Twice Bitten

The rule of "once bitten, twice shy" seems to have no currency with you,' said Major Cundall.

'Under the circumstances, you might say "once bitten" means we're on to something.'

Cundall sighed but his blood was up. Winthrop saw past the mask now. Behind the cynicism, the flight commander was a tiger. He had not won his DSO and Bar with wittily cutting remarks.

'So Diogenes insists we have another bash at Malinbois?'

'It's the general thought,' Winthrop explained.

Through an enchantment, Albright's cracked plates had been developed. Jagged white lines streaked across the photographs and areas were blank, but the castle could be seen. Winthrop laid out the photographs on the farmhouse table. The vampire pilots gathered round.

'This is the tower we're interested in,' he said.

Cundall considered the indicated area. 'Looks like a diving board. Do the air pirates of JG1 make prisoners walk the plank?'

The top of the tower was sheared off. A board affair jutted out of it. The area of interest corresponded with the most damage to the plate.

'What's that shadow?' Bigglesworth asked, 'mostly under the blotch? Is that an observer? A gun position?'

Diogenes had also thought it a puzzle. Winthrop tapped the scale marks at the edge of the photograph.

'If it's an observer, he must be a giant,' he said. 'Fifteen feet tall.'

'It's a gargoyle, old thing,' put in Courtney. 'Devilish fond of gargoyles, the Hun.'

'Malinbois was French until JG1 moved in.'

'Plus de gargoyles en France, too,' said Courtney. 'You should have clocked the mademoiselle from Armentieres I sported on my last leave.'

Some pilots laughed bitterly. Winthrop suffered less ragging on this visit. Nobody mentioned Spenser or Albright. He noticed the odd new face and tried not to think which old ones were absent. There was an army show on, readying for the enemy push everyone expected before spring. Cundall's Condors had spent the last few days knocking spotters out of the sky.

'Looks like we're in for a twilight patrol,' Lacey said, almost keen. 'If we flit over en masse, we'll ruffle the red fighting eagle's feathers.'

'Baron von Richthofen,' Roy Brown said, miserably. 'Someone has to kill him some time.'

'Someone has to kill everyone some time,' said Cundall, thinking it over. At bottom, he was a cautious sort. It was probably why he had survived this long.

'Diogenes suggests a full patrol this time,' Winthrop said, knowing the flight commander was entitled to be annoyed with the change of policy.

'Fair enough,' Cundall said, mildly. 'Courtney, pick an observer and take the Harry Tate.'

The pilot - a Tasmanian, Winthrop had learned - groaned. The RE8 was not a popular kite. They were called 'flapping ducks', close relatives of the sitting variety.

'I'll fly the tip of the formation. Don't fret so, Courtney. I'll baby you through.'

Courtney theatrically clutched his heart. For his part, Winthrop was pleased the flight commander was choosing the men for this patrol rather than delegating the task.

'Since we had such little fortune with the As last time,' Cundall said, cruelly, 'we'll put the Bs in the air this show. Bigglesworth, Ball, Brown, you're up. And, to add a little alphabetical variety, let us, by all means, have a Williamson to balance things out.'

The pilots began climbing into their Sidcots and hauling on fleece-lined boots. Albert Ball, bent the wrong way in several places, wriggled into flying kit by unorthodox but efficient means. Roy Brown, the sour little Canadian, drank from a pitcher of milk and cow's blood.

'Tummy trouble,' Ginger explained. 'Brown's soothing his ulcer.'

Brown looked pained but kept drinking. Winthrop understood how a man in this line of work could nurture an ulcer.

'I say,' Courtney said, 'my usual dance partner in the Harry Tate is Curtiss Stryker and he's off sick. Ate someone who disagreed with him, I fear.'

Allard looked grim, expecting to be volunteered. Instead, Cundall turned to Winthrop, smiling evilly.

'Winthrop, my precious prince, have you ever fired a Lewis gun in anger?'

'I know which end to hold.'

'That'll do you.' He thumbed towards the ceiling. 'Ever been up?'

'I've been given a lift across the Channel a couple of times. I've even held the stick and not plunged to earth.'

'A veteran,' Courtney snorted.

'Topping,' Cundall said, 'you won't puke or anything. Care to come along on this jaunt? After all, it is Diogenes' show. Not mandatory, or anything. Just thought you might like the trip. The scenery is terribly picturesque at sunset.'

'I'd love to come,' Winthrop said, evenly. He was not entitled to be afraid.

