The Burning Sky

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Entering a place like Aksum in darkness was not a good idea, regardless of what Jardine had been told about the slow Italian advance. They spent the last hours of darkness near a military checkpoint, and it was only when daylight came that they saw they had stopped beside the ruins of what looked to have been an extensive palace. Interested as Corrie Littleton was — it was likely to be the one-time palace of the Queen of Sheba — ruins could wait; Jardine had his field glasses out, looking over the fertile fields and low hills of the plateau for signs of the Italians, and he was just about to pronounce it safe when they heard the drone of an aircraft overhead.

‘Everyone away from the car,’ he yelled. ‘Now!’

He was cursing himself as he ran: the checkpoint was heavily camouflaged and such an obvious vehicle as the silver Rolls-Royce should have been hidden from view under one of the roadside trees; he was losing his touch and that was underlined when the aircraft, a biplane, banked and came in low to have a look, showing on its tail the green, yellow and red colours of the Ethiopian air force. Having made one pass, it executed a tight turn to have another.

‘Jesus Christ, a Potez 25,’ Alverson pronounced. ‘How many of those fellas have we seen, Jardine?’

He had a point: the Potez 25 was one of those two-seater biplanes, highly manoeuvrable and infinitely adaptable, that tended to appear in a lot of conflict locations; Jardine had seen them in their homeland of France, in Paraguay, and Alverson admitted he had come across them in China. The Potez 25 was a real workhorse used for everything: light bombing, as a nippy fighter, as well as a good reconnaissance plane, though, a product of the twenties, it was sadly out of date now.

The aircraft was coming in very low and it was only the dying note of the engine that indicated it was going to land. The party on the ground watched as the wings swayed slightly, the Potez losing airspeed till its wheels touched down on the surface of the road, billowing dust mixing with a trace of smoke as the brakes were applied, the engine dropping down to a steady throb as it taxied close to them, then no more than the whisper of a dying propeller as the power was switched off.

The pilot clambered out onto the wing, then jumped to the ground, whipping off his leather flying helmet as he walked towards them to reveal a mass of blond curls over an absurdly handsome face, graced with a wide smile. His eyes, which turned out to be green close to, flicked over the quartet but settled immediately on Corrie Littleton, and there was no doubting the nature of the look he was giving her, or that those eyes had time to take in her left hand in order to know what to say.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’

The pilot effectively cut the three men out of the exchange, then added to their exclusion by taking Corrie’s hand and lifting it to his lips, without, Jardine noticed, much in the way of resistance.

‘Hi,’ she replied feebly, while his lips were still connected to her flesh. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Ah, you are American,’ he cried, with that seductive and delicious accent the French were able to give to the English language.

‘I sure am,’ Corrie said, her own voice, for all it had that habitual crack, carrying no hint of reproach at his obvious gallantry; her stance of militant womanhood seemed to have been put in abeyance. ‘Corrine Littleton is the name.’

‘An unusual and attractive name it is too.’ The pilot, having delivered that over-egged compliment, finally deigned to acknowledge she was not alone. ‘And your amis are also American?’

‘No bloody fear,’ said Vince, which got him a look from Alverson, who was quick to reply.

‘I am. Tyler Alverson,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘If he kisses the back of that, I’m leaving,’ Vince added, which got him another hard look.

‘You I would suspect to be English by your voice, but such dark skin is-’

Unaware that he was on the edge of an insult, and quite possibly a belt on the nose, for Vince was close to looking like a native now, the pilot was saved by Jardine interrupting and introducing both himself and Vince, explaining that his friend was half-Italian, that information responded to with a raised eyebrow.

‘The right half,’ Vince snarled. ‘You know, the one on your side.’

‘And you are?’ Jardine enquired.

‘Count Henri de Billancourt, monsieur, serving in the air force of His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie.’

‘Count Henri?’ asked Corrie Littleton, in a voice that was not only high but had a trace of simper.

‘Not a very large air force,’ Jardine interjected, not quite knowing why he felt the need to deflate the man’s air of self-importance. ‘And, sadly, with out-of-date equipment.’

De Billancourt did not quite bristle, but he let Jardine know he was aware of the diminishing nature of the comment. ‘Monsieur, we make up in elan what we lack in numbers and modernity.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Alverson said, favouring Jardine with an annoying grin. ‘Can I ask what you are doing here?’

‘Why, I am looking out for the enemy, but when I see such a car on the roadside it tickles my curiosity, so I must come and look.’

‘You speak very good English, Count,’ said Corrie Littleton, who then added, in a tone of faux fluster, ‘Do I call you “Count”, or what?’

