town of Saint-Libert and just south of a dense forest. He was sure he had flown over that earlier. It would be easy enough to spot, even on a day like this.
He dived away from the blue vista back through the clouds and into the gloom of a dismal November day. Eddie had a good sense of place and direction and quickly spotted the forest and the church tower close by. He looked at his watch. 09.55. The attack was due at any moment.
A short burst of artillery fire blossomed on the ground beneath him, and he wondered about the wisdom of flying too close to that. What an ignominious end – to be hit by your own artillery on the last day of the war. Plenty of pilots he knew had been shot down by their own side in the previous few months.
The bombardment around the village had stopped now and Eddie could see tiny ant-like figures emerging from an embankment to the west. He swerved down, determined to come in alongside them, and when he discovered where the Germans were entrenched, he would fly in low and drop his eggs. He smirked at the term – another British colloquialism his squadron had picked up.
He put his Camel into a steep dive, and felt the familiar surge of excitement that came with the manoeuvre. His speedometer was touching two hundred miles per hour. A Camel could barely make one hundred twenty five in level flight, so diving like this was as fast as anyone could go. It was amazing. At this speed you could get from New York to Boston in an hour . . . it was even faster than a train.
Eddie levelled off behind the first wave of American soldiers, searching the horizon for any sign of the enemy. He was surprised to hear his engine stutter, and was startled to see a trail of black smoke emerge from the left-hand exhaust vents. Had his own soldiers been firing at him?
Whatever had caused that black smoke had come and gone. Maybe it was a faulty fuel mix, a misfiring valve – it could be lots of things. The engine roared on without interruption – no hint of distress in its insistent thrum, and the stick still felt responsive in his hand. The Camel was flying fine; he should just press on. He felt lucky. Maybe there would be a Hun plane up here for him after all, and maybe he would bag his fifth yet.
But there was still the attack below to attend to. His CO was going to wonder what the hell he was doing up here this morning. The troop-support role would give him an excuse even if it was directly against the regulations to take off like that. Eddie wasn’t that worried about the CO – especially if the war really was going to end. He could imagine the fuss the New York papers would kick up if he was court-martialled: Gutsy Flyboy Cashiered for Fighting Hun.
Checking around in case there were any other aircraft close by, he was disappointed to find himself still alone in the sky and dived down towards the German lines.
CHAPTER 13
9.45 a.m.
Axel Meyer had grown tired of squinting into the dull horizon. He was sure the Americans would be coming sometime that morning, but they were taking their time about it. His new friend Erich told him that he’d heard the Yanks usually attacked at first light. Well, it was long past that. Then shells began to fall in front of him, far enough away to watch them blossom and dissolve without feeling in immediate danger. He nudged Erich and realised he was fast asleep again. So far he had been lucky, but he was sure that soon the Feldwebel would find out. And he was equally sure he’d cut Erich’s ears off. ‘Hey, look out, we’ve got shells coming in,’ he said.
Erich jolted awake and peered over the crenulated wall of the church tower. A blinding flash erupted fifty metres in front of them, and a hot piece of shrapnel shot through the air, rapping sharply on the oversized helmet that sat uncomfortably on Erich’s head. ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed, examining the dent. ‘That could have gone straight through.’
‘Put it back on, you Dummkopf?,?’ said Axel.
Two more shells fell around the first crater. ‘They’re getting our range,’ said Axel. He sounded half excited and half terrified. Their tower was such an obvious target for artillery.
‘Feldwebel,’ he shouted between explosions,