Like Father Like Son Ch. 05

He did think her breasts were a trifle bigger, though, and he soon discovered that her nipples were a lot more sensitive. She started to twist beneath him as he nibbled and sucked. Her eyes were closed and her face wore a serene expression of contentment. His hand slipped between her thighs and he felt the wetness of her. She spread her legs wider to accommodate him and he gently manipulated her bud until she climaxed convulsively, trapping his hand and thrusting against his palm. He rose up to enter her but she pushed him onto his back. She straddled him, taking his engorged member in her hand. He felt her ease herself down onto him, encasing him in the moist, velvet heat. She rocked forward, offering her breasts to his kiss and she began to move with a slow, undulating rhythm, dancing to music that only she could hear.

Phillip caught her swaying breasts in both hands, cupping them, rubbing her nipples and gently kneading her flesh. She gave an almost inaudible little moan, swooping down to kiss him and trailing her hanging hair over his face and shoulders. It smelt of freshness, like the meadow after rain. A little knot of urgency had gathered at the base of his spine and was sending darts of pleasure through the fork of his crotch. Bethan seemed to sense this and increased her tempo. She gave a sharp intake of breath and began to grind herself against his pubic bone. A subtle pink flush crept over her creamy skin and her breathing grew harsh and rapid. She flung her head back, her eyes opened wide and she gave a short, shrill scream. He felt her spasm, clasping and fluttering about him as she rode the wave of her pleasure, clamping and relaxing in time to his upward thrusts. Then he was hurtling towards his own release, pummelling himself into her and sucking frantically at her breasts. She hit another peak seconds before he exploded and he rode it with her in a series of wild thrusts that left them delirious and spent.

Afterwards, she curled against him, humming to herself and preening inwardly. That had been special, the very thing she wanted. She had almost given up hope of reaching fulfilment with him inside her. Now she felt complete. Phillip drowsed beside her. She looked at his face. The tension had fallen away leaving him young and vulnerable looking. She smiled to herself. This was what love should be. Each one giving to the other the thing they needed the most. Each one taking that which was freely given, with no place for self or petty concerns of modesty. Love demanded everything, nothing should be held back; for was not the source of that love infinite? Inexhaustible? That was what she believed and she fervently prayed she was right.

April 1917 Bloody April

The squadron arrived in France on 8th March and took up residence at Bellevue. Preparations were well advanced for the new spring offensive and nobody was surprised when the opening artillery barrage began about ten days later. Low cloud and strong winds kept the RFC on the ground for much of the month and High Command bemoaned the lack of reconnaissance. New aircraft were starting to appear on both sides. The British introduced the SE5 as well, of course, as the Bristol F2. On the German side, a new Albatros, the DIII, and a new Roland fighter were making their presence felt.

Phillip did his best to settle into his new squadron. He was teamed with a Second Lieutenant by the name of Henry Jardine. Henry was a cheerful youngster with a mass of sandy hair and a rash of freckles. He was fresh from the Observers’ training school and was full of enthusiasm and had, to Phillip’s mind, that vital ingredient, a willingness to learn. Phillip passed on everything he could from his own experiences as an observer and Henry was soon hand-loading his Lewis drums just as Phillip had done. On the rare days in March that flying was possible, Phillip took every opportunity to get airborne. They practiced firing at ground targets and Henry showed himself to be an adequate gunner. They also practiced navigation and became familiar with the lay of the land on their side of the front.

By the end of the month the Squadron was declared ready for operations. The ground crew had been brought up to strength and a supply of spares and equipment had arrived from England. The biggest worry was over parts for the engines. Demand far outstripped supply and only a resourceful adjutant was able to get the squadron what it needed. Bad weather kept them on the ground until the morning of April 5th. Leefe-Robinson’s Flight was detailed to undertake a reconnaissance in force in the Douai sector of the front. They were in high spirits as they left the briefing. Two months of training with the new aeroplanes was to be put to the test at last.

Phillip and Henry were the fifth aircraft to take off and climb slowly into a patchwork sky. The patrol was to penetrate far behind the German lines. Phillip felt that familiar lethargy, which always seemed to precede imminent action. He did not feel unduly concerned. The ‘Biff’ was a much better aircraft than the old BE2s or even the RE8s. The Flight ascended through broken cloud before levelling off at the designated patrol height of 13,000 feet. As usual, it was bitterly cold in the clear air and Phillip was grateful for the deep cockpit of the Bristol. Behind him, Henry crouched down, checking their progress against the map and ensuring that the modified 97 round drums for his guns were stowed securely. Phillip issued a sharp reminder to be on the look out for HAs – hostile aircraft.

