Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Like Father Like Son

   by Smilodon

   (c)2003

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

   Part Four

   August 1916 Return to the Fold

   The RE8 was steady at 10,000 feet above the front.  Phillip stood in the
rear cockpit and scanned the skies for any sign of enemy aircraft.  He had
been back on the squadron for four days and this was his eleventh patrol.
The Huns seemed to have more and more Albatros D IIs in the area now and 14
Squadron had been among the first to feel their effect.  Four aircraft had
been lost during Phillip's absence, with two pilots and three observers
killed and another pilot wounded.  There also seemed to be a lot more
'archie ' than there had been before he left.  All in all, the Albert
sector was becoming distinctly bad for one's health, as Peter Riley had
remarked.  Peter had been the observer when 'B' Flight had been bounced by
a dozen D IIs.  The big British biplanes were no match for the German
scouts in speed, firepower or manoeuvrability.  They grimly held formation
and hoped that the combined guns of the four RE8s would deter the German
pilots long enough for help to arrive.

   They had been lucky on that occasion.  A Royal Naval squadron of
'Tripehounds' - Sopwith Triplanes - had arrived and joined the fight and
the Germans had their work cut out.  The Tripehound was an amazingly nimble
little machine and could turn inside the bigger Hun biplanes.  Their three
wings made them very quick in the climb and they could rapidly get into the
preferred position in a dogfight, above the enemy.  'Height is might,' the
saying went.  If you were higher than the opposition, you could dive down
and use your superior speed to swoop underneath the target, get in a quick
burst from close range and soar away again.  It was even more effective if
you could hide in the glare of the sun.  That was why the RFC hated the
dawn patrols so much.  The German aircraft would often be up waiting for
them as the British pilots flew eastward, squinting against the harsh
brightness.

   'B' Flight had got home that day without casualties but with their
planes shot full of holes.  On one, the mainspar was so riddled that the
upper wing collapsed on landing and the crew were fortunate to survive the
ensuing ground-loop.  Still, any landing you could walk away from was a
good one.  The result of the encounter was that Major Wigram ordered all
the squadron machines to be fitted with a twin Lewis mounting for the
observer.  It wasn't much but it helped morale.  The Lewis guns were a
perpetual headache.  A single drum held only 47 rounds and the guns were
prone to jamming.  Most Observers would check the drums were loaded and the
spares secured.  Phillip, by contrast, was obsessive.  He would load each
drum himself.  He carefully checked each single bullet whether ball, tracer
or the explosive 'buckingham ' rounds.  The 'buckinghams' were supposed to
be used only against static balloons but increasingly, the German Scouts
fired explosive bullets against the RFC and there was a growing tendency to
retaliate, even if the use of explosive bullets was against the Geneva
Convention.

   Phillip swung the twin Lewis guns on their Scarff ring as he quartered
the sky.  He disliked standing in the cockpit but knew it was the only way.
Of course, it meant that one couldn't wear a seat belt and this could be
hazardous in the extreme if the pilot was throwing the aeroplane around in
a fight.  A story was circulating about an air gunner named Whitehead who
had been thrown clean out of the cockpit.  Whitehead's guardian angel must
have been alert that day because the lucky gunner had managed to grab a
wing strut and then get a foot on the lower mainplane and had hauled
himself back in.  As someone remarked, if he wasn't Whitehead by both name
and nature before that, he probably would have been afterwards!

   Pinky Harris blipped the motor to get Phillip's attention.  He gestured,
pointing below the starboard lower wing and then grinned, giving the
'thumbs up.' Phillip peeled back his smeared goggles and looked where Pinky
was pointing.  A puff of chalky earth was spreading out on the crest of a
low ridge below them.  The barrage they had been sent to observe had begun.
Phillip wound out the sixty-odd feet of trailing aerial and tapped out the
call sign on his Morse key.  There was an answering chatter of RRR pause
RRR from the gunners' Forward Observation Officer.  Everything was working
so Phillip settled down to concentrate on correcting the shoot.  It was a
relatively simple task.  If the shells were bursting short, Phillip sent
'SSS ' followed by a number - his estimate of the distance short of the
target.  The gunners corrected their elevation and charges and tried again.
Phillip fed them corrections until the barrage was falling firmly on the
Hun positions.  He would then send 'OOO', meaning 'on target.'

   Suddenly the air around him was filled with zip of bullets and tracer
rounds slashed past the RE8.  Phillip heard the 'tackatackatacka' of the
enemy aeroplane's machine guns before a dark shape flashed by so close he
swore afterwards he could have touched the tail-wheel.  Pinky instinctively
swung away from the German machine and Phillip leapt to the Lewis guns. 
They were under attack by no less than three Huns.  Phillip sized up the
situation instantly.  Their first attacker was wheeling about, seeming to
stand on its wingtips as he hurried to return to the fray.  The other two
were coming on different sides.  Phillip let one have a short burst and he
saw the aircraft flinch away from the dipping line of his tracers.  Good! A
novice - or a nervous pilot, at least.  He swung back towards the other
machine and they opened fire simultaneously.

   Pinky pushed the throttle to the stops and corkscrewed to the right. 
Phillip kept his Lewises trained on the Hun and fired a long burst.  He
thought he saw bullets striking it in little flashes and the German plane
gave a sort of lurch and pulled steeply away.  Time to change drums.  He
pulled off his heavy gloves and wrestled with the awkward fitting on first
one Lewis and then the other.  He distrusted the double drums and stuck to
the 47 round singles.  The first attacker was back on their tail.  This one
meant business!  He was closing rapidly, holding his fire.  Phillip gave
him a short burst from the left-hand Lewis.  The tracers arched lazily and
harmlessly past the German.  He didn't so much as twitch.  Phillip hunched
himself lower behind the guns.  He felt horribly, personally, vulnerable.
He saw the twinkling Spandaus behind the silver disc of the Hun's propeller
and he squeezed off another short burst, this time from the right-hand gun.

   Pinky took a quick glance over his shoulder and slammed the joystick to
the left, kicking hard on the rudder.  They immediately reversed their turn
and the German's tracers whipped past their tail.  The Hun pilot flung his
machine on its side to follow them.  This was the moment!  Phillip opened
up with both guns and hosed the German from spinner to tail as it hung
there.  The machine seemed to jump in the air and shudder.  One wing folded
back and the aeroplane half-rolled onto its back before spinning to
destruction.  Phillip's burst must have hacked off a wing root for he saw
the damaged wing detach itself from the stricken machine and flutter slowly
earthwards like a sycamore seed.  The rest of the plane plunged on, faster
now, and he glimpsed a bright burst of flame flower briefly on the dark
earth as it reached the end of its last journey.

   He pulled two fresh drums from the ammunition rack and moved to reload
again.  One drum stuck fast and he hammered at it with his fists until they
bled.  Pinky straightened out and dived towards the British lines.  Phillip
struggled on with the recalcitrant gun.  His hands were numb with cold and
he was panting from exertion and adrenalin.  The two remaining Huns were
following, albeit warily.  Phillip gave up on the jammed drum and tried to
reload the other gun.  As he did so, he knocked one full drum off his seat
and onto the cockpit floor.  As he spun around to pick it, the drum he had
been holding slipped from his numb fingers.  It bounced once on the
fuselage and dropped away.  He cursed furiously and scrabbled up the one
remaining full magazine.

   With trembling fingers, he forced the drum onto the working Lewis and
swung it towards the Huns.  Once again, they opened fire at extreme range
and Pinky was able to evade their tracers with a swift sideslip.  Phillip
waited.  He was chewing his lower lip in concentration.  Anger coursed
through him.  How could have been so stupid!  He now had only 47 rounds
left and two enemy machines on their tail.  The bolder of the two Huns was
trying to dive beneath them so he could attack from a blind spot.  Phillip
stood on his seat and angled the Lewis as far down as he could.  Pinky
banked the RE8 tightly to the left and Phillip got in a quick burst of ten
or twelve rounds before the German pulled away.

