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 Like Father Like Son

   Part Two

   (c) 2003, Smilodon

   April 1916 Bertangles

   The freezing air stung Phillip's face as the elderly BE2c clawed its way
back towards the British Lines.  He tried to duck down further behind the
cockpit coaming and shuffled his feet to try and restore some feeling.  He
was feeling nauseous from the effects of the castor oil fumes and
light-headed from cold and the after-effects of the adrenaline rush he
experienced when the Hun 'archie' - anti-aircraft fire - erupted in the sky
around him.  At first he had watched in astonishment when the little brown
and red puffballs had appeared ahead and above the labouring aircraft. 
Then the German gunners had found their range and the very air about him
seemed to split and convulse.

   The old plane staggered under the impact of the blast and the pilot,
'Pinky' Harris, had flung them into a series of violent manoeuvres to throw
the gunners off the scent.  It hadn't lasted that long but, to Phillip, it
had seemed an eternity.  He had a clear vision of being killed on his very
first mission.  He could imagine the BE just coming apart at the seams and
saw himself tumbling through the clear air for eight thousand feet.  He
fought back the images and concentrated on working the camera.

   They had been sent, together with an escort of the new DH2 fighters, to
photograph the German Trench system north of Albert.  Pinky Harris was
Phillip's Flight Commander and one of the most experienced pilots on 14
Squadron.

   "Might as well break your duck, Phillip!" Pinky had said that morning
and once the escort from 24 Squadron arrived, they set off over the
battlefield.  Phillip was amazed at how contained the war was.  The whole
sordid area of the trenches seemed barely a hand's span wide as he gazed
down from nearly three miles up.  The cold was numbing despite his
thigh-length 'fug boots' and leather flying coat.  He pulled the scarf up
around his face more and wiped the smears of oil and lubricant from his
goggles with one trailing end.  Pinky Harris pounded on his shoulder and
gestured for him to look out for enemy aircraft.  He nodded dumbly; neither
could make themselves heard above the racket of the Renault engine.

   Apart from the sudden storm of anti-aircraft fire, the flight had been
uneventful.  They had descended to eight thousand feet and taken their
photographs.  There was so little room in the cockpit that the camera was
strapped to the outside of the fuselage and operated by a lanyard.  Now,
having turned tail, they were battling back westwards against the
prevailing wind.  Phillip's mind had gone numb.  He gazed about
apathetically, conscious only of the abiding misery.  Suddenly, Pinky was
pounding his shoulder again and pointing aft behind the port tail-plane. 
Phillip squinted and made out a cluster of black dots.  Enemy fighters! 
The shock jerked him out of his dismal reverie and he stood to swing the
rearward-facing Lewis gun round to track the oncoming aircraft.  Pinky
waggled the BE's wings to attract the attention of the escorting British
fighters then dropped the aircraft's nose and opened the throttle to the
stops.

   A sudden steep turn caught Phillip off-balance and he crashed against
the side of the cockpit.  He managed to grab at one of the struts and
barely prevented himself from being catapulted clean out of the plane.  He
could now identify the Germans as Fokker 'eindekkers'.  The 24 Squadron
fighters howled down into their path and soon the sky was a confused melee
of circling aeroplanes.  The elderly reconnaissance BE2 had no place in a
dogfight and Pinky continued to hold them in a shallow dive.  The engine
thundered and the wind screamed through the bracing wires.  A piece of
patched fabric on the lower main-plane ripped off with a snap and Pinky
eased the nose up.  The old crate would only take so much.

   A sudden gout of bright fire blossomed in the sky behind them and
Phillip watched an aeroplane tumble, a blazing firefly vivid against the
faded blue of the heavens.  A black cruciform shape detached itself from
the burning plane and spun and tumbled silently to earth.  His mouth filled
with bile and he vomited over the side.  Although he had only been in
France again for five days, he had already heard the discussions in the
mess as to whether it was better to jump or burn.



