Read Online Eleven Eleven by Paul Dowswell - Free Book Online Page B

to find irritating – ‘but I got lucky. Very lucky. The bombs had their usual delay, and as I was flying away I heard an explosion, then about ten seconds later the whole thing erupted like a volcano. The crate felt like it had been picked up by a wave. If I’d been just above, I’d have been fried along with all the Huns below.
    ‘Course, I circled around to check out the damage. Bright as day it was for a while. Then some of the Huns started on me with machine guns so I got out of there pretty damn quick.’
    ‘So you’re the one who disturbed my good night’s sleep,’ said Eddie.
    Their conversation was interrupted by another airman, who burst into the mess with a delighted expression on his face. ‘Hold the front page, fellas. I got the scoop of the century!’
    Biederbeck and Eddie looked at him expectantly. ‘War’s over!’ he announced breathlessly. ‘The whole shooting match ends at eleven o’clock this morning. Ceasefire!’
    The mess erupted in a great cheer. ‘We’re done, boys. We’re all going to live,’ said one of the pilots.
    Eddie cheered along with the rest of them. But something was bothering him. As he ate his bacon and scrambled eggs, he felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d got four Huns. You needed five to call yourself an ace. He’d love to go back home and have his picture in the paper: Eddie Hertz – fighter ace . That would make Janie Holland wish she hadn’t dumped him.
    ‘I’m going out to bag myself a Hun,’ he told Biederbeck.
    ‘Squadron leader won’t allow it, Eddie. There’s no operations now for the rest of the day.’
    Another pilot leaned over from the next table. ‘That attack they told us about at yesterday’s briefing – Colonel Miller’s 91st Division. Going in at Aulnois this morning.’
    Eddie looked blank. Then he remembered. ‘Ten o’clock, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’d guess they could do with some air support,’ said the pilot.
    ‘They’ll call that assault off surely,’ said Eddie, suddenly feeling deflated.
    The pilot shook his head. ‘Not if I know that bastard Miller. He’ll be wanting to milk every last chance he’s got to chase the Hun. Those men will fight right up to the last minute.’
    Eddie nodded. ‘I’m gonna get my erks to fuel her up and I’m going out. They can throw the book at me when I get back.’ ‘Erk’ was bit of slang they’d picked up from the Royal Flying Corps. It was an abbreviation of sorts, of ‘aircraftman’ – the mechanics that kept a plane airworthy.
    He ran over to the barn that served as a temporary hangar for three of the squadron’s Sopwith Camels. ‘Hey, fellas,’ he shouted over to a couple of men in overalls who sat playing cards in the corner. ‘Get her fuelled up. I’m going out in fifteen.’
    The ground crew leaped to their feet. They had heard there would be no more flying that morning. But Eddie was the boss. If he said he was going up, he was going up.
    Eddie hurried to the farmhouse, grabbed his flying jacket and Céline’s scarf and hurriedly pulled on his calf-length brown boots. His flying helmet and leather gloves were waiting for him on the seat of his Camel. He looked out at the overcast grey sky and quickly pulled on a thick woollen sweater. It was going to be cold up there.
    Leaving without so much as a final glance, he ran towards the Camel. The ground crew were finishing off the fuelling. ‘Give us five more minutes, boss. Then she’s ready to go.’
    Whenever Eddie climbed into the wicker seat of his Camel, he had the strangest mixture of feelings. Always excitement – that, at least, had never left him, but fear too – a queasy nausea whenever he smelled the oil and gasoline and polished metal of the engine. That magnificent piece of gleaming machinery that whirred and popped and hammered with such precision right in front of his eyes, this extraordinary device that lifted him above the clouds, could also deliver him to a horrible burning death or crush his flesh