Like Father Like Son - Parts One to Five

Phillip shot Pinky a grateful look and was rewarded by the pilot’s broad wink. The CO stood and warmed his backside by the fire. He nodded at Phillip and called for the mess servant to give him a brandy. 

“Better get Mr Welford-Barnes one too, Jenkins. Sovereign remedy for a gippy tummy.”

More officers came into the Mess and someone wound up the gramophone. Phillip was desperately trying to put names to faces as the gong sounded for dinner. He was struck again by the contrast with his experiences in the front line. If one had to go to war, he supposed, this was certainly the most civilised way of doing it. Good food and a clean, if not always totally dry, bed at the end of every day. After dinner and the Loyal Toast had been drunk, the port circulated and pipes and cigars were lit. No mention of the war or flying was permitted over dinner. Phillip had asked an innocent question on his first night and had been sternly reprimanded and told to ‘shut the hangar doors.’ Conversation instead turned to those staple subjects of Mess life, home and what they would do when ‘this lot’s over.’

“What about you, Phillip?” Pinky asked to bring him into the conversation, “Have you any plans?”

“I’m going to build a house. There’s this hill. It overlooks the village and isn’t much good for anything else. It’s part of my father’s land so there won’t be any problems. Anyway. I’m going to build my house up there.”

“Sounds idyllic. But won’t you be lonely?”

“I’ve rather a mind to ask someone to share it with me.”

“Anyone in particular or just someone in general?”

“Oh, one in very particular, Pinky. A nurse who looked after me when I was crocked…” 

He had been about to say ‘when I was crocked at Loos,’ but the stricture against mentioning the war prevented him. Instead he smiled and Pinky felt a pang of envy.

“Wish there was someone waiting for me,” he said. Phillip smiled again, a sort of self-deprecating smile.

“Truth is, Pinky, she’s not exactly waiting for me, not yet anyway. I hope to change that in the fullness of time. Just at the present, she’s, well, more of a dream than a reality.”

Pinky smiled and lurched uncertainly to his feet.

“Gentlemen, I give you a toast! To dreams of home and to the ladies who sustain them!”

There was a general shuffling of chairs and the young airmen stood and drank, solemnly repeating Pinky’s toast. 

“Now! Who’s for a game of Mess Rugby?”

They spilled out into the adjoining anteroom and someone seized an over-stuffed cushion from one of the armchairs and was immediately swamped by the rest. Major Wigram emerged from the pile up with the cushion and started off across the room. Three or four officers tackled him furiously and the pile up began again. Chairs and tables were overturned and jackets got ripped. More than one eye was blackened over the next half hour before Pinky, shrugging off a couple of bodies, finally won control of the now tattered cushion and crossed the length of the anteroom to score a ‘try.’ That signalled the end of the game and the participants righted the furniture and began bellowing for more drinks. 

Phillip weaved his unsteady way back to the bell tent he shared with another ‘new boy,’ an Irish lieutenant named Jamie Flanagan who was universally known as ‘Seamus.’ Seamus Flanagan had transferred to the RFC, like Philip, from the infantry. He was small and dark with a pencil moustache but, despite his size, seemed to have a limitless capacity for alcohol. He caught Phillip up as they approached the tent and clapped him on the back.

“So, Phillip, me boy. Tell us what it was like over the lines.” 

“I don’t think it was too bad, today, really, but I still had the wind up when the archie found us. It was a bit like lying there under the morning ‘hate.’ Bloody great bangs all round but not a thing you can do about it. It was strange at first. I mean, when I first saw the archie exploding, it was well away from us and it was sort of picturesque, like flowers in the sky. Then they found the range and I nearly wet myself.”

“And is it true what they’re saying – that you puked all over Pinky Harris?”

Phillip nodded, shamefaced.

“That was later, when I saw the flamer. I watched him jump, Seamus; I saw him fall all the way. It was horrible. No-one should die like that.”

Seamus was instantly sober. He grunted and turned away. When he turned back, Phillip saw his eyes were streaming tears.

“My brother died in a flamer last month, while I was still in training. His Flight commander said he thought Mick had been killed by the opening burst. He didn’t jump anyhow. We always said we would, if it happened to us.”

Phillip bowed his head and patted Seamus’s arm. He couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘I’m sorry’ seemed so inadequate.

