Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson Page B

seesaw. It crashed down, catapulting the keg up and over their heads. They watched it land on the other side of the butts. At once a group of armorers moved forward with the Lewis guns and began setting them up where the keg had landed.
    â€œHit the little barrels,” Woolley said, “before they hit you.” He slid down the bank and went over to the catapult.
    The pilots trooped gloomily across to the guns. “Farce upon farce,” Lambert said. He squatted on a camp stool and leaned wearily against his gun. The rain plastered his hair over his forehead like weed on a rock. They heard a muffled crash, and the first keg soared over the butts, hung, and began tumbling down. Lambert just managed to jump sideways before it thumped to earth and rolled behind him. “Bugger me,” he breathed; and then the massive blast of machine-gun fire drowned his voice. Another keg was on its way, and another.
    As Lambert got to his feet and wiped the muck from his hands, the first keg exploded behind him. He staggered away, his ears ringing, and was surprised to find himself unhurt. Gray smoke drifted up, acrid and chemical. Another keg went off, further down the line. A new delivery smacked into themud less than ten feet away. Lambert woke up and ran to his gun.
    Beyond the butts Woolley lit a thunderflash, dropped it inside a keg, closed the lid and stood the missile on the catapult. A mechanic stepped off the ladder and another took his place on top. The catapult righted itself. Woolley loaded it, the man jumped. Each discharge shifted the catapult’s position, so that the next keg followed a different course. At intervals, over the steady chatter of gunfire, muffled explosions could be heard.
    It lasted for ten minutes, until he ran out of thunder-flashes. “Keep going with the empty kegs,” he told the gasping mechanics. “Those buggers won’t know the difference, anyway.”
    He walked around the end of the butts and watched the performance. The kill-rate was high: three kegs out of five were blasted in midair. The guns had divided themselves into two batteries, left and right. They took alternate kegs, and this extra time allowed them to aim better. One gun was not firing. A man lay stretched out behind it; as Woolley watched, a keg bounced right over him. Woolley made no move until the last keg soared over the butts and was destroyed.
    The casualty turned out to be Gabriel. A keg had clipped the side of his head. “As long as it didn’t hit anything important,” Woolley said. They all stood around and watched. Gabriel groaned. “Why don’t you do something for him?” Woolley asked.
    â€œWhy don’t you?” Kimberley demanded.
    The armorers were unloading the guns and taking them away. “I thought we might all go for a five-mile run after tea,” Woolley said. “That would only leave arms-drill and community hymn singing before bed-time.” Gabriel rolled on to his side and felt his head.
    â€œHere comes the ambulance, sir,” called an armorer.
    Woolley turned. It was indeed an ambulance: a field ambulance, boldly red-crossed, lumbering down the track.A couple of men put their arms around Gabriel and helped him up. Woolley stared at the ambulance, took a couple of paces, stopped and stared again. The ambulance blipped its klaxon. He broke into a run. As it slowed and turned, the woman driver leaned out and waved. She revved the ambulance into a U-turn, and Woolley jumped on to the running-board. She changed up and accelerated away. The men holding Gabriel put him down again.
    â€œIn bloody credible,” Lambert said.
    â€œHow long for?” Woolley shouted.
    â€œTwo days.”
    â€œBring any Guinness?”
    â€œCase in the back.”
    â€œI love you.” He leaned inside and kissed her. “Do you love me?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s right. Killed anyone lately?”
    â€œThree last night. Are you all