Текст книги "The Burning Shore"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Michael reached for the firing-handle. The aircraft were parked in a neat line, the pilots crowding towards them – and he smiled without humour and depressed his nose, picking them up in the ring sight of the Vickers.

At 100 feet he levelled again, dropped his right hand from the firing handle and picked up the cloth package from his lap. As he passed over the centre of the German line, he leaned from the cockpit and tossed the package overboard. The ribbon he had attached to it unrolled in the slipstream of the SESa and fluttered down to the edge of the field.

As Michael opened the throttle and climbed away again towards the cloud layer, he glanced up into the mirror above his head and saw one of the German pilots stoop over the package, and then the SESa bounced and rocked as the German anti-aircraft guns opened up on him again, and a shell burst just below him. Within seconds he was into the haven of the cloud bank with his guns cold and unfired, and a few shrapnel tears in the belly and the underwings.

He turned on to a heading for Mort Homme. While he flew he thought about the package he had just dropped.

During the night he had torn a long ribbon from one of his old shirts to use as a marker and weighted the end of it with a handful Of .303 cartridges. Then he had stitched his handwritten message into the other end of the ribbon.

He had at first considered attempting the message in German, and then admitted to himself that his German was hopelessly inadequate. Almost certainly there would be an officer on Von Richthofen's Jagdstaffel who could read English well enough to translate what he had written.

To the German pilot of the blue albatros with black and white chequered wings.

Sir, The unarmed and helpless British airman whom you murdered yesterday was my friend.

Between 1600 hrs and 1630 hrs today I will be patrolling over the villages of Cantin and Aubigny-all-Bac, at a height of

8,000 feet.

I will be flying an SE5a scoutplane painted yellow.

I hope to meet you.

The rest of the squadron had already landed when Michael returned to the base.

Mac, I seem to have picked up some shrapnel."I noticed, sir. Don't worry, fix it in a jiffyI haven't fired the guns, but check the sights again, will you. Fifty yards? Mac asked for the range at which he wanted fire from both Lewis and Vickers gun to converge. Make it thirty, Mac.

Working close, sir, Mac whistled through his teeth.

I hope so, Mac, and by the way, she is a touch tailheavy. Trim her hands-off See to it myself, sir, Mac promised.

Thank you, Mac. Give the bastards one for Mr Andrew, sir. The adjutant was waiting for him. We have all aircraft operational again, Michael. Twelve on the duty roster. All right.

Hank will take the noon patrol, and I will fly at 1530 hrs alone.

Alone? The adjutant took his pipe out of his mouth in surprise.

Alone, Michael confirmed. Then a full squadron sweep at dusk, as usual.

The adjutant made a note. By the way, message from General Courtney. He will do his best to attend the ceremony this evening. He thinks he will almost certainly be there. Michael smiled for the first time that day. He had wanted very badly for Sean Courtney to be at his wedding.

Hope you can make it also, Bob. You can bet on it. Whole squadron will be there. Looking forward to it no end. Michael wanted a drink badly. He started towards the mess.

God, it's eight o'clock in the morning, he thought, and stopped. He felt brittle and dried-out, whisky would put warmth and juice into his body again, and he felt his hands begin to tremble with his deep need for it. It took all his resolve to turn away from the mess and go to his tent. He remembered then that he hadn't slept the previous night.

Biggs was sitting on a packing case outside the tent, polishing Michael's boots, but he jumped to attention, his face expressionless.

Enough of that! Michael smiled at him. Sorry about last night, Biggs. Bloody rude of me. I didn't mean it. I know, sir.

Biggs relaxed. I felt the same way about the major. Biggs, wake me at three. I've got some sleep to catch up on. It was not Biggs who woke him but the shouts of the ground crews, the sound of running men, the deep bellowing tone of the anti-aircraft guns along the edge of the orchard, and the roaring overhead of a Mercedes aircraft engine.

Michael staggered out of his tent with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes, still half-asleep. What the hell is happening, Biggs?

A Hun, sir, cheeky brighter beating up the base."He's pushed off again.

Other pilots and ground crew were shouting qnongst the trees as they ran to the edge of the field.

Didn't even fire a shot Did you see him?