‘Mademoiselle,’ the pilot said, in a voice too oily for all three of her companions, who were forced to look away, ‘you must call me Henri.’

‘How close are the Italians to Aksum?’ asked Jardine, in a voice a bit too sharp, and one that got him a narrow-eyed look from those green eyes.

‘Only, my mother is there, we think, and I fear for her safety,’ explained Corrie Littleton.

‘Then perhaps, mademoiselle, you would care to come with me and have a look, to see where those Italian sons-of-whores are.’

‘Am I allowed to clock him one, guv?’

‘No, Vince,’ Jardine replied, aware that what had been said was too colloquial for even this French aristocrat to understand. ‘It might be of more use if I come with you, monsieur?’

‘Pourquoi?’ he demanded.

Tempted to reply in French, Jardine stopped himself, either through pique or precaution, he was unsure. The only certainty was that his intervention was not appreciated by Corrie Littleton.

‘I am an ex-soldier, Count Henri, and I think I would make a better observer than Miss Littleton. In fact, I am surprised you are flying alone.’

‘Airspeed, monsieur, the Italian Fiats are faster than the Potez. However …’ de Billancourt shrugged. ‘I hope you can manage a pair of Vickers machine guns.’

‘The captain can,’ snapped Vince, ‘and better than you think, Froggie.’

After a nod at the rank, the green eyes turned slowly to Vince, who was sure the man’s nostrils flared. ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to spin the propeller for me?’

For all the courtesy of the way that sounded, this Frenchman was telling Vince he could spot a member of the other ranks. Vince’s fists tightened, his shoulders stiffened and his feet moved for the balance needed to deliver a punch.

‘If you don’t mind, Vince,’ Cal Jardine said.

‘For you, guv,’ Vince replied, slowly relaxing.

Count Henri was already on his way back to his plane. Jardine observed the way he expertly back-jumped onto the lower wing before spinning round and up like a ballet dancer to make his cockpit in one smooth manoeuvre. Jardine needed a hand up from Vince, the rear cockpit not being accessible from the wing, and as he settled in to the cramped space, a leather helmet and a pair of gloves were flicked back into his lap. By the time he had strapped himself in, Vince was on the propeller, and at a signal from de Billancourt he swung hard as the Frenchman pressed the ignition, the engine firing immediately and the exhaust pipes emitting smelly clouds of black smoke and a strong smell of kerosene.

Swinging round into the wind, the engine was gunned and the Potez picked up speed, eventually slipping into the air with a degree of grace that told Jardine whatever else this snooty French bastard might be he was a good pilot. Below, thanks to the recent rains, the landscape was generally green, near-black where the soil had been tilled, broken up by high, conical mounds of pale-brown hills.

Within minutes they were over the town of Aksum, able to see the outlines of the ancient ruins of castles, as well as the obelisks that dotted the landscape. More importantly, for all the pointing fingers, there was no gunfire: the place was not yet taken. De Billancourt continued north-east, gaining altitude, no doubt seeking both safety and the ability to see into the distance, heading for Adowa and the Italian positions.

His hand pointing down was not necessary: Jardine could see clearly the evidence of the enemy positions, most tellingly that they were static, which was odd given that there was no force opposing them. The Italians should be moving, using their mechanised forces to punch into and through any resistance, never mind the odd broken-down vehicle or footsore Blackshirt.

Jardine wondered what Geoffrey Amherst would say if he could see this. Many times in his company he had heard the older man expound his theories on how the next war should be fought: fast-moving tanks supported by trucked infantry, with aircraft acting as flying artillery to soften up resistance, which if it held its ground, should be bypassed and left, as he said, ‘to wither on the vine’.

He could hear his voice in his head and imagine the table pounding that accompanied his damnation of the military boneheads of his home country who would not listen to him, while his writings were openly admired by people he called ‘the nation’s enemies’; he had never been invited to lecture at Sandhurst — most of his invitations to do that came from Hitler’s Germany.

De Billancourt was waving his hand; if he was shouting, Jardine could not hear it, but he got the message by the way the Frenchman was casting his eyes around the sky, telling him to look out for enemy fighters, this as he banked to fly along the front lines of the army below, until they were over what looked like a motor park by a series of very large tents. Winking shots showed, even in the sunlight, as ground fire came in their direction, with de Billancourt jinking to put off the gunners, as puffs of black smoke burst all around them.

Jardine had to ignore the anti-aircraft fire: he was looking around the sky above, for, if he was not a pilot, he knew, having drunk with many ex-members of the Royal Flying Corps, which had morphed into the RAF, that the most dangerous type of air attacks came from above, out of the sun.

