oblivious of everything in the world except a savage intention to kill, utterly brutal, utterly ruthless, his whole being turned into a remorseless machine intent on destruction. Not to wound, not to disable, only to kill — to kill, to see the enemy go down in flames. He had schooled himself to repress excitement; his mind was clear and hard and calculating. The nervous tension, drawn tight until it twanged and screamed, made him pant for breath. . . . The price of survival.

The enemy stood up one wing tip and maintained the tightest possible turn. He followed. The terrific force made the wings shudder. It seemed that everything must fly to pieces, but still they both kept their throttles wide open. This was the crisis. The enemy pilot, momentarily indecisive, swung level again. The Commander cut across the invisible circle, and moved his stick central a fraction of a second later than the other.

It was over. For an instant of time he was behind the other, so close behind that it looked as though his propeller must actually cut the rudder to shreds; his gun muzzles seemed to be resting on the other pilot’s shoulder blades.

Finish !

With grim satisfaction he pressed the gun control. There was a loud stutter from the guns. The tracer bullets, hollowed out and charged with fire, made a twin path of flame into the head and shoulders of the enemy pilot, through his body into the gas tanks. The helmeted head dropped forward . . . the airplane dived. The pilot fell on to the stick . . . a sheet of red and white flame gushed out. The wreck whistled down its long journey, a thing of streaming fire and roasting flesh.

The Commander watched it without compassion. Everything human had gone from him. An incident had moved into the past — making way. It was less than thirty seconds from the time he had first rocked his wings.

VI

He pulled up in a great climbing turn. They were all off to one side of him, swirling — a dog fight. He was just in time to see one of his own machines diving furiously at one of the enemy. It got out of control — dashed into an enemy airplane beneath. The two struck with tremendous force, the more sickening because the roar of his engine rendered the crash inaudible. A terrible puppet show. The two airplanes flew to pieces. One of the wrecks burst into flames. The heavy engines plunged. A number of wings fluttered and twisted down slowly like tissue paper. He saw the body of his own pilot thrown out by the first impact, fall away, legs grotesquely apart, arms clutching empty air. It dwindled, became a speck, struggling in the last few seconds of life — disappeared.

He hurled into the fight. The air was filled with the flame streams of thousands of tracer bullets, the roar of many engines, in the whirlpool of fighting. Ahead, machine after machine tore into sight. In a fraction of time he noted markings: circles, he swrnng away; crosses, his thumb rammed home on the gun control. He could not stick to anyone; it would be fatal in this dog fight. One of the enemy would be on his tail.

Black crosses flicked into view just overhead. He pulled back sharply. The underside of the machine was in front of his guns. No time for careful aim. The guns stuttered. The enemy swung away, tried to dive. As he watched, Number Four rushed in and delivered a short burst at point-blank range. The enemy dived past the vertical, both wings snapped off.

Back again; keep going — keep going! Short bursts whenever the enemy could be fired on; lightning decisions between friend and foe; a series of miraculous escapes from collision as the pursuit planes milled about; wrenching, kicking the controls, slamming the fast airplane from one crazy position into another, heedless of whether it held. Time and again the wires ceased vibrating, stiffened, strained to snapping point.

He caught sight of a fight going on away from the main mêlée — two of the enemy and one of his men. Simultaneously he saw a number. The new kid’s! Instinctively he had known it must be; the others were too experienced to get isolated. Cursing at the top of his voice, he kicked around toward the impending disaster. Only a few seconds to reach them, but it might be too late. The boy had no chance. Veterans were attacking him. Desperate, he started to dive, two streams of bullets tearing through his wings. The Commander saw it coming and shouted: ‘Don’t! Don’t dive!'

The words were devoured by the hungry roar of four big engines. The upper pursuer dived a little, the lower one eased back. Twin streams of tracer smashed together into an easy target. The boy flung up his arms, writhed in agony amid the hoses of flame. Down went the machine, turning over and over, spinning and diving, to a deep grave in the earth two miles below.

