He saw Andrew's face reflected in the rear-view mirror on the cross struts of the wing above his head, and his eyes were wide with dismay and disbelief at that incredible manoeuvre.
Andrew fired a green Very flare to signal the recall to the squadron and to concede victory to Michael. The squadron was scattered across the sky, but at the recall they re-formed on Andrew and he led them back to Mort Homme.
The moment they landed, Andrew sprang from his machine and rushed to Michael, seizing him by both shoulders and shaking him impatiently.
How did you do that, how the hell did you do that? Quickly Michael explained.
It's impossible. Andrew shook his head. A flat turn if I hadn't seen it- He broke off. Come on. Let's go and try it again. Together the two big scout planes roared off the narrow strip, and only returned as the last light was fading.
Michael and Andrew jumped down from their cockpits and fell on each other, slapping each other on the back and dancing in a circle, so padded by their flying clothes that they looked like a pair of performing bears. Their ground crews stood by with indulgent grins until they sobered a little and then Mac, the head mechanic, stepped forward and tipped his forage cap.
Begging your pardon, sir, but that paint job is like my mother-in-law's Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, sir, dull and dirty and God-help-us. The SE5as were in factory drab. A colour that was intended to make them inconspicuous to the enemy.
Green, said Andrew. A few of the pilots on both sides, German as well as British, desired the opposite effect.
With them it was a matter of pride that their paintwork should be bright enough to advertise their presence to the enemy, a direct challenge. Green, Andrew repeated.
Bright green to match my scarf, and don't forget the flying haggis on the nose. Yellow, please, Mac, Michael decided.
Now what made me think you would choose yellow, Mr Michael? Mac grinned.
Oh, Mac, while you are about it, take that awful little windshield off her and tighten up the rigging wires, won't you? The old hands all believed that by screwing up the rigging wires and increasing the dihedral angle of the wings, they could put a few knots on their speed.
I'll see to it, Mac promised.
Trim her to fly hands off, Michael added. The aces were all fusspots, everybody knew that. If the SESa flew straight and level with hands off the controls, the pilot could use both hands for the guns.
Hands off it is, sir! Mac grinned indulgently.
Oh, and Mac, train the guns for fifty yards- Anything else, sir? That will do for now, Mac, Michael answered his grin, but I'll work on it.
I'm sure you will, sir. Mac shook his head with resignation. She'll be ready by dawn. There's a bottle of rum for you if she is, Michael promised.
And now, my boy, Andrew threw his arm around Michael's shoulders, how about a drink? I thought you would never offer, Michael said.
The mess was full of excited young men all eagerly and loudly discussing the new machines.
Corporal! Lord Killigerran called over their heads to the mess servant. All drinks tonight will be on my book, please, and his pilots cheered him delightedly before turning back to the bar to make the most of the offer.
An hour later when all eyes were glittering feverishly and the laughter had reached that raucous pitch which Andrew judged to be appropriate, he hammered on the bar for their attention and announced solemnly, As Grand Bok-Bok Champion of Aberdeen and greater Scotland, not to mention the outer Hebrides, it behaves me to challenge all corners to a bout of that ancient and honourable sport. Behaves, forsooth! Michael cocked a mocking eye at him. Kindly pick your team, sir. Michael lost the toss and his team was required to form the rugger scrum against the far wall of the mess, while the mess servants swiftly stowed away all breakables.
Then one at a time Andrew's lads took a run across the mess and landed with all possible force upon the scrum, endeavouring to collapse it for an outright win. If, however, any part of their anatomy touched the ground in the process, it would have meant an immediate disqualification of their team.
Michael's scrum withstood the weight and violence of the onslaught, and finally all eight of Andrew's men, making sure that not a toe or finger touched the ground, were perched like a troop of monkeys on top of Michael's pyramid.
From the top of the pile Andrew asked the crucial question which would decide glorious victory or ignoble defeat. Bok-Bok, how many fingers do I hold up? His voice, muffled by the weight of bodies above him, Michael guessed. Three. Two! Andrew claimed victory and with a dismal groan the scrum deliberately collapsed itself, and in the ensuing chaos Michael found Andrew's ear within inches of his mouth.
I say, do you think I might borrow the motor-cycle tonight? he asked.
Pinned as he was, Andrew could not move his head, but he rolled his eyes towards Michael.
Going out for a breath of air, my boy, once again? and then when Michael looked sheepish and could find no clever reply, he went on, All I have is yours, go with my blessing and give the lucky lady my deepest respects, won't you?
Michael parked the motor-cycle in the woods behind the barn, and carrying the bundle of army blankets sloshed through the mud to the entrance. As he stepped in there was a flash of light as Centaine lifted the shutter of the lantern and shone it in his face.
Bonsoir, monsieur.
She was sitting up on top of the bales of straw with her legs tucked under her and she grinned impishly down at him. What a surprise to meet you here.
