Dawn by Eve Edwards

Author:Eve Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141969046
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2014-07-02T18:00:00+00:00

12

Sutton’s Farm, Essex, 7 July 1917, 4 p.m.

Sebastian brought his Pup down for a smooth landing, bumping over the runway until he could taxi to the hangars. He cut the engine, killing the vibration that had juddered through his bones since take-off. The waiting mechanics rushed out to help him climb down from the cockpit and begin servicing the plane so it would be ready for immediate deployment. Balancing himself with a hand on a mechanic’s shoulder, he jumped to the ground, stripping off his goggles, helmet and gloves.

‘How was it, sir?’ the mechanic asked.

‘Frustrating.’ He rammed his fingers through his hair, stuck to his scalp after having been under the helmet for hours. ‘I could see the damage, but the Germans were dancing rings round us. Didn’t catch sight of a single one.’

Charlie’s plane glided in to land, lifting that little piece of worry Sebastian carried when he knew his friend was aloft.

‘The pilot who came in before you said the anti-aircraft guns almost got him.’ The mechanic opened the engine housing, listening to the clicks of the cooling mechanism. Nothing sounded out of kilter.

‘She’s running well – low on fuel but otherwise in good shape.’ Sebastian watched Charlie’s plane taxi in – no sign of damage. ‘As for the gunners, you’d think they’d be able to distinguish one of ours from a Hun, but no: if it flies, they shoot. The Gothas got a big target in the East End; I saw the smoke plume.’

The mechanic wiped an oily hand across his nose. ‘There must be a better way than this. Each time, we’re shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. The Germans will be back at their base by now, laughing at us.’

‘I think I’ll go in and find something to kick.’

‘You go right ahead, sir – as long as it’s not a mechanic, we’re right with you on that.’

Sebastian was sleeping under canvas in a tent he shared with Charlie and Fred Tennant. It was pitched in the orchard, shaded by trees in full leaf, little pebble-hard apples forming where recently had been blossom. He tried not to think of them as little bombs waiting to fall but the image was there, especially after the June drop had thinned out the crop, scattering the ground with immature fruit. Oddly, life in the orchard often felt like a holiday: fine weather, pretty surroundings, convivial companions, not too much work, a lot of time spent playing cards and waiting for the Germans to come their way. The knowledge that he was having it so easy grated, like whistling a happy tune at a funeral. He threw his flying-gear on his bed, guiltily aware that his servant, an invalided signals sergeant, would be along soon to clear up after him, but he was too angry to be tidy. If only he could score a kill – knock one of the bombers out of the sky – but he had not been joking when he’d said to Charlie their task was like using a harpoon to catch minnows.

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