Chapter 3
Al vanished and Sam trotted around to the front of the tent, curious to watch the planes take off, especially since he wasn't in one of them. He saw Al reappear in a plane waiting its turn to go. 'In' was a misnomer; Al had positioned himself on top of the cowling, his legs straddling the twin machine guns mounted there. He waved jauntily at Sam.
Sam noticed that these were a different kind of plane; still two wings, but only one seat. The guns were faired in with sheet metal, creating a humped look. Are those the famous Sopwith Camels I've heard about? Sam wondered. There were five planes in line, and two pilots were just climbing into their cockpits. The last pilot was clearly urinating by the tail of his plane. Sam wasn't shocked; he'd grown up on a farm where you often answered nature's call wherever you happened to be. These men would be in those planes for a long time and a full bladder would be extremely uncomfortable during the bumpy flight so it made sense to empty it right before taking off.
The pilot of the plane Al was hitching a ride in was starting his engine. "Ready!" he called to a crewman on the ground.
"Switch off, Sir?" the crewman asked.
"Switch off!" the pilot replied.
The crewman turned the propeller a few times and shouted, "Contact, Sir."
"Contact!" the pilot replied, and Sam could see his hand move to turn on the ignition switch.
The crewman gave the prop a hard yank downward and then quickly stepped back as the engine caught and the prop began to spin. The remaining pilots were settling their goggles into place and tugging on their gloves before starting their engines. A 'Harry Tate' had been pushed into place at the back of the line; Sam saw Trevor Browne and another man dashing toward it at a run.
The first plane revved its engine, bounced down the mown strip, and lurched uncertainly into the air. The planes were at their heaviest now, their tanks full of gas and boxes of ammo belts placed to feed the guns. It began a wide circle around the field awaiting the others, which soon joined it. The R.E.8 took off last, waggling its wings rather wildly as it took up position. As it passed over Sam's spot it tilted sideways so Lt. Browne could give him a thumb's up that his repair seemed to be working. Sam hoped it held, and that all seven men would return safely.
It was late in the afternoon, and Sam was rattling down a rutted dirt road in car that was little more than a horseless carriage on his way to some place called Corbie Hill. Word had come in through the field telephones that the 3rd Australian Division had a problem with one of their big anti-aircraft guns. Since it couldn't come to him, he'd hitched a ride with a soldier who'd been headed in that general direction and who'd agreed to drop him off.
The driver's name was Brian and he was, like all the other men here, a young man; yet the lines around his mouth and eyes belied that image. This was a man who'd seen the horrors of war first-hand, and would never be the same. He was polite to Sam but spoke little, leaving Sam to his own thoughts; which were currently running along the line of wondering how many kinds of machines he would be called on to repair – and how close to the action this gun emplacement was located. He'd seen a few craters in the fields they'd passed, but he could see no planes anywhere in the sky so hopefully he was safe from being bombed. He didn't think either side had guns sophisticated enough to lob shells this far across the lines. Still, it was a little unnerving.
Brian stopped the car at a crossroads. "I'm afraid you walk from here, John." He pointed to his left. "Just keep going up that road until you see the guns, you can't miss it. It's a mile, maybe a mile and a half. Have you dealt with the Aussies before?"
"Uh, no, I haven't," Sam replied, unsure if it were true for John.
Brian smiled, the first time since Sam had met him. "They're good men but a bit impulsive, if you know what I mean. Their accent's a bit thick, too – but then I should imagine you think I have an accent as well!"
Sam smiled back. "And you'd say I talk like a Yank."
"Well now, you can't help it then, can you?" Brian teased. "Good luck to you, and take care of yourself."
They shook hands. "And to you," Sam told him.
Sam grabbed his toolbox and hopped out of the car, waving as Brian drove away. He started off down the road, trying to keep the heavy box from banging into his leg with every step. He reflected that this was indeed a different world, where military personnel had to make their own way to their assignment and no one thought it the least bit odd to walk over a mile to get there. He wasn't sure how he would get back to the aerodrome either; that little detail hadn't been discussed. One thing at a time, he told himself. The weather was good and the air was incredibly fresh, at least to someone used to twenty-first century pollution.