'Good man,' said Cundall. 'Ginger, find our friend some kit, would you? He's a warm one, so we'd best keep him that way.'

Whatever the patrol was like, it could not be as bad as hanging around waiting for it to come back. If it came back. He had the impulse to jot a few lines. He pulled out his pocketbook and a stub of pencil.

Last will and testament?' Courtney asked.

No, just notes. Gathering intelligence is a matter of making notes."

'Whatever you say, old son. I always cheer myself up thinking of people I owe money to. If I go west, plenty will be mightily browned off.'

Winthrop thought hard, and wrote 'Dear Cat, if you get this, I've run into serious bother. Don't let it knock you too much. Love you desperately. Edwin.'

It was feeble but it would have to do. He begged an envelope from Algy Lissie and gummed the letter in. It was a duty done.

Ginger returned with full flying kit. Winthrop did not ask who had last worn it. Like a discreet valet, the vampire helped him dress. First, he was required to empty his pockets of documents which might interest the Boche if he were captured. A couple of enigmatic despatches from the Diogenes Club went into a shoebox. He chose to keep his matches, cigarette case and a picture of Catriona.

'Pretty girl,' Ginger commented. 'Swanny neck.'

Winthrop shivered a little and signed a form pasted to the top of the box. 'I swear on my honour that I do not have on my person or on my machine any letters or papers of use to the enemy.'

Over his khaki shirt and trousers, Winthrop put on two ragged wool pullovers and a pair of Arctic pyjama bottoms. Then he clambered into his Sidcot, a loose gaberdine one-piece lined with lamb's wool. Paying careful attention, Ginger practically mummified Winthrop's head: applying first a silk scarf to the neck, then a liberal smearing of cold whale oil to the cheeks and forehead, a thick balaclava helmet, a non-absorbent Nuchwang dogskin face mask and, finally, triplex goggles tinted for night-flying. The outfit was completed by thigh-high boots and muskrat gauntlets. With everything buckled together, Winthrop was completely swaddled, a rotund snowman, his arms stuck out and he waddled rather than walked.

'It's getting hottish in here,' he said.

'It'll get cold sharpish up there,' Ginger said. 'Now put your cross on this.'

Ginger presented an FS20 for signature. Winthrop glanced at the form as he scribbled his name. After a list of the gear issued to him, it stated These are property of the public. Losses due to the exigencies of campaign must be certified by the officer commanding.'

'Grand,' Ginger said. 'Now, if you go down in flames, the RFC will dun your widow and orphans for the cost of your underwear.'

'I'm not married,' Winthrop said, thinking of Catriona.

'That's probably for the best.'

'Good old bloody old Harry Tate,' Courtney said, patting the side of the RE8. The two-seater spotter was supposed to be sheepish in the air, which was why Cundall was putting up five Sop with Snipe fighters as guard dogs.

Winthrop gave Dravot his letter and told him to forward it to the addressee if anything untoward happened. The sergeant nodded, understanding, and did not try to tell him he was certain everything would be all right.

Courtney helped Winthrop climb into the rear cockpit. It was not easy to slip his clothes-expanded bulk past the ring-mounted Lewis. Once he was in the wicker seat, the handles of the machine-gun stuck uncomfortably into his chest.

The pilot hauled himself up and hung on the machine's side, peering into Winthrop's cockpit. He showed him how to fasten the Sutton safety harness: four straps for shoulders and thighs, fixed together with a central pin held by a spring clip. If struck just right, the whole thing came apart allowing swift escape. Not that there was anywhere safe to go at 6,500 feet.

'A tip, old thing, if you see anything flitting past with a Maltese cross on its planes, fire about fifty yards in front of it. If you point at its side, it'll be gone by the time the bullets get there.'

'What if it's coming straight at me?' Winthrop asked.

Then empty your drum into its nose and pray. Because there'll be a Hun behind a pair of Spandaus with exactly the same idea.'

'Where's the camera lever?'

Courtney tapped a toggle.

'I'll tell you when I'm taking pictures so you can steady the aeroplane.'

'You can tell me what you like but I doubt I'll hear a thing. It's noisy up there.'

He remembered his Channel flights. Even on a still day, the rush of wind was a roar. And even in mid-summer, the thermometer quickly fell below freezing. Recalling the stabs of colicky abdominal pain that had made a howling misery of his first flight, he summoned a mighty burp. At height, intestinal gases swelled to double their volume on the ground. Courtney did not pass comment on the big belch, but looked a fraction less worried about Winthrop.