It was a flash of reflected sunlight that fixed his gaze, a glint as the golden light bounced off an aeroplane windscreen perhaps. He tapped de Billancourt’s shoulder and pointed up in the general direction, receiving a nod in return, and once he was sure the Frenchman understood, he spun round to kneel on his seat rather than sit, using a second strap to secure himself in. The twin Vickers were just a double version of a machine gun he had fired many times before, and he checked the belt feed was clear to run before he cocked both. Only then did he look out for an enemy.

The bulky, box-like Fiat CR32 was plain to see now as it flew overhead, seeking to get sun side of the Potez so that he could attack with that glaring orb behind him. In his favour the Italian had speed and two forward-firing machine guns to the Potez’s one, but he did not have the swivelling Vickers, which narrowed his secure angles of attack; head-on would be best for safety unless he set out to get the rear gunner first and neutralised him.

That was a sobering thought, but when Vince had reacted to the question about Jardine’s ability with the Vickers, he was not just talking about that weapon: the cockney-Italian had seen his old CO shoot everything from objects and animals, including running human beings, and at long range. The only thing unfamiliar on these weapons was the ranging sight, different from those used on the ground.

He had shot game in Scotland as a youth and a man — stags, grouse and pheasants — so the need for deflection aiming was second nature, the requirement to put your bullets where the target was going to be, rather than where it was. Talking to those RFC flyers he also knew that in aerial combat the task was made more difficult, given the lack of any fixed object off which to measure the position and distance to your target.

De Billancourt had not turned for home — he was still flying into the sun — which did surprise his passenger, who had expected, up against a faster and better-armed plane, as well as anti-aircraft guns, he would seek to draw him into a position of potential danger by flying for the Ethiopian lines and losing altitude.

If the Italian pilot followed him down he would be at a greater risk of concentrated ground fire, and massed rifles could be deadly. Jardine had seen aircraft brought down by that in 1918 — his own side and the Germans’. The thought came to his mind that this Frenchman wanted to show off, a potentially suicidal way to behave.

There was no point in worrying: he could not fly the plane, so he just had to rely on the man who was doing so, even if he thought he disliked him; it was another one of those situations where the acceptance of risk went with the territory. The anti-aircraft fire ceased, which meant they were content to leave it to their flyer to see off this pest, and it would not be a good idea to keep blazing away in case they downed their own aircraft.

Glancing over his shoulder he saw that de Billancourt was pointing forward with a flat hand, which he dipped sharply under his other hand — he must have had the joystick clamped between his knees — an act he repeated, leaving his passenger to hope he understood. Then the plane began to jink seriously, left, right, up and down, which told Jardine action was imminent.

Getting as low as he could, Jardine pulled the machine gun handles down so the Vickers barrels were aiming as high as possible, the good thing about that being his own head was lowered, lessening the risk of him being hit. He had to assume the Italian had got to where he wanted to be and then banked to reverse his course and engage; his assumption proved right as bullets began to crack over his head, loud enough to overcome both engine noise and wind.

He felt the judder of the Potez as de Billancourt responded, then the sudden dip as the Frenchman put the plane into a dive, Jardine pulling both his triggers as soon as that happened. The camouflaged body of the Fiat was a huge blur as it shot past at a fractionally higher altitude that seemed very close to his head, and the notion that his man had risked a head-on collision was a fleeting but useless concern. All he was concentrating on now was keeping his Vickers firing as he raised himself to seek to stay on target, sure that bits were flying off the enemy aircraft.

De Billancourt banked as soon as he ceased firing and executed a tight turn to come round on the Italian’s tail, which was nothing short of madness. Looking over his shoulder now, Jardine saw the Fiat beginning to climb, and at a rate he suspected the Potez could not match.

What was this bloody idiot of a Frenchman about? The pitch of the engine was now a scream as the plane sought altitude, and a craning Jardine could see the Fiat fighter plane had what he wanted, sufficient height and distance, for he was now banking to come in on a second attack.

As soon as he began to dive, de Billancourt spun his plane to drop like a stone in what turned out to be a race towards ground level. Not only was the Fiat faster, it was heavier, which increased the speed at which it could close. Jardine now saw before him, and rapidly closing, the wisp of the spinning propeller, with the certain knowledge that two machine guns were timed to fire right through the blades, only then realising how cold were the hands holding the handles of the Vickers, almost too cold to function, even in gloves.