Brian had been right, he saw the gun emplacement about 20 minutes later. A motorbike was putt-putting down the road toward him. Its engine made a curious sound, unlike the syncopated thump of the Harley Davidson he'd ridden on a previous Leap. The machine pulled up in front of him, the rider dropping a booted foot to the ground to steady himself. No wonder it sounded funny, Sam thought. It's only got one cylinder.
"G'day, Mate!" the rider said cheerfully. He wore a long belted jacket with a great many pockets and a wide-brimmed hat; the left side of the brim was snapped to the crown, giving it a jaunty air. "You'd be the mechanic from Bertangles. I'm Reggie Baker. Hop aboard and I'll give you a lift. Want you all nice and rested before you get to work!"
"John Beckett," Sam said, shaking hands. He eyed the bike critically, wondering how he'd manage the toolbox. There would barely be enough room for two men, though thankfully Reggie was a tall, slender man.
"Just put the box on your lap," Reggie said. "I promise I won't take the corners too fast." The twinkle in his eyes seemed to belie that statement.
Reggie turned the motorbike around in the road and Sam climbed on behind him, the box wedged between the two of them. If anything the two-wheeled ride was even bumpier than the car had been, but they made it up the hill to the big guns without mishap. At the last minute however Reggie threw the bike into a tight turn and the toolbox slid off Sam's lap, hitting the ground beside the gun.
"Just saved you the trouble of setting that big box down," Reggie said with a grin. "Delivered it right to the job for you, I did."
Sam wasn't sure if this were Reggie's idea of a joke, or a hazing to test his mettle. "Good thing it didn't land on your foot," he replied in a bland tone.
Reggie laughed uproariously as they both dismounted the motorbike. "You'll do, Mate, you'll do. Now the question is, can you fix the peashooter here? We've got Huns to shoot at, and we can't do our job proper-like without it."
"I've, uh, never seen one of these up close," Sam replied as he looked over the huge and deadly machine.
"And you should be thankful for that!" said a man who'd just walked up. He was short and barrel-chested, with dark hair. He offered his hand. "Billy Wright's the name."
Sam shook hands and introduced himself. "What seems to be the problem?"
"It's this piece here," Billy said, pointing to a thick metal brace that had broken in two. "There's another one just like it see, on the other side. When this big baby fires it kicks worse than a wallaby! These straps keep the base of the gun on track so it slides backward with the recoil."
"Trust me, Sam. You wouldn't want to fire this thing without being able to control the recoil." Al had just popped in. "That'd be dangerous."
"No kidding," Sam muttered. At the confused looks of the Aussies he continued. "I can see how dangerous that would be." He stepped up onto the toolbox to get a closer look. The top of the thick piece of iron was bolted solidly to the gun-base, while the bottom was attached to a bar which ran along the length of a groove. Apparently the enormous stress of recoil had caused the piece to crack in the middle. The lower half hung down on its bolt so Sam raised it back into place. "It just needs to be welded back together."
"No, no, Sam!" Al put it hurriedly, waving his hands in excitement. "On a normal Leap you'd find pretty much the same level of technology you're used to, give or take. But remember when you are, Sam – they didn't have arc welders in 1918!"
"Welded? Is that what you Yanks call smith work?" Reggie asked.
Sam jumped down and began rummaging through the toolbox, partly to cover his error. "Smith work?" he asked, glancing at Al.
"Blacksmithing," Al supplied. "You're gonna have to either hammer out a replacement or try to put that one back together. Making a new one would be better; a repair might not hold very long."
"Ah, well, sort of," Sam replied as he grabbed a large wrench. "It'd be easier to try to fix this one, but I'm not sure." He closed the lid and stood on the box once more to begin removing the bolt.
"Not sure of what?" Billy asked.
"You don't exactly have unlimited supplies," Al told him. "A patch would take less metal, which is in short supply around here."
"A repair might not last too long," Sam repeated. "But it would take less iron and I'm not sure we have enough to make a new part."
Reggie nudged Billy in the ribs. "We need to take him to the Cap'n."
"Right we do," Billy replied. "Cap'n can likely get us what we need. He knows the locals roundabout, says he knows a Sheila what can take care of us soldiers."
"Ha! I'll just bet she can," Al smirked.
"How can a girl help?" Sam asked, turning his head to frown in Al's direction.