They didn’t fly much that April. The weather closed in and the west wind brought stinging sheets of rain as one Atlantic depression after another flowed across the Western Front. Phillip sat in his dripping bell tent and wrote a series of long letters to Bethan. At first he was concerned that she would find them boring; that his talk of BE2’s and Martinsyde ‘Elephants’ was not the proper way to write to a woman – especially one you were determined to woo. The lack of operational flying also gave him a chance to become more familiar with the surrounding area and once, he ventured as far as Arras on a borrowed motorcycle. He had hoped to find his old regiment in reserve near the town but they had moved on to another part of the front. Rumour had them back in the Ypres salient and he felt a pang of guilt over his comfortable existence. 

If it hadn’t been for the muttering of the guns as both sides’ artillery indulged in the morning ‘hate,’ the war had almost receded below conscious thought. 14 Squadron had been invited to dine at 24 Squadron’s base at Courcelles. The Squadron Mess was a transportable hut on which the walls hinged. 14 Squadron found this out the hard way when their hosts manoeuvred the post-prandial Mess Rugby scrum against the wall and it swung outwards, depositing most of the visitors in the mud outside. Battle was then joined as two man crews rushed around in armchairs, one standing on the seat with a soda siphon while the other – the ‘engine’ - pushed. It was nearly dawn when the squadron returned to Bertangles, exceedingly drunk but in high spirits. 

The weather improved towards the end of the month and then they were flying almost non-stop. Phillip flew three, sometimes four, times a day. They bombed the German supply dumps behind Beaumont Hamel and took part in several photographic missions. The ‘brass’ seemed to want the entire enemy front photographed. Inevitably, there were casualties. ‘Seamus’ Flanagan failed to return from one such mission and Phillip went through the heart-breaking procedure of auctioning off his effects so the money could be sent home. The airmen bid silly prices for useless articles. Major Wigram paid £10 for a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and another pilot gave £5 for Seamus’s collection of pornographic postcards. 

It was Phillip who gave the peculiar toast that night:

So stand by the table steady
And raise your glasses high:
Here’s a toast to the dead already
And a health to the next man to die.

The RFC policy was ‘no empty chairs’ so it was without surprise that Phillip found a new officer in his tent when he returned from another reconnaissance the following morning. Phillip flung himself down onto his cot and barely grunted a ‘Good morning’ at the newcomer.

“I see life at the sharp end hasn’t improved your manners,” the stranger said. Phillip sat up blinking and saw his old friend Peter Riley, with whom he had shared the monotony of training and the visit to Bentley Hall.

“Peter! By all that’s wonderful, what are you doing here?”

“Requested a transfer out of 16 Squadron. Our masters sent me to this God-forsaken hole.” 

Riley grinned and the two men shook hands warmly. 

“What’s the CO like?”

“Wiggy? Oh, he’s topping. Brilliant pilot and a thorough good egg.”

“Glad to hear it. ‘Stuffy’ Dowding wasn’t at all my cup of tea. Morale on 16 was awful. I was lucky to get out. It’s only because I’m an ‘O’ and not a pilot that they let me go.”

Phillip was shocked. Things must indeed have been bad on 16 Squadron for one of its former officers to criticise the squadron. No matter their private thoughts, convention dictated that a man defend his squadron’s honour without question. He was too pleased to see Peter to dwell long on the subject and before long they were both deep in conversation about conditions on that part of the front. Like Phillip, Peter had come against the ‘Albatros’ once or twice and both had learned a healthy respect for this latest German machine. 

“We got bounced by three ‘Albatrae’ a couple of weeks back. The Fees (FE’s) are no match for them even with the new Rolls Royce Engine. I just don’t think ‘pushers’ are the way forward, Phillip. I know all the arguments about unrestricted vision and movable guns but I know I’d rather have a ton of metal in front of me than a lot of fresh air when the bullets are flying.”

“Yes, old fruit. And I don’t see if it makes much difference whether one is crushed by the bloody engine from the front or the back if you spear in. Either way, you end up just as dead.”

“Have you come across a chap called Albert Ball? Feisty little so-and-so, by all accounts. He creeps underneath the buggers in his Nieuport and then lets ‘em have it from below. He’s got a Fletcher mounting for his Lewis and Lanoe Hawker’s lot have found a way of welding two drums together so he has borrowed that idea as well. He’s now got 94 rounds and he can pull the gun down to reload; none of that standing up and flying with your knees nonsense.”

“I have heard a little of him. Don’t they call him ‘Johnny Lonely’ or some such?”