   The dogfight receded slowly and Phillip was overcome with a wave of
relief when he saw they were crossing the British Lines.  Pinky, too, had
noticed, for he throttled back and the engine resumed its customary throaty
snarl.  They turned south towards Bertangles and the wheels touched just as
the sun was setting.  Mechanics ran to the aircraft and helped the two men
out.  Phillip's legs gave way beneath him and he would have fallen had not
a burly corporal grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.  Phillip turned to
see that Pinky was wiping stray globules of vomit from the front of his
flying coat and, at first, Phillip thought that the pilot had been sick as
well.  Then it dawned on him that it was his own and he reddened with
shame.

   "Don't worry, old fruit.  Took me the same the first time I saw a
flamer. Was it one of ours or theirs?"

   "I'm most awfully sorry, Pinky."

   "Nah, don't mention it.  Was it one of ours or theirs?"

   "Oh, Gosh, Pinky, I really couldn't tell.  It was too far way and I
couldn't really make out anything very much, just the fire."

   "Poor bastard, whoever he was.  I heard of a chap in 11 Squadron who
sideslipped his machine all the way down.  He stood on the main-plane and
flew it from there.  Kept the flames away from him."

   "Golly, did he get away with it?"

   "Nah, the kite somersaulted on landing and the poor old sod got thrown
back into the fire.  Still, it might be worth a try.  Anything's better
than burning and I don't think I'd have the courage to jump.  Let's go get
some tea.  I heard the mess servant's got some fresh eggs!"

   Phillip stumbled after Pinky's retreating back.  The castor oil used to
lubricate the Renault engine seemed to have seized his stomach and twisted
it into a queasy knot and he had to detour to the latrines at a shambling
run, fumbling with the fastenings of his coat as he ran.  After what seemed
like an eternity, he began to feel better and pausing only briefly at the
bell tent that served as his home to strip off his flying clothes, he
donned his 'maternity jacket' and made his way to the Officers' Mess.  As
he approached the wooden hut that housed the Mess, he heard Pinky's voice.

   "He'll be all right.  Got the wind up a bit but didn't shirk when the
Huns appeared.  Silly young sod spewed all over me, though.  Sometimes I
wish they would put observers in the back."

   Another voice sounded in agreement.

   "I say, Pinky, did you hear what happened over in 16 Squadron?  Some
poor bastard took up an air mechanic as gunner, got into a bit of a scrap
with some Huns and the bloody 'erk' shot their own tail off in an excess of
enthusiasm."

   "No!  What happened then?"

   "The entirely predictable, old chap, large smoking hole in the bosom of
La Belle France."

   "Good God, what a way to 'buy it.' Still, he won't do it again, what?"

   A loud gust of laughter greeted Phillip as he walked through the door.
Curious eyes turned towards him.

   "Ah, it's our very own former virgin.  And how was it for you, young
sir?"

   Phillip recognised the squadron commander, Major Wigram.

   "It was, uh, educational, sir."

   "Bless my soul!  Educational, eh?  Where are the precious pictures,
then?"

   With a look of horror, Phillip realised that he had left the camera on
the aircraft.  He was about to explain when Pinky said:



   "Gave 'em to the adjutant, Wiggy.  The adj had some hound from Corps HQ
who was mad for them and couldn't wait."

   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 œ10 for a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and another pilot
gave œ5 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 priv,e' 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 Persephone 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.

   Phillip was overwhelmed.  He felt a sweet pressure rising in his groin
and then he was lost, pumping his milky seed across the girl's stomach and
thighs as ecstasy seized him.  She stiffened monetarily and then pushed him
onto his back.  He gasped as he felt her soft lips upon him and he almost
blacked-out as her warm mouth engulfed him, licking and sucking while she
made throaty mewling noises.

