The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

“Pinched a DC2. Brought it across Biscay and into Eastleigh, mostly by night to avoid the Me 109s.”

  “What’s it like to fly?”

  “Well-mannered but under-powered. Another fifty hp in each engine would be much appreciated. They say the DC3, the Dakota, is far better for airline use – greater engines, higher speed, better ceiling.”

  “Will it convert to a bomber?”

  “Not sensibly. It’s not designed as a load carrier to a sufficient extent. Better in Transport Command.”

  They could find a deal to talk about, he discovered. He remained at her side for the rest of the walk.

  Christmas dinner was held in the Hall, in the company of the Earl and his family, Thomas made very much welcome. He noticed that Noah took a leading role in the family, thrust into the limelight by the limping Earl who preferred to take a backseat even in his own home.

  Noah made a brief speech as they sat back, glutted after a massive feast.

  “An end to the Armistice, it would seem, ladies and gentlemen. The interlude is almost over and the second round is about to begin. I hope next Christmas will see us all here as a family – though I much doubt it will be possible. Thomas is here from Spain and before that Australia and is very welcome, being part of my family in my mind. Where next year will find him – who knows? Full glasses, please - and let us drink to seeing next Christmas undefeated!”

  They drank, silently.

  “Thomas, would you wish to say a few words?”

  Like Noah, Thomas was in uniform. There were three others in their regimental dress, all lieutenants, two Norfolks and a Guardee, sons of the Earl and his surviving brother.

  Thomas stood, half a smile on his lips.

  “Thank you, sir. What can I offer? We have to finish the job you started, hopefully following the example you and my father set, though I do not expect to be your match, sir. Few could be!”

  The officers tapped the table in applause and agreement.

  “I can say, sir, that the Germans can be beaten. Not easily, but they are not supermen, even though they believe they are. The Italians, of course, are lambs for the slaughter – brave men but flying inadequate old crates and their soldiers badly led by generals who are no more than political hacks!”

  The officers applauded again, slightly more loudly.

  “We shall be here next year, sir, and unbeaten. Bloodied but unbowed is the expression, I believe, sir. I would ask all to drink again, to eventual victory.”

  The Earl spoke to Thomas later in the afternoon.

  “British tradition is to lose all battles except for the last, is it not, Thomas?”

  “So they said in the Great War, sir. I don’t think Wellington would have agreed. The newspapers invented a lot of traditions between ’14 and ’18, sir.”

  “So they did. Can we win?”

  “Invasion is impossible, sir. The Navy cannot be prevented from getting a score of light cruisers and destroyers into an invasion fleet – and even if they only lived for an hour they could wipe out a thousand invasion barges between them. It will have to be small barges if they are to come over beaches – and every harbour can be blocked in a day. We cannot lose – but we may be forced to a humiliating treaty at the end of a stalemate.”

  “So, the politicians will fight this war to avoid humiliation?”

  “More important to preserve their self-respect than to safeguard the lives of a million English people, sir.”

  “So it is! We saw that last time, and it is still essentially the same class of political hacks leading us. What should I say in the Lords, Thomas?”

  “Increase Income Tax to eighty percent on all incomes above ten thousand, sir, and use the money to train and arm a million conscripts. The war is inevitable now so the cannon fodder should be given every chance to survive.”

  “I will do so, Thomas. I will be shouted down!”

  “What’s wrong with them, sir?”

  “Some are traitors. Some are Fascist by belief. Most are weaklings who want peace and do not believe they will have to pay a price for it. They think they can get anything by talking. They are the quintessential fat cats – brought up soft in luxury and terrified by the very prospect that reality might intrude into their lives. Come the actuality of war and they will scuttle off to America, most of them. A lot are already sending their families off to safety – paying a visit to South Africa, don’t you know.”

  “Contemptible. Staff officers in the Great War, no doubt, and cowards in this! What has this country come to, sir?”

  “Many will fight, and the ordinary young men are already knocking on the recruiting office doors. The political hacks will be able to postpone the next election because of the war, but the one after will see them gone. They will regroup and return, of course, but they are due for one hell of a setback, if we manage to win the war.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir. Has Noah mentioned the ammunition problem to you?”

  “He has! Another bloody disgrace – a little group of senior civil servants and politicians lining their pockets. That ammunition has been officially written off as destroyed and the money has been spent to replace it. Every penny gone to their bank accounts. The word has gone to Downing Street and the scandal will be buried – too damaging to the Party, don’t you know!”

  Thomas was appalled – he had not suspected criminality.

  “What of Scotland Yard, sir? Would they not take action?”

  “The Commissioner is appointed by the Home Office. He would not get the job if he was not ‘safe’. His function is to suppress political scandal not to prosecute bent politicians. He takes care that the official brothels used by Commons and Lords are never interfered with; he ensures that the laws relating to homosexual conduct are applied rigorously to actors and such but never to politicians; he finally makes very certain that the gentlemen of the Press do not publish unwisely – a reporter or editor who dared make unwelcome disclosure would be in court on trumped-up charges within the day and would be gracing Dartmoor Prison inside the week! The Metropolitan Police are an arm of government, Thomas, and are wholly loyal to it. Knowing the current incumbent I do not doubt they have a store of swastika armbands ready for the occasion of our defeat.”