   The second Hun had sneaked up unnoticed on the other side and he opened
fire at about one hundred yards' range.  Phillip watched in amazement as
holes appeared in their wing before rounding to face the fresh danger.  He
fired in quick bursts, no more than momentary taps on the Lewis's trigger.
Again, the nervous enemy pilot pulled up short.  The second Hun was back
now and Phillip turned again to face him.  He got off another two or three
bursts and then nothing!  He was out of ammunition.  The Hun saw this and
closed for the kill.  In a blind fury, Phillip seized the empty drum off
the Lewis and flung it at the German machine.  He heard a high voice
screaming obscenities at the enemy and was only dimly aware that it was his
own.  He stooped and seized another empty drum and flung that also,
followed by a third.  The German pilot pulled up and turned away.  He gave
Phillip a jaunty wave as he headed off eastwards.  Phillip, his anger
cooling now, was dumbstruck.  Why hadn't he finished them off?  They had
been defenceless.  Only Pinky's skill had kept them alive that long.  The
answer appeared in the shape of a squadron of Vickers FB9s.  The two-seater
fighters were angling down towards them The Hun pilots had obviously
decided that this was one of those occasions that discretion would be the
better part of valour.

   Reaction set in and Phillip started to shake.  His heart pounded in his
chest and he felt sick.  Pinky flew them home low over the British
trenches. Phillip could make out the pale blobs of upturned faces and he
thought the troops were waving at them.  He looked for his gloves but they
must have gone over the side during the fight.  He stuffed his frozen hands
into his coat pockets and slouched in his seat.  He hurt from head to foot.
His body had been thrown across the cockpit by the violent manoeuvres
during the fight and, although he had been unaware of it at the time, he
was bruised from hip to shoulder on both sides from the impacts with the
cockpit coaming, radio and ammunition racks.

   They landed safely at Bertangles and Pinky brought the wounded RE8
slowly up to the flight line.  A crowd of officers was rushing towards them
shouting.  Phillip felt weary to his bones and heaved himself out of the
cockpit like an old man struggling to get out of the bath.  He was chilled
to the marrow as, even though it was still high summer, the upper air was
freezing.  Added to that, he had been standing in the blast of the
slipstream and propeller wash for over one and a half hours.  His head
ached abominably and the familiar nausea from the castor oil lubricant was
gripping his stomach.  He could taste the tainted acid in his mouth and had
to force himself to swallow to keep from retching.

   He pulled off his helmet with a leaden arm and became aware of the
hubbub surrounding him and Pinky.  Odd phrases started to penetrate his
fuddled mind:

   ".bloody young fool, could have killed someone!"

   ".landing with the aerial deployed, what were you thinking of?"

   He spun in horror.  Sure enough, sixty-four feet of wire tipped by a
two-pound lead plumb were strewn on the grass behind the aircraft.  Pinky
came to his rescue.

   "Sorry, chaps, we got bounced by three Huns as we finished the shoot.  I
took evasive action and the aerial got caught around the tailplane."

   Phillip goggled at him stupidly.  He had simply forgotten to wind the
aerial back in.  He turned aft and stared.  Sure enough, the wire had
bitten deeply into the tailplane, wrapping itself round the wood and fabric
a couple of times.  Pinky hadn't realised he'd forgotten the drill.  He
just assumed that Phillip had been unable to wind the aerial after it had
become entangled.

   The clamour died a little and Major Wigram stepped forward to peer at
the offending article.

   "Well, you two nearly bagged the adj and me.  We were sitting at the
adj's table when all of a sudden the bloody thing took flight!  You snagged
it with the plumb as you came in, Pinky.  That bloody great lump of lead
passed between our heads.  The adj is frightfully upset.  All the morning
patrol reports are scattered to the four winds and he'll have to start
over. Oh well, no real harm done, what?  Better go and give your report."

   One of the armourer NCOs approached Phillip as he was standing staring
at the faces around him.

   "Begging your pardon, Mr Welford Barnes, sir, but you don't seem to have
any Lewis drums in the kite."

   Phillip nodded.

   "Oh, sorry, corporal.  I ran out of ammunition so I threw them at the
Huns."

   The Major was incredulous.  "You did what?"

   "Threw them at the Huns, sir.  Uh, I didn't have anything else.  I think
I'd have thrown the radio too, only it's a bit too heavy."

   "And Phillip bagged one of the blighters, Wiggy," said Pinky.  "Went
down close to the lines.  Artillery should be able to confirm."

   "With a Lewis drum?" Major Wigram was gaping at them both as if they had
taken leave of their senses.

   "No, sir.  Before I ran out.  Pinky did some splendid flying and sort of
caught the Hun on the hop.  He turned a bit too late and I.  got lucky, I
suppose.  One of his upper planes snapped off and down he went.  Then the
other Huns closed in and I dropped a full magazine over the side because
the drum jammed on the right Lewis and I'd taken my gloves off."

   "So you could throw better, I assume?  No.  No more, Phillip, and none
of your nonsense either, Pinky.  It's too much for an old man's
sensibilities.  Go and tell the adj all about it."

   They shambled off to where the adjutant had re-erected his table.

   "Good God, Phillip.  Did you really throw the empty drums at the
beggars?"

   "Yes, adj.  I'm sorry.  I didn't think - wasn't thinking really."

   "Oh no, old boy, it's brilliant.  One for the squadron annals, that is!"

   A couple of days later, a new 'trophy' appeared in the Officers' Mess.
It was a battered Lewis Drum, painted scarlet and with an engraved brass
plate bearing the legend: "The Welford-Barnes Hun Trap.  Patent pending."

   Phillip's first 'kill' was duly confirmed and the squadron threw a
'drunk' in his honour.  The party was wild and frantic and many a sore head
assembled the following morning for the dawn patrol.  The Somme offensive
ground on and on.  Progress was measured in yards rather than the hoped for
miles and German resistance showed no signs of weakening.  The aircrews
were exhausted.  Day after day of clear skies meant almost constant flying.
Even when the weather was marginal, they flew anyway.  Struggling through
low cloud, with rain like icy bullets rattling off the fabric of the
machines, they performed wonders.  Reconnaissance, artillery spotting,
contact patrols; one followed another in an endless round.  Nerves became
frayed and tempers short.  Only Major Wigram, through a supreme effort of
will, retained the outward appearance of calm.  His leadership held the
Squadron together.  When, on the 19th August, a shell from the British
barrage he was observing obliterated his plane, the Squadron was shattered.

   More and more new faces appeared in the Mess to replace the mounting
casualties.  Pinky Harris was given the temporary rank of Major and
appointed to command the Squadron.  'Old Hands' like Peter and Phillip were
few and far between.  Thus it came as a glorious relief when, at the end of
the month, a weather front brought two days of solid cloud, high winds and
rain.  News reached the squadron that Phillip had been awarded the Military
Cross for his efforts during the Somme Offensive and there was news, too,
of a different sort.  Flying Corps casualties had been heavy, particularly
among the ranks of the pilots.  HQ was now calling for suitable volunteers
for flying training.  Peter brought the news of this request to Phillip.

   "I say, Phillip, here's your chance!  Wiggy did promise you that you
could go home after fifty missions as an 'O' and you must have done nearly
three times that many."

