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 Like Father Like Son

   Part Five



   December 1916 The Real Thing

   It was bitterly cold.  Condensation droplets flew from the fuselage of
the Avro 504 like icy needles, striking Phillip in the face, so he pulled
his scarf a little higher.  He opened the throttle and the plane began to
rumble forward over the wet grass.  The instructor's voice sounded faint
and tinny through the 'Gosport tube', a recent innovation that allowed
conversation between the two cockpits.  He gave the Avro a little more
throttle and the speed increased.  The 504 had originally entered service
as a bomber but was now the preferred training aircraft of the RFC.

   Phillip felt the tail lift and the rumbling eased as the machine took
gently to its natural element.  They climbed slowly, flying over the
Victorian brick edifice of Fort Rowner and turning gently out over the sea.
Looking down to his left, Phillip could make out the lean shapes of a
destroyer flotilla at anchor in Portsmouth harbour.  The Grand Fleet was
still away to the north at Scapa Flow: waiting against the day the Kaiser's
battleships braved the North Sea once more.  The instructor's voice came
once more and Phillip altered course to take them out over the Solent. 
This was real flying, he thought.

   He had learned how the rudder gradually took on the work of the ailerons
and vice versa as one steepened the turn.  He had learnt to spin and
recover, to execute 'Immelmans' and stall turns, to loop and then to roll
off the top of a loop.  He was confident now; his pilot's logbook showed
over forty hours, ten of them solo.  Today he had to make a cross-country
flight, navigating his way around a triangular course from Gosport to
Portland, Portland to Oxford and then back to Gosport.  If he completed the
flight successfully and to his instructor's satisfaction, he would only
need to repeat it solo and he would be 'passed out.' Then it was a matter
of joining a new squadron.

   He levelled off at 5,000 feet, checked his heading and glanced at the
clouds to estimate his drift.  The airspeed indicator, one of the new
'clock' models, told him they were doing 80 miles per hour.  He pulled a
folded map from the holder by his side and spread it on his knee.  He
picked up his first waypoint and reported the relative bearing to the
instructor.  He checked his watch and settled back, wiping a smear of oil
from his goggles and stamping his feet against the cold.  The sky was clear
and bright and Phillip thought that he could see forever.

   The first hint of trouble came when he heard the engine miss a beat.  He
checked the oil pressure; it looked normal.  He tapped the gauge with a
gloved finger and the needle dropped alarmingly.  The engine spluttered and
then resumed its steady beat.  He throttled back slightly, picked up the
mouthpiece of the Gosport tube and spoke urgently into it.

   "Oil pressure is way down and still falling.  I think we have a major
oil leak."

   "What do you propose?"

   "Head for the land and look for somewhere to put her down before she
seizes."

   "Good plan.  Let me know if you want me to take her.  You have control."

   "I have control."

   He could smell the stink of burning oil now and the pressure gauge was
showing only 5 psi.  The Le Clerget engines were robust but would not run
for long without lubricant.  He forced himself to stay calm and to
concentrate.  There was a small landing strip near Bournemouth.  He checked
the map, made a quick calculation and eased the throttle back another
notch. The airspeed indicator dropped to 65.  He eased one more notch,
letting the engine revs drop back, nursing the sick motor.  The burnt oil
smell was more pronounced now and he thought he heard a different, harsher
note to the engine.  He pushed the nose down and throttled back, allowing
the Avro to sink towards the coast.  He was sure he could hear a sort of
grinding noise ahead of him.  His pulse was pounding in his ears and his
bowels had turned to water.

   Then they were over the coast.  He picked up the finger of Hurst Castle
spit to his right and he levelled out at a thousand feet.  He grimaced as
he opened the throttle, but the Le Clerget picked up its beat.  There could
be no mistake now.  The engine was definitely running rough.  He made a
long gentle turn to the west and searched ahead for the field at Hern. 
There it was!  His relief was almost palpable.  He spoke urgently into the
Gosport tube and the instructor fired a red flare to alert the airfield. 
There was no time for a circuit.  The motor was spluttering and Phillip
knew it was moments away from giving up the ghost entirely.  There was
mighty bang from in front of him and he pushed the cut out button.  It
broke under his thrusting finger.  He felt a momentary sense of panic then
remembered the fuel tap.  He turned off the supply from the tank and the
engine died in a fit of coughs and protesting grinding noises.

   He knew he had one chance of getting it right.  He pushed the stick
forward, letting the speed build.  The wheels brushed the treetops at the
edge of the field and he eased back on the stick, willing the nose to come
up.  He held the Avro up as long as he could.  Gradually she lost flying
speed and settled gently onto the grass.  The tail dropped suddenly and,
for a moment, Phillip thought they were about to ground loop but the
machine steadied and they ran slowly to a halt.  There was a strong smell
of hot metal and burnt oil that added to Phillip's feeling of nausea as he
climbed out of the front cockpit.  The instructor had already dismounted
and was standing at the side of the machine, a shaky grin sketched across
his oil-streaked features.

   "Not much to say, save 'well done,' old fruit."

   Phillip gave him a tight smile.  He swallowed bile, coughed briefly, and
turned his attention to the air mechanics, who were hurrying up to drag the
stricken Avro off the landing area.

   "Lost oil pressure.  I think we might have thrown a con rod."

   The NCO in charge nodded gravely.

   "Not much we can do here, sir.  It will probably need an engine change.
Once they go, well, they really bloody well go, if you take my meaning,
sir."

   Phillip and his instructor found their way to the Flight office.  A
bored looking RFC Captain was sitting behind a desk, resting his feet on
the scattered papers that covered its surface.  He leaned further back in
his chair as they came into the office and arched an eyebrow.

   "Spot of trouble, chaps?"

   "Bloody engine's 'napoo.' D'you have a telephone?"

   "Help yourself, old son."

   The instructor waited for his call to be connected to Gosport while
Phillip looked idly around the hut.  A blackboard gave the names of pilots
and aircraft scheduled to fly that day.  There were a number of unfamiliar
types listed.  He turned back to the bored Captain, who was half-heartedly
shuffling a thick sheaf of notes.

   "What do you do here?"

   "Number Three Aircraft Evaluation Flight, at your service.  We get to
try out, and usually break, any old rubbish that some crackpot thinks is
the answer to every good pilot's prayers."

   "How does that work?"

   "Oh, some 'genius' will come up with a new design for a Scout.  They
build a prototype or two and send it down here for us to play with.  Most
of them fly like bricks.  If we do get a good 'un, which isn't often, the
chances are it will never be taken up because the Royal Aircraft Factory
has something worse."

   "Don't you mean better?"

   "No, old son, definitely worse.  We had a lovely little Avro down here
earlier this year, fast two-seater.  Knocked the BE's and FE's into a
cocked hat.  Their Lordships up at Farnborough didn't like that, I can tell
you.  We were all waxing lyrical about it but no go, I'm afraid.  They
stuck to the flying coffins instead.  If we ever think that we've got a
winner, they always come up with some excuse - can't get the engines or the
undercart isn 't strong enough, some sort of rubbish - it's enough to make
you spit at times."

   "Gosh.  I would have thought that we would welcome anything that was
better than what we have."