An Albatros, blue with black and white wings. The devil almost took the roof of the mess He dropped something, Bob's picked it up.

Michael ducked back into the tent and pulled on his jacket and a pair of tennis shoes. He heard two or three of the aircraft starting up as he ran out of the tent again.

Some of his own pilots were setting off in pursuit of the German interloper.

Stop those men from taking off! Michael yelled, and before he reached the adjutant's office he heard the engines switched off again in response to his order.

There was small crowd of curious pilots at the door, and Michael pushed through them just as the adjutant untied the drawstring that closed the mouth of the canvas bag that the German machine had dropped. The chorus of question and comment and speculation was silenced immediately as they all realized what the bag contained.

The adjutant gently ran the strip of green silk through his fingers. There were black-rimmed holes burned through it and it was stained with dried black blood.

Andrew's scarf, he said unnecessarily, and his silver flask. The silver was badly dented, but the cairngorm stopper gleamed yellow and gold as he turned it in his hands, and the contents gurgled softly. He set it aside and one by one drew the other items from the bag: Andrew's medal ribbons, the amber cigarette-holder, a spring -loaded sovereign case that still contained three coins, his pigskin wallet. The photograph of Andrew's parents standing in the grounds of the castle fell from the wallet as he turned it over.

What's this? The adjutant picked out a buff-coloured envelope of thick glossy paper sealed with a wax wafer. It's addressed, he read the face of the envelope to the pilot of the yellow SE5a. The adjutant looked up at Michael, startled.

That's you, Michael, how the hell?

Michael took the envelope from him and split the seal with his thumbnail.

There was a single sheet of the same first-quality paper.

The letter was handwritten, and though the writing was obviously continental, for the capitals were formed in Gothic script, the text was in perfect English: Sir, Your friend, Lord Andrew Killigerran, was buried this morning in the cemetery of the Protestant church at Douai. This Jagdstaffel accorded him full military honours.

I have the honour to inform you, and at the same time also to warn you that no death in war is murder. The object of warfare is the destruction of the enemy by all means possible.

I look forward to meeting you.

OTTO VON GREIM. Near Douai.

They were all looking expectantly at Michael as he folded the letter and thrust it into his pocket.

They recovered Andrew's body, he said quietly, and he was buried with full military honours at Douai this morning. Bloody decent of them, one of the pilots murmured.

Yes, for Huns, that is, said Michael, and turned towards the door.

Michael, the adjutant stopped him, I think Andrew would have wanted you to have this.

He handed the silver hip flask to Michael. Michael turned it slowly in his hands. The dent in the metal had probably been caused by the impact, he thought, and he shivered.

Yes, he nodded. I'll look after it for him. He turned back to the door and pushed his way through the group of silent officers.

Biggs helped him dress with even more than his usual attention to detail.

I gave them a good rub of dubbin, sir, he pointed out as he helped Michael into the soft kudu-skin boots.

Michael appeared not to have heard the remark.

Although he had lain down again after the disturbance of the German aircraft's fly-over, he had not managed to sleep. Yet he felt calm, even placid. What's that, Biggs? he asked vaguely.

I said, I'll have your number ones laid out for you when you come back, and I've arranged with the cook for a good five gallons of hot water for your bath. Thank you, Biggs. Not every day it happens, Mr Michael. That's true, Biggs, once in a lifetime is enough. I'm sure you and the young lady are going to be very happy. Me and my missus been married twenty-two years come June, sir. A long time, Biggs. I hope you break my record, Mr Michael. I'll try One other thing, sir. Biggs was embarrassed, he did not look up from the lacings of the boots. We shouldn't ought to be flying alone, sir. Not safe at all, sir, we should take Mr Johnson with us at least, beg your pardon, sir I know it's not my place to say so. Michael laid his hand on Bigg's shoulder for a moment.

He had never done that before.

Have that bath ready for me when I get home, he said as he stood up.

Biggs watched him stoop out through the flap of the tent, without saying goodbye or wishing him luck, though it took an effort to restrain himself from doing so, then he picked up Michael's discarded jacket and folded it with exaggerated care.

When the Wolseley engine fired and caught, Michael advanced the ignition until she settled to a fine deep rumble. Then he listened to it critically for thirty seconds before he looked up at Mac who was standing on the wing beside the cockpit, his hair and overalls fluttering in the wash of the propeller.

