Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2) Page 2

  Exposure to the elements was something that First World War pilots grew accustomed to. Yet Timothy could hardly breathe. It felt like the time he’d stuck his head out of the family car’s sunroof while bombing down the motorway ― except a hundred times windier. These old relics were surprisingly responsive. He banked and climbed, rolled and dived. The experience was like riding a rollercoaster ― but a rollercoaster from a dodgy fairground that left a nagging doubt at the back of the mind as to whether or not the thing was going to stay in one piece or not. But boy, is it fun! thought Timothy. And then the bullets began screaming past.

  Ursula Le Rouge squeezed the trigger again. The twin LMG synchronised machine guns, mounted atop the fuselage, exploded into life. Rounds pumped directly through the aircraft’s propeller blades and on toward their target: Albert Ball’s S.E.5. Instinctively, Ursula knew that Albert Ball, in his red-nosed fighter, was the only target that mattered to her.

  As Timothy ducked left, Ursula banked hard right. Arcing through the sky, she dropped down only yards behind the British fighter ace. Ursula opened fire. Red-hot lead riddled Timothy’s aircraft, punching holes through the wings and into the airframe. There was little protection within the cockpit of a First World War aeroplane. A plywood shell wrapped in fabric didn’t inspire confidence. Somehow, despite his aircraft having more holes than an English country road, Timothy survived the onslaught.

  ‘How is he not dead,’ yelled Ursula. She fired again. Dadadadadadadadada! But this time, Timothy pulled his aircraft into a loop and Ursula’s bullets streaked beneath him.

  Cursing, Ursula pushed von Richthofen’s aircraft up after Timothy, and at full throttle, the red Albatros D.III biplane surged skyward in pursuit.

  Meanwhile, Rupert and George had their own problems. The Red Baron wasn’t the only fighter ace among Jasta 11’s ranks. Timothy’s friends were feeling the heat, and they weren’t alone. Like Timothy, Ursula had discovered how to call help into the dream world, but Victoria Holbrook-Smyth and Emilia Fox were struggling to take control of their avatars and their aeroplanes.

  Rupert’s host was Gerald Maxwell, another ace in the making from 56 Squadron. Yet Rupert wasn’t at all happy with the selection. Not because his host was short of ability or guile, he knew this man was full of both and more, but because Gerald Maxwell was Scottish. Rupert’s perception of the entire Scottish race was based on one individual: the headmistress of Great Underwood Upper School, Mrs Lawcroft. It wasn’t Rupert’s fault that he was hopelessly naïve. It was to be expected. After all, the boy’s parents were farmers. In his eyes, those north of the border were equally as deranged as his headteacher. For Rupert, finding himself inside a Scotsman was like being stuck inside a giant haggis: uncomfortable and unpleasant ― and he really didn’t like the smell.

  The German on Rupert’s tail found himself wondering what the British pilot was up to. Was jerking about in short, violent changes of direction a new Royal Flying Corp tactic? Perhaps the erratic manoeuvring was designed to fool the enemy into a decisive error? Or was the British pilot simply having a seizure inside his cockpit? Either way, the German aviator decided that he didn’t much care and opened fire.

  While Rupert was wrestling with his inner self and the German fighter on his tail, George was having a ball. It seemed it was all or nothing with George. He’d quickly decided that Billy Bishop was an absolute hoot and gave himself over to the Canadian ace with all his heart. As a result, and contrary to his cautious-at-best character, George was transformed into a ruthless killing machine.

  The German nickname for Billy Bishop was Hell’s Handmaiden. George didn’t entirely understand its meaning, but he got the impression that the title had something to do with him being a ‘badass’. And after George had shot down a German Albatros D.III following a near-suicidal head-to-head game of aeroplane chicken ― Billy’s favoured method of attack ― he concluded that he rather liked being a badass.

  ‘George!’ cried Rupert. ‘Get over here and help me. Somebody needs to shoot the muppet on my tail. He won’t leave me alone!’ Rupert’s S.E.5 was beginning to resemble Swiss Cheese.