  “I think I might submit my resignation, sir, and return to Australia. This lot aren’t worth fighting for.”

  “They’re not. They’ll panic when things get black and then there will be a parliamentary coup and the current bunch will be thrown out. Hopefully Attlee will succeed as Prime Minister – he is utterly honest and fought well in the Great War. Trouble is, being honest, the Conservatives hate him. They’ll probably insist on Churchill – but we shall make damned sure Attlee is his deputy. Then, it will be to arrest every Fascist in Whitehall and scare those in Westminster with threat of assassination, and actually start to fight the war. The security services know the traitors and are preparing the lists already. All we need is a trigger – and the first defeats will provide the impetus we need.”

  It occurred to Thomas that the war might be worthwhile if it resulted in a purge of British public life. There might be a clean generation of politicians following success. He suggested that to the Earl.

  “Agreed. There might be thirty or forty years of decency in public life. It will come to an end – the scum will crawl out from under their stones by the end of the century – but it will be a fine reward for years of sacrifice.”

  “It might be worth fighting then, sir.”

  “Just. As long as we don’t end up as we did in 1918 – the best of the generation under the soil of the Western Front, the scum enjoying the rewards of the peace in London.”

  Chapter Six

  The Gathering Clouds

  “Would you like to fly with me, Thomas?”

  It was dry after four consecutive days of rain since Christmas Day. Thomas was pledged to remain until the second of January and had been housebound for the whole time and was heartily sick of being polite to Tom and had been unabl
e to find anything at all to say to Lucinda for the previous two days. He could find no common ground of understanding with the elder young woman.

  She belonged to a protected, pampered, urban culture, was more intelligent than him and could not understand his indifference to danger, his willingness to risk his life for his own entertainment. She was vaguely coming to understand that her own father shared Thomas’ values but had always believed he had lived dangerously in order to rise in the world and had admired his courage and his success; now she wondered whether he too had courted risk for the fun of it.

  She had also observed her own sister inviting, welcoming Thomas’ presence, seeking his company and showing every sign of falling in love with him. She did not approve – it did not make sense to chase a man who might well leave one a young widow. She had compared Thomas to Tom and had been disappointed with herself for finding Tom to be the lesser of the two. She knew the man who valued learning as Tom truly did must be the better of the pair, but she much feared he was the weaker character.

  Her frustration at her conclusions had led her to be dismissive of Thomas, to ignore him where possible. She was irritated to notice him respond with relief.

  For the while, the sun was shining and she would take to her horse; she heard Thomas responding joyfully to the invitation to fly.

  “I would be pleased to come with you, Grace. Can I borrow a flying jacket?”

  “My father said you could use his suit. It’s hanging up in the hangar. Churnet will spin the propeller for us.”

  They walked out to the little strip, glancing at the sky for cloud, seeing a build-up in the west.

  “An hour at least before the overcast reaches us, Thomas.”

  “Probably. Will there be wind in front of it?”

  “Not too much. It’s coming from the west – from the land. If it was easterly off the sea it might well be strong.”

  He nodded – that made simple sense.

  “A quick potter – across to Cromer then to Norwich and back down. If it’s still clear, I shall practise, just circuit and bumps, to make up the hour for the logbook.”

  “It makes sense. You need landings more than any other skill in your early days.”

  She performed the take off faultlessly. Thomas felt she was trying to impress him, to show she was more than a little girl at play.

  ‘A pretty little girl, at that.’

  She was too young for him to say anything to her, but she was very attractive. He knew Lucy had seen his eyes following her youngest and she had seemed to have no objections, though she had taken some pains to ensure that they spent no great time alone. Sat in separate cockpits hardly counted as private time, he suspected.

  She climbed to five thousand feet, quite slowly, not flogging the engine as was a common beginner’s error. He looked out over the low East Anglian countryside of heathlands and small forests, some new land being cleared for the plough, he thought. It was civilised country, showed the signs of man everywhere, old villages and ancient churches and hedged fields pushing back the wild. There were boats out off Cromer, the tide right for the crabbers and the inshore fishermen.

  Grace turned towards Norwich and its old city and cathedral and then back on a line to Holt. The wind was certainly rising, the little plane bumping across the stream as they made their course.

  Thomas glanced at the cloud, decided it was thicker than he had first thought. He whistled down the tube to her cockpit.

  “Don’t like the cloud over west.”

  “Rain coming. We’ll get down in front of it. No practice landings.”

  He agreed and was glad she was sensible. Too many beginners tried to pinch a few more minutes in the air at unnecessary risk.

  She landed within inches of the spot she always used, judging by the state of the turf. He nodded his approval. Any pilot could get it right once. Repetition was the key.

  He hung up the borrowed suit and walked beside her into the house.

  “Very good, Grace. Turning across the wind, you lost fifty feet. A little more of throttle and the nose up when you cross a strong flow. Otherwise, I could not have bettered your performance. How many hours have you got in now?”