“Yes, something like that. He’s always going up on his own looking for a scrap. Silly little bastard can’t count! Doesn’t matter how many of them there are, he takes ‘em on. I heard he took on six Rolands not long ago and got three of them. Would have had the rest but he’d run out of ammo!”

“Hmm. A short life but a happy one, what?”

“You said it, chum. There are old pilots and there are bold pilots. There are no old, bold pilots!”

Phillip took Peter to the Mess and introduced him around the squadron. Peter had an easy manner and was soon chatting happily with a group of pilots. There were only three fully trained observers on the squadron. As a result, they had plenty of work. The latest rumour was that 14 Squadron was going to receive two flights of RE8s to replace the superannuated BE2’s. They would keep one flight of Martinsyde ‘Elephants.’ Even though these big aircraft had failed as fighters, the Elephant was a successful ground attack machine and was popular with its pilots. It had the reputation of being warm, comfortable and hard to knock down. 

As Phillip and Peter walked back to their tent that night after dinner, the conversation turned again to the rumoured replacement aeroplanes.

“Harry Tates would be top-hole, Phillip. The ‘O’ goes in the back seat for a start so we’ll be able to see what’s going on for a change.”

“We’ll still be facing forward, though. I just don’t see why the ‘O’ doesn’t face aft like in the Hun two-seaters.”

“Oh, I agree it’s handy when it comes to a scrap but it’s difficult to navigate if you’re not looking where you’re going.”

“How much navigation do we actually do? I mean, it’s different on the long range bombing squadrons but we’re always over the front. Pinky hasn’t asked me for a steer once yet.”

“Are you still keen to train as a pilot, Phillip?”

“Absolutely. Keen as mustard, old chap. Wiggy says I can go home once I’ve completed fifty missions. Only another thirty-four to go!” 

Events, in the shape of the Battle of the Somme, were to intervene and it would be almost six months and over one hundred missions later before Phillip got his wish. 

********************************

Summer 1916 Into the Fire

The ‘Harry Tates’ – RE8’s - arrived towards the end of May and were greeted with much excitement. They could fly higher and faster than the old BE2’s and were altogether more comfortable to fly in. Two of the machines were also fitted with wireless transmitters for artillery-spotting purposes and Phillip and Peter were sent to the depot at St Omer to learn how to use the equipment. It was a welcome break from the intensive days of flying that eroded the nerves and wore out the spirit. 

Phillip had noticed how physically haggard Peter had become but had been blissfully unaware of the same depredations that had assaulted him. The break at St Omer relaxed them both even though the awareness of an imminent return to the war was never far below the surface of conscious thought and a frequent visitor to their dreams. 

Number One Aircraft Depot was a constant hive of activity. Here, planes brought from England were assembled, engines rebuilt, severely damaged aeroplanes repaired or cannibalised for spares. Here also pilots and observers arrived en route to a squadron posting. Their days were busy and their nights became increasingly riotous following the arrival of a small contingent of Australians. Like Phillip and Peter, they had volunteered for a transfer from the Infantry and were intent on making the most of their short-lived reprieve from the fighting. One of them managed to ‘borrow’ a truck on the last evening of their stay and Phillip and Peter were invited to join them on a foray into the town of St Omer itself.

St Omer was neither particularly large nor distinguished. Before the war, it had existed as market town for the surrounding district and was consequently reasonably prosperous. Now it had changed and its citizens had turned from commerce of a more mundane nature to meeting the appetites of the khaki-clad hordes that descended upon it from the war. Bars, restaurants and ‘salles privée’ abounded. So it was that the group rattled into the town bellowing out a Flying Corps song, sung the tune of ‘The Dying Lancer.’

“Take the cylinder out of my kidneys,
The connecting rod out of my brain;
From out of my arse take the camshaft
And assemble the motor again.” 

The Aussies were imbued with a fierce determination to enjoy themselves and such spirits were highly infectious. 

“First we’re going to have a little drink. Then we’ll get a bite or two to eat and have another little drink. After that we’ll have a bloody great big drink and go and scare some Sheilas at Madame Rose’s. How’s that for a plan?”

“Sounds good to me, Sport. How about you Poms?”

“Sounds pretty good to me, how about you, Phillip?”

“Well, apart from the bit about the Sheilas, sounds fine to me.”

What’s wrong with your mate, don’t he like women?”

“Oh he likes ‘em all right. It’s just that the boy’s been smitten and fancies himself spoken for.”