The Commander went berserk, insane with rage. His self-control, which was part of his job, shivered into splinters. He could no longer restrain himself. He no longer wanted to. He had been too long on the Front — too long. There came a snapping point. He dashed after the victors like a mad dog; they were below him now. They had followed the boy’s machine down a bit.

He jammed his throttle hard against the end of the quadrant and bore forward on the control stick. The engine note rose to a shrill moan, the flying wires reached a horrid scream. He aimed his machine at the lower adversary. The enemy — deputy leader, by the streamers tied to his struts — saw him coming. He pulled back. The Commander held on, dead to any danger of collision, striving with every nerve in his body to come to close quarters where he could not miss. His antagonist was no tyro like the boy he had just shot down. He manœuvred brilliantly. But it was of no avail against the man who trumped every trick, pitiless, avenging. The risks, the painfully learned rules of the game, went for nothing.

The second enemy rushed up behind him and opened fire. For a few seconds the bullet stream tore fabric off the centre section of the wings. The aim closed in. The Commander’s left arm was jerked forward as if by a hammer. Brown leather flicked off his sleeve. Then the firing ceased. He paid no attention, but continued his mad-dog pursuit. They dashed through what was left of the mêlée, missing collisions by a miracle.

It could n’t last. There was a little smoke ahead, then a little more, then a blast of white flame. He continued to fire into the blazing mass, following it down, half-crazed because he could do no more. Then he pulled out. He looked up for the machine which had been firing at him. It was not there — there was only his second in command, circling some five hundred feet above him. He realized that his pursuer had been shot dowm; he knew then why the firing behind him had ceased. He looked below, but he could see nothing of the falling plane.

VII

He climbed back to rejoin what was left of his formation. The fight was apparently over. He saw four enemy machines diving away to the east. For a while two of his own pursued; then they realized the hopelessness of it and returned. The four of them were together again. Instantly they formed behind him, one on each wing tip, the second in command at the open end of the V, and slightly above.

He circled for a few minutes. Only four of the enemy could be seen, retreating. He assumed that five must have been shot down; then he counted. He had got their leader; the second had been smashed in collision; the third downed by Number Four; the fourth and fifth had just been finished. His own losses he knew only too well. Number Five was missing — that had been the collision. And the new kid’s.

He turned west. Five for two, but he felt no exultation. Number Five had been on the Front as long as any and they’d miss him. And the new kid, — tough, that, — a bare twenty-four hours on the Front, finished in his first flight over the Lines. Nineteen — hell, what of it? He was only twentytwo himself.

Anger had gone. He only felt unspeakably weary. He could see nothing but the great brown and green plain spread below, hazy in the early sun. The Lines were far ahead — the formation was still a dozen miles deep in enemy territory. He was flying at about nine thousand. He started to climb, as a matter of precaution. He wanted to be in a position to give battle or to avoid it, according to the odds. They gained twelve thousand and he flattened out. They had an hour’s gas left — plenty of margin to get back to base. He kept up his methodical watch, but it was an effort. He had made hundreds of patrols, but he could not remember having felt so exhausted.

‘One of these days,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll be a bit too slow. And then —’

His vision was blotted out by a flash . . . the deafening crump of high explosive partially stunned him . . . shell fragments drove through the wings. He was thrown over on one side. Dazed but conscious, he heard the engine note mount past anything he had ever known. Its vibration was shaking the machine to pieces. He fumbled for the switch and turned off the ignition. The vibration decreased, but the airplane was diving. He could not see clearly. But he pulled the stick gently into a central position and pushed the rudder straight.

