The Burning Shore

We will find out, she said firmly. You fly the aeroplane and do not fret yourself, and she hoisted herself slightly and began drawing up the back of her fur coat and the yellow skirt with it.

Centaine, he said uncertainly, and then a little later, Centaine! more definitely, and a little later still, Oh my God, Centaine!

It is possible! she cried triumphantly, and almost immediately she was aware of sensations which she had never suspected were harboured within her. She felt herself borne upwards and outwards as though she was departing her own body, and as though she were drawing Michael's soul out with her. At first she was terrified by the strength and strangeness of it, and then all other emotions were swept away.

She felt herself tumbling and swirling, upwards and upwards, with the wild wind roaring about her, and the rainbow-girded clouds undulating on every side, and then she heard herself screaming, and she thrust all her fingers into her mouth to still her own cries, but it was too strong to be contained, and she threw her head back and screamed and sobbed and laughed with the wonder of it, as she went over the peak and fell down the other side into the gulf, spinning downwards, settling softly as a snowflake into her own body again, and feeling his arms around her, hearing him groaning and gasping in her ear, and she twisted and held him fiercely and cried, I love you, Michel, I will always love you!

Mac hurried to meet Michael as soon as he cut the engine and climbed out of the cockpit.

You're just in time, sir. There is a pilots briefing in the mess. The major has been asking for you, best hurry, sir, and then, as Michael started along the duckboards towards the mess, he called after him, How is she flying, sir? Like a bird, Mac. just reload the guns for me. First time ever that he hadn't fussed about his machine, Mac thought wonderingly, as he watched Michael walk away.

The mess was full of pilots, all the armchairs were taken and one or two new chums were standing against the wall at the back. Andrew sat on the bar counter swinging his legs and sucking on the amber cigaretteholder. He broke off as Michael appeared in the doorway.

Gentlemen, we are being honoured. Captain Michael Courtney has graciously consented to join us. Despite other pressing and important business, he has been kind enough to devote an hour or two to help us settle our little difference with Kaiser Wilhelm IL I think we should show our appreciation.

There were howls and catcalls, and somebody blew a loud raspberry.

Barbarians, Michael told them haughtily, and dropped into the armchair hastily vacated by a new chum.

Are you comfortable? Andrew asked him solicitously. Do you mind if I carry on? Good! Well, as I was saying, the squadron has received an urgent despatch, delivered by motor-cycle less than half an hour ago, direct from divisional headquarters. He held it up and waved it at arm's length, pinching his nostrils with the other hand so that his voice was nasal as he went on.

You will be able to smell the quality of the literary style and the contents from where you are sitting- There were a few polite guffaws, but the eyes that watched him were screwed up nervously, and here and there were little nervous movements, the shuffling of feet, one of the old hands cracking his knuckles, another nibbling on his thumbnail, Michael unconsciously blowing on his fingertips, for all of them knew that the scrap of coarse yellow paper that Andrew was waving at them might be their death warrant.

Andrew held it at arm's length and read from it.

From Divisional Headquarters, Arras.

To the Officer Commanding No. 21 Squadron RFC.

Near Mort Homme.

As Of 24:00 hrs 4th April 1917, you will at all costs prevent any enemy aerial observation over your designated sector until further orders to the contrary.

That's all, gentlemen. Four lines, a mere bagatelle, but A let me point out to you the succinct phrase "at all costs" without dwelling upon it. He paused and looked over the mess slowly, watching it register on each strained and gaunt face.

My God, look how old they have grown, he thought, irrelevantly. Hank looks fifty years old, and Michael-he glanced up at the mirror over the mantelpiece, and when he saw his reflection, he brushed nervously at his own forehead where in the last few weeks the sandy hair had receded in two deep bays, leaving pink skin like a beach at low tide. Then he dropped his hand selfconsciously and went on.

Beginning at 0500 hours tomorrow morning, all pilots will fly four daily sorties until further notice, he announced. There will be the usual dawn and dusk sweeps, but from now on they will be at full squadron strength. He looked around for questions, there were none. Then each flight of aircraft will make an additional two sorties, one hour on, and two hours off, or as our friends in the Royal Navy are wont to say, "Standing watch and watch". That way we will maintain a perpetual presence over the squadron's designated area They all stirred again and then heads turned towards Michael, for he was the eldest and their natural spokesman. Michael blew on his fingers and then studied them minutely. Do I have any questions? Hank cleared his throat.

Yes? Andrew turned to him expectantly, but Hank subsided back into his armchair.

Just to get this straight, Michael spoke at last. We will all fly the two hours dawn and dusk patrols, that's four hours, and then an additional four hours during the day? Is my arithmetic correct, or does that make eight hours of combat a day?

Give Captain Courtney a coconut, Andrew nodded.

My trade union isn't going to like it, and they laughed, a nervous braying chorus quickly cut off. Eight hours was too much, far too much, no man could exercise the vigilance and nervous response necessary to sustain that length of combat flight for a single day. They were being asked to do it day after day without promise of respite.

Any other questions? Service and maintenance of the aircraft? Mac has promised me that he can do it, Andrew replied to Hank. Anything else? No? All right, gentlemen, my book is open. But the pilgrimage to the bar to take advantage of Andrew's offer was subdued, and nobody discussed the new orders. They drank quietly but determinedly, avoiding each other's eyes. What was there to discuss?

The Comte de Thiry, with a vista of forty thousand hectares of lush farming land before his eyes, gave his rapturous approval to the wedding, and shook hands with Michael as though he were wringing an ostrich's neck.

Anna hugged Centaine to her bosom. My baby! she wheezed, slow fat tears seeping out of the creases around her eyes and coursing down her face. You are going to leave Anna. Don't be a goose, Anna, I will need you still. You can come with me to Africa, and Anna sobbed aloud.

Africa! and then even more dolorously, What kind of wedding will it be? There are no guests to invite, Raoul the chef is in the trenches fighting the boche, oh, my baby, it will be a scandalous wedding! The priest will come over, and the general, Michel's uncle, has promised, and the pilots from the squadron.

It will be a wonderful wedding, Centaine contradicted her.

No choir, sobbed Anna. No wedding feast, no wedding dress, no honeymoon. Papa will sing, he has a wonderful voice, and you and I will bake the cake and kill one of the suckling pigs. We can alter Mama's dress, and Michel and I will have our honeymoon here, just the way Papa and Mama did. Oh, my baby! Once Anna's tears had started, they would not that readily be dried.

When will it be? The comte had not yet relinquished Michael's hand. Name the day."Saturday, at eight in the evening."So soon! wailed Anna. Why so soon? The comte struck his thigh as inspiration came to him.

We will open a bottle of the very best champagne and perhaps even a bottle of the Napoleon cognac! Centaine, my little one, where are the keys? And this time she could not refuse him.

In their nest of blankets and straw they lay in each other's embrace, and in halting sentences Michael tried to explain the new squadron orders to her. She could not fully comprehend their dreadful significance. She understood only that he was going into dire peril and she held him with all her strength.

But you will be there on our wedding day? Whatever happens, you will come to me on our wedding day? Yes, Centaine, I will be there."Swear it to me, Michel."I swear it. No! No! Swear the most dreadful oath you can think of.

I swear it on my life and on my love for you."Ah, Michel, she sighed and pressed against him, satisfied at last. I will watch for you as you fly by each dawn and each dusk, and I will meet you here each night. They made love in a frenzy, a madness of the blood, as though they were trying to consume each other, and the fury of it left them exhausted so that they slept in each other's arms until Centaine woke, and it was late. The birds were calling in the forest and the first light filtered into the barn.

Michel! Michel! It is almost half past four. By the light of the lantern she checked the gold watch pinned to her jacket.

Oh, my God, Michael began pulling on his clothes, still groggy with sleep, I'll miss the dawn patrol-'No. Not if you go directly. I can't leave you. Don't argue! Go, Michel! Go quickly.

Centaine ran all the way, slipping and sliding in the mud of the lane, but determined to be on the hill for the squadron take-off, to wave them away.

At the stables she stopped, panting and clutching her chest to try and control her breathing. The chdteau was in darkness, lying-like a sleeping beast in the dawn, and she felt a rush of relief.

She crossed the yard slowly, giving herself time to catch her breath, and at the door she listened carefully before letting herself into the kitchen. She slipped off her muddy boots and placed them in the airing cupboard behind the stove, then she climbed the stairs, keeping close to the wall so that the tread would not squeak under her bare feet.

With another lift of relief she opened the door to her cell, crept in and then closed it behind her. She turned to face the bed, and then froze with surprise as a match flared and was touched to a lantern wick, and the room bloomed with yellow light.

Anna, who had just lit the lantern, was sitting on her bed, with a shawl around her shoulders and a lace nightcap on her head. Her red face was stony and forbidding.

Anna! Centaine whispered. I can explain, you haven't told Papa? Then the chair by the window creaked and she turned to find her father sitting in it and staring at her with his single malevolent eye.

She had never seen such an expression upon his face.

Anna spoke first. My little baby creeping out at night to go whoring after soldiers. He is not a soldier, Centaine protested.

He is an airman.

Harlotry, said the comte. A daughter of the house of de Thiry behaving like a common harlot. Papa, I am to be Michel's wife. We are as good as married to each other. Not until Saturday night, you are not. The comte rose to his feet. There was a dark smudge of sleeplessness under his one eye and his thick mane of hair stood on end.

Until Saturday, his voice rose to an angry bellow, you are confined to this room, child. You will remain here until one hour before the ceremony begins."But, Papa, I have to go to the hill- Anna, take the key. I place you in charge of her. She is not to leave the house. Centaine stood in the centre of the room looking around her, as though for escape, but Anna rose and took her wrist in a powerful calloused hand and Centaine's shoulders slumped as she was led to the bed.

The pilots of the squadron were scattered in dark groups of threes and fours amongst the trees at the edge of the orchard, talking softly and smoking the last cigarettes before take-off, when Michael came clumping down the duckboards, still buttoning his greatcoat and pulling on his flying gauntlets. He had missed the preflight briefing.

Andrew nodded a greeting as he joined them, making no mention of Michael's late arrival or of the example to the new pilots, and Michael did not apologize. They were both acutely aware of the dereliction of his duty, and Andrew unscrewed his silver flask and drank without offering it to Michael; the rebuke was deliberate.

Take-off in five minutes, Andrew studied the sky, and it looks like a good day to die. It was his term for good flying weather, but today it jarred on Michael.

I'm getting married on Saturday, he said, as though the ideas were linked, and Andrew stopped with the flask halfway back to his lips and stared at him.

The little French girl up at the chateau? he asked, and Michael nodded.

Centaine, Centaine de Thiry You crafty old dog! Andrew began to grin, his disapproval forgotten.

So that is what you've been up to.

Well, you have my blessing, my boy. He made a benedictory gesture with the flask. J drink to your long life and joy together. He passed the flask to Michael, but Michael paused before drinking.

I'd be honoured if you would agree to act as my best man. Don't worry, my boy, I will be flying at your wingtip as you go into action, I give you my oath on it. He punched Michael's arm and they grinned happily at each other and then marched side by side to the green and yellow machines standing at the head of the squadron line-up.

one after another the Wolseley Viper engines crackled and snarled and blue exhaust smoke misted the trees of the orchard. Then the SESas bumped and rocked over the uneven ground for the massed take-off.

Today, because it was a full squadron sweep, Michael would not be flying as Andrew's wingman, but as leader of B flight. He had five other machines in his flight, and two of his pilots were new chums and would need protecting and shepherding. Hank Johnson was leadingC flight and he waved across as Michael taxied past him, and then gunned his machine into his slot behind him.

As soon as they were airborne, Michael signalled to his flight to close the formation into a tight ! and he followed Andrew, conforming to his slight left-hand turn that would carry them past the hillock beyond the chateau.

He lifted the goggles on to his forehead and slipped his scarf down off his nose and mouth so that Centaine would be able to see his face, and flying one-handed he prepared to make their private rendezvous signal to her as he passed. There was the knoll, he started smiling in anticipation, then the smile faded.

He could not see Nuage, the white stallion. He leaned far out of the cockpit, and ahead of him Andrew was doing the same, screwing his head around as he searched for the girl and the white horse.

They roared past and she was not there. The hillock was deserted. Michael peered back over his shoulder as it receded, making doubly sure. He felt the dull weight in his belly, the cold and heavy stone of forboding. She wasn't there, their talisman had forsaken them.

He lifted the scarf over his mouth and covered his eyes with the goggles, as the three flights of aircraft bore upwards, climbing for the vital advantage of height, aiming to cross the ridges at 12,000 feet before levelling out into the patrol pattern.

His mind kept going back to Centaine. Why wasn't she there? Was something wrong?

He found it hard to concentrate on the sky around him, She has taken our luck. She knows what it means to us and she has let us down. He shook his head. I mustn't think about it, watch the sky! Don't think about anything but the sky and the enemy. The light was strengthening, and the air was clear and icy cold. The land beneath them was patched with the geometrical patterns of fields and studded with the villages and towns of northern France, but directly ahead was that dung-brown strip of torn and savaged earth that marked the lines, and above it the scattered blobs of morning cloud, dull as bruises on one side and brilliant gold on the side struck by the rising sun.

To the west lay the wide basin of the Somme river where the beast of war crouched ready to spring, and in the east the sun hurled great burning lances of fire through the sky, so that when Michael looked away, his vision was starred with the memory of its brilliance.

Never look at the sun, he reminded himself testily.

Because of his distraction, he was making the mistakes of a novice.

They crossed the ridges, looking down on the patterns of opposing trenches, like worm castings on a putting green.

Don't fix! Michael warned himself again. Never stare at any object. He resumed the veteran fighter pilot's scan, the quick flitting search that covered the sky about him, sweeping back and forth, and down and over.

Despite all his efforts to prevent it, the thought of Centaine and her absence from the knoll crept insidiously back into his mind again, so that suddenly he realized that he had been staring at one whale-shaped cloud for five or six seconds. He was fixing again. God, man, pull yourself together! he snarled aloud.

Andrew, in the leading flight, was signalling, and Michael swivelled to pick out his sighting.

it was a flight of three aircraft, four miles south-west of their position, and 2,000 feet below them.

Friendlies. He recognized them as De Havilland twoseaters. Why hadn't he seen them first? He had the best eyes in the squadron.

Concentrate. He scanned the line of woods south of Douai, the German-held town just east of Lens, and he picked out the freshly dug gun emplacements at the edge of the trees.

About six new batteries, he estimated, and made a note for his flight log without interrupting the pattern of his scan again.

They reached the western limit of their designated patrol area, and each flight turned in succession. They started back down the line, but with the sun directly into their eyes now, and that line of dirty grey-blue cloud on their left hand.

Cold front building, Michael thought, and then suddenly he was thinking of Centaine again, as though she had slipped in through the back door of his mind.

Why wasn't she there? She could be sick. Out at night in the rain and cold, pneumonia is a killer. The idea shocked him. He imagined her wasting away, drowning in her own fluids.

A red Very pistol flare arched across the nose of his machine, and he started guiltily. Andrew had fired theEnemy in Sight signal while he was dreaming.

Michael searched frantically. Ah! with relief. There it is! Below and to the left.

It was a German two-seater, a solitary artillery spotted, just east of the ridges, bustling down in the direction of Arras, a slow and outdated type, easy prey for the swift and deadly SE5as. Andrew was signalling again, looking back-at Michael, the green scarf aflutter, and that devilmay-care grin on his lips.

I am attacking! Give me top cover Both Michael and Hank acknowledged the hand signals and stayed on high as Andrew banked away into a shallow diving interception, with the other five aircraft of his flight streaming down behind in attacking line astern.

What a grand sight! Michael watched them go. Thrilling to the chase, that wild charge down the sky, cavalry of the heavens in full flight, swiftly overhauling their slow and cumbersome prey.

Michael led the rest of the squadron into a series of slow shallow S-turns, holding them in position to cover the attack, and he was leaning from the cockpit waiting for the kill when abruptly he felt a slide of unease, that cold weight of premonition in his guts again, the instinct of impending disaster, and he swept the sky above and around him.

It was clear and peacefully empty, then his gaze switched towards the blinding glare of the sun and he held up his hand to cover it, and with one eye only looked past his fingers, and there they were.

They were boiling out of the cloud line like a swarm of gaudy glittering poisonous insects. It was the classic ambush. The decoy sent in low and slow to draw the enemy, and then the swift and deadly onslaught from out of the sun and the clouds.

Oh, sweet Mother of God, Michael breathed, as he snatched the Very pistol out of its holster beside his seat.

How many? It was impossible to count that vicious host. Sixty, perhaps more, three full Jagdstaffels of Alba tros DIIIs in their rainbow colours dropping falcon-swift upon Andrew's puny flight of SESas.

Michael fired the red Very flare to warn his pilots and then winged over into a dive, aiming to intercept the enemy squadron before it could reach Andrew. Swiftly he estimated the triangle of speeds and distances and realized that they were too late, four or five seconds too late to save Andrew's flight.

Those four or five seconds which he had squandered in dreaming and fruitlessly watching the attack on the German decoy plane, those crucial seconds in which he had neglected his duty, weighed on him like leaden bars as he pushed the throttle of the SE5a to its stop. The engine whined, that peculiar wailing protest of overdriven machinery as the tip of the spinning propeller accelerated through the speed of sound, and he could feel the wings flexing and bending under the strain as the speed and pressure built up in that suicidal dive. Andrew! he shouted. Look behind you, man! and his as lost in the howl of wind and the scream of the voice w overdriven engine.

All Andrew's attention was fixed on his quarry, for the German decoy pilot had seen them and was also diving away towards the earth, drawing the SESas after him and transforming the hunters into unwitting prey.

The massed German Jagdstaffel held their diving attack, though they must have been fully aware of Michael's desperate attempt to head them off. They would know as well as Michael did that his attempt was futile, that he had left it too late. The Albatroses would be able to make an attacking run over Andrew's flight, and with complete surprise aiding them must destroy most of the SE5as in that single stroke before turning back to face Michael's avenging counter-stroke.

Michael felt the adrenalin surge burning in his blood like the clean bright flame of a spirit lamp. Time seemed to slow down into those eternal micro-seconds of combat, so that he floated sedately downwards, and the horde of enemy aircraft appeared to hang suspended on their multicoloured wings, as though they were set like gems in the heavens.

The colours and patterns of the Albatroses were fantastic, with scarlet and black the dominant colours, but some were chequered like bar1equins, and others had the silhouettes of bat wings or birds outlined on their wings and fuselage.

At last he could see the faces of the German airmen, turning towards him and then back towards their primary quarry.

Andrew! Andrew! Michael lamented in agony as each second made it clearer just how late he would be to prevent the ambush succeeding.

His fingers numb with cold and dread, Michael reloaded the Very pistol and fired another flare forward over his own nose, trying to attract Andrew's attention, but the red ball of flame fell away towards the earth, fizzling and spinning a pathetic thread of smoke, while half a mile further on Andrew lined up on the hapless German spotter plane, and Michael heard the tut-tut-tuttering of his Vickers as he attacked from astern.

In the same instant the wave of Albatroses broke over Andrew's flight, from above.

Michael saw two of the SE5as mortally struck in the first seconds, and spin away with smoke and pieces of fuselage flying from them; the rest of them scattered widely, each with two or three Albatroses racing after them, almost jostling each other for a chance to take the killing line.

Only Andrew survived. His response to the first crackle of the Spandau machine-gun was instantaneous. He kicked the big green machine into that flat skidding turn that he and Michael had practised so often. He went tearing back straight into the heart of the pack, forcing the Albatroses to swerve wildly away from his head-on charge, firing furiously into their faces, emerging from behind them seemingly unscathed.