   Phillip looked up from the letter he was writing to Bethan.  He looked
ghastly, thought Peter, but then, they all did.  Even Pinky Harris's fresh
complexion, which had earned him his soubriquet, was wan and grey.  Peter
thought Phillip had suffered more than most.  Flying with Pinky, Phillip
always seemed to draw the most dangerous patrols.  Pinky would never dream
of ordering a pilot to undertake a mission that he wouldn't do himself.  In
fact, Peter thought, Pinky was a bit obsessive on this point.  He drove
himself, and consequently Phillip, harder than anyone else.  A chap only
had so much luck.  Pinky was probably overdrawn on his share.

   It had taken Peter's words a few moments to register in Phillip's tired
mind.  The previous night's party had left him jaded and the damp weather
always made his old leg wounds ache.  He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at
Peter.

   "D'you really think so?  I've only been out here five months and it
wasn't that long ago I had sick leave - even if it does seem like an
eternity since then."

   "Well, no harm in trying, is there, old man?  Oh, and by the by, your
old mob are in reserve near Bouzincourt.  I heard they got knocked about a
bit taking Longueval.  Thought you might like to pay them a visit while
it's 'napoo' here."

   "I think I might do that tomorrow, Peter.  I've letters to write and I
need to see Pinky about the pilots' course.  I tell you what, why don't we
go together?  Brian Redbourne's a splendid fellow and he'll be sure to give
us a welcome."

   "Good Egg!  Let's do that.  Now off you trot and see Pinky.  Strike
while the iron's hot and all that rot."

   "What about you, Peter?  Are you going to apply?"

   "Oh, I don't think so, old chap.  I mean, look at me.  I'm far too
lanky. I think I'll just stick in the back where there's a bit more room.
If I put my feet on a rudder bar my knees would be under my chin.  Thank
God for the 'Harry Tates.' It was murder in the old BE2s.  And my driver
was always complaining that he couldn't see over the magnificent Riley
bonce.  My head stuck up so far it was permanently in the prop wash."

   Phillip had to smile.  Peter stood something over six feet three and his
big raw-boned frame was a tight squeeze into any cockpit.  He always looked
untidy, somehow, however smartly he was dressed and his huge hands and feet
looked as if they had been stuck onto his long limbs as an afterthought. 
Phillip looked at his friend with amused affection and then said:

   "Peter, I've asked Bethan to marry me.  If she does say 'yes,' would you
be so kind as to stand up with me?"

   "Phillip, I'd be both honoured and delighted.  And what d'you mean 'if
she says yes?' Only a mad woman would refuse a dashing young aviator such
as your good self!"

   "I do hope so, old man.  I asked her over a month ago and she still
hasn't given me her answer.  I don't want to press her, you know, in case
it puts her off, but what's a chap to do?  I think about her all the time,
unless we' re over Hunland.  Then, well, one is rather preoccupied with
other concerns."

   "Ha!  Aren't we though?  I really think the blighters are getting
better, you know.  That chap, Bolcke, is supposedly in our sector now. 
From what I hear, he should liven things up a bit."

   "And your old chum, Ball, is making a name for himself, too, I hear. 
The last I heard, his score is over twenty."

   "Yes, rum little fellow, that one.  Oh, you'll no doubt meet him.  He's
to get his MC the same day as you, Pinky says."

   "Speaking of whom, I'd better run along and put my request in."

   Phillip hurried across the soaking grass to the hut that served as the
Squadron offices.  He was wet through by the time he got there and
presented himself, dripping, at Pinky's door.

   "Lovely weather for ducks, what?  Come in, Phillip, and sit ye down. 
Tell me, what I can do for you this fine day?"

   "It's about pilot training, Pinky.  I think you know I've always been
keen and now, well, Peter told me Corps HQ are asking for volunteers. 
Would it be awfully inconvenient if I put my name forward?"

   Pinky surveyed the young man in front of him.  He took in the tired
features and sighed inwardly.  Phillip Welford-Barnes was something of an
enigma to him.  The vast majority of officers on the squadron acted with a
kind of mad gaiety, as if each day could be their last.  Phillip wasn't
like that.  He was quiet, reserved.  Yes, he joined in - one couldn't
criticise him there - but Pinky felt that Phillip never truly let himself
go.  Nor could one fault his courage; yet Pinky had the feeling that
Phillip was drawing on some finite stock; that he was driven by duty and
would never be otherwise.  The majority of the young airmen were natural
adventurers.  Of course, the strain eventually told on everyone, but most
could put aside the war for a few brief hours, at least, and find solace in
drinking and women.  There were willing girls in most of the village
estaminets.  The French soldiers grumbled enough at how easily their
womenfolk were seduced by the glamour of the flyers.  Pinky sighed again,
aloud this time.

   "I won't stand in your way, Phillip, if it's truly what you want.  I
know dear old Wiggy promised you could go so, in his memory, if for no
other reason, I'll support your application.  I'm going to miss you,
though. Who else is going to stand in the back chucking tin cans at Huns
for me?"

   Phillip smiled his thanks and made as if to leave.  Pinky raised a hand
to stop him.

   "I suppose you want to be a Scout pilot?"

   "Actually, Pinky, I think I'd rather prefer two-seaters.  I've always
liked the teamwork aspect, you know.  We made a good team in the end,
didn't we?"

   "Yes, we did.  And we did have our moments.  Oh well, I'll suppose I'll
have to break in another new boy.  Someone else to throw up all over my
nice new coat!  Actually, I'm rather glad you don't want Scouts.  I don't
really think they'd be your cup of tea, old man."

   "No," said Phillip, "neither do I, somehow.  And Pinky, thanks old chap,
for everything.  You've been an absolute brick and it's been a privilege to
serve under you.  I never felt half as scared with you driving."

   "Really?  Most of the time I terrify myself positively witless, old
chap. Still, it takes all sorts, what?  Now get out of here and see the adj
to put your request in."

   Pinky made a show of going back to his paperwork and Phillip left. 
After he had gone, the major sat back in his chair and lit a cheroot.  He
would genuinely be sorry to see Phillip go but a part of him was also
relieved.  That was one letter, at least, he would not have to write.  He
stared at the paper on the blotter in front of him.  He wondered vaguely
how many times he had written a variation on the words that stared back at
him in his own round hand.  More to the point, he thought, how many more
times will I have to do it?

   He resumed his letter, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he
concentrated:

   Dear Mr and Mrs Stacy,

   As Herbert's Squadron Commander, I can't tell you how saddened we all
are by his death.  Although he had only been on the squadron a short time,
he was already one of the most popular chaps in the Mess.

   The truth, Pinky thought, is I have already forgotten what he looked
like; but he might have been the one with the big ears and the annoying
laugh.  I didn't have time to get to know him and neither did anyone else;
our Lords and Masters sent him out her with a paltry seventeen hours in his
logbook and some Hun pilot saw easy pickings.  Like about half of the other
letters I 've got to write, this poor bastard never stood a chance and it
only took three days for him to find a Hun to kill him.  He resumed his
letter.

   It may be some small comfort for you to know that Herbert was killed
instantly and did not suffer at all.  It may also help to remember that he
died doing the thing he loved above all others - flying.

   Far better that than the truth.  No one saw him go down but troops on
the ground found the burnt out wreckage so it had been a 'flamer.' Nobody
wants to think of their nearest and dearest slowly roasting to death in the
five or so minutes it takes to fall ten thousand feet in a burning
aeroplane.

   He finished the letter, blotted his signature, and added it to the pile
in his 'out' tray.  He stretched and rubbed his temples.  The familiar
throbbing of a headache was forming behind his eyes.  He gave another
exaggerated sigh and reached for a fresh piece of paper.