Lovely, Mac! he shouted above the engine beat, and Mac grinned.

Give them hell, sir, and jumped down to pull the chocks from in front of the landing-wheels.

Instinctively Michael drew a deep breath, as though he were about to dive into one of those cool green pools of the Tugela river, and then eased the throttle open and the big machine rolled forward.

The knoll behind the chAteau was deserted once again, but he had not expected anything else. He lifted the nose into the climb attitude and then changed his mind, let it drop again and brought her round in a tight turn, his wingtip almost brushing the tops of the oaks.

He came out of the turn with the chAteau directly ahead, and he flew past it at the height of the pink-tiled roof. He saw no sign of life and as soon as he was past, he banked the SE5a into a figure-of-eight turn and came around again, still at roof level, This time he saw movement. One of the windows at ground level, near the kitchens, was thrown open. Someone was waving a yellow cloth from it, but he could not make out who it was.

He came around again and this time dropped down until his landing-wheels almost touched the stone wall that enclosed Anna's vegetable garden. He saw Centaine in the window. He could not mistake that dark bush of hair and the huge eyes. She was leaning far out over the sill, shouting something and waving the yellow scarf that she had worn the day they flew together to meet Sean Courtney.

As Michael lifted the nose and opened the throttle to climb away, he felt rejuvenated. The placid and passive mood that had held him evaporated and he felt charged and vital again. He had seen her, and now it would be all right.

It was Michael, Centaine cried happily as she turned back from the window to where Anna sat on the bed, I saw him, Anna, it was surely him. Oh, he is so handsome – he came to find me, despite Papa! Anna's face crumpled and reddened with disapproval. It is bad luck for a groom to see his bride on the wedding day Oh nonsense, Anna, sometimes you talk such rubbish.

Oh, Anna, he is so beautiful!

And you will not be if we do not finish before this evening.

Centaine fluffed out her skirts and settled on to the bed beside Anna. She took the antique ivory-coloured lace of the wedding dress into her lap, and then held the needle up to the light and squinted as she threaded it.

I have decided, she told Anna as she recommenced work on the hem of the dress, I will have only sons, at least six sons, but no daughters. Being a girl is such a bore, I don't wish to inflict it on any of my children. She completed a dozen stitches and then stopped. I'm so happy, Anna, and so excited. Do you think the general will come? When do you think this silly war will end, so that Michel and I can go to Africa? Listening to her chatter Anna turned her head slightly to hide her doting smile.

The yellow SE5a bored up powerfully into the soft grey belly of the sky. Michael chose one of the gaps in the lower layer of cloud, roared swiftly through it and burst out into the open corridor. High above there was still the same high roof of solid cloud, but below it the air was limpid as crystal. When his altimeter registered 8,000 feet, Michael levelled out. He was in the clear, equidistant from the layers of cloud above and below him, but through the gaps he could pick up his landmarks.

The villages of Cantin and Aubigny-all-Bac were deserted, shell-shattered skeletons. Only a few stone chimney-pieces had survived the waves of war which had washed back and forth over them. These stuck up like funeral monuments from the muddy torn earth.

The two villages were four miles apart, the road that once joined them had been obliterated, and the front lines twisted like a pair of maimed adders through the brown fields between them. The shell holes, filled with stagnant water, blinked up at him like the eyes of the blind.

Michael glanced at his watch. It was four minutes to four o'clock, and his eyes immediately returned to their endless search of the empty sky. One at a time he lifted his hands from the controls and flexed his fingers, at the same time wriggling his toes in the kudu-skin boots loosening up like a runner before the pistol. He reached up to the firing-handle with both hands, to test the trim of the machine, and she flew on straight and level. He fired both his guns, a short burst from each of them, and he nodded and blew on the gloved fingers of his right hand.

I need a drink, he told himself, and took Andrew's silver flask from his pocket. He took a mouthful and gargled it softly, and then swallowed. The fire of it bloomed in his bloodstream, but he resisted the temptation to drink again. He stoppered the flask and dropped it back into his pocket. He touched the left rudder to begin his turn into the square patrol pattern and at that moment he picked up the flea-black speck on the grey mattress of the clouds far ahead and he met the turn, holding her steady while he blinked his eyes rapidly and checked his sighting.

