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

by Andrew Wareham

  The women were amazed at his common sense.

  “You get used to looking after yourself in Australia, and even more up in the Territory. Two years there taught me to keep a house for myself.”

  Later in the evening, Grace upstairs for the while, Lucy ventured to raise a few doubts.

  “A war coming and you are making arrangements as if there will be peace forever, Thomas.”

  “We don’t know what will happen. It’s unlikely that there’ll be an invasion. It’s highly probable there will be massive bombing. I had rather have a house out of town for Grace. I very much want the place to have big gardens - and will see they are put down to potatoes and greens and beans and peas, not flowers. There will be food shortages, of a certainty, Lucy. Tempting to set up a pigsty, but I know nothing about the animals. The other thing is, we had might as well pretend there will be a future. I don’t know what will happen, so all we can do is carry on as if everything will turn out right. We’re lucky, of course, Lucy – we’ve got money and whatever happens to the country, it won’t be so bad for us.”

  “Do you think taxation will be so severe as to take a lot of our money away, Thomas?”

  “Probably, but, so what? The old man owns two airlines and a small arms factory and has other investments, I know. The military will take over the planes and their pilots, as a certainty. They will pay compensation for them, eventually, but they won’t pay for the profits lost, and nor should they! The small arms factory will make a mint, running night and day unbroken. Elisabeth Jane will look after our interests there. We shall pay taxes, no doubt about that, but they will be taxes on profits, and we won’t be out of pocket. I don’t know how you will be affected, in this big place?”

  “The gardens must go to vegetables, as you say.”

  “They must. The lawns as well, I fear.”

  The lawns had been kept up for a century and more, were beautifully flat and velvet-thick with never an intruding weed to mar their almost-polished surface.

  “That would be vandalism, Thomas!”

  “It will be food. Potatoes and greens for a family for a year, more perhaps – I don’t know how heavily the land will crop here. If the experience of the last war is anything to go by, the submarines will be busy and a lot of grain will end up on the bottom of the Atlantic.”

  “Then we shall put the lawns to the plough. I shall probably weep!”

  Thomas rather thought they might all weep, and not infrequently, before the coming war was over.

  Chapter Ten

  The Gathering Clouds

  “Have a good leave, Thomas?”

  “Very much so, Henry. I became engaged and my father turned up from Brisbane. He has rejoined, with Coastal Command. I think he was expecting to go down to Calshot. I haven’t heard from him yet. You saw the bloody nonsense in the papers, I imagine?”

  “The two VCs reunited? Awful, wasn’t it? Are they close friends, as the papers insisted?”

  “Very much so. My wife-to-be is Noah’s younger daughter, named Grace for my mother.”

  “You’re lucky the reporters didn’t get hold of it – they would have splashed that all over their front pages – sticky sentimental, just what they love. By the way, RAF regulations state you must have the permission of your CO to marry.”

  “Christ! Do they? Why? No matter! Right, Henry – verbally or in writing?”

  “You can make a verbal request and I shall put a written permission in your file. Just in case you come across an arsehole later on in your career, looking for a charge to put on you, a technicality to bring you down. When do you intend to marry? I hope you’re not thinking of waiting till the end of the war – you might both be too old to have children if you do.”

  Thomas blinked – Henry was normally the epitome of blind optimism.

  “I’ve just received preliminary orders for the conduct of hostilities. The writer – anonymous but obviously very senior – insists that the war will be short and will be ended by a negotiated peace when it is realised that there is no real animus between Germany and Britain. Such being the case, unnecessary casualties should be avoided and the RAF should take pains to drive off rather than shoot down enemy aircraft. Any combat must be preceded by warning shots and unprovoked attacks must never be mounted.”

  “Honestly, Henry?”

  “It’s not a leg pull. The bastard really wrote this, presumably at Mosley’s dictation.”

  “Find him and shoot him?”

  “He’ll be well-protected in Whitehall and Westminster. Too many damned traitors in Chamberlain’s government and in the senior ranks of the civil service and no few in the military!”

  “Why are we fighting for this country, Henry?”

  Henry made no direct answer.

  “I won’t be publishing the new instructions, Thomas. They are not binding on you, because you know nothing of them. We can expect a visit from our new air vice commodore, by the way, Branksome. He has taken over as second in our Group. The word is that he knows nothing other than bull. He has memorised the rulebook and knows nothing else. He has been informed that this squadron is out of the ordinary and probably resents it. He will be awkward if he can be. Tell your Czechs and Poles to ‘no spika da Eenglish, mister’ if he says anything to them. The Americans can be hillbillies. They’ll all enjoy it.”

  Thomas passed the word and was promised pure pantomime if the new man appeared. They returned to exercises, mostly learning to work with their new controllers and to trust them sufficiently to follow their instructions to the letter.

  There was a new codebook which they found entertaining.

