The FEs attacked at the same time from opposite sides but by then the formation had broken. It was very smoothly done. One Aviatik climbed, the other two turned to face the. attacks, and the Roland dived towards the nearest cloud. There followed one of those hectic scraps that the pilots, if they survived, could never properly describe to Brazier because all they remembered was a flurry of images: planes that seemed to be sporting like swallows at one moment and charging head-first into a suicide pact the next; bright blurs of tracer, bending to chase a target; a swooping shadow; blood surging as the plane banked; the magnificent, exuberant hammering of guns; the panic of trying to look three ways at once and nearly colliding and screaming abuse and firing and missing; dragging the FE round in a turn so tight you think you can see your own tail; and thank God the air is empty behind. So you climb and hurt your neck by looking everywhere for everyone, but everyone has gone. The scrap lasted two minutes, maybe. How could the sky be crammed with fighting one moment and empty the next? When they landed, Ogilvy and Essex asked each other: “Where did you get to?” It wasn’t important. They’d got back, and now the scrap seemed like tremendous fun. It was only later, when one or other of them woke, far too soon, in the dreary stone-grey half-light before dawn, that terror got a bit of its own back.
Stubbs, flying with Goss, was probably the first to use the new pillar-mounted gun.
Before take-off they had agreed to try to lure an enemy machine onto their tail. Goss would fly fairly slowly and not too high, and Stubbs would be ready to unstrap himself and stand on his seat. After that, Goss would have to fly straight and level until Stubbs got down from his perch.
They crossed the Lines and wandered about, above cloud where the archie was blind. There was no lack of Huns but they were all too high or too low or too busy going elsewhere. After about twenty minutes an Albatros came wheeling in, out of range, nose gun blazing; as soon as Stubbs opened fire it curled away and dived for home. A novice, Goss decided. He also decided that this particular experiment wasn’t going to work. He opened the throttle and eased back on the stick to gain some height and automatically scanned the sky. With the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something drifting behind him; when he turned his head the glimpse had gone.
Stubbs moved fast. His legs were braced against the shove of the slipstream, his rump pressed against the front Lewis, and the Hun wasn’t even in range: just a silhouette, slim as a child’s kite. Stubbs waited. He enjoyed the luxury of not having the rushing air squeezing his face, and suddenly realised there were other advantages in firing backwards. The FE’s speed would actually help his bullets. So the Hun was in range after all. He fired off half a drum, marvelling at the way he just missed propeller and tail, and saw his tracer washing all over the enemy. That was all he saw. He blinked, and it was gone. No hope of giving chase. Stubbs climbed down, giving Goss a beefy grin.
After that the patrol was an anticlimax. Goss saw two distant scraps but they dissolved before he arrived. He became impatient; he wanted to try out his new fixed forward-firing Lewis.
The FE was a pleasure to dive. It cut through the thin curtain of archie like a locomotive through mist. Goss felt total confidence in the big Beardmore. From the way the wires and struts sang, he knew this was going to be a joyride. The rising countryside was spread out for his delight: he could choose what he wanted. He chose a field that was a town of tents and strafed it like a small mechanical storm, rising and dipping again and again to bring his gun to bear. Stubbs shot at anything that moved. It was all so easy. They heard bugles sounding the alarm, and saw men with their mouths open. Then the FE was gone, and Stubbs was busy reloading both guns. Goss found a column of infantry on the march and they shot it up too. Just point the bus and pull the trigger. You couldn’t miss. Rifle-fire chased him as he climbed high and went through the archie again, and flew home.
Cleve-Cutler had watched and waited a very long time. He was watching the decoy Rumpler, still pottering about down below, as well as the two Albatroses, who were loitering half a mile away. It would be foolish, he thought, to take on two of the enemy’s best fighters; but if he hung about long enough, anything might happen. Aircraft in various markings passed. All had their own business to attend to. None of this was very exciting. Far away, somebody’s business ended in a bright bead of flame strung on a long black thread of smoke. Now that must have been exciting.
A Gun Bus appeared, saw the Rumpler and changed course. The escort let it get close but not too close before they each dropped a wing and slid into a dive. Cleve-Cutler went down with them. It was an odd feeling, looking down on the decoy and the dummy, pressing your lips together against the rush of air trying to open them, feeling the controls stiffen as the speed built, knowing that in a few seconds these five machines would be mixed up in a wild tangle. The Gun Bus had seen what was coming and had turned away. Bad move. When attacked, always turn and face. Too late now.
One Albatros fell on the Gun Bus while the other tried to cut across Cleve-Cutler’s path and scare him off. Nothing worked. For a chaotic instant half a dozen streams of machine-gun fire crossed each other. Almost everyone missed. The Gun Bus decided, too late again, to keep turning and face the attack, and it wallowed in the wash of the first Albatros. The second Albatros got hit by some shots from the Rumpler that were meant for the FE, pulled out of its dive and began to make smoke. The Gun Bus, still wallowing, took a snap shot at the Rumpler and nearly hit the FE. Cleve-Cutler’s observer swore in fury and fired and nearly hit the Gun Bus. The Gun Bus put its nose down and fled. The damaged Albatros was leaving, escorted by its partner. That left the FE and the Rumpler, which was departing with all speed. Cleve-Cutler chased it and closed for the kill. His observer’s Lewis jammed after two shots; his own fixed Lewis jammed after ten. The whole thing was a balls-up. The Rumpier’s gunner was good and getting better with practice. Cleve-Cutler quit for the day.
O’Neill and Paxton were one of the last crews to take off. Everywhere they went they found German aeroplanes high above, willing to fight. The fight was always short: the Hun dived, fired, and kept going. O’Neill always turned to face the attacker and twice he held the FE rock-solid while Paxton did the shooting. Other times he kicked the rudder across as hard as he could when the enemy gunfire began pecking at their wings. As soon as he levelled out, Paxton would jump up and stand on his seat, eager to shoot down the Hun he thought was following them. O’Neill swore, and punched his legs to get him down. Until he came down O’Neill couldn’t manoeuvre. Usually Paxton got down quickly, but on one occasion he kicked at O’Neill to stop him punching. O’Neill, totally blind to what was happening behind, could only wait. And worry.
Paxton hung onto the Lewis with his right hand and stooped until their heads were close together. “When I do this,” he shouted, and waggled his left hand,”climb!” He straightened before O’Neill could answer.
The FE flew on. Clouds steadily readjusted their positions. O’Neill studied the view between Paxton’s legs and hoped that he was not wandering into an area lousy with Huns. Paxton opened fire, a series of short bursts and then a long one, sounding to O’Neill exactly like a small boy trailing a stick along some railings. Paxton’s left hand waggled vigorously. O’Neill climbed, shouting “I hope you sodding well know…” Paxton fired, a very long burst that emptied the drum. He jumped down, thoroughly delighted with himself, and leaned over the pilot’s windscreen. “Got him!” he shouted. He tugged O’Neill’s nose. O’Neill lashed out with his fist and knocked’Paxton into his cockpit. The Hun, when O’Neill found it, was so far below them that it almost blurred with the landscape. He knew it was there because it had left a long smear of smoke. Which could mean something, or nothing.