Other mutineers die standing up, spitting defiance.
Two men different from the rest: they face the firing squad and sing the ‘Marseillaise’ and the ‘Chant du départ’; first they embraced the officer commanding the squad, that’s it, refused to obey the order to attack, found guilty at the double, a priest and a socialist MP had talked to them all through the night, an honourable death, you must do the decent thing, you say you’re sorry and you face the firing squad and sing so that your comrades may still have enough strength to snatch victory from the shadows, the priest’s cross and the MP’s hands, you will set us all an example, we all want peace through victory.
Also a woman, who comes and speaks in the cell, what about our two daughters, daughters of a hero or a traitor, they said that if you say you’re sorry, if you sing the ‘Marseillaise’, they’ll just write ‘killed in action’ in the book, the officer said:
‘What chance will a coward’s daughter have of finding a husband?’ The daughter is two years old, not for eleven years will a friend tell her the truth, when Poincaré has become the man who laughs in cemeteries, yes, one of the two men sentenced to death was that schoolteacher, Robert, the one with the holiday cottage and the month’s rent, the ‘Marseillaise’ and the ‘Chant du départ’, everyone could believe again, they embraced, they stood at the stake and wept.
Eight Tauben lined up, a plane of exactly this type and make has just set a new altitude record at 6,200 metres, the world spread out below is a marvel. The machine guns defend these dreams, they continue to cut down French dragoons, they decimate the fourth troop which charged in support, but one section of the dragoons succeeds in breaking through the line of fire, and others in position at the far end of the clearing also come riding up, one of the planes has had time to begin moving, it gains speed, waddles like an exasperated chicken on the churned-up grass. Two or three dragoons try to give chase, the horses take fright, still needs another three hundred, two hundred revs to reach the 65 kilometres an hour needed for take-off, in the bottom of his ditch Hans hears the signs, a hundred and fifty revs, he calculates the plane’s chances, he knows each of the six in-line cylinders in each of his eight aircraft while the plane bumps along with increasing speed over the uneven surface.
Already its pilot has stopped thinking of anything except those trees dead ahead. The observer in the rear seat has a large repeating rifle and takes aim at the dragoons, keep thinking of what you love.
Hans hears the noise of the engine, a woman glides on to a frozen lake, why? The sound of the engine, death, he takes the woman’s hand, puts his arm around her waist, a picture, a lake in the mountains, keep thinking of what you love, the sound of an aeroplane exasperated because it cannot take off, it battles with every tussock, never volunteer for anything, the engine is getting too much fuel, the pilot’s going to flood the carburettor, pound to a penny it’s Klaus, he never could do it right, and the second piece of advice, think, a village at one end of the mountain lake, a waterfall at the other, is this really the moment to think about what you love? Early winter keen-cold, sound of an engine, revs almost there, the sleeve now, robins panicking in the frost, early-morning skaters, light from a red disc, pale and austere, the same actions in unison, Hans and the young woman move out across the ice each leaning on the other, in turn.
Hans is not a very good skater, she smiles, you look like someone wading through mud, at first he put his right hand on Lena’s waist but it was really she who wedged her hip against his, he dares not make too much of this, she has put her hand on Hans’s right hand, the hand that holds her waist, and again she presses, presses herself against Hans as is required when two people skate together, around them are other couples, they brush past each other with a smile, the birches drop fine ash, Hans and the young woman are gliding, each leaning upon the other, the increasingly regular hiss of skates.
Sometimes to within kissing distance of Hans’s lips come curls of red hair which escape from beneath her bonnet, Lena leans on Hans, then moves away from him, turns on the ice, faces him, he looks at her, her cheekbones are high, her mouth wide, he releases one of the young woman’s hands, she begins to spin on the spot, the point of her skate, Hans’s hand, her long-sleeved pelisse, black velvet, a short skirt which stops above the ankle, an unblemished quartz-blue sky, a peaceful morning, intermittent rook calls arrive on the breeze, a light, continuous icy breeze, a background of faint metallic sounds.
Suddenly at the edge of the lake a loud crack, Hans feels a stab of fear, he slows but Lena forces him to continue, the crack of frozen water, everyone has heard it, sees the dark water beneath the ice, a land of snow but there is no snow on the lake, only ice, everything just froze very fast and very hard, needles of cold prick cheeks, sting throats, lustrous dark blue water beneath the ice, Lena draws Hans away, a mist of breath from Lena’s mouth, Hans tries to inhale the mist.
Another long cracking sound. Something angry stirs below, the birches white with frost, Lena has let go of Hans’s hand, she skates off towards the far end of the lake, weaving about, Hans follows her, Lena’s skirt and pelisse deliciously enhance her buttocks, Hans recalls a sentence from a fashion magazine aimed at skaters, we recommend that ladies should not take posterior flatness to extremes, Lena is far from taking posterior flatness to extremes, Hans is afraid, a cracking sound which lasts longer than the others, Hans moves closer to the shore, there is a reed-bank frozen solid and a boat with a blue prow trapped in the ice, the firs are encrusted with frost, a jay fights with a clod of frozen earth.
Hans calls out, Lena comes back towards him looking beautiful, a quick turn, her hip slides up against his, he rests his right hand on her waist, he does not dare apply pressure, Lena clamps one hand on his, the young woman does not wear corsets, we’d better go back, no, she forces Hans to make for the far end of the lake, the waterfall, every time she puts her weight on her leg Hans feels her muscles flex hard, and then a moment later the softness returns, another loud crack, the ice, the accident.
Hans deduces from the sound of the engine that the plane has managed to get airborne, one metre, two. The pilot begins a shallow turn to get round the trees, the lieutenant of the fourth troop of dragoons has dispatched two men in pursuit.
At full tilt, one rider finally succeeds in attacking the aeroplane’s tail, slicing cables which control chord and rudder with his sabre, the Taube starts spinning on its axis, starts falling, the propeller slices open the side of the horse which rolls on the ground and likewise chases its own tail, legs flailing, entrails exposed and blood spurting, with his sabre the other cavalryman runs pilot and observer through, slashes the bracing wires, then backs away and stands his horse on its rear legs.
The rest of the squadron has begun cutting the Tauben to pieces with bare steel, canvas first and the bracing-stays, then the balsa struts, so fragile, the whole a miraculous balance of weights, volume, tension, resistance, female flesh, the other machine gun has stopped firing, the dragoons slash the wooden propellers, make the propellers pay for the deaths of their comrades, the aeroplane is the future of the world, you’ll see what a cavalryman can make of the future of the world, a man with a leather flying helmet is skewered by a lance by the side of his plane, another lance pierces a fuel tank, a dragoon tosses a cotton-waste fuse on to it, other dragoons get the message, within moments all eight dreams are reduced to heaps of burning wreckage.