A Sky Torn Asunder: The Memoirs of William Denton Grey.
Part 3: Heavy Cloud.
It seemed no sooner that I had finally drifted off that I was immediately brought back to wakefulness by the sound of somebody moving heavy-footed down the hallway. Lethargically I pulled myself out of bed, groping for my uniform where I had left it heaped under my cot. From the adjacent rooms came one or two shouts of protest, which then woke Davet.
“Who’s making all the noise? Is that you again, Bordage?” asked one voice. “Have you checked the flights yet?” called another. I heard the door at the end of the corridor swing open, and for a moment the barracks was quiet, before a third voice answered “Pretty thick clouds, but no rain”. I was surprised when the barracks broke into a chorus of disappointed groans. Sitting on the cot opposite, Davet sighed. “Merde! Will it ever rain? We haven’t had any in weeks”. I was puzzled as to why a pilot would want it to rain, as a rainstorm would surely mean no flying for the day. Quickly and ungracefully I began to pull my uniform. “You don’t need to bother with that yet” Davet told me from his cot, before turning his head towards our door. “Hey, Bordage! Did you check the flights?”. There was an irritated groan from the hallway.
“Hang on, hang on!”. The door to the mess swung open again. After a brief pause, I heard a whoop of delight. “Spad 12 have the morning flight, then it's Spad 57 and then us!”. A round of cheers came from the other rooms. “Well, I’m going back to sleep!” Davet told me. “You should do the same. We don’t have to go up until the afternoon”. With that he disappeared back under his covers, and in what seemed an unnaturally short amount of time I could hear him quietly and peacefully snoring away.
I slept for another few hours before being gently shaken awake by Georges. In his other hand was a steaming pitcher. “Sorry for waking you, but your patrol goes up in an hour. There’s a plate of buttered toast in the mess. Chocolate?”. I fumbled for my mug and held it out, thanking Georges as he poured the Hot Chocolate.
Several of the pilots were already in the mess, crowded round the table in various states of awakeness. The only pilot that seemed fully awake was Ortoli, who wished me a good morning as I entered. “Grey, we’re going over to Reims today. Over the front”. Immediately I perked up. As he had done yesterday, Ortoli issued me a quick warning to stay close, and to avoid getting into too much trouble. “You did well to get a Bosche yesterday...” he said to me, “...but it sounds like he was as green as you! The next one won’t be”.
After hastily disposing of the remainder of the toast and hot chocolate we made our way towards the airfield, where our mechanics were hanging around and making their last checks of our Spads. I greeted Souris as we reached the flight line. He nodded hello, before filling me in on the state of my ship. “So, the mixture lever is a bit sticky, but she’s all ready to go apart from that. I’ve put in for a new lever. I haven’t tested the gun today, so it’s worth giving it a quick burst before you reach the lines, just to be on the safe side”.
Once we had retrieved our Combinations from the lockers in the hangar we climbed into our Spads and took off one by one, splitting up into a lower group and a higher group. I found myself in the former, tucked awkwardly in between Ortoli and Portron’s machines. Spad 31 flew in a tighter formation than I’d become accustomed to in the schools, and I found myself ungracefully bobbing between them, taking care to keep an equal distance from both. Apparently, from the sideways glances being shot at me from Ortoli, I wasn’t doing the best job.
As we fought through the increasingly-heavy cloud I felt a whipping at my face as the rain that Davet had been hoping for finally arrived. Feeling the wind buffet my machine, I eased off the throttle and dropped back, trying to pull my scarf up and over my face to shield myself. By this point we had lost sight of our high friends. Sailing in between two towering clouds, with the overcast sheet of grey above us, I felt as though I was flying into the mouth of some impossibly huge beast. I checked to my right to make sure I hadn’t gotten too close to Portron - and out past his wingtips something caught my eye. Several black specks dotting erratically against the grey backdrop of the cloud. They looked like flies swarming above a carcass, except that they moved in unnaturally slow motion.