  “Two hundred and eighty since Father permitted me to solo.”

  “All in the Moth?”

  She nodded.

  “You need to change planes occasionally. You don’t want to get fixed in habits that are right for the Moth and nothing else.”

  She agreed but they were distant from any other field where she could increase her experience.

  “If we get a station runabout, I will be able to fly up some weekends and let you try it. I don’t know if we will, though.”

  “I’d like to do that. I’m not going back to school after June – I have to stay till then to finish the course for the School Leaving Certificate. My parents made me agree to take the exam, and I suppose it does make sense. When I leave, I shall complete the commercial licence and buy my own air taxi. Father says the RAF may want women ferry pilots to take new planes from factory to field. I will join them, if they do.”

  “So you should. Good idea!”

  “I might see you at your field, sometimes.”

  “You might. I shall probably have leave again in the summer. I will ask your parents if I can spend it here.”

  “Oh, good! You can try to be here for my birthday. I shall be seventeen.”

  Traditionally the debutante came out in her seventeenth year – that birthday marked the beginning of adulthood, the entry into the courting game. Some girls were wed earlier but for the bulk of the upper classes, seventeen marked the age of husband-hunting.

  “I will not miss it, Grace, war permitting. Will there be a formal coming-out ball? If so, a dance reserved for me, if you please.”

  She shook her head; she did not think so.

  “Not in the state of things, Thomas. Vanity Fair sets the wrong precedent for us.”

  “You’ve lost me there, Grace.”

  “The Duke of Richmond’s ball on the eve of Waterloo is a major scene in the book, Thomas. The young officers dancing, the scene of gaiety to contrast with the butchery that followed. We are doing Vanity Fair for the English Lit exam.”

  “Something I never took, having been able to avoid a lot of my schooling. Queensland is wide-open – rules there apply to those who don’t want to break them.”

  They could not say the same in Norfolk, it seemed. She was lucky there was a good enough girls’ school in Holt which she could attend as a day-pupil. Tom had been sent off as a boarder in Cambridge, which might explain why he was the hopeless idler she considered him to be.

  “Lucinda preceded me, of course. I was at school there for just one year with her. She was the toast of the teachers, taking her Advanced Cert two years early and being accepted into Medical School. They all expected me to do the same as her, but I wanted to fly, not spend every hour of the day with my nose in a book. Very disappointing – I am top of my form but ‘could do so much more’, don’t you know!”

  “Do they know you will leave at the end of this school year in June?”

  “No! I haven’t dared tell them – they would be bending my ear all day, every day. University is the only place for me, you know!”

  “Schoolies! All they know is a safe classroom. Do them good to get into a cockpit. Don’t let them get at you. Much better flying than becoming an undergrad like your brother.”

  It was the closest he had come to overt criticism of Tom.

  “Oh, I expect he will join up when the war starts – lots of talk and plenty of pacifist pals, but he will drift with the stream when the time comes and apply for his wartime commission in the Norfolks. He won’t fly. He doesn’t like flying. I think he’s scared. He will never come up as a passenger and almost wet himself at the prospect of learning when the offer was made!”

  That confirmed Thomas in his opinions of the young man.

  “What’s it like to fly a fast monoplane, Thomas?�
��

  “Flying, as such, is much the same as any trainer. Faster but hardly fundamentally different. It’s just a matter of learning the quirks of the individual plane – each type is a little different and demands something else of you. The biggest difference is likely to be a variable pitch prop and a retractable undercart – don’t forget either!”

  “Just learn the tricks of the plane. Easily said! What about fighting?”

  “Dogfighting is less practical as the speed grows higher. Hit and run – bounce ‘em from on high. If you are bounced, remember your own strengths. You may be better in the climb or faster on the level or turn more tightly than the enemy. Do whichever is true for your plane. Importantly, learn the flat, skidding turn – not too tight or you lose it, but a flat turn, no obvious bank, will fool the attacker every time. When you get clear, remember he will have a wingman and be ready to turn into him as he comes down. Chop the number two and then look for the leader, who should be coming back into you.”

  “So… if you are bounced, don’t just try to run?”

  “The ambusher is coming down from above you and has more speed than you. Running gives him a target.”

  “I won’t forget that, Thomas. Not that I will ever use it, unless we are invaded. Then every pilot, man or woman, will be up in something.”

  It was an unpleasant thought, but he accepted she was right.

  “Ground attack most likely for the amateurs. When machine-gunning try not to dive on your target. Get low a couple of miles out and come in flat at zero feet – you’ll hit more and you’re harder for the ground fire to get at. I’ve never used bombs, so I can’t advise on the best way to drop them.”

  The rain was just coming in as they reached the house and separated to change into indoor dress. Lucy intercepted Thomas on the upper stairs.

  “Is she as good as Noah says, Thomas?”

  “Rock solid, Lucy. A natural’s feel for the air together with the willingness to work at the trade. She’d give Amy Johnson a run for her money in another couple of years.”

  “Good. It’s what she wants.”