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

   Phillip found the Second Battalion of the Wessex Light Infantry without
too much difficulty.  The battalion were camped around the battered village
of Bouzincourt only a mile or two north west of Albert.  Peter and he had
borrowed the tired old Morris van that served as the squadron's motor
transport.  It had been the property of a Winchester baker's shop and still
bore the legend 'Holmes Finest Loaves' in faded letters on the side.  It
had solid tyres and only rudimentary springs and they had rattled and
jounced the twelve or so miles to Albert.  They stopped in the town to get
their bearings and to gaze in awe at the statue of the Virgin that hung at
a crazy angle from the damaged cathedral spire.  A superstition had grown
up that whichever side was eventually responsible for knocking the statue
down would lose the war.  (So it proved, for the German artillery finally
dislodged the hanging Virgin during their great offensive in the spring of
1918.)

   They obtained directions to Bouzincourt and set out once more on a
little back road that was scarcely more than a cart track.  They ground
along in low gear with the old Morris's springs complaining all the while.
They topped a low rise and trundled down the road into the village.  It had
been knocked about a bit by artillery fire as the German batteries probed
the British rear areas.  Even so, the civilian population was still in
residence and the fields thereabouts were still under cultivation.  Outside
one of the larger houses hung a hand-painted sign: '2/1 WLI Bn HQ,' which
translated as: 2nd Battalion, 1st Wessex Light Infantry Regiment, Battalion
Head Quarters.

   Peter stopped the van and they got out.  A large and familiar figure
appeared, caught sight of the two officers and offered up a smart salute.

   "Geordie Watts!  And a sergeant, I see."

   "Fuck me!  Oh, beggin' your pardon, gentlemen.  Mr Welford-Barnes!  Good
to see you, sir.  I'll tell the Colonel that you're here."

   "Just a mo, Geordie, or I suppose I should say Sergeant Watts.  I never
really thanked you properly for pulling me out.  Peter, Geordie carried me
back when I was crocked at Loos.  He saved my life, for certain."

   "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant.  I am in your debt.  Life
would be exceedingly tedious without Mr Welford-Barnes to keep me amused."

   "Thank you, sir.  We were rather fond of him ourselves.  Until he took
up with this flying malarkey.  I dunno how you gentlemen does it.  I much
prefers to keep me feet on the ground.  The Colonel's inside, gentlemen, if
you'll follow me."

   They followed the ample figure around the corner and entered the house.
What had once been a large kitchen was now festooned with maps and the old
cast iron range was covered in signal flimsies and other assorted papers.
Geordie stiffened to attention and announced them:

   "Lieutenant Welford-Barnes, sir, and another gentleman from the Royal
Flying Corps."

   Brian Redbourne slowly stood up, a grin splitting his homely face.

   "W-B, by all that's holy, what brings you to our neck of the woods? 
Introduce your pal, young Phillip.  This calls for a drink!  Now where did
I put the whisky?"

   Phillip grinned back, noticing the Lieutenant Colonel's badges on
Redbourne' s epaulets.

   "Looks like congratulations are in order, sir.  Have they given you the
battalion?"

   "Yes.  Colonel McKay copped it at Longueval, along with about four
hundred others.  I'm sorry to say you won't find too many familiar faces
around here anymore.  Oh, Geordie's still here, of course; indestructible
is our Geordie.  I've given him your old platoon along with young Simmonds.
Oh I forgot, you won't know Simmonds, he came out in June.  Still, he's
shaping up nicely, ain 't he Geordie?"

   "Yessir.  A very good young officer, sir."

   "So who's your pal, Phillip?  Don't they teach you manners in the Flying
Corps?"

   "Sorry, sir.  Allow me to present Lieutenant Peter Riley, late of His
Majesty 's Royal Engineers and a very good chum of mine."

   After the introductions, the three officers settled down to do some
serious damage to the whisky.  Peter related the Lewis Drums incident and
Brian Redbourne roared with laughter.  Phillip then recounted his story of
Redbourne leading the company at Loos with an umbrella and handing out
footballs before the attack.  Peter opined that madness must be a
prerequisite for a career in the Wessex Light Infantry and that called for
another toast.  After a little while, Redbourne took them to visit
Phillip's old platoon.  Phillip was saddened to find that he recognised
only about one face in five from the year before.  He did notice, however,
that the battalion appeared to be at full strength and the men looked fit
and rested.

   "We've been out of the lines for about three weeks," Redbourne told him
later.  "We've been training to operate with a new weapon."

   "Oh?  And what's that, if you can tell me?"

   "The code name for them is 'tanks.' They're like a sort of 'land
battleship.  ' We're going to surprise Fritz and his boys with them quite
soon.  Can't tell you when and where, of course, but the boys are
cock-a-hoop."

   "Why 'tanks'?  Seems an odd sort of name."

   "Ah, It's those cunning blighters in Intelligence.  The story is that
these things are self-propelled water tanks.  That's what they tell anyone
not involved with the operation.  There's about eight battalions that have
been withdrawn to train with 'em.  I really think they could turn the
trick, you know.  It's the first really new idea to come out of this war;
apart from that beastly gas, that is."

   "And don't forget us, too.  What was it the Army Board said in '12? 
Aeroplanes have no place in modern warfare?  I bet the duffer who came up
with that one is eating his hat!"

   "Quite right, too, Peter.  I shouldn't have forgotten our own tame
birdmen, should I?  I say, you two, what's it really like up there?  I
mean, does it all look wonderfully strange from however many feet you boys
perch at?"

   "Sometimes it's magical.  I was up one evening and the sky was so clear
you could see all the way to heaven.  I watched a new cloud being born.  It
was a mystical, almost spiritual, thing, somehow.  It feels like, I don't
know, a wholly new and different kind of freedom.  There's a purity, a
cleanliness about it that I can't really describe.  Sometimes I hate the
war simply for spoiling that.  It's cold, of course, and there are moments
that are simply terrifying; but there's a clarity about it.  It makes one
elated and humble at the same time."

   Peter's voice trailed off and his eyes were distant, his mind clearly
elsewhere, up among those clouds.  Phillip and Redbourne stared at him as
he finished speaking.  Phillip was used to Peter as a light-hearted joker
-someone who never failed to lift his spirits.  He had never suspected that
Peter Riley was sensitive to the beauty around him.  Redbourne simply
looked wistful.  How strange, he thought, to be free of mud and filth: to
fight one' s war far above the stink of the battlefield in the pristine
void.  He shook his head slowly.

   "I can't pretend that I can begin to imagine it - but, thank you, Peter.
Somehow, that makes me feel better."

   They parted company soon after that.  Phillip gave Redbourne half a
dozen bottles of claret he had bought as a gift and they shook hands
warmly. Redbourne was glad that the bonds forged in the fighting of the
first year of the war were still unbroken; stretched a little, perhaps, by
time and experience, but there nonetheless.  Phillip felt a moment's regret
as they drove away.  He had experienced again, albeit briefly, that sense
of belonging, of family almost, that the best regiments engender in their
own.

   Peter was silent.  His big hands gripped the steering wheel and he
stared straight ahead.  His mind was a jumble of scattered thoughts.  He
pondered what he had heard about the 'tanks.' Could they really be the key
that would unlock the stalemate?  He kept drifting back to thoughts of
flying; he had surprised himself.  He knew how he felt, of course, but had
never tried before to put it into words.  He had a sudden urge to capture
his feelings.  He didn't think he had the skill but he would have to try.
Just in case, he told himself, just in case.

   Later that night, he wrote these words:

   I have seen the dancers in the sun And heard the silvery, crystal tongue
Of rainbows breaking on the clouds And I shouted my joy aloud.

   I have seen the somnolent, wooded hills, And breathed the morning,
stretched my will To catch an escaping dream And have wondered at what I've
seen.

   I have flown across the face of God That gave dimension to his rod And
staff, but saw no comfort is there And I stopped for a while to stare

   At khaki columns, winding past To find again that I was last In some
grandiose parade; Or maybe a charade I never guessed quite properly, Nor
discovered which face was for me.