Good on you! Michael rejoiced aloud, and then he saw the rest of Andrew's flight shot out of the sky, burning and twisting downwards, and his guilt turned to anger.

The German machines, having wrought quick destruction, were wheeling now to face the charge of Michael's and Hank's flights. They came together and the entire pattern of aircraft disintegrated into a milling cloud, turning like dust and debris in a whirlwind.

Michael came out on the quarter of a solid black Albatros with scarlet wings on which the black Maltese crosses stood out like gravestones. As he crossed, he laid off his aim for the deflection of their combined tracks and speeds, and fired for the radiator in the junction of the scarlet wings above the German pilot's head, attempting to cook him alive in boiling coolant liquid.

He saw his bullets hitting exactly where he had aimed, and at the same time noticed the small modification in the Albatros's wing structure. The Germans had altered the Albatros. They had been forcibly shown the lethal design fault, and they had relocated the radiator. The German ducked from Michael's field of fire, and Michael pulled up the nose of his machine.

An Albatros had picked on one of Michael's new chums, sticking on his tail like a vampire, within an ace of the killing line. Michael came out under the Albatros's belly and reached up to swivel the Lewis gun on its Foster mounting, aiming upwards, so close that the muzzle of the Lewis gun almost touched the bright pink belly of the Albatros.

He fired the full drum of ammunition into the German's guts, waggling his wings slightly to spray his fire from side to side, and the Albatros reared up on its tail like a harpooned shark, and then fell over its wing and dropped away in its death plunge.

The new chum waved his thanks to Michael, they were almost touching wingtips, and Michael signalled imperiously, Return to base! and then gave him the clenched fist. Imperative! Get out of here, you bloody fool! he shouted uselessly, but his contorted face emphasized the hand signal, and the novice broke off and fled.

Another Albatros came at Michael and he turned out hard, climbing and twisting, firing at fleeting targets, turning, turning for very life. They were outnumbered six or seven to one, and the enemy were all veterans, it showed in the way they flew, quick and agile, and unafraid. To stay and fight was folly. Michael managed to reload the Very pistol, and he fired the green flare of the recall. In these circumstances it was the order to the squadron to break off and run for home with all possible speed.

He came round hard, fired at a pink and blue Albatros, and saw his bullets cut through the cowling of the engine a few inches too low to hit the German's fuel tank.

Damn! Damn it to hell! he swore, and he and the Albatros turned out in opposite directions and Michael had a clear run for home. He saw his remaining pilots already tearing away, and he put the yellow machine's nose down and went after them, heading for the ridges and Mort Homme.

He swivelled his head just once more, to make sure that his tail was clear, and at that moment he saw Andrew.

Andrew was a thousand metres out on Michael's starboard side. He had been separated from the main dogfight, engaged with three of the attacking Albatroses, fighting them single-handed, but he had given them the slip and now he too was running for home like the rest of the British squadron.

Then Michael looked above Andrew and he realized that not all the German Albatroses had come down in that first attacking wave. Six of them had remained up there under the clouds, led by the only Albatros that was painted pure scarlet from tail to nose, and from wingtip to wingtip. They had waited for the dogfight to develop and for stragglers to emerge. They were the second set of jaws to the trap, and Michael knew who piloted the allred Albatros.

The man was a living legend on both sides of the lines, for he had already killed over thirty Allied aircraft. It was the man they called the Red Baron of Germany.

The Allies were countering the legend, trying to smear the invincible image that Baron Manfred Von Richthofen was building, by calling him a coward and a hyena who had built up his score of kills by avoiding combat on equal terms and by singling out novices and stragglers and damaged aircraft before attacking.

Perhaps there was truth to that claim, for there he was, hovering above the battlefield like a scarlet vulture, and there was Andrew, isolated and vulnerable below him, his nearest ally, Michael, 1,000 metres away, and Andrew seemed unaware of this new menace. The scarlet machine dropped from above, the shark-like nose aimed directly at Andrew. The five other hand-picked veteran German fighter pilots followed him down.

Without thought, Michael began the turn that would carry him to Andrew's assistance, and then his hands and feet, acting without conscious volition, countered the turn and kept the yellow SESa roaring on its shallow dive for the safety of the British lines.

Michael stared over his shoulder and superimposed on the pattern of swirling aircraft was Centaine's beloved face, the great dark eyes dark with tears, and her words whispered in his head louder than guns and screaming engines, Swear to me you will be there, Michael! With Centaine's words still ringing in his ears, Michael saw the German attack sweep over Andrew's solitary aircraft, and once again miraculously Andrew survived that first deadly wave and whirled to face and fight them.

Michael tried to force himself to turn the yellow SE5a, but his hands would not obey, and his feet were paralysed upon the rudder bars. He watched while the German pilots worked the solitary green aircraft the way a pack of a sheepdogs might round up a stray ewe, driving Andrew relentlessly into each other's crossfire.

He saw Andrew fighting them off with a magnificent display of courage and flying skill, turning into each new attack, and facing it head-on, forcing each antagonist to break away, but always there were others crossing his flanks and quarters, raking him with Spandau fire.

Then Michael saw that Andrew's guns were silenced.

The drum of his Lewis gun was empty, and he knew that it was a lengthy process to reload it. Clearly the Vickers machine-gun on the cowling had overheated and jammed.

Andrew was standing in the cockpit, hammering at the breech of the weapon with both fists, trying to clear it, and Von Richthofen's red Albatros dropped into the killing line behind Andrew.

Oh God, no! Michael heard himself whimpering, still . for safety, stricken as much by his own cowardice running as by Andrew's peril.

Then another miracle happened, for without opening fire the red Albatros turned away slightly, and for an instant flew level with the green SE5a.

Von Richthofen must have seen that Andrew was unarmed, and he had declined to kill a helpless man. As he passed only feet from the cockpit in which Andrew was struggling with the blocked Vickers, he lifted one hand in a laconic salute, homage to a courageous enemy - and then turned away in pursuit of the rest of the fleeing British SE5as.

Thank you, God, Michael croaked.

Von Richthofen's fight followed him into the turn. No, not all of them followed him. There was a single Albatros that had not broken off the engagement with Andrew. It was a sky-blue machine with its top wing chequered black and white, like a chessboard. It fell into the killing line behind Andrew that Von Richthofen had vacated, and Michael heard the stuttering rush of its Spandau.

Flame burst into full bloom around the silhouette of Andrew's head and shoulders as his fuel tank exploded.

Fire, the airman's ultimate dread, enveloped him and Michael saw Andrew lift himself out of the flames like a blackened and scorched insect and throw himself over the side of the cockpit, choosing the swift death of the fall to that of the flames.

The green scarf around Andrew's throat was on fire, so that he wore a garland of flame until his body accelerated and the flames were snuffed out by the wind. His body turned with his arms and legs spread out in the form of a crucifix, and dwindled swiftly away. Michael lost sight of him before he struck the earth 10,000 feet below.

In the name of all that is holy, couldn't anyone have let us know that Von Richthofen had moved back into the sector? Michael shouted at the squadron adjutant. Isn't there any bloody intelligence in this army? Those desk wallahs at Division are responsible for the murder of Andrew and six other men we lost today! That is really unfair, old man, the adjutant murmured, as he puffed on his pipe. You know how this fellow Von Richthofen works. Will-o'-the-wisp, and all that stuff. Von Richthofen had devised the strategy of loading his aircraft on to open goods trucks and shuttling the entire Jagdstaffel up and down the line. Appearing abruptly, with his sixty crack pilots, wherever he was least expected, wracking dreadful execution amongst the unprepared Allied airmen for a few days or a week, and then moving on again.

I telephoned Division as soon as the first of our planes landed and they had only just received the intelligence themselves. They think Von Richthofen and his circus have taken up temporary residence at the old airstrip just south of Douai- A lot of good that does us now, with Andrew dead. As he said it, the enormity of it at last hit Michael, and his hands began to shake. He felt a nerve jumping in his cheek. He had to turn away to the small window of the cottage that the adjutant used as the squadron office.

Behind him the adjutant remained silent, giving Michael time to collect himself.

The old airstrip at Douai- Michael thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them still, and he drove his mind from the memory of Andrew to consider instead the technical aspects -those new gun emplacements, they must have moved up to guard Von Richthofen's jagdstaffel. Michael, you are commanding the squadron, at least temporarily, until Division confirms or appoints another commander. Michael turned back, hands still in pockets, and nodded, not yet trusting his voice.

You will have to draw up a new duty roster, the adjutant prompted him gently, and Michael shook his head slightly as though to clear it.

We can't send out less than full squadron strength, he said, not with the circus out there. Which means that we can't maintain full-time daylight cover over the designated squadron sector. The adjutant nodded in agreement. It was obvious that to send out single flights was suicidal.

What is our operational strength? Michael demanded.

At the moment, eight, four machines were badly shot up. If it goes on like this, it's going to be a bloody April, I am afraid. All right, Michael nodded. We will scrub the old roster. We can only fly two more sorties today. All eight aircraft. Noon and dusk. Keep the new chums out of it as much as possible. The adjutant was making notes, and as Michael concentrated on his new duties, his hands stopped shaking and that corpse-grey pallor of his face improved. Telephone Division and warn them that we will not be able to cover the sector adequately. Ask them when we can expect to be reinforced. Tell them that an estimated six new batteries have been moved up to-'Michael read the map references off his note-pad -and tell them also that I noticed a design modification on the Albatroses of the circus. He explained the relocation of the engine radiator. Tell them I estimate the boche have sixty of these new Albatros in Von Richthofen's Jagdstaffel. When you have done all that call me, and we will work out a new roster, but warn the lads there will be a squadron sweep at noon. Now I need a shave and a bath. Mercifully, there was no time during the rest of that day for Michael to dwell on Andrew's death. He flew both sorties with the depleted squadron, and although the knowledge that the German circus was in the sector worked on all their nerves, the patrols were completely uneventful. They saw not a single enemy machine.

When they landed for the last time in the dusk, Michael took a bottle of rum down to where Mac and his team of mechanics were working by lantern light on the damaged SE5 as and spent an hour with them, giving them encouragement, for they were all anxious and depressed by the day's losses, particularly the death of Andrew, whom they had all adored and hero-worshipped.

He was a good un. Mac, with black grease to the elbows, looked up from the engine he was working on, and accepted the tin mug of rum that Michael handed him. He was a real good un, the major was. He said it for all of them. Don't often find one like him, you don't. Michael trudged back through the orchard; looking up at the sky through the trees, he could see the stars. It would be flying weather again tomorrow, and he was deadly afraid.

I've lost it, he whispered. My nerve has gone. I am a coward, and my cowardice killed Andrew. That knowledge had been at the back of his mind all that day, but he had suppressed it. Now, when he faced it squarely, it was like a hunter following a wounded leopard into cover.

He knew it was there, but the actual sight of it as they came face to face turned a man's belly to water.

A coward, he said aloud, lashing himself with the word, and he remembered Andrew's smile and the tam o shanter set jauntily on his head.

What cheer, my boy? He could almost hear Andrew's voice, and then he saw him falling down the sky with the burning green scarf around his throat, and Michael's hands began to shake again.

A coward, he repeated, and the pain was too much to bear alone and he hurried to the mess, blinded by his guilt so that he missed his footing and stumbled more than once.

The adjutant and the other pilots, some of them still in flying rig, were waiting for Michael. It was the senior officers duty to begin the wake, that was squadron ritual.

On a table in the centre of the mess were seven bottles of Black Label Johnny Walker whisky, one for each of the missing airmen.

When Michael entered the room, everybody stood, not for him, but as a last respect to the missing men.

All right, gentlemen, Michael said. Let us send them on their way. The most junior officer, briefed by the others in his duties, opened a bottle of whisky. The black labels gave the correct funereal touch. He came to Michael and filled his glass, then moved on to the others, in order of seniority. They held the brimming glasses and waited while the adjutant, his briar still clamped in his teeth, seated himself at the ancient piano in the corner of the mess and began to bang out the opening chords of Chopin's Funeral March. The officers of No.21 Squadron stood to attention and tapped their glasses on table-tops and the bar counter, keeping time with the piano, and one or two of them hummed quietly.

On the bar counter were laid out the personal possessions of the missing pilots. After dinner these would be auctioned off, and the squadron pilots would pay extravagant prices so that a few guineas could be sent to a new widow or a bereaved mother. There were Andrew's golf clubs, which Michael had never seen him use, and the Hardy trout rod, and his grief came back fresh and strong so that he thumped his glass on the counter with such force that whisky slopped over the rim, and the fumes prickled his eyes. Michael wiped them on his sleeve.

The adjutant crashed through the last bar and then stood up and took his glass. Nobody said a word, but they all lifted their own glasses, thought their own thoughts for a second, and then drained them. Immediately the junior officer refilled each tumbler. All seven bottles must be finished, that was part of the tradition. Michael ate no supper, but stood by the bar and helped consume the seven bottles. He was still sober, the liquor seemed to have no effect on him.

I must be an alcoholic at last, he thought. Andrew always said I had great potential. And the liquor did not even deaden the pain that Andrew's name inflicted.

He bid five guineas each for Andrew's golf clubs and the Hardy split-cane rod. By that time the seven bottles were all empty. He ordered another bottle for himself and went alone to his tent. He sat on the cot with the rod in his lap. Andrew had boasted that he had landed a fiftypound salmon with that stick, and Michael had called him a liar.

Oh ye of little faith, Andrew had chided him sorrowfully.

I believed you all along Michael caressed the old rod and drank straight from the bottle.

A little later, Biggs looked in. Congratulations on your victory, sir. Three other pilots had confirmed Michael's shooting down of the pink Albatros.

Biggs, will you do me a favour? Of course, sit Bugger off, there's a good fellow.

There was three-quarters of the bottle of whisky left when Michael, still in his flying clothes, stumbled out to where Andrew's motor-cycle was parked. The ride in the cold night air cleared his head, but left him feeling brittle and fragile as old glass. He parked the motor-cycle behind the barn, and went to wait among the bales of straw.

The hours, marked by the church clock, passed slowly, and with each of them his need for Centaine grew until it was almost too intense to bear. Every half hour he would go to the door of the barn and peer up the dark lane, before returning to the bottle and the nest of blankets.

He sipped the whisky, and in his head those few seconds of battle in which Andrew had died played over and over, like a gramophone record that had been scratched. He tried to shut out the images, but he could not. He was forced to relive, time and again, Andrew's last agony.

Where are you, Centaine? I need you so much now. He longed forher, but she did not come, and again he saw the skyblue Albatros with the black and white chequered wings bank steeply on to the killing line behind Andrew's green aircraft, and yet again he glimpsed Andrew's pale face as he looked back over his shoulder and saw the Spandaus open fire.

Michael covered his eyes and pressed his fingers into the sockets until the pain drove out the images. Centaine, he whispered. Please come to me. The church clock struck three o'clock and the whisky bottle was empty.

She isn't coming. He faced it at last, and as he staggered to the door of the barn and looked up at the night sky, he knew what he had to do to expiate his guilt and grief and shame.

The depleted squadron took off for the dawn patrol in the grey half-light. Hank Johnson was now second-incommand, and he flew on the other wing.

Michael turned out slightly, as soon as they were above the trees, and headed for the knoll beyond the chateau.

Somehow he knew that she would not be there this morning, yet he pushed up his goggles and searched for her.

The hill top was deserted, and he did not even look back.

It's my wedding day, he thought, searching the sky above the ridges, and my best man is dead, and my bride- He did not finish the thought.

The cloud had built up again during the night. There was a solid ceiling at I2,000 feet, dark and forbidding, stretching unbroken to every reach of the horizon. Below that it was clear to 5,000 feet where straggly grey cloud formed a layer that varied in thickness between 500 and

1,000 feet.

Michael led the squadron up through one of the holes in this intermittent layer, and then levelled out just below the top bank of cloud. The sky below them was empty of aircraft. To a novice it would seem impossible that two large formations of fighter planes could patrol the same area, each searching for the other, and still fail to make contact. However, the sky was so deep and wide that the chances were much against a meeting, unless the one knew precisely where the other would be at a given time.

While his eyes raked back and forth, Michael reached with his free hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and assured himself that the package he had prepared just before take-off was still there.

God, I could use a drink, he thought. His mouth was parched and there was a dull ache in his skull. His eyes burned but his vision was still clear. He licked his dry lips.

Andrew always used to say that only a confirmed drunkard can drink on top of a hangover. I just wish I'd had the courage and common sense to bring a bottle. Through the holes in the cloud beneath him he kept a running check on the squadron's position. He knew every inch of the squadron's designated area the way a farmer knows his lands.

They reached the outward limit and Michael made the turn, with the squadron coming round behind him, and he checked his watch. Eleven minutes later he picked out the bend in the river, and a peculiarly shaped copse of beech trees that gave him an exact positional fix.

He eased the throttle a fraction and his yellow machine drifted back a few yards until he was flying on Hank Johnson's wingtip. He glanced across at the Texan and nodded. He had discussed his intentions with Hank before take-off and Hank had tried to dissuade him. Across the gap Hank screwed up his mouth as though he had sucked a green persimmon, to show his disapproval, then raised a war-weary eyebrow and waved Michael away.

Michael backed the throttle a little further and dropped below the squadron. Hank kept leading them eastwards, but Michael made an easy turn into the north and began to descend.

Within a few minutes the squadron had disappeared into the limitless sky, and Michael was alone. He went down until he reached the lower layer of broken cloud and then used it as cover. Dodging in and out of the cold damp banks and the intervening open patches, he crossed the front lines a few miles south of Douai, and then picked out the new German gun emplacements at the edge of the woods.

The old airstrip was marked on his field map. He was able to pick it out from a distance of four miles or more, for the wheels of the German Albatroses on landing and take-off had traced muddy ruts in the turf. Two miles out, he could see the German machines parked along the edge of the forest, and in the trees beyond he made out the rows of tents and portable sheds which housed the German crews.

Suddenly there was a woof and a crack of bursting explosive, and an anti-aircraft shell burst above and slightly ahead of him. It looked like a ripe cotton pod, popping open and spilling fluffy white smoke, deceptively pretty in the muted light below the clouds.

Good morning, Archie, Michael greeted it grimly.

It was a ranging burst from one of the guns, and was followed immediately by the thud and crack of a full salvo. The air all around him was studded with shrapnel bursts.

Michael pushed his nose down and let the speed build up, and the needle of the rev counter in front of him began to wind upwards into the red sector. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the cloth package and placed in on his lap.

The earth and forest came up swiftly towards him, and he dragged a long smear of bursting shrapnel behind him.

Two hundred feet above the tree-tops he levelled out, and the airfield was directly ahead of him. He could see the multicoloured biplanes standing in a long row, their shark-like snouts pointed up towards him. He looked for the sky-blue machine with the chequered wings but could not pick it out.

There was agitated movement all along the edge of the field. German ground crews, anticipating a torrent of Vickers machine-gun fire, were running into the forest, while off-duty pilots, trying to struggle into their flying jackets, were racing towards the parked aircraft. They must know it was useless to take off and try to intercept the British machine, but they were making the attempt nonetheless.

Michael reached for the firing-handle. The aircraft were parked in a neat line, the pilots crowding towards them - and he smiled without humour and depressed his nose, picking them up in the ring sight of the Vickers.

At 100 feet he levelled again, dropped his right hand from the firing handle and picked up the cloth package from his lap. As he passed over the centre of the German line, he leaned from the cockpit and tossed the package overboard. The ribbon he had attached to it unrolled in the slipstream of the SESa and fluttered down to the edge of the field.

