The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur (читаем бесплатно книги полностью .txt) 📗
go Biggs. P shouted Michael. Where is my flying jacket, man? Thought you might want it, sir. Biggs stepped out of the crowd behind him and opened the jacket for Michael to slide his arms into the sleeves.
The mighty Wolseley Viper engine hurled the SE5a down the narrow muddy runway, and as the tail lifted Michael had a sweeping view forward over the engine cowling. It was like sitting in a grandstand.
I'll get Mac to strip off this piddling little windshield he decided, and I'll be able to spot any Hun within a hundred miles. He lifted the big machine into the air and grinned as he felt her begin to climb.
Quick up, Andrew had said, and he felt himself pressed down firmly into the seat, as he lifted the nose through the horizon and they went up like a vulture in a thermal.
There's no Albatros been built that is going to climb away from us now, he exalted, and at five thousand feet he levelled out and swept her into a right-hand turn, pulling the turn tighter and tighter still, hauling back hard on the stick to keep the nose up, his starboard wing pointing vertically down at the earth and the blood draining from his brain by the centrifugal force so that his vision turned grey a nd colourless, then he whipped her hard over the opposite way and yelled with elation in the buffet of wind and the roar of the huge engine.
Come on, you bastards! He twisted to look back at the German lines. Come and see what we have got for you now! When he landed, the other pilots surrounded the machine in a clamorous pack. What's she like, Mike? How does she climb?
gi Can she turn?
And standing on the lower wing above them, Michael bunched all his fingers together and then kissed them away towards the sky.
That afternoon Andrew led the squadron in tight formation, still in their shot-riddled, battered and patched old Sopwith Pups, down to the main airfield at Bertangles and they waited outside No. 3 hangar in an impatiently excited group as the big SE5as were trundled out by the ground crews and parked in a long line abreast on the apron.
Through his uncle at divisional headquarters, Andrew had arranged for a photographer to be in attendance. With the new fighters as a backdrop, the squadron pilots formed up around Andrew like a football team. Every one of them was differently dressed, not a single regulation RFC uniform amongst them. On their heads they wore forage caps and peaks and leather helmets, while as always Andrew sported his tam o'shanter. Their jackets were naval monkey jackets, or cavalry tunics, or cross-over leather flying coats, but every one of them wore the embroidered RFC wings on his breast.
The photographer set up his heavy wooden tripod and disappeared under the black cloth while his assistant stood by with the plates. Only one of the pilots was not included in the group. Hank Johnson was a tough little Texan, not yet twenty years old, the only American on the squadron, who had been a horse tamer, or, as he put it, a bronco buster, before the war. He had paid his own passage over the Atlantic to join the Lafayette Squadron, and from there had found his way into Andrew's mixed bunch of Scots and Irish and colonials and other strays that made up No. 21 Squadron RFC.
Hank stood behind the tripod with a thick black Dutch cigar in his mouth giving bad advice too the harassed photographer.
Come on, Hank, Michael called to him. We need your lovely mug to give the picture some class Hank rubbed his twisted nose, kicked into that shape by one of his broncos, and shook his head.
None of you old boys ever hear that it's bad luck to have your picture took? They booed him, and he waved his cigar at them affably. Go ahead, he invited, but my daddy got himself bit by a rattle snake the same day he had his picture took for the first time. There aren't any rattle snakes up there in the blue, one of them taunted.
No, Hank agreed. But what there is, is a whole lot worse than a nest of rattle snakes. The derisive cries lost their force. They glanced at each other and one of them made as if to leave the group.
Smile, please, gentlemen. The photographer emerged from beneath his black cloth, freezing them, but their smiles were just a shade fixed and sickly as the shutter opened and their images were burned into silver nitrate for posterity.
Quickly Andrew acted to change the sombre mood that held them as they broke up. Michael, pick five, he ordered. The rest of us will give you ten minutes start, and you're to try and head us off, and make a good interception before we reach Mort Homme. Michael led his formation of five into the classic ambush position, up sun and screened by wisps of cloud, blocking the return route to Mort Homme. Still, Andrew almost gave them the slip; he had taken his group well south and was sneaking in right down on the ground. It would have worked with duller eyes than Michael's, but he picked up the flash of the low sun off the glass of a windshield from six miles and fired the red Very flare to signal Enemy in Sight to his group. Andrew, realizing that they had been spotted, climbed up to meet them, and the two formations came together in a whirl of turning, diving, twisting machines.
Michael picked Andrew's SE5a out of the pack and went for him, and the two of them locked into an intricate aerial duet, pushing the big powerful machines harder and still harder, seeking their outer limits of speed and endurance; but evenly matched in skill and aircraft, neither was able to wrest the final advantage, until quite by chance as Andrew came up on his tail, almost into the killing line, Michael kicked on full rudder without bank and the SE5a tail skidded, turning flat, whipping him around with a force that almost dislocated his neck, and he found himself roaring back head-on to Andrew's attack.
They flashed past each other, only the lightning reflexes of veteran fighter pilots saving them from collision, and instantly Michael repeated the flat skid turn and was flung violently against the side of the cockpit, striking his partially healed shoulder on the rim so that his vision starred with the pain, but he was round in a flash and he fastened on to Andrew's tail. Andrew twisted desperately, but Michael matched every evasive twist and held him in the ring sight of the Vickers, pressing closer until the spinning boss of his propeller almost touched Andrew's rudder.
Ngi dla! Michael howled triumphantly. I have eaten! the ancient Zulu war cry that King Chaka's warriors had screamed as they put the long silver blade of the assegai into living flesh.
He saw Andrew's face reflected in the rear-view mirror on the cross struts of the wing above his head, and his eyes were wide with dismay and disbelief at that incredible manoeuvre.
Andrew fired a green Very flare to signal the recall to the squadron and to concede victory to Michael. The squadron was scattered across the sky, but at the recall they re-formed on Andrew and he led them back to Mort Homme.
The moment they landed, Andrew sprang from his machine and rushed to Michael, seizing him by both shoulders and shaking him impatiently.
How did you do that, how the hell did you do that? Quickly Michael explained.
It's impossible. Andrew shook his head. A flat turn if I hadn't seen it- He broke off. Come on. Let's go and try it again. Together the two big scout planes roared off the narrow strip, and only returned as the last light was fading.
Michael and Andrew jumped down from their cockpits and fell on each other, slapping each other on the back and dancing in a circle, so padded by their flying clothes that they looked like a pair of performing bears. Their ground crews stood by with indulgent grins until they sobered a little and then Mac, the head mechanic, stepped forward and tipped his forage cap.
Begging your pardon, sir, but that paint job is like my mother-in-law's Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, sir, dull and dirty and God-help-us. The SE5as were in factory drab. A colour that was intended to make them inconspicuous to the enemy.