   Peter sighed and pushed the sheet of paper away from him.  He wasn't
sure if it would make any difference in the scheme of things but he was
glad he had done it.  He stopped to gaze at Phillip's sleeping figure on
the other side of the tent.  Oh God, he thought, I am going to miss him. 
Maybe next time I' ll get someone who doesn't snore.  He stretched and
threw himself, full length, upon his camp bed.  His big feet stuck out over
the end.  He grunted at this perpetual annoyance and turned off the
pressure lantern.  Lying in the dark, he heard the pops and hisses as the
lantern cooled and the soft, steady beat of the rain upon the canvas above
his head.  He shrugged mentally.  Oh well, tomorrow is another day.  Who
knows what it might bring?

   Autumn 1916 Back to School

   Phillip never did get to meet Albert Ball.  His Military Cross was
presented back in England on 2nd September by Sir David Henderson, the
'father' of the Royal Flying Corps.  Phillip's parents came up from Dorset
and, to their mutual delight, Bethan was able to get the day off to attend
as well.  After the presentation, they repaired to the Savoy for lunch. 
Phillip took the opportunity to have a private word with Bethan as they
waited for his parents to secure a table.

   "I'll be at home for a while now, Bethan, while I go to Flying School. I
hope we can see each other a bit more."

   "Won't that be grand, Phillip?  I do miss you so when you're in France."

   "Do you truly?  You've never given me an answer, you know."

   "Of course I miss you.  There's silly you are, Phillip!  And I'll give
you the answer you want when I'm good and ready and not before, do you hear
me?"

   He had to be content with that but his heart sang.  She would give him
the answer he wanted!  But wait, did she mean that or simply that he wanted
an answer?  He turned to her again, the question forming on his lips but
she forestalled it with a brief kiss.

   "No, Phillip, I've said all I mean to say for now.  It's no good you
looking like that at me, either.  It's take your time, isn't it?  I'm not
one to rush things.  I've spoken to your mother and she understands."

   He moved to kiss her again but she held him off gently.

   "Not here, Phillip!  People are staring.  You don't want to embarrass me
now, do you?"

   She smiled at him and surreptitiously squeezed his hand.  Her eyes were
bright and looked at him so lovingly that his head swam.  Then they were
called through to eat.  William Welford-Barnes was all beaming pride and
bonhomie.  Beatrice sat and gazed fondly at the two men in her life. 
Phillip looked tired and strained but the girl beside him positively
glowed. She caught Bethan's eye and gave her a quick smile.

   Beatrice had arranged to meet Bethan at Winchester and the three of
them, Bethan, Beatrice and William, had travelled up to London together. 
It wasn't the most direct route for Beatrice and William and he had
grumbled.  Beatrice had won the argument, as usual.  She pointed out to
William that Bethan could not be left to travel alone and he had
reluctantly concurred.  Her real reason for making the arrangements,
however, was that she wished to have another chance to talk with Bethan. 
She knew of Phillip's proposal and Bethan's procrastination and decided it
was time that she took a hand in affairs.

   Soon after the train had pulled out of Winchester, William fell soundly
asleep behind his copy of The Times, as was his habit.  Beatrice turned to
Bethan.

   "Now, my dear, I think it's high time we had a little talk.  First, and
I want a completely honest answer, do you love my son?"

   "Yes."

   Bethan was a little taken aback but had expected something of the sort
from the tone of Beatrice's letter to her.

   "Yes, I do love Phillip.  And with all my heart."

   "And he has asked you to marry him?"

   "Yes."

   "And you have put him off.  May I ask you why, Bethan?"

   Bethan puffed out her cheeks and stared at her hands that were twisting
in her lap.

   "It's the war, now, isn't it?  I mean, if it was all over, I'd marry him
tomorrow."

   "What about the war, Bethan?  Are you saying that you won't marry my son
because he might be killed?"

   "Oh, no!  It's not that.  I mean, there's selfish, isn't it?  No.  I'm
just scared that he only loves me, or thinks he loves me, because of the
war.  How would it be if, when this is all over, he finds himself married
to a silly little Welsh girl he doesn't really love after all?  It's not
clever that I am; I've never been to London and I don't know how to dance
and things like that, do I?  I come from a farm in the middle of what you
might call nowhere.  I just keep thinking I'm not good for him, for all of
you.  Can you understand?"

   "Have you quite finished?  Bethan Meredith, I have never heard such rot
in all my life.  I know my son as I know my husband.  Let tell you a little
secret.  I met William when I was a year or two younger than you are now. I
knew he liked me but he was never importunate.  I saw that he was a
sticker, not the sort to give up if things got rough.  Oh, they're not the
most charming men you'll ever meet, the Welford-Barnes, nor the most
handsome.

   "I had plenty of young men paying me attention and trying to get into my
drawers, if you'll pardon the expression.  I took a good long look around
and decided that William, with his quiet, steadfast sort of love, was the
one for me.  But he was too shy to ask, too damned diffident.  There, I
swore!  But it was true.  I had to make the running.  I trapped him in the
summerhouse and practically tore his clothes off.  Poor man still doesn't
know what hit him.  Yes, I know it was dreadfully forward and nice girls
don't do that but I'm not one bit ashamed and I certainly have never
regretted it for an instant.

   "You see, my dear, I made sure I got what I wanted and I work hard to
make sure that I keep it.  I'm not going to share with you the secrets of
the marriage bed but I can tell you, if Phillip is anything like his
father, there is a great wellspring of passion waiting to be tapped.  And
don't believe any of this nonsense about not enjoying that side of married
life.  Only a complete fool will lie back and think of England - or Wales
in your case.  No, my dear, married love can be wonderful but it doesn't
just happen, it needs work.  But, oh the rewards from that sweet labour!

   "I'm sorry if I have embarrassed or offended you but I would like you to
think about this: I know my son.  I know he loves you with all his being.
Remember the way he looks at you?  How can you doubt it?  And as for not
being good enough, stuff and nonsense!  I want the best for my family and
you, my girl, are that.  I couldn't hope for more.  I know William feels
the same.  And if he doesn't yet, he will by the time I'm through with him.
So there!"

   Bethan sat in open-mouthed confusion.  She gulped a couple of times and
continued to goggle at Beatrice.  Had she heard right?  She was lost for
words.  She knew her cheeks must be scarlet.  No one had ever spoken like
that to her.  Some of the other nurses sometimes made smutty remarks about
their men-friends; but Beatrice!  She stared at the older woman in
fascination.  Her thoughts raced first one way and then another.  It was
too much to take in!  She stammered out a reply:

   "I don't know what to say.  I promise I will think about.  what you
said. I'm just so confused, I mean, I never thought.  I do want to marry
Phillip and I do love him but I'm scared, so scared."

   Her voice trailed off and she sat in silent wonder at what had
transpired.  Not the least of her wonder was directed at herself and her
admission.  She did want to marry Phillip.  Yes, and she did want to do
with him all those things that Beatrice had alluded to - had shocked her by
talking about so openly.  The realisation flooded her and she felt that
strange thrill.  She wished her mother were still alive and then thought
longingly of Sister Hallam.  That was it!  She would have a good talk with
Sister Hallam; she would know what to do.  She looked up at Beatrice, who
regarded her with a closed expression.  Bethan took a deep breath.

   "Thank you.  I know that cannot have been easy - to talk to me like
that, to say those things.  I need a little time to thing things over, to
get it all straight in my own head, see?  But I am so glad you think I'll
make Phillip a good wife.  It's not that I'm saying yes, mind, not today at
any rate.  It's sorry I am that I can't be more definite."