As Michael opened the throttle and climbed away again towards the cloud layer, he glanced up into the mirror above his head and saw one of the German pilots stoop over the package, and then the SESa bounced and rocked as the German anti-aircraft guns opened up on him again, and a shell burst just below him. Within seconds he was into the haven of the cloud bank with his guns cold and unfired, and a few shrapnel tears in the belly and the underwings.

He turned on to a heading for Mort Homme. While he flew he thought about the package he had just dropped.

During the night he had torn a long ribbon from one of his old shirts to use as a marker and weighted the end of it with a handful Of .303 cartridges. Then he had stitched his handwritten message into the other end of the ribbon.

He had at first considered attempting the message in German, and then admitted to himself that his German was hopelessly inadequate. Almost certainly there would be an officer on Von Richthofen's Jagdstaffel who could read English well enough to translate what he had written.

To the German pilot of the blue albatros with black and white chequered wings.

Sir, The unarmed and helpless British airman whom you murdered yesterday was my friend.

Between 1600 hrs and 1630 hrs today I will be patrolling over the villages of Cantin and Aubigny-all-Bac, at a height of

8,000 feet.

I will be flying an SE5a scoutplane painted yellow.

I hope to meet you.

The rest of the squadron had already landed when Michael returned to the base.

Mac, I seem to have picked up some shrapnel."I noticed, sir. Don't worry, fix it in a jiffyI haven't fired the guns, but check the sights again, will you. Fifty yards? Mac asked for the range at which he wanted fire from both Lewis and Vickers gun to converge. Make it thirty, Mac.

Working close, sir, Mac whistled through his teeth.

I hope so, Mac, and by the way, she is a touch tailheavy. Trim her hands-off See to it myself, sir, Mac promised.

Thank you, Mac. Give the bastards one for Mr Andrew, sir. The adjutant was waiting for him. We have all aircraft operational again, Michael. Twelve on the duty roster. All right.

Hank will take the noon patrol, and I will fly at 1530 hrs alone.

Alone? The adjutant took his pipe out of his mouth in surprise.

Alone, Michael confirmed. Then a full squadron sweep at dusk, as usual.

The adjutant made a note. By the way, message from General Courtney. He will do his best to attend the ceremony this evening. He thinks he will almost certainly be there. Michael smiled for the first time that day. He had wanted very badly for Sean Courtney to be at his wedding.

Hope you can make it also, Bob. You can bet on it. Whole squadron will be there. Looking forward to it no end. Michael wanted a drink badly. He started towards the mess.

God, it's eight o'clock in the morning, he thought, and stopped. He felt brittle and dried-out, whisky would put warmth and juice into his body again, and he felt his hands begin to tremble with his deep need for it. It took all his resolve to turn away from the mess and go to his tent. He remembered then that he hadn't slept the previous night.

Biggs was sitting on a packing case outside the tent, polishing Michael's boots, but he jumped to attention, his face expressionless.

Enough of that! Michael smiled at him. Sorry about last night, Biggs. Bloody rude of me. I didn't mean it. I know, sir.

Biggs relaxed. I felt the same way about the major. Biggs, wake me at three. I've got some sleep to catch up on. It was not Biggs who woke him but the shouts of the ground crews, the sound of running men, the deep bellowing tone of the anti-aircraft guns along the edge of the orchard, and the roaring overhead of a Mercedes aircraft engine.

Michael staggered out of his tent with tousled hair and bloodshot eyes, still half-asleep. What the hell is happening, Biggs?

A Hun, sir, cheeky brighter beating up the base."He's pushed off again.

Other pilots and ground crew were shouting qnongst the trees as they ran to the edge of the field.

Didn't even fire a shot Did you see him?

An Albatros, blue with black and white wings. The devil almost took the roof of the mess He dropped something, Bob's picked it up.

Michael ducked back into the tent and pulled on his jacket and a pair of tennis shoes. He heard two or three of the aircraft starting up as he ran out of the tent again.

Some of his own pilots were setting off in pursuit of the German interloper.

Stop those men from taking off! Michael yelled, and before he reached the adjutant's office he heard the engines switched off again in response to his order.

There was small crowd of curious pilots at the door, and Michael pushed through them just as the adjutant untied the drawstring that closed the mouth of the canvas bag that the German machine had dropped. The chorus of question and comment and speculation was silenced immediately as they all realized what the bag contained.

The adjutant gently ran the strip of green silk through his fingers. There were black-rimmed holes burned through it and it was stained with dried black blood.

Andrew's scarf, he said unnecessarily, and his silver flask. The silver was badly dented, but the cairngorm stopper gleamed yellow and gold as he turned it in his hands, and the contents gurgled softly. He set it aside and one by one drew the other items from the bag: Andrew's medal ribbons, the amber cigarette-holder, a spring -loaded sovereign case that still contained three coins, his pigskin wallet. The photograph of Andrew's parents standing in the grounds of the castle fell from the wallet as he turned it over.

What's this? The adjutant picked out a buff-coloured envelope of thick glossy paper sealed with a wax wafer. It's addressed, he read the face of the envelope to the pilot of the yellow SE5a. The adjutant looked up at Michael, startled.

That's you, Michael, how the hell?

Michael took the envelope from him and split the seal with his thumbnail.

There was a single sheet of the same first-quality paper.

The letter was handwritten, and though the writing was obviously continental, for the capitals were formed in Gothic script, the text was in perfect English: Sir, Your friend, Lord Andrew Killigerran, was buried this morning in the cemetery of the Protestant church at Douai. This Jagdstaffel accorded him full military honours.

I have the honour to inform you, and at the same time also to warn you that no death in war is murder. The object of warfare is the destruction of the enemy by all means possible.

I look forward to meeting you.

OTTO VON GREIM. Near Douai.

They were all looking expectantly at Michael as he folded the letter and thrust it into his pocket.

They recovered Andrew's body, he said quietly, and he was buried with full military honours at Douai this morning. Bloody decent of them, one of the pilots murmured.

Yes, for Huns, that is, said Michael, and turned towards the door.

Michael, the adjutant stopped him, I think Andrew would have wanted you to have this.

He handed the silver hip flask to Michael. Michael turned it slowly in his hands. The dent in the metal had probably been caused by the impact, he thought, and he shivered.

Yes, he nodded. I'll look after it for him. He turned back to the door and pushed his way through the group of silent officers.

Biggs helped him dress with even more than his usual attention to detail.

I gave them a good rub of dubbin, sir, he pointed out as he helped Michael into the soft kudu-skin boots.

Michael appeared not to have heard the remark.

Although he had lain down again after the disturbance of the German aircraft's fly-over, he had not managed to sleep. Yet he felt calm, even placid. What's that, Biggs? he asked vaguely.

I said, I'll have your number ones laid out for you when you come back, and I've arranged with the cook for a good five gallons of hot water for your bath. Thank you, Biggs. Not every day it happens, Mr Michael. That's true, Biggs, once in a lifetime is enough. I'm sure you and the young lady are going to be very happy. Me and my missus been married twenty-two years come June, sir. A long time, Biggs. I hope you break my record, Mr Michael. I'll try One other thing, sir. Biggs was embarrassed, he did not look up from the lacings of the boots. We shouldn't ought to be flying alone, sir. Not safe at all, sir, we should take Mr Johnson with us at least, beg your pardon, sir I know it's not my place to say so. Michael laid his hand on Bigg's shoulder for a moment.

He had never done that before.

Have that bath ready for me when I get home, he said as he stood up.

Biggs watched him stoop out through the flap of the tent, without saying goodbye or wishing him luck, though it took an effort to restrain himself from doing so, then he picked up Michael's discarded jacket and folded it with exaggerated care.

When the Wolseley engine fired and caught, Michael advanced the ignition until she settled to a fine deep rumble. Then he listened to it critically for thirty seconds before he looked up at Mac who was standing on the wing beside the cockpit, his hair and overalls fluttering in the wash of the propeller.

Lovely, Mac! he shouted above the engine beat, and Mac grinned.

Give them hell, sir, and jumped down to pull the chocks from in front of the landing-wheels.

Instinctively Michael drew a deep breath, as though he were about to dive into one of those cool green pools of the Tugela river, and then eased the throttle open and the big machine rolled forward.

The knoll behind the chAteau was deserted once again, but he had not expected anything else. He lifted the nose into the climb attitude and then changed his mind, let it drop again and brought her round in a tight turn, his wingtip almost brushing the tops of the oaks.

He came out of the turn with the chAteau directly ahead, and he flew past it at the height of the pink-tiled roof. He saw no sign of life and as soon as he was past, he banked the SE5a into a figure-of-eight turn and came around again, still at roof level, This time he saw movement. One of the windows at ground level, near the kitchens, was thrown open. Someone was waving a yellow cloth from it, but he could not make out who it was.

He came around again and this time dropped down until his landing-wheels almost touched the stone wall that enclosed Anna's vegetable garden. He saw Centaine in the window. He could not mistake that dark bush of hair and the huge eyes. She was leaning far out over the sill, shouting something and waving the yellow scarf that she had worn the day they flew together to meet Sean Courtney.

As Michael lifted the nose and opened the throttle to climb away, he felt rejuvenated. The placid and passive mood that had held him evaporated and he felt charged and vital again. He had seen her, and now it would be all right.

It was Michael, Centaine cried happily as she turned back from the window to where Anna sat on the bed, I saw him, Anna, it was surely him. Oh, he is so handsome - he came to find me, despite Papa! Anna's face crumpled and reddened with disapproval. It is bad luck for a groom to see his bride on the wedding day Oh nonsense, Anna, sometimes you talk such rubbish.

Oh, Anna, he is so beautiful!

And you will not be if we do not finish before this evening.

Centaine fluffed out her skirts and settled on to the bed beside Anna. She took the antique ivory-coloured lace of the wedding dress into her lap, and then held the needle up to the light and squinted as she threaded it.

I have decided, she told Anna as she recommenced work on the hem of the dress, I will have only sons, at least six sons, but no daughters. Being a girl is such a bore, I don't wish to inflict it on any of my children. She completed a dozen stitches and then stopped. I'm so happy, Anna, and so excited. Do you think the general will come? When do you think this silly war will end, so that Michel and I can go to Africa? Listening to her chatter Anna turned her head slightly to hide her doting smile.

The yellow SE5a bored up powerfully into the soft grey belly of the sky. Michael chose one of the gaps in the lower layer of cloud, roared swiftly through it and burst out into the open corridor. High above there was still the same high roof of solid cloud, but below it the air was limpid as crystal. When his altimeter registered 8,000 feet, Michael levelled out. He was in the clear, equidistant from the layers of cloud above and below him, but through the gaps he could pick up his landmarks.

The villages of Cantin and Aubigny-all-Bac were deserted, shell-shattered skeletons. Only a few stone chimney-pieces had survived the waves of war which had washed back and forth over them. These stuck up like funeral monuments from the muddy torn earth.

The two villages were four miles apart, the road that once joined them had been obliterated, and the front lines twisted like a pair of maimed adders through the brown fields between them. The shell holes, filled with stagnant water, blinked up at him like the eyes of the blind.

Michael glanced at his watch. It was four minutes to four o'clock, and his eyes immediately returned to their endless search of the empty sky. One at a time he lifted his hands from the controls and flexed his fingers, at the same time wriggling his toes in the kudu-skin boots loosening up like a runner before the pistol. He reached up to the firing-handle with both hands, to test the trim of the machine, and she flew on straight and level. He fired both his guns, a short burst from each of them, and he nodded and blew on the gloved fingers of his right hand.

I need a drink, he told himself, and took Andrew's silver flask from his pocket. He took a mouthful and gargled it softly, and then swallowed. The fire of it bloomed in his bloodstream, but he resisted the temptation to drink again. He stoppered the flask and dropped it back into his pocket. He touched the left rudder to begin his turn into the square patrol pattern and at that moment he picked up the flea-black speck on the grey mattress of the clouds far ahead and he met the turn, holding her steady while he blinked his eyes rapidly and checked his sighting.

The other machine was at 8,000 feet, exactly his own height, and it was closing swiftly, coming in from the north, from the direction of Douai, and he felt the spurt of adrenalin mingle with the alcohol in his blood. His cheeks burned and, his guts spasmed. He eased the throttle open and flew on to meet it.

The combined speeds of the two aircraft hurled them together, so that the other machine swelled miraculously in front of Michael's eyes. He saw the bright blue of the nose and propeller-boss hazed by the spinning blades, and the wide black hawk's wings outstretched. He saw the helmeted top of the pilot's head between the two black Spandau machine-guns mounted on the engine cowling, and the flash of his goggles as he leaned forward to peer into his sights.

Michael pushed the throttle fully open and the engine bellowed. His left hand held the joystick like an artist holding his brush with the lightest pressure of his fingertips, as he positioned the German exactly in the centre of the concentric rings of his own gun-sight, and his right hand reached up for the firing-handle.

His hatred and his anger grew as swiftly as the image of his enemy, and he held his fire. The battle clock in his head started to run so that the passage of time slowed.

He saw the muzzles of the Spandau machine-guns begin to wink at him, bright sparks of fire, flickering red as the planet Mars on a moonless night. He aimed for the head of the other pilot, and he pressed down on the trigger and felt the aircraft pulse about him as his guns shook and rattled.

No thought of breaking out of that head-on charge even occurred to Michael. He was completely absorbed by his aim, trying to stream his bullets into the German's face, to rip out his eyes, and blow his brains out of the casket of his skull. He felt the Spandau bullets plucking and tugging at the fabric and frame of his machine, heard them passing his head with sharp flitting sounds like wild

locusts, and he ignored them.

He saw his own bullets kicking white splinters off the German's spinning propeller, and in anger knew that they were being deflected from his true aim. The two aircraft were almost in collision, and Michael braced himself for the impact without lifting his hand from the firinghandle, without attempting to turn.

Then the Albatros winged up violently, at the very last instant avoiding the collision, flicking out to starboard as the German hurled her over. There was a jarring bang that shook the SE5a. The two wings had just brushed each other as they passed. Michael saw the torn strip of fabric trailing from his own wingtip. He kicked on full rudder, into that flat skidding turn that only the SESa was capable of, and felt the wings flex at the strain, and then he was around. The Albatros was ahead of him, but still out of effective range.

Michael thrust with all his strength on the throttle handle, but it was already wide open, the engine straining at full power and still the Albatros was holding him off.

The German turned and went up left, and Michael followed him. They climbed more steeply, going up almost into the vertical, and the speed of both machines began to bleed off, but the SE5a more rapidly so that the German was pulling ahead.

It's not the same Albatros. Michael realized with a shock that the relocation of the radiator was not the only modification. He was fighting a new type of aircraft, an advanced type, faster and more powerful than even his own SE5a.

He saw the wide sweep of those black and white chequ ered wings, and the head of the German pilot craning to watch him in his mirror, and he tried to bring his guns to bear, swinging his right sight in a short arc as he wrenched his nose across.

The German flipped his Albatros into a stall-turn and came straight back at Michael, head-on again with the Spandaus flicking their little red eyes at him, and this time Michael was forced to break, for the German had height and speed.

For a crucial moment, Michael was hanging in his turn, his speed had dwindled and the German rounded on him, and dropped on to his tail. The German was good, Michael's guts tightened as he realized it. He pushed his nose down for speed, and at the same time flung the SE5 a into a vertical turn. The Albatros followed him round, turning with him, so that they were revolving around each other like two planets caught in immutable orbits.

He looked across at the other pilot, lifting his chin to do so, for each of them was standing on one wingtip.

The German stared back at him, the goggles making him appear monstrous and inhuman, and then for an instant Michael looked beyond the bright blue fuselage, up towards the high cloud ceiling, his hunter's eyes drawn by a tiny insect speckle of movement.

For an instant his heart ceased to pump and his blood seemed to thicken and slow in his veins, then with a leap like a startled animal, his heart raced away and his breathing hissed in his throat.

I have the honour to inform you, and at the same time also to warn you, the German had written, the object of warfare is the destruction of the enemy by all means possible. Michael had read the warning, but only now did he understand. They had turned his woolly-headed romantic notion of a single duel into a death-trap. Like a child, he had placed himself in their power. He had given them time and place, even the altitude. They had used the blue machine merely as a decoy. His own naivety amazed him now, as he saw them come swarming down out of the high cloud.

How many of them? There was no time to count them, but it looked like a full Jasta. of the new-type Albatroses, twenty of them at least, in that swift and silent flock, their brilliant colours sparkling jewel-like against the sombre backdrop of cloud.

I'm not going to be able to keep my promise to Centaine, he thought, and looked down. The low cloud was 2,000 feet below him, it was a remote haven but there was no other. He could not hope to fight twenty of Germany's most skilled aces, he would not last for more than a few seconds when they reached him, and they were coming fast, while the blue machine pinned and held him for the killing stroke.

Suddenly, faced with the death which he had deliberately sought, Michael wanted to live. He had been dragging back on the joystick with all his weight, holding the SESa into its turn. He flicked the stick forward and she was flung outwards, like a stone from a slingshot.

Michael was hurled up against his shoulder straps as the forces of gravity were inverted, but he collected the big machine and used its own impetus to push it into a steep dive, going down with a gut-swooping rush towards the low cloud bank. The manoeuvre caught his opponent off-balance, but he recovered instantly and the Albatros was after him in a blue flash of speed, while the swarming multicoloured pack was overhauling them both from above.

Michael watched them in the mirror above his head, realizing bow much quicker this new type of Albatros was in the dive. He glanced ahead to the clouds. Their grey folds which had seemed so clammy and uninviting a few seconds before were his only hope of life and salvation, and now that he had started to flee his terror came back and settled upon him like a dark and terrible succubus, draining him of his courage and manhood.

He wasn't going to make it, they would catch him before he reached cover, and he clung to the joystick, frozen with his new and crippling terror.

The clatter of twin Spandaus roused him. In the mirror he saw the dancing red muzzle flashes, so close behind him, and something hit him a numbing blow low down in his back. The force of it drove the air from his lungs, and he knew he must turn out of the killing line of the blue Albatros's guns.

He hit the rudder bar with all his force, attempting the flat skidding turn that would bring him face to face with his tormentors, but his speed was too great, the angle of dive too steep, the SESa would not respond. She lurched and yawed into a turn that brought him broadside on to the pursuing pack, and although the blue Albatros overshot, the others fell upon him one after the other, each successive attack a split second after the last. The sky was filled with flashing wings and bright-coloured fuselages. The crash of shot into his aircraft was continuous and unbearable, the SE5a dropped a wing and went into a spin.

Sky and cloud and patches of earth, interspersed with bright-coloured Albatroses with flickering, chattering guns, spun through Michael's field of vision in dizzying array. He felt another blow, this time in his leg, just below the fork of his crotch. He looked down and saw that a burst had come up through the floor, and a bullet, misshapen and deformed, had ripped through his thigh.

Blood pumped from it in bright arterial jets. He had seen a Zulu gunbearer, savaged by a wounded buffalo, bleed this way from a ruptured femoral artery; he had died in three minutes.

Streams of machine-gun fire were still coming in at him from every angle, and he could not defend himself for his aircraft was out of control, flicking through the turns of the spin, throwing her nose up viciously, and then dropping it again in that sava e rhythm.

Michael fought her, thrusting on opposite rudder to try to break the pattern of her rotation, and at the exertion the blood pumped more strongly from his torn thigh and he felt the first giddy weakness in his head. He dropped one hand from the joystick and thrust his thumb into his groin, seeking the pressure point, and the great pulsing red spurts shrivelled as he found it.

Again he coaxed the maimed aircraft, stick forward to stop that high-nose attitude, and a burst of throttle to power her out of the spin. She responded reluctantly, and he tried not to think about the machine-gun fire that tore at him from every side.