The first sign of trouble came when the rearmost aircraft waggled its wings. Phillip craned his neck and saw the pilot pointing upwards into the glare of the sun. Then the red Very light arced ahead of the formation as the observer fired a flare to warn the others. True to their drill, the ‘Biffs’ began to circle, each aircraft flying as close as possible to the one in front. The dots, initially barely visible against the sun, grew rapidly larger as the German planes plunged towards them. Tracer bullets began to flash through the formation and the stuttering of Henry’s Lewis guns sounded suddenly behind Phillip. He felt strangely calm and concentrated on getting as close to the plane in the front as he could.

A red-painted Albatros shot by, pulling up steeply and climbing away out of range. Bullets ripped through the wing fabric a foot from Phillip’s head and he yawed the Bristol wildly with the rudder. A gap appeared in the formation as one of the British machines rolled onto its back and fell away, smoke gouting from the engine. The remaining planes closed up. Phillip counted five enemy aircraft. The leader’s machine was painted bright red and all the others had some part of their fuselages or wings in the same livery. They were good. Attacks came in coordinated waves, two or three at a time, approaching from different angles to divide the British fire.

Another Bristol fell, spinning out of control. Phillip could make out the figure of the pilot slumped forward over the controls. Behind him, the observer continued to fire even though he must have known he was doomed. Leefe-Robinson was the next to go and then a fourth: a flamer. The remaining two aircraft separated. Phillip stood the Bristol on a wing tip and turned towards the attackers, getting in a raking burst at one red Albatros as it hurtled by. He was beside himself with rage and frustration. The ‘Lufberry Circle’ had been a disaster. He flew with a savage intensity. Henry kept the enemy planes away from their tail with the Lewis guns while Phillip threw the big ‘Biff’ into a series of evasive manoeuvres. He seemed to have the undivided attention of all five German fighters and felt sure that he would soon fall victim to their combined assault.
The other surviving ‘Biff’ was heading for home, a thin plume of smoke bearing witness to the punishment it had taken. Phillip spotted a gap in the circling enemy planes and smartly reversed his turn. He slammed the stick forward and the Bristol dived away from the combat. The Germans took up the pursuit but the speed of the dive had taken them by surprise. Phillip muttered a quick prayer that the evaluation pilots had been right about the strength of the Bristol and steepened his dive, heading for the shelter of the broken cloud. The wires thrummed with the speed and the tattered fabric began to strip away where the enemy bullets had pierced the wings. The pursuing enemy planes were falling back, unable to match the Bristol’s speed in the dive. Then he welcomed the moist grey embrace of the clouds.

It took all of Phillip’s strength to pull the plummeting ‘Biff’ out of its hurtling descent. A glance at the airspeed indicator showed him that they had touched 200 miles per hour. Phillip closed the throttle and the roar of the engine subsided. The controls were unbelievably heavy and the airframe seemed to groan in protest as he hauled the stick back into the pit of his stomach. It seemed like an age before they had sloughed off sufficient speed for the plane to respond. The nose came up with agonising slowness and at last the shrieking of the wires began to diminish. Some of the weight came off the stick and they levelled out, the speed dropping away. Phillip looked back at Henry. He was still crouched over his guns, white-faced but watchful.

They crossed the British lines at 4,000 feet, dodging between the sheltering banks of cloud. Phillip took the opportunity to do a visual check on the damage. The starboard wings were riddled with bullet holes. Patches of fabric had stripped away leaving the wooden ribs exposed. There were holes, too, in the fabric of the fuselage behind Henry’s position. Phillip thanked their stars that the engine had not been hit. The Rolls Royce Falcon was running sweetly. Apart from the stiffness of the ailerons, the plane seemed to be reasonably all right. Even so, he was mightily relieved when the familiar shape of Bellevue came into sight in the patchwork of green below them. He fired a flare to indicate they were damaged and eased the Bristol down onto the sweet grass.

Phillip cut the engine and sat for a few moments in the cockpit feeling utterly drained. The other survivor had already landed so the squadron already knew the bad news. He hauled himself out of the aircraft like a bent old man. Henry waited anxiously for him to dismount.