Stiff as the fingers were, he knew he had to wait until the Italian opened fire, which he would not do until he was in range, an option open to him but not to a rear machine gunner unfamiliar with the sights, who could only guess by the size of the object he was aiming at. If he fired off too soon it would only waste precious ammo; leave it too late and it was what the Americans called a ‘turkey shoot’, an almost unmissable target. The first wink came a split second before the gunfire hit the side of his cockpit, which proved the Frenchman was no coward, for he held his course.

The diving, attacking plane now looked like a large bee right before his eyes, the cowls covering its landing wheels in plain sight. Jardine opened up, moving his aim fractionally right, left, up and down to cover as much sky as possible inside a very small arc, and it had the desired effect: it takes a very brave man, or even a fool, to fly into a hail of bullets. He had no idea if he struck home, for de Billancourt hauled on his joystick and took the Potez, which if it was slower was more manoeuvrable, out of the line of fire, and the Italian shot by.

What happened then made Jardine thank the Lord he was strapped in: the blood rushed to his head as de Billancourt executed a tight loop the loop in what felt like a sixpence of airspace. Unbeknown to his passenger, the Frenchman had calculated that with a target no longer in his sights, the enemy plane would rapidly slow its own speed to turn. He was now on its tail again before the heavier Fiat could make that turn; closing significantly, he opened up again with his single forward-firing machine gun.

It wasn’t deadly, but it was enough to remove great patches of the covering on the Italian’s airframe, bits that flew past Jardine, still facing backwards. Then he was in amongst a trail of smoke, wondering to whom it belonged, the answer coming as the Fiat CR32 came into view with a black trail coming from its fuselage as it headed earthwards.

De Billancourt spun to follow, but the Italian was doing the sensible thing, which Jardine had expected from the Frenchman, heading for his own lines and supporting ground fire; thankfully this daredevil pilot was too shrewd to follow and he banked gently to head south.

The victory roll was just showing off.

The trio and the Rolls had not moved, and it took Jardine a little while to realise how small an amount of time had passed since they had taken off — under twenty minutes by his watch. Taxiing to the same spot as before, the damage to the aircraft was obvious enough to have Vince rushing forward, Tyler Alverson putting his hands to his cheeks and Corrie Littleton hers to her mouth, an act which she reversed when Henri de Billancourt whipped off his helmet and grinned at her with teeth of stunning perfection.

Wondering why he was so stiff — that is, till he realised he was still cold — Cal Jardine clambered out of the cockpit just in time to see the Frenchman slobbering over the female hand again. In perfect idiomatic French, albeit with a faint trace of a Marseilles accent, Callum Jardine loudly informed him that he thought he was a glory-seeking idiot. The response was a look of surprise and amusement, so he reverted to English in order that his companions could understand.

‘You’re mad to take on an enemy who’s got a superior plane.’

‘Ah, but mon ami, he is not the superior pilot, as you witnessed.’

‘That was luck!’

The wagging single digit was infuriating, but not as much as the admonishing schoolmasterly voice. ‘Non! Not luck, but skill. The best man won, as you say in English, and what sort of man would I be to turn down a challenge to a dogfight, eh, and from a miserable Italian?’

‘They can kill too,’ insisted Vince. ‘Even Frenchmen.’

‘To be afraid to die, not Henri de Billancourt, monsieur! Henri de Billancourt is not afraid to die. To fear death is a nonsense; to die nobly and in single combat, a gift.’

‘While you are so nobly dying, would you mind making sure you are alone?’

‘If you were full of fear, I ask forgiveness. I thought you were a soldier.’

‘He’s full of anger, mate!’ Vince spat, handing Jardine his sub-machine gun. ‘You might want to use this, guv.’

‘Would somebody mind telling me what the hell is going on?’ demanded Tyler Alverson.

‘I will,’ Jardine barked, and he did, aware as he related what he knew, that the admiration in the eyes of Corrie Littleton was increasing, not diminishing, which he found even more annoying, summed up in the words she used.

‘How gallant you are.’

‘Mademoiselle will not mind if I dedicate my victory to your beauty?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Vince croaked.

‘Our victory,’ Jardine snapped.

‘Of course,’ the count replied with an elegant half-bow. ‘I must acknowledge you were a most able associate.’

Alverson laughed, a shoulder-shaking affair. ‘I’ve never heard anyone make that sound like the shoeshine boy before.’

When he took off again, Corrie Littleton watched him go until the Potez was so small it was like a fly on a window, her face when she turned round having on it a beatific look.

‘What a guy.’

‘What an arsehole,’ Jardine spat. ‘Now, if you are ready, we can go find your bloody mother.’

‘Who rattled his cage?’ she demanded of Tyler Alverson.

‘You did, honey.’