The clouds and earth stopped revolving about him, as her tight turns slowed and she dropped straight. Then with one hand only he pulled her nose up and felt the overstressing of her wings and the suck of gravity in his belly, but at last the world tilted before his eyes as she came back on to an even keel.

He glanced in the mirror and saw that the blue Albatros had found him again and was pressing in close on his tailplane for the coup de grdce.

Before that dreadful rattling chatter of the Spandau could begin again, Michael felt the cold damp rush across his face as grey streamers of cloud blew over the open cockpit, and then the light was blotted out and he was into a dim, blind world, a quiet, muted world where the Spandaus could no longer desecrate the silences of the sky. They could not find him in the clouds.

Automatically his eyes fastened on the tiny glycerinefilled glass tubes set on the dashboard in front of him, and with small controlled adjustments he aligned the bubbles in the tubes within their markers so that the SE5a. was flying straight and level through the cloud. The be turned her gently on to a compass heading for Mort Homme.

He wanted to be sick, that was his first reaction from terror and the stress of combat. He swallowed and panted to control it, and then he felt the weakness come at him again. It was as though a bat was trapped in his skull.

The dark soft wings beat behind his eyes and his vision faded in patches.

He blinked away the darkness and looked down. His thumb was still thrust into his own groin, but he had never seen so much blood. His hand was coated, his fingers sticky with it. The sleeve of his jacket was soaked to the elbow. Blood had turned his breeches into a sodden mass and it had run down into his boots. There were pools of blood on the floor of the cockpit, already congealing into lumps like blackcurrant jam, and snakes of it slithering back and forth with each movement of the machine.

He let go of the stick for a moment, leaned forward against his shoulder straps and groped behind his back.

He found the other bullet wound, three inches to the side of his spine and just above the girdle of his pelvis. There was no exit wound. It was still in there and he was bleeding internally, he was certain of it. There was a swollen, stretched feeling in his belly as his stomach cavity filled with blood.

The machine dropped a wing, and he snatched for the joystick to level her, but it took him many seconds to make the simple adjustment. His fingers prickled with pins and needles, and he felt very cold. His reactions were slowing down, so that each movement, no matter how small, was becoming an effort.

However, there was no pain, just a numbness that spread down from the small of his back to his knees. He removed his thumb to test the wound in his thigh, and immediately there was a full spray of bright blood from it like a flamingo's feather, and hastily he stopped it again and concentrated on his flying instruments.

How long to reach Mort Homme? He tried to work it out, but his brain was slow and muzzy. Nine minutes from Cantin, he reckoned, how long had he been flying?

He did not know, and he rolled his wrist so that he could see his watch. He found he had to count the divisions on the dial like a child.

Don't want to come out of the cloud too soon, they'll be waiting for me, he thought heavily, and the dial of his wristwatch multiplied before his eyes.

Double vision, he realized.

Quickly he looked ahead, and the silver clouds billowed around him, and he had the sensation of falling. He almost lurched at the stick to counteract it, but his training restrained him and he checked the bubbles in his artificial horizon, they were still aligned. His senses were tricking him, Centaine, he said suddenly, what time is it? I'm going to be late for the wedding. He felt panic surface through the swamp of his weakness, and the wings of darkness beat more frantically behind his eyes.

I promised her. I swore an oath! He checked his watch.

Six minutes past four, that's impossible, he thought wildly. Bloody watch is wrong. He was losing track of reality.

The SE5a burst out of the cloud into one of the holes in the layer.

Michael flung up his hand to protect his eyes from the brilliance of the light, and then looked around him.

He was on the correct heading for the airfield, he recognized the road and railway line and the star-shaped field between them. Another six minutes flying, he calculated. The sight of the earth had orientated him again. He took a grip on the real world and looked upwards. He saw them there, circling like vultures above the lion kill, waiting for him to emerge from the cloud. They had spotted him, he saw them turn towards him on their rainbow-coloured wings, but he plunged into the cloud on the far side of the opening, and the cold wet billows enfolded him, bid him from their cruel eyes.

I've got to keep my promise, he mumbled. The loss of contact with the earth confused him. He felt the waves of vertigo wash over him again. He let the SESa sink slowly down through the layer of cloud, and once again came out into the light. There was all the familiar country side below him, the ridges and the battle lines far behind him, the woods and the village and the church spire ahead, so peaceful and idyllic.

Centaine, I'm coming home, he thought, and a terrible weariness fell over him, its great weight seemed to smother him and crush him down in the cockpit.

He rolled his head and he saw the chAteau. Its pink roof was a beacon, drawing him irresistibly, the nose of his aircraft turned towards it seemingly without his bidding.

Centaine, he whispered. I'm coming, wait for me, I'm coming. And the darkness drew in upon him, so that it seemed that he was receding into a long tunnel.

There was a roaring in his ears, like the sound of surf heard in a seashell, and he concentrated with all his remaining strength, staring down the ever-narrowing tunnel through the darkness, looking for her face, and listening over the sea sounds in his ears for her voice.

Centaine, where are you? Oh God, where are you, my love?

Centaine stood before the heavy mirror in its walnut and gilt frame, and she looked at her reflection with dark and serious eyes.

Tomorrow I will be Madame Michel Courtney, she said solemnly, never again Centaine de Thiry. Isn't that a formidable thought, Anna? She touched her own temples. Do you think I will feel different? Surely such a momentous event must alter me can never be the same person after thatV Wake up, child, Anna prodded her. There is still so much to do. This is no time for dreaming. She lifted the bulky skirt and dropped it over Centaine's head, then, standing behind her, she fastened the waistband.

IT, I wonder if Mama is watching, Anna. I wonder if she knows I am wearing her dress, and if she is happy for me? Anna grunted as she went down on her knees to check the hem. Centaine smoothed the delicate old lace over her hips and listened to the muffled sound of men's laughter from the grand salon on the floor below.

I am so happy that the general could come. isn't he a handsome man, Anna, just like Michel? Those eyes, did you notice them?

Again Anna grunted, but with more emphasis, for a moment her hands faltered as she thought about the general.

Now that is a real man, she had told herself, as she watched Sean Courtney step down from the Rolls and come up the front staircase of the chdteau.

He looks so grand in his uniform and medals, Centaine went on. When Michel is older, I will insist that he grows a beard like that. So much presence There was another burst of laughter from below. He and Papa like each other, don't you think, Anna? Listen to them!

I hope they leave some cognac for the other guests Anna gnunped, and hoisted herself to her feet, then paused with one hand on the small of her back as a thought struck her.

We should have laid out the blue Dresden service rather than the Sevres. It would have looked better with the pink roses. You should have thought of that yesterday, Centaine cut in quickly. I'm not going to go over all that again. The two of them had worked all the previous day and most of the night to reopen the grand salon which had been closed ever since the servants left. The draperies had been floury with dust, and the high ceilings so laced with cobwebs that the scenes from mythology that decorated them were almost obscured.

They had finished the cleaning red-eyed and sneezing before beginning on the silver, which had been all tarnished and spotted. Then each piece of the red and gold Svres dinner service had to be washed and hand-dried.

The comte, protesting volubly, A veteran of Sedan and the army of the Third Empire forced to labour like a common varlet', had been dragooned in to assist.

Finally it had all been done. The salon once again splendid, the floor of intricately fitted and patterned wooden blocks glossy with wax, the nymphs and goddesses and fauns dancing and cavorting and chasing each other across the domed ceiling, the silver aglitter and the first of Anna's cherished roses from the greenhouse glowing like great gems in the candlelight.

We should have made a few more pies, Anna worried, those soldiers have appetites like horses. They are not soldiers, they are airmen, Centaine corrected her, and we have enough to feed the entire Allied army, not merely a single squadron, Centaine broke off. Listen, Anna! Anna waddled to the window and looked out. It is them! she declared. So early! The drab brown truck came puttering up the long gravel drive, looking prim and old-maidish on its high narrow wheels, the back crowded with all the off-duty officers from the squadron, the adjutant at the wheel with his pipe clamped in his jaws and a fixed and terrified expression on his face as he steered the vehicle on an uneven course from one verge of the wide driveway to the other, loudly encouraged by his passengers.

Have you locked the pantry? Anna demanded anxiously. If that tribe find the food before we are ready to serve Anna had enlisted her cronies from the village, those who had not fled the war, and the pantry was an Aladdin's cave of cold pies and pAstas and the wonderful local terrines, of hams and apple tarts, of pigs trotters with truffles in aspic, and a dozen other delights.

It's not the food they have come for so early in the day. Centaine joined her at the window. Papa has the keys to the cellar. They will be well taken care of. Her father was already halfway down the marble staircase to greet them, and the adjutant braked with such abruptness that two of his pilots landed in the front seat with him in a tangle of legs and arms.

I say, he cried in obvious relief at being once again at a standstill, you must be the jolly old count, what? We are the advance guard, how do you say it in French, le d'avant garde, don't you know? Ah, to be sure! The comte seized his hand. Our brave allies. You are welcome! Welcome! May I offer you a small glass of something? You see, Anna, Centaine smiled as she turned back from the window, there is no need to worry. They understand each other. Your food will be safe from them, for a while at least.

She picked up the wedding veil from the bed and arranged it loosely over her head, and studied herself in the mirror.

This must be the happiest day of my life, she whispered. Nothing must happen to spoil it. Nothing will, my child, Anna came up behind her and arranged the filmy lace of the veil upon her shoulders.

You will be the loveliest bride, what a pity that none of the gentry will be here to see you Enough, Anna, Centaine told her gently. No regrets.

Everything is perfect. I would not have it any other way. She cocked her head slightly. Anna! Her expression became animated. What is it? Do you hear? Centaine spun away from the mirror. It's him. It's Michel. He is coming back to me. She ran to the window, and unable to contain herself, she hopped up and down, dancing like a little girl at the window of a toy shop.

Listen! He is coming this way! She could recognize the distinctive beat of the engine that she had so often listened for.

I don't see him. Anna was behind her, screwing up her eyes, looking upwards in the ragged clouds.

He must be very low, Centaine began. Yes! Yes! There he is, just above the forest. I see him. Is he going to the airfield in the orchard? No, not with this wind. I think he's coming this way. Is it him? Are you sure? Of course I'm sure, can't you see the colour? Mon petit jaune! Others had heard it also. There were voices below the window, and a dozen of the wedding guests trooped out through the french doors of the salon on to the terrace.

They were led by Sean Courtney in the full dress uniform of a British general, and the comte even more resplendent in the blue and gold of a colonel of the infantry of Napoleon I'll.

They all carried their glasses and their voices were raised in mounting spirits and cheerful camaraderie.

That's Michel all right, someone called. I'll bet he's going to give us a low-level beat-up. Take the roof off the chateau, you'll see! It should be a victory roll, considering what he's got in store.

Centaine found herself laughing with them, and she clapped her hands as she watched the yellow machine approaching, then her hands froze an instant before they came together.

Anna, she said, there is something wrong. The aircraft was close enough now for them to see how irregularly it was flying, one wing dropped and the machine yawed and dipped towards the tree-tops, then pulled up sharply, and its wings wobbled, and then it dropped on the opposite side.

What's he up to? The timbre of the voices from the terrace changed. By God, he's in trouble, I think The SE5a began a meandering, purposeless turn to starboard, and they could see the side of the damaged fuselage and the torn wing surfaces as it banked. It looked like the carcass of a fish that had been attacked by a pack of sharks.

He's been badly shot up! one of the pilots yelled.

Yes, he's hard hit. The SESa turned back too steeply, the nose dropped and almost hit the trees.

He's going to try for a forced landing! Some of the pilots jumped over the wall of the terrace and ran out on to the lawns, frantically signalling to the crippled aircraft.

This way, Michael! Keep the nose up, man!

Too slow! screamed anther. You'll stall her in! Open the throttle. Give her the gun! They shouted their futile advice, and the aircraft settled heavily towards the open lawns.

Michel, Centaine breathed, twisting the lace between her fingers and not even feeling it tear, come to me, Michel. There was one last row of trees, ancient copper beech, with the new leaf buds on their gnarled branches just beginning to pop open. They guarded the bottom of the lawns furthest from the chAteau.

The yellow SESa dropped behind them, the beat of her engine faltering. Get her up, Michael! Pull her up! Damn it! They were shouting to him, and Centaine added her own entreaty.

Please, Michael, fly over the trees. Come to me, my darling. The Viper engine roared again at full power, and they saw the machine rocket up like a great yellow pheasant rising from cover. He's going to make it. The nose was too high, they all saw it, she seemed to hover above the stark, leafless branches, and they reached up like the claws of a monster, then the yellow nose dropped.

He's over! one of the pilots exulted, but one of the landing-wheels caught on a heavy curved branch, and the SE5a somersaulted in midair, then fell out of the sky.

It hit the soft earth at the edge of the lawn, landing on its nose, the spinning propeller exploding in a blur of white splinters, and then with the wooden frames of the fuselage crackling, the entire machine collapsed, crushed like a butterfly, its bright yellow wings folding around the crumpled body, and Centaine saw Michael.

He was daubed with his own blood, it had streaked his face, his head was thrown back, and he was hanging halfway out of the open cockpit, dangling in his straps like a man on the gallows.

Michael's brother officers were streaming down the lawn. She saw the general throw his glass aside and hurl himself over the terrace wall. He ran with a desperate, uneven gait, the limp throwing him off balance, but he was gaining on the younger men.

The first of them had almost reached the wrecked aircraft when the flames engulfed it with miraculous suddenness. They shot upwards with a drumming, roaring sound, very pale-coloured but plumed with black smoke at their crests, and the running men stopped and hesitated and then drew back, holding up their hands to protect their faces from the heat.

Sean Courtney charged through them, going straight into the flames, oblivious of the seaTin& dancing waves of heat, but four of the young officers leaped forward and seized his arms and his shoulders, and pulled him back.

Sean was struggling in their grip, so wildly that three others had to run up and help to restrain him. Sean was roaring, a deep, throaty, incoherent sound, like a bull buffalo in a trap, trying to reach out through the flames to the man trapped in the crumpled body of the yellow aircraft.

Then quite suddenly the sound ceased and he sagged.

If the men had not been holding him, he would have fallen to his knees. His hands dropped to his sides, but he went on staring into the wall of flame. had Years before, on a visit to England, Centaine watched with horrid fascination as the children of her host had burnt the effigy of an English assassin called Guy Fawkes on a pyre that they had built themselves in the garden. The effigy had been cleverly fashioned, and as the flames rose up over it, it had blackened and begun to twist and writhe in a most lifelike fashion. Centaine had woken in the sweat of nightmare for weeks afterwards. Now, as she watched from the upper window of the chateau, she heard somebody near her begin to scream. She thought that it might be Anna. They were cries of the utmost anguish, and she found herself shaking to them the way a sapling shakes to the high wind.

It was the same nightmare as before. She could not look away as the effigy turned black and began to shrivel, its limbs spasming and jack-knifing slowly in the heat, and the screams filled her head and deafened her. Only then did she realize that it was not Anna, but that the screams were her own. As these gusts o agonized sound came up from the depths of her chest, they seemed to be of some abrasive substance, like particles of crushed glass, that ripped at the lining of her throat.

She felt Anna's strong arms around her lifting her off her feet, carrying her away from the window. She fought with all her strength, but Anna was too powerful for her.

She laid Centaine on the bed and held her face to her vast soft bosom, stifling those wild screams. When at last she was quiet, she stroked her hair and began to rock her gently, humming to her as she used to do when Centaine was an infant.

They buried Michael Courtney in the churchyard of Mort Homme, in the section reserved for the de Thiry family.

They buried him that night by lantern light. His brother officers dug his grave, and the padre who should have married them said the office for the burial of the dead over him.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord Centaine was on the arm of her father, with black lace covering her face. Anna took her other arm, holding her protectively.

Centaine did not weep. after those screams had silenced, there had been no tears. It was as though her soul had been scorched by the flames into a Saharan dryness. O remember not the sins and offences of my youth -The words were remote, as though spoken from the far side of a barrier.

Michel had no sin, she thought. He was without offence, but, yes, he was too young, oh Lord, too young.

Why did he have to die? Sean Courtney stood opposite her across the hastily prepared grave, and a pace behind him was his Zulu driver and servant, Sangane. Centaine had never seen a black man weep before. His tears shone on his velvety skin like drops of dew running down the petals of a dark flower.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery Centaine looked down into the deep muddy trench, at the pathetic box of raw deal, so swiftly knocked together in the squadron workshop, and she thought, That is not Michel. This is not real. It is still some awful nightmare.

Soon I will wake and Michel will come flying back, and I will be waiting with Nuage on the hilltop to welcome him. A harsh, unpleasant sound roused her. The general had stepped forward, and one of the junior officers had handed him a spade. The clods rattled and thumped on the lid of the coffin and Centaine looked upwards, not wanting to watch.

Not down there, Michel she whispered behind the dark veil. You don't belong down there. For me, you will always be a creature of the sky. For me, you will be always up there in the blue- And then, Au revoir, Michel, till we meet again, my darling. Each time I look to the sky I will think of you.

. . .

Centaine sat by the window. When she placed the lace wedding veil over her shoulders Anna started to object, and then stopped herself.

Anna sat on the bed near her, and neither of them spoke.

They could hear the men in the salon below. Someone had been playing the piano a short while before, playing it very badly, but Centaine had been able to recognize Chopin's Funeral March, and the others had been humming along and beating time to it.

Centaine had instinctively understood what was happening, that it was their special farewell to one of their own, but she had remained untouched by it. Then later she had heard their voices take on that rough raw quality.

They were becoming very drunk, and she knew that this too was part of the ritual. Then there was laughter drunken laughter but with a sorrowful underlying timbre to it, and then more singing, raucous and untuneful, and she had felt nothing. She had sat dry-eyed in the candlelight and watched the shell-fire flickering on the horizon and listened to the singing and the sounds of war.

You must go to bed, child, Anna had said once, gentle as a mother, but Centaine had shaken her head and Anna had not insisted. Instead, she had trimmed the wick, spread a quilt over Centaine's knees and gone down to fetch a plate of ham and cold pie and a glass of wine from the salon. The food and wine lay untouched on the table at Centaine's elbow now.

You must eat, child, Anna whispered, reluctant to intrude, and Centaine turned her head slowly to her.

No, Anna, she said. I am not a child any longer. That part of me died today, with Michel. You should never call me that again. I promise you I will not, and Centaine turned slowly back to the window.

The village clock struck two and a little later they heard the officers of the squadron leaving. Some of them were so drunk that they had to be carried by their companions and thrown into the back of the truck like sacks of corn, and then the truck puttered away into the night.

There was a soft tap on the door, and Anna rose from the bed and went to open it.

Is she awake? Yes, Anna whispered back.

May I speak to her?

Enter Sean Courtney came in and stood near Centaine's chair.

She could smell the whisky, but he was steady as a granite boulder on his feet and his voice was low and controlled: despite that, she sensed there was a wall within him, holding back his grief.

I have to leave now, my dear, he said in Afrikaans, and she rose from the chair, letting the quilt slip off her knees, and with the wedding veil over her shoulders went to stand before him, looking up into his eyes.

You were his father, she said, and his control shattered. He reeled and put his hand on the table for support, staring at her.

How did you know that? he whispered, and now she saw his grief come. to the surface, and at last she allowed her own to rise and mingle with his. The tears started, and her shoulders shook silently. He opened his arms to her, and she went into them and he held her to his chest.

Neither of them spoke again for a long time, until her sobs muted and at last ceased. Then Sean said, I will always think of you as Michael's Wife, as my own daughter. If you need me, no matter where or when, you have only to send for me. She nodded rapidly, blinking her eyes, and then stepped back as he opened his embrace.