   He felt himself stiffen again and cried out in wonder at the sensations
that invaded his body.  She rose above him, a picture of wild-haired
abandon, and, seizing his now rigid member in one hand, drove her hips down
upon it to impale herself.  Phillip groaned at the intensity of the
sensations that flowed through him.  Anne Marie, her eyes still glazed and
unseeing, began a slow undulation of her hips, grinding herself against his
pubic bone.  He reached up to cup her breasts and instinctively thumbed her
nipples with a slow rotating motion that seemed to urge her on.  She was
crazy now, hissing like a feral cat and her face was drawn into a rictus.
She rose and fell above him with a damp slapping noise.  He caught the
scent of her arousal and it drove him to greater efforts, thrusting up to
meet her downward plunges.  Her breathing was harsh and her motions became
more frenzied.  Phillip tried to match her, thrust for thrust, but she was
too wild for him.  She flung herself down one final time and then, with a
harsh cry, she reached her climax, hips shuddering and twitching as she
forced herself against him and he felt the rhythmic pulse of her orgasm as
she continued to shiver and moan above him.  Then she collapsed forward and
buried her face at the junction of his neck and shoulder and gave a long,
soft sigh.

   They lay together, interlocked for a while, then Anne Marie raised
herself and looked at him properly for the first time.

   "Now we have each had our pleasure; I must teach how you how to please,"
she said.

   She rolled off him and gazed at his hardness.

   "Ah, poor soldier, still standing to attention!"

   She reached down for him and stroked him gently.

   "Be patient, mon ami, your turn will come again."

   She rolled onto her back and spread her legs.

   "Now, you are the pupil and I am the schoolmistress.  I require
diligence from my students so now, look here!"

   Anne Marie pushed Phillip down until his head was level with her crotch.
She gently parted the fleshy lips and spoke in a low, husky voice.

   "Look well!  This little button here is the heart of a woman's pleasure.
No, don't touch, not yet.  It is very, very sensitive.  You must approach
with caution, like you are stalking a boche aeroplane.  You must creep up
on her.  The frontal attack will not work until you have broken down her
defences.  Everything must be done slowly, doucement, tres doucement, yes?"

   Phillip put out a hand and began to trace the swirls and folds that
surrounded the target.

   "Yes, that is good."

   He marvelled as he watched the little pink button slowly peep out from
its protective hood.  The smell of her sex was ripe and heady and he saw a
pale moisture coating the engorged lips.  He slipped a finger between them
and was amazed by the slick smoothness he encountered.  She lifted her hips
slightly and his finger slipped into her and she gave a little gasp.

   "Gently, monsieur, always gently.  Ah yes, there, rub there, oh, that's
good.  You are a willing student, for sure!"

   He leant forward and kissed her stomach and she giggled.

   "That's nice."

   His curiosity was aroused and he bent his head to kiss her again, but
lower this time, burying his face in the profusion of brown curls.  He blew
gently on her clitoris and was rewarded with another gasp and a twitch.  He
reached out his tongue and tasted her.  It was slightly salty but held a
hint of sweetness and he stabbed his tongue into her and she bucked against
him, seizing his head with her hands and directing his kisses.  Again her
breathing grew ragged and again she cried out.  She forced her sex against
his mouth and bucked and twisted as her orgasm transported her.  She
stilled him with her hands then drew him up, over her body.

   Her legs parted as he entered again and he began to pump furiously.  She
caught him.

   "No, no, little student, that is too harsh, too fast.  You must go
slowly.  Do not withdraw so far.  Keep close, let it build."

   He stopped and began again, a slow gentle rhythm that she matched with
her upthrust hips.  She raised her arms above her head and offered him her
breasts and he hunched over her, taking first one and then the other into
his willing mouth, sucking and nibbling at the delicious tips.  She
increased the pace and he matched her.  He looked into her eyes and saw the
joy that was shining in her.  It tipped him over the edge and he began
again to pump wildly.  This time she didn't stop him but rather rose to
meet his thrusts and her fingers grabbed at his buttocks, pulling him in
deeper on each downward plunge.

   Phillip felt white-hot bolts of pleasure rising like a tide within him.
Electricity surged from the base of his spine and then he was past the
point of no return.  She arched her back and forced herself up with a great
push from her thighs then pulled away quickly and grabbed his throbbing
prick, pumping the seed from him with her hand so it spurted and spattered
over her stomach and breasts.  Phillip's eyes rolled back in his head and
he lapsed into semi-consciousness as she continued to milk him with one
hand, the other kneading his balls until he collapsed on top of her.

