The Bloody Red Baron
Part Two: No Man's Land Chapter 23

Some of Our Aircraft are Missing
Her best bet was to seem as small, harmless and mole-like as possible. She fluttered stupidly behind her glasses. She had survived childhood by such disguise. Somehow she didn't think the act would fool Dravot. At least she had not been thrown into a cell to await a formal arrest. Dravot favoured the use of the currently unoccupied pig-pens but, without an officer to back him up, had no real authority.
Kate was the latest novelty in the pilots' mess. At another time, she might have turned this to her advantage. Pilots were a nervy, chattery, show-offy crowd. If she kept her ears open, she could fill in blanks.
Dravot stood in shadows, head bowed by the low ceiling, eyes fixed on her. Even he did not suppose her liable to attempt an act of traitorous sabotage.
With Major Cundall, the flight commander, out on patrol, the ranking officer was a hawk-nosed American, Captain Allard. He peered into her soul with gimlet eyes, then allowed idle pilots to adopt her as a mascot while he decided whether she should be put to the stake now or at dawn.
Kate was in the custody of three absurdly young Englishmen: Bertie, Algy and Ginger. They offered her animal blood, which she kindly refused. She knew their type. They bantered continually and competed good-naturedly for attention, projecting boyish bravado by ever-so-casually mentioning feats of heroism and stupidity. When she asked what they thought of the war, they became embarrassed and clucked about 'duty, old thing' and the threat posed to cucumber sandwiches, country lanes and cricket matches if the Kaiser and Dracula were allowed to prevail.
Kate was not sure what use those things would be in the world she wanted to see after the war. If there was an 'after the war'.
'I say,' Algy began, 'are you one of these suffragette dollies?'
'Votes for women and all that rot?' chipped in Bertie.
'I'd like to see votes for everyone. When was the last time anyone in Britain got to vote?'
Lord Ruthven had suspended electoral process for the duration, calling a Government of National Unity. Lloyd George, notional Leader of the Opposition, was Minister of War. The Prime Minister still cited the twenty-year-old achievement of bringing the country through the Terror as qualification for continuance in office. His government might be inept, cruel and politely tyrannical, but it had emerged from the bloody nightmare of the Dracula years. By comparison, Ruthven was not so bad. At least he was a British bloodthirsty monster, and personally a modest, grey presence beside the fiery, imperious atrociousness that characterised the former Prince Consort. It was hard to think of a hard-and-fast decision made by the Prime Minister. His invariable policy was prevarication. Ruthven took blame for nothing.
'When the time is right, things will get back to normal, old girl,' Bertie said. 'We're on the side of decency, you know.'
The complacent smugness of these brave children was tragic. They were unlikely to survive the war, let alone the peace. Average life expectancy for a pilot on the Western Front was something like three weeks.
Ginger looked at his wrist-watch and tutted. All the pilots kept consulting time-pieces, even glancing at the stopped grandfather clock. It had been a good two and three-quarter hours since the patrol passed over her on the road.
'Never fear,' Bertie continued, 'it'll turn out for the best.'
A Sopwith Snipe fighter could stay in the air for only three hours. That nasty little fact concerned the men of Maranique rather more than one stray dotty lady journalist.
Kate knew it was rare for a whole patrol to be wiped out. Stragglers and survivors would always come through, limping home with smoking engines and singed wings.
She was received at the airfield with comparative kindness because she served as a distraction. If not for her capture and casual interrogation, the pilots would have listened over and over to 'Poor Butterfly', nerves tighter with each passing minute.
'I've an Aunt Augusta who was a suffragette,' Algy said. 'Chained herself to the railings outside Parliament. It rained like a drain and she caught a deathly chill. Had to turn vampire to come through it. Grew young again, ditched the old uncle, became a ballet dancer. Doesn't talk much about the vote and such these days. She wants to dance The Rite of Spring at Sadlers Wells. Slings around with that chap Nijinsky. You know, the bounder who shape-shifts in mid-pas de deux.'
'Three hours,' Allard announced, eyes cold. 'The patrol is lost.'
There was a long, wordless pause. The gramophone clicked, waiting to be rewound.
'Steady on,' said Bertie, finally. 'Give a couple of minutes' grace. Old Tom and the rest have come through many a scrape in extra time, on fumes and prayers. No need to spread despond at dear old Wing.'
'The three hours are up. No matter the quality of the men, the machines will fail.'
Allard was an American. He did not seem part of the club. Even for a vampire, there was something strange in his eyes. Kate was suddenly aware again that it was a long time since she had fed. Her heart felt like a concrete lump.
As the Captain picked up the telephone, Algy said, 'Come on, no need for that.'
Allard ignored Algy.
'Wing, Allard, Maranique,' he said, not wasting words. 'Cundall's patrol is missing. We have to assume they're lost.'
A voice at the other end crackled.
'Yes,' Allard said. 'All of them.'
Ginger, Algy and Bertie were disgusted. It was bad form to say such things, as if talking out loud made the loss more likely. If Allard were not so blunt, they'd blithely expect their friends to turn up, a little bruised, with exciting yarns of hairsbreadth escapes and daring wheezes.
Allard replaced the telephone. On a blackboard were listed the names of pilots, the serial numbers of aeroplanes, and a tally of individual victories. Several columns already ended with a chalked word, 'lost'. A column was not wiped out until a loss was confirmed. Allard wrote 'lost' against columns headed 'Ball', 'Bigglesworth', 'Brown', 'Courtney', 'Cundall' and 'Williamson'. His chalk scratched and skittered, setting Kate's sharpened teeth on edge.
'Don't forget Courtney's supercargo,' Ginger said, gloomily.
Allard nodded, acknowledging his omission but implying he had already thought of it. He chalked a new name on the board. 'Winthrop'.
'Some hero from Diogenes,' Bertie explained. 'Poor blighter. First time up and he gets shot down.'
Kate almost said something but thought better of it. Dravot's fixed expression did not change. She knew the sergeant must feel as keenly as it was possible for him to feel that he had not done his duty. He was supposed to protect Charles's protege and had been unable to do so. If anything could hurt Dravot, that would be it.
When they had parted in Amiens, there had been something unfinished between her and Edwin. What was he doing in the air anyway? He was a staff officer, one of those stay-at-home souls never exposed to fire and blood.
'It'll be a devil of a job to replace that little lot,' Ginger said, contemplating the blackboard. There were more 'lost' columns than active pilots. 'Probably have to haul in a whole flight of Yanks. No offence, Allard. It just won't be the same.'
'Don't learn their names,' Allard said.
Ginger was devastated by the advice.
Kate had known too many truly dead, in the Terror and now in the war, to be entitled to feel any especial loss. But entitlement meant little. She had not earned the right to mourn, but she did. Her heart, starved of blood, ached.