You are brave and strong, he said. I recognized that when first we met. You will endure. He turned and limped from the room, and minutes later she heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel of the drive as the Rolls with the big Zulu at the wheel pulled away.

At sunrise Centaine was on the knoll behind the chAteau, mounted on Nuage, and as the squadron took off on dawn patrol, she rose high in the saddle and waved them away.

The little American whom Michel had called Hank was flying in the lead, and he waggled his wings and waved to her, and she laughed and waved back, and the tears ran down her cheeks while she laughed and they felt like icicles on her skin in the cold morning wind.

She and Anna worked all morning to close the salon again, cover the furniture with dust sheets, and pack away the service and the silver. The three of them ate lunch in the kitchen, terrines and ham left over from the previous evening. Though Centaine was pate and her eyes were underscored with blue as dark as bruises, and though she barely tasted the food or sipped her wine, she spoke normally, discussing the chores and tasks that must be done that afternoon. The comte and Anna watched her anxiously but surreptitiously, uncertain how to take her unnatural calm, and at the end of the meal the comte could contain himself no longer. Are you all right, my little one? The general said that I would endure, she answered. I want to prove him to be right. She stood up from the table. I will be back within the hour to help you, Anna. She took the armful of roses that they had salvaged from the salon, and went out to the stables. She rode Nuage down to the end of the lane, and the long columns of khaki-clad men, bowed under their weapons and packs, called to her as she passed, and she smiled and waved at them, and they looked back after her wistfully.

She hitched Nuage to the churchyard gate, and with her arms full of flowers, went around the side of the mosscovered stone church. A dark green yew tree spread its branches over the de Thiry plot, but the newly turned earth was trampled and muddy and the grave looked like one of Anna's vegetable beds, only not as neatly dressed and squared.

Centaine fetched a spade from the shed at the far end of the churchyard and set to work. When she had finished, she arranged the roses and stood back. Her skirts were muddy and there was dirt under her fingernails.

There, she said with satisfaction. That's much better.

As soon as I can find a mason I will arrange the headstone, Michel, and IT come again tomorrow with fresh flowers. That afternoon she worked with Anna, hardly looking up from her tasks or pausing for a moment, breaking off just before dusk to ride up to the knoll and watch the planes come back from the north. That evening, there were two moire of them missing from the squadron, and the burden of mourning that she carried as she rode home was for them as well as for Michel.

After dinner she went to her bedchamber as soon as she and Anna had washed the dishes. She knew that she was exhausted and she longed for sleep, but instead the grief that she had held at bay all that day came at her out of the darkness and she pulled the bolster over her face to smother it.

Still Anna heard it, for she had been listening for it.

She came through in her frilled bed-cap and nightdress, carrying a candle. She blew out the candle and slipped under the bedclothes and took Centaine in her arms, crooning to her and holding her until at last she slept.

At dawn Centaine was on the knoll again, and the days and weeks repeated themselves, so that she felt trapped and hopeless in the routine of despair. There were only small variations from this routine: a dozen new SESas in the squadron flights, still painted in factory drab, and flown by pilots whose every manoeuvre proclaimed even to Centaine that they were new chums, while the numbers of the brightly painted machines that she knew dwindled at each return. The columns of men and equipment and guns moving u p the main road below the chateau became denser each day, and there was a building current of anxiety and tension that infected even the three of them in the chateau.

Any day now, the comte kept repeating, it's going to begin. You see if I'm wrong. Then one morning the little American circled back over where Centaine waited on the hillock and he leaned far out of the open cockpit and let something drop. It was a small package, with a long bright ribbon attached to it as a marker. it fell beyond the crest of the hillock and Centaine urged Nuage down the slope and found the ribbon dangling in the hedgerow at the bottom. She reached up and disentangled it from the thorns, and when Hank circled back again, she held it up to show him that she had retrieved it, and he saluted her and climbed away towards the ridges.

In the privacy of her room Centaine opened the package. It contained a pair of embroidered RFC wings and a medal in its red leather case. She stroked the lustrous silk from which the silver cross was suspended, and then turned it over to find the date and Michael's name and rank engraved upon it. The third item, in a buff envelope, was a photograph. It showed the squadron aircraft drawn up in a wide semi-circle, wingtip to wingtip, in front of the hangars at Bertangles, and in the foreground the pilots stood in a group and grinned self-consciously at the photographer. The mad Scotsman, Andrew, stood beside Michael, barely reaching to his shoulder, while Michael had his cap on the back of his head and his hands in his pockets. He looked so debonair and carefree that Centaine's heart squeezed until she felt she was suffocating.

She placed the photograph in the same silver frame as that of her mother, and kept it beside her bed. The medal and the RFC wings she placed in her jewelbox with her other treasures.

Then every afternoon Centaine spent an hour in the churchyard. She paved the raw grave with red bricks that she had found behind the toolshed.

Only until we can find a mason, Michel, she explained to him as she worked on her hands and knees, and she scoured the fields and the forest of wild flowers to bring to him.

In the evenings she played the Aida recording and pored over that page of her atlas that depicted the horse-headshaped continent of Africa, and the vast red expanses of empire that were its predominant coloration, or she read aloud from the English books, Kipling and Bernard Shaw, that she had retrieved from her mother's upstairs bedroom, while the comte listened attentively and corrected her pronounciation. None of them mentioned Michael, but they were all aware of him every minute; he seemed to be part of the atlas and the English books and the jubilant strains of Ai'da.

When at last Centaine was certain she was utterly exhausted, she would kiss her father and go to her room.

However, as soon as she blew out the candle, her grief would overwhelm her once again, and within minutes the door would open softly and Anna would come to take her in her arms, and the whole cycle would begin again.

The comte broke in. He hammered on Centaine's bed room door, awakening them in those dark and early hours of the morning when all human energy is at its lowest ebb.

What is it? Anna called sleepily. Come! the comte shouted back. Come and see. With gowns hastily thrown over their nightclothes, they followed him through the kitchens and out into the paved yard. There they stopped and stared up at the eastern sky in wonder, for although there was no moon, it glowed with a strange wavering orange light as though somewhere below the horizon Vulcan had thrown open the door to the furnace of the gods.

Listen! commanded the comte, and they heard the sussuration upon the light breeze, and it seemed that the earth beneath their feet trembled to the force of that distant conflagration.

It has begun, he said, and only then did they realize that this was the opening barrage of the great new Allied offensive upon the Western Front.

They sat up the rest of that night in the kitchen, drinking pots of black coffee, and every little while trooping out again into the yard to watch the fiery display as though it were some astronomical phenomenon.

The comte was exultant as he described to them what was taking place. This is the saturation barrage which will flatten the barbed wire and destroy the enemy trenches. The boche will be annihilated, he pointed to the fiery sky, who could withstand that! The thousands of artillery batteries were each firing on a front of a hundred yards, and over the next seven days and nights they never ceased. The sheer weight of metal which they hurled on to the German lines obliterated the trench work and parapets, and ploughed and reploughed the earth.

The comte was aflame with warlike and patriotic ardour. You are living in history. You are witness to one of the great battles of the ages, But for Centaine and Anna, seven days and seven nights was too long a time; the first amazement soon turned to apathy and disinterest. They went about the daily life of the chAteau, no longer heeding the distant bombardment, and at night slept through the pyrotechnics and the comte's summonses to Come and watch! Then on the seventh morning, while they were at breakfast, even they were aware of the change in the sound and intensity of the guns.

The comte sprang up from the table and ran into the yard again, his mouth still full of bread and cheese, and the corf ee bowl in his hand. Listen! Do you hear it? The rolling barrage has begun! The artillery batteries were rolling their fire forward, creating a moving barrier of high explosive through which no living things could advance or retreat.

The brave Allies will be ready for the final assault now In the forward British trenches they waited below the parapets. With each man in full battle-dress, his equipment burden was almost sixty pounds in weight.

The thunder of the bursting high-explosives Tolled away from them, leaving them with dulled senses and singing eardrums. The whistles of the section leaders shrilled along the trenches, and they roused themselves and crowded to the feet of the assault ladders. Then, like an army of khaki lemmings, they swarmed out of their burrows into the open, and peered around them dazedly.

They were in a transformed and devastated land, so ravaged by the guns that no blade of grass nor twig of tree remained. Only the shattered tree stumps stuck up from the soft fecal-coloured porridge of mud before them. This dreadful landscape was shrouded in the yellowish fog of burned explosives.

forward! the cry passed down the line, and again and whistles trilled and goaded them on.

The long Lee Enfield rifles held out before them, the fixed bayonets aglitter, sinking ankle and knee deep into the soft earth, slipping into the overlapping shell holes and dragging themselves out again, their line bulging and lagging, their horizon limited to a mere hundred paces by swirling nitrous fog, they trudged forward.

Of the enemy trenches they saw no sign, the parapets had been obliterated and flattened. Overhead passed the continuous roar of the barrage, while every few seconds a short shell from their own guns fell into their densely packedlines.

Close up in the centre! The gaps torn in their ranks by the guns were filled by other amorphous khaki bodies.

Keep the line! Keep the line! The orders were almost drowned by the tumult of the guns.

Then in the wilderness ahead of them they saw the glint of metal through the smoke. It was a low wall of metal, interlocking scales of grey steel like those on the back of a crocodile.

The German machine-gunners had had the benefit of seven days forewarning, and as the British barrage rolled away behind them, they carried their weapons up the shafts from their dugouts to the surface and set them up on their tripods on the churned muddy lip of the ruined trenches. The Maxim machine-guns were each fitted with a steel shield to protect the crews from rifle-fire, and the guns were so closely aligned that the edges of the shields overlapped each other.

The British infantry was out in the open, walking down on a wall of machine-guns. The front ranks yelled when they saw the guns and started forward at a run, trying to reach them with the bayonet. Then they ran into the wire.

They had been assured that the barbed wire would be cut to pieces by the barrages. It was not. The high-explosive had made no impression upon it, except to tangle and twist it into an even more formidable barrier. While they floundered and struggled in the grip of the wire, the German Maxim machine-guns opened up on them.

The Maxim machine-gun has a cyclic rate of fire of 500 rounds per minute. It has the reputation of being the most reliable and rugged machine-gun ever built, and that day it added to that reputation the distinction of becoming the most lethal weapon that man had ever devised. As the plodding ranks of British infantry emerged from the fog of nitro-smoke, still attempting to maintain their rigid formation, shoulder to shoulder and four ranks deep, they made a perfect target for the Maxims. The solid sheets of fire swung back and forth, the scythe-blades of the harvesters, and the carnage surpassed anything seen before upon the battlefields of history.

The losses would certainly have been greater had not the troops, under the extreme duress of the Maxims, used their common sense and broken ranks. Instead of that ponderous, wooden-beaded advance, they had tried to creep and crawl forward in small groups, but even these had finally been beaten back by the wall of machine-guns.

Then with another grand offensive on the Western Front decimated almost as it began, the German force holding the ridges opposite Mort Homme counterattacked jubilantly.

Centaine became gradually aware of the cessation of that distant holocaust, and the strange stillness which followed it.

What has happened, Papa? The British troops have overrun the German artillery positions, the comte explained excitedly. I have a mind to ride across and view the battlefield. I want to bear witness to this turning-point in history - You will do no such idiotic thin& Anna told him brusquely.

You don't understand, woman, even as we stand here talking, our Allies are rolling forward, eating up the German lines What I understand is that the milch cow has to be fed, and the cellars have to be mucked ouC While history passes me by, the comte capitulated ungraciously, and went muttering down to the cellar.

Then the guns began again, much closer, and the windows rattled in their frames. The comte shot up the stairs and into the yard.

What is happening now, Papa? it is the death-throes of the German army, the comte explained, the last thrashings of a dying giant. But do not worry, my little one, the British will soon invest their positions. We have nothing to fear. The thunder of the guns rose to a crescendo and was heightened by the din of the British counter-barrages as they sought to destroy the German counter -attack that was massing in the front-line trenches facing the ridges.

It sounds just like last summer. Centaine stared with foreboding at the stark outline of the chalk ridges upon the horizon. They were blurring slightly before her eyes, shrouding in the haze of shell-bursts. We must do what we can for them, she told Anna.

We have to think of ourselves, Anna protested. We still have to go on living and we cannot-'Come, Anna, we are wasting time. Under Centaine's insistence they cooked up four of the huge copper kettles of soup, turnip and dried peas and potato, flavoured with ham bones. They used up their reserves of flour at a prodigious rate to bake ovenful after ovenful. of bread loaves, and then they loaded the small hand-cart and trundled it down the lane to the main road.

Centaine remembered clearly the fighting of the previous summer, but what she witnessed now shocked her afresh.

The highway was choked, filled from hedgerow to hedgerow with the tides of war, flowing in both directions, piling up and intermingling and then separating again.

Down from the ridges came the human detritus of the battle, torn and bloody, mutilated and bleeding, crowded into the slowly moving ambulances, into horse-drawn carts and drays, or limping on improvised crutches, borne on the shoulders of their stronger fellows, or clinging to the sides of the over-crowded ambulances for support as they stumbled through the deep muddy ruts.

In the opposite direction marched the reserves and reinforcements moving up to help hold the ridges against the German assault. They were in long files, already worn down under the weight of equipment they carried, not even glancing at the torn remnants of the battle which they might soon be joining. They trudged forward, watching their feet, and stopped when the way ahead was blocked, standing with bovine patience, only moving forward again when the man ahead of them started.

After the initial shock, Centaine helped Anna push the hand-cart up on to the verge, and then while Anna ladled out the thick soup, she handed the mugs, each with a thick slice of newly baked bread, to the exhausted and injured soldiers as they stumbled past.

There was not nearly enough, she could feed only one man in a hundred. Those whom she picked out as being in greatest need gulped down the soup and wolfed the bread.

Bless yer, missus, they mumbled, and then staggered on Look at their eyes, Anna, Centaine whispered as she held up the mugs to be refilled. They have already seen beyond the grave. Enough of that fanciful nonsense, Anna scolded her, you will give yourself nightmares again. No nightmare can be worse than this, Centaine answered quietly. Look at that one! His eyes had been torn out of his head by shrapnel and the empty sockets bound up with bloody rags. He followed another soldier, both of whose shattered arms were strapped across his chest. The blind man held on to his belt, and almost dragged him down when he tripped on the rough and slippery roadway.

Centaine drew them out of the stream, and she held the mug to the lips of the armless soldier.

You are a good girl, he whispered. Do you have a cigarette? I'm sorry. She shook her head and turned to rearrange the bandages over the other man's eyes. She had a glimpse of what lay beneath them, and she gagged and her hands faltered.

You sound so young and pretty- The blinded man was about the same age as Michael, he also had thick dark hair, but it was clotted with dried blood.

Yes, Fred, she's a pretty girl. His companion helped him to his feet again. We'd best be getting on again, miss.

What is happening up there? Centaine asked them.

All hell is what is happening Will the line hold? Nobody knows that, miss, and the two of them were washed away on the slowly moving river of misery.

The soup and bread were soon finished, and they wheeled the cart back to the chAteau to prepare more.

Remembering the wounded soldiers pleas, Centaine raided the cupboard in the gunroom. where the comte kept his hoard of tobacco, and when she and Anna returned to their post at the end of the lane, she was able for a short time to give that extra little comfort to some of them.

There is so little we can do, she lamented.

We are doing all we can, Anna pointed out. No sense in grieving for the impossible. They laboured on after dark, by the feeble yellow light of the storm lantern, and the stream of suffering never dried up, rather it seemed to grow ever denser, so that the pale ravaged faces in the lantern light blurred before Centaine's exhausted eyes and became indistinguishable one from the other, and the feeble words of cheer which she gave each of them were repetitive and meaningless in her own ears.

At last, well after midnight, Anna led her back to the chateau, and they slept in each other's arms, still in their muddy, bloodstained clothes, and woke in the dawn to boil up fresh kettles of soup and bake more bread.

Standing over the stove, Centaine cocked her head as she heard the distant roar of engines.

The airplanes! she cried. I forgot them! They will fly without me today, that is bad luck! Today there will be many suffering from bad luck, Anna grunted as she wrapped a blanket around one of the soup kettles to prevent it cooling too quickly, and then lugged it to the kitchen door.

Halfway down the lane Centaine straightened up from the handle of the cart. Look, Anna, over there on the edge of North Field! The fields were swarming with men. They had discarded their heavy back-packs and helmets and weapons, and they were labouring in the early summer sun, stripped to the waist or in grubby vests. What are they doing, Arma? There were thousands of them, working under the direction of their officers. They were armed with pointed shovels, tearing at the yellow earth, piling it up in long lines, sinking into it so swiftly that as they watched, many of them were already knee-deep, then waist-deep behind the rising earth parapets.

Trenches. Centaine found the answer to her own question. Trenches, Anna, they are digging new trenches."Why, why are they doing that?

Because, Centaine hesitated. She did not want to say it aloud, Because they are not going to be able to hold the ridges, she said softly, and both of them looked up to the high ground where the shellfire sullied the bright morning with its sulphurous yellow mists.

When they reached the end of the lane, they found that the roadway was clogged with traffic, the opposing streams of vehicles and men hopelessly interlocked, defying the efforts of the military police to disentangle them and get them moving again. One of the ambulances had slid off the road into the muddy ditch, adding to the confusion, and a doctor and the ambulance driver were struggling to unload the stretchers from the back of the stranded vehicle. Anna, we must help them. Anna was as strong as a man, and Centaine was as determined. Between them they seized the handles of one of the stretchers and dragged it up out of the ditch.

The doctor scrambled out of the mud.

Well done, he panted. He was bare-headed but his tunic sported the serpent and staff insignia of the medical corps at the collar, and the white armbands with the scarlet crosses.

Ah, Mademoiselle de Thiry! He recognized Centaine, over the wounded man on the stretcher between them. I should have known it was you. Doctor, of course- It was the same officer who had arrived on the motor-cycle with Lord Andrew, and who had helped the comte with the consumption of Napoleon cognac on the day that Michael crashed in North Field.

They set the stretcher down under the hedgerow and the young doctor knelt beside it, working over the still figure under the grey blanket.

He might make it, if we can get help for him soon. He jumped up. But there are others still in there. We must get them out. Between them they unloaded the other stretchers from the back of the ambulance and laid them in a row.

This one is finished. With his thumb and forefinger the doctor closed the lids of the staring eyes, and then covered the dead man's face with the flap of the blanket.

The road is blocked, it's hopeless trying to get through, and we are going to lose these others, he indicated the row of stretchers, unless we can get them under cover, where we can work on them. He was looking directly at Centaine, and for a moment she did not understand his enquiring gaze.

The cottages at Mort Homme are overfilled, and the road is blocked he repeated.

Of course, Centaine cut in quickly. You must bring them up to the chateau.

. . .

The comte met them on the staircase of the chdteau and when Centaine hastily explained their needs, he joined enthusiastically in transforming the grand salon into a hospital ward.

They pushed the furniture against the walls to clear the centre of the floor and then stripped the mattresses from the upstairs bedrooms and bundled them down the stairs. Assisted by the ambulance driver and three medical orderlies the young doctor had recruited, they laid the mattresses out on the fine woollen Aubusson carpet.

In the meantime the military police, under instructions from the doctor, were signalling the ambulances out of the stalled traffic on the main road and directing them up the lane to the chAteau. The doctor rode on the running-board of the leading vehicle, and when he saw Centaine, he jumped down and seized her arm urgently.

