Free Hornet’s Sting by Derek Robinson

the Russian skidded or rolled or plunged, Ogilvy was always there. It was a circus act. People on the ground were laughing. The duke looked up when a shadow darkened his cockpit, and saw Ogilvy’s Pup exactly above him. He could have hit the wheels with a billiard cue. This was a mockery. And then clouds came and saved him.
    His Pup charged into the biggest cloud and he relished the blessed grey oblivion. He came out, one wing down, and made for the next nearest hiding place, and the next. When he popped out, nose up, engine straining, he was into dazzling sunshine.
    No sign of the frightful Ogilvy. Excellent.
    He cruised around for a couple of minutes. The duel had turned into a farce. So that was a second insult to add to the first.
    The clouds parted and he looked down and saw Ogilvy’s Pup a thousand feet below. Perhaps the duel wasn’t over yet. He shoved the stick forward and said a short Russian prayer. It was time for God, who blessed the Tsar, to do a little something now for the Tsar’s cousin.
    * * *
    Ogilvy landed in a break between the showers.
    â€œI didn’t kill him, sir,” he said, “but he’s not back, so I don’t know what’s happened.” They were in the C.O.’s office, drinking coffee.
    â€œYou put up a hell of a show, Spud. You had him by the throat, and he must know that. Honour is satisfied, for God’s sake.”
    â€œHonour may be. What about pride?”
    Cleve-Cutler grunted, and went to the window. Clouds the colour of coal dust were gathering. “Winter isn’t good for aeroplanes,” he said. “Mildew in the canvas, rot in the spars, rust in the cables ...” The telephone rang.
    He answered it, and said, “Yes, he’s one of mine.” He listened some more, and said, “I’m sorry he bothered you. Can you put him on the line?” After that he did a lot of listening and grunting. “I see ... Well, refuel and return. That’s all.” He hung up.
    â€œWhere is he?” Ogilvy asked.
    â€œDeux-églises. 42 Squadron. Says he got lost and landed there to ask the way. Also says he shot you down. Profound apologies etcetera. God save the Tsar and all his relations.” Cleve-Cutler stooped and pulled the cork from a knothole in the floor. “Stand to attention down there!” he shouted. He replaced the cork.
    â€œI’m fairly sure nobody shot me down,” Ogilvy said.
    â€œOh, I think they did, Spud. Fortunately, he didn’t see you crash. Too much cloud. Brilliant flying got you home, albeit your machine was holed like a colander.”
    â€œAlbeit?”
Ogilvy cocked his head. “Is that what you just said?”
    â€œYes, dammit. Albeit. I want this idiocy ended, even if I have to talk like a tombstone to do it. Now, we need a bust-up Pup.”
    â€œWell, there’s what’s left of Stone-Franklin’s bus, after he tried to fly through a tree.”
    They found the wreckage in the back of a hangar and had it dragged out. When the duke landed, in gathering dusk, Cleve-Cutler and Ogilvy were examining it, with a sergeant mechanic. The duke came over and saluted. He looked from the wreck to his flight commander and back again. His eyes were wider than usual. Other than that, his face gave nothing away.
    â€œA good landing is one you can walk away from,” the C.O. said. “Right, sergeant?”
    â€œRight, sir.”
    Ogilvy prodded a piece of tail-fin with his foot. “Can’t you salvage anything, sergeant?”
    â€œAfraid not, sir.”
    â€œOh, well. You know best. Carry on.” The sergeant saluted, and his boots crunched on the wet tarmac.
    Cleve-Cutler and Ogilvy strolled slowly around the wrecked Pup.
    â€œBrilliant flying,” the C.O. said, “albeit for the loss of a much-loved aeroplane.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Cleve-Cutler turned to the duke. “Now then, lieutenant. Have you anything to