Vets Might Fly Read online

  into the air, scream at the top of our voices and run off the square at

  top speed.

  And I had to admit that it seemed quite a brain wave. We tried it a

  few times then we began to put our hearts into it, jumping high,

  yelling like dervishes then scuttling away into the various openings

  among the hotels around the square.

  It must have looked marvellous from the balcony. The great mass of

  white-clad men going through the long routine in a cathedral hush, a

  few seconds of complete immobility at the end then the whole concourse

  erupting with a wild yell and disappearing, leaving the empty square

  echoing. And this last touch had another desirable aspect; it was

  further proof of our latent savagery. The enemy would have quaked at

  that chilling sound.

  The sergeant had a little trouble with a lad in my flight, a tall

  gangling red-haired youth called Cromarty who stood in the line in

  front of me a few feet to my right. Cromarty seemed unable to enter

  into the spirit of the thing.

  "Come on, lad," the sergeant said one day.

  "Put a bit of devil into it! You got to sound like a killer. You're

  floating up and down there like a ruddy fairy godmother."

  Cromarty did try, but the thing seemed to embarrass him. He gave a

  little hop, an apologetic jerk of his arms and a feeble cry.

  The sergeant ran his hand through his hair.

  "No, no, lad! You've got to let yourself go!" He looked around him.

  "Here, Devlin, come out and show 'im how it's done."

  Devlin, a grinning Irishman, stepped forward. The scream was the high

  point of his day. He stood relaxed for a moment then without warning

  catapulted himself high in the air, legs and arms splayed, head back,

  while a dreadful animal cry burst from his gaping mouth.

  The sergeant took an involuntary step backwards.

  "Thanks, Devlin, that's fine," he said a little shakily, then he turned

  to Cromarty.

  "Now you see how I want it, boy, just like that. So work at it."

  Cromarty nodded. He had a long, serious face and you could see he

  wanted to oblige. After that I watched him each day and there was no

  doubt he was improving. His inhibitions were gradually being worn

  down.

  It seemed that nature was smiling on our efforts because the great day

  dawned with blue skies and warm sunshine. Every man among the hundreds

  who marched out into the square had been individually prepared. Newly

  bathed, fresh haircut, spotless white shorts and singlet. We waited in

  our motionless lines before the newly painted door of the Grand while,

  on the balcony above, gold braid glinted on the air marshal's cap.

  He stood among a knot of the top RAF brass of Scar borough, while in

  one corner I could see our sergeant, erect in long white flannels, his

  great chest sticking out further than ever. Beneath us the sea

  shimmered and the golden bay curved away to the Riley cliffs.

  The sergeant raised his hand.

  "Peep' went the whistle and we were off.

  There was something exhilarating about being part of this smooth

  machine.

  I had a wonderful sense of oneness with the arms and legs which moved

  with mine all around. It was effortless. We had ten exercises to do

  and at the end of the first we stood rigid for ten seconds, then the

  whistle piped and we started again.

  The time passed too quickly as I revelled in our perfection. At the

  end of exercise nine I came to attention waiting for the whistle,

  counting under my breath. Nothing stirred, the silence was profound.

  Then, from the motionless ranks, as unexpected as an exploding bomb,

  Cromarty in front of me launched himself upwards in a tangle of

  flailing limbs and red hair and unleashed a long bubbling howl. He had

  put so much into his leap that he seemed to take a long time to come

  down and even after his descent the shattering sound echoed on.

  Cromarty had made it at last. As fierce and warlike a scream, as high

  a jump as ever the sergeant could desire. The only snag was that he

  was too soon.

  When the whistle went for the last exercise,a lot of people didn't hear

  it because of the noise and many others were in a state of shock and

  came in late.

  Anyway, it was a shambles and the final yell and scuttle a sad

  anticlimax. I myself, though managing to get a few inches off the

  ground, was unable to make any sound at all.

  Had Cromarty not been serving in the armed forces of a benign democracy

  he would probably have been taken quietly away and shot. As it was,

  there was really nothing anybody could do to him. NCOs weren't even

  allowed to swear at the men.

  I felt for the PT sergeant. There must have been a lot he wanted to

  say but he was grievously restricted. I saw him with Cromarty later.

  He put his face close to the young man's.

  "You ... you . .." His features worked as he fought for words

  "You THiNG you!"

  He turned and walked away with bowed shoulders. At that moment I'm

  sure he felt like a pawn too.

  Chapter Seventeen There is no doubt that when I looked back at my life

  in Darrow by I was inclined to bathe the whole thing in a rosy glow,

  but occasionally the unhappy things came to mind.

  That man, distraught and gasping on the surgery steps.

  "I's no good, I can't bring him in. He's as stiff as a board!"

  My stomach lurched. It was another one.

  "Jasper, you mean CVPC hP'c in the back of mv car. right here."

  I ran across the pavement and opened the car door. It was as I feared,

  a handsome Dalmatian stretched in a dreadful tetanic spasm, spine

  arched, head craning desperately backward, legs like four wooden rods

  groping at nothing.

  I didn't wait to talk but dashed back into the house for syringe and

  drugs.

  I leaned into the car, tucked some papers under the dog's head,

  injected the apomorphine and waited.

  The man looked at me with anxious eyes.

  "What is it?"

  "Strychnine poison ing, Mr Bartle. I've just given an emetic to make

  him vomit." As I spoke the animal brought up the contents of his

  stomach on to the paper.

  "Will that put him right?"

  "It depends on how much of the poison has been absorbed." I didn't

  feel like telling him that it was almost invariably fatal, that in fact

  I had treated six dogs in the last week with the same condition and

  they had all died.

  "We'll just have to hope."

  He watched me as I filled another syringe with barbiturate.

  "What are you doing now?"

  "Anaesthetising him." I slipped the needle into the radial vein and as

  I slowly trickled the fluid into the dog's bloodstream the taut muscles

  relaxed and he sank into a deep slumber.

  "He looks better already," Mr Bartle said.

  "Yes, but the trouble is when the injection wears off he may go back

  into a spasm. As I say, it all depends on how much of the strychnine

  has got into his System. Keep him in a quiet place with as little

  noise as possible. Any sound can bring on a spasm. When he shows

  signs of coming out of