The Map Of Honour. Max Carmichael

first flight.’

      Green arose from the floor and stretched. ‘Sounds good and smells even better,’ he said as he took the offered food and ate it contentedly.

      ‘Soon as you’ve finished, I’ve got a vehicle outside; we’ll drive down to the airstrip. I’ll just go and get the stuff for the medics.’

      When Bennett returned, Green had his equipment on and his rifle and echelon bag safely stowed in the front of Bennett’s vehicle, a light truck that bore a strange resemblance to a child’s pram with an engine stuck on the front.

      ‘Jump in,’ said Bennett. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes down the track. I don’t know how you’ll go with this mist. The flyers don’t seem to like it much. But the bloke who’s flying you is a bit of a dare devil, so he’ll probably have a go at taking off.’

      Bennett’s piece of casual advice in this regard did nothing for Green’s confidence, and he was starting to regret his decision to take the flight.

      As Bennett guided the vehicle toward the airfield, the mist began to lift, enabling him to drive a little faster. They passed columns of marching men, some of whom shouted angrily as Bennet’s vehicle hit roadside puddles, showering the marching men with mud.

      ‘Get on with you!’ Bennett shouted back. ‘Mud’s good for you; it will make you grow!’

      Green remained silent and concentrated on hanging on to his seat to avoid being thrown out onto the road. He constantly checked that his rifle was safe and that a leather cylindrical case attached to his big pack was not being damaged. The case held his spotting telescope; that and his rifle were the sniper’s essential tools. He doubted that even Bennett’s stores would be able to replace either item quickly should he lose or damage them.

      In spite of Bennett’s erratic driving, they arrived at the airstrip safely. Bennet brought the vehicle to a halt beside a neat sign which proclaimed the single word, “Dispersal.” A Bell tent stood just beyond.

      ‘What do they disperse?’ asked Green as he gathered his gear.

      ‘Fuck knows,’ Bennet replied. ‘Come on, the bloke we want should be inside the tent.’

      Captain James Rosher AIF was cleaning his brown top boots, the kind that come up over a horseman’s calves. On a chair next to him piled in neat order was a long leather coat, a thick woollen scarf, a pair of leather gloves, a flying helmet, and goggles. He looked up from his boot cleaning task as Bennett and Green entered the tent.

      ‘Hello Bennett, two loads to deliver this time, eh?’ Rosher returned to polishing his boot.

      ‘G’day, sir. This is Sergeant Green; he’s needed at 3 Brigade urgently, and these,’ he showed Rosher two small packages, ‘are wanted by the field hospital, also urgently.’

      ‘Right oh, I’ll just finish this boot and we shall be off! Ever flown before, Green?’

      ‘No sir, I haven’t.’

      ‘Didn’t think so; not many of you infantry types have. Can you handle a Lewis gun?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Good, good, hope we don’t have to put that skill to the test, but one never knows.’ Rosher finished polishing the boot, stood it beside its mate, and inspected his work. ‘It will have to do,’ he pronounced. ‘Nobody up there is going to see them anyway!’ He then proceeded to squeeze his feet into the boots, stamping each foot on the ground to make sure he had achieved a comfortable fit. Rosher was already wearing a thick naval style polo necked jumper beneath his uniform tunic, but now he wriggled into yet another pullover before struggling into the leather coat.

      ‘It gets damn cold up there,’ he explained to Green and Bennett. ‘If you have any extra clothing in your kit bag, I recommend you wear it. Got a greatcoat?’

      Green nodded.

      ‘Put that on over the lot; that should reduce the size of your kit bag as well… we don’t have a lot of space. Oh, by the way, if you need a leak or a shit, have it now. We don’t run to flying toilets.’

      ‘Where’s your crapper?’ asked Green. He felt very nervous, a little like he used to feel before the start of a game of football.

      ‘Round the back of the tent. You’ll see the hessian screen. Don’t be too long.’

      Green was quick. His bowels were particularly active, and he made a brief but noisy deposit in the yawning pit that served as the pre-flight toilet. He returned to the tent feeling a little foolish at his nervous state and began to pull a heavy jersey over his tunic, before struggling into his great coat.

      ‘All finished? Wash your hands?’ Rosher seemed to be enjoying the situation. ‘Right oh Mister Bennett, you can shove off. Sergeant Green…let’s go.’

      Bennett shook Green by the hand. ‘Good luck, mate. See you in about eight weeks.’

      ‘Sure, sure,’ replied Green. ‘I’ll let you know how I go, but I reckon I might come back by train.’

      Bennett grinned. ‘I’ll watch you take off,’ he said, ‘should be good for a laugh.’

      Green grimaced and followed Rosher out onto the airfield. Looming out of the mist, he saw the silhouette of the waiting aircraft. A mechanic was fussing over its engine, taking no notice of the approaching pilot and his passenger.

      Rosher patted the side of the fuselage. ‘This,’ he said to Green, ‘is the Sopwith 1½ Strutter, a two-seater biplane multi-role aircraft. That is to say we use can her for dropping bombs, or as a fighter against Hun aircraft. She is as good an aircraft as we have at the moment and can reach a speed of around two hundred miles an hour if she has to.’

      Green nodded, but the thought of reaching one hundred miles per hour, let alone two hundred, was beyond his comprehension.

      Rosher pointed toward the front of the aircraft. ‘That’s where I sit and drive her. You will note I have a fixed machine gun which fires through the propeller. Don’t be alarmed; the weapon is synchronized and won’t cut the prop off. You will sit in the rear pit,’ Rosher pointed to the yawning observer bay situated immediately behind the pilot’s cockpit, ‘facing toward the tail. If we are attacked, you will operate that Lewis gun mounted there.’ Rosher paused and smiled at his passenger. ‘Don’t worry, my aim is to get you there in one piece, so I have no intention of stooging about looking for trouble. I plan to stay low and go like hell to reach the Somme. If we run into trouble, we may have to climb into some clouds to hide for a while, or maybe this damn mist might help hide us. Now one more thing, as well as being bloody cold, it is very, very noisy. If you need to tell me anything, you are going to have to yell, or turn around and pass me a note.’ He turned to the mechanic. ‘Syd, help Sergeant Green get his stuff on board and then strap him in.’

      ‘Come along now, Sergeant,’ directed Syd. ‘Careful where you put your feet now; we don’t want to make a hole in her skin now, do we?’

      Syd placed Green’s kit bag and rifle in the body of the aircraft, making sure it was clear of the various control lines, and tied it in place securely. Then he strapped Green to his seat with a single leather belt, before handing him a flying helmet and some thick gloves.

      ‘Put these on Sarg; it gets a tad cold up there.’

      ‘So they tell me,’ replied Green nervously.

      After making sure Green could reach and operate the Lewis gun, Syd jumped down from the aircraft and moved to its front where he grasped the propeller. Rosher was already in his place. He turned and gave the thumbs up signal to Green, before returning his attention to the mechanic.

      ‘Contact.’

      The mechanic pulled down hard on the propeller and after several barking coughs, the Sopwith’s engine bellowed to life. A few seconds later, the aircraft began to move slowly across the grass. When Rosher was satisfied that his controls and engine indicators were functioning correctly,