   William snorted and grunted in his sleep and they both fell silent. 
Beatrice reached out a hand and patted Bethan's.  They smiled like
conspirators.  Beatrice turned away and looked out of the window.  They
were passing through some grubby little town.  Rows of scowling terraced
houses backed onto the railway on each side, wearing a mantle of soot. 
Bethan was left with her own thoughts and, more and more, these turned to
that mysterious joy of which Beatrice had spoken.  Could it really be so
pleasant to have a man put his thing in you?  Sister Hallam had hinted at
something similar.  And she didn't know two women she liked and trusted
more than Sister Hallam and Beatrice Welford-Barnes.

   Bethan had to travel back to Hampshire after lunch so they all took a
taxi to Waterloo station to see her off.  As she boarded the Winchester
train, she whispered to Phillip, promising that she would give her answer
very soon.  He reassured her that there was no rush and that he would wait
- forever if need be.  There were tears in her dark eyes as the train
huffed away.  Phillip was quiet after Bethan had gone.  His father kept up
a stream of light-hearted chatter to cover the silence and Beatrice smiled
tolerantly.  William always found difficulty exhibiting his emotions but
she knew that he, too, was feeling something of Phillip's sadness.  She
cast her mind back to her conversation with Bethan.  Had it really only
been that morning?  She felt sure that everything would work out for the
best.  Bethan was young, naïve, that was all.  It was silly of her to worry
about not being 'one of the gentry.' There would be precious few gentry
left if this war went on much longer.

   They went to the theatre that evening and had a late supper in a little
restaurant off Drury Lane.  It seemed that every man under the age of fifty
was in uniform.  William, in his evening dress, stood out among the serried
ranks of khaki and navy blue.  They had not been in London together as a
family since before the war.  The city seemed different.  There was a
frenetic edge to the diners and dancers as if they were all intent on
making the most of every moment.  Beatrice also noticed that a number of
the women were not of the sort that one expected.  They were heavily
made-up and their evening gowns revealed as much as they concealed; a fact
not lost on her husband, who frequently gawped in amazement at some
dazzling new arrival.

   Back in their hotel room, they made love.  Beatrice sighed with pleasure
as William's familiar hands reached for her breasts.

   "I thought you might have preferred some younger flesh, judging by the
direction your eyes were taking this evening," she teased him.

   He responded by grabbing her buttocks and pulling her onto him.

   "You know there's only one woman for me, my love."

   She rocked her hips as he entered her and they soared away into that
private world of pleasure.

   Afterwards, they lay in companionable silence.  Beatrice rested her head
on William's shoulder, the fingers of one hand toying gently with his chest
hair.  This was love, she mused, as much as the flaring passion of youth,
perhaps even more.  Familiarity had not deadened their appetites for each
other, merely honed their appreciation.  Certainly, they no longer
exhausted each other, as they had in the early years, but quality had
replaced quantity.  She wished with all her heart that Phillip and Bethan
might grow old together and experience the same long, gentle mellowing that
she and William had discovered.  His soft snores filled the velvet darkness
and she smiled fondly.

   All three of them were rudely awakened later that night by the crump of
bombs falling on east London.  Another Zeppelin raid was in progress. 
Phillip pulled back the curtains and stared into the night sky. 
Searchlights fingered the darkness and he could hear the thud of
anti-aircraft batteries.  Phillip glanced at his watch and saw it was about
one o'clock.  As he looked back, he saw that a searchlight had picked out a
giant, silvery shape.  Two other searchlights joined in and anti-aircraft
fire began with a vengeance.  He thought he saw the tiny shape of an
aeroplane, silhouetted against the glowing clouds, but it vanished before
he could be sure.

   He watched for a while longer.  The searchlights lost the intruder and
the barrage died away.  He was on the point of returning to his bed when a
sudden glow illuminated the night sky to the northeast.  It was no more
than two miles from where he stood watching and this time he was sure he
saw an aeroplane turning away from beneath the glow.  In what seemed like
seconds, the fire had spread and he stared in awe as the giant airship
described a fiery parabola across the night sky.  He rushed to his parents'
room and hammered on the door and bade them come to look.  A million
Londoners watched as the first ever raider to be destroyed over London made
its final descent.

   The following day, the later editions of the morning papers were full of
the story.  Lieutenant William Leefe-Robinson of 39 Squadron, flying an
elderly BE2, had shot down the German LS11.  Crowds had flocked to Cuffley
in Middlesex where the stricken airship had fallen.  Strictly speaking,
LS11 wasn't a Zeppelin but an earlier type, although no one was bothered
with such details.  One of the hated intruders had been shot down; that was
all that mattered to the civilians.



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



   Two days later Phillip reported to the RFC Flying School at Brooklands
in Surrey.  He had been spared the need to attend ground school because of
his time as an observer.  He now had over 500 hours in his logbook and had
that priceless commodity, experience.  Most of the other students were
younger than Phillip; the majority came straight from school and they were
in awe of the 'veteran' with the ribbon of the Military Cross on his
well-worn uniform.

   Basic flying training was carried out in ancient Farman 'Longhorns.'
These venerable aircraft were slow but stable and, fortunately, immensely
strong.  The main drawback was that they were highly susceptible to
crosswinds and flying was only permitted in near-perfect weather.  The
result was that almost all the training took place in the early morning
before the wind got up, and in the evening, after it had died.  This made
for long periods of boredom.  Phillip's logbook from this time shows that
he made a total of nine flights over a ten-day period.  The average
duration was something less than twenty minutes.

   There was a sewage treatment farm at the boundary of the airfield and
more than one unlucky student 'landed in the shit.' After four and a half
hours of dual instruction, Phillip was given the go-ahead for his first
solo.  He had never experienced that peculiar combination of elation and
terror that comes when one first takes to the air alone.  It was early
morning on the 23rd September.  As is quite common in England at that time
of year, the weather had settled into a clear, calm, dry spell.  The only
hazard was a propensity for morning mists but these soon burned away once
the sun was up.

   The mechanics had pushed the aircraft out onto the flight line and
Phillip walked with his instructor over the dewy grass to the waiting
machine.  Phillip went through the routine of walking around the aircraft
to carry out the 'external check.' He tested the bracing wires for tension
and waggled the ailerons, elevators and rudder to satisfy himself that they
moved freely.  He did a visual check of the doped canvas wing coverings,
looking for any tears or telltale sagging.  He pronounced himself happy and
climbed into the plywood nacelle.  He pushed the handlebar joystick through
its full range of movement; calling out to the attendant air mechanic who
confirmed each control surface was working.  At a nod from his instructor,
he took a deep breath.  His voice sounded unnaturally thin and high as he
went through the engine starting sequence.

   "Switches off!"

   The mechanic standing by the propeller echoed his words.

   "Suck in!"

   The mechanic slowly turned the propeller to suck the fuel/air mixture
into the French rotary engine's nine cylinders.

   "Switches on!"

   The echo came again.  One final deep breath and:

   "Contact!"

   The mechanic swung the big two-bladed wooden propeller.  The engine
spluttered, coughed and then blared into life.  Phillip opened the throttle
slightly, made sure that both magneto switches were firmly in the 'on'
position and waited for the engine to find a steady note as it warmed to
the task ahead.  He checked the oil pressure gauge once more - normal - and
opened the throttle a little more.  He waved to the airman standing near
the front of the plane and heard his faint cry of 'chocks!' Another airman
pulled the wooden chocks from beneath the wheels and the call of 'Chocks
away!' was lost in the clattering roar of the engine as Phillip gave the
engine more fuel.  Then he was off, bumping over the damp grass.

   He realised his knuckles were white on the joystick and he forced
himself to relax his grip.  The words of his instructor sounded in his
head.

   "Give her plenty of throttle.  Don't be in too much of a rush and don't
yank back on the joystick or you'll stall, sure as eggs.  She'll start to
come up when she's good and ready."

