“No need. It’s just a car and I have driven enough of them. What’s its price?”
“Three hundred and eighty-five pounds, sir. There are models as much as one hundred pounds less, sir…”
“I’ll take it. I need to pick it up for Friday. I am posted down to Sussex then and wish to drive down. Have you a display model that has been run in?”
The salesman fled to talk to his manager.
Sales were thin and the money was not coming in – the word was the company was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and very close to falling. The manager was willing to go a long way to meet the demands of a cash customer.
“Has he paid?”
“Not yet, sir. I would not take his money until I knew we could do as he wanted.”
“Take his cheque – cash would be better – and guarantee we will deliver to his door on Friday morning. The car will be run in, even if you have to drive at forty miles an hour to John O’Groats and back before then!”
The salesman escorted Thomas to the nearest branch of Barclays Bank - for his convenience, so that he would not have to wait for the cheque to clear – and drooled over the envelope of big, white five pound notes. They double counted seventy-seven of them and formally passed them across and put Thomas into the manager’s own car for the run back to the Dorchester.
“On Friday morning, sir. Would ten o’clock suit you, sir?”
Thomas stopped briefly at the desk.
“Where would I be able to buy a pair of warm blankets and a couple of sheepskin rugs to put down in my billet?”
Everything could be discovered at Harrods, he was told.
They were right. He came back, the blankets and rugs to be delivered and carrying a thick, high-necked cable-knit sweater in a suitably demure blue. He was already discovering England to be a cold, damp country, much less pleasant than the climate of Spain and intolerable to a Queenslander.
He had a map book as well, sat down to search for Little Foxton, having discovered where Sussex was.
Beachy Head was not too difficult to spot and a painstaking search of the villages located the general area of the airfield.
‘Not so far from Hantham, which is close to the Pevensey Levels, which is the sort of place to put an airfield, from the sound of it. Bit swampy, perhaps. As long as they put drains in, no worries.’
The weekend was mostly spent getting used to the car with its pre-selector gearbox which demanded its own habits, not too difficult to get into, and surviving traffic on British roads, narrower and busier than those he had been used to in Queensland. Enquiry at the desk had told him he could use his Queensland licence and insurance had been easy to arrange. For cash down, it seemed that anything was easy in London. On Sunday morning he booked out of the Dorchester and drove south and a little west to the holiday resort of Eastbourne, down on the coast and the closest town to Little Foxton.
New cars could break down and it was important, he thought, to arrive well on time on the Monday morning.
The Dorchester had arranged a room for him in Eastbourne, naturally in the most exclusive of its hotels.
“Dress for dinner, sir. From seven o’clock.”
Thomas could see a lounge from the desk, half-full of ancient figures, mainly female, the epitome of the traditional dowager. Some were playing cards, bridge he presumed; others were embroidering; the majority were in small groups with tea pots, gossiping, about him, he felt, seeing faces turning away from his gaze.
“Very popular in winter, sir. A getaway from Town, of course.”
“Of course. I am only here for the one night before reporting for duty tomorrow. Will my possessions be safe in my car or should I bring everything in?”
“We do not have crime in Eastbourne, sir. The night porter will be informed to keep an eye on your vehicle, sir. The new Riley, is it not?”
“A comfortable vehicle, though underpowered and small by Australian standards. We do often have to drive two hundred miles or more between towns, of course. It makes different demands on our vehicles.”
Thomas had deliberately made a slow journey, stopping more than once simply to view the countryside and taking bread and cheese at a pub half-way. It was difficult to make an impression of the small towns en route on a Sunday but he had gained the feeling of a poor country, the houses grubby and small. Not as poverty-stricken as Spain, naturally – but Spain was primitive. England was supposed to be at the centre of a great empire – yet it showed little of the bustle and vigour that might imply and the few people he saw were not even warmly dressed for the most part.
Any country had its rural backwaters, he supposed, but London had not struck him as prosperous, too many of the people under-dressed for winter.
