“Thomas Stark, Sergeant.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr Stark.”
There was no handshake.
“I am told you have flown before, Mr Stark?”
“More than six thousand hours in civil aircraft, Sergeant Green, in Australia and in the Territory of Papua and New Guinea.”
“I see, sir. You specify civil aircraft, sir.”
“I have a little more than two hundred hours in the Polikarpov biplane fighter and much the same in the Super Mosca fighter. I believe it is better known in England as the Rata.”
“In China or in Spain, sir?”
Sergeant Green evidently knew where the aircraft had been flown by mercenary pilots.
“All in Spain, Sergeant. The majority of my hours in fields around Barcelona.”
“Mostly against the Italians then, sir. Did you encounter many?”
“Three Fiat fighters; three of the Savoia-Marchetti trimotor bombers; one Me 109 in rebel colours; three Stukas; a pair of old Heinkels, the early fighter the Germans first sent out.”
“Twelve, sir.”
“Downed, yes. Damaged? Four or five more – I wasn’t interested in the ones that flew away. A number of ground-strafing attacks; far more in the biplane – the Mosca ain’t best suited for ground work.”
“I have heard it compared to the Hurricane, sir.”
“I don’t know – I have never seen a Hurricane, never met a pilot who had tried one. The Mosca is inferior to the Me 109 above five thousand feet. You can match the Me at low level but it’s impossible at high.”
“Interesting to know, sir. Have you flown a Moth?”
“I had a Gypsy of my own when I was twelve. Kept it for two years before my father put me into the Boeings he was flying in Queensland.”
“Best we should find out if you can still remember what to do, sir. If you would climb aboard… no need for delay, I have done the checks, sir.”
Thomas could not accept the assurance unseen. It would have been offensive to have shown distrust of the Sergeant.
“Very good, Sergeant. I’ll just go through them to remind myself of the procedure.”
Sergeant Green thawed – he was not dealing with a dabbling amateur.
“Passed the first test, sir. No pilot trusts another man, whoever he might be, to do his checks for him.”
“I couldn’t, Sergeant. Still no more than a minute of full throttle for the engine?”
“Best to try for a few seconds less than the sixty, sir.”
Three hours later they took a break for lunch having flown an hour in the Moth and a little less in a Gladiator.
“Sergeants’ Mess, sir. I’ll sign you in. Better food than the officers get. We choose the cooks and the QM looks after us for rations.”
“Who chose to produce that bloody Gladiator for service use, Sergeant Green? Useless in any European war!”
“It made sense, sir. When the Glad went into production they couldn’t be sure that the Hurricane and Spitfire would be any good. They had to have something as a back-up. Wait till you see the Defiant, sir! Bloody turret fighter, of all things.”
“Politicians’ planes, Sergeant. You’re right about the food by the way. This is good!”
“Glad you enjoy it, sir. A beer with it?”
“No, thanks. Not if I’m flying this afternoon.”
Sergeant Green grinned. “I thought with you being an Australian, sir…”
“Not when I’m flying. A good way of getting dead, that is. Knew one or two working out of Port Moresby who were drunk more often than they were sober. They didn’t last very long.”
“They say the Territory has some of the roughest flying on Earth, sir…”
Twenty minutes of technical discussion of flying over rain-forest covered mountains and they returned to the hangar, quietly chatting.
They flew the Magister trainer, which was slow and well-mannered, and a Hurricane, which was neither, as a fighter should be.
Sergeant Green walked back with Thomas to rejoin Mr Cripps.
“What do you think to the Hurry, sir?”
Thomas was almost enthusiastic.
“Rock solid! Slower than I’d like. I’d prefer a metal wing and variable-pitch prop and I definitely want a sheet of armour plate behind me back! Four twenty mil cannon would be pleasant. She feels as if she could be thrown about. I wouldn’t want to mix it with the Me 109 in a Hurry, but I think she could do a lot of no-good to the bombers. She’s fast enough and dives hard enough to get within fifty yards of a bomber’s cockpit. She’s a work horse.”
“I hope you will get the chance to fly one, sir. My report will state that you are at least as competent as the best of our newly trained sergeant-pilots. I will state as well that you are suitable to join a fighter squadron, either Hurricane or Spitfire. Have you a preference, sir?”
“I don’t know the Spitfire, obviously. I presume you do?”
“It’s faster, better at altitude, no question of that. I like the Hurricane, sir – the Spitfire’s a lady while the Hurry’s more of a rough old street whore. I know which one I prefer by my side in a fight!”
“I have little knowledge of either, Sergeant – but put me down for the Hurricane, please.”
“Will do, sir. I understand you’ll be joining as a sergeant, sir?”
Thomas was cautious – the procedure was somewhat contrary to standing orders.
“I wanted to join, Sergeant Green, but there’s no way I could take six months of Cranwell in the company of schoolboys.”
“You will be in their company in a squadron, sir. Most of them still not grown up.”
“I expect I shall learn to put up with them, Sergeant.”
“Only for a few months, sir. War will come for sure. I am due out of Training in three months, which could be convenient, if they let me go. I would like to get into a squadron. So many new bodies planned to enter, they may not want any of us here to go.”