'How's our new ace?' Cundall asked. The flight commander, helmet in hand, was looking over the RE8.

'He'll be the Hawker of 1918.'

The pilot was ragging him. In November 1916, Major Lanoe Hawker, VC, DSO, was Britain's highest-scoring pilot. Shot down and killed by Manfred von Richthofen, he was the Red Baron's eleventh victory.

'Just look after him, Courtney.'

'Not a hair on his head will be harmed. This I pledge on the honour of Cundall's Condors.'

'I'm a lost cause then.'

Winthrop no more truly felt brittle bravado than Courtney. It was how pilots were supposed to act, so they all did their best.

Courtney ducked under the wing and dropped into the forward cockpit, jostling the stick. The movable feast of Winthrop's Lewis was augmented by the pilot's fixed Vickers.

Winthrop found himself facing backwards, but twisted in the cockpit to follow Courtney's procedure. The pilot checked his Aldis sight and the engine gauges, humming 'Up in a Balloon, Boys' to himself. After tapping the compass to see if the needle moved freely, he confirmed that the height indicator was set to zero and the bubble was central in the spirit-level that showed if the machine was flying on an even keel. When Courtney slipped goggles over his eyes, Winthrop followed suit.

The Snipes taxied down the field in arrow formation, Cundall at the point. Courtney turned his engine a couple of times to check its air-worthiness, then let the petrol flood in. Most machine failure in the air was due to interruption of the flow of fuel. A ground man clunkily spun the RE8's propeller

'Contact, sir?' the mechanic asked.

'Contact, Jiggs,' Courtney agreed, flicking switches as the groundman gave the propeller a whirl. The air-cooled Daimler engine caught at once, belching black smoke and raising a slipstream whirlwind that tore at Jiggs's hair and whipped everyone standing within fifty yards. The pilot advanced the throttle for two minutes, upping the revolutions, as mechanics got a hold on the strings attached to the wooden chocks jammed under the RE8's wheels.

Satisfied with the engine sound, Courtney waved his hand like a swimming fish. The mechanics pulled the chocks free and Jiggs gave the pilot a smart salute. Courtney replied with a wave and manoeuvred the ungainly aircraft into formation with the fighters, which were taking off at intervals of about a minute. All the Snipes were aloft by the time the RE8 got under way.

There was a lurch and Winthrop was forced to turn round by the rush of wind. A cold blast shot straight down the back of his neck, icy air ballooning inside his Sidcot. He looked down the field at Dravot and the ground crew, their long shadows stretched in front of them. He remembered to clamp his jaw shut to avoid biting his tongue. The RE8 bumped a couple of times on the iron-hard field, then lifted off.

The jogging shudder stopped and he was excited by the smoothness of the ride. There were no pot-holes in the air. He felt a thrill in his water as Courtney gunned the engine and the machine picked up speed and gained altitude.

The farmhouse and the people on the field receded. The sun was not yet down and stretches of unmelted snow shone grey. Hat, dreary ground sped by below them. Despite the wrapping, Winthrop was completely chilled. If he relaxed his jaw muscles a fraction, his teeth would chatter forever.

He moved steadily, swivelling his seat inside his cockpit, bringing the Lewis round with him. The gun was fixed to a scarf-ring, a rail rimming the hole in the fuselage. He wanted to see where they were going. Up ahead, Cundall's Snipe was a fixed point, streamers on his struts marking him as squadron leader. The other machines flew in perfect formation to either side. Ball and Bigglesworth were at the extremes of the arrowhead, flying only a little forward of Courtney. It must be a trial to keep the nippy little fighters in pace with the lumbering Harry Tate.

He got more used to the cold. Flying was easier for vampires but a warm man could bear it. The exhilaration was undeniable. In this century, the skies would call to the adventurous as the sea had to their forefathers. It was a shame such romance was wasted in war.

Down below, in a wasteland where there had been a country lane, a sexless figure leaned on a bicycle and waved up. An unknown friend, though somehow familiar. Winthrop felt kindly towards the anonymous bundle and tried to get an arm out of the cockpit to wave back. The wind fell on his arm like a blow.

They passed a deep scar across the landscape. He realised it was the Allied lines. They were over No Man's Land. The ground below was pocked and ravaged as if a dozen earthquakes had struck at once, just as a hundred volcanoes were erupting and a thousand meteors pounding the landscape. Tons of shells had fallen on every square yard. After another scar, the German trenches, they were in enemy territory, Hunland.