His vision cleared. He was in a steep dive. He eased back. The whole machine was shuddering. The propeller had been blown off; the engine vibration had shaken all the instruments out of the board, and they were hanging from it in a mess. The compass was kicking about between his feet. The wings were torn in a dozen places and the rear flying wires on the right wing had been cut. The ends were streaming out behind. The left wing had an ominous flutter; he surmised that one of the spars was fractured. Whichever way he looked, the airplane was a wreck. Yet it still glided along under control. Instinctively he waited for the wings to go — for the end to come. His head was still muzzy. He knew what had happened — the first salvo from the batteries had exploded right under him. But by a miracle he was still alive. He took heart and looked about for the formation. He discovered it, a few hundred feet above him. He could see that the machines had not been badly hit, for their propellers were turning. They began to glide down. . . .

Cautiously he tried the lateral controls. They answered, sluggishly. He knew that the elevators were all right, otherwise he could not have pulled out of the dive. The same went for the rudder.

He went on gliding, a flapping wreck, but still alive. If only she held together, there was still hope. As the effect of the explosion wore off, he began to figure. He was at about eleven thousand feet. There had been a very slight easterly breeze when they had taken off; the Lines were eleven or twelve miles away. His gliding angle was about one in six. It looked as though he could glide the twelve miles, unless something interfered. The antiaircraft batteries were still shooting at the planes, but fortunately making very bad practice. He knew that there would be several more batteries to cross, but, occupied as he was in wondering whether the wreck would hold together, their menace did not bother him.

He glided straight on, keeping the machine at its best angle, as slowly as it would go without stalling or pancaking. His formation kept close behind, except his second in command, who came down anxiously alongside. The Commander gestured at the broken flying wires. The second in command resumed his station. They grouped themselves protectively around him. They were not going to let him be attacked.

He watched the altimeter readings, and checked the distance as he passed over the little villages and towns. He was going well. There was some hot fire from anti-aircraft guns, but the gliding angle puzzled the enemy. The bursts were constantly too high. At five thousand he pulled his Very pistol out of its pocket, examined the color of the cartridge, and considered the situation once again. No point in the whole formation gliding down to the ground, coming in for machine-gun and rifle fire.

He raised his hand and fired the pistol. The colored light flared in the sky. It was the signal for his second in command to take over and lead the formation home. He could trust his second to keep over him at a safe height until he was down, without unnecessarily risking lives. There was nothing more that they could do for him. The second in command gunned his engine, drew ahead. The others followed. He waved at the Commander, circled back, drew ahead again, without losing height.

VIII

Three thousand. The ground looked painfully close. Everything was very quiet, except for the soughing of the wind past wings and wires. He heard scattered machine-gun fire from the ground. The Lines were in full view ahead. He looked straight down the fuselage at them, past the engine. . . . Going to be pretty close. For a moment he considered making a landing in enemy territory.

‘Hell, no!'

Two thousand . . . the enemy’s first support and communication trenches now . . . several batteries under camouflage. . . . Fifteen hundred . . . more machine-gun fire. . . . One thousand . . .

The fire from below became intense. He could hear it distinctly. His brain told him that there was little chance of his being hit, but he tried to crowd still more of himself into the metal bucket seat beneath him. Unpleasant to be shot at from below at close range.

Neck or nothing! He was over No Man’s Land . . . trenches . . . he had a swift impression of figures waving from them. He concentrated on the ground where he must crash . . . wire, lots of wire. . . .

‘Damn the wire! Oh, to hell with all this wire!’

He must crash close to a trench so that they could get him in before the enemy started shelling the wreck.

Now he flattened out, stalling down. He felt the machine sink under him. Ahead, he saw one of the few reasonable patches of ground. Now they were about to hit. He pulled the stick back hard. The nose came up sluggishly. The machine pancaked into the mud with a crash.

Everything was mixed in the shock.

Then he realized that his legs were not broken. He undid the safety belt and wriggled out sideways into the mud. It was painful to struggle. He ached everywhere, but he stumbled a few yards to the communication trench. He tumbled into it. He leaned against the wall of the trench and looked up. His formation was flying low, a few hundred feet and to the west. From one of the machines a hand waved. The soft spring breeze brought him the stench of rotting bodies. . . .

Wearily, the Commander waved back.