“Commercial flying in Australia would make good sense. Big country, long routes, lots of airliners.”
“Don’t suggest it yet, Thomas.”
“I shall suggest nothing, Lucy.”
“I did not say – or imply - that. Will you be back, do you think?”
“If I am welcome.”
“She will be glad to see you. Very glad. I shall have no objections at all!”
“I will be more than happy to visit, Lucy. Very much so. Disgusting, ain’t it? A man of my age chasing after a schoolgirl!”
She laughed.
“Runs in the family, Thomas. Tommy did the same.”
“So he did… Let us hope we have no more flu epidemics!”
He drove off three days later, nothing said, no more than parting smiles and handshakes – and the unspoken certainty that they would see each other again and often. Grace made ready for the new school term in a far happier frame of mind than she had expected – she had her future mapped out for her now, provided the war permitted, when it inevitably came.
Thomas returned to a rigorous regime of training, three of the flight attempting to bring the fourth up to the minimum standard they could accept.
Henry had managed to get camera guns, quite easily because almost none of the other squadrons wanted them, unnecessary, fiddly things that they were. He had a technician and a mobile darkroom as well and projectors for showing the films they took.
They borrowed the services of a Blenheim bomber – almost as fast as a Hurricane – for a week and practiced interceptions, with embarrassing results for the squadron as a whole.
Thomas led Red Flight into an initial attack, climbing to twenty thousand feet before calling them into the dive.
The Blenheim was at eight thousand, regarded as a likely height for a bomber attacking a large city.
He brought the flight down, curling onto the nose of the bomber and thumbing the trigger at an estimated fifty yards and then banking below and away, Jan on his tail and conforming. Joe came in seconds later, Hilda nowhere to be seen.
“Red One to Red Three. Where’s your wingman, Red Three? Over.”
“Red Three to Red One. Christ knows! Lost him in the dive. Over.”
They peered below them, circled for a couple of minutes, could see no plumes of smoke rising from the ground.
“Red One to Red Four. Acknowledge. What is your location? Over.”
There was a delay of a few seconds then a thin, distant voice replied.
“Red Four to Red One. I think that’s Portsmouth I can see in front of me. Over.”
“Red One. Red Four return to base. Over.”
“Red Four. Roger, Red One. Over.”
“Red One to Control. Flight returning to base. Over.”
“Control. Permission to land. Over.”
“Red One to Red Flight, form on me to land. Watch for the dickwit coming in from the west. Over.”
They landed in neat line astern. Twenty minutes later they watched Hilda come in and taxi to the hangar.
The technician had unloaded their cameras and was developing the film. They had nothing to do for an hour, used the spare time profitably in shouting at Hilda.
“What happened to you, Hilda? Why did you choose to swan off down the coast to look at the navy?”
“I didn’t, Thomas. I was checking my position against the ground when you suddenly said to dive and I did and lost sight of Joe. I saw some other Hurricanes so I went to join them but found it was Green Flight so I went off to see if some other planes I could see in the distance was our Flight, but it wasn’t.”
“Do wake up, Hilda! You left Joe with his tail uncovered. No excuse for that. Court-martial offence in wartime, neglecting your duty to such an extent. Shocking bad entry on your personal record. If I can replace you, I shall – you are too unreliable to be a member of my Flight. Next foreigner who turns up, I shall dump you, unless we have had other casualties and need the spare body. Now bugger off and apologise to Joe for trying to kill him.”
The interview had taken place in front of the adjutant, there being no spare offices for the Flight Lieutenants.
“Hard on him, Thomas?”
“Useless object, Billy. Worthless to the squadron. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”
“More than that, what can one say? Have a cup of tea, old chap?”
“Why not. Where will we show the films, Billy?”
“New hut, one of the four built while you were all on leave. Technician and his bedspace and lab and a projector room takes up one. Squadron Intelligence Officer, who arrived this morning, has a second. He has a briefing room, and a telephone all of his own.”