Not to worry – it wasn’t his country, not really.
He wondered if he had a country now.
He sat down in a room less comfortable than the suite in the Dorchester, discovered it did not have a bathroom of its own, which was surprising for the leading hotel of the town, made use of the sink in the corner to freshen up. He sat with the maps for a few minutes, noting the names of local villages, for the signposts. He changed and wandered into the dining room soon after seven, wondering just what would be done to his digestion on this occasion.
The fish course was outstanding, which it should have been, in sight of the sea. Roast beef was edible, though he wondered just what the Yorkshire Pudding was supposed to be. The choice of sweets was excellent – but many of the dowagers enjoying them were definitely plump, the chef catering to his clientele.
He estimated the men were outnumbered by eight to one. The hotel was specific in its guests, serving their particular needs profitably, he assumed. The English reserve served him well – none of those present would consider introducing themselves to a stranger and he had no wish to make himself known to them. He was happy to be abed early.
He donned uniform and breakfasted on the world-renowned English kedgeree, a confection found nowhere else on Earth. The fish was fresh and remarkably tasty while the rice provided a layer of bulk for a busy day. He paid and left just before nine, driving out north and a little east, following the finger posts and hoping that local children had not turned them.
The lanes were narrow and the hedges thick even in winter and he rarely reached twenty miles an hour. Even so, he came to the signs for the field in little more than a quarter of an hour. The verges were battered by the frequent passage of heavy lorries, construction only recently complete. He rounded a bend to discover a wire mesh perimeter fence, newly erected on concrete stanchions. There was a gatehouse and a barrier firmly down across the entrance. He turned in and pulled up to the side.
The gatehouse was a two-room hut with a small veranda. An aircraftman appeared, spotted the officer in the car and stamped to attention. He was empty-handed, carried neither rifle nor pickaxe handle; security was not taken too seriously, it would seem.
The rattle of the boots on the wooden veranda alerted a sergeant that there was trouble at the gate and he doubled out to stand by the car.
“Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning, Sergeant. Flight Lieutenant Stark, reporting for duty at 182 Squadron.”
Thomas handed his identity papers across.
“Thank you, sir. Welcome to Little Foxton, sir. Gate!”
“Where to, Sergeant?”
“Follow the perimeter track to the left, sir. Squadron buildings are about three hundred yards distant, sir. Ten miles an hour speed limit, sir.”
A precise nine and a half miles an hour, making a point to the sergeant, and a minute brought him to a cluster of wooden huts dwarfed by four brick hangars. There were bricklayers at work on another permanent building behind the huts. He spotted a pair of barbed wire enclosures a little distant, assumed them to be fuel and ammunition dumps. Gravel had been laid outside the largest of the huts and there were three private cars, a Humber staff car and a thirty-hundredweight lorry parked side by side. He put the Riley next
to the private cars, parked precisely in line, just in case there might be a perfectionist watching; he had heard of Station Warrant Officers from his father.
A quick check of the uniform as he stepped out of the car and he walked quickly across to the largest hut and into its open door.
There was a front desk in the open office and four doors leading off behind and to the right. A leading aircraftman stood in recognition that he was one of the more senior officers of the squadron.
“Flight Lieutenant Stark. I presume I should report to the Adjutant?”
“Sir. One moment.”
The LAC knocked on one of the doors and poked his head in briefly.
“Go through, sir.”
“Thank you.”
A very large figure was standing beside his desk, hat on head to exchange their initial salutes. The adjutant was well into middle-age and had the appropriate spread; his was not an athletic figure now, if ever it had been.
“Thought we’d better do the salutes once, old chap. Billy Sinclair, Adjutant. Flight Lieutenant, like yourself. Been in forever, was about to accept me pension when they offered me the chance to take on a new squadron. Couldn’t resist it when they said it was out of the ordinary. Your papers arrived on Friday, Stark, old chap. See what they mean about unusual. Seven thousand hours and a dozen kills already! I managed two in ’18, and they were made up of eight quarters!”
