It fell two thousand feet before he got it under control, and even then he wasn’t absolutely sure how he did it, except that the engine was making such a hideous din that he throttled back almost to nothing, which seemed to help matters.
As he climbed again to three thousand he tested the controls and had a good look around. Nothing seemed broken or bent.
That proved one thing. Ninety wasn’t fast enough.
The next time, he made the dive a little steeper and held it a lot longer. He was prepared for the screaming and shaking: when it got too bad he shut his eyes and clenched his jaws. Oddly enough, doing that made a difference. The vibration eased a bit. He opened his eyes. Yes, definitely easier. Ninety-five, but the needle was jumping about so much it could be a hundred. This was insane. But great fun. A hundred, a hundred and five! Paxton’s ears popped. He took that as a signal, and hauled the stick into his stomach. The BE2c soared, the horizon came and went, the sky rolled past yet there was always more sky. Paxton wondered if he was completely upside-down yet. How did one tell? There really was an amazing quantity of sky, it just went on and on. At last he glimpsed the horizon, wrong-side up this time, and he knew-with a spasm of joy – that he had done it. He had looped the loop! Then the sandbags fell out.
They tumbled from the observer’s cockpit in a steady brown stream that went whirling away over Paxton’s head so fast that he did not recognize them.
He was mystified. Was the plane coming apart? He swivelled his head, but already they were just dots. Most extraordinary! The engine was still howling. He looked for the horizon: gone. Instead the landscape of France appeared, swinging as if on pivots. He was well over the top and starting another power-dive. He throttled back in a hurry.
The BE2c came out of the loop but she was an unhappy aeroplane: tail-heavy, nose-high, unbalanced, demanding to be flown every inch of the way. Paxton found himself climbing when he didn’t want to climb. He tried to stop that, almost stalled, panicked, did something original with his hands and feet, got into an enormous sideslip, panicked again, kicked the aeroplane hard, got out of the sideslip he knew not how and in desperation whacked the throttle wide open. The machine trembled as if it had struck a storm and started climbing again. Paxton looked around in despair and saw another aeroplane watching him.
It was sixty or seventy yards to his left, about a length behind him and slightly above. He recognised the type at once. A squadron of them had assembled at Shoreham en route to France. It was an FE2b, a tough-looking two-seater biplane with the engine behind the pilot and no fuselage to speak of, just a naked framework holding the tail in position. The engine was a pusher, so the pilot and his observer sat in a pod ahead of the wings. This arrangement gave them a marvellous view. Right now they were watching Paxton staggering and stumbling about the sky. After a while he noticed that they were waving, gesturing downwards very vigorously. He was sick of being messed about by this stupid Quirk, so he took their advice.
There was only one way to overcome the machine’s mindless desire to climb, and that was by falling into a series of sideslips. So Paxton descended, like a bad skier stumbling down an icy mountain. The FE2b spiralled behind him, at a safe distance. At five hundred feet it levelled out and flew east. Paxton followed, climbing hard. After five miles he saw the aerodrome. It looked shockingly small. It looked about one quarter the size of the field at Shoreham. Nevertheless the FE landed easily enough.
It took Paxton half an hour of sweaty experiment at sideslip and climb, sideslip and climb, sideslip and climb, before he entered a final sideslip that sent the Quirk low over the edge of the aerodrome. He let the slide continue. The field kept rising sideways. Now he could see the grass shimmering. This was going to be the most awful crash. He shut his eyes, counted to three, then stirred the joystick vigorously, pedalled the rudder bar, and gave the engine full power. The first bounce of the Quirk jarred his spine and opened his eyes. He snatched at the throttle. The Quirk bounced again, and again. People watching said it bounced seven times before the tailskid touched, and four times after that, until a tyre burst and the machine slewed to a halt. Paxton wasn’t counting. Paxton was down, and that was memorable enough.
By the time he had unstrapped and got out, a couple of mechanics had arrived at a brisk trot and were examining the wheel. Behind them came a burly young man on a bicycle. He wore neither cap nor tunic but from his khaki tie and slacks Paxton guessed he was an officer. He rode unhurriedly, and the bicycle wandered as it hit lumps and ruts. A few yards from Paxton he let it drift almost to a halt, and then stood on the pedals, concentrating on keeping it upright, as if in a slow-bicycle race. “You damn near hit me with your damn sandbags, you know,” he said, not looking. All his attention was on his front wheel.
Paxton was taken aback. He had expected a sort of welcome and this sounded like an accusation. Or was it meant as a joke? He said: “Are you sure it was me?” That sounded awfully lame.
“Of course I’m sure. You’re Dexter, aren’t you? I’m Goss. The old man sent me up to find you, and that was easy enough…” He broke off as the bicycle almost toppled and he was forced to work the pedals.
“Actually, I’m Paxton, not Dexter.”
Goss wasn’t listening. “You were dancing and prancing all over the sky. Didn’t want to see me, though. Too busy chucking your rotten sandbags about.”
Suddenly Paxton understood. He walked over to the Quirk and looked into the observer’s cockpit. Empty. Oh my god. At that moment his stomach felt just as empty.
“See what you nearly did to me?” Goss demanded. Now he had abandoned the slow-bicycle race and was riding in figures-of-eight near the tail. He pointed, and Paxton went over to look. The leading edges of the tailplanes were damaged, cracked, bent downwards. No wonder the Quirk had insisted on climbing. What an idiot he’d been! What a chump! Remorse seized him, and he patted the fuselage, as if it were a big dog whose tail he had trodden on.“Don’t make it any worse,” Goss said. Paxton flinched and took his hand away. “Joke,” Goss said sadly.“Come on. You’ve missed lunch but you might get a sandwich, I suppose.”
They headed for a cluster of wooden sheds. Elsewhere Paxton saw a windsock, a couple of FE2bs parked outside canvas hangars, a few lorries. It didn’t look much. He actually had his mouth open to ask the name of the aerodrome when he saved himself. “So this is Pepriac, then,” he said.
“Well, it’s not Frinton-on-Sea. Look, I’m getting cramp. I’II go ahead and stir up the cookhouse.” Goss raced away, making the bicycle swing briskly from side to side. When he was halfway to the camp he looked back and shouted something. The words were blurred. Paxton called:”What?” Goss, still pedalling, still looking back, pointed. His rear wheel bucked and he went flying over the handlebars like an athlete over a vaulting-horse.
Paxton ran as fast as his flying boots allowed and reached Goss as he was getting up. “It’s nothing,” Goss said peevishly. “I’m perfectly all right.” But Paxton could see that he was not. His right arm hung loosely, like an empty sleeve with the hand tacked on the end.
“You’ve done something to your arm,” Paxton said.
“Thanks very much. And I thought it was gallstones.”
They walked in silence, Paxton pushing the bicycle, to a shed where an ambulance stood alongside. Goss pointed to another hut, the biggest of all. “Mess,” he said grimly. “Make them give you something to eat. If they argue, throw sandbags. The old man says he wants to see you in half an hour.” He went inside.