I knew it. Bad business.”

“Stop talking like a bloody fool! What’s up?”

“You’ll never make it. You’ll have to give up this sortie.”

Give up this sortie! Very kind of him to say so. Let him tell that to God the Father. Perhaps He’ll put a curse on our speaking tubes.

“You’ll never get through, I tell you.”

“And why will I never get through?”

“Because there are three groups of German fighters circling permanently over Albert. One at eighteen thousand feet, another at twenty-five thousand, and a third at thirty-three thousand. They fly in relays and hang on until they are relieved. It’s what I call categorically blocked. You’ll fly into a German net. See here....”

He shoved a sheet of paper at me on which he had scribbled an absolutely unintelligible demonstration of his argument.

Vezin had done much better to keep his nose out of my affairs. His pompous categorically blocked had impressed me, confound him! I thought instantly of red lights and traffic tickets. Only, this was a place where a ticket meant death. It was his categorically that particularly galled me. It seemed to be aimed at me personally.

I made a great effort to think clearly. “The enemy,” I said to myself, “always defends his position categorically. Damned nonsense, these big words! And besides, why should I worry about German fighter planes? At thirty thousand feet they would get me before I so much as suspected their presence, and at two thousand feet it was the anti-aircraft that would bring me down, not the fighters. It couldn’t possibly miss me.” Suddenly I became belligerent.

“In short, what you’re telling me is that the Germans have an air force, and therefore my sortie is not altogether advisable. Run along and tell that to the General.”

It wouldn’t have cost Vezin anything to reassure me pleasantly, instead of upsetting me. Why couldn’t he have said, “Oh, by the way. The Germans have a few fighters aloft over Albert”?

It would have come to the same thing.

We climbed in. I had still to test the inter-com.

“Can you hear me, Dutertre?”

“I hear you, Captain.”

“You, gunner! Hear me?”

“I ... Yes, sir. Clearly.”

“Dutertre! Can you hear the gunner?”

“Clearly, Captain.”

“Gunner! Can you hear Lieutenant Dutertre?”

“I ... er ... Yes, sir. Clearly.”

“What makes you stutter back there? What are you hesitating about?”

“Sorry, sir. I was looking for my pencil.”

The speaking tubes were not out of order.

“Gunner! Have a look at your oxygen bottles. Air-pressure normal?”

“I ... Yes, sir. Normal.”

“In all three bottles?”

“All three, sir.”

“All set, Dutertre?”

“All set, Captain.”

“All set, gunner?”

“All set, sir.”

We took off.

IV

Human anguish is the product of the loss by man of his true identity.