   "Well, one would think so, but it doesn't seem to work like that.  Too
many vested interests higher up the totem pole, old son.  Still, it's not
all doom and gloom.  There's a new machine that really looks like it might
be rather good.  I had a spin in one myself the other day and I was really
impressed, which doesn't happen often, I can tell you."

   "Oh?  Which one's that?"

   "The Bristol F2.  Two-seater but handles like a Scout.  Could take a
bigger engine but she flies like an angel even if you need muscles like a
circus strongman to get the best out of her."

   "And do you think it will ever be built?"

   "Absolutely.  We've finished with her now and there's an order been
placed already.  I think I heard they're going to form a new squadron of
them.  Take a tip from me, old boy and wangle yourself a posting.  Knocks
spots off anything else we've got at the moment."

   The instructor returned with the news that a new engine was being sent
over from Gosport with a mechanics' crew to install it into the Avro.

   "Won't be here until late afternoon so looks like we're stuck here for
the duration, I'm afraid."

   On the advice of the captain, they made their way over to the Officers'
Mess and took an early lunch.  They sat around in the anteroom afterwards
and read the latest magazines and killed time with desultory conversation.
It was almost dark by the time the crew from Gosport arrived and it was too
late to do anything that day.  They spent the night in the Officers Mess
and Phillip heard again from the evaluation pilots just how good they
believed the new Bristol F2 to be.  Opinion was sharply divided as to
whether it really was a two-seater fighter or a fast and well-armed
reconnaissance machine.  The majority were of the view that it could be
flown like a fighter, whatever its eventual role in the war.

   The next morning, Phillip and the instructor made their way to the
flight line where the mechanics were putting the finishing touches to the
newly repaired Avro.  The crew were under the eye of a lugubrious sergeant
who informed them that they were extremely lucky that the 'whole bloody
issue' hadn't exploded.

   "Don't know how it managed to keep going so long, gentlemen.  Two
cylinders are completely shot and at least four of the pistons are scrap."

   They did their external checks and started the engine, running it up
under the watchful eye of the crew.  When all pronounced themselves
satisfied, Phillip taxied the Avro out onto the grass strip and took off
once more.  They flew straight back to Gosport and landed, handing over the
aircraft to the mechanics, who would now go over the new engine with a
fine-toothed comb before the machine was returned to full service.  Phillip
had barely enough time to snatch a cup of tea before he was sent in a
different aircraft to complete a solo flight to Bicester, returning the
following day.  A little while after he landed, the CO of the training
squadron sent for him.

   "Well, good news, my lad.  You have been found ready, willing and able
to join the ranks of the fully-fledged.  Normally, it would be the depot at
St Omer for you but something has come up.  I think you expressed a
preference for two-seaters?"

   "Yes, sir, I did."

   "Then you're in luck.  A new training squadron is being formed at
Rendcombe in the New Year, Bristol F2s.  I've never heard of 'em, I might
add, but they 've asked us for our four best students.  Harry told me how
you handled that engine failure.  Well done, by the way, so you get to be
among God's chosen.  Suit you?"

   "Yes, sir, very much.  I talked to the evaluation chaps at Hern.  They
thought the new Bristol rather good."

   "So Harry said.  Well if you're happy, I am."

   "Thank you, sir.  Who else will be going, if I may ask?"

   "Wilkins, Horrocks-Brown and Cavanaugh.  All right?"

   "Topping, sir, thank you."

   "Good.  I suggest you stick around here until Christmas and get as many
hours in as you can.  It's an opportunity not granted to many.  Now cut
along and tell Harry to fix you up with some slots.  Tell him I said you
are to try the 'Pup' as well as anything else he can think of."

   "Thank you again, sir."

   Phillip spent the next few days cramming in as much flying as he
possibly could.  He was amazed at the difference between the training
machines and the Sopwith 'Pup.' The Pup was a truly delightful aeroplane to
fly.  It was fast, responsive and would turn on a sixpence.  Once or twice
he played 'follow the leader' with an instructor, zooming in and out of the
piled cloud formations; hurling down to skim the wave tops and soaring back
to where the air was so thin and cold that every breath came as a painful,
rasping gasp.  He was exhilarated, overcome with the joy of flight in the
cold vastness of the grey, winter skies.

   Flying the 'Pup' was a wholly different experience from the ponderous
two-seaters.  Phillip could easily understand why most pilots wanted to fly
Scouts.  It was as if the aeroplane had its own sense of freedom; it
seduced you, sucked you in with its nimble agility.  For the first time
ever, he felt part of the machine, as if throttle and joystick were part of
one organic whole with him, the pilot.  It was, he told a colleague, as if
you didn't fly the 'Pup' at all; it was a co-operative thing.  The aircraft
seemed to demand that you flew it in a certain way; would somehow let you
know what it wanted.  It would sing to you, the bass of the engine as
counterpoint to the grace notes of wind through wires.  He had never felt
so vibrantly alive.

   Christmas almost seemed to come too soon.  But there was a wedding in
the offing and thoughts of Bethan filled his waking hours while images of
her peopled his every dream.



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

   January 1917 A Married Man

   Christmas, in that year of 1916, was a muted, sober affair.  The long
agony of the British Army on the Somme had finally come to an end in
November, leaving nearly half a million casualties.  There did not seem to
be a street in the land that had not experienced the cold hand of death. 
Black wreaths were more numerous than the traditional holly on the doors in
cities, towns and villages.  The nation seemed to have turned in on itself
and there were few who felt like celebrating.

   Some good news did reach Pitton House.  Pinky Harris had been posted
back to England to form a new Bomber Squadron and had asked Peter to
accompany him and be his senior Observer.  This meant that both would be
able to attend the wedding.  Phillip had also invited Brian Redbourne but
had received a warm letter expressing regret.  The battalion was being sent
to Palestine to assist in operations against the Turks.  Redbourne had been
his usual cheerful self and expressed his satisfaction that he, too, had at
last found a way out of the mud but, as he put it, 'without the daily risk
of breaking my neck.'

   Bethan had returned to her father's farm for Christmas and she and
Phillip spent the holidays writing long letters to each other, once, and
sometimes twice, each day.  It was agreed that the wedding should take
place in Dorset and the banns of marriage were read for three consecutive
Sundays in the little parish church.  Beatrice was in her element,
organising everything and everybody.  If she had been allowed to have her
way, the guest list would have run into hundreds.  Phillip stood firm,
however, and Beatrice had to settle for a much more modest gathering.  She
consoled herself with the thought there would be Christenings and birthday
parties to arrange in due course.

   The weather smiled on them, the service went without a hitch and enough
good wine flowed at the reception to keep even the Flying Corps contingent
happy.  Peter made an amusing speech, as befits the Best Man, and Bethan's
father entertained the company by delivering his oration, first in Welsh
and then with the English translation.  Pinky Harris rose to make a toast
and gave a comical, if somewhat profane, account of Phillip's RFC career.
Bethan looked as radiant as any bride should and Phillip, as nervous as if
it were his first solo flight all over again, had somehow managed to
stumble through the responses.  Sister Hallam drank too much sherry and
became very giggly and was much taken with Pinky Harris.  Pinky remained
just sober enough to escape her clutches and set off on his own pursuit of
one of Bethan's nursing colleagues.  All in all, it was accounted a great
success.