  Then things got really bad. While Timothy was desperately fending off the relentless attentions of Ursula Le Rouge and George was busy playing chicken with anything adorned with a black cross, Rupert was fighting for his life ― well, Gerald Maxwell’s life. His aircraft was smoking like a steam train, and now, in addition to the German already on his tail, he’d the added firepower of Victoria Holbrook-Smyth and Emilia Fox to contend with. And the really, really bad news was that the girls’ hosts were top aces too: Kurt Wolff and the Red Baron’s brother Lothar von Richthofen. The grim pair quickly joined the queue to shoot Rupert down. And with smoke and oil pouring from his engine, it was surely only a matter of time before Rupert bought it. But George had other ideas.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, George?’ cried Rupert in alarm. And with good reason, Billy Bishop’s Nieuport 17 was streaking straight at him.

  ‘Who wants to play chicken?’

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ questioned Rupert. Yet, in the next instant, he was grimacing as he felt the shuddering sensation of another barrage of enemy bullets smash into his aircraft. A support strut snapped clean off from his right wing. ‘On second thoughts, do what you want, but do it quickly!’

  ‘Duck!’

  Rupert flung himself forward against the control stick, and like a stunt plane, he sent his smoking aircraft lurching toward the distant battlefield below. And as Rupert disappeared, George took his place.

  ‘Coming through!’ bellowed George as his French fighter suddenly replaced the S.E.5 to emerge directly into the path of the three German Albatros D.IIIs. Laughing like a maniac, George eagerly pressed the trigger of his machine gun, and the Lewis Gun roared.

  With nowhere to go and no time to react, the three German pilots, two of which were schoolgirls, braced themselves for impact against the onrushing Allied fighter.

  ‘Aaaaarrrrrggghhh!’ screamed George. In the face of certain death, George had come to his senses to overpower Billy Bishop from his mind. Closing his eyes in fright, George pumped his Lewis Gun as if he were pumping his asthma inhaler. Bullets poured at the enemy. A split second before crashing into the centre Albatros, the German aircraft disintegrated before George’s eyes. Holding on for dear life, he flew straight into an explosion of fire. Passing through the terrifying blast, his aircraft’s wings clipped the enemy fighters to either side of him.

  Out of control, both Victoria and Emilia spiralled away. George emerged from the encounter traumatised but triumphant. No more chicken, he promised himself, shuddering with relief and doing his best to ignore Billy Bishop’s disappointment.

  Rupert’s chance had come. Having recovered from his dramatic escape ― thanks to George’s kamikaze-like exploits ― he circled until he spotted the two spinning enemy fighters. He picked the nearest and moved to intercept. Right, you’ve had your turn; now it’s mine. Rupert managed to bring his wounded S.E.5 up close behind Emilia’s Albatros, and before she had the chance to regain control of her aircraft, Rupert let her have it. Dadadadadadadadada! Bits of Emilia’s plane broke off and a dark plume of smoke discharged from her engine. ‘Yes!’ cried Rupert with glee. He gave her another blast to finish her off ― another direct hit! Emilia Fox’s bullet-ridden aircraft was sent plunging from the sky. But Rupert’s glee immediately turned to woe. ‘No!’ he cried in disbelief. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ In the process of downing Emilia, Rupert had inadvertently shot off his own propeller blades.

  The unfortunate failure was an all-too-common occurrence with the new synchronised Vickers machine gun. The weapon, copied from the successful German system, was designed to fire through an aircraft’s propeller arc using a synchronised gear. Regrettably for Rupert, the British version was prone to malfunction.

  We’re doomed! cried Gerald Maxwell.

  Oh, shut it! replied Rupert. There must be a parachute. Frantically, Rupert searched
the cockpit. Yet as the bladeless S.E.5 began nosediving toward what looked like a particularly busy section of the battlefield, with tanks and machine guns and everything you didn’t want to see if you were about to park your plane right in the middle of it, all Rupert could hear was the sound of mocking Scottish laughter inside his head. A parachute! chortled Gerald Maxwell. Next, you’ll be wanting a state funeral, I suppose? Rupert’s heart sank. There was no parachute.

  The battle below came rushing at Rupert like an unavoidable car crash. He felt like he was falling from the sky directly above the set of a war movie. He knew it was only a dream, but he also knew it was going to hurt. Less hurting, he decided, was now his best option. His aircraft was badly shot up, but Rupert still appeared to have partial use of the controls, and so using his host’s skill and knowledge ― even if he was Scottish ― Rupert decided to attempt a crash-landing. He would glide behind Allied lines, safely deposit his aeroplane in a suitably peaceful location, successfully extricate himself from his cockpit and hide in a deep trench until the battle was over.

