The Adjacent

  The other way to misdirect is to play against the audience’s expectations. In other words, to distract them momentarily, to disarm them with an unexpected pleasantry, to make them look at the wrong object on a table, or to watch an unimportant movement of a hand, or to look in the wrong direction – all of these create brief instances when the illusionist may quickly do something to another object, or move his other hand, or place something in view that won’t be noticed immediately.

  Audiences who go to magic shows often see themselves as engaging in a kind of undeclared contest with the performer, constantly seeking to spot what he is ‘really’ doing. These audiences are, paradoxically, amongst the easiest to misdirect because in their eagerness to catch the magician out they concentrate on all the wrong actions.

  Distraction can be achieved in many ways. A surprising costume change, a sudden bang or a flash of light, an alteration to the lighting or the backdrop, a witty remark, something that buzzes or vibrates unexpectedly, an apparent mistake by the conjuror. All of these are in the standard repertoire of magic.

  I realized that there was potential in this, as an approach to Lieutenant Bartlett’s problem. When I had a little more experience of how the aircraft operated from this base, what they looked like and what size they were, and if I was able to find out exactly what they do and how they fly when on an operation, then I might well be able to think up some misdirection that would be useful in the heat of battle.

  Another kind of misdirection is in the use of adjacency. The magician places two objects close together, or connects them in some way, but one is made to be more interesting (or intriguing, or amusing) to the audience. It might have an odd or suggestive shape, or it appears to have something inside it, or it suddenly starts doing something the magician seems not to have noticed. The actual set-up is unimportant – what matters is that the audience, however briefly, should become interested and look away in the wrong direction.

  An adept conjuror knows exactly how to create an adjacent distraction, and also knows when to make use of the invisibility it temporarily creates. An old colleague of mine used to perform a routine in which he spun a china plate on the end of a cane, then mounted the cane upright on his table and left the plate to spin there. As it slowed down and began to wobble increasingly, threatening to fall off and smash at any moment, hardly anyone in the audience was looking at anything else. For several seconds my friend was in effect invisible on the stage and he made good use of those seconds.

  Then I had it! Simeon Bartlett’s problem, and potentially a solution to it, fell into place.

  One aircraft, two aircraft. One adjacent to the other. Or maybe a third: two aircraft, apparently in formation together, while the third is adjacent to the other two. If I could make the extra aircraft interesting in some unexpected way the Germans would be distracted by it – they would fire their guns in the wrong direction. If the distraction were somehow illusory they would be shooting at something that did not matter, or at something that only looked as if it were there. It would be the wrong aircraft, or even not an aircraft at all. They would not be able tear their gaze away from it, but at the same time they would not be able to see it properly.

  It was not going to be easy arranging that sort of misdirection, but it was in fact just a larger version of the kind of thing I did every time I went on stage. I could make it work, but I realized that Lieutenant Bartlett and his fellow pilots would have to put in training. That was something I would have no say about. Would the Royal Navy be willing to divert warplane pilots to extra training in the middle of a war?

  Well, the best I could do would be to present my solution, and it would be up to them to implement it. In the meantime, I felt I needed to learn more about the actual aircraft and try to find out what resources would be available to me to build the necessary kit.

  I was excited by these thoughts, but I was no longer churning mentally. I felt calm because I believed I had thought up an effective way of deceiving the German enemy, saving British lives and helping the progress of the war.

  I turned over, punched the hard and horrible pillow a few times, and moments later I drifted back to sleep.

  8

  I awoke to the sound of an engine, repeatedly speeding up and slowing down, something that I had learned from Lieutenant Bartlett the night before was called revving. I had heard it several times in the streets of London, made by automobiles. I often felt annoyed by it, but had never known what it was called. This particular revving engine sounded to me unhealthy, because it was coughing and stuttering and the noise it made was erratic. When a second motor started up a minute or two later, closer to my window, I pulled myself from the bed and went to have a look.

  It was a bright, sunny morning, the sky white and dazzling with a high layer of light cloud. At first I had to narrow my eyes protectively against the glare. There was a large area of grass spreading out and away from my window, a whole field, leading to some leafless trees so distant they looked tiny and half shrouded in the early haze. Five aircraft were parked directly in my view. They must have stood there all night as I slept, but now there were many men in service fatigues working around the little craft. A miasma of smoke drifted in front of my window but the blast of air from the speeding propeller of one of the machines soon swept it away.

  I stared in fascination at these small but deadly-looking craft so close to me. I had seen Monsieur Blériot’s frail little plane as it flew over, and pictures of others in magazines and newspapers. Once, at my local picture house, I had seen moving film of an aeroplane flying along a stretch of coastline. But suddenly to be so close to these warplanes, with five of them immediately in front of me, was an astonishing experience. I felt I was being allowed a glimpse into some terrible future, the sort of thing H. G. Wells wrote about, in which everyone would be flying in all directions, in constant peril of falling, being held aloft by these assemblages of wire and canvas and wood. It was a frightening thought, but to be candid it was one I also found enthralling.