   Phillip and Bethan were seen off in style and Peter drove them to the
railway station in Dorchester to catch the London train.  With only four
days available for a honeymoon, London had seemed liked the best
alternative and Phillip had booked them into the Savoy.  Alone together at
last, they were shy in each other's company.  The excitement of the day had
taken its toll and they sat in the first class compartment, holding hands
and smiling at each other, like children with a guilty secret.  They said
little but their eyes spoke volumes.  Bethan, who had been all gaiety
during the reception, was now quiet and a little subdued.  Phillip, for
whom the day had passed in a whirl, could only gaze into her eyes and
wonder at his good fortune.  His brain seemed to have stopped working
entirely and attempts at conversation foundered after a sentence or two. 
It was a relief to both when the train pulled into Waterloo.

   Bethan watched over Phillip's shoulder as he completed the guest
register in the name of Lieutenant & Mrs Welford-Barnes.

   "Oh, it does look funny, seeing it in writing, Phillip.  I really am
your wife now, aren't I?"

   "Yes, my love.  You most certainly are!"

   They were shown to their room overlooking the river and Bethan was
delighted with the grandeur of it all.

   "I've never stayed anywhere like this before.  It's absolutely lovely."

   "The loveliest thing in this city is you, Bethan."

   She looked at him, half afraid that he was mocking her.  His face wore a
wistful expression and he smiled gently and gave a self-deprecatory shrug:

   "That's what I think, anyway."

   Before she could think of a reply he crossed the space between them and
enfolded her in his arms.  He could smell the scent of her, a light,
delicate perfume that evoked a deep feeling of warmth within him.  She
rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him close, as if she were trying
to convince herself that he was real and not some fleeting dream.  He
gently removed her hat and unpinned her luxuriant dark hair.  A momentary
feeling of panic flashed through her.  She suppressed it ruthlessly,
mocking herself for her fears.  They were man and wife and would do what
married people did; it was as simple as that.

   Phillip felt her tense slightly and then relax.  He correctly guessed
the reason and lifted her face to his, cupping her chin softly with one
hand and lightly stroking her hair with the other.  He looked into her eyes
and leant down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids and the tip of her nose.
She looked up at him, wondering at the gentleness she saw reflected in his
steady gaze.  She also thought she could see a hint of nervousness that
matched her own, but there was something else that made her melt inwardly.
He loved her; of that there could be no doubt.  Just as there could be no
question that she loved him.  So what was to come would be born of that
love; a natural culmination, a fulfilment of everything they felt for each
other.  A spark of courage ignited in side her.  Yes, the fear was still
there, but now it had a delicious edge to it, a thrill.  Emboldened, she
reached up and pulled his head down, fastening her lips upon his, and
kissed him passionately.  Unconsciously, she ground herself against him,
moulding herself to the contours of his body so that they touched from head
to knee, yet still she wanted to get closer.

   Phillip's heart soared as he felt her move against him.  His arms went
round her once more and he held her tightly, burying his face in the riot
of her hair and mumbling his love in a barely coherent stream of
half-finished phrases.  Bethan had the sense of being wrapped in a warm
glow; it enveloped her, soothed her and somehow engendered a heightened
awareness, as if she had never known truly who she was before that moment.
Then.  With a rush of clarity, she knew what she wanted.  It had to be now,
that very instant; she did not want it hanging between them all the
evening. She eased back a little and unbuttoned his jacket.  Part of her
was aghast at her boldness but another part burned with pride that her
fingers did not tremble.  Phillip caught the shift in her and fumbled to
assist, his head spinning, intoxicated by her perfume.

   He led her towards the bed, yanking back the covers with one hand, eyes
never leaving her face.  She was flushed and her nostrils flared and
Phillip saw the faint thrill of a pulse fluttering at her neck.  Her pupils
were enormous, fathomless dark pools that drew him and sapped every ounce
of strength from his body.  She watched him remove his shirt.  She was
struck by the contrast between the weathered tan of his face and arms and
the milky whiteness of the rest.  Somehow this made him look more
vulnerable, less aggressively male, and she was glad of it.  She knelt to
pull off one gleaming boot and sat down with a surprised bump as it came
off with a rush after the initial resistance.  Her laugh was a merry sound,
like summer birdsong in his ears.  She took off the remaining boot more
carefully, balancing on her haunches and looking up at him with shining
eyes.  Something in that look released the desire in him and he felt
himself becoming erect.

   Bethan stepped back, suddenly flustered.  Phillip stood and peeled away
the tight breeches, tugging down his underwear as he did so.  His erect
penis sprang free, jutting from the bush of hair, darker against the white
of his belly.  She could not restrain the involuntary gasp.  It looked
huge! But, somehow, it no longer threatened her.  She fixed her eyes on his
and summoned every ounce of her determination.  She was scarcely aware of
what she was doing as she struggled with the hooks and buttons that held
her clothes in place.  She shrugged out of her dress and it was Phillip's
turn to be enthralled as he saw the slight swaying motion of her full
breasts as she rolled her shoulders.

   Still holding his gaze, she stooped and unrolled the silk stockings that
encased her legs.  A sudden feeling of shyness overwhelmed her and she
turned her back at the last to remover her camisole, blushing scarlet to
the roots of her hair.  Hesitantly, she turned back, arms crossed over her
now naked breasts.  He saw a hint of dark shadow at the junction of her
thighs beneath the white silk knickers edged with embroidered pale blue
flowers.  She took a deep breath and let her arms fall her side, looking
anxiously at him for any signs of disappointment.  Phillip was lost in
rapturous wonder.  He had never seen anything that moved him so.  He
worshipped her silently with his eyes.  Her breasts were firm and
creamy-white, each tipped with a small, brown coronet.  With a final
flourish of something close to defiance, she stepped out of the last
remaining guardian of her modesty and stood physically, and emotionally,
naked before him.

   He reached for her with outstretched arms and she flew to him. 
Something like a moan escaped him as he drew her down to lie beside him. 
She clung to him, almost cowering against the pale hardness of his body;
one leg flung across his two, breasts pressed against his chest.  He raised
her face and kissed her with all the love that he could summon from the
depths of his soul.  He could feel her trembling and the warmth of her
rapid breathing on his neck.  Every sense seemed heightened, almost to the
point of agony.  He allowed the sensation of her skin against his to flood
through him.  Each contact was imbued with a rich sweetness of its own, as
if the very essence of life was concentrated where they touched.

   Very gently, and with infinite tenderness, he rolled her onto her back.
His kisses wandered where his eyes had rested; gentle, sucking kisses that
sent jolting sensations through her.  Panic returned and she wanted to rise
up, to run away, but the insistent lips trailed cold fire across her skin,
giving birth to newer, less familiar feelings.  Her brain raced while her
body acquiesced, moving languorously under his touch.  Her mind screamed
'No' and 'Yes' with equal measure.  He was kissing her nipples now, and
bright flames danced across her, pulsing down her spine and settling in her
groin.