  As the ground flashed toward him, Rupert struggled to gain his bearings. Are they British or German troops? He couldn’t tell. Pull up, came Gerald’s voice. Now! Rupert pulled back as hard as he could on the control stick. Nothing seemed to happen. Harder, you southern softy! Rupert really didn’t want to be this close to the action. The air shrieked past him, doing its best to tear the skin from his face. A lone chaffinch nearly took his left eye out as the bird bounced off his goggles. Just like George, Rupert found himself screaming as the war-torn battlefield beneath him surged into sharp focus.

  However, at last, the plane began to respond. Slowly but surely, Rupert pulled the S.E.5 from its speeding vertical dive and with miraculous timing, he levelled the fighter plane to bump safely down against the rough churned earth of the battlefield. The spluttering British aircraft limped to a halt, engulfed within a cloud of smoke and flame. ‘Yippee!’ yelled Rupert, leaping from his cockpit in jubilation. ‘I can’t believe that worked!’ Then a German shot him dead. Evidently, Rupert had parked his S.E.5 on the wrong side of the trenches.

  ‘Rupert’s down.’ Timothy’s voice echoed inside George’s mind. Timothy had seen Rupert’s unfortunate demise from his inverted position halfway through another loop. ‘George, I’m getting murdered up here!’ cried Timothy. ‘I can’t shift Ursula. She’s stuck to me like glue!’

  George quickly put his Nieuport 17 into a climb. ‘I’m on my way, Tim.’ High above, he could see Ursula’s red Albatros crawling all over Timothy’s S.E.5. As George drew near, dark storm clouds borne on strengthening winds began blowing over the battlefield. Beneath the tempestuous weather, appearing in the distance like a hungry flock of man-eating Pteranodons, approached the enemy. In the body of German ace Kurt Wolff, Victoria Holbrook-Smyth led the remaining aircraft of Jasta 11 on the attack. They’d chased 56 Squadron from the skies, and now they came for Billy Bishop and his blue-nosed fighter. If George were to help Timothy, he would first need to fight his way past some of the deadliest airmen ever to have flown over the Western Front.

  George took a deep breath, set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Let’s play chicken one last time. He pushed the aeroplane to full throttle and pointed its blue nose at the closing pack of enemy fighters.

  Victoria Holbrook-Smyth and her German aviators held the advantage; they had the numbers and the speed. Seven swooping Albatros plummeted from the storm clouds with menace. Nonetheless, George remained steadfast. He put his trust in God and his faith in Billy Bishop. George sensed that the Canadian ace was unperturbed by the odds. In fact, he was revelling in them. Billy fought best as the lone wolf ― the fox in the henhouse ― but George couldn’t help wondering if the Canadian airman had faced such talented hens before? George didn’t get the chance to worry. The hens were on him and they were pecking like crazy. Dadadadadadadadada! George flew up into a storm of lead.

  High above the turmoil of war, above the horror of the trenches and the waiting despair of the soldiers in them, the knights of the sky duelled for all to see. Twisting and turning in their mechanical mounts, they battled amidst the heavens like heroes of legend. It was a war apart from the brutal fighting on the battlefield, but it was war all the same.

  Timothy thought that his own encounter was far too one-sided to be called a duel. It was more of a hunt, like cat and mouse. Even using Albert Ball’s abilities, Timothy could do nothing more than stay alive, and then only by the skin of his teeth. Ursula combined Manfred von Richthofen’s killer instinct with her own unyielding tenacity. The result: multiple holes in Timothy’s aeroplane. He had no answer against her. Unless George helped soon, he was toast.

  Another stream of bullets screamed past, narrowly missing Timothy’s S.E.5. Perhaps she’ll run out of ammo, thought Timothy hopefully. Mind you, even if she does, she’ll probably ram me instead. Timothy didn’t think it mattered to Ursula how he lost, just so long as he did.

  Earlier, the bullets had stopped coming for a short blissful time. No doubt due to Ursula’s machine guns overheating, but even then, she’d shot at him with a pistol from her cockpit. This new version of Ursula Le Rouge was something different. She was committed without question, demonstrating a determination and a need to succeed not seen before that had Timothy seriously worried for the future. Ursula’s indecision concerning her allegiance was seemingly over. Thanks to the Morning Star, Timothy could look after himself in the real world, but if he couldn’t win the dream battles, he and everyone else would lose.

