index


Message-ID: <43047asstr$1056391802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 23 Jun 2003 13:22:51 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Like Father Like Son Part Four (M/F Rom Hist.)
Date: Mon, 23 Jun 2003 14:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

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,
na�ve, 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 fianc�e 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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+