   Then she felt his fingers, insistent, searching, and he touched her
core. She jumped, startled and ablaze.  His mouth was on the soft roundness
of her belly and he breathed the scent of her arousal, salt and tangy. 
Then his tongue was in her and she stiffened in shock.  He backed away
slightly to plant a row of kisses on her thighs and she started to breathe
again.  Her mind seemed to have floated free and she thought could see them
lying entwined, as if looking from a distance, far above the bed. 
Something snapped inside her head and conscious thought fled as his tongue
slipped into her once more.  Her fingers curled into his hair, unsure of
whether to pull him away or urge him further in.  A long, low sound rose
out of her; a primordial sound, ancient as time.  She stood at the edge of
the void, blood pounding in her ears, breath coming in harsh panting gasps.

   Then she was over the edge, swirling away, a mote in the cosmos.  She
was not aware of the arching of her back or the rolling undulation of her
hips.  She did not hear his cry of joy; could not feel the hands grasping
her buttocks, lifting her up as he pressed her to his eager mouth.  She
rode the lightning, feeling only the pulsating ecstasy keeping perfect time
with the beating of her heart.

   She became aware of his weight, moving above and over her and the slow
glide of his body as he his lips traced a return journey of kisses.  Each
press of his lips sent tingles through the sensitised nerve fibres.  When
she finally opened her eyes she could see his face was alight with love. 
She was floating now.  Little aftershocks of pleasure still made her gasp.
She sensed heat and pressure at the junction of her thighs and her eyes
went wide as she felt the first presence of that loving intrusion.  She bit
her lip, tensing in anticipation of the pain to come and he hesitated, torn
between need and concern for her.  Her hands went to the hard muscle of his
buttocks and she lent him encouragement.  He slipped a little further into
her.  She felt a delicious fullness punctuated by a stab of pain, sharp as
grief, and then he was moving within her.

   She was filled with love for him.  It transcended the discomfort.  His
movements were gentle, controlled.  The pain receded slightly but she still
felt raw.  The last mists of her own pleasure dissipated.  He thrust
faster, his breathing quickened and his muscles rippled under her fingers.
Instinctively, she urged him on, ignoring the scratchy irritation, lost in
her desire to please, to give herself to him utterly.  His whole body went
rigid and he gave a sharp cry that was a mixture of wonder and release and
a deep sense of contentment surged through her as she looked at his
contorted face.  He collapsed upon her with a shuddering sigh and she held
him, crooning softly, rocking her body against his.  They lay joined
together for a while, until his wilting penis slipped from the slick
embrace and he rolled onto his back.

   " I love you, Bethan."

   "And I love you."

   "Was it all right for you?  Did it hurt so very much?"

   "No so much.  And it was wonderful.  I'd never dreamed it could be - you
know, so beautiful."

   "Truly?"

   "Yes, truly.  I love you, Phillip.  I want to be a wife to you.  It felt
so, I don't know, so right to have you there inside me.  That's part of
being in love, isn't it?"

   "It felt so right to be in you, to feel you all around me like that, it
was the most amazing feeling ever; like coming home for the very first time
in my life."

   She smiled at his words and the strong feeling of pride they awoke in
her.  Now she really was his wife, his woman.  And he was her man.



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

   February and March 1917 The Fighter Pilot

   The four days flashed past.  All of the plans for sightseeing and visits
to the theatre vanished as there was little else they wanted to do but
simply be with each other.  They made love several times each day; on
waking, in the afternoons and then again at night.  Bethan endured the
residual soreness but it prevented her from reaching true fulfilment when
Phillip was inside her.  He pleasured her in other ways and secretly
blessed again his chance encounter with Anne-Marie.  Without her gentle
teaching, he admitted to himself, it would have been hopeless.  Bethan grew
in confidence as a lover.  She opened up to him, blossoming and unfolding.
On the couple of occasions that she was too sore to take him inside, she
used her hands, experimenting with different caresses, playing with him as
if he was a musical instrument.  He lay quiescent under her touch, glorying
in the beautiful creature who loved him and made love to him with such
thrilling, tender intensity.

   Then it was time for them to part once more.  Bethan returned to Bentley
Hall and Phillip made his way to Gloucestershire to join the training
squadron.  Rendcombe was a hive of activity.  A new fighter Squadron was
being formed with SE5s and a bomber squadron, just re-equipped with DH4s,
was preparing to leave for France.  The first four Bristol F2s had been
delivered and another four were awaited eagerly.  Bad weather prevented
much flying but on the couple of occasions Phillip did get airborne, he was
delighted with the Bristol's performance.  It was a big aeroplane, almost
exactly the same size as the DH4 bombers with a wingspan of nearly forty
feet.  The engine was a Rolls Royce Falcon, which produced 190 horsepower,
making it the most powerful machine Phillip had encountered to date.  It
was also the heaviest aeroplane to fly.  He soon appreciated the evaluation
pilot's comments about circus strongmen.  The 'Biff,' as the new plane was
soon christened, was a handful.  Phillip couldn't help contrasting it with
the lightness of the Sopwith 'Pup.' Still, he thought, it was strong, fast
and responsive and one did get used to the heavy controls after a little
while.

   The camp was buzzing with rumours of a new offensive in the spring.  The
more experienced aircrew greeted this news with barely concealed cynicism.
Another offensive meant another period of intense air activity, as the RFC
would be tasked with keeping the German reconnaissance machines away while
carrying out their own photographic and artillery-spotting duties.  It was
obviously not going to be the best of times to return to the front.  Hours
were spent discussing how the new Bristol should operate in a fight.  It
was armed with a fixed, forward-firing Vickers machine gun and either a
single or double Lewis for the observer.  The body of opinion appeared to
be that it was a fast two seater and should fight as such.

   The favoured tactic was the so-called 'Lufberry Circle.' The two-seaters
would circle almost nose to tail, relying on the combined firepower of the
Lewis guns to keep the enemy at bay.  Phillip found this thinking slightly
puzzling.  The Vickers machine guns would be of no use in such a formation
and it was the Vickers guns, which had the greater rate of fire and carried
the most ammunition.  He was prepared to accept that he had no experience
of flying a Scout in combat and that all his experience as an observer had
been in relatively ponderous aircraft.  It appeared to Phillip that too
many of the pilots were ignoring the agility of the Bristol, accepting it
as a merely another two-seater, albeit faster than most.  He mentioned the
comments of the Evaluation Flight pilots at Hern but his intervention was
given an airy dismissal.

   At the beginning of February, Phillip received formal notification of
his posting to 48 Squadron.  The squadron was to be re-equipped with the
new fighters as soon as production of the Rolls Royce engines caught up. 
Phillip was delighted to find that his Flight Commander was to be none
other than William Leefe-Robinson, the pilot whose victory over the German
Airship Phillip had witnessed the previous year.  If Phillip expected
greater tactical awareness, he was to be disappointed.  Leefe-Robinson also
subscribed to the 'Lufberry Circle' tactics and was firmly of the opinion
that the Bristol was too big to be 'chucked about like a Pup.'

   The weather in February was uncharacteristically settled and 48 Squadron
were able to fly almost every day.  The squadron practised formation flying
until Phillip was seeing Bristol Fighters in his sleep.  The Bristol proved
to be a very easy aircraft to fly, beautifully balanced and stable.  There
was a general belief that it was too big to be structurally strong and
there were strict orders about avoiding violent manoeuvres.  Phillip found
this very much at odds with what he had heard from the evaluation pilots
but his natural diffidence ensured that he kept his thoughts to himself.