   When he came to himself she was smiling at him.

   "Was it true, I was the first?"

   He nodded, too light headed to speak.

   "And it was good, yes?"

   "Yes.  It was good; better than good, it was amazing."

   Anne Marie smiled.  She gave a little self-satisfied nod.

   "And you will remember your lesson?  Remember to stalk the little
button, to go slowly?"

   "Yes, thank you, I will.  I mean, I never knew it was good for women
too."

   She laughed out loud.

   "Then your woman has much to thank me for, I think."

   Phillip wished she hadn't mentioned his woman.  It brought guilt and
pain and longing back to him and she saw it in his face.

   "Ah, don't fret, mon ami.  We will not meet again and I want nothing
from you that is not already given.  You love this woman, yes?"

   "I don't know, really, we've scarcely met but yes, I think so."

   "And she loves you?"

   "I don't know.  Her letters are very affectionate but, well, we're not
that intimate yet."

   "And yet you feel guilty because you have been with a French whore."

   "No!  I mean you're not a whore.  You're beautiful and it was beautiful.
It couldn't have been like that with a whore!"

   "Ah, monsieur, you are too kind but you still think me a whore.  All men
do.  For soldiers, the world is divided into wives and whores.  It is the
way of things; it is the war.  But pay no attention; I am always a little
sad after making love.  Go now, your friends will be waiting."

   So Phillip dressed and, leaving, he found he had left a little piece of
his heart with Anne Marie.

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

   Back at Bertangles, the squadron was kept busy learning the new
techniques of the 'Contact Patrol.' As preparations for the planned great
new offensive gathered pace, they spent each available day in the air. 
Photographic sorties doubled and then quadrupled as Head Quarters demanded
more and more maps and more and more reconnaissance missions.  The German
air force seemed subdued at this time and enemy aircraft seldom troubled
them.  Only the infamous 'archie' was a threat.  Even so casualties on the
squadron were light and morale was high.

   On the days they were not out over the front, they were practicing new
techniques of communication with ground forces.  The plan was that the RFC
could act as the 'eyes' of the battlefield commanders.  Flying low over the
lines, they would identify the positions of the troops on the ground.  The
troops were equipped with coloured flares and a signalling device that was
like a large round Venetian blind.  Shutters could be operated to show
either black or white to a circling aircraft, allowing Morse signals to be
flashed skywards.  Messages would then be dropped on a white sheet at the
appropriate headquarters.  The airmen were given weighted message bags with
streamers attached for this purpose.

   The two aircraft with wireless equipment were much in demand for
artillery spotting.  Vast numbers of batteries were moved up behind the
front under cover of darkness and put in camouflaged emplacements.  One or
two ranging shots would be fired and the RE8's were on hand to report the
fall of shot by Morse to the batteries.  Phillip and Peter Riley flew
sortie after sortie.  Each night they collapsed on their beds utterly
exhausted but rose each dawn to repeat the process.

   Then, towards the end of June, the greatest preparatory bombardment the
world has ever seen began.  Phillip and Pinky Harris were flying at ten
thousand feet over the lines.  The noise was indescribable, drowning out
even the rattling roar of their engine.  It was impossible to make out
individual explosions.  The whole fourteen-mile front was leaping and
shuddering under the impact of a million shells.  They stared in disbelief
at what they saw.  Phillip swore he could hear the earth groaning under the
assault.  A haze of pulverised chalk hung over the German trenches to a
height of two thousand feet and the air was redolent with the smell of damp
soil even at the altitude they flew.

   Just then, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  A black
dot appeared for a second and then vanished.  He blinked and looked away,
convinced he was imagining things.  Then he saw it again.  He realised with
horror that he was seeing the howitzer shells at the top of their
trajectory.  He and Pinky were flying through the bombardment!  Once he had
the trick, he could pick up a shell just as it reached its zenith and then
follow its tumbling plunge to burst in the madness below.  Once, their
aircraft was rocked by some giant unseen hand.  A shell had passed within
six feet of them and they had experienced the disturbance created by its
passage.