“Are you all right, old man?”

Phillip nodded. His mind had gone blank. He tried to think of something to say to his young observer, something that might ease the pain of what had happened, but no words came. The squadron commander and the adjutant were beside them, worried faces hovered in Phillip’s vision. He waved a hand, a gesture of desolation. Pushing back his goggles, he rubbed his eyes like a man who hasn’t slept for days. Henry gawped at him, concern and bewilderment chasing each other across his freckled face. Suddenly, the rage and frustration flared in Phillip once more.

“Like fucking sitting ducks!”

He glared around him, seeing the faces recoil in shock at his vehemence.

“We were like fucking sitting ducks up there. Flying around in a nice little circle, made it even easier for them, didn’t it? But they couldn’t fucking well hit us when I actually flew the bloody thing, could they, Henry?”

“How did you get away, Phillip? Andrew Cavanaugh says you were surrounded by Huns when he had to head for home.”

Phillip laughed, a bitter, savage sound.

“Gravity! I put the kite into a steep dive and headed for the clouds. Do you know, we touched two hundred on the ASI before we pulled out?”

“Impossible! You’d have pulled the wings off!”

“No. Not impossible. That’s the whole point! The ‘Biff’ is as strong as they come. You can really fly this plane.”

Henry supported him, his eyes huge in his youthful face.

“Phillip certainly chucked it about up there, sir. And I reckon we hit at least one of them with the Vickers. Only four chased us down, the other headed for Hunland.”
The squadron commander exchanged glances with the adjutant.

“You were out before, weren’t you, Phillip?”

“Yes sir, I was, as an observer last year.”

“And you used the ‘Lufberry’ then?”

“We did, sir, we didn’t have a choice. But it stopped being effective when the Albatros first appeared. They get high and dive on you, sir. Two or three come at you at once and then the others follow up as they zoom away. They divide the defences and pick you off one at a time. The only hope we’ve got, sir, is to use what the ‘Biff’ can do. It can fly like a Scout, sir. It isn’t weak at all. I would never have got away with what I did in most kites.”

“Andrew said it wasJasta 11, that bloody man Richthofen.”

“I suppose so. One of them was painted all red and the others all had some red on their machines. Anyway, the red plane got two of us and the others got another two, including the Captain.”

“You’re quite sure they all went down?”

“Sorry, sir, but yes. No doubt at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what Andrew said. Bloody business, Phillip.”

“You can say that again!”

Four replacement crews arrived two days later. Another two Bristols were lost, again trying to fight in the ‘Lufberry Circle.’ Phillip raged and seethed that they were still so reluctant to trust the aircraft. His own machine was repaired and he and Henry were sent out on a ‘contact patrol’ on the 9th, the first day of the Arras offensive. Flying low over Vimy Ridge, they were attacked by two Rolands. Phillip flew like a man possessed, throwing the ‘Biff’ around like he had once flown the Sopwith ‘Pup’ at Gosport. They drove down one German out of control and the other fled, trailing smoke from a damaged engine. That was Phillip’s first victory as a pilot.

Day after day, the skies over the front were filled with aircraft. The RFC suffered horribly. The outdated BEs and FEs, that still made up the majority of the aircraft at their disposal, were no match for the Albatros DIII. Another Squadron of Bristol Fighters arrived at the front. They, too, learned the hard way. Flying the ‘Biff’ like any other two-seater was to surrender the advantage to the enemy. Gradually, other pilots started to follow Phillip’s lead. When flown aggressively, the Bristol was a match for any Hun. The observer’s Lewis guns could protect the tail while the forward firing Vickers could be used to take the fight to the enemy. Phillip shot down a second German, an Albatros this time, and Henry claimed a share of the destruction of another. A Canadian ‘Biff’ pilot on 11 Squadron shot down three enemy planes in a single patrol. The High Command, which had been on the point of withdrawing the BF2 as unsuitable, started to take notice.

48 Squadron’s morale, so severely dented after that first disastrous patrol, recovered quickly once the new tactics were approved. The losses slowed rapidly and the ‘Biffs’ were soon giving better than they got. Confidence in the strength of the machine replaced the previous doubts. It was soon apparent that the Bristol could take a lot of punishment and still get you home. Elsewhere, however, the carnage continued. Manfred von Richthofen alone was to shoot down thirty British planes during April 1917; the majority of these were the elderly types, totally outmatched by the Albatros Fighters. The RFC hung on grimly. As always, it was the inexperienced pilots and crews that suffered the heaviest casualties. Life expectation for an RFC pilot was a paltry nine days during that bloody month.