That made two lines on the camp.
“What of the other two huts?”
“Eight more airmen in one, general duties to include a batman for the Intelligence Officer and four more for the gate. They are to maintain twenty-four-hour cover to the gate from henceforth, with loaded rifles.”
“Good. We need be serious about airfield security. The Germans raided more than one airfield in Spain, ground troops coming in to kill pilots and burn planes.”
“Noted, Thomas. The fourth is for the medical detachment. We are to get an actual qualified doctor, a Quack all of our own. The other three general duties are his orderlies.”
“Good. Get him to have a look at Joe’s back. He’s a bit stiff and the burn scars might be playing up.”
Billy had not heard the tale and required a reminder.
The hour passed and the Flight was called to the technician’s den where they discovered the new Intelligence Officer waiting for them. He was an ancient gentleman, in their opinion, at least forty, likely more, a veteran of the Great War.
“Name’s Elbow, gentlemen. Come back in from civilian idleness with my rank of 1918. Flight Lieutenant. I did this job then. For your father, among others, Thomas. How is the old man?”
“Well, Elbow, and in Australia, a businessman there.”
“Overrated pastime, in my opinion. Got bored with it years back and sold the family firm. Been playing about ever since. Right gentlemen, shall we have a film show?”
The technician, a Flight Sergeant, drew thick blackout curtains and set his projector to work.
The film was grainy but adequate.
“The camera starts as the firing button is pressed. Red One first.”
The first film showed the nose of a Blenheim and panned along to the cockpit before cutting off.
Elbow took over.
“One kill, Thomas. You opened fire at eighty yards and were some seventy distant when you ended the five second burst. Comments?”
“I was meant to be at fifty and thought it was only three seconds.”
“Effective, nonetheless. Red Two.”
The film showed sky for two seconds then the nose of the Blenheim followed by more sky.
“Eight seconds. Damaged. No kill. Distant one hundred yards.”
“Shit! Is four seconds at fifty, I think, and in the cockpit! Shit twice!”
“Elegantly expressed, Jan. I agree.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
“Red Three.”
They watched a cockpit appear and grow larger over the space of three seconds.
“Starting at sixty yards and ending at forty. A kill indeed!”
Joe took a bow.
“Red Four? We seem to have no film from you.”
“I got lost, sir.”
“Tut. A bad habit, that. I trust you have found yourself?”
Thomas scowled.
“I’ve told him not to bother, Elbow. We shall be doing this again tomorrow. I much hope you will have four films then.”
They had a meeting of the whole squadron at the end of the week. Henry reading out to them the collected reports.
“The weather permitted flying on three mornings. Attacks were made on a Blenheim taking no evasive action, it being assumed that he was in his bombing run. The results were interes
ting. Thirty-six attacks were made. In order of achievement, gentlemen, these are your scores. Thomas, Joe and Mack – three kills apiece. Jan and Kurt – two kills and one damaged each. Nosey – one kill and one damaged. For the rest of the squadron – no kills, no damaged, eight sorties where no contact was made with the Blenheim. A total of twelve kills and three damaged, against an enemy who flew in a straight line in a known location. I am less than wholly impressed, gentlemen. It is to be noted that those of you who actually made kills have more than a thousand hours in your logbooks, far more than that in the case of Thomas and Joe.”
Elbow stood and made a brief report on observations from Spain.
“The bombers there were normally escorted by a substantial number of fighters. They bombed from different heights on each raid, so as not to be predictable. They are hard to locate and even harder to attack. There is no doubt that more fighters were killed than bombers – they defend themselves well.”
Henry took the floor again.
“There must be more practice. Thomas, what have you to say?”
“Fly two Flights at a time, sir. Alternate days, attack and defence. All of us need more experience in flying in our formation. Low-level work can wait for the summer. Our first need is to concentrate on bombers raiding England. Four hours of flying on every sunny day, sir.”
