walked away. Limped away. The memory made him shudder.
He had to slow behind a long line of horse-drawn artillery. For a mile he ambled along in low gear, thinking that if he hadnât been a pilot he might have been a gunner. It must be fun to bang away at the enemy, catch him by surprise,make him hop. Fun for the Hun gunners, too, presumably.
The German archie had certainly had fun the day they caught Milne in a skimpy little BE2a somewhere near Festubert. Heâd treated those fluffy balls of black smoke as a joke, until one of them stung him. It burst below, and flipped the plane onto its back.
Milne had panicked then. The taste of terror came back to him now, and he hated it so much that he tried to drive away from it: he pulled out and accelerated past the guns, making the horses twitch and jerk their heads as he roared by.
That shellburst had cut two control cables. The BE2a wallowed on its back for a short eternity. Milne cursed it and kicked it, and the German gunners rejoiced to find an easy target. The little patch of sky was filthy with shellbursts. Milne never discovered how he righted the plane, but he knew it was sheer luck that he flew home.
And it had been sheer luck, too, when that Aviatik had failed to kill him. Milne hadnât thought of it for months but now he could see everything: those dun, translucent wings with dense black Maltese crosses, the propeller-disc shining as it met sunlight, the tail-unit that was all curves, like a big butterfly. The Aviatik had caught him at the weary end of a long patrol, had come out of nowhere and hammered him. It hit the engine. His machine was limping and labouring as Milne screwed his head around to watch the Aviatik perform a steep and elegant bank and return for the kill. The German never fired. His gun had jammed, and no amount of thumping released it. They waved to each other before they parted, but when he landed Milne was so weak that his mechanic had to help him get out of the cockpit.
Milne was sweating now, just at the memory. He stopped the car beyond a little stone bridge and washed his face in the stream. How odd to get so upset at a lot of old memories. More than odd: silly, because the only thing that mattered was that he
hadnât
been killed. In eighteen monthsâ flying and fighting there were bound to be a few close shaves. Like that time young Jenkins damn near collided with him over Vimy.
Milne wished he hadnât remembered that. Young Jenkins had sidled across his path and almost killed them both. A week later Jenkins had flown slap-bang into his flightcommander, a man called Harry Drake. That was sheer and utter waste. Harry Drake had been a very nice man.
Minnows played cheerfully in the stream. Milne threw a small pebble and scattered them. They soon came back. He envied them. When
he
came back, he decided, he was going to be a minnow.
Paxton had drawn a revolver from the armoury. He had decided that an Orderly Officer should carry a revolver; it helped to demonstrate his authority. By late afternoon, as he walked about the aerodrome in full uniform, he was beginning to regret his decision.
The officers were playing cricket again. He couldnât help feeling that if this was war he didnât think much of it. All anyone did was swim and play cricket. He was hot, and his blasted revolver kept banging against his hip in a most annoying way. Also he had been bitten inside his puttees by some blasted French insects. He itched and could not scratch. He glanced at the cricket match. Half the players had crowded together and were arguing about something; the other half were lying down. The trouble with Hornet Squadron, he decided, was that it was slack. It lacked the Will to Win.
Private Fidler came up to him and saluted.
âMr. OâNeillâs compliments, sir, and could you come and look at something suspicious heâs found lying in the grass, you being Orderly Officer and all.â
Paxton distrusted
He had to slow behind a long line of horse-drawn artillery. For a mile he ambled along in low gear, thinking that if he hadnât been a pilot he might have been a gunner. It must be fun to bang away at the enemy, catch him by surprise,make him hop. Fun for the Hun gunners, too, presumably.
The German archie had certainly had fun the day they caught Milne in a skimpy little BE2a somewhere near Festubert. Heâd treated those fluffy balls of black smoke as a joke, until one of them stung him. It burst below, and flipped the plane onto its back.
Milne had panicked then. The taste of terror came back to him now, and he hated it so much that he tried to drive away from it: he pulled out and accelerated past the guns, making the horses twitch and jerk their heads as he roared by.
That shellburst had cut two control cables. The BE2a wallowed on its back for a short eternity. Milne cursed it and kicked it, and the German gunners rejoiced to find an easy target. The little patch of sky was filthy with shellbursts. Milne never discovered how he righted the plane, but he knew it was sheer luck that he flew home.
And it had been sheer luck, too, when that Aviatik had failed to kill him. Milne hadnât thought of it for months but now he could see everything: those dun, translucent wings with dense black Maltese crosses, the propeller-disc shining as it met sunlight, the tail-unit that was all curves, like a big butterfly. The Aviatik had caught him at the weary end of a long patrol, had come out of nowhere and hammered him. It hit the engine. His machine was limping and labouring as Milne screwed his head around to watch the Aviatik perform a steep and elegant bank and return for the kill. The German never fired. His gun had jammed, and no amount of thumping released it. They waved to each other before they parted, but when he landed Milne was so weak that his mechanic had to help him get out of the cockpit.
Milne was sweating now, just at the memory. He stopped the car beyond a little stone bridge and washed his face in the stream. How odd to get so upset at a lot of old memories. More than odd: silly, because the only thing that mattered was that he
hadnât
been killed. In eighteen monthsâ flying and fighting there were bound to be a few close shaves. Like that time young Jenkins damn near collided with him over Vimy.
Milne wished he hadnât remembered that. Young Jenkins had sidled across his path and almost killed them both. A week later Jenkins had flown slap-bang into his flightcommander, a man called Harry Drake. That was sheer and utter waste. Harry Drake had been a very nice man.
Minnows played cheerfully in the stream. Milne threw a small pebble and scattered them. They soon came back. He envied them. When
he
came back, he decided, he was going to be a minnow.
Paxton had drawn a revolver from the armoury. He had decided that an Orderly Officer should carry a revolver; it helped to demonstrate his authority. By late afternoon, as he walked about the aerodrome in full uniform, he was beginning to regret his decision.
The officers were playing cricket again. He couldnât help feeling that if this was war he didnât think much of it. All anyone did was swim and play cricket. He was hot, and his blasted revolver kept banging against his hip in a most annoying way. Also he had been bitten inside his puttees by some blasted French insects. He itched and could not scratch. He glanced at the cricket match. Half the players had crowded together and were arguing about something; the other half were lying down. The trouble with Hornet Squadron, he decided, was that it was slack. It lacked the Will to Win.
Private Fidler came up to him and saluted.
âMr. OâNeillâs compliments, sir, and could you come and look at something suspicious heâs found lying in the grass, you being Orderly Officer and all.â
Paxton distrusted
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