   Day after day the guns thundered on.  The bombardment could be heard in
far-away England.  The area behind the British front line was packed with
troops, wagons, limbers, horses, ammunition dumps and the grimmer reminders
of huge new canvas hospitals.  The weather turned wet and the assault was
postponed for three days and still the guns roared on.

   On the morning of the 1st July, Phillip and Pinky were aloft over the
Fricourt salient.  The guns had risen to a new pitch of fury and the shock
waves reverberated through the air like rolling thunder.  Just when it
seemed that the climax had been reached, two huge mines were detonated
under the German positions.  They watched awestruck as the earth beneath
them opened up.  Thousands of tons of TNT had been packed into the end of
two deep tunnels dug out under no-man's-land.  The mines were set off to
signal the start of the attack.

   It looked to Phillip like a huge earthen tree had suddenly sprouted.  It
grew and rose towards them.  Pinky Harris turned the plane away from the
explosion so Phillip was afforded the amazing sight of thousands of tons of
earth hurtling skywards to a height of ten thousand feet before slowly
collapsing back onto what remained of the shattered defences, leaving a
huge white crater.  It was as if Earth's bones had been exposed where the
fierce explosion had flensed her mantle of flesh.  The RE8 was whirled
upwards by the spreading blast and threatened to come apart as it was
tossed like a leaf in a storm.  Shaken, they flew home.

   Later that day they flew their first 'Contact Patrols' with little
success.  Despite all the practice before the attack, the infantry were
reluctant to fire their signal flares, as doing so would provoke a storm of
German artillery on their revealed positions.  It was apparent that the
attack had not succeeded everywhere.  The fortified village of Fricourt
still stood.  Its garrison had endured the storm of steel hidden in deep
concrete bunkers; the mine designed to destroy this position had been dug
too short and left the position untouched.

   Flying low over the battlefield, Phillip could see silent lines of khaki
bundles lying where the machine guns had caught them.  It brought to mind
his own experiences at Loos and sadness mixed with a burning anger stabbed
at him.  Yet again, it seemed, the plans had been over optimistic.  Tears
prickled his eyes and he wept for the wastefulness of it all, for the
carnage and the horror and the terrible, all-consuming fear.

   The battle rumbled on, a mad Moloch with an insatiable appetite for yet
more death, more bodies.  One morning Phillip was up on an
artillery-spotting sortie when he saw a yellowish fog begin to form along
the line and creep out across no-mans-land.  He realised with horror that
he was witnessing a gas attack and he was moved by the terrible pain of
pity.  Pity for the Germans who would soon be coughing their lives away as
their lungs melted and corroded; Pity for the British gas platoons who had
to release such a fearsome, inhuman weapon and, most of all, pity for
humanity that could find no better way to settle their differences.

   By the 15th July, it was clear that the plan had failed.  The British
Line had pushed forward a couple of miles in places but there was no sign
of the heralded break-through.  The cavalry still waited, impotent and
frustrated, to rush through a now-mythical gap and begin the process of
rolling up the enemy rear.  It wasn't going to happen.  Not this year.  The
War would roll on unabated.  It was that morning that Phillip awoke with
stinging eyes.  He tried bathing them but he could see from the reddened
image that stared back from his mirror that there was something wrong.  He
reported sick and the doctor diagnosed conjunctivitis.

   "You'll be 'napoo' for at least two weeks, old son.  I'm sending you
home on sick-leave, no use moping here!"

   So off he went to catch the leave boat to Folkestone.  He waved an
envious Peter goodbye, stopped off to tell Pinky Harris and scrounged a
lift in an old BE2 that was being ferried back to the depot at St Omer to
be broken up.  By that evening he was in London and luxuriating in a bath
prior to arranging a slap-up dinner and enjoying his first night in a
proper bed for over three months.  Since the beginning of April he had
flown over one hundred and twenty sorties.  His promotion to Lieutenant had
been gazetted and he had two glorious weeks at home ahead of him - what
more could a man want?
   Continued in part 3