The other machine was at 8,000 feet, exactly his own height, and it was closing swiftly, coming in from the north, from the direction of Douai, and he felt the spurt of adrenalin mingle with the alcohol in his blood. His cheeks burned and, his guts spasmed. He eased the throttle open and flew on to meet it.

The combined speeds of the two aircraft hurled them together, so that the other machine swelled miraculously in front of Michael's eyes. He saw the bright blue of the nose and propeller-boss hazed by the spinning blades, and the wide black hawk's wings outstretched. He saw the helmeted top of the pilot's head between the two black Spandau machine-guns mounted on the engine cowling, and the flash of his goggles as he leaned forward to peer into his sights.

Michael pushed the throttle fully open and the engine bellowed. His left hand held the joystick like an artist holding his brush with the lightest pressure of his fingertips, as he positioned the German exactly in the centre of the concentric rings of his own gun-sight, and his right hand reached up for the firing-handle.

His hatred and his anger grew as swiftly as the image of his enemy, and he held his fire. The battle clock in his head started to run so that the passage of time slowed.

He saw the muzzles of the Spandau machine-guns begin to wink at him, bright sparks of fire, flickering red as the planet Mars on a moonless night. He aimed for the head of the other pilot, and he pressed down on the trigger and felt the aircraft pulse about him as his guns shook and rattled.

No thought of breaking out of that head-on charge even occurred to Michael. He was completely absorbed by his aim, trying to stream his bullets into the German's face, to rip out his eyes, and blow his brains out of the casket of his skull. He felt the Spandau bullets plucking and tugging at the fabric and frame of his machine, heard them passing his head with sharp flitting sounds like wild

locusts, and he ignored them.

He saw his own bullets kicking white splinters off the German's spinning propeller, and in anger knew that they were being deflected from his true aim. The two aircraft were almost in collision, and Michael braced himself for the impact without lifting his hand from the firinghandle, without attempting to turn.

Then the Albatros winged up violently, at the very last instant avoiding the collision, flicking out to starboard as the German hurled her over. There was a jarring bang that shook the SE5a. The two wings had just brushed each other as they passed. Michael saw the torn strip of fabric trailing from his own wingtip. He kicked on full rudder, into that flat skidding turn that only the SESa was capable of, and felt the wings flex at the strain, and then he was around. The Albatros was ahead of him, but still out of effective range.

Michael thrust with all his strength on the throttle handle, but it was already wide open, the engine straining at full power and still the Albatros was holding him off.

The German turned and went up left, and Michael followed him. They climbed more steeply, going up almost into the vertical, and the speed of both machines began to bleed off, but the SE5a more rapidly so that the German was pulling ahead.

It's not the same Albatros. Michael realized with a shock that the relocation of the radiator was not the only modification. He was fighting a new type of aircraft, an advanced type, faster and more powerful than even his own SE5a.

He saw the wide sweep of those black and white chequ ered wings, and the head of the German pilot craning to watch him in his mirror, and he tried to bring his guns to bear, swinging his right sight in a short arc as he wrenched his nose across.

The German flipped his Albatros into a stall-turn and came straight back at Michael, head-on again with the Spandaus flicking their little red eyes at him, and this time Michael was forced to break, for the German had height and speed.

For a crucial moment, Michael was hanging in his turn, his speed had dwindled and the German rounded on him, and dropped on to his tail. The German was good, Michael's guts tightened as he realized it. He pushed his nose down for speed, and at the same time flung the SE5 a into a vertical turn. The Albatros followed him round, turning with him, so that they were revolving around each other like two planets caught in immutable orbits.

He looked across at the other pilot, lifting his chin to do so, for each of them was standing on one wingtip.

The German stared back at him, the goggles making him appear monstrous and inhuman, and then for an instant Michael looked beyond the bright blue fuselage, up towards the high cloud ceiling, his hunter's eyes drawn by a tiny insect speckle of movement.

For an instant his heart ceased to pump and his blood seemed to thicken and slow in his veins, then with a leap like a startled animal, his heart raced away and his breathing hissed in his throat.