   The rumbling and bouncing increased as the Farman gathered speed. 
Phillip glanced at the pitot bubble that gave a crude indication of air
speed.  It worked by forcing air into a narrow tube that stuck out ahead of
the cockpit nacelle.  This forced a bubble of liquid up a glass tube that
was marked with gradations in 5 miles per hour segments.  He was doing
about thirty; it shouldn't be too much longer!

   At last the rumbling and bouncing started to ease as the old aeroplane
took to its element.  Almost before he knew it, the ground was dropping
away and he was airborne.  He eased back lightly on the joystick and the
Farman climbed.  A quick glance told him that he was flying one wing low
and he over-corrected and cursed himself.  He forced himself to calm down
and relax.  The excitement was making him heavy-handed.  After a few
minutes, he estimated he had reached about one thousand feet and he made a
few slow turns, concentrating on keeping the nose of the Farman steady, and
a hand's span above the horizon.  He made a leisurely circuit and then it
was time to land.

   Once again the fear welled up.  He lined up his approach and began to
descend.  Too fast!  Back on the throttle, the engine now a mere rumble. 
Ease the stick back.  Damn!  Too high.  Nose down, gently.  No!  Too short.
Open the throttle a bit.  There, that's enough!  Over the field, cut the
throttle, yes, she's sinking.  Round out, gently, now gently!  Shit!!!

   The old plane thumped out of the air and onto the grass, dropping the
last six feet like the proverbial stone.  The resulting juddering crash
made Phillip's teeth rattle and he winced as a second bounce and then a
third slammed up at him through the wicker seat.  He slowly taxied back to
the flight line, muttering dark imprecations against himself as he did so.
He cut the engine and climbed out.

   "Sorry about that!  Bit of a heavy landing, I hope I didn't break
anything."

   A corporal fitter gave the underside of the plane a quick 'once over.'

   "Nah, right as rain, sir.  Seen a lot worse than that, has this old
kite, and still come back for more."

   The instructor gave Phillip a reassuring pat on the back.

   "Well, you got it up and you got it down in one piece.  Well done. 
Chapman and Wishart are waiting.  If the weather holds, you can have
another go after they've done.  And next time, see if you can't execute a
turn better than a ruptured duck, there's a good fellow."

   But Phillip didn't get to fly again that day.  Wishart's engine cut soon
after take-off.  He made the fatal error of trying to turn back.  Even the
old Farmans were not that forgiving.  Wishart stalled in from 150 feet.  He
was crushed to death when the engine broke free of its mountings.  He was
the third fatality out of eighteen students on the course.  Two more were
to die before Phillip took his 'ticket' - the basic pilot's licence - and
two instructors.  Small wonder the instructors referred to the students as
'Huns; ' so many of them perished at the hands of their charges.

   Phillip left Brooklands at the end of October and was sent to the
advanced flying training squadron at Gosport, on the South Coast.  He was
granted a three-day breathing space between courses and took the train to
Winchester, post haste.  He booked into the 'Bull' and walked up the lane
to Bentley Hall.  It was early afternoon when he presented himself at the
door and enquired for Sister Hallam.  A nurse he didn't know soon fetched
her.

   "Mr Welford-Barnes, what brings you here, as if I didn't know?"

   "Ah, Sister Hallam.  I was wondering if you might spare Nurse Meredith
this evening.  I promise I'll make sure she's back by ten."

   "Hmm.  Well, I can see no reason why not.  I understand you have
proposed marriage to the young lady in question."

   "Yes, Sister, I have.  But I still her await her reply."

   "I see.  And you are sincere in this matter?"

   "Of course!  And my family approves of the match."

   "I'm glad to hear it.  And so they should.  Young Miss Meredith is a
good'un, young man, and you should consider yourself most fortunate."

   "Indeed I will, if she consents."

   "That is a matter entirely for Miss Meredith but, for what it is worth,
I would rest easy, if I were you.  She may be too sensible to be rushed but
neither is she so sensible that her head completely rules her heart.  I
cannot speak for when you may get your answer, Mr Welford-Barnes, but rest
assured, I do know that she loves you.  Now, do you wish to speak to the
young lady or have you more to say?"

   "I would very much like to speak with Bethan, please; if it is not
inconvenient, that is."

   "I suspect my convenience will make precious little difference to either
of you.  And Mr Welford-Barnes?"

   "Yes, Sister?"

   "There will be no need to hurry back on this occasion.  You may return
Nurse Meredith at a time of her choosing."

   "Thank you very much, Sister, you're an absolute brick!"

   Sister Hallam snorted at Phillip's last sally and went to fetch Bethan.
Phillip was almost hopping with excitement as he waited.  She caught sight
of him in the hall and her face lit up.  She had not been expecting Phillip
and Sister Hallam had merely informed her that her presence was required in
the main hall.  She ran towards him and he seized both her hands in his and
looked into those huge brown eyes.  He thought he could tumble into their
soft depths and be lost forever.

   "Phillip!  Oh, there's shocked I am, what are you doing here?"

   Her eyes went to the new pilot's wings on the front of his jacket.  A
cold shiver passed through her and she looked back up at his face.  He
looked fit and rested.  The pallor evident when she had last seen him was
gone.  He looked younger and his eyes were shining with wonder as he
returned her gaze.

   "D'you know, I think I'd quite forgotten how utterly lovely you are,
Bethan.  Oh, it's so good to see you!  I've honestly thought about nothing
else these past two months."

   He told her of his conversation with Sister Hallam and was surprised to
see her blush a little.  She looked so beautiful that it made his heart
lurch and pound and his head swim.  Bethan couldn't stay for more than a
minute or two but they agreed to meet again at seven o'clock.  They parted
with a quick kiss that seemed, to Phillip, to hold the promise of greater
things and he walked back along the tree-lined drive to the 'Bull.' The
beech trees had turned from green to gold and there was a chilly snap to
the afternoon that spoke of impending winter.

   There was fire in the parlour at the 'Bull' and Phillip ordered tea and
muffins as he settled into an armchair with a back-copy of the 'Illustrated
News." Two stories in particular caught his attention.  One, a very short
piece, reported with regret the death of Major Lanoe Hawker, VC.  Hawker
had been killed by a German pilot named Richtofen or somesuch.  It appeared
that the pair had fought for over an hour.  Hawker's machine was already
damaged prior to the combat and its engine had periodically cut out.  This
Richtofen was making something of a name for himself although the story
hinted that he seemed to specialise in finishing off aircraft that others
had previously damaged.  This struck a chord with Phillip who vaguely
remembered hearing something of this sort back in August.  Still, it was
sad that Lanoe Hawker had gone.  Phillip could picture the genial commander
of 24 Squadron, head back and roaring with laughter as the side of the mess
hut collapsed, spilling Phillip and a dozen other officers into the mud. 
It seemed such a long time ago.

   The second story concerned the first introduction of the 'secret weapon'
described to him by Brian Redbourne.  It was not necessary to read between
the lines to see that another opportunity had gone begging.  There was a
stirring account of the successful attack on Flers on 15th September, where
the tanks had shocked many German troops into surrender.  Elsewhere,
however, things had been muddled and chaotic, as usual.  He was pleased to
see his old regiment was reported as having assisted in the capture of
Flers 'with minimal casualties.' He hoped this last statement was true. 
The fighting on the Somme was continuing but everyone was now resigned to
the fact that there would be no breakthrough and no end to the war in 1916.

   Phillip and Bethan dined by the light of candles.  In other
circumstances, this might have been for romantic effect but in the autumn
of 1916, it sprang from necessity.  The depredations of the German
unrestricted U-Boat campaign were making themselves felt.  Fuel oil was at
a premium so many places had reverted to the use of old-fashioned tallow
candles.  These gave off a smoky sort of light and a slightly rancid smell,
but one soon became used to it.  It was just another facet of the war. 
Phillip had noticed a marked change in sentiment at home.  The Newspapers
stopped publishing casualty lists - there were simply too many.  The
enthusiasm of the early years had given way to something else: a grim
determination to 'see it through.'

