Winged Victory by V Yeates

Author:V Yeates
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: eBook ISBN: 978-1-908117-99-1
Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
Published: 2004-05-19T00:00:00+00:00

VI

FRANKLIN was shot down. B flight had been doing their ridiculous patrol at a thousand feet, and they only crossed the lines once, when Franklin had seemingly been hit from the ground. He had glided towards the British lines but crashed in no-man’s-land just outside the British wire. He probably hadn’t been killed unless the Huns had shot him before he could get into cover.

His going would be a considerable loss to B flight. He was a fine deputy leader. Everyone liked his good humour, his bulk, his imperturbability. Without him, Tom thought, the squadron would be like a menagerie without its elephant. Fortunately they had pinpoints of the crash, and an urgent request was got through to the battalion holding the line there to rescue him.

Williamson was back to dinner. He looked tired out. Tom and Smith and Seddon listened eagerly to his account of what it was like to be in England. There wasn’t enough to eat, but there was still plenty to drink, though most whisky was poisonous and all beer pretty bad. London was crowded; you could hardly get into a musical show or a popular bar or a night club. Everyone was still doing well, from newspapers owners and prostitutes to hot gospellers and cabinet ministers. An officer on leave, especially one with flying pay, was charged double for everything.

‘God, I’ve had a bust. I haven’t slept these last three nights. I’m tired out and I’m more than broke. I’m glad to be back in this peaceful spot, away from all the whores, touts, and profiteers. I’m glad to see you fellows again: really, we’re happy here. I never want to go inside the Savoy or Murray’s again.’

‘Of course, if all you do on leave is go round the London shows …’ Seddon began.

‘And now we’re going to have one of our arguments,’ Williamson interrupted. ‘That’s fine.’

‘After dinner,’ said Tom. ‘There’s the gong.’

But after dinner Williamson lay down on his bed and fell asleep. He didn’t wake up till seven o’clock in the morning, when he undressed and went to bed. As it was a quite impossible morning for flying he slept on undisturbed till lunch.

Franklin telephoned early from Arras, and the squadron car went over for him. He had washed and brushed, but his clothes were torn, his face bruised and cut. He had abandoned his sidcot. He was a little queer: not quite the Franklin they knew. His engine had cut out, he didn’t know why, and he hadn’t been able to get back, but crashed into a big shell hole just outside the British wire. It was muddy and had three feet of water at the bottom, but it gave him immediate cover. The bus was upside down with its tail in the water, and he crawled out and lay on the mud, and kept slipping down till his feet were in the water. The Huns didn’t take any notice of him at first. He thought he’d better let his own people know he was alive, so he put up his arm and waved his handkerchief, which was at once shot at.

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