I have the honour to inform you, and at the same time also to warn you, the German had written, the object of warfare is the destruction of the enemy by all means possible. Michael had read the warning, but only now did he understand. They had turned his woolly-headed romantic notion of a single duel into a death-trap. Like a child, he had placed himself in their power. He had given them time and place, even the altitude. They had used the blue machine merely as a decoy. His own naivety amazed him now, as he saw them come swarming down out of the high cloud.

How many of them? There was no time to count them, but it looked like a full Jasta. of the new-type Albatroses, twenty of them at least, in that swift and silent flock, their brilliant colours sparkling jewel-like against the sombre backdrop of cloud.

I'm not going to be able to keep my promise to Centaine, he thought, and looked down. The low cloud was 2,000 feet below him, it was a remote haven but there was no other. He could not hope to fight twenty of Germany's most skilled aces, he would not last for more than a few seconds when they reached him, and they were coming fast, while the blue machine pinned and held him for the killing stroke.

Suddenly, faced with the death which he had deliberately sought, Michael wanted to live. He had been dragging back on the joystick with all his weight, holding the SESa into its turn. He flicked the stick forward and she was flung outwards, like a stone from a slingshot.

Michael was hurled up against his shoulder straps as the forces of gravity were inverted, but he collected the big machine and used its own impetus to push it into a steep dive, going down with a gut-swooping rush towards the low cloud bank. The manoeuvre caught his opponent off-balance, but he recovered instantly and the Albatros was after him in a blue flash of speed, while the swarming multicoloured pack was overhauling them both from above.

Michael watched them in the mirror above his head, realizing bow much quicker this new type of Albatros was in the dive. He glanced ahead to the clouds. Their grey folds which had seemed so clammy and uninviting a few seconds before were his only hope of life and salvation, and now that he had started to flee his terror came back and settled upon him like a dark and terrible succubus, draining him of his courage and manhood.

He wasn't going to make it, they would catch him before he reached cover, and he clung to the joystick, frozen with his new and crippling terror.

The clatter of twin Spandaus roused him. In the mirror he saw the dancing red muzzle flashes, so close behind him, and something hit him a numbing blow low down in his back. The force of it drove the air from his lungs, and he knew he must turn out of the killing line of the blue Albatros's guns.

He hit the rudder bar with all his force, attempting the flat skidding turn that would bring him face to face with his tormentors, but his speed was too great, the angle of dive too steep, the SESa would not respond. She lurched and yawed into a turn that brought him broadside on to the pursuing pack, and although the blue Albatros overshot, the others fell upon him one after the other, each successive attack a split second after the last. The sky was filled with flashing wings and bright-coloured fuselages. The crash of shot into his aircraft was continuous and unbearable, the SE5a dropped a wing and went into a spin.

Sky and cloud and patches of earth, interspersed with bright-coloured Albatroses with flickering, chattering guns, spun through Michael's field of vision in dizzying array. He felt another blow, this time in his leg, just below the fork of his crotch. He looked down and saw that a burst had come up through the floor, and a bullet, misshapen and deformed, had ripped through his thigh.

Blood pumped from it in bright arterial jets. He had seen a Zulu gunbearer, savaged by a wounded buffalo, bleed this way from a ruptured femoral artery; he had died in three minutes.

Streams of machine-gun fire were still coming in at him from every angle, and he could not defend himself for his aircraft was out of control, flicking through the turns of the spin, throwing her nose up viciously, and then dropping it again in that sava e rhythm.

Michael fought her, thrusting on opposite rudder to try to break the pattern of her rotation, and at the exertion the blood pumped more strongly from his torn thigh and he felt the first giddy weakness in his head. He dropped one hand from the joystick and thrust his thumb into his groin, seeking the pressure point, and the great pulsing red spurts shrivelled as he found it.

Again he coaxed the maimed aircraft, stick forward to stop that high-nose attitude, and a burst of throttle to power her out of the spin. She responded reluctantly, and he tried not to think about the machine-gun fire that tore at him from every side.

The clouds and earth stopped revolving about him, as her tight turns slowed and she dropped straight. Then with one hand only he pulled her nose up and felt the overstressing of her wings and the suck of gravity in his belly, but at last the world tilted before his eyes as she came back on to an even keel.