Mademoiselle! Is there another way to reach the field hospital at Mort Homme? I need supplies, chloroform, disinfectant, bandages, and another doctor to help me. His French was passable, but Centaine answered him in English. I can ride across the fields. You're a champion. I'll give you a note. He pulled the pad from his top pocket and scribbled a short message. Ask for Major Sinclair, he tore out the sheet of paper and folded it, the advance hospital is in the cottages. Yes, I know it. Who are you? Who must I tell them sent me? With recent practice, the English words came more readily to Centaine's lips.

Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I haven't had a chance to introduce myself before. My name is Clarke, Captain Robert Clarke, but they call me Bobby. Nuage seemed to sense from her the urgency of their mission and he flew furiously at the jumps and threw clods of mud from his hooves as he raced across the fields and down the rows of vineyards. The streets of the village were jammed with men and vehicles, and the advance hospital in the row of cottages was chaotic.

The officer she had been sent to find was a big man with arms like a bear, and thick greying curls that flopped forward on his forehead as he leaned over the soldier on whom he was operating.

Where the hell is Bobby? he demanded, without looking up at Centaine, concentrating on the neat stitches he was pulling into the deep gash across the soldiers back.

As be pulled the thread tight and knotted it the flesh rose in a peak and Centaine's gorge rose with it but she explained quickly.

All right, tell Bobby I'll send what I can, but we are running short of dressing ourselves. They lifted his patient off the table, and in his place laid a boy with his entrails hanging out of him in an untidy bunch.

I can't spare anybody to help him either. Off you go, and tell him. The soldier writhed and shrieked as the doctor began to stuff his stomach back into him.

If you give me the supplies, I will carry them back with me. Centaine stood her ground, and he glanced up at her and gave her the ghost of a smile.

You don't give up easily, he grudged. All right, speak to him. He pointed across the crowded room of the cottage with the scalpel in his right hand. Tell him I sent you, and good luck, young lady."To you also, doctor. God knows, we all need it, he agreed, and stooped once more to his work.

Centaine pressed Nuage as hard as before on the ride back and let him in his stall. As she entered the courtyard, she saw that there were three more ambulances parked Igo in the yard; the drivers unloading their cargoes of wounded and dying men. She hurried past them into the house carrying a heavy kitbag over her shoulder, and paused at the door of the salon in amazement.

All the mattresses were full, and other wounded men were lying on the bare floor, or propped against the panelled walls.

Bobby Clarke had lit every branch of the silver candelabra in the centre of the massive ormolu dinner table and was operating by candlelight.

He looked up and saw Centaine. Did you bring the chloroform? he called across to her.

For a moment she could not reply and she hesitated at the tall double doors, for the salon already stank. The cloying odour of blood mingled with the reek of the bodies and clothing of men who had come from the mud of the trenches, mud in which the dead had been buried and had decomposed to the same soupy consistency, men with the acrid sweat of fear and pain still upon them.

Did you get it? he repeated impatiently, and she forced herself to go forward. They do not have anyone to help you. You'll have to do it. Here, stand on this side of me, he ordered. Now hold this.

For Centaine it all became a blur of horrors and blood and labour that exhausted her both physically and nervously.

There was no time to rest, barely time to snatch a hasty mug of coffee and one of the sandwiches which Anna turned out in the kitchen. just when she believed that she had seen and experienced so much that nothing else could shock her, then there would be something even more harrowing.

She stood beside Bobby Clarke as he cut down through Igi the muscles of a man's thigh, tying off each blood vessel as he came to it. When he exposed the white bone of the femur and took up the gleaming silver bone-saw, she thought she would faint with the sound it made, like a carpenter sawing a hard-wood plank.

Take it away! Bobby ordered, and she had to force herself to touch the disembodied limb. She exclaimed and jerked back when it twitched under her fingers.

Don't waste time, Bobby snapped, and she took it in her hands; it was still warm and surprisingly weighty.

Now there is nothing that I will not dare to do, she realized as she carried it away.

At last she reached the stage of exhaustion when even Bobby realized that she could not stay on her feet.

Go and lie down somewhere, he ordered, but instead she went to sit beside a young private on one of the mattresses. She held his hand, and he called her motherand spoke disjointedly of a day at the seaside long ago.

At the end she sat helplessly and listened to his breathing change, panting to stay alive, and his grip tightened as he felt the darkness coming on. The skin of his hand turned clammy with sweat and his eyes opened very wide and he called out, Oh Mother, save me! and then relaxed, and she wanted to cry for him, but she did not have the tears. So she closed those staring eyes as she had seen Bobby Clarke do and stood up and went to the next man.

He was a sergeant, a heavily built fellow almost her father's age, with a broad, pleasant face covered with grey stubble, and a hole in his chest through which each breath puffed in a froth of pink bubbles. She had to put her ear almost to his lips to hear his request, and then she looked round quickly and saw the silver Louis X! soup tureen on the sideboard. She brought it to him and unfastened his breeches and held the tureen for him, and he kept whispering, I'm sorry, please forgive me, a young lady like you. It isn't proper. So they worked on through the night, and when Centaine went down to find fresh candles to replace those that were guttering in the holders of the candelabra, she had just reached the kitchen floor when she was seized by sudden compelling nausea, and she stumbled to the servants toilet and knelt over the noisome bucket. She finished, pale and trembling, and went to wash her face at the kitchen tap. Anna was waiting for her.

You cannot go on like this, she scolded.

Just look at YOU, you are killing yourself, I she almost added child, but caught herself. You must rest. Have a bowl of soup and sit by me for a while. It never ends, Anna, there are always more of them. By now the wounded had overflowed the salon and were lying on the landing of the staircase and down the passageways, so that the orderlies bringing out the dead on the canvas stretchers had to step over their recumbent bodies. They laid the dead on the cobbles at the side of the stables, each wrapped in a grey blanket, and the row grew longer every hour.

Centaine! Bobby Clarke shouted from the head of the stairs.

He is familiar, he should call you Mademoiselle, Anna huffed indignantly, but Centaine leapt up and ran up the stairs, dodging the bodies that sprawled upon them.

Can you get through to the village again? We need more chloroform and iodine. Bobby was haggard and unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his bare arms caked with drying blood.

It's almost light outside, Centaine nodded.

Go past the crossroads, he said. Find out if the road is clearing, we have to begin moving some of these. Centaine had to turn Nuage back twice from the crowded roads and find a short cut across the fields, so by the time she reached the hospital at Mort Homme, it was almost full daylight.

She saw at once that they were evacuating the hospital.

Equipment and patients were being loaded into a mongrel convoy of ambulances and animal-drawn vehicles, and those wounded who could walk were being assembled into groups and led out into the road to begin to trek southwards.

Major Sinclair was bellowing instructions to the ambulance-drivers. By God, man, be careful, that chap has a bullet through his lung- but he looked up at Centaine as she rode up on the big stallion.

You again! Damn it all, I'd forgotten about you. Where is Bobby Clarke? Still at the chateau, he sent me to ask- How many wounded has he got there? the major interrupted.

I do not know. Dash it all, girl, is it fifty or a hundred, or more?

Perhaps fifty or a few more. We have to get them out, the Germans have broken through at Haut Pornmier. He paused and examined her critically, noting the purple weals under her eyes and the almost translucent sheen of her skin. At the end of her tether, he decided, and then saw that she still held her head up and that there was light in her eyes, and he changed his estimate. She's made of good stuff, he thought. She can still go on. When will the Germans get here?

Centaine asked.

He shook his head. I don't know, soon I think. We are digging in just beyond the village, but we may not even be able to hold them there. We have to get out, you, too, young lady. Tell Bobby Clarke I'll send him as many vehicles as I can. He must get back to Arras. You can ride with the ambulances. Good. She turned Nuage's head. I will wait for them at the crossroads and guide them to the chateau. Good girl, he called after her as she galloped out of the yard and swung the stallion into the vineyard on the eastern side of the village.

Beyond the wall of the vineyard she reached the path that led up to her knoll above the forest. Then she gave Nuage his head and they went flying up the slope and came out on the crest. It was her favourite lookout, and she had a fine view northward to the ridges and over the fields and woods surrounding the village. The early sun was shining, the air bright and clean.

Instinctively she looked first to the orchard at the base of the T-shaped forest, picking out the open strip of turf that served as the airstrip for Michael's squadron.

The tents were gone, the edge of the orchard where the brightly painted SE5as were usually drawn up was now deserted, there was no sign of life, the squadron had moved out during the night, gone like gypsies and Centaine's spirits lurched and sank. While they had been there it was as though something of Michael also remained, but now they had gone and they had left an empty hole in her existence.

She turned away, and looked to the ridges. At first glance the countryside seemed so peaceful and undisturbed. The early summer weather painted it a lovely green in the early sunlight, and near her in the brambles a lark was calling.

Then she stared harder and saw the tiny specks of many men in the fields, scurrying back from the ridges like insects. They were so distant and insignificant that she had almost overlooked them, but now she realized how many there were, and she tried to work out what they were doing.

Abruptly she saw a tiny greyish-yellow puff of smoke spurt up in the midst of one of the groups of running men, and as it drifted aside, she saw four or five of the antlike figures lying in an untidy tangle, while the others ran on.

Then there were more of those smoke puffs, scattered haphazardly on the green carpet of the fields, and she heard the sound of it on the wind.

IShellfire! she whispered, and understood what was going on out there. These were troops that had been driven out of their trenches and earthworks by the German attack, and in the open ground they were being harassed by the artillery batteries which the Germans must have brought up behind their advancing infantry.

Now, when she looked down at the base of the hillock on which she stood, she could make out the line of hastily dug trenches that she and Anna had seen them preparing the previous morning. The trenches ran like a brown serpent along the edge of the oak forest, then under the lee of the stone wall on the top side of North Field, turning slightly to follow the bank of the stream and then losing themselves amongst the vineyards that belonged to the Concourt family.

She could see the helmets of the troops in the trenches, and make out the stubby swollen barrels of the machineguns protruding over the earthern parapets as they were lifted into position. Some of the running figures began to reach the trench line, and fell out of sight into it.

She started at a crashing explosion close behind her, and when she looked around, she saw the thin grey feathers of smoke drifting from a British artillery battery at the foot of the hill. The guns were so cleverly concealed beneath A their camouflage nets that she had not noticed them until they fired.

Then she saw other guns, concealed in forest and orchard, begin firing at the unseen enemy, and the answering German salvoes burst in random fury along the line of freshly dug fortifications. A raised voice roused her from her fearful fascination, and she looked around to see a platoon of infantry men doubling up the path to the crest of the hill. They were led by a subaltern who waved his arms wildly at her.

Get out of here, you damned fool! Can't you see that you are in the middle of a battle? She swung Nuage's head around to the path and urged him into a gallop. She swept past the file of soldiers and when she looked back, they were already frantically digging into the stony earth at the crest of the hill.

Centaine checked her mount as they reached the crossroads. All the vehicles had passed, except those stuck in the ditches and abandoned. However, the roadway was crowded with a rabble of retreating infantry who staggered under their loads, carrying on their backs the dismembered machine-guns and boxes of ammunition, and the other equipment that they had managed to salvage.

Amid the squeal of whistle and shouted orders their officers were rallying them and sending them off the roadway to the freshly dug trenches.

Suddenly over Centaine's head passed a mighty rushing sound, like a hurricane wind, and she ducked fearfully. A shell burst a hundred paces from where she sat, and Nuage reared on his hind legs. She caught her balance and gentled him with voice and touch.

Then she saw a lorry come towards the crossroads from the village, and when she stood in her stirrups she could make out the red cross in its white circle painted on the side. She galloped down to meet it, and seven more ambulances followed the first through the bend. She reined in beside the cab of the leading ambulance. Have you been sent to the chAteau? What's that, luv? The driver could not understand her heavily accented English, and she bounced on her saddle with frustration.

Captain Clarke? she tried again, and he understood. You seek Captain Clarke? Yes, that's it. Captain Clarke! Where is he? Come! Centaine raised her voice as another shell burst beyond the stone wall beside them and there was the electric sound of shrapnel passing overhead. Come! she gestured, and swung Nuage into the lane.

With the line of ambulances following her, she galloped up the driveway towards the chAteau, and saw a shell burst just beyond the stables and another hit the greenhouse at the bottom of the vegetable gardens. The glass panels splintered into a diamond spray in the sunlight.

The chateau is a natural target, she realized, and galloped Nuage into the yard.

Already they were bringing out the wounded, and as the first ambulance pulled up at the bottom of the stairs, the driver and his orderly sprang out to help load the stretchers into the back of the truck.

Centaine turned Nuage into the paddock beside the stables and ran back to the kitchen door. Behind her a howitzer shell hit the tiled roof of the long stable building, blowing a hole through it and knocking out part of the stone wall. However, the stables were empty, so Centaine darted into the kitchen.

Where have you been? Anna demanded. I have been so worried- Centaine pushed past her and ran through to her own room. She pulled the carpet bag from the top of her wardrobe and began to throw clothing into it.

There was a deafening crash from somewhere above, and the plaster ceiling cracked and chunks of it fell around her. Centaine swept the silver frame of photographs off the bedside table into the bag, then opened the drawer and found her jewelbox and her travelling toilet set. The air was full of white plaster dust.

Another shell burst on the terrace outside her room, and the window over her bed exploded. Flying glass rattled against the walls and a shard grazed her forearm and left a bloody line on her skin. She licked the blood away and dropped on her knees, creeping half under the bed, and prised up the loose floorboard.

The leather purse with their hoard of cash lay in the recess beneath it. She weighed the purse in one hand almost two hundred francs in gold louis d'or, then dropped it into the bag.

Lugging the carpet bag, she ran down the stairs into the kitchen.

Where is Papa? she shouted at Anna.

He went up to the top floor. Anna was stuffing strings of onions, hams and bread loaves into a grain sack. She pointed with her chin at the empty hooks on the wall. He has taken his gun and plenty of cognac. I will fetch him, Centaine panted. Take care of my bag. She hitched up her skirts and raced back up the stairs.

The upper levels of the chateau were in confusion. The ambulance orderlies were trying to clear the salon and the main staircase.

Centaine! Bobby Clarke called across the stairwell at her. Are you ready to leave? He was manhandling one end of a stretcher, and he had to raise his voice above the shouts of the orderlies and the groans of the wounded.

Centaine fought her way up against the press of humanity descending the stairs, and Bobby caught her sleeve as she came level with him. Where are you going? We have to get out! My father, I must find my father. She shook off his hand and went on.

The topmost levels of the house were deserted and Centaine ran through them, shouting shrilly, Papa! Papa!

Where are you? She ran down the long gallery, and from the walls the portraits of her ancestors gazed down haughtily upon her.

At the end of the gallery she threw her weight on to the double doors which led through into the suite of bedrooms that had been her mother's and which the comte had kept unchanged all these years.

He was in the dressing-room, slumped in the highbacked tapestry-covered chair in front of the portrait of Centaine's mother, and he looked up as Centaine burst into the room. Papa, we must leave immediately. He did not seem to recognize her. There were three unopened cognac bottles on the floor between his feet, and he held another by the neck. It was half-empty, and he lifted it and took a mouthful of the raw spirit, still gazing at the portrait. Please, Papa, we must go! His single eye did not even blink as another shell crashed into the chAteau, somewhere in the east wing.

She seized his arm and tried to pull him to his feet, but he was a big man and heavy. Some of the brandy spilled down his shirt front.

The Germans have broken through, Papa! Please come with me. The Germans! he roared suddenly, and pushed her away from him. I will fight them once again.

He threw up the long-barrelled Shot rifle that had lain across his lap and fired a shot into the painted ceiling.

Plaster dust filtered down on his hair and mustache, ageing him dramatically.

Let them come! he roared. I, Louis de Thiry, say, let them all come! I am ready for themV He was mad with liquor and despair, but she tried to pull him to his feet.

We must leave. Never! he bellowed, and threw her aside, more roughly than before. I will never leave. This is my land, my home the home of my dear wife - his eye glittered insanely my dear wife. He reached towards the portrait. I will stay here with her, I will fight them here on my own soil. Centaine caught the outstretched wrist and tugged at it, but with a heave he threw her back against the wall, and began to reload the ancient rifle on his lap.

Centaine whispered, I must fetch Anna to help me. She ran to the door and another shell ploughed into the north side of the chateau. The crash of bursting brickwork and splintering glass was followed immediately by the blast wave. It threw her to her knees, and some of the heavy portraits were torn from the gallery walls.

She pulled herself up and raced down the gallery. The nitro-acid stink of explosive was mingled with the biting odour of smoke and burning. The staircase was almost empty. The very last of the wounded were being carried out. As Centaine ran into the yard two of the ambulances, both of them overloaded, pulled out through the gateway and turned down the driveway.

Anna! Centaine screamed. She was strapping the carpet bag and bulging sack on to the roof of one of the ambulances, but she jumped down and ran to Centaine. You must help me, Centaine gasped. It's Papa. Three shells hit the chateau in quick succession, and more burst in the stable field and in the gardens. The German observers must have noted the activity around the building. Their batteries were finding the range.

Where is he? Anna ignored the shellfire.

Upstairs. Mama's dressing-room. He is mad, Anna.

Mad drunk. I cannot move him. The moment they entered the house they smelt the smoke, and as they climbed the stairs the stench became stronger and dense wreaths of it eddied about them. By the time they reached the second level, they were both coughing and wheezing for breath.

The gallery was thick with smoke, so they could not see more than a dozen paces ahead, and through the smoke shone a wavering orange glow, the fire had taken hold in the front rooms and was burning through the doors.

Go back, Anna gasped, I will find him. Centaine shook her head stubbornly and started down the gallery. Another salvo of howitzer fire crashed into the chdteau, and part of the gallery wall collapsed, partially blocking it, and swirling brick dust mingled with the dense smoke, blinding them so that they crouched at the head of the staircase.

It cleared slightly and again they ran forward, but the opening that had been torn in the wall acted as a flue for the flames. They roared up furiously and the heat came at them like a solid thing, barring their way.

Papa! screamed Centaine, as they cringed away from it. Papa! Where are you? The floor jumped under them as more shellfire hit the ancient building, and they were deafened by the thunder of collapsing walls and falling ceilings, and by the rising roar of the flames.

Tapa! Centaine's voice was almost drowned, but Anna bellowed over her.

Louis, veins, ch&i, come to me, darling. Even in her distress, Centaine realized that she had never heard Anna use an endearment to her father. It seemed to summon him.

Through the smoke and the dust the comte loomed.

Flames roared all around him, rising around his feet as the floorboards burned, licking at him from the panelled walls, and smoke covered him in a dark mantle, so that he seemed like a creature from hell itself.

His mouth was open and he was making a wild, anguished sound.

He is singing, whispered Anna. The Marseillaise. To arms, Citizens!

Form the ship of State. Only then did Centaine recognize the garbled chorus.

Let an impure blood swirl in the gutters-, The words became indistinguishable, and the comte's voice weakened as the heat enveloped him. The rifle he was carrying slipped from his hand, and he fell and dragged himself up and began to crawl towards them. Centaine tried to go to him again, but the heat stopped her dead and Anna pulled her back.

Dark brown blotches began to appear on her father's shirt, as the white linen scorched, but still that terrible sound came from his open mouth, and still he crawled along the burning floor of the gallery, Suddenly the thick dark bush of his hair burst into flames, so that it seemed that he wore a golden crown.

Centaine could not look away, could not speak again, but she clung helplessly to Anna and felt the sobs wracking the older woman's body, and the arm around Centaine's shoulder tightened so that the grip was crushingly painful.

Then the floor of the gallery gave way beneath her father's weight, and the burning floorboards o ened like a dark mouth with fangs of fire and sucked him in.

