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A Grave too Many Home Page Essays Memoirs Fiction Plays Poetry References
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Published 2000 Published by
William Norris, 11, Garston Street, Shepton Mallet, Somerset BA4 5NW, United
Kingdom. © 2000 William
Norris. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. Manufactured in
the United Kingdom
About the
Author His books
include: He now lives in
the Somerset village of Shepton Mallet with his wife, Betty, their dog, Duffy,
and two cats: Pudding and Pie A
GRAVE TOO MANY (c) William Norris, 2000 Chapter 1 The shadow of the ancient biplane danced and fluttered over Salisbury
Plain. Etched sharp by the bright
May sunshine, it ran on towards the village, growing larger as the SE 5A
descended in a graceful turn towards the grass landing strip. From the open cockpit, the young pilot scanned the
ground. He watched the racing
shadow flick across thatched roofs and rambling gardens, touching the village
graveyard with a passing shroud and moving swiftly on.
On a bench beside the tombstones he could see, quite clearly, the
upturned face of a tiny seated figure.
The figure waved. Beneath
his goggles, the pilot grinned and raised a gloved hand to return the salute
before concentrating once more on his approach and landing. It would not do to bend it; this was the only one left.
The very last genuine SE 5A in the whole damn world, outside of a museum. He lined up the blunt engine cowling with the runway markers, and moved
the throttle quadrant until the roar of the Hispano Suiza engine subsided to a
gentle burble. The nose of the SE
5A sank into a long gliding approach and the ground rose up to meet it.
Now, a steady pull on the cord-bound ring of the joy-stick, and the rate
of descent eased. He shifted his gaze to the side as the long cowling rose to
cut his forward vision, and watched the blades of grass racing by beneath the
trailing edge of the lower wings. The noise of the wind in the wires died away, the stick was back in his
belly, and he felt a small jar through the air-frame as the tail-skid touched
fractionally before the main wheels. There
were no brakes. The SE 5A
bumped along gently for fifty yards and rolled to a halt.
He gave it a small burst of throttle, turned, and taxied slowly towards
the hangar. "She's fine," he told the waiting mechanic.
"Just fine." He gave the side of the cockpit an affectionate
pat and walked away slowly with real regret.
They did not make them like that any more, and it was a pity.
That was the end of true flying for a month, until they let him take the
old warplane up again on the next public display day.
Tomorrow he would be back in the draughtless efficiency of a Boeing 747,
hauling tourists and businessmen on the long flight to New York.
It was a living, but that was all. The pilot left his helmet on, the goggles pushed up on his forehead, as he
wandered through the ice-cream-licking crowds to the 1946 MG sports car that was
his second love. Truth to tell, he
rather enjoyed the Red Baron image. He
caught the admiring glances of several attractive girls, and flicked the silk
scarf back around his neck. Then,
clambering into the vestigial cockpit of the MG, he nudged it into life and set
off down the hill. There was
one more thing he wanted to do before he left Upavon that day.
*
* *
* * * The old man had been dreaming.
It was a familiar dream, and
he savoured it with a quiet smile as he dozed on the green bench beside the
upright sentinels of the grave markers.
The graves around him were
mostly of airmen; relics of the days long ago when Upavon had been an
operational airfield in two world wars. Perhaps,
he often thought, that was the reason why the dream came most vividly when he
sat on this bench. He had not
slept long, only closing his eyes when the SE 5A sank behind the trees on the
ridge across the valley, but the dream had carried him back more than sixty
years to the days of his youth, and a muddy field close to the Allied lines on
the Western Front. It was 1917, a fine September morning, and the noise of the guns in the
distance was almost drowned by birdsong. Outside
the makeshift hangars, set up in a field on the outskirts of Flez, a line of SE
5A's had just returned from dawn patrol.
Mechanics fussed around them as a lorry deposited the trio of replacement
pilots outside the tent that served as squadron headquarters. The war was at its height, and not going well. The French army had mutinied, and in the mud and
devastation of the Ypres salient more than half a million men were dying in the
bitter struggle for a place called Passchendaele. None of it seemed to matter as he stood there in his high-buttoned tunic
with shining Royal Flying Corps wings on the left breast.
Seven months before he had been an engineering student at Cape Town
University, who had never even seen an aeroplane.
Now he was an operational
fighter pilot. "Hey, Shorty!" The
reverie within a dream was interrupted. A
young man in a leather flying jacket was calling to him from the flight line.
"Do you think you can fly one of these things ?
I reckon you won't see out of the cockpit." The newcomer rummaged in the top of his kit bag and produced a pair of
leather-covered cushions, brandishing them at the other pilot.
"No problem," he shouted back.
Jibes about his lack of height had once upset him, but now he had ceased
to care. If God had meant him to grow taller than five foot two,
God would doubtless have done something about it.