April 23rd 1917

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the telephone call came from 4th Army Head Quarters. An urgent reconnaissance was needed; the advance had stalled near Quincy. Phillip had already flown two patrols that day. He was desperately tired and his head ached abominably from the accumulated strain. When the adjutant called him and asked him to undertake yet another mission, he groaned inwardly.
“Terribly sorry, old chap. ‘B’ Flight have been told off for an evening patrol and yours is the only ‘A’ Flight machine ready to go. Go and round-up young Henry and get back here pronto, there’s a good chap. HQ are in a bit of a flap.”

Phillip and Henry climbed wearily into their plane. The adjutant’s briefing had been short and to the point:

“Get over there, have a look-see at what’s holding them up and get back here sharpish.”

They made their way northeast, pushed along by a stiff westerly wind. For this patrol, they were carrying a dozen twenty-pound Cooper bombs in racks under the lower wings. Once over the target area, the reason for the delay became obvious. A German strongpoint, heavily armed with machine guns, had succeeded in enfilading the British advance. The Machine gunners were able to sweep the open ground with deadly effect and Phillip could make out the all too familiar ragged khaki bundles that bore witness to the failed attack. He wished that his aircraft was equipped with a radio so he could call up an artillery strike on the Hun defences. As this wasn’t possible, he decided to attack the strongpoint with the Cooper bombs and machine gun fire.

Phillip dived the plane towards the German position. He levelled out a scant hundred feet over the battlefield and began to rake the strongpoint with the Vickers. When he judged they were about fifty yards short of the target, he pulled the bomb release wires and rippled off the Coopers just as he pulled back on the stick to send the ‘Biff’ into a climbing turn. Henry opened up with the Lewis guns as they climbed away, watching for the flashes of the bombs as he did so. Only two out of the twelve bombs actually struck the German position, the remainder falling short of the target. He shouted this information to Phillip who promptly decided on one more pass before returning to base.

This time the Germans were ready for them. As he turned back towards the German lines, a storm of anti-aircraft fire burst in the air ahead of them. The big Bristol was thrown about like a leaf in a gale. Shrapnel peppered the machine from nose to tail. Henry thought he heard Phillip cry out and the plane lurched alarmingly for a second, one wing dropping low. Then it was back under control. Phillip became aware of a warm feeling and glanced down to see the front of his flying coat turning black with his own blood. He was taken completely by surprise, he had not been aware of being hit. He tentatively felt under his coat with one hand. He appeared to have been wounded in the left side, just above the hip. Nothing serious, he thought. He pulled the scarf from round his neck and pushed it under his coat against the wound. There was no pain yet but he knew that would come later.

He dived once more towards the Hun position, firing a long burst from the Vickers towards the huddled grey figures below. Once more the plane was seized by a giant hand and flung on its side as another ‘archie’ shell burst directly beneath it. This time Phillip felt the shell fragments smash into his legs. Pain seared through his every fibre as he kicked the rudder to skid the machine left and right in an attempt to confuse the gunners. Henry, too, had been hit in the arm but he still managed to get off a final burst one-handed as the ‘Biff’ staggered away.

Phillip’s world contracted to a dim hazy centre surrounded by a tunnel of black. There was a dream-like quality to the flight home. The ‘Biff’ seemed to be floating in a darkening sea, rocked gently by unseen waves. The field at Bellevue appeared as if at the bottom of a well. He felt peaceful as he angled down towards the landing ground. His arms were heavy and he had to concentrate hard to keep his eyes open. The urge to dip into sleep was almost overpowering. He tried to push the rudder bar but his feet would not obey him. His eyelids drooped. The big plane skidded in its final turn. The watchers on the ground knew instantly that the pilot was wounded. The ‘Biff ‘ was crabbing sideways, undulating slightly as Phillip tried to line up the landing strip. They landed heavily, rounding out about six feet too high and simply dropping to the earth as the plane lost flying speed. It bounced twice before the undercarriage collapsed. The wooden propeller snapped off with an audible crack and the plain lurched to a halt.