No! Centaine shrieked, and Anna lifted her off her feet and ran with her to the head of the stairs. Anna was still sobbing and tears streamed down her fat red cheeks, but her strength was unimpaired.

Behind them part of the burning ceiling fell, taking the rest of the gallery floor with it, and Anna set Centaine on her feet and dragged her down the staircase. The smoke cleared as they went down, and at last they burst out into the yard again, and sucked in the sweet air.

The chateau was in flames from end to end, and shellfire still crashed into it or burst in tall columns of smoke and singing shrapnel upon the lawns and in the surrounding fields.

Bobby Clarke was supervising the loading of the last ambulances, but his face lit with relief as he saw Centaine, and he ran to her. The flames had frizzled the ends of her hair and scorched her eyelashes, soot streaked her cheeks.

We have to get out of here, where is your father? Bobby took her arm.

She could not answer him. She was shaking and the smoke had burned her throat and her eyes were red and streaming tears. Is he coming? She shook her head and saw the quick sympathy in his expression. He glanced up at the flaming building.

He took her other arm and led her towards the nearest ambulance.

Nuage, Centaine croaked. My horse. Her voice was roughened by smoke and shock.

No- Bobby Clarke said sharply and tried to hold her, but she pulled out of his grip and ran towards the stable paddock. Nuage! She tried to whistle, but no sound came through her parched lips, and Bobby Clarke caught up with her at the paddock gate.

Don't go in there! His voice was desperate, and he held her.

Confused and bewildered, she craned to look over the gate.

No, Centaine! He pulled her back, and she saw the horse and screamed.

Nuage! The rushing roar and thunder of another salvo drowned out her heart cry, but she fought in his grip.

Nuage! she screamed again, and the stallion lifted his head. He lay upon his side; one of the shell bursts had shattered both his back legs and ripped open his belly.

Nuage! He heard her voice and he tried to lift himself on to his forefeet, but the effort was too much and he fell back. His head thudded on the earth and he blew a soft fluttering sound through his wide nostrils.

Anna ran to help Bobby and between them they dragged Centaine to the waiting ambulance.

You can't leave him like that! she pleaded, trying with all her might to resist them. Please, please, don't leave him to suffer. Another salvo of shells straddled the yard, driving in their eardrums and filling the air around them with hissing chips of stone and steel fragments. No time, Bobby grunted, we must go. They forced Centaine into the rear of the vehicle, between the tiers of stretchers, and crowded in after her.

immediately the driver clashed the gears and pulled away, the ambulance swung in a tight circle, bouncing over the cobbles, and then accelerated through the gateway and out into the driveway.

Centaine dragged herself to the tailboard of the speeding vehicle and looked back at the chateau. The flames were rushing up through the shell holes in the pink tiles, and dark black smoke towered above it, rising straight up into the sunlit sky.

Everything, Centaine whispered. You've taken everything that I love.

Why? Oh Lord, why have you done this to me?

Ahead of them the other vehicles had pulled off the road at the edge of the forest, and parked under the trees to avoid the shellfire. Bobby Clarke jumped down and ran to each in turn, giving orders to the drivers and regrouping them into a convoy. Then, with his own vehicle in the lead, they sped down to the crossroads and turned into the main road.

Again shell-fire fell close about them, for the German observers already had the crossroads well covered. Like a conga line the convoy wove from one side of the road to the other to avoid the shell holes and the litter of destroyed carts, dead draught-animals and abandoned equipment.

As soon as they were clear, they closed up and followed the curve of the road down towards the village. As they passed the churchyard, Centaine saw that there was already a shell hole through the green copper-clad spire.

Although she glimpsed the upper branches of the yew tree that marked the family plot, Michael's grave was out of sight from the road.

I wonder if we will ever come back, Anna? Centaine whispered. I promised Michael - her voice trailed off.

Of course we will. Where else would we ever go? Anna's voice was rough with her own grief and the jolting of the ambulance.

Both of them stared back at the shot-holed church spire and the ugly black column of smoke that poured up into the sky above the forest marking the pyre of their home.

. . .

The ambulance convoy caught up with the tail of the main British retreat on the outskirts of the village. Here the military police had set up a temporary roadblock.

They were sending all able-bodied troops off the road to regroup and to set up a secondary line of defence, and they were searching all vehicles for deserters from the battlefield.

Is the new line holding, sergeant? Bobby Clarke asked the policeman who checked his papers. Can we halt in the village? Some of my patients- He was interrupted by a shellburst that hit one of the cottages beside the road. They were still within extreme range of the German guns.

There is no telling, sir, the sergeant handed Bobby back his papers. I were you I would pull back as far as the main base hospital at Arras. It's going to be a bit hairy around here. So the long, slow retreat began. They were a part of the solid stream of traffic that blocked the road for as far ahead as they could see, and reduced to the same excruciating pace.

The ambulances would start with a jolt, roll forward a few yards with noses to tails, and then pull up again for another interminable wait. As the day wore on so the heat built up, and the roads so recently running with winter mud turned to talcum dust. The flies came from the surrounding farmyards to the bloody bandages and crawled on the faces of the wounded men in the tiers of stretchers, and they moaned and cried out for water.

Anna and Centaine went to ask for water at one of the farm houses alongside the road, and found it already deserted. They helped themselves to milk pails and filled them from the pump.

They moved down the convoy, giving out mugs of water, bathing the faces of those in fever from their wounds, helping the ambulance orderlies clean those who had not been able to contain their bodily functions, and all the time trying to appear cheerful and confident, giving what comfort they could, despite their own grief and bereavement.

By nightfall the convoy had covered less than five miles, and they could still hear the din of the battle raging behind them. once more the convoy was stalled, waiting to move on.

It looks like we have managed to hold them at Mort Homme, Bobby Clarke paused beside Centaine. It should be safe to stop for the night. He looked more closely at the face of the soldier who Centaine was tending. God knows, these poor devils cannot take much more of this.

They need food and rest. There is a farmyard with a large barn around the next bend. It hasn't been taken over by anyone else yet, we" bag it."

I IL Anna produced a bunch of onions from her sack and used them to flavour the stew of canned bully beef that they boiled up over an open fire. They served the stew with dry army biscuit and mugs of black tea, all of it begged from the commissary trucks parked in the stalled column of traffic.

Centaine fed the men who were too weak to help themselves, and then worked with the orderlies changing the dressings. The heat and dust had done their worst, and many of the wounds were inflamed and swollen and beginning to ooze yellow pus.

After midnight Centaine slipped out of the barn and went to the water pump in the yard. She felt soiled and sweaty and longed to bathe her entire body and change into clean, freshly ironed clothes. There was no privacy for that, and the few clothes she had packed in the carpet bag she knew she must hoard. Instead she slipped off her petticoat and knickers from under her skirt and washed them out under the tap, then wrung them and hung them over the gate while she bathed her face and arms with cold water.

She let the night breeze dry her skin and slipped her underclothes on again, still damp. Then she combed out her hair and she felt a little better, although her eyes still felt raw and swollen from the smoke and there was the heavy weight of her grief like a stone in her chest, and an enormous physical fatigue dragged at her legs and arms. The images of her father in the smoke and the white stallion lying on the grass assailed her once again, but she shut her mind to them.

Enough, she said aloud as she leaned against the gate to the yard. Enough for today, I'll cry again tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. A voice replied in broken French from the darkness, and she was startled. Bobby? She saw the glow of his cigarette then, and he came out of the shadows and leaned over the gate beside her.

You are an amazing girl, he went on in English, I have six sisters, but I've never known a girl like you. Matter of fact, I've known damned few chaps that could match you, either. She was silent, but when he drew on his cigarette, she studied his face in the glow. He was about Michael's age, and handsome. His mouth was full and sensitive-looking, and there was a gentleness about him that she had never had an opportunity to notice before.

I say- he was suddenly embarrassed by her silence_you don't mind me talking to you, do you? I'll leave you alone if you prefer. She shook her head. I don't mind. And for a while they were silent, Bobby puffing on his cigarette and both of them listening to the distant sound of the battle and to the occasional soft groan from one of the wounded in the barn.

Then Centaine stirred and asked, Do you remember the young airman, the first day you came up to the chAteau? Yes. The one with the burned arm. What was his name again, Andrew? No, that was his friend. The wild Scot, yes, of course. His name was Michel. I remember both of them. What became of them? Michel and I were to be married, but he is dead- and her pent-up emotions came pouring out.

He was a stranger and gentle, and she found it so easy to talk to him in the darkness. She told him in her quaint English about Michel and how they had planned to live in Africa, then she told him about her father and how he had changed since her mother had died, and how she had tried to look after him and stop him drinking so much.

Then she described what had taken place that morning in the burning chateau.

I think that was what he wanted. in his own way he was tired of living. I think he wanted to die and be with Mama again. But now both he and Michel are gone. I have nothing. When at last she finished she felt drained and tired, but quietly resigned.

You have really been through the grinder. Bobby reached out and squeezed her arm. I wish I could help you. You have helped me. Thank you. I could give you something, a little laudanum, it all would help you sleep. Centaine felt a surge in her blood, a longing for the quick oblivion he offered her, it was so strong that it frightened her. No, she refused with unnecessary emphasis. I will be all right. She shivered. I'm cold and it's late now. Thank you again for listening to me. Anna had hung a blanket as a screen at one end of the barn and made a mattress of straw for them. Centaine dropped almost immediately into a deathlike sleep, and woke in the dawn in a sickly sweat with the urgent nausea on her again.

Still groggy with sleep, she stumbled out and managed to get behind the stone wall of the yard before heaving up a little bitter yellow bile. When she straightened up and wiped her mouth, clinging to the wall for support, she found that Bobby Clarke was beside her, his expression troubled as he took her wrist and checked her pulse rate.

I think I had better have a look at you, he said.

No. She felt vulnerable. This new sickness worried her for she had always been so healthy and strong. She was afraid he might discover some dreadful disease.

I am all right, truly. But he led her firmly by the hand to the parked ambulance and drew down the canvas side screens to give them privacy.

Lie there, please. He ignored her protests and unfastened her blouse to sound her chest.

His manner was so clinical and professional, that she no longer argued, and submitted meekly to his examination, sitting up and coughing and breathing at his instruction.

Now I will examine you, he said. Do you wish your maid to be present as a chaperone? She shook her head mutely and he said, Please remove your skirt and petticoat. When he had finished, he made a show of packing his instruments back in the roll and tying up the retaining ribbons, while she rearranged her clothing.

Then he looked up at her with such a peculiar expression that she was alarmed. Is it something serious? He shook his head. Centaine, your fiance is dead. You told me that last night. She nodded.

It is still very early to be certain, very early, but I believe that you will need a father for the child you are carrying. Her hands flew to her stomach, an involuntary protective gesture.

I have really known you only a few days, but that is long enough for me to realize that I have fallen in love with you. I would be honoured, his voice trailed off, for she was not listening to him.

Michel, she whispered. Michel's baby. I have not lost everything. I still have a part of him Centaine ate the sandwich of ham and cheese that Anna brought her with such relish that Anna examined her suspiciously.

I feel so much better now, Centaine forestalled her inquiry.

They helped feed the wounded and ready them for the day's trek. Two of their critical cases had died during the night, and the orderlies buried them hastily in shallow graves at the edge of the field and then the ambulances started up and pulled out into the main stream of traffic.

The congestion of the previous day's route had abated as the army shook itself out of mindless confusion into a semblance of order. The traffic still rolled slowly, but with fewer halts and false starts, and alongside the road they passed the rudimentary supply dumps and advanced headquarters echelons that had been set up during the night.

During one of their halts on the outskirts of a tiny village, half-concealed by trees and vineyards, Centaine made out the shapes of aircraft parked at the edge of the vineyard.

She climbed up on the running-board of the ambulance for a better view, and a flight of aircraft took off from the field and flew low over the road.

Her disappointment was intense as she realized that they were ungraceful two-seater De Havilland scouts, not the lovely SESas of Michel's squadron. She waved to them, and one of the pilots looked down at her and waved back.

. it cheered her somehow and as she returned to her selfimposed duties, she felt strong and lighthearted, and she joked with the wounded men in her accented English, and they reacted with delight. One of them called herSunshine and the name passed quickly down the line of ambulances.

Bobby Clarke stopped her as she passed. Great stuff but remember, don't overdo it."I will be all right. Don't worry about me. I can't help it. He dropped his voice. Have you thought about my offer? When will you give me an answer? Not now, Bobby. She pronounced his name with equal emphasis on each syllable, Bob-bee, and every time she said it he lost his breath. We will talk later, but you are very gentil, very kind. Now the roadway was almost impassable once more, for the reserves were being hastened up to help hold the new line at Mort Homme. Endless columns of marching men slogged past them, and interspersed between the ranks of bobbing steel helmets were batteries of guns and lines of supply trucks loaded with all the accoutrements of war.

Their forward progress faltered, and for hours at a time the ambulances were signalled off the roadway into a field or a side lane while fresh hordes streamed past.

I'll have to send the ambulances back soon, Bobby told Centaine during one of their halts. They are needed . As soon as we can find a field hospital, I'llhand over these patients. Centaine nodded and made as if to go to the next vehicle where one of the men was calling weakly. Over here, Sunshine, can you give me a hand. Bobby caught her wrist.

Centaine, when we reach the hospital there is bound to be a chaplain there. It would only take a few minutes- She gave him her new smile, and reached up to touch his unshaven cheek with her fingertips. You are a kind man, Bobby, but Michel is the father of my son. I have thought about it, and I do not need another father. Centaine, you don't understand! What will people think? A child without a father, a young mother without a husband, what will they say? As long as I have my baby, Bobby, I don't give a, how do you say in English, I don't give them a fig! They can say what they like. I am the widow of Michel Courtney.

In the late afternoon they found the field hospital they were searching for. It was in a field outside Arras.

There were two cottage tents, emblazoned with the red crosses. These were serving as operating theatres. Rough shelters had also been hastily thrown up around them to accommodate the hundreds of wounded waiting their turns on the tables. They were built of tarpaulins over timber frames, or of corrugated iron scavenged from the surrounding farms.

Anna and Centaine helped unload their own wounded and carry them into one of the crowded shelters, then they retrieved their baggage from the roof of the leading ambulance. One of their patients noticed their preparations to leave.

You aren't going, Sunshine, are you? And hearing him, others pulled themselves up on an elbow to protest.

What are we going to do without you, luv?

She went to them for the last time, passing from one to the next with a smile and a joke, stooping to kiss their filthy, pain-contorted faces, and then at last unable to bear it any more, hurrying back to whence Anna waited for her.

They picked up the carpet bag and Anna's sack, and started along the convoy of ambulances which were being refuelled, ready to return to the battlefield.

Bobby Clarke had waited for them, and now he ran after Centaine. We are going back, orders from Major Sinclair."Au revoir, Bobby."I'll always remember you, Centaine. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. I hope it will be a boy, he whispered.

it will be, she told him seriously. A boy, I am certain of it The convoy of ambulances trundled away, back into the north, and Bobby Clarke waved and shouted something that she did not catch, as they were carried away on the river of marching men and lumbering equipment.

What do we do now? Anna asked.

We go on, Centaine told her. Somehow, subtly she had taken charge, and Anna, increasingly indecisive with each mile between her and Mort Homme, plodded after her. They left the sprawling hospital area and turned southwards once again into the crowded roadway.

Ahead of them over the trees Centaine could make out the roofs and spires of the town of Arras against the fading evening sky.

Look, Anna! she pointed. There is the evening star we are allowed a wish. What is yours? Anna looked at her curiously. What had come over the child2 She had seen her father burned to death and her favourite animal mutilated barely two days before, and yet there was a ferocious gaiety about her. It was unnatural.

I wish for a bath and a hot meal Oh, Anna, you always ask for the impossible. Centaine smiled at her over her shoulder, transferring the heavy carpet bag from one hand to the other.

What is your wish, then? Anna challenged.

I wish that the star leads us to the general, like it led the three wise men- Don't blaspheme, girl. But Anna was too tired and uncertain for the rebuke to have real force behind it.

Centaine knew the town well, for it contained the convent where she had spent her schooldays. It was dark by the time they made their way through the town centre.

The fighting of the early years of the war had left terrible scars on the lovely seventeenth-century Flemish architecture. The picturesque old town hall was pocked with shrapnel splinters and part of the roof destroyed. Many of the gabled brick houses surrounding the Grande Place were also roofless and deserted, although the windows of others were candlelit. The more stubborn of the popu lotion had moved back again immediately the tides of war had rolled by.

Centaine had not made a special note of the way to the monastery that General Courtney was using as his headquarters when she had last visited it with Michael, so she could not hope to find it in the dark. She and Anna camped in a deserted cottage, eating the last scraps of stale bread and dried-out cheese from Anna's sack, using the carpet bag for a pillow and each other for warmth as they lay on the bare floor.

The next morning Centaine dreaded finding the monastery deserted when she finally rediscovered the lane leading to it, but there was a guard on the main gate.

Sorry, miss, Army property. Nobody goes in. She was still pleading with him when the black Rolls came racing down the lane behind her and braked as it reached the gates. It was coated with dried mud and dust, and there was a long ugly scratch down both the doors on the nearest side.

The guard recognized the pennant on the bonnet and waved the Zulu driver on, and the Rolls accelerated through the tall gates, but Centaine ran forward and shouted desperately after the car. In the back seat was the young officer she had met on her last visit.

Lieutenant Pearce! She remembered his name, and he glanced back, then looked startled as he recognized her.

Quickly he leaned across to speak to the driver, and the Rolls pulled up sharply and then reversed.

,Mademoiselle de Thiry! John Pearce jumped out and hurried to her. The last person I expected, what on earth are you doing here? I must see Michael's uncle, General Courtney.

It's important. He is not here at the moment, the young officer told her, but you can come with me. He should be back fairly soon, and in the meantime we'll find you a place to rest, and something to eat. It seems to me that you could use both He took Centaine's carpet bag from her. Come along - is this woman with you? Anna, my servant. She can sit in front with Sangane. He helped Centaine into the Rolls. The Germans have made it a pretty busy few days, he settled beside her on the soft leather, and it looks as though you have been through it as well. Centaine looked down at herself: her clothes were dusty and bedraggled, her hands were dirty and her fingernails had black half-moons under them. She could guess what her hair looked like.

I have just come back from the front. General Courtney went up to take a look for himself. John Pearce politely looked away as she tried to put her hair into place again. He likes to be right up there, still thinks he's fighting the Buer War, the old devil. We got as far as Mort Homme-'That is my village. Not any more, he told her grimly. It's German now, or almost so. The new front line runs just north of it, and the village is under fire. Most of it shot away already you wouldn't recognize it, I'm sure.

Centaine nodded again. My home was shelled and burned down.

I'm sorry. John Pearce went on quickly. Anyway, it looks as though we have stopped them. General Courtney is sure we can hold them at Mort Homme-'Where is the general? Staff meeting at Divisional HQ. He should be back later this evening. Ah, here we are. John Pearce found a monk's cell for them, and had a servant bring them a meal and two buckets of hot water.

once they had eaten, Anna stripped off Centaine's clothes, and then stood her over one of the buckets and sponged her down with hot water.

oh, that feels marvelous. For once there are no squeals, Anna muttered. She used her petticoat to dry Centaine, then slipped a clean shift from the carpet bag over her head and brushed out her hair. The thick dark curls were tangled.

Oh Id, Anna, that hurts! It was too good to last, Anna sighed.

When she had finished, she insisted that Centaine lie on the cot to rest while she bathed herself and washed out their soiled clothes. However, Centaine could not lie still and she sat up and hugged her knees.