"The Cap'n, he seems to think right highly of her," Reggie said a bit cryptically. He began pushing the motorbike closer to the gun. "Let's get this bit o' tin unbolted, then I'll take you over to HQ and see what he thinks."
Having maneuvered the bike into position he jumped up to stand on its seat. The bike wobbled a little, but Reggie moved with it until it settled into place, apparently unconcerned at the possibility of falling. Billy dug into one of his uniform pockets to find a wrench. He handed it to Reggie, then stood back to watch.
Even with two of them working on the brace it took awhile before they got it unbolted. The over-sized bolts were tight, their threads probably filled with fine dust and gunpowder making them that much harder to remove. Sam's wrench slipped off the nut, causing him to bark his knuckles.
"Ooh, sorry, Sam," Al commiserated. "That looks like it hurt."
As Sam sucked on a knuckle he muttered, "I'd really like to get some WD-40. That'd make this job easier."
"I know, Buddy," Al responded. "If you had some machine-oil it might help, but they didn't have aerosol cans yet. I wish they'd never invented them, they just spray accelerant into the atmosphere and foul up the ozone." Worked up now, he began pacing and continued to mutter about environmental issues. Sam ignored him.
Billy hadn't quite caught Sam's words but made an assumption. He glanced at the angle of the sun and said, "Had a long day, have you, Mate? I reckon the Cap'n will let you get your 40 winks at HQ. With any luck you'll get there before dark."
"In time for tucker," added Reggie hopefully. "Which is always better at HQ. Be nice to get a good meal for a change."
Just then the upper bolt came free and Reggie's half of the brace fell onto the body of the gun with a loud clang. "Blimey! That could've hurt if it'd hit my foot!" He jumped off the bike's seat and retrieved the piece, absent-mindedly tossing it up into the air repeatedly as he gauged Sam's progress. Al looked up from his rant.
Sam transferred the wrench to his left hand so he could shake out the muscles of his right arm. "That sucker's on there tight!"
"Why don't you take a little rest, Sam?" Al suggested.
"I need to get this done!" Sam replied a bit testily. "It's time we got out of here."
"Chill out, Sam," Al responded.
"We've got time yet, no need to rush," Billy told him.
Al looked critically at Sam. "Are you okay?"
Sam made a wry face. "I'm not exactly used to being on the front lines so maybe I'm a little nervous; but I've got a bad feeling about this."
Al whipped the handlink out of his pocket and began pushing buttons.
Billy shrugged. "You get used to it," he said. "Why don't you let me have a go at it."
"Sure, thanks," Sam said. He and Billy traded places on the makeshift step-stool and Billy began working at the recalcitrant bolt.
"Sam, don't panic," Al began.
Sam's face showed sudden alarm at the words.
"But you do need to get outta here," Al continued. "There's a flight of German planes headed this way, and Ziggy says they'll be shooting at these soldiers."
Sam scanned the sky but there were no planes to be seen. Nevertheless he trusted Al's information. Billy and Reggie were doubtless used to living under combat conditions, but that was an experience he wasn't eager to go through again. Ziggy might well be able to tell him that certain men died here today, but she wouldn't know exactly where they'd stood. The records wouldn't be that precise in this – or any – war.
The problem was that his new friends weren't worried, nor were they likely to believe he had inside information. Sam decided his best bet was to continue to play the part of the non-combatant who was suddenly paranoid. He made a big show of shading his eyes while looking off into the distance.
"What's that over there?" he asked, pointing in the direction of the trenches.
Billy glanced at the patch of sky Sam pointed to. "Looks like a flock of birds heading to roost for the evening." He returned to his work.
Sam jumped up on the base of the gun and pulled himself atop it. "Are you sure?" he asked. He didn't have to act to inject fear into his voice.
Reggie swarmed up the side of the gun to look for himself. "You might want to hurry it up a bit, Billy," he said with studied calm. "I think John might be right; those just might be German birds."
"They're too far away to tell; could be our blokes coming home," Billy replied. Nevertheless he applied the wrench with renewed vigor.
"They are planes," Sam said tensely. "I can see their wings now."
"Sam, you should get down offa there and find a safe place," Al cautioned. "At the very least you need to find a helmet somewhere. And get away from that gun because it's a target!"
"I need to see the markings," Sam said.