  George rolled left, firing as he turned. The rounds tore into a German fighter. The Albatros broke apart in mid-air to fall from the sky in more pieces than George could count. This was the third enemy aircraft that he’d successfully shot down, and with each one, George had felt a pang of guilt. He had yet to come to terms with shooting and killing in the dream world. Although he had to admit, he was becoming rather good at the task. The first aircraft had been destroyed in a terrifying head-on charge, the second with a deft flick of the wrist and an accurate blast of the Lewis Gun. And now, number four took up the gauntlet. The German swooped in, leaving his fellow pilots circling round and round, waiting for their own turn to duel with the blue-nosed ace.

  George was surprised to find such sporting behaviour from the enemy. They only attacked one at a time. There was honour among these young pilots. Yet as he watched his next opponent race toward him, he noticed Kurt Wolff’s Albatros peeling away. George doubted whether Victoria Holbrook-Smyth even understood what the word ‘honour’ meant. He guessed she was heading to help Ursula finish Timothy, leaving George tied-up with the remnants of Jasta 11. Well, he would just have to shoot them all down and be quick about it.

  The clouds, came Albert Ball’s voice. Use the clouds.

  Timothy peered across the sky toward an imposing, almost black, thunderhead. What was Albert gibbering about? Did he really expect Timothy to fly his flimsy, bullet-holed aeroplane into that? It was suicide.

  Ursula’s twin machine guns fired again. A selection of fresh holes suddenly decorated Timothy’s right wing. Actually, the black cloud looks as good a place as any other. With the Red Baron on his heels, Timothy flipped his aircraft over to the right, and as he zigzagged his way toward the towering cumulus, he had an idea. The idea was a particularly far-fetched notion, probably put inside his head by Albert Ball and only ever likely to be seen in a movie, but in the circumstances, he’d nothing to lose.

  Timothy disappeared into the darkness. It was an eerie sensation. The sound from his engine became muffled, visibility deteriorated to no further than his aircraft’s red nose, and it was damn wet too. At Once, Timothy pulled his battered aircraft into the beginnings of a loop. The V8 engine whined and every inch of the S.E.5’s airframe shuddered in protest. With luck, Ursula would continue on her present course until she’d passed through the cloud. And once she had, she would realise, all too late, that Timothy was right behind her.

  But good ideas seld
om work out ― at least they didn’t for Timothy. At the very top of the loop, where his aircraft popped out above the storm into an endless expanse of blue sky, Timothy’s engine cut out, and while upside-down, his harness failed. Fudge. If it rains, it pours. The next thing he knew, he was plummeting back through the cloud’s moist candyfloss innards, wondering if things could get any worse. And so when lightning flashed ― almost blinding him ― and thunder boomed ― very nearly bursting his eardrums ― he wasn’t at all surprised. The only surprise came after he’d dropped from the bottom of the storm and landed slap bang onto the upper wing of his own aeroplane. What are the odds of that happening? Remarkably, the S.E.5 had completed its loop pilotless, and with engine restarted, Timothy now found himself directly behind Ursula’s blood-red Albatros. This was pure Hollywood! Now all he needed to do was get back into his cockpit and shoot Ursula down. But what wasn’t Hollywood ― because, in Hollywood, the good guys always win ― was the sudden appearance of another German fighter right behind him.

  Slithering on his belly, Timothy edged himself inch by inch toward the Lewis Gun. The savage wind threatened to sweep him hurtling into the abyss. Timothy struggled desperately along the length of his aeroplane’s upper wing…but he’d run out of time. From behind, Victoria Holbrook-Smyth opened up with her twin LMG machine guns. Dadadadadadadadada!

  Oh, come on. That’s hardly fair! Timothy wasn’t even in his cockpit yet. The bullets ripped into his already well-mauled aeroplane, smashing up through the fuselage to riddle the British fighter with another smattering of fresh holes. And this time, it really was the final straw. Albert Ball’s red-nosed S.E.5 finally went down with Timothy still clinging onto the upper wing. There was no hope of repeating Rupert’s successful crash landing ― well, almost successful ― because flames licked from the engine, and moments later, the cockpit itself was engulfed in fire.