“It’s likely, Sergeant. While we’re talking, all unofficial and not to be overheard out in the open air, there may be some Americans doing the same as me, three of them who flew with me and got out with me a fortnight ago. They don’t know our ways of going on – loud-mouthed and straightforward and more than willing to tell you just what they can do. Give them a chance to show you they can fly before you write them off. They don’t believe in the old English modesty and understatement – they ain’t ashamed of their own abilities and see no reason why they should not let everybody know about them. They can be annoying – but those three were bloody good in the air. I don’t know how they’d fit into a squadron – I don’t know how I will – but they know just what to do with a Messerschmitt.”
Sergeant Green nodded thoughtfully.
“We’re so short of pilots, sir, that we need even the most big-mouthed of Americans. I’ll pass the word, sir. It may not be me who gets to check them out, but I’ll make sure it’s known.”
Mr Cripps handed over an official RAF logbook and briefly explained the procedure for filling it in.
“I have your records in hand, Mr Stark. They will record your flying history on the papers sent to your squadron. I have recommended that you should join as a sergeant-pilot with immediate effect – should take no more than a week to come through. Then… no doubt plans have been made for you.”
Thomas shook hands and made the appropriate noises of thanks.
“Most of the Hurricane squadrons are in Kent and Essex, on the fields defending London. Do you know the area?”
“Not at all, Mr Cripps. This is my first adult visit to England. My father went out to Australia after the war – I suppose we need to say the ‘last war’ now – and I never made it back to Europe.”
“Your father, sir, he was one of us, I presume?”
“He was, Mr Cripps.”
“Tommy Stark – I saw him a few times, sir. You have a lot to do to live up to his record, sir. Can I suggest that you don’t kill yourself trying?”
/> “I have no expectation of matching the Old Man, Mr Cripps. I shall just be content for him not to be ashamed of me.”
Cripps made no comment – living up to a famous father could not be easy, but it was not a problem he had faced or could give advice on. It was a pity in many ways that the son had not become a soldier.
London was becoming boring – a dirty town in winter with little to recommend it if night clubs and theatres were not part of one’s normal existence. Thomas managed to survive the remaining days, much aided by the discovery of a restaurant in Soho, its location given him on the quiet by one of the porters at the Dorchester.
“Got a chef, they have, sir. In from France. Knows what ‘e’s doing with a piece of meat, which is more than the blokes here do.”
There was much to be said for steaks that were not tough as old boot-leather and fish not over-cooked into mush.
The letter came at the end of the week and instructed Sergeant Thomas Stark to report to the Air Ministry on Monday.
It seemed that there was an emergency and the RAF was responding to it, but still did not work at the weekend.
Chapter Three
The Gathering Clouds
Thomas arrived outside the Air Ministry building, stared at the motto above the front doors.
“’Per ardua ad astra’ – hard work will take us to the skies? Very fanciful – I expect the jolly chaps at Eton thought it was terribly clever!” Thomas turned to the taxi driver he was paying. “Sorry, mate. I don’t have a lot of time for bullshit.”
“You’re in the wrong country then, guv!”
The driver pocketed his shilling and nodded his thanks before driving off, not turning his head, his last passenger and his words forgotten.
Thomas walked inside, spotted a uniform at a desk, a commissionaire, and presented his letter.
“I am due here for nine o’clock. Can you tell me what to do?”
“Of course, sir. You are Sergeant Thomas Stark, I see. Let me check my list sir.” A few seconds behind his desk and the commissionaire looked up again.
“Room 125, sir. Upstairs to the First Floor; turn to the left then the second corridor on the right and the fifth room. Air Commodore Arkwright will meet you there, sir.”
Following the precise directions, it took no more than three minutes to find the room, one of hundreds in the bland and almost identical corridors. He was familiar with government offices in three other countries and they were always drab, stale-smelling, grey and dull – not, in his opinion, unlike the people who inhabited them.
He knocked on the door, was called inside.
“Good morning, Thomas. Just read your report from Hendon. You would have passed out top of the list by a large margin if you had trained there. Not surprising! With effect from now, if you still are willing, you have the rank of sergeant-pilot in the RAF.”
“Please, sir.”
“Good. I shall take you along and have you signed on to the strength and sworn in and all that. Then you will not be issued with a uniform. I shall not explain why, it should be obvious.”
Noah led him through the maze of corridors and reached an office with a blank door where he was invited to sign his life away in the King’s service. Properly sworn in, he was led to another, larger and smarter office where he was gravely informed that he had been commissioned from the ranks in recognition of his merits. He was now a Pilot Officer.
“You will note, Thomas, that dingy little rooms are good enough for sergeants. Officers must be given their rank in airier surroundings.”
“No comment, sir.”
“Very wise. Let us return to my little den. I am responsible for providing the manpower for a dozen or so of squadrons in Kent and Sussex, among other little tasks. We are in the process of forming a new squadron of Hurricanes down near Beachy Head. We have a field. We have sixteen aircraft. We require a squadron leader, three flight lieutenants and nine flying officers. There will be three spare aircraft so you can have a maintenance roster. Adjutant is appointed – that was easy. Ground crews have been cobbled together – all of them are trained but few of them have the experience we might like. They will learn, quickly. Always reliable, the mechanics and armourers and such. 182 Squadron is to be something of an experiment, which is why you’re going there.”