"No you don't, Mate," Reggie said. "You can tell from the shape – and I think you're right, they're not friendly."
Sam sat on the edge of the gun body and reached down toward the wrench. "Maybe if we both pull it'll help."
The strategy worked and at long last the bolt came free. The planes were close enough now that they could clearly hear the sound of their engines. Sam and Billy jumped down and the three men ran away from the useless gun, Al strolling along behind.
But there was no such thing as a safe place in the middle of the gun emplacement. Soldiers were scurrying toward their assigned posts and in moments were tracking the incoming planes, ready to fire if they got the chance. Reggie ducked into a wooden shack long enough to grab three helmets. Sam put his on gratefully. Al sauntered up behind Sam and leaned closer to have a better look; he stuck his finger through a hole in the helmet's rim and shook his head but didn't say a word to Sam.
"What can I do to help?" Sam asked.
"Let's see where the Huns are headed," Billy said. "They might well be going to shoot up some other place, and not come within reach of our guns."
Al had investigated the shack and now ran back out through the rickety wall. "Sam, this place is full of ammunition; if it gets hit it'll take half the hill with it!" He turned this way and that, hurriedly looking for a better place for Sam to ride out the coming attack. Finally he pointed to a ditch a few yards away. "Jump down in that ditch over there, Sam. Put your head down and try to look like you're not worth shooting."
"But as long as I'm here I feel like I should do something to help these guys," Sam said a bit anxiously.
"You can help 'em best by not getting killed so you can fix their gun tomorrow," Al protested.
At the same time Billy assured him, "If they do come our way, you can help us carry ammo boxes out to the other lads."
They heard a shout from one of the gunners; all three looked up at the sky to see that the enemy planes were much closer now, and coming within range of their weapons. One of the guns fired; a deafening sound even though it was 50 feet away. Sam watched in awe as the gun recoiled; the entire body of the machine shuddering with the force. He could see how critical it was to control that power, and thus how important his current job was.
The rest of the guns opened fire and he couldn't hear himself think for the noise. Reggie pressed a pistol into his hand and he stuck it through the belt on his uniform. It didn't make him feel any safer, but he'd long since learned that having a weapon wasn't a bad idea. The big guns couldn't fire straight up, so if an enemy plane managed to make it through the barrage they'd have to try to shoot it down with handguns.
Sam watched as the planes flew by, trying to dodge the shells. Billy tapped his shoulder and pointed behind them; friendly forces were flying to meet the Germans. They began a deadly dance in the sky, weaving and diving to get into position to fire on the enemy while trying to ensure that another enemy didn't have his sights set on them at the same time. It would've been a beautiful display if it weren't so dangerous.
The guns fired sporadically now, waiting to make sure they weren't likely to hit their own planes. Reggie motioned Sam over to the door of the shack, pointing to a stack of wooden ammo boxes. They each grabbed one of the rope handles and began carrying it out. Sam could see Al frantically waving and shaking his head, but he ignored his friend. Al began fiddling with the handlink as they carried the heavy box to one of the guns. They helped the crew get the belt of ammo fed into the gun and took the empty box with them, throwing it in a pile outside the shack.
Al walked closer to Sam; so close in fact that his holographic body seemed to merge with Sam's. He was careful to hold the handlink up toward the dogfight. "I've got Ziggy trying to keep track of things up there," he shouted in Sam's ear. "Hopefully she'll be able to give us a couple seconds' warning if bullets are likely to be coming this way. So if I point some direction, you run that way. Don't argue with me on this, Sam; just run, okay?"
Sam nodded. "I promise, Al. And thanks, I really appreciate you looking out for me."
"You just keep an eye on me and move when I tell you to," Al ordered gruffly. He was in full military mode, determined to keep his charge alive; but this was made more difficult by the fact that Sam was often more focused on helping someone else and didn't always follow his orders. Al couldn't afford to be sentimental at the moment; he'd have his hands full keeping track of everything to keep Sam safe.
Sam turned to see Billy holding several metal canteens by their straps. He pushed them in Sam's direction while pointing at one of the guns with his other hand. Sam grabbed them and ran, handed them to the gunner and remembering to glance at Al as he started back. Reggie and Billy were delivering another box of ammo. The next half hour was spent running supplies and watching the dogfight.
