Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson Page A

then,
you,”
Woolley shouted at Kimberley. Engines roared. Woolley went up to the cabs. Lambert and Killion were settling behind the wheels. “Drive backward,” he ordered.
    â€œBackward?” Killion said, “I d-d-don’t know h-h-how to d-d-drive f-f-f-f-f—”
    â€œBackward!”
    The trucks moved off, skidding on the sopping turf, and the mechanics paid out the kites. The wind grabbed them and they soared away at an angle, forced up by their forward speed. Lambert clumsily put his truck into reverse and set off in pursuit. Killion followed, zigzagging wildly. As they headed into the field they began to lurch and jolt: on Woolley’s orders one tire had been made flat.
    The gunners clung to the hoops and tried to line up the heavy guns on a kite. As the drivers worked their speed up, and the flat tires pounded brutally on the grass, so the zigzagging got more violent. The guns wavered, fired wild bursts, missed hopelessly. The gray kites flitted about the gray sky like bats at dusk.
    At the end of the field, the tow trucks made wide, fast turns. On the return trip the gunners had more wind in their faces, they were half-blinded by rain, and the pounding jolt of the flat tires made it impossible to aim steadily. Nobody hit the kites.
    â€œGet out and change crews,” Woolley ordered. “Change crews every lap until the kites are hit.”
    After forty minutes one of the kites took a lucky burst, but it still flew. The other was intact. Briefly, the rain gave way to hail. The trucks pounded up and down, roaring in and out of their wheel marks. It seemed impossible that so many rounds could have been sprayed into the sky to such small effect.
    After an hour one of the kite-strings broke. Woolley ordered its repair. During the delay he had all the vehicles refueled. The pilots huddled together and tried to thaw their freezing hands. Woolley sat on the only gasoline drum and opened another Guinness. Finlayson edged away.
    After seventy minutes the wind dropped, and Dickinson found a kite flying absolutely stiffly and steadily on his quarter. He fired with a spiraling action, blasting bullets all over the corner of the sky until he saw the kite kick. The truck swerved, and his fire swung wide. He raked the gun back and waited, blinking the rain from his eyes. He poured in a second circular volley. The kite fell to pieces.
    Lambert said: “God help the Hun if he ever comes at us with kites. We’ll murder him. Given time.”
    The wind rose again and the remaining kite thrashed all over the sky. It took another twenty minutes to shoot it down. Nobody knew who hit it. They were all still blazing away when the tow truck stopped.
    Woolley stood up without a word and headed for the mess tent. The others trailed after him.
    Dangerfield slouched along with masochistic slowness. “All I’ve learned today,” he said, “is that we’ve been shooting at the wrong bloody target.” He was looking at Woolley’s sack-clad figure, up ahead.
    â€œYes,” said Church, trembling.
    They drank soup and chewed bread. Nobody talked. Woolley sat in the middle, impervious to the rage and resentment that stained the air. Once he looked up andcaught Kimberley’s eyes. Kimberley glared. He became aware that Woolley was analyzing his glare, rating it, giving it marks out of ten. He looked down.
    When they had finished their soup, Woolley stood up. “Back to the butts,” he said.
    Behind the trench was a mound of earth, over ten feet high. This formed the actual butts, the barrier that stopped the bullets. Woolley led the pilots up on top of it.
    Below, four mechanics stood around a large, primitive seesaw, about five feet off the ground. A small wooden keg, the kind used for storing nails, sat on one end of the plank. A step ladder stood next to the other end.
    â€œRight,” Woolley bawled.
    A mechanic climbed the ladder, balanced, and jumped on to the