That sounded just a little unpleasant.
“We are short of pilots. Among other reasons, far too many of our young pilots took short commissions in the Twenties and early Thirties and are now employed happily in civilian life. Even if they join up again, as many will, they have no experience of monoplane fighters and will have forgotten most of their skills. The number of planes coming out of the factories is greater than the supply of skilled pilots from Cranwell and Hendon to fly them. So, what do we do?”
“Look elsewhere, sir. Veterans from China and Spain – mostly the undisciplined mercenaries who won’t fit in well to regular military life. Some Englishmen but mostly Americans, Australians, South Africans – the wild men of the flying world.”
“And a few like you, who hopefully are less wild and who can ease them into being useful members of a squadron.”
“I thought that was coming, sir.”
Noah smiled his best.
“Excellent! You are acting-Flight Lieutenant as of now. Your promotion will be gazetted, of course. There’ll be no official mention of your joining up and hopefully the speed of your rise in the ranks will not attract notice. Don’t matter if it does. It’s done!”
“Thank you, sir. You made some mention of squadrons manoeuvring in a mass and opening fire to the squadron leader’s order at four hundred yards. The men I know will refuse. It’s senseless.”
“Your squadron leader will have the authority to permit you to introduce your own methods that will be acceptable to your pilots. He will probably have his own ideas as well. You’ll be at liberty to argue with him.”
“Sounds sensible, sir.”
“Of course it does. It was my idea.”
Noah called for coffee and they sat quietly chatting for a few minutes, mostly of his last visit to Australia.
“Now then. Uniforms. Purchase from Gieves, as normal. Your flying suit and boots will be supplied from stores. Buy yourself a pair of heavy blankets and a sheepskin rug. The field you are going to has been jerry-built in the last six weeks and your accommodation will be bloody awful. It has an all-weather runway – which is more important. Have you a car?”
“No, sir. Should I buy one?”
“You are five miles from the nearest railway station, which is on the Eastbourne line. A car will be useful. If I might advise, follow your esteemed parent’s example – get a large saloon that can carry passengers. Kick arse in Gieves and they will have you outfitted for Friday. Report at Little Foxton for midday Monday.”
“Will do, sir.”
“The squadron leader will be there. The pilots will trickle in over the month. You are invited to my place for Christmas, by the way. I shall see you there on the 23rd. Near Holt, in Norfolk. Lucy’s father left her a substantial lodge in his will. We got on well, he and I. A good man. The whole family will be there and in the neighbourhood, except for Lucy’s sister. Off you go now, Thomas. Gieves first. Car second.”
Gieves was a military tailor, exclusively, had existed well before the soldiery took to the air and still tended to look down on the junior service. The prospect of money stirred them into action.
“Stark, sir? Flight Lieutenant’s uniforms. I believe we had the honour of dressing your esteemed father during his years of service.”
“I remember him as smartly turned out.”
Thomas thought a little lie would not come amiss. The assistant smirked in satisfaction.
“I am afraid I must presume somewhat, sir. I am to join my squadron at the weekend. There is a move towards a wartime urgency, sir.”
The rather junior man called for the presence of a far more senior figure, whispered to him.
“You need your u
niforms for Friday, Mr Stark?”
“I do, sir. I have my letter of appointment in my rank in the RAF. You will see it is dated this morning. In confidence, sir, the service is to appoint a number of pilots to its ranks from external sources. Not all will be British. All will be in a great hurry to equip themselves – war is not so far distant, it would seem.”
“Needs must when the devil drives, Mr Stark. Fittings early on Thursday morning, sir. Deliveries where, sir?”
“The Dorchester.”
Measurements were taken and confirmed.
“We can, sir, supply all of an officer’s needs – shirts and the rest of the clothing to uniform pattern. Shoes will be a difficulty but can be supplied in standard sizes rather than off the last. One cannot last a pair of shoes in less than six weeks – the leather will not permit it.”
“Please supply all of my needs, sir. Experience of flying says one sweats in a closed cockpit, particularly when in action. At least a dozen of shirts and two dozen of underclothes and stockings.”
“You have seen action, sir?”
“Frequently in Spain in the past year.”
The tailor was not impressed – he did not approve of any tinge of the Red in his clientele. He perked up when Thomas produced his cheque book and suggested he might establish his account with a couple of hundred.
“A car, sir.”
The salesman was almost at a loss to respond. Young men who came into his showroom did not normally ask for ‘a car’, they had a precise knowledge of which car and of what it should do.
“A sporting model, I presume, sir. We have the Riley Sprite, sir, which is very popular among young gentlemen…”
“No. Saloon. What’s that over there? Looks big enough for my needs on a station. I want to be able to carry at least three other officers.”
“The Kestrel, sir, the 16/4 6-light saloon, sir. Much recommended, sir. It would be possible to offer a test drive, sir.”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 4