Nor did he forget to look in Al's direction frequently. Al had stationed himself at the top of the hill so that he would be easily visible from wherever Sam might happen to be. He couldn't quite get over the feeling that Al was in danger up there, though he knew that no bullets could hurt the hologram.
One of the big guns found a target; Sam watched as two large objects plummeted to the ground while the rest of the pieces floated lazily down like autumn leaves. Those must be the engine and the pilot's body, he thought. Everything else is wood or fabric, caught up in the turbulence of the explosion and not heavy enough to fall very fast. He knew that soldiers nearer the site would go check on the pilot; they'd tend to his wounds or bury him as needed.
Caught up in the deadly spectacle he suddenly realized a plane had broken off from the pack and was heading straight for the hill. He whipped his head around to see Al frantically waving to get his attention; seeing that he had it, Al began pointing toward the ditch, pumping his arm to indicate urgency. Al's mouth was open, doubtless screaming "Run, Sam!" at the top of his lungs.
Sam ran. He veered slightly from the straight path to grab Reggie and Billy by the arms and drag them along with him. They looked a little confused, but combat had taught them not to ask questions if someone seemed to think they might be in danger. The three of them jumped into the ditch feet first and immediately hunkered down and huddled close to its earthen wall. A second later bullets stitched a line across the ground mere yards from where they'd been standing.
Sam dared to look up as the plane passed overhead and watched as the bullets threw up gouts of earth as they traced a path straight toward Al at the top of the hill. No matter that he knew they wouldn't hurt his friend, he couldn't help but wince as he watched them appear to pass through his body. Al put his hands on his hips and looked up at the retreating plane. A sudden near-silence had descended on the emplacement as the soldiers contemplated the close call. Sam could clearly hear Al yell, "Ha, ha, you missed me!"
The enemy plane flew off in a wide circle to avoid the anti-aircraft guns on his way to meet up with his squadron. The dogfight appeared to be over, though Sam hadn't seen any decisive action to cause that. Maybe he'd missed it, or maybe it was the fact that the sun would set soon and the pilots on both sides wanted to be safely home before dark. These planes didn't have headlights.
"Blimey!" Reggie exclaimed as they climbed out of the ditch and dusted themselves off. "That was too close by half."
"We're in your debt, John," Billy said sincerely. "If you hadn't pushed us into that ditch we'd be goners for sure."
"I, uh, just thought that plane was a little too close for comfort," Sam told them.
"No need to be modest, Mate," Reggie said. "I reckon you've saved our lives today."
"Oh, I don't know," Sam said uneasily. "I mean, I couldn't be sure, he might have swerved and hit us anyway."
Al popped in next to the group. "Yeah, don't be so modest, Sam. Ziggy says you did save their lives – both of them."
"I did?" Sam asked, speaking to Al. "Both of them?"
"Right," said Billy. "You couldn't choose between us, so you pushed us both into that ditch. First pint's on us tonight, John!"
"Was that why I was here?" Sam asked, still speaking to Al. Perhaps it was the let-down after the adrenaline rush; he seemed to have momentarily forgotten the Aussie's were standing there. "Then I can Leap out of here?"
Al consulted the handlink, but Sam didn't feel the familiar sensation.
"We leaped out of the ditch," Billy said. "But you do need to go to HQ so you can see about fixing our gun. Next time around we'd like to be shooting back."
"No, sorry, Sam," Al said, shaking his head. "Reggie and Billy survive the war and go home to Australia in another few months. But it doesn't look like saving them was your mission. Though Ziggy still doesn't know what it might be."
"Damn!" Reggie yelled. "The bloody Huns shot my bike!"
Sam looked over to the inoperative gun and saw soldiers shoveling dirt onto the burning remains of the motorbike. He was beginning to feel a sense of relief at having escaped death unscathed, and remembered Reggie's outrageous sense of humor. "Well then you'll just have to find some other way to get me to HQ; I only saved your sorry butt so you'd still be here to use that gun after I get it fixed." He gave them a big grin to show it was all in good fun.
Reggie grinned back and said, "Let's see if we can borrow the truck." He started off toward the back side of the hill with Sam and Billy following.
"Arse," Billy muttered as they walked. "Bloody Yank, it's 'saved your sorry arse'." But he was grinning, too.