Oh darling Anna, I have the most wonderful surprise for you- Anna twisted the thick grey horse-tail of her damp hair up on to her head and looked at Centaine quizzically.

Darling Anna, is it? It must be good news indeed. oh it is, it is! I'm going to have Michel's baby. Anna froze. The blood drained from her ruddy features, leaving them grey with shock, and she stared at Centaine, unable to speak.

It's going to be a boy, I'm sure of it. I can just feel it.

He will be just like Michel! How can you be sure? Anna blurted.

Oh, I am sure. Centaine knelt quickly and pulled up the shift. Look at my tummy, can't you just see, Anna? Her pale smooth stomach was flat as ever, with the neat dimple of the navel its only blemish. Centaine pushed it out strenuously.

Can't you see, Anna, It might even be twins, Michel's father and the general were twins. It may run in the family, think of it, Anna, two like Michel!

No, Anna shook her head, aghast. This is one of your fairy stories. I won't believe that you and that soldier-'Michel isn't a soldier, he's a- Centaine began, but Anna went on, I won't believe that a daughter of the house of de Thiry allowed a common soldier to use her like a kitchen maid. Allowed, Anna! Centaine pulled down her shift angrily. I didn't allow it, I helped him do it. He didn't seem to know what to do, at first, so I helped him, and we worked it out beautifully. Anna clapped both hands over her ears. I don't believe it, I'm not going to listen. Not after I taught you to be a lady, I just won't listen. Then what do you think we were doing at night when I went out to meet him, you know I went out, you and Papa caught me at it, didn't you? My baby! wailed Anna. He took advantage-'Nonsense, Anna, I loved it. I loved every little thing he did to me. Oh no! I won't believe it. Besides, you couldn't possibly know, not so soon. You are teasing old Anna. You are being wicked and cruel."You know how I've been sick in the morning."That doesn't prove- The doctor, Bobby Clarke, the army doctor.

He examined me. He told me. Anna was struck dumb at last, there was no more protests. It was inescapable: the child had been out at night, she had been sick in the morning, and Anna believed implicitly in the infallibility of doctors. Then there was Centaine's strange and unnatural elation in the face of all her adversity, it was inescapable.

It's true, then, she capitulated. Oh, what are we going to do? Oh, the good Lord save us from scandal and disgrace, what are we going to do?

Do, Anna? Centaine laughed at her theatrical lamentations. We are going to have the most beautiful baby boy, or if we are lucky, two of them, and I'm going to need you to help me care for them. You will help me, won't you, Anna? I know nothing about babies, and you know everything. Anna's first shock passed swiftly, and she began to consider not the disgrace and scandal, but the existence of a real live infant; it was over seventeen years since she had experienced that joy. Now, miraculously, she was being promised another infant. Centaine saw the change in her, the first stirrings of maternal passion.

You are going to help me with our baby. You won't leave us, we need you, the baby and ! Anna, promise me, please promise me, and Anna flew to the cot and swept Centaine into her arms and held her with all her strength, and Centaine laughed with joy in her crushing embrace.

It was after dark when John Pearce knocked again at the door of the monk's cell.

The general has returned, Mademoiselle de Thiry. I have told him you are here, and he wishes to speak to you as soon as possible. Centaine followed the aide-de-camp down the cloisters and into the large refectory which had been converted into the regimental operations room. Half a dozen officers were poring over the large-scale map that had been spread over one of the refectory tables. The map was porcupined with coloured pins, and the atmosphere in the room was tense and charged.

As Centaine entered, the officers glanced up at her, but young and pretty girl could not hold their attention even a for more than a few seconds and they returned to their tasks.

On the far side of the room, General Sean Courtney was standing with his back to her. His jacket, resplendent with red tabs and insignia and ribbons, hung over the chair on which he was resting one booted foot. He leaned his elbow on his knee and scowled furiously at the earpiece of a field telephone from which a faint distorted voice quacked at him.

Sean wore a woollen singlet with sweat-stained armpits and marvellously flamboyant embroidered braces, decorated with stags and running hounds, over his shoulders.

He was chewing on an unlit Havana cigar, and suddenly he bellowed into the field telephone without removing the cigar from his mouth.

That is utter horseshit! I was there myself two hours ago. I know! I need at least four more batteries Of 25 pounders in that gap, and I need them before dawn, don't give me excuses, just do it, and tell me when it's done!

He slammed down the hand-set, and saw Centaine.

My dear, his voice altered and he came to her quickly and took her hand. I was worried. The chateau has been completely destroyed. The new front line runs not a mile beyond it- He paused, and studied her for a moment.

What he saw reassured him and he asked, Your father?

She shook her head. He was killed in the shelling. I'm sorry, Sean said simply, and turned to John Pearce. Take Miss de Thiry through to my quarters. Then to her, I will follow you in five minutes. The general's room opened directly into the main refectory, so that with the door open Sean Courtney could lie on his cot and watch everything that went on in his operations room. It was sparsely furnished, just the cot and a desk with two chairs, and his locker at the foot of the cot.

Won't you sit here, Mademoiselle? John Pearce offered her one of the chairs, and while she waited, Centaine glanced round the small room.

The only item of interest was the desk. On it stood a hinged photograph frame, one leaf of which contained the picture of a magnificent mature woman, with dark Jewish beauty. It was inscribed across the bottom corner, Come home safely to your loving wife, Ruth. The second leaf of the frame held the picture of a girl of about Centaine's age. The resemblance to the older woman was apparent, they could only be mother and daughter, but the girl's beauty was marred by a petulant, spoiled expression; the pretty mouth had a hard, acquisitive quirk to it, and Centaine decided that she did not like her very much at all.

My wife and daughter, Sean Courtney said from the doorway. He had put on his jacket and was buttoning it as he came in.

You have eaten? he asked as he sank into the chair opposite Centaine.

Yes, thank you. Centaine stood up and picked up the silver box of Vestas from the desk, struck one and held it for him to light the Havana. He looked surprised, then leaned forward and sucked the flame into the tip of the cigar. When it was well lit, he leaned back in the chair and said, My daughter, Storm, does that for me. Centaine blew out the match, sat down again and waited quietly for him to enjoy the first few puffs of fragrant smoke. He had aged since their last meeting, or perhaps it was only that he was very tired, she thought. When did you last sleep? she asked, and he grinned.

Suddenly, he looked thirty years younger. You sound like my wife."She is very beautiful.

Yes, Sean nodded and glanced at the photograph, then back to Centaine. You have lost everything, he said.

The chateau, my home, and my father She tried to be calm, not let the terrible hurt show.

You have other family, of course. Of course, she agreed. My uncle lives in Lyon, and I have two aunts in Paris. I will arrange for you to travel to Lyon.

No.

Why not? He looked piqued at her abrupt refusal.

I don't want to go to Lyon, or Paris. I am going to Africa. Africa? Now he was taken aback. Africa? Good Lord, why Africa? Because I promised Michel, we promised each other we would go to Africa. But, my dear- He dropped his eyes, and studied the ash of his cigar. She saw the pain that the mention of Michael's name inflicted, she shared it with him for a moment, and then said, You were going to say, "But Michel is dead. He nodded. Yes. His voice was almost a whisper. I promised Michel something else, General. I told him that his son would be born in the sunshine of Africa. Slowly Sean lifted his head and stared at her. Michael's son? His son. You are bearing Michael's child? Yes, All the stupid mundane questions rushed to his lips. Are you sure? How can you be certain? How do I know it's Michael's child? And he bit them back. He had to have time to think to adjust to this incredible twist of fate.

Excuse me. He stood up and limped back into the operations room.

Are we in contact with the third battalion yet? he demanded of the group of officers.

We had them for a minute, then lost them again. They are ready to counter-attack, sir, but they need artillery support. Get on to those damned shell wallahs again, and keep trying to get through to Caithness. He turned to another of his staff. Roger, what is happening to the First? No change, sir.

They have broken two enemy attacks, but they are taking a beating from the German guns.

Colonel Stevens thinks they can hold. Good man! Sean grunted. It was like trying to close the leaks in a dyke holding back the ocean with handfuls of clay, but somehow they were doing it, and every hour they held on was blunting the cutting edge of the German attack.

The guns are the key, if we can get them up soon enough. How is the traffic on the main road? Clearing and moving faster, it seems, sir. If they could move the 25-pounders into the gap before morning, then they could make the enemy pay dearly for their gains. They would have them in a salient, they could hit them from three sides, pound them with artillery.

Sean felt his spirits droop again. This was a war of guns, it all came back in the end to the bloody attrition of the guns. At the front of his mind Sean made the calculations, assessed the risks and the costs and gave the orders, but behind that he was making other calculations. He was thinking of the girl and her claims upon him.

Firstly he had to control his natural reaction to what she had told him, for Sean was a son of Victoria, and he expected all people, but especially his own family, to live by the code that had been set in the previous century. Of course, young men were expected to sow their wild oats - by God, Sean himself had sown them by the barrowload, and he grinned shamefacedly at the memory. But decent young men left decent young girls alone, until after they were married.

I'm shocked, he realized, and smiled again. The officers at the operations table saw the smile and looked puzzled and uneasy. What is the old devil up to now? They exchanged nervous glances.

Have you got hold of Colonel Caithness yet? Sean covered the smile with a ferocious scowl, and they applied themselves diligently to their tasks once more.

I'm shocked, Sean told himself again, still amused at himself but this time keeping his face impassive. And yet Michael himself was your own love-baby, the fruit of one of your escapades. Your first-born- The pain of Michael's death assailed him again, but he drove it back.

Now, the girl. He began to think it out. Is she really pregnant, or is this some elaborate form of blackmail? It did not take him more than a few seconds to decide.

I can't be that wrong in my estimate of her. She truly believes she is pregnant. There were areas of the female anatomy and the feminine mind that were completely alien terrain to Sean. He had learned, however, that when a girl believed she was pregnant, she sure as all hell was.

How she knew escaped him, but he was prepared to accept it. All right, she's pregnant, but is it Michael's child, and not some other young- Again his rejection of the idea was swift. She's a child of a decent family, carefully guarded by her father and that dragon of hers. How she and Michael managed it beats me- He almost grinned again as he recalled how often and how adroitly he had managed it in his youth, against equally fearsome odds. The ingenuity of young love He shook his head. All right, I accept it. It's Michael's child. Michael's son! And only then did he allow the joy to rise in him. Michael's son! Something of Michael still lives on. Then he cautioned himself quickly. Steady on now, don't let's go overboard. She wants to come out to Africa, but what the hell are we going to do with her? I can't take her in at Emoyeni. For a moment the image appeared in his mind of the beautiful home on the hill, The place of the wind in Zulu, which he had built for his wife. The longing to be back there with her came powerfully upon him.

He had to fight it off and apply himself to the immediate problems again.

Three of them, three pretty girls, all of them proud and strong-willed, living in the same house. Instinctively he knew that this little French girl and his own beloved but lovingly indulged daughter would fight like two wild cats in a sack. He shook his head. By God, that would be the perfect recipe for disaster, and I wouldn't be there to turn them over my knee. I've got to come up with thing better than that. What in the name of all that is holy do we do with this pregnant little filly? Sir! Sir! one of his officers called, and offered Sean the head-set of the field telephone. I've got through to Colonel Caithness at last. Sean snatched the set from him. Douglas!

He barked into it. The line was bad, the background hissed and rushed like the sea, so Douglas Caithness's voice seemed to come from across an ocean.

Hello, sir, the guns have just come up-'Thank God, Sean growled.

I have deployed them- Caithness gave the map reference. They are hammering away already and the Huns seem to have run out of steam. I am going to raid them at dawn.

Douglas, be careful, there are no reserves behind you, I won't be able to support you before noon All right, I understand, but we can't let them regroup unopposed. Of course not, Sean agreed. Keep me informed. In the meantime I'm moving up four more batteries, and elements of the Second Battalion, but they won't reach you before noon. Thank you, sir, we can use them. Go to it, man.

Sean handed the instrument back, and while he watched the coloured pins rearranged on the map, the solution to his personal problem came to him.

Garry- He thought of his twin brother, and felt the familiar twinge of guilt and compassion. Garrick Courtney, the brother whom Sean had crippled.

It had happened so many years ago and yet every instant of that dreadful day was still so clear in Sean's mind that it might have taken place that very morning. The two of them, teenage scamps, arguing over the shotgun that they had stolen out of their father's gunroom and loaded with buckshot, as they trotted through the golden grass of the Zululand hills.

i saw the inkonka first, Garry protested. They were going out to hunt an old bushbuck ram whose lair they had discovered the previous day.

I thought of the shotgun, Sean told him, tightening his grip on the weapon, so I do the shooting. And, of course, Sean prevailed. It was always that way.

It was Garry who took Tinker, their mongrel hunting dog, and circled out along the edge of thick bush to drive the antelope back where Sean waited with the shotgun.

Sean heard again Garry's faint shouts at the bottom of the hill, and Tinker's frantic barks as he picked up the scent of the wary bushbuck. Then the rush in the grass, and the long yellow stems bursting open as the inkonka came out, heading straight up to where Sean lay on the crest of the hill.

He looked immense in the sunlight, for in alarm his shaggy mane was erected and his dark head with the heavy spiral horns was raised high on the thick powerful neck. He stood three foot high at the shoulder and weighed almost two hundred pounds, and his chest and flanks were barred and spotted with delicate patterns, pale as chalk on the dark rufous ground. He was a magnificent creature, quick and formidable, those horns were sharp as pikes and could rip the belly out of a man or slice through his femoral artery, and he came straight at Sean.

Sean fired the choke barrel, and he was so close that the charge of buckshot struck in a solid blast, and tore through the animal's barrel chest into lung and heart.

The bushbuck screamed and went down, kicking and bleating, its sharp black hooves clashing on the rocky ground as it slid back down the hill.

I got him! howled Sean, leaping from his hiding place. I got him first shot. Garry! I got him! From below Garry and the dog came pelting through the coarse golden grass. It was a race as to which of them could get to the dying animal first. Sean carried the shotgun, the second barrel still loaded, and the hammer at full cock, and as he ran a loose stone rolled under his foot and he fell. The gun flew from his grip. He hit the ground with his shoulder and the second barrel fired with a stunning thump of sound.

When Sean scrambled up again, Garry was sitting beside the dead bushbuck, whimpering. His leg had taken the full charge of buckshot at almost point blank range.

it had hit him below the knee, and the flesh was wet red ribbons, the bone white chips and slivers and the blood a bright fountain in the sunlight.

Poor Garry, Sean thought, now a lonely one-legged old cripple. The woman whom Sean had put with child, and whom Garry had married before she gave birth to Michael, had finally been driven insane by her own hatred and bitterness and died in the flames she herself had set.

Now Michael, too, was gone, and Garry had nothing nothing except his books and his scribblings.

I'll send him this bright pert girl and her unborn infant. The solution came to Sean with a flood of relief. At last I can make some retribution for all I have done to him. I will send him my own grandchild, the grandchild I should so dearly love to claim as my own; I'll send to him in part payment. He turned from the map and limped quickly back to where the girl waited.

She rose to meet him and stood quietly, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, and Sean saw the worry and fear of rejection in her dark eyes, and the way her lower lip trembled as she waited for his judgment.

He closed the door behind him, and he went to her and took her small neat hands in his great hairy paws and he stooped over her and kissed her gently. His beard scratched her soft cheek, but she sobbed with relief and flung both arms around him.

I'm sorry, my dear, he said. You took me by surprise.

I just had to get used to the idea. Sean hugged her, but very gently, for the mystery of pregnancy was one of the very few things that daunted and awed Sean Courtney.

Then he settled her back in the chair.

Can I go to Africa? She was smiling, though the tears still trembled in the corners of her eyes.

Yes, of course, that's your home now, for as far as I am concerned, you are Michael's wife. Africa is where you belong. I'm so happy, she told him softly, but it was more than merc happiness. It was a vast sense of security and protection, this man's aura of power and strength was now held over her like a shield.

You are Michael's wife, he had said. He had acknowledged that which she herself believed, somehow his endorsement made it a fact.

This is what I am going to do. The German U-boats have been playing such havoc. A sailing for you on one of the Red Cross hospital ships that leave directly from the French Channel ports will be the safest way of getting you home. Anna- Centaine cut in quickly.

Yes, of course, she must go with you. I'll fix that also.

You will both volunteer for nursing duties, and I'm afraid you'll be expected to work your passage. Centaine nodded eagerly.

Michael's father, my brother, Garrick Courtney-Sean started.

yes, yes! Michel told me all about him. He is a great hero, he won the cross of the English Queen Victoria for his courage in a battle against the Zulus, Centaine cut in excitedly, and he is a scholar who writes books of history. Sean blinked at the description of poor Garry, but of course it was factually correct and he nodded.

He is also a kind and gentle person, a widower who has just lost his only son- An almost telepathic understanding passed between them; although Centaine knew the truth, from now on Michael would always be referred to as Garrick Courtney's son. Michael was his whole life, and you and I know how he must feel at the loss, for we share it. Centaine's eyes sparkled with unshed tears and she bit down on her lower lip as she nodded vehemently.

I will cable him. He will be at Cape Town to meet you when the ship docks. I will also give you a letter to take to him. You can be certain of his welcome and his protection, for both you and Michael's child. Michael's son, said Centaine firmly, and then hesitantly, but I will see you also, General, sometimes? Often, Sean assured her, leaning forward to pat her hand gently. Probably more often than you wish.

After that it all happened very quickly; she would learn that with Sean Courtney, this was always the way.

She remained only five more days at the monastery, but in that time the German breakthrough at Mort Homme was contained by dour bloody fighting, and once the line was stabilized and reinforced, Sean Courtney had a few hours each day to spare for her.

They dined together every evening, and he answererd her endless questions about Africa and its people and animals, about the Courtney family and its members, with good-natured patience. Mostly they spoke English, but when at a loss for a word, Centaine lapsed into Flemish again.

Then at the end of the meal she would prepare his cigar and light it for him, pour his cognac and then perch beside him, talking still, until Anna came to fetch her or Sean was summoned to the operations room; then she would come to him and hold up her face for his kiss with such a childlike innocence, that Sean found himself dreading the approaching hour of her departure.

John Pearce brought their nursing uniforms to Centaine and Anna. The white veils and the white cross-straps of the apron were worn over a blue-grey dress and Centaine and Anna made the finer adjustments themselves, their needles giving a touch of French flair to the baggy shapeless outfits.

Then it was time to leave, and Sangane loaded their meagre baggage into the Rolls, and Sean Courtney came down the cloisters, gruff and stern with the pain of leavetaking.

Look after her, he ordered Anna, and Anna glowered at him in righteous indignation at this gratuitous advice.

I will be at the docks to meet you when you come home, Centaine promised him, and Sean scowled with embarrassment and pleasure when she went up on tiptoe to kiss him in front of his staff. He watched the Rolls Pull away with the girl waving at him through the back window, then roused himself and rounded on his staff.

Well, gentlemen, what are we all gawking at, we're fighting a war here, not conducting a bloody Sundayschool picnic.

And he stomped back down the cloisters, angry at himself for already feeling the girl's absence so painfully.

The Protea Castle had been a mailship of the Union Castle Line. She was a fast three-funnel passenger liner which had operated on the Cape to Southampton run before being converted to a hospital ship and repainted pristine white with scarlet crosses on her sides and funnels.

She lay at the dock of the inner harbour of Calais, taking on her passengers for the southward voyage, and they were a far cry from the elegant affluent travellers who had filled her pre-war lists. Five railway coaches had been shunted on to the rail spur of the wharf, and from these the pathetic stream of humanity crossed to the liner and went up her fore and aft gangways.