“I support that. There will be complaints from Wing and Group – fuel is short and expensive. It must be done, however. The cameras will remain.”
Thomas nodded his approval.
“Any other comments, Thomas?”
Thomas shook his head and the other flight lieutenants followed suit.
“Senior pilots, those of you who have fought and have a score, that is. Anything to say?”
Jan spoke up to suggest they should all cultivate the habit of watching their tails and everybody else’s.
Joe said they must remember to jink, flying in a straight line was suicide when the Me 109s were about.
Mack thought they must cultivate awareness – they must know where they were, and everybody else.
Kurt, who rarely spoke at all, said they must wake up and accept that they had just scraped through training with the barest minimum of skills. They knew how to fly and now they needed to learn how to fight.
“The sky is a bad man’s place. The fighter pilot sneaks in the sun and cloud and jumps out to shoot a plane in the back and then hides away again. We got the wrong name – we ain’t ‘fighter’, we are ‘killer pilots’. No referee up there to call foul. You go up, you kill, you come down again, you a good man. You don’t come back – you a waste of training and plane.”
None of the Cranwell boys spoke. They were in a state of shock, having known themselves to be the best yet experiencing absolute humiliation at their collective failure to score in front of the cameras. When they got together, going up to London by train for the weekend, they concluded that the cameras on their planes were faulty.
A new pilot appeared from the Eastbourne taxi and ran out of the rain into the adjutant’s office. Having checked that he had been brought to the right place, he reappeared and paid the driver and removed four large, new leather suitcases and a hatbox. A few minutes later, Henry called for Thomas.
“This is Tad. Thomas. I can’t pronounce his full name and you won’t be able to either and it wouldn’t work on the radio. He is Polish, which is unusual, but he has been wandering these last years, it would seem. He has flown in China and in Spain and put in a few weeks against the Italians in Ethiopia as well.”
Thomas was impressed. He had heard of the half a dozen men who had been in Ethiopia, flying off dirt strips and acting as their own mechanics in ancient biplanes. He had not known that any had survived the experience.
“Was two of us buggered off to Sudan at the end. Hopeless. Good thing, Italians hopeless too.”
“You’re not going back to Poland, Tad? I was told they are expanding their air force.”
“No. My mother is Jew. No place in Polish armies for Jews.”
“I’ve been told that, too. Welcome aboard, Tad!”
They shook hands feeling they should offer some formality.
“What have you in mind, Henry?”
“Tad to come in as Red Four. Get rid of one of the Cranwell boys – we want to end up as entirely foreign if we can. Give Hilda another chance or throw him out? Richard in Green Flight is as bad as Hilda, he could go if you want to give Hilda a second chance in another flight.”
“No, dump him, Henry. Send him off to fly one of those useless bloody Battles. He’s no use as a fighter pilot and won’t be any good on twin-engine bombers. Put him into a death-trap and be done with him.”
Henry shook his head.
“His father is the honourable Member of Parliament for Upper Plonkington, or some such, in Gloucestershire – far truer than the average blue – and has the ear of the Prime Minister, or some other part of his anatomy, I have never enquired, and wishes his son to be a fighter pilot. When the war comes, fighter pilots will be glamour boys and that will be a good base for his career in politics. I’ll have him sent to a Defiant squadron; if I can’t manage them, Gladiators will do.”
“Just as much a death sentence as the Battles – gets rid of him and that’s all I care about, Henry.”
“Excellent. Tad is yours. Tell Hilda to see me immediately and I’ll get rid of him for you. Might as well do something useful for the squadron today.”
“Thanks, Henry. I’ll tell Billy.”
Thomas took Tad to the ready room where the pilots were idling away the rainy morning.
“Joe, this is Tad.”
Joe stood and made his greeting while Thomas waved Hilda across to him.