  In the closer of the two planes which had their engines running, the man I knew would be the pilot was already sitting in the forward of the two cockpits. Most of his body was out of sight inside the plane, but his head and shoulders were above the rim. He was wearing a leather helmet with glass goggles resting on his brow. In the cockpit behind him was an enormous box device, unfamiliar to me.

  The other aircraft had a man in each seat, with the second crewman lowering himself into his cockpit. While the engine roared with increasing energy, and at last started to sound smoother and more powerful, two of the men in fatigues carried over and mounted a large gun on a rack at his side. When they had backed away the observer practised rotating the gun, up and down and from side to side. He sighted it through a cross-hatched circle made of wire, mounted vertically above the barrel.

  Wanting to watch these two warplanes take off on their mission, I dressed hurriedly and went outside. As soon as I appeared several of the men stood up from their tasks and saluted me. I was still not sure of my status on this operational base so I smiled and nodded, half raising my hand to my brow in an awkward response. The two aircraft were already moving away towards the centre of the field, their wings dipping and rocking alarmingly as they traversed the uneven grass.

  One of the pilots signalled to the other plane with a wave of his gloved hand. All three of the men now pulled their goggles down to protect their eyes, and hunched themselves inside the cockpits. The two aircraft, running abreast of each other, accelerated away in the direction of the still-low sun. After a remarkably short run on the grass they lifted away. With their wings still rocking uncertainly they climbed slowly, leaving two faint trails of grey-blue exhaust smoke in the clear air behind them.

  The ground crew had already moved away towards the other standing aircraft, but I remained where I was, wanting to watch the two aircraft until they were out of sight. I heard someone walking up behind me. It was Lieutenant Bartlett, with a leather helmet a
nd darkened goggles dangling from his hand.

  He greeted me with a salute, which I returned.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I haven’t had breakfast yet. I was wondering if you would care to join me? Breakfast here isn’t quite the same as dinner, but it’s still not too bad.’

  We walked together to the wardroom – in reality it was a partitioned area of the aircraft shed, with a handwritten sign on the door: Officers Only – where a welcome breakfast was available. It was scrambled eggs (‘yet again,’ said Simeon Bartlett with a groan, but they tasted good to me) and unlimited supplies of toast, with a large mug of tea. He asked me what I thought of la rue des bêtes, but I said I had only been up a few minutes before he found me and had not yet had a look around the airfield.

  ‘I’ll give you a tour later,’ he said. ‘There are some good people here you will be working with.’

  As we finished our tea, Simeon Bartlett told me a little about himself. He had joined the Royal Navy before the war began – it was a manly family tradition, and love of the sea and sailing were part of his nature. He served on a minesweeper as a junior officer, then a destroyer, but after that he had been posted to a land-based establishment in Portsmouth. When the war broke out in the summer of 1914 he was still there. It soon became clear that the Germans were using aeroplanes to threaten our army. A naval air wing was promptly set up. Frustrated by not being at sea and not receiving a posting to a ship of the line, Bartlett volunteered for the new service, learnt to fly and after a few adventures he did not describe in detail ended up here on the Western Front, keen to shoot down as many Huns as possible. He said he had been married for a year and that his wife had recently given birth to twin baby girls. He told me how fearful he was of being killed or seriously injured, but that because of his young family he was now ever more committed to the struggle. He found the consequences of a possible German victory unimaginable.

  As we left the wardroom, Lieutenant Bartlett introduced me to three of the other pilot officers, but their aura of easy camaraderie and flyers’ slang, their familiar joshing with each other and a kind of reckless acknowledgement of the dangers of their job, made me feel more than ever an interloper. The four young men chatted together for a few minutes, discussing the weather report for the day, including the wind direction. Everyone always paid attention to the forecasts, because of the risk that the Germans might release poison gas. Under suitable wind circumstances, tendrils of the gas could reach even as far as this airfield. In fact the forecast for later that day was a light south-westerly breeze, so those fears at least were allayed for a while.

  Lieutenant Bartlett led me back out to the field and across to where one of the warplanes was waiting. Most of the other aircraft were gone – I had heard planes taking off while we were eating breakfast. As we approached the aircraft, an airman standing beside it, who had been leaning over to speak to one of the mechanics working on the underside of the wing, spotted us and immediately straightened. He stiffened to attention, then saluted us both. Bartlett responded automatically – I saluted a second or two later.

  ‘This is my crewman,’ Bartlett said, as we all relaxed our manner. ‘Observer Sub-Lieutenant Astrum. Astrum, this is Lieutenant-Commander Trent, who has come to work with the squadron as an adviser on camouflage.’

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Astrum said, showing no apparent surprise at my appearance. He had a pleasant West Country accent. I was at least twice the age of everyone I had so far seen on the base, adding to my sense of being an outsider. But Sub-Lieutenant Astrum was smiling and he extended his hand in a friendly way. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  ‘Mr Astrum flies with me as observer and gunner,’ Lieutenant Bartlett said. ‘This morning we plan to carry out one of our regular recces of the German lines, which are to the north-east of here. It’s a particular area called Bois Bailleu. No trees there now, unfortunately. It’s a sector where the archie is usually pretty fierce. We think there might be something going on there they don’t want us to know about, because they make it so hot for us. Of course, that makes it all the more interesting, so we keep having to go back for another look and each time the ack-ack is a bit worse.’