“Flying against the Italians in Spain is a different matter to the Fokkers in France, sir.”
“Not ‘sir’, not for an adjutant in this firm, old chap! ‘Adj’ if you’re feeling formal, ‘Billy’ as a general rule. Are you Thomas or Tommy?”
“Make it Thomas, Billy. My father took Tommy already.”
“Ah! I wondered about that! Chip off the old block, eh?”
“Maybe. Who’s here yet?”
“The Squadron Leader, but he’s gone into town to buy himself a blanket and a quilt – says he froze over the weekend.”
“I was tipped off, Billy. I brought a pair of blankets with me. Noah Arkwright told me the living was rough here.”
“Ah yes, long time stamping partner of your father’s. Useful to know someone up at the top. Smoke?”
Billy produced a fifty tin of Players, half empty.
“No. Kept off the weed so far, Billy. I know that all you Great War hands puff like chimneys.”
“And drink like fishes, old chap!”
Billy patted his impressive corporation and laughed. He was at least four inches taller than Thomas and twice his girth, not less than sixteen stone of him, at a guess.
‘A heart attack waiting to happen’.
Thomas shrugged, not his problem.
“What of the pilots?”
“Four due in this morning. Two more Flight Lieutenants by the end of the week, not sure when. Five more pilots when they appear. Word is that they’ll mostly be foreigners. Older than most new pilots. What I gather is that some have been in Spain, like you, and a couple in China. One of them is something called a Sudeten Czech, who – and for some reason this is important – fought the Freikorps and had to get out to save his skin.”
Neither had heard of the Sudetenland or knew what a Freikorps was.
“No worries, Billy. As long as he can fly, he can be anything he wants.”
“Right enough, old chap. I’ve organised a batman for you – a servant, if you Australians don’t know the term. Flight Lieutenants get one each, and their own room. Flying Officers share. The servants are older men who are slowing a bit and don’t fancy guards and drills any longer. You’ve got better things to do than your laundry. I’ll take you across.”
The room was small, eight feet by twelve, and austere – an iron bedframe with a thin mattress and a single pillow. A pair of linen sheets and a single blanket were made up on top. The floor was covered in linoleum, cold to the foot. There was a single chair and a washstand with a mirror. One wall was taken up by a vast closet.
“Officers must have space for their wardrobes, Thomas.”
There were four rooms in this hut, three doubles in each of three others in the row.
“Spartan!”
“They’ll do. Here’s your servant.”
Red-faced, a drinker’s cheeks and nose; bloodshot eyes; waddling on flat feet. Not a prepossessing sight – but he wasn’t there to look pretty.
“Hogsflesh, sir. Batman.”
“Good. Flight Lieutenant Stark. My car is the Riley over on the line. Here’s the keys. Can you drive?”
“Started on a Crossley Tender in the War, sir.”
“Good. Bring her across and unload her. Put her back in the park when you’re done.”
“Right you be, sir.”
Hogsflesh ambled out, looking as if he knew what he was doing.
“Hampshire name – not uncommon there, Thomas.”
“Good. Can he drive?”
“Better than me. Lazy bugger, but he can do a lot, if he wants to. Drop him half a crown now, as soon as I’m out of sight, and a bottle of Scotch for Christmas. Keep him sweet.”
Thomas nodded. He had talked with his father’s personal servant, Smivvels, once his batman, and knew the basic rules.
“What do we do for a Mess, Billy?”
“You see the blokes over there, laying bricks? That’s the Mess - or will be by the summer. They’ll probably have to stop building for the next three months, too cold for the mortar. If they’re lucky, they’ll get up to plate this week, and then the roof can go on and it will be ready for March. More like to be June. For the meanwhile, we eat breakfast and lunch in the hut next to the offices and go a couple of miles down the road to the White Bull Hotel for dinners. Transport arranged. Don’t use your car as a general rule – coming back could be dodgy, old chap, on these roads with a bellyful of beer.”