   Bethan was quiet for much of the meal.  She seemed shy in his company
and he felt vague stirrings of unease.  So, it came as a surprise when she
put down her knife and fork and looked him directly in the eye.

   "Phillip, I've had a very long think about your, um, proposal of
marriage.  I know it has been hard for you but I needed to be sure, now,
didn't I?  Well, I've made up my mind and, yes, I'd be so happy to be your
wife.  There!  I've said it.  I should have done so earlier but I was
scared to.  There's silly I am, I know, but I've done it now, haven't I?"

   He stared at her, speechless.  At first she took his blank expression to
mean he had changed his mind but then she saw the amazement turning to
unalloyed joy.  She thought for a moment he was going to spring across the
table and embrace her but he restrained himself.  Instead, he seized her
hand in both of his.  He could find no words.  He simply sat, holding her
hands and shaking his head, his face filled with happiness and tears
starting from his eyes.  At length, he gave a huge shuddering sigh and
kissed her fingers.

   "My love, you have made me the happiest man in the world.  I swear, by
everything that is dear to me, by any oath you care to name, that I will do
my very best to make you as happy as you make me."

   They then fell to debating when the wedding should be.  Phillip was all
for getting a special license and doing it the very next week.  Bethan
laughed at his anxiety.

   "I'm not going to change my mind, you know.  It's constant I am.  I
shall only marry the once and I will have it done properly!"

   They settled on a date in January, three months hence.  This would
enable them to marry before Phillip returned to the front.  Then it was
plans and speculations.  Bethan insisted that she would continue her work
as a nurse.  She felt that she was needed.  Phillip agreed, a little
reluctantly at first, but recognised the good sense of her argument when
she explained that sitting around Pitton House moping while he was away
would not suit her at all.  After the meal they decided to go up to his
room.  Neither had the wish for any company but each other.  Bethan felt a
delicious thrill of 'wickedness' as they mounted the stairs.  Fancy!  She
was going to a man's room!  Except that man was Phillip, her fiancée and
the man she loved above all else in the world.

   Once inside, Phillip placed the candle on the nightstand and turned to
her.  He held out his arms and she moved to him at once.  They kissed.  She
felt his probing tongue and opened her lips to him, moulding her body to
his and hugging him close.  The room was small and simply furnished so it
seemed natural that he should draw her down onto the narrow bed beside him.
Bethan suddenly felt emboldened and she initiated another kiss and then
another.  His hands gently stroked her back and sent tingles down her
spine. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed.  His hands moved
lower, gripping her buttocks and squeezing them gently.  It felt heavenly!
A little moan of 'Oh Phillip!' escaped her lips and, encouraged, he pulled
her closer.  His hands seemed to be raising her skirt, gently lifting the
material to expose her stockinged legs.

   It was as if it was happening to someone else, as if she was somehow
watching from a great distance.  Conscious thought had fled.  She felt the
hardness of his erection against her abdomen and revelled in the pressure.
She was causing it!  Then his hands were under the dress and stroking her
bottom through the silk drawers.  The feeling was electric.  It was
wonderful and terrifying at the same time.  It made her feel she was on the
edge of an undiscovered land where all sorts of miracles were possible and
all kinds of wonders awaited her.  She longed to step over the border but
not yet, not yet!  A hand slipped up inside her drawers, cupping her
buttock.  She shuddered and tried to rise, to escape the sweet trap her
body was leading her into.  Phillip rolled her gently onto her back and
kissed her again, smothering her faint protests.

   Then his hand was between her legs and she froze.  He whispered to her
not to worry, that he would not dishonour her.  She lay still, scarcely
able to breathe as his fingers stroked lightly about her sex.  He was still
kissing her and whispering endearments.  She was torn between demanding him
to stop and insisting that he go on.  She felt hot and knew her face was
blazing.  Still the fingers probed and tickled, sending fire through her
veins.  She knew she was wet and slick and when he slipped a finger between
her engorged lips, she jumped.  A bolt of sensation like nothing she had
ever experienced before shot through her.  Her legs parted involuntarily.
She seized his face in both of her hands and kissed him wildly.  The
intruding finger was surer now.  It seemed to be circling a special place
that was now the centre of her existence.  She was on the edge of panic,
wanting to fly far away but unable to move.

   Now his finger was on that amazing spot, rubbing all around it and
soaking it with her juices.  Something was building, something unstoppable.
Time had stopped.  She was conscious only of the rising tide within her. 
She began to gasp and thrash.  Nothing mattered to her now but to complete
this journey.  She was unaware of her bucking hips as she forced herself
against his hand.  She clung to him, her eyes wild and unfocussed.  Then
her climax hit in rolling spasms of cold fire that suffused her body with
light and lightness.  Her eyes fluttered wildly and she breathed the heady
scent of sex.  Then it was over, the pleasure too intense to be borne.  She
thrust his hand away and he held her tight as she started to sob in a
mixture of wonder and new-felt humiliation.  What had she done?  How had
she let this happen?  He rocked her gently, cooing nonsense into her ear
and kissing away the tears.  Slowly she calmed and returned to herself. 
She opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her, his eyes filled with
love.

   Then the realisation hit her.  That was the mystery to which both
Beatrice and Sister Hallam alluded.  That was the indescribable pleasure
that a man and a woman could find together.  Instantly she felt desolate.
Phillip!  She had felt his desire and passion but had done nothing for him.
She started to cry again.  Phillip's face changed from happiness to
concern. He started to babble apologies but she shook her head fiercely and
stopped his mouth with her hand.  She sat up, tried to explain but ran out
of words.  Then he was laughing at her.  She had a sudden hot flash of
anger but he kissed it away.  Again she felt the hardness against her.  She
put out a tentative hand and touched it.  Not knowing quite what to do she
gave it a firm squeeze and he yelped.  She looked at him helplessly and
wailed, "I don't know what to do!"

   He fumbled with his buttons and pushed her hand inside.  Here was
another mystery.  It was both hard and soft to the touch.  He showed her
gently.  She stroked him, biting her lip in concentration.  "Am I doing it
right?" He groaned by way of reply.  She was both intrigued and afraid. 
The cloth was making it awkward for her so she tugged his trousers out of
her way and gazed at him.  She had a sense of something beautiful between
them She liked the way his penis had a slight upward curve.  She liked the
way it jumped at her touch.  His balls had contracted and she tentatively
cupped them with her other hand, palm beneath, fingers pointing upwards. 
His body seemed to jerk with every stroke.  He seemed to be urging her
onwards so she rubbed faster.  His breathing was ragged now and his eyes
were closed.  He was grimacing and then gave a sharp cry.  She watched in
amazement as his seed spurted out, once, twice, three times and then a
final dribble.  He gave a great moan that sounded like pain but she knew
was not.  She eased her stroking, aware how her own pleasure had peaked and
fallen away.  Her hand was sticky with his seed.

   He opened his eyes and gaped at her in wonder.

   "Did I do it right?"

   "Oh, God, yes, my love.  You did it very right indeed!"

   They lay and held each other in silence for a while.  She was shy with
him but any lingering sense of shame had long since departed, replaced by a
fierce pride.  He was her man and she his woman; they had taken pleasure in
each other, a pleasure born of love.  Those who called it sin were liars!
They talked in hushed voices, discussing that final intimacy.  She was
adamant; that must wait for the marriage bed.  There was time.  But for
now, they could begin the slow exploration of desire, needing only love as
their guide.
   Continued in part 5