  Sub-Lieutenant Astrum pointed out an area of the tailplane, near to where he was standing. I could see that the fabric had been patched in several places, then roughly repainted.

  ‘That happened two days ago, sir,’ he said. ‘Right over where Bailleu Wood used to be. It wasn’t too serious – not the closest they’ve come to shooting us down, but pretty bad.’

  ‘You came back all right?’

  ‘We made it home,’ said Bartlett, and he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We’re going to have to take off in a few minutes for a proving flight, but before we do I want to show you the problem we need you to work on. Let’s take a look at the underside.’

  He threw aside his flying jacket and indicated I should remove my tunic too. He lay down on his back in the long grass and signalled me to join him. Together we wriggled until we were beneath the lower of the two wing planes. It was of course the closest I had ever been to an aircraft of any kind, let alone a fully armed and fuelled warplane. With the wing surface just a few inches above my face, I suddenly felt terrified of the machine. The pungent smell from the varnish they had used to tighten the wing fabric, obviously high in ether or alcohol, wafted around us. Lieutenant Bartlett must have detected my reaction.

  ‘You’ll get used to the smell in a day or two, sir,’ he said. ‘Try not to inhale it directly. But these kites wouldn’t stay in the air without it.’

  I made no reply. I used a similar-smelling liquid in one of my illusions, in which a spectacular burst of flame appeared (or seemed to appear) from nowhere. I was always nervous of the volatile, highly inflammable liquid, treating it with respect, yet these aircraft were coated in it or something very like it. It was all too easy to imagine what would happen if an ack-ack shell were to explode close to the aircraft, or even if a hot bullet were to pass through the fabric.

  Bartlett was indicating the canvas under the wing, drumming his fingertips on it to show how tautly it was stretched. It was painted silvery blue. They had clearly been thinking about the same camouflage ideas as me.

  ‘You see what we’re trying?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Does it help? Is the plane less easy to see?’

  ‘Not that we would ever know. They still keep shooting at us. The problem is, we can’t go on experimenting with different colours. Every coat of paint increases the weight of the plane, and it tends to soften the dope we’ve used on the canvas. Maybe one more coat would be possible. What do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure paint is the answer,’ I said. ‘It’s a first step, but I think I might know a better way.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it is?’

  ‘Not yet. I need to carry out some research.’

  ‘Every day counts, sir.’

  ‘I know. I can work quickly.’

  We pulled ourselves out from under the wing and stood up. The heady feeling induced by the dope fumes began to dispel. Bartlett scanned the sky and in a moment pointed out an aircraft flying low in the distance, away from the German lines.

  ‘I think that might be Mr Jenkinson,’ he said. ‘Flight Lieutenant Jenkinson. He’s been out on a gunnery test and will be passing overhead in a minute. You can see for yourself the effect the silver paint has.’

  Sure enough the aircraft tipped its wings and turned towards the airfield. We shaded our eyes with our hands as he flew towards us. He went into a shallow climb and passed at some height above us. Even before he was directly overhead I could see for myself that the silver paint idea was never going to work. Irrespective of the underside colour, his aircraft was a black silhouette against the sky.

  ‘The Germans don’t even go to the trouble of camouflaging themselves any more,’ Simeon Bartlett said, as Lieutenant Jenkinson went into a steep turn then lined up on the airfield to make a landing. ‘They paint their crates every colour you can think of
.’

  ‘Presumably they’re not trying to observe our lines without being noticed?’

  ‘No, the ones I’m talking about are their fighters. They’re the real danger to us. No one likes ack-ack but when the Hun sends up a school of fighters then it’s every man for himself. We can cope with that. It’s an equal fight. We give as good as we get, but unless we’re on the ball they can come at us without warning. We usually get a hint that they’re around if the guns on the ground stop firing at us. What we have to do then is stop looking down and start looking up.’

  ‘Have you been in any battles yourself?’

  The young officer looked uneasy, and glanced around to see if we were being overheard. ‘That would be over-stating it a bit, you know. Not battles. If we were in the infantry we would describe what we get involved with as skirmishes. Here we call them dogfights, because that’s what they are like. A lot of scrapping, barging around, chasing our tails, trying to get off a squirt of ammo at them before they get one off at us. Camouflage doesn’t matter a damn then, because we’re all up in the sky and the odds are the same for both sides.’

  ‘So what am I to do?’ I said.

  ‘Surveying the German lines is our main job, the big effort. We’re here in support of the ground troops, because in the end they are the ones who will have to win the war for us. But it’s getting dangerous and we need effective camouflage.’

  As if to underline what he said, another of the squadron’s planes flew across the airfield, this time waggling its wings as a signal. As it approached the centre of the airfield, roughly above where Lieutenant Bartlett and I were standing beside his plane, it climbed steeply before levelling off, its engine coughing. Puffs of black smoke blew out of the engine exhausts. The display of high spirits by the pilot served once again to show how distinct a plane’s outline was when seen from the ground.

  ‘You know, part of the problem is the shadow,’ I said.

  ‘Shadow?’