I wiped the drizzle from my goggles and focused my gaze. All at once the little silhouettes became apparent to me. It was the high Spad flight, in among a swarm of Albatros! I gunned the throttle to catch up to Ortoli and warn him, but he had seen the melee as well, and signalled to attack. Immediately our formation exploded outwards. I felt almost dazed at the suddenness of the situation.
At first I simply watched, trying to count the Albatroses. Four, five, six...for a reason I can’t explain, I found them incredibly intriguing. As with the Bosche I had gotten yesterday, it almost seemed unreal that here was the enemy - vivid, tangible, almost within touching distance. I was snapped out of my stupor by a flash of yellow to my right, and I whipped my head around to see Ortoli, close on the tail of a German. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to follow. With Ortoli still chasing, the Albatros flipped onto his back and dived away. It had a black tail.
With Ortoli and his Albatros gone, I found myself again sailing along and not really knowing what to do with myself. It was the strangest thing, for I knew I was in the thick of it but I only ever seemed to catch split-second glimpses of the machines surrounding me. Finally I saw an aircraft clearly - a Spad, being chased in a shallow dive by an Albatros. Almost reflexively as the two aircraft flashed in front of my nose I curved onto the tail of the Albatros and pressed down on the trigger. As Ortoli’s opponent had done, my German immediately rolled onto his back and dived down. I followed, circling with my opponent, and in an instant my hesitance was gone. I felt clear and focused as I chased after the Bosche, who seemed now only to want to run East. Further and further down we fell together. Occasionally he would straighten out, maybe thinking I had left him alone, but each time he did my Vickers would be chattering away at his back.
Eventually we had dropped to almost treetop level. With each attack I closed the distance, until I was so close that I could see the pilot as he tried to crane his neck around to see me. I found it inexplicably surprising to see that there was, in fact, a man inside of the machine - I can’t explain why. Nevertheless, I was sure now that I had him cold, and so I continued my assault. Finally, after I had almost exhausted my ammunition, I saw the Bosche fall into a spin, recover momentarily very close to the ground, and then finally roll slowly onto his back and crash, inverted, into the earth below. It was then that I realised we had come further East than I’d realised, to the rearmost of the French trenches, and in an instant I took in the surreal, infinitely-stretching desolation that was the front.
Still dazed, I wheeled away and aimlessly flew West until I saw an aerodrome, which I put down at. Shortly after my arrival, Ortoli and Covin touched down. They seemed surprised to find me there.
To my surprise, Covin was laughing as he climbed out of his Spad. “Lá! Lá! Lá! But I thought that Bosche had me for sure! I owe you a drink, Grey!”. I then realised that Covin’s machine was riddled with holes, and that the flying wires were hanging limply down from the wings in between shot-out struts. Grinning, Covin threw an arm around my shoulder. “So, did you get him? Ah, but look! Here is my answer!”. Excitedly he gestured to the nose of my Spad. It was spattered with little droplets of scarlet.
After a short while, a pair of mechanics examined Covin’s Spad. One gave a whistle as he ran his hand along a snapped strut. “Well, mon ami, I’m afraid this Coucou has had it!” he bluntly explained. Ortoli and I decided to fly back to Fere-en-Tardenois before seeking out Pierre and telling him where Covin was. At the news, the little chauffeur laughed aloud.
“The Bosches gave him a rough time, eh? It’s a good thing you have me around to come and collect you all! By the way, Jayaud’s not back yet either. Was he over there too?”
“No,” replied Ortoli, “Why, he hasn’t called?”.
“Nope! Probably put down in some field somewhere. No doubt I’ll be getting sent out to pick him up as well! I hope somebody’s paying me extra for this pilot delivery service!”.
Two hours passed, then three, then four. Over dinner, Chartoire showed off a Bosche bullet that had lodged itself in his tail skid. Conversation flowed loosely over the course of the evening, but by Nine O’Clock I could tell that the others were beginning to worry. At midnight pilots started turning in for the night. There was still no news of Jayaud.