He glanced in the mirror and saw that the blue Albatros had found him again and was pressing in close on his tailplane for the coup de grdce.

Before that dreadful rattling chatter of the Spandau could begin again, Michael felt the cold damp rush across his face as grey streamers of cloud blew over the open cockpit, and then the light was blotted out and he was into a dim, blind world, a quiet, muted world where the Spandaus could no longer desecrate the silences of the sky. They could not find him in the clouds.

Automatically his eyes fastened on the tiny glycerinefilled glass tubes set on the dashboard in front of him, and with small controlled adjustments he aligned the bubbles in the tubes within their markers so that the SE5a. was flying straight and level through the cloud. The be turned her gently on to a compass heading for Mort Homme.

He wanted to be sick, that was his first reaction from terror and the stress of combat. He swallowed and panted to control it, and then he felt the weakness come at him again. It was as though a bat was trapped in his skull.

The dark soft wings beat behind his eyes and his vision faded in patches.

He blinked away the darkness and looked down. His thumb was still thrust into his own groin, but he had never seen so much blood. His hand was coated, his fingers sticky with it. The sleeve of his jacket was soaked to the elbow. Blood had turned his breeches into a sodden mass and it had run down into his boots. There were pools of blood on the floor of the cockpit, already congealing into lumps like blackcurrant jam, and snakes of it slithering back and forth with each movement of the machine.

He let go of the stick for a moment, leaned forward against his shoulder straps and groped behind his back.

He found the other bullet wound, three inches to the side of his spine and just above the girdle of his pelvis. There was no exit wound. It was still in there and he was bleeding internally, he was certain of it. There was a swollen, stretched feeling in his belly as his stomach cavity filled with blood.

The machine dropped a wing, and he snatched for the joystick to level her, but it took him many seconds to make the simple adjustment. His fingers prickled with pins and needles, and he felt very cold. His reactions were slowing down, so that each movement, no matter how small, was becoming an effort.

However, there was no pain, just a numbness that spread down from the small of his back to his knees. He removed his thumb to test the wound in his thigh, and immediately there was a full spray of bright blood from it like a flamingo's feather, and hastily he stopped it again and concentrated on his flying instruments.

How long to reach Mort Homme? He tried to work it out, but his brain was slow and muzzy. Nine minutes from Cantin, he reckoned, how long had he been flying?

He did not know, and he rolled his wrist so that he could see his watch. He found he had to count the divisions on the dial like a child.

Don't want to come out of the cloud too soon, they'll be waiting for me, he thought heavily, and the dial of his wristwatch multiplied before his eyes.

Double vision, he realized.

Quickly he looked ahead, and the silver clouds billowed around him, and he had the sensation of falling. He almost lurched at the stick to counteract it, but his training restrained him and he checked the bubbles in his artificial horizon, they were still aligned. His senses were tricking him, Centaine, he said suddenly, what time is it? I'm going to be late for the wedding. He felt panic surface through the swamp of his weakness, and the wings of darkness beat more frantically behind his eyes.

I promised her. I swore an oath! He checked his watch.

Six minutes past four, that's impossible, he thought wildly. Bloody watch is wrong. He was losing track of reality.

The SE5a burst out of the cloud into one of the holes in the layer.

Michael flung up his hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the light, and then looked around him.

He was on the correct heading for the airfield, he recognized the road and railway line and the star-shaped field between them. Another six minutes flying, he calculated. The sight of the earth had orientated him again. He took a grip on the real world and looked upwards. He saw them there, circling like vultures above the lion kill, waiting for him to emerge from the cloud. They had spotted him, he saw them turn towards him on their rainbow-coloured wings, but he plunged into the cloud on the far side of the opening, and the cold wet billows enfolded him, bid him from their cruel eyes.

I've got to keep my promise, he mumbled. The loss of contact with the earth confused him. He felt the waves of vertigo wash over him again. He let the SESa sink slowly down through the layer of cloud, and once again came out into the light. There was all the familiar country side below him, the ridges and the battle lines far behind him, the woods and the village and the church spire ahead, so peaceful and idyllic.

Centaine, I'm coming home, he thought, and a terrible weariness fell over him, its great weight seemed to smother him and crush him down in the cockpit.