High Road to China. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ flying in war formation, heading for some sort of showdown on the other side of the world: I’m dreaming, thought O’Malley. Then he looked up at the clouds closing down on him, heard the sirens of the wind singing as they brushed by him, felt their fingers against his face, knew the dream was the heart of reality and rejoiced.

      That day the world was having its usual convulsions. Bolshevist troops were advancing on Warsaw and falling back before Baron Wrangel’s White Army in the Crimea; Parer and McIntosh landed in their DH9 in Darwin, having taken exactly eight months to fly the 10,000 miles from London; there was heavy selling on the New York Stock Exchange; Landru, the French Bluebeard, was swapping jokes with newspapermen while police sifted the ashes in his villa for the bones of his victims. News was being made that might become history or just another tick in the continuing tremor of time passing.

      But O’Malley, Eve and Weyman knew none of that and would not have cared if they had known. Sun Nan, heart in mouth, bowler hat pressed to his stomach like a poultice, had never had any interest in the world outside China anyway. He peered ahead through his goggles, looking for the Middle Kingdom beyond the grey horizon.

      They crossed the coast at Folkestone, O’Malley watching the thunderheads building up in the Channel to the south of them. Twenty-five minutes later they were over the mouth of the Somme, the thunderstorms behind them.

      A few more minutes’ flying, then familiar territory to O’Malley and Weyman lay below. O’Malley looked back and across, pointed down at the ground. Weyman nodded, then O’Malley saw him thump his gloved hand on the cockpit rim in an angry gesture. O’Malley understood, but gestures now were futile and too late. He looked down at the flat landscape, searched for the hill he had walked up that July morning four years ago; but at this height there were no hills. He saw the trenches zigzagging across the earth, the scar tissue of war; weeds and bushes and wild flowers were growing in them now, but in his mind they were only proud flesh on the wounds. He flew over the shattered towns and villages, saw the rebuilding going on; people stopped in the squares and looked up, but nobody waved. A cleared patch of ground stood in the loop of a winding road; crosses, like white asterisks, stood in ranks, the dead drawn up for inspection. They died in ranks like that, O’Malley thought. Oh Christ! he yelled aloud into the wind and behind his goggles his eyes streamed.

      Eve saw the wings of the plane ahead of her wobble; she moved up closer, wondering what message O’Malley wanted to convey to her. But he didn’t look towards her; instead she saw him push his goggles up and wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. Then she looked down at the ground, saw the trenches and the ruined farmhouses and the church with the shattered steeple like a broken tooth, and remembered Arthur Henty telling her that more men had died that first morning of the battle on the ground below her than on any other day in the entire history of war. And for what? Henty had said; but she had known he had not been asking the question of her. Then she saw O’Malley looking across at her and she lifted her hand and waved. It was meant to be a gesture of sympathy, but there was no way of knowing that he understood it.

      They landed at Le Bourget to refuel. The French aerodrome official checked them in, looked at their planes, went away and came back with two gendarmes. He gestured at the rear cockpits of O’Malley’s and Weyman’s planes. The Lewis guns were locked in position and covered by canvas sleeves, but there was no mistaking what they were.

      ‘It is not permitted, m’sieu, for private aeroplanes with machine-guns to fly across France.’

      ‘These are not private machines.’ O’Malley’s French was adequate if not fluent. A six months’ affair with a girl in Auxi had improved his schoolboy French in every possible way. ‘We are delivering them to the Greek government in Athens.’

      ‘Have you papers?’

      ‘We were told the Greek embassy in Paris would arrange for our transit. Everything was done in a hurry. The machines were only ordered yesterday. Things are very bad in Thrace, as you know.’

      The official didn’t know, didn’t even know where Thrace was, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He said doggedly, ‘You need papers.’

      ‘M’sieu, I admit we should have papers, but there wasn’t time. It was a holiday in England yesterday – the French embassy was closed – and everything is so urgent. As you know, the Turks are attacking and winning.’

      The official once again didn’t know, which was just as well, since the Turks were losing badly. But the sergeant of the two gendarmes opened his eyes wide, then nodded. ‘Damned Turks. I fought against them in Syria. We were supposed to have beaten them.’

      ‘The Greeks will beat them with these machines,’ said O’Malley. ‘Your government is also supplying them with some of your wonderful aeroplanes. With your Spads and Nieuports and these machines of ours, the Turks will be beaten in a matter of weeks.’

      It was the official’s turn to nod, but he wasn’t going to give up so easily. ‘Who is the lady?’

      Eve, whose French, learned at Boston’s Winsor School, was good enough to allow her to follow the conversation, was about to introduce herself when O’Malley, with a bow to her, said, ‘She is the daughter of the Greek Foreign Minister. She is hurrying back to be with him.’

      ‘Does she speak French?’

      Before Eve could answer for herself O’Malley said, ‘Unfortunately, no.’

      ‘Does she have a passport?’

      ‘As you know, the Greek government, since the war, has not got around to printing passports.’

      The official once more didn’t know; as O’Malley hoped he wouldn’t, since he didn’t know himself what was the Greek situation on passports. ‘Who is the Chinese gentleman?’

      ‘The Foreign Minister’s butler. The Minister used to be the Greek ambassador in Peking.’

      ‘Let them go,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’re holding up giving those damned Turks a hiding.’

      The official sighed, shrugged. ‘Just don’t fire your machine-guns at anything before you cross out of France, m’sieu.’ He bowed to Eve, shook hands with George Weyman, then followed O’Malley across to his plane. As the latter climbed into his cockpit the Frenchman said, ‘I always admire a good liar, m’sieu, and the English are so good at it.’

      ‘And the French, too,’ said O’Malley, taking a risk. ‘Let’s give credit where credit is due.’

      The Frenchman acknowledged the compliment. He was a thin man with sad, bagged eyes in a bony, mournful face. He was still weary from the war, too old to be hopeful about the peace. ‘Just where are you going, m’sieu?’

      ‘China.’

      The Frenchman smiled. ‘A good lie, m’sieu. Keep it up. Bon voyage.’

      They took off again, heading almost due east. They ran into rain squalls south of Strasbourg and O’Malley gestured to the others to widen the gap between them; they flew blind for ten minutes, then came out into bright, almost horizontal sunlight. They flew on yellow rails, through brilliantly white clouds, and at last slid down towards the sun-shot blue of Lake Constance, the Bodensee. They landed at Friederichshafen, going in past the huge Zeppelin sheds. They parked their planes at the end of the field and at once saw the big Mercedes staff car speeding down towards them. It skidded to a halt on the grass and two men jumped out.

      ‘Sprechen sie deutsch?’ He was a plump, blond СКАЧАТЬ