“What about the Other Ranks?”
“Their messes were built first – can’t bugger them about. Officers smile sweetly and accept a little of inconvenience. Sergeants especially do not.”
“Logical. The pilots, Billy – all of them to be foreigners like me?”
“Eventually, probably. For the while, the first four are one American, the Czech and two from Cranwell. Over time, the Cranwell boys will be posted, but we need a full squadron by the end of the week so there may be as many as half a dozen of youngsters.”
“They’ll learn. Did the boss give a time for getting back today?”
“No. He’ll take lunch in town, I expect. I don’t know that he’s looking forward to getting on top of the squadron. He’s spent time in testing new planes and giving his opinions on design and strategy and stuff in the Ministry. They got rid of him for being far too forthright in his comments. Henry Falmersham, his name. Joined up in ’29, so he’s done well to make squadron leader in nine years – fast going in peacetime. Sees himself as the sort that staff officers are made of. Liable to put a lot of the flying onto his flight lieutenants while he kisses arse at Wing and Group in pursuit of his career. He’s made a name as an original thinker; now he needs to show that he is what a senior officer is made of.”
Thomas laughed before he realised that Billy was entirely serious. Then he laughed longer.
“Good to meet you, Stark! Thomas, I gather? Call me Henry in the office. Going to be a task, putting 182 on the map, Thomas. I shall be making sure we’re not forgotten by the powers-that-be while the three of my flight commanders bring the men up to scratch.”
Thomas smiled and nodded, said nothing. Falmersham occupied himself with a pipe, which he then used as a prop to wave and punctuate his address.
“I have read through your papers, naturally, Thomas. Three times the hours I’ve put together and flying in difficult country! Lots of time on twins as well as single engine jobs. Could be useful in the next few years – a lot of interest in twin fighters and fighter-bombers. Germans have got this Me 110, which is supposed to be something different in the air! Did you ever come across one?”
Thomas shoo
k his head – they had not been active in his sector, or so it seemed.
“Pity. Like to hear a professional opinion. You’ve got a dozen kills to your name, put up in the space of sixteen months flying in Spain. Can’t argue with your record! There may be some Americans coming who can match that from China and Spain together – if you can believe them.”
“I would, Henry. Flew with a few Americans. Takes some getting used to their way of talking – no modest reserve for them! They’ll tell you exactly what they have done and just what they intend to do next – loudly! But then, Henry, in my experience, they go out and do what they’ve promised. To our way of thinking, they are big-mouthed and big-headed, but they can be bloody good fliers and totally reliable as wingmen. They take some getting used to – they speak the same language as us, almost that is, but they ain’t from the same country and don’t behave the same way as us. But, when it comes to fighting, they won’t be taking the back seat.”
“Worth remembering, Thomas. Your problem more than mine, as you will have to pull your flight together, make them work the way you want. What do you intend?”
“Copy the Germans, Henry. They fly in what they call a ‘finger-four’, loosely in contact and with the ability to watch both sides and in front and with at least one of them told off to watch their tails. They get in close and then split into pairs for the attack. Very much into jump and run tactics rather than dogfight. Makes good sense with faster aircraft. Vulnerable when they’re jumped – but that may be because they expected to be the aggressors. They didn’t look for us to come in hard on them. At low-level, below five thousand feet, our Moscas could out-turn a Me 109 and were their match for speed so we tried to use their own tactics on them. Worked better with their fast bombers. They are well-trained, their pilots, and full of guts. Just like they were in the Great War, my father says.”
“Good enough. You know what you want to do. All you’ve got to do now is turn your ideas into action. You will be Red Flight, as you’ve shown up first. Obviously, you’re junior in seniority, by date of entering your rank. Take the first three men to come in as your flight, with the proviso that at least one must be a foreigner but not all three – I don’t want foreign flights and Cranwell flights.”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 5