   The pilots often flew together, one flying the plane and the other
acting as the observer.  This soon gave rise to a kind of daredevil game.
The 'observer ' would climb out of his cockpit, edge forward until he could
reach in the pilot's cockpit and take the joystick.  The pilot would then
climb out the other side and edge backwards to take the place of the
observer, leaving this latter to climb into the front seat and take over as
pilot.  It became something of a competition to see how many times two
aviators could swap places during the course of a single flight.  The game
would probably have gone indefinitely had not Wilkins and Cavanaugh
overdone it.  They quite simply forgot which one of them had originally
been the designated pilot.  They took off with Cavanaugh flying but landed
with Wilkins in the front seat.  The eagle-eyed Leefe-Robinson spotted this
instantly and then there was some explaining some to do!  Squadron Standing
Orders were amended to ban the dangerous practice with any further
occurrences punishable by dismissal from the squadron.

   Phillip was finding it difficult to fit in.  Even though he was only
twenty-two, he felt like an old man beside the youngsters in the squadron.
Also, he was still only a lieutenant, despite having been in the war from
the start.  This was due to his transfer from the infantry - had he stayed
with his regiment he would almost certainly be commanding a company by then
- and the fact that he had been an observer, rather than a pilot.  With 14
Squadron, there had been a greater sense of teamwork.  48 Squadron seemed
to have more than its fair share of powerful egos.  The senior members were
very experienced pilots and often, like Leefe-Robinson, highly decorated.
It did bother Phillip that few appeared to have any experience of
conditions in France.  Leefe-Robinson had spent the past year in a home
defence squadron and, for all his obvious gallantry, he appeared to Phillip
to be out of touch with current conditions at the front.



   Phillip's greatest frustration stemmed from being viewed as ultra
cautious.  In his own mind, he felt that he was the only one who was
prepared to take a chance on the Bristol's true potential.  One day he was
slated to fly with Leefe-Robinson acting as observer and he resolved to
bring matters to a head.  He climbed to 12,000 feet and cut the throttle,
pulled back on the stick to bring the plane to the point of stalling, and
then deliberately crossed the controls to initiate a spin.  The Bristol
snapped into a vicious spin almost instantly but recovered equally quickly
once Phillip centred the controls and applied the power.

   For ten exhilarating minutes, Phillip threw the machine into every
aerobatic manoeuvre he could think of, looping, rolling and spinning.  He
was concentrating so hard he was unaware of the storm of protest coming
from Leefe-Robinson in the rear seat.  When the angry voice finally did
make itself heard, Phillip was ordered to land forthwith.

   Leefe-Robinson clambered down, white faced with fury.

   "What the Hell do you think you're doing?  Are you a secret Hun, trying
to kill us all?"

   "I was just trying."

   "I know what you were 'just trying,' Welford-Barnes, you were trying to
make me look a fool, weren't you?"

   Anger rose hot inside him and Phillip took a step towards his Flight
Commander.

   "It seems to me that you can manage that without any assistance from me.
I was merely trying to demonstrate what this machine is really able to do.
I was hoping to convince you that it is perfectly strong enough to be flown
like that.  I don't believe there's anything wrong with it at all."

   "Oh, don't you, now?  And precisely when did you become an expert on
aircraft design?  Or are you an engineer, perhaps?  No?  Didn't think so.
Now listen here and listen good.  Until someone sees fit to give you
command of a Flight, you will obey orders.  You will fly in the manner
prescribed by your superiors.  If there is any repetition of this morning's
antics, I'll have you posted out so fast your feet won't touch the ground.
Do I make myself clear?"

   "Perfectly.  I regret to say, however, that does not prevent you from
being wrong.  I only hope we all live long enough for you to find out. 
Good day to you!"

   Leefe-Robinson stared after Phillip's retreating back.  Had this
reaction come from another pilot, he might have dismissed it out of hand.
Phillip had always struck him as a serious type; keen enough but no madcap.
Now, as his anger began to cool, he started to think about what Phillip had
done with the Bristol.  Perhaps it was stronger than they all thought,
perhaps Welford-Barnes was right?  But how could he be?  Two-seaters could
simply not be flung around like Scouts, particularly two-seaters that big.
Maybe he should have a word with someone at the Evaluation Flight.  Yes,
that was it.  The next opportunity he got, he would do just that.  Funny it
should be Welford-Barnes, though; he was normally as quiet as a mouse.

   On the positive side, Phillip was able to get away and spend a couple of
weekends with Bethan and they renewed their joy of each other whenever the
chance arose.  His happiness seemed complete when he was granted a
three-day leave prior to the squadron's departure for France.  Once again,
Sister Hallam came up trumps and Bethan travelled to London to meet him for
the whole of the leave.

   She was waiting in the hastily arranged hotel room when he arrived, a
picture of radiance and happiness.

   "Oh Phillip, it's so wonderful to see you!"

   He silenced her with the first of many kisses.  She struggled and pushed
him away laughing.

   "Plenty of time for that later.  I've got the most exciting news.  No,
Phillip, I mean it; listen to me, now.  I'm going to have a baby!"

   Surprise, wonder and concern chased each other across his features as he
stared at her.

   "Oh, Bethan, is it true?  Are you sure?  Are you feeling all right?  Oh,
I say, how absolutely splendid.  Uh, when?  I mean when did we?  Oh, you
know what I mean."





   "On our honeymoon, of course.  I bet it was the very first time, wasn't
it?  Are you pleased?"

   "Of course!  It couldn't be more topping!  But how about you?  D'you
feel well, er, not getting sick or anything?"

   "I feel absolutely wonderful, darling.  Never better.  Oh, I get a
little queasy in the morning but I don't think I've felt so alive before. I
love it!"

   They went out to celebrate that evening and returned, clinging to each
other, at about midnight.  Phillip was feeling the effects of the champagne
he had ordered.  Bethan had scarcely touched her single glass and it had
fallen to him to do the vintage justice.  He climbed into bed and waited
for her.  His head was spinning slightly but the euphoria of the evening
had not deserted him.  He counted himself the luckiest man alive.  He was
somewhat shocked when Bethan slipped naked in beside him.

   "Oh, I say, old girl, what about the baby?"

   "There's silly you are, Phillip.  I'm only two months gone, we won't
hurt him, you know."

   "Uh, are you sure?  I mean, is that right.  We won't hurt the little
fellow?"

   "Of course I'm sure, now come here."

   Phillip moved over her.  He carefully inspected her stomach, as if he
expected her to be bulging already.  She laughed at the puzzled look on his
face.

   "I won't really show for a little while yet."

   He grinned, a little sheepish.

   "Well, it's all a complete mystery to me.  Good job you know what you're
doing."

   He did think her breasts were a trifle bigger, though, and he soon
discovered that her nipples were a lot more sensitive.  She started to
twist beneath him as he nibbled and sucked.  Her eyes were closed and her
face wore a serene expression of contentment.  His hand slipped between her
thighs and he felt the wetness of her.  She spread her legs wider to
accommodate him and he gently manipulated her bud until she climaxed
convulsively, trapping his hand and thrusting against his palm.  He rose up
to enter her but she pushed him onto his back.  She straddled him, taking
his engorged member in her hand.  He felt her ease herself down onto him,
encasing him in the moist, velvet heat.  She rocked forward, offering her
breasts to his kiss and she began to move with a slow, undulating rhythm,
dancing to music that only she could hear.

