Coming upon a weary sentry, she meekly said 'Red Cross' to him as if it were the password of the day. He saluted and let her through without asking to see her fabled papers. Given the hell- raising disposition pilots were rumoured to have, women far more questionable than she must be coming on and off the field at all hours.
She found a shed and leaned her bicycle against it. Mud had spattered her entirely and was inches thick on the tops of her boots. Even her glasses were speckled with brown liquid. She was scarcely in a condition to beguile secrets from tight-lipped heroes.
The airfield still looked like a farm. Barns augmented by corrugated metal structures served as hangars. Just after nightfall, there were quite a few personnel milling about. In what had been a stableyard, two mechanics toiled on a Sopwith Pup which was leaking oil in a steady gush.
Kate walked past purposefully as if on important business, as indeed she was. One man whistled, testimony to the length of time he had spent away from home. She smiled back, hiding teeth.
She found the field itself. The patrol she had seen would have taken off from here. A knot of men stood near the farmhouse that must be their billet, watching the night skies.
It hit her that this must be dreadful, waiting and knowing the odds were bad. She had heard it was possible to become accustomed to the steady attrition as men you served with were killed off. It must take a fearful toll on anyone's sanity.
The group gradually broke up. First one man drifted off, then another, then all of them. They looked self- consciously at the ground, trying to fight the compulsion to gaze forever at the sky. Then they kicked a bit, muttered with mock cheer, and slipped back into the house. A gramophone croaked out 'Poor Butterfly'.
She felt, as she rarely did, that she was intruding, and wondered if she should get back to her ambulance unit. When she wasn't snooping, she helped with the wounded. The sobering duty reminded her why it was important to find and tell the truth.
'Miss,' said a deep voice. 'Should you be here?'
He had come up behind her without making a sound audible even to her bat-sharp ears. That marked him as a professional creeper. It was Sergeant Dravot, the hatchet man of the Diogenes Club.
She spread her hands in surrender and tried a mousy smile.
'I'm waiting for my soldier boy to come home,' she said, trying to sound like a tart.
Dravot looked up at the sky and, without a trace of expression, said, 'So am I.'
18
Hell's Angels
Something exploded quite near. Winthrop felt a brief thrash of hot air. The RE8 whizzed past blossoming black cloud. Archie. The spotter climbed sharply, faster than his stomach could manage. An unmeasurable distance below was a carpet of black bursts. The draught of explosions tossed the machine higher. Courtney rode the blast, keeping steady.
The RE8 was at its peak at 6,500 feet but its operational ceiling was 13,500 feet. Archie rarely got above 4,000. The weight of the shells dragged, thank God.
It suddenly occurred to him that they might not have the sky to themselves. In the circumstances, he was not best employed looking down. Most downed aeroplanes were shot from behind or above. He swivelled from side to side, turning through three- quarters of a circle. Nothing seemed to be creeping up on them.
They flew east, away from the sunset. The sky was red, darkness crowding around.
The RE8 tilted as Courtney executed a textbook aerial turn, following Cundall's lead. They were angling towards Malinbois.
The air whipped like a storm of fish-hooks. He tried to let go of the Lewis grips, but found his fingers wouldn't move. Biting on frustration, he forced his hands to work.
He fumbled for the camera toggle. He would have to sight the camera accurately, yet keep any spare eyes out for hostile fliers. Even by day, an enemy aircraft could seem the tiniest gnat in an unpeopled expanse of sky a couple of seconds before it was close enough to get in a killing shot. He needed a head like a multi-faceted sphere, with a compound eye on each facet. He wondered if there were vampires like that.
He turned round to his extreme right and saw the back of Courtney's helmet. The pilot held up his gloved hand, thumb up.
Beyond Courtney, the Snipes flew. Beyond them was shadow. The flight descended through thin cloud. A towered shape rose above the landscape. It was familiar from drawings and photographs as the Chateau du Malinbois.
Winthrop's arm tensed. He didn't know if he had the strength in his elbow to pull the camera toggle.
Something black and winged zoomed past. The RE8 banked, twisting away. The roaring in Winthrop's ears contained the tiny noise of gunfire. He adjusted to his new alignment. It was easier to think of whatever lay under his feet as down, even if the RE8 flew almost on its side. Sixty per cent of his field of vision was taken up by landscape. Against fields and roads, things were moving in the air.
He fixed on a field of virgin snow, a largeish patch of white in the muddy grey. Something black darted across it and he angled his Lewis to aim in its path. He depressed the trigger and was shaken by the mule kick of the gun. He knew enough to fire only a short burst rather than waste limited ammunition in a futile spray. He could not tell if he hit anything.
The Harry Tate climbed and whirled. Amazingly, the formation was intact. Dark shapes flitted around the edges of the arrow, darting up. A line of painfully bright flashes ripped by. Tracer bullets.
The RE8 wheeled round above the castle. Winthrop pulled the camera toggle, waited a few seconds, and pulled again. Shadows passed over the spotter. Winthrop took his last two exposures and forgot the camera. He had both fists around the gun- handles.
They were in the middle of a dog-fight, an aerial melee. God knows how many fliers darted around, popped off guns, swore under their breaths, wrestled wings through wind resistance, prayed for victory or even another night of life.
His last letter was entirely inadequate. Catriona deserved better than a few lines of scribble.
Something knifed downward in flames, screeching. He couldn't tell what markings were on its wings. It was impossible to count the shapes in the air.
Damn, he was going to die! Not in some remote white-haired future surrounded by grandchildren, but in the next few moments. He should have turned. But Courtney was a vampire and he was going to die too. Being undead was no use if you went down in flames.
They wove from side to side, up and down. Courtney must be some breed of genius to get so much out of a poor old bloody old Harry Tate. He dodged the best the Boche could put in the air. Clearly, Cundall's Condors were battling with Jagdgeschwader
The Germans moved faster even than the Snipes, registering on the eye as an evil black blur. The darker it got, the more they blended with the night. Winthrop imagined the Snipes were luminous, attracting fire from all round.
The sky was beneath them and the castle was above his head. Courtney had flipped the spotter over. Winthrop's Lewis pointed down and backwards. Something climbed fast, a killer fish rising from the depths, eyes blazing red. Wings beat, displacing a great volume of air.
Tracer spurted up towards the RE8's tail. Winthrop returned fire, spitting bursts at the winged thing. Every tenth bullet was supposed to be silver. He realised he was firing not at an aircraft, but at a shape-shifted creature with multiple sets of batwings.
A creature with machine-guns.
He remembered the dark shape that had plucked Albright from his SE5a. And killed him.
A huge head, grinning bloodily, soared towards him, darting through gunfire. Terror reached out from the flying thing and clutched his heart. He was frozen, hung upside-down in his cockpit, unable to press with his thumbs.
He did not know if he had shouted or prayed. There was a savage twist and the Harry Tate rolled right-side- up again. Winthrop saw two Snipes diving towards the Boche, spitting tracer.