“Streuth! Is she here then?”

“No, she’s back home.”

“Then she can’t do ‘im any bloody good then, can she?’

Phillip started to protest further but was howled down. He decided to let things ride. After all, he could always leave the party before they got to Madame Rose’s, couldn’t he? 

The evening swam by on a sea of wine and brandy. They ate steaks in one of the little restaurants near the square. Phillip had been horrified when the Aussies started jeering a group of Staff Officers, conspicuous by the red tabs on their lapels. They had bombarded the unfortunate Officers with insults and followed this up with a volley of well-aimed hunks of bread. For a little while, it looked as if the Staff Officers were going to get ugly but they obviously thought better of it and ate their meal hurriedly and left to a chorus of catcalls.

After crawling their way around a number of bars, at each of which the Australians spread their own particular brand of mirth and mayhem, the little group found themselves outside an imposing town house. Phillip would have never guessed the nature of the establishment from the outside. It appeared like any of the others in the street: a typical residence of a well-to-do merchant, doctor or lawyer. There was a neat little garden and even window boxes that sprouted a profusion of spring flowers. 

One of the others hammered on the door and after a brief muttered exchange, the group were admitted. Phillip found himself swept along by the tide. The drink he’d consumed had left him feeling mellow and somewhat disembodied. He wasn’t drunk, he told himself, merely pleasantly relaxed. And what was the harm of going in? It wasn’t as if he was going to do anything, was it?

They were shown into a large room with over-stuffed sofas and chairs that hunched in the velvety light of oil lamps. Mother-of-pearl lampshades gave the room a diffuse pinkish glow of welcome. They sat down at an unoccupied table, pulled up extra chairs and ordered champagne. Before long, Madame Rose herself sidled over to the group. She was a large woman and had poured her ample frame into a black cocktail dress whose seams were being severely tested. She wore her dyed black hair piled high and her face was caked in thick make-up that gave her skin an unnatural matte pallor. Such a creature could surely only exist by night.

Madame Rose clapped her hands and soon they were surrounded by a group of giggling young women whose clothing and deportment left no one in any doubt as to their profession. The champagne flowed and one by one the Aussies paired off with the girls. Dresses were unlaced, garters removed, nipples tweaked and shrieks of glee and feigned outrage filled the night. 

It wasn’t long before Phillip found himself alone at the table. The others had made their way upstairs in mutually supporting couples. He sipped the remains of his champagne. He wasn’t that fond of the drink; somehow it seemed to sour his stomach so he called for a brandy to settle his rebellious gut. A pretty young girl in a pale silk dress brought his drink to him. She sat beside him and smiled shyly. Phillip spoke above average French and he saw the relief in her face when he addressed her in that language. 

“What’s your name?”

“Yvette, Monsieur. Why do you not go with your friends?”

“I, uh, I have a girl at home.”

“So? My man is at the front. It does not mean that life must stop.”

“You wouldn’t understand. I wish to keep myself for her.”

He covered his embarrassment with a large mouthful of brandy that made him almost choke and caused his eyes to water. Yvette laughed joyously and clapped her hands.

“You are a virgin! Mother of God, you must be the only one left in France!”

Phillip flushed scarlet as Yvette announced his status to the entire salon. Madame Rose bore down on him like a man-o’-war. She instantly saw his discomfort and rounded on Yvette, scolding her and slapping her face. Yvette fled in tears and Phillip felt even more wretched. Madame Rose told him not to fret; that Yvette was an empty-head and that she had just the girl for him. He tried to protest but she brushed aside his arguments with a supreme disdain. 

“It is good for the bride to be virgin, monsieur, but for both – incredible! Impossible! If neither of you knows how to do it – what a disaster! Quel horreur!“ 

“I really don’t know what you mean, Madame. “

“I can see that, mon petit, but it is simple! If you have no experience and she has no experience, who will know what to do? You English, you think love is for the pleasure of men only. Let me tell you, there is an old French rhyme:

If the pleasure of the act of love were divided into ten,
Nine parts would go to women – and only one to men!

There! You see? If you love this woman then you must give her the greatest joy that is within your gift, n’est pas?”

“Well, certainly, I would wish to give her every joy I could.”

“Then you must first learn how. And not with one of these!” 

She gestured dismissively at the girls in the room. Phillip thought his trial was over when Madame rose turned her back and stalked away. He was mentally heaving a sigh of relief when she returned with another young girl in tow. This new girl was dressed demurely and kept her eyes on the floor as she approached. 