   Phillip caught her swaying breasts in both hands, cupping them, rubbing
her nipples and gently kneading her flesh.  She gave an almost inaudible
little moan, swooping down to kiss him and trailing her hanging hair over
his face and shoulders.  It smelt of freshness, like the meadow after rain.
A little knot of urgency had gathered at the base of his spine and was
sending darts of pleasure through the fork of his crotch.  Bethan seemed to
sense this and increased her tempo.  She gave a sharp intake of breath and
began to grind herself against his pubic bone.  A subtle pink flush crept
over her creamy skin and her breathing grew harsh and rapid.  She flung her
head back, her eyes opened wide and she gave a short, shrill scream.  He
felt her spasm, clasping and fluttering about him as she rode the wave of
her pleasure, clamping and relaxing in time to his upward thrusts.  Then he
was hurtling towards his own release, pummelling himself into her and
sucking frantically at her breasts.  She hit another peak seconds before he
exploded and he rode it with her in a series of wild thrusts that left them
delirious and spent.

   Afterwards, she curled against him, humming to herself and preening
inwardly.  That had been special, the very thing she wanted.  She had
almost given up hope of reaching fulfilment with him inside her.  Now she
felt complete.  Phillip drowsed beside her.  She looked at his face.  The
tension had fallen away leaving him young and vulnerable looking.  She
smiled to herself.  This was what love should be.  Each one giving to the
other the thing they needed the most.  Each one taking that which was
freely given, with no place for self or petty concerns of modesty.  Love
demanded everything, nothing should be held back; for was not the source of
that love infinite?  Inexhaustible?  That was what she believed and she
fervently prayed she was right.





   April 1917 Bloody April

   The squadron arrived in France on 8th March and took up residence at
Bellevue.  Preparations were well advanced for the new spring offensive and
nobody was surprised when the opening artillery barrage began about ten
days later.  Low cloud and strong winds kept the RFC on the ground for much
of the month and High Command bemoaned the lack of reconnaissance.  New
aircraft were starting to appear on both sides.  The British introduced the
SE5 as well, of course, as the Bristol F2.  On the German side, a new
Albatros, the DIII, and a new Roland fighter were making their presence
felt.

   Phillip did his best to settle into his new squadron.  He was teamed
with a Second Lieutenant by the name of Henry Jardine.  Henry was a
cheerful youngster with a mass of sandy hair and a rash of freckles.  He
was fresh from the Observers' training school and was full of enthusiasm
and had, to Phillip's mind, that vital ingredient, a willingness to learn.
Phillip passed on everything he could from his own experiences as an
observer and Henry was soon hand-loading his Lewis drums just as Phillip
had done.  On the rare days in March that flying was possible, Phillip took
every opportunity to get airborne.  They practiced firing at ground targets
and Henry showed himself to be an adequate gunner.  They also practiced
navigation and became familiar with the lay of the land on their side of
the front.

   By the end of the month the Squadron was declared ready for operations.
The ground crew had been brought up to strength and a supply of spares and
equipment had arrived from England.  The biggest worry was over parts for
the engines.  Demand far outstripped supply and only a resourceful adjutant
was able to get the squadron what it needed.  Bad weather kept them on the
ground until the morning of April 5th.  Leefe-Robinson's Flight was
detailed to undertake a reconnaissance in force in the Douai sector of the
front.  They were in high spirits as they left the briefing.  Two months of
training with the new aeroplanes was to be put to the test at last.

   Phillip and Henry were the fifth aircraft to take off and climb slowly
into a patchwork sky.  The patrol was to penetrate far behind the German
lines.  Phillip felt that familiar lethargy, which always seemed to precede
imminent action.  He did not feel unduly concerned.  The 'Biff' was a much
better aircraft than the old BE2s or even the RE8s.  The Flight ascended
through broken cloud before levelling off at the designated patrol height
of 13,000 feet.  As usual, it was bitterly cold in the clear air and
Phillip was grateful for the deep cockpit of the Bristol.  Behind him,
Henry crouched down, checking their progress against the map and ensuring
that the modified 97 round drums for his guns were stowed securely. 
Phillip issued a sharp reminder to be on the look out for HAs - hostile
aircraft.

   The first sign of trouble came when the rearmost aircraft waggled its
wings.  Phillip craned his neck and saw the pilot pointing upwards into the
glare of the sun.  Then the red Very light arced ahead of the formation as
the observer fired a flare to warn the others.  True to their drill, the
'Biffs' began to circle, each aircraft flying as close as possible to the
one in front.  The dots, initially barely visible against the sun, grew
rapidly larger as the German planes plunged towards them.  Tracer bullets
began to flash through the formation and the stuttering of Henry's Lewis
guns sounded suddenly behind Phillip.  He felt strangely calm and
concentrated on getting as close to the plane in the front as he could.

   A red-painted Albatros shot by, pulling up steeply and climbing away out
of range.  Bullets ripped through the wing fabric a foot from Phillip's
head and he yawed the Bristol wildly with the rudder.  A gap appeared in
the formation as one of the British machines rolled onto its back and fell
away, smoke gouting from the engine.  The remaining planes closed up. 
Phillip counted five enemy aircraft.  The leader's machine was painted
bright red and all the others had some part of their fuselages or wings in
the same livery.  They were good.  Attacks came in coordinated waves, two
or three at a time, approaching from different angles to divide the British
fire.

   Another Bristol fell, spinning out of control.  Phillip could make out
the figure of the pilot slumped forward over the controls.  Behind him, the
observer continued to fire even though he must have known he was doomed. 
Leefe-Robinson was the next to go and then a fourth: a flamer.  The
remaining two aircraft separated.  Phillip stood the Bristol on a wing tip
and turned towards the attackers, getting in a raking burst at one red
Albatros as it hurtled by.  He was beside himself with rage and
frustration. The 'Lufberry Circle' had been a disaster.  He flew with a
savage intensity.  Henry kept the enemy planes away from their tail with
the Lewis guns while Phillip threw the big 'Biff' into a series of evasive
manoeuvres.  He seemed to have the undivided attention of all five German
fighters and felt sure that he would soon fall victim to their combined
assault.

   The other surviving 'Biff' was heading for home, a thin plume of smoke
bearing witness to the punishment it had taken.  Phillip spotted a gap in
the circling enemy planes and smartly reversed his turn.  He slammed the
stick forward and the Bristol dived away from the combat.  The Germans took
up the pursuit but the speed of the dive had taken them by surprise. 
Phillip muttered a quick prayer that the evaluation pilots had been right
about the strength of the Bristol and steepened his dive, heading for the
shelter of the broken cloud.  The wires thrummed with the speed and the
tattered fabric began to strip away where the enemy bullets had pierced the
wings.  The pursuing enemy planes were falling back, unable to match the
Bristol's speed in the dive.  Then he welcomed the moist grey embrace of
the clouds.