God had made him a fighter pilot.
That was what mattered. The dream skipped in time, and now he was in the air, screaming down out
of the sun at full throttle towards the unsuspecting Rumpler two-seater which
was climbing for height far below him.
Too late, the enemy pilot realised his danger and began to turn away.
But the twin Vickers machine guns were cocked and ready, and he saw the
German observer crumple as he poured the first burst into the rear cockpit. A wild cavorting in the sky, two more bursts, and the Rumpler was falling
like a bird with a broken wing. He
saw it crash into a field beside the silver thread of the river Somme and burst
into flames. The old man stirred awake. His
cheeks were wet for the thought of the men he had killed.
So many men. Fifty four victories, they said, but those were only
the kills that could be confirmed.
And all in those thirteen savage months before the Armistice brought the
madness to a close. So many men.
So many widows. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling cheated. The dream had ended before its usual climax: the scene
he cherished most, when he stood in the long room at Buckingham Palace, and the
bearded long-dead King pinned the medals on his chest. The Victoria Cross, the Distinguished Service Order, the Military Cross
and the Distinguished Flying Cross. More
medals than any South African had ever won.
Medals to mark his achievement as the fifth-ranking ace in the whole of
the Allied air force. Medals he had
not seen for years, tucked away in a secret drawer in the back of his writing
bureau. The voice that woke him had a familiar inflection.
It startled him. "Sir, forgive me, but I've been wanting to meet you for months." The voice was out of his boyhood; the flat nasal drawl of the Highveldt.
But its owner....dear God, thought the old man, I must have died in my
sleep, or else I am dreaming still. The
flying helmet, the goggles, the silk scarf and leather jacket....it's Harry van
der Merwe, my old wing man from 84 Squadron. But van der Merwe was dead, long dead.
He had flown out to meet Baron Manfred von Richtofen's circus in the cold
light of dawn, and had never returned.
The old man closed his eyes again and opened them slowly.
The apparition was still there. He struggled stiffly to his feet. Age
had diminished him still further, and he stood no taller than the pilot's chest. "Who...who are you ?"
There was no sign of a South African accent in his own voice.
That had gone long since. "Sir, my name is John Kruger.
I'm the pilot of that SE 5A you waved to a short time ago.
I've seen you here, on the same spot, every time I fly over.
You always wave, and I always wave back.
I thought it was time we got acquainted.
I was just curious, I guess," he added lamely.
A wary look, almost hostile, had come into the old man's eyes. "You're not English," the old man challenged. "No, sir. As a
matter of fact I come from South Africa." "Go away," the old man said.
"Leave me alone. I'm
English, damn you. This is my
country. We don't want any
bloody Boers over here. Be
off with you." He raised
his stick. The pilot stepped
back quickly. "But sir, I only thought, because you seemed so interested in the
'plane...." "Young man, I have no interest in aeroplanes, and I have never waved
to one in my life. I come here
sometimes for peace and quiet. That
is all." He
gestured towards the gravestones beside the gravelled path.
"I want to be left in peace with my friends." Kruger's eyes followed the movement, taking in the neat rows of uniform
headstones and the well-kept lawn. Suddenly
he froze.
"That's odd," he said.
"This grave over here. I've
never been to this cemetery, but I
could swear that I've seen that name before."
He shook his head in puzzlement and moved closer to one stone standing in
the centre of a row of three. The
old man remained perfectly still,
save for the pulse of a swollen vein beating in his temple. Kruger read the headstone aloud. "Flight
Lieutenant Andrew Weatherby Beauchamp-Proctor VC, DSO, MC, DFC.
Killed at Upavon, June 21, 1921." Beneath the inscription was a
replica of the Victoria Cross, and the motto "For Valour." He straightened up, his voice excited.
"But I know this guy. At
least, I know of him. He was
the local hero back in my home town, Mafeking.
When we were at school we all learned about Andrew Proctor, and the way
he won the VC. Why, he used to fly
SE 5's, too. Perhaps that's why I
got mixed up in this business. "But...." Kruger
paused, his brow furrowed. "He
can't be buried here. I mean,
he's buried back home in Mafeking. I
know he is. I've seen the grave.
I...I don't understand." He turned to look at the old man, but he was talking to himself.
Through the gates of the cemetery, fifty yards away, a small black figure
was hurrying down the hill, coat-tails flapping, as though the devil himself
were in pursuit. Kruger stood by the grave of Andrew Beauchamp-Proctor for several minutes,
deep in thought. "Queer,"
he murmured. "Very queer.
Whoever heard of a man being buried in two places at once ?" He walked slowly back to his car and drove away
through the winding Wiltshire lanes. End of chapter 1 of 25. If you would like to read more of this book, contact the author at mandychops@ukonline.co.uk |