Page 27 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
“They’re why my boys take the risks they do,” Baskers said as they started walking in the direction of the airstrip.
“How do you mean?”
“The air war is all about preventing reconnaissance aircraft from reporting back to the German command our troop disposition andmovements. The first planes back in ’fourteen were unarmed and used solely for observation, but soon enough pilots started carrying pistols and taking potshots at each other. From there the modern purpose-built fighter was born. The men of this, or any other squadron, go after the Hun at every opportunity in order to prevent them from telling their artillery where to fire to do the most damage to our lines.”
“They’re willing to sacrifice themselves in the air—”
“To save those on the ground,” Baskers said. “It’s doubly true when the Huns put up observation balloons. They pop up and down as quickly as a vole coming out of his hole and give the enemy real-time intelligence on our troops’ whereabouts. They usually have fifty or more big guns ready to fire as soon as the observer telegraphs our position and range down from his tethered basket. Devilish business.”
They reached a split-rail fence that separated the base from the runway. There were eight planes taking part in the patrol. Mechanics were clucking around them like mother hens—tightening wires, lubricating parts, checking for any damage they’d missed from the morning sortie. The pilots were approaching. They were so swaddled in flight suits and heavy jackets that the cocky walk they all tried to affect came off as a comical waddle.
Bell spotted Crabbe. His face remained boyish, but his mouth was cast in a grim straight line. The young airman still managed to throw him a jaunty salute as he hoisted himself into the cockpit of a plane Bell didn’t recognize. He asked Baskers about it.
“That’s to replace the Sopwith Pups everyone else is flying. Called the S.E.5a. Single Vickers gun firing through the prop, and a separate Lewis gun on a Foster mount over the top wing. Captain Crabbe said she can out-turn and outclimb anything the Germans have inthe air right now. We only wish we’d have more before the big blowup in Arras to the north gets into full swing.”
“And the two-seater still in the hangar? It looks like a B.E.2,” Bell said, thinking it was a reconnaissance aircraft put into service before the war.
“Actually that’s a new kite to replace the B.E.2. Bristol F.2, she’s called. She’s a big beast of a plane, but I’m told she’s nearly as nimble as the S.E. She can fly fifty miles per hour faster than the old B.E.2 and is doubly armed. She’s a fighter more than an observation platform. We should be getting more of each over the next few weeks.”
Bell thought back to some of the planes he’d flown, delicate things more suited for children’s toys than actually flying. It was just seven years ago that he’d raced across America in an Italian monoplane that looked ready to fall apart without notice. It was laughable to compare that aircraft to these modern fighting machines, with their hundred-and-fifty-plus-horsepower engines and responsive flight controls. His pulse quickened at the thought of going up in the Bristol the next day.
The sun was sinking toward the western horizon when Bell heard the pilots shout, “Contact” to their mechanics and the propellers were thrown and the engines bellowed to life. The roar of the eight power plants sent another jolt through Bell’s system. Soon the smell of raw unburnt gas and the planes’ mildly familiar-smelling lubricant wafted over the two men.
Once the engines had sufficiently warmed, the mechanics pulled the wheel chocks, and the planes began jouncing their way from the apron to the grass landing strip. Geoffrey Crabbe led the procession of fighters, and as soon as he turned his plane onto the runway, he pushed the throttle to its stop and the plane picked up speed remarkably fast. The tail came up after only a moment and then the wholeaircraft was in the air, climbing as swiftly as a hawk, shrinking into the sky as he gained altitude. The rest of the squadron followed suit, although their planes took far more of the runway to achieve flight and lacked the S.E.5’s stupendous rate of climb.
The squad quickly maneuvered into a tight formation and turned eastward in pursuit of enemy planes.
“Well, that’s the show,” Baskers said around his pipe. “They’ll be back in forty-five minutes, give or take.”
14
All eight planes returned fortyminutes later according to Basker’s pocket watch, except one’s engine keened at a higher pitch than the others and it trailed a thin train of smoke. Once they had all landed and taxied, the mechanics were there again, swarming around the planes to check for damage and to give the pilots help getting down from the cockpits. A forty-minute patrol didn’t sound like a lot, but Bell knew the cramped confines and unrelenting cold would stiffen their joints as though they were old men.
It turned out that they hadn’t come up against any German patrols and the damaged plane just had a faulty seal. Bell legged himself over the fence to join Crabbe as he debriefed his men in the gathering darkness.
The squadron commander pointed to one of the pilots, a man who looked even younger than his CO. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Cotswold, Captain. James Cotswold.”
“Since this is my first time up with you, I watched your performance. You fly straight enough and keep the formation, but you were staring straight ahead like you’d gotten ahold of one of those naughty daguerreotypes they sell in Paris. You’ve got to keep watch all around you, sides, above, below, everywhere and all the time. Head on a swivel, as they say. The sky’s usually lousy with Huns and our best chance is to spot them before they get the jump on us. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Speaking of Huns, I didn’t see any at all. Anyone spot a stray one?”
His pilots all shook their heads in the negative.
“Damned curious,” Crabbe remarked. “No Germans aloft since yesterday morning. Queer, to say the least. All right, lads, get cleaned up and we’ll eat the ducks Bigalow shot this morning over on the millpond.”
There were eleven men including Bell for dinner and only three ducks, so they supplemented their meal with tinned beef and locally made crusty bread that wasn’t so old to have gone completely hard. Bell observed that even though they were all young, the pilots had picked up curious habits and tics like old men. Crabbe’s was drinking without seeming to get drunk. The fellow who bagged the ducks, Bigalow, blinked so rapidly his lids were like a hummingbird’s wings. Another massaged his fingers in the direction of their tips as though they had stiffened from arthritis. Several others had juddery legs or cracked their knuckles every few minutes.
They lived in the most stressful atmosphere Bell could imagine, risking their lives on aerial patrol twice a day, every day for months on end. It was slowly driving them crazy, and what Bell saw was onlythe outward signs. He could only guess what went on behind the fake smiles and easy banter and shuddered to think of the torture they faced in their sleep.
After dinner, they gathered around the bar and piano. One of them played some up-tempo rags while Crabbe’s batman acted as bartender. Knowing he would need his wits for the next day’s flight, Bell had only a single whiskey. The pilots were little more than boys and so Bell had no problem keeping them entertained with some of his adventures, especially his own flying tales and his stories about tramping around the deserts of the American Southwest.
He finally turned the attention away from himself. “Did I notice the smell of burning castor oil when you landed?”
“Indeed,” Bigalow replied. Like Crabbe, he was an ace, and was the oldest pilot in the squadron at twenty-six.