   It took all of Phillip's strength to pull the plummeting 'Biff' out of
its hurtling descent.  A glance at the airspeed indicator showed him that
they had touched 200 miles per hour.  Phillip closed the throttle and the
roar of the engine subsided.  The controls were unbelievably heavy and the
airframe seemed to groan in protest as he hauled the stick back into the
pit of his stomach.  It seemed like an age before they had sloughed off
sufficient speed for the plane to respond.  The nose came up with agonising
slowness and at last the shrieking of the wires began to diminish.  Some of
the weight came off the stick and they levelled out, the speed dropping
away.  Phillip looked back at Henry.  He was still crouched over his guns,
white-faced but watchful.

   They crossed the British lines at 4,000 feet, dodging between the
sheltering banks of cloud.  Phillip took the opportunity to do a visual
check on the damage.  The starboard wings were riddled with bullet holes.
Patches of fabric had stripped away leaving the wooden ribs exposed.  There
were holes, too, in the fabric of the fuselage behind Henry's position. 
Phillip thanked their stars that the engine had not been hit.  The Rolls
Royce Falcon was running sweetly.  Apart from the stiffness of the
ailerons, the plane seemed to be reasonably all right.  Even so, he was
mightily relieved when the familiar shape of Bellevue came into sight in
the patchwork of green below them.  He fired a flare to indicate they were
damaged and eased the Bristol down onto the sweet grass.

   Phillip cut the engine and sat for a few moments in the cockpit feeling
utterly drained.  The other survivor had already landed so the squadron
already knew the bad news.  He hauled himself out of the aircraft like a
bent old man.  Henry waited anxiously for him to dismount.

   "Are you all right, old man?"

   Phillip nodded.  His mind had gone blank.  He tried to think of
something to say to his young observer, something that might ease the pain
of what had happened, but no words came.  The squadron commander and the
adjutant were beside them, worried faces hovered in Phillip's vision.  He
waved a hand, a gesture of desolation.  Pushing back his goggles, he rubbed
his eyes like a man who hasn't slept for days.  Henry gawped at him,
concern and bewilderment chasing each other across his freckled face. 
Suddenly, the rage and frustration flared in Phillip once more.

   "Like fucking sitting ducks!"

   He glared around him, seeing the faces recoil in shock at his vehemence.

   "We were like fucking sitting ducks up there.  Flying around in a nice
little circle, made it even easier for them, didn't it?  But they couldn't
fucking well hit us when I actually flew the bloody thing, could they,
Henry?"

   "How did you get away, Phillip?  Andrew Cavanaugh says you were
surrounded by Huns when he had to head for home."

   Phillip laughed, a bitter, savage sound.

   "Gravity!  I put the kite into a steep dive and headed for the clouds.
Do you know, we touched two hundred on the ASI before we pulled out?"

   "Impossible!  You'd have pulled the wings off!"

   "No.  Not impossible.  That's the whole point!  The 'Biff' is as strong
as they come.  You can really fly this plane."

   Henry supported him, his eyes huge in his youthful face.

   "Phillip certainly chucked it about up there, sir.  And I reckon we hit
at least one of them with the Vickers.  Only four chased us down, the other
headed for Hunland."

   The squadron commander exchanged glances with the adjutant.

   "You were out before, weren't you, Phillip?"

   "Yes sir, I was, as an observer last year."

   "And you used the 'Lufberry' then?"

   "We did, sir, we didn't have a choice.  But it stopped being effective
when the Albatros first appeared.  They get high and dive on you, sir.  Two
or three come at you at once and then the others follow up as they zoom
away.  They divide the defences and pick you off one at a time.  The only
hope we've got, sir, is to use what the 'Biff' can do.  It can fly like a
Scout, sir.  It isn't weak at all.  I would never have got away with what I
did in most kites."

   "Andrew said it was Jasta 11, that bloody man Richthofen."

   "I suppose so.  One of them was painted all red and the others all had
some red on their machines.  Anyway, the red plane got two of us and the
others got another two, including the Captain."

   "You're quite sure they all went down?"

   "Sorry, sir, but yes.  No doubt at all, I'm afraid."

   "That's what Andrew said.  Bloody business, Phillip."

   "You can say that again!"

   Four replacement crews arrived two days later.  Another two Bristols
were lost, again trying to fight in the 'Lufberry Circle.' Phillip raged
and seethed that they were still so reluctant to trust the aircraft.  His
own machine was repaired and he and Henry were sent out on a 'contact
patrol' on the 9th, the first day of the Arras offensive.  Flying low over
Vimy Ridge, they were attacked by two Rolands.  Phillip flew like a man
possessed, throwing the 'Biff' around like he had once flown the Sopwith
'Pup' at Gosport.  They drove down one German out of control and the other
fled, trailing smoke from a damaged engine.  That was Phillip's first
victory as a pilot.

   Day after day, the skies over the front were filled with aircraft.  The
RFC suffered horribly.  The outdated BEs and FEs, that still made up the
majority of the aircraft at their disposal, were no match for the Albatros
DIII.  Another Squadron of Bristol Fighters arrived at the front.  They,
too, learned the hard way.  Flying the 'Biff' like any other two-seater was
to surrender the advantage to the enemy.  Gradually, other pilots started
to follow Phillip's lead.  When flown aggressively, the Bristol was a match
for any Hun.  The observer's Lewis guns could protect the tail while the
forward firing Vickers could be used to take the fight to the enemy. 
Phillip shot down a second German, an Albatros this time, and Henry claimed
a share of the destruction of another.  A Canadian 'Biff' pilot on 11
Squadron shot down three enemy planes in a single patrol.  The High
Command, which had been on the point of withdrawing the BF2 as unsuitable,
started to take notice.

   48 Squadron's morale, so severely dented after that first disastrous
patrol, recovered quickly once the new tactics were approved.  The losses
slowed rapidly and the 'Biffs' were soon giving better than they got. 
Confidence in the strength of the machine replaced the previous doubts.  It
was soon apparent that the Bristol could take a lot of punishment and still
get you home.  Elsewhere, however, the carnage continued.  Manfred von
Richthofen alone was to shoot down thirty British planes during April 1917;
the majority of these were the elderly types, totally outmatched by the
Albatros Fighters.  The RFC hung on grimly.  As always, it was the
inexperienced pilots and crews that suffered the heaviest casualties.  Life
expectation for an RFC pilot was a paltry nine days during that bloody
month.

   April 23rd 1917

   It was four o'clock in the afternoon when the telephone call came from
4th Army Head Quarters.  An urgent reconnaissance was needed; the advance
had stalled near Quincy.  Phillip had already flown two patrols that day.
He was desperately tired and his head ached abominably from the accumulated
strain.  When the adjutant called him and asked him to undertake yet
another mission, he groaned inwardly.

   "Terribly sorry, old chap.  'B' Flight have been told off for an evening
patrol and yours is the only 'A' Flight machine ready to go.  Go and
round-up young Henry and get back here pronto, there's a good chap.  HQ are
in a bit of a flap."

   Phillip and Henry climbed wearily into their plane.  The adjutant's
briefing had been short and to the point:

   "Get over there, have a look-see at what's holding them up and get back
here sharpish."