“Go to Henry, Hilda. Now. Say goodbye to the lads. You’ve got ten seconds… Right, all done. Bugger off. I’ll tell your servant to start packing your bags. Goodbye.”
Thomas opened the door and ushered him out, turned away as Hilda slouched off through the rain. He found Christopher trying to follow his old friend.
“Forget it, Chris. He’s a failure. You’re not. Nothing else counts if you’re a fighter pilot. Known him for ten years? Best pal? He hasn’t made the grade in the squadron – you won’t remember his name in ten minutes from now.”
Christopher stopped, outraged, began to speak and then started to think…
“Schoolboys have best friends, Thomas. I’m a pilot.”
“No you’re not. You’re a fighter pilot. There’s millions of people in this country, but only a few hundred are fighter pilots. There’s us few and all the rest. Sod that lot!”
Christopher looked him in the eye, obviously debating whether to punch him in the nose next.
Thomas waited, ready to duck.
“Maybe… You’re right, Thomas. What was the name of the bloke who just went out?”
Christopher spun on his heels, walked back to the table and the bridge hand he had dropped, made his apologies to the other three players and bid a No Trump and then made his way up to a small slam, which he brought home. He made it clear that he had no concern other than to play cards. Some inadequate had been thrown out of the squadron, and quite right too, there was no place in their ranks for the useless.
“Joe, Tad is Red Four.”
“Thank Christ – my tail will feel a deal safer now. Where have you been, Tad?”
They listened to his account and noted his eight kills in China and one in Ethiopia and two in Spain.
“Was in Spain only three weeks. Got shot up - two Me 110s what was not supposed to be there – and went over French border. Better than dying. Took six months to get out of French prison and sent to Dover. Deported, never come back.”
“When the war comes, we might be sent to France, Tad.”
“No problem. Was Polish bastard got deported. RAF give me English papers.”
“Sounds good to me, Tad.”
Thomas sat down, enquired about uniforms and other needs.
“From Gieves,
Thomas. Ethiopians pay in gold sovereigns. Chinese give me bank account in Hong Kong. Fly for free in Spain. Any Pole wants chance to shoot up a few Germans – have done for hundreds of years!”
They laughed and asked about the Me 110 – none of them had met up with the plane and it had been talked up in the newspapers.
“Powerful – don’t get in front of it. Clumsy – it don’t turn as hard as a single-engine. Fast and dives hard and climbs quick, but it don’t change course quick. Too big, too heavy. Good for ground attack. One, on its own, go into it – easy kill. Up from under tail, kill gunner from below, fill cockpit and engines. Simple. Two of them – bloody hard. Flight of them, go someplace else or you ain’t coming home.”
They listened and talked and discussed the best way of attacking bombers. By lunchtime Tad had been part of the Flight forever.
The station was given its own spare aircraft as a taxi for the squadron leader and a runabout for other officers when available. Henry was a little surprised that it was an Anson, which was still in service in Coastal Command. He asked questions of Group and was told that Coastal Command was full of Ansons and was a useless organisation in any case. Fighter Command was far more important and its stations needed the Ansons for administrative purposes and stop looking gift horses in the mouth. He was to be careful that only pilots qualified in twins should fly the new plane.
“None of my fighter boys will be qualified on twins, sir!”
“Read up their papers, Henry! Young Stark has two thousand hours as a civilian flying multi-engine aircraft. He came to England in a DC2, which he flew entirely competently.”
“I’m damned! How did you know, sir?”
“Arkwright told me, and he knows the Starks from the last time, of course.”
“Of course. I forget Thomas has a famous father – he’s such a decent lad, you know, you don’t expect him to come from a moneyed family.”
“Nothing to say to that, Henry. Getting a bit of stick here, Henry. Flying Officer Burke was yours until last week when you dumped him as unable to make the grade. His dear father is a Member and wants him back on Hurricanes yesterday. Can’t understand what you were thinking of – he’s a Burke, he must be good at anything and everything he does.”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 10