“This is Anne Marie. She does not work here but is the friend of a Colonel des Chasseurs. He is out of town tonight. When she leaves here you must follow her, but be discreet, monsieur.”

Madame Rose waved away any further protestations and ushered the girl towards the door. Anne Marie gave a shy smile as she glanced back at Phillip and then she was gone into the cool of the night. He found himself propelled through the door after her. His fuddled brain was in turmoil. Incipient lust mingled with curiosity drove his feet to follow the girl while some still sober part of him recoiled. 

It all seemed unreal, like a dream sequence from which he expected to wake at any moment. He felt he was watching the little drama play out: as if he were a spectator rather than a participant. Anne Marie led him through the dimly lit streets with never a backward glance. The brandy and the cold night air combined to undermine his resistance. Phillip giggled as he suddenly thought it was like a parody of Orpheus and Euridyce with him cast as the reluctant hero. The laughter liberated him somehow; it was as if that single giggle had finally overpowered the censorious element within and he gave himself up to the game. 

Anne Marie turned up into a small courtyard and he followed. He heard a door open and, as he turned in, he saw a chink of light from one doorway in the yard where the door had been left ever so slightly ajar. He slipped inside and the door closed beside him. The next thing he knew, Anne Marie had her arms about his neck and was kissing him passionately. He struggled briefly, unable to breathe, as she crammed her tongue into his mouth but soon found himself responding to her and his head swam. She broke off and shot him another shy smile but this one seemed to hold a promise of something else; he felt a surge of desire stabbing in his groin. 

She took his hand and led him upstairs into a large, airy bedchamber. She paused to light an oil lamp and turned back to him, pushing him gently backwards into a chair. She slipped behind a Chinese screen and he heard the susurration of silk and the quick snap of hooks and fasteners. When she re-emerged she was wearing some sort of satin wrap that had an oriental look about it. She unpinned her thick, dark hair and it tumbled about her shoulders in a shining bacchanal. Phillip was entranced. She seemed to float towards him. The only sound was his own blood pounding in his ears. Her face held a dreamy expression; it was as if she was both there and not there at the same time. 

He stared at her unfocussed eyes and saw tigers crouching, waiting to spring; saw the terrified fawn and the wide night sky. All the while his heart hammered and his breathing grew more rapid. She leaned over and pulled lightly at his jacket. He leant forward and slipped his arms from the sleeves. She knelt and tugged off his boots. The kimono-like garment bellied open as she stooped and Phillip stared at her breasts. Anne Marie became aware of his gaze and, instead of covering herself, eased the robe off her shoulders and let if fall to her slender waist. Phillip goggled. He had never seen the glory of a naked woman. The smudged and blurry postcards that the soldiers bought were a travesty when compared with the reality he now beheld. 

His face was set somewhere between fear and wonder as she removed the remainder of his clothes. Then she stood, still silent, still, somehow, elsewhere, and shook the robe from her hips to pool in a swirl of black and crimson about her feet. Phillip felt faint. His pulse raced and pounded and he gasped in air like a drowning sailor. Anne Marie stood in front of him and swept her hair up in both hands, striking an attitude, one leg thrust forward, back slightly arched to emphasise the jut of her carmine-tipped breasts. Still neither of them spoke. Phillip’s mouth was dry and he was suddenly conscious of an unbearable tightness in his groin. She moved to the bed, stretched herself out and beckoned to him. He moved like a sleepwalker towards her. All his senses seemed heightened to unbearable intensity. He could feel each individual tuft of carpet against the soles of his feet. The air against his naked body seemed to caress him and the scent of her filled the night. 

She reached with arching arms and drew him down beside her. She raised one knee and let it fall to the side, exposing her sex. Phillip stared at her in awe and amazement. That which had appeared in the smudged photographs as a thick tangled bush was now revealed to him. He saw a deep mystery revealed; a fleshy pink orchid glistened in the lamplight. Anne Marie raised a languid arm and her breast lifted and flattened slightly. Her nipple crinkled and grew under his gaze and the pale silky skin took on a rosy blush. She drew his head down to her breast and arched her back to press the alluring nipple between his lips and he suckled gently. A dreamy sigh escaped her lips, the first sound he had heard her make. Her hand came up to stroke his head and he opened his mouth wide, trying to capture as much of that soft marvel in his mouth as he could. She wriggled slightly and gently directed his attention to the other breast.