   They made their way northeast, pushed along by a stiff westerly wind. 
For this patrol, they were carrying a dozen twenty-pound Cooper bombs in
racks under the lower wings.  Once over the target area, the reason for the
delay became obvious.  A German strongpoint, heavily armed with machine
guns, had succeeded in enfilading the British advance.  The Machine gunners
were able to sweep the open ground with deadly effect and Phillip could
make out the all too familiar ragged khaki bundles that bore witness to the
failed attack.  He wished that his aircraft was equipped with a radio so he
could call up an artillery strike on the Hun defences.  As this wasn't
possible, he decided to attack the strongpoint with the Cooper bombs and
machine gun fire.

   Phillip dived the plane towards the German position.  He levelled out a
scant hundred feet over the battlefield and began to rake the strongpoint
with the Vickers.  When he judged they were about fifty yards short of the
target, he pulled the bomb release wires and rippled off the Coopers just
as he pulled back on the stick to send the 'Biff' into a climbing turn. 
Henry opened up with the Lewis guns as they climbed away, watching for the
flashes of the bombs as he did so.  Only two out of the twelve bombs
actually struck the German position, the remainder falling short of the
target.  He shouted this information to Phillip who promptly decided on one
more pass before returning to base.

   This time the Germans were ready for them.  As he turned back towards
the German lines, a storm of anti-aircraft fire burst in the air ahead of
them.  The big Bristol was thrown about like a leaf in a gale.  Shrapnel
peppered the machine from nose to tail.  Henry thought he heard Phillip cry
out and the plane lurched alarmingly for a second, one wing dropping low.
Then it was back under control.  Phillip became aware of a warm feeling and
glanced down to see the front of his flying coat turning black with his own
blood.  He was taken completely by surprise, he had not been aware of being
hit.  He tentatively felt under his coat with one hand.  He appeared to
have been wounded in the left side, just above the hip.  Nothing serious,
he thought.  He pulled the scarf from round his neck and pushed it under
his coat against the wound.  There was no pain yet but he knew that would
come later.

   He dived once more towards the Hun position, firing a long burst from
the Vickers towards the huddled grey figures below.  Once more the plane
was seized by a giant hand and flung on its side as another 'archie' shell
burst directly beneath it.  This time Phillip felt the shell fragments
smash into his legs.  Pain seared through his every fibre as he kicked the
rudder to skid the machine left and right in an attempt to confuse the
gunners.  Henry, too, had been hit in the arm but he still managed to get
off a final burst one-handed as the 'Biff' staggered away.

   Phillip's world contracted to a dim hazy centre surrounded by a tunnel
of black.  There was a dream-like quality to the flight home.  The 'Biff'
seemed to be floating in a darkening sea, rocked gently by unseen waves. 
The field at Bellevue appeared as if at the bottom of a well.  He felt
peaceful as he angled down towards the landing ground.  His arms were heavy
and he had to concentrate hard to keep his eyes open.  The urge to dip into
sleep was almost overpowering.  He tried to push the rudder bar but his
feet would not obey him.  His eyelids drooped.  The big plane skidded in
its final turn.  The watchers on the ground knew instantly that the pilot
was wounded.  The 'Biff ' was crabbing sideways, undulating slightly as
Phillip tried to line up the landing strip.  They landed heavily, rounding
out about six feet too high and simply dropping to the earth as the plane
lost flying speed.  It bounced twice before the undercarriage collapsed. 
The wooden propeller snapped off with an audible crack and the plain
lurched to a halt.

   They lifted him gently from the wreck.  A Crossley tender drove up and
they loaded him aboard.  Henry, ashen faced from his own wound, made his
report.  The tender drove slowly, torn between the need for speed and the
comfort of the wounded pilot.  Another tender dragged the wrecked Bristol
out of the main landing area.  All the while Phillip slipped in and out of
consciousness.  Once he tried to rise, consumed by the need to see the
adjutant.  They hushed him, pushing him gently back onto the stretcher. 
The Medical Officer met them as they lifted Phillip down.  He cut away the
leather coat and fug boots.  The doctor worked quickly, methodically,
ignoring the anxious faces gathered around.  His priority was to stop the
bleeding from the severed femoral artery.  He applied pressure and then a
tourniquet.  The other wounds could wait.

   They took Phillip to the Casualty Clearing Station behind Arras.  He was
seldom conscious during the journey.  He woke briefly in a tented hospital
and was surprised to see the worried face of Peter Riley gazing down at
him. He opened his mouth to speak but slipped from consciousness before he
could frame the question.  Peter had been brought to the hospital for
treatment on a broken wrist sustained when his DH4 had collided with some
trees on take off.  He had been lucky, the pilot had broken his neck in the
resulting crash.

   Phillip woke in the night.  It was dark outside and the dim light of
paraffin lamps gave a soft illumination to the hospital tent.  Peter still
sat beside his cot.  One arm was in a sling.  He looked drained and
exhausted.  Phillip's mind was all clarity.  He knew with absolute
certainty that he was dying.  There was no pain, simply a vague feeling of
being cold but even this was remote, distant from him.  Peter was trying to
smile but it looked remarkably like there were tears in his eyes.

   "Peter?"

   "Don't try to talk, old chap, save your strength."

   "No Peter, this is important.  I'm dying, Peter.  No.  Don't try to kid
me.  I can feel it.  It isn't at all bad, you know."

   He lapsed into silence, seeming to drift for a while.  When he spoke
again his voice was weaker.

   "I want you to do something for me.  Please make sure they take me home.
I want to be buried in Dorset.  Bethan will know the place, tell her."

   "Anything you want, Phillip, you know I will do it."

   "And Peter?"

   "Yes, Phillip?"

   "Take care of Bethan and the baby for me.  It would mean so much to know
that they're in good hands."

   "Of course, old man.  But don't worry.  You'll be able to do it yourself
in no time.  You'll see."

   "Sorry, won't."

   Phillip's head slipped back to one side.  His eyes closed and a tranquil
calm settled on his features.  He thought he heard someone sobbing as he
quietly slipped away.

   November 11, 1919

   Peter and Bethan stood on the bare hilltop.  A recent gale had blasted
the remaining leaves from the trees in the wood below them.  In front of
them was a rectangle of amber marble; the gold lettering stood out
brightly:

   Lieutenant Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes MC, RFC.

   The church clock struck eleven and eleven times the bell tolled.  The
haunting notes of the 'Last Post' drifted upwards in the still, crisp air.
Down in the village, traffic came to a halt.  A driver climbed from the cab
of his lorry and stood in mute tribute in the street.  Peter reached out a
hand and took Bethan's, squeezing it gently.  She didn't look at him but
gave an acknowledging squeeze of her own.  The silence stretched out, a
thing of poignant sorrow, touched with pride.  Next to Bethan, Beatrice
Welford-Barnes wept quietly, her one-year-old grandson cradled against her
bosom.  William stood beside her, back straight, head bowed.  The tension
in his posture spoke of barely suppressed emotion.  The silence lasted for
eternity.

   Down by the new War Memorial, where too many names were lovingly carved,
the bugler blew 'Reveille.' The silence ended.  People drifted back to
their work, slowly, unwilling to let go of the moment on that, the first
Remembrance Day.

   Copyright 2003, Smilodon Please feel free to email me your comments on
this story smilodon <at> postmaster <dot> co <dot> uk