  “It is necessary, gentleman, because radio instructions must be made in clear speech – there is no time to put them into cypher and you can’t fly with one hand and decode with the other. So certain terms are given code words to fool the Germans. A thousand feet in altitude is an ‘angel’, for example.”

  “They’ll learn them inside a month, probably less.”

  “Then they can be fooled again by random changes. We can say, for example, that today is a ‘plus four day’. If the controller orders us to Angels Ten, he really means Fourteen. Tomorrow he might say it’s ‘minus two’ and then Angels Sixteen will mean fourteen thousand feet. The same with Red and Green – that’s port and starboard, you remember. He might announce that the day is a reverse turn day, then when he says ‘red’, he actually means ‘green’.”

  The Flight looked blankly at Thomas and slowly shook their heads.

  “Is a cock-up, Thomas. Will be.”

  “Shut up, Jan. It will work perfectly well… quite often.”

  “And, when it does not?”

  “Then look for the nearest Hun and kill him. Remember Nelson – ‘no man can go too far wrong if he lays himself alongside the nearest Frenchman’. We are after Germans this time round, but the principle holds good.”

  “Right. Is good. When cock-up comes, kill a German. If no cock-up, kill many Germans. Is why I join RAF.”

  “So did we all, Jan. Have you heard anything from home?”

  “Nothing. Not send address. Better they know nothing. Safer if I am not fighting against Germans who occupy their town.”

  “So be it, mate.”

  They took-off in tight formation, loosened and reformed repeatedly for the sake of practice and landed in two pairs, close together.

  Thomas was called to the new control tower.

  Henry was there accompanied by a short, thin, dyspeptic-seeming little man with a pencil-thin moustache who seemed over-weighted by the great mass of braid on his hat.

  “Air Vice Commodore Branksome, Thomas.”

  Thomas came to attention; he could not salute, bareheaded with his flying helmet in his hand.

  “Why are you incorrectly dressed, Flight Lieutenant?”

  “I have just landed, sir, and will be flying again as soon as my mechanics release the plane to me. I am bringing my Flight up to fighting standard, sir.”

  “Wa
ste of time and petrol. There will be no war. Herr Hitler is entirely reasonable and will be no menace to British interests. None of our business that he is correcting Germany’s proper boundaries. In any case, I saw four Hurricanes landing just now, in two pairs, far too close to each other. The RAF flies in vics of three and I expect all of my squadrons to conform to proper practice.”

  Henry intervened.

  “182 has permission from the Air Vice Marshal to experiment with the practice of fliers in other air forces, sir. Particularly, we are to examine the methods of the Luftwaffe.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have no wartime experience with fast low-wing monoplanes, sir. Germany and Japan both have and we have pilots in this squadron who have been successful against them in China and Spain.”

  “Traitors to Britain, fighting for the Reds!”

  Thomas smiled.

  “Not at all, sir. Fighting against the Fascist scum, sir. Every Nazi animal we killed in Spain is one less to fly against England, one fewer to bomb and machine-gun our women and children. In any case, sir, the bulk of our pilots are Czech, Polish and American. Only two of us have English passports.”

  Branksome was aware that the decision to recruit foreign pilots had been made by officers far superior in rank to him. He disapproved – all foreigners were lesser beings – but if he criticised their decisions, word would get back to the Air Ministry and his next promotion might be jeopardised.

  “Did you fly in Spain?”

  “Yes, sir. Against the Germans to an extent but mostly against Italian opposition. The Italian planes are much inferior to the German – very poor engines, I am told.”

  Henry interrupted again, seeing that Thomas was smiling his best and trying to prevent any insubordination.

  “Flight Lieutenant Stark is credited with twelve fighters and bombers, sir, including a Me 109. Two of the other pilots have more than him.”

  “What did you fly, Stark?”

  “Polikarpovs, sir. The Chato and then the Super Mosca – better known as the Rata, I believe.”

  “Russian built – not much good, I suppose.”

  “The Mosca compares with the Hurricane, sir. A smaller plane and with half the range of a Hurricane but otherwise very similar. Turns a little more tightly and much better gunned, which is useful.”

  Branksome was outraged, again.

  “What do you mean, better gunned? No other planes in the world carry eight guns, only the Hurricane and the Spitfire!”

  “The Mosca has two rifle-calibre popguns which are useful when loaded with tracer to take an aim. Besides that it has twenty mil cannon for killing with. Rifle-calibre guns are useless against metal-bodied aircraft.”

  “Air Ministry testing has shown that eight Brownings will be totally effective against any aircraft.”

  “My experience says that machine guns are wholly outdated, sir. We shall probably be at war before the year is out, so no doubt we will discover who is right, sir.”

  Branksome shook his head wearily, corrected this remarkably ignorant junior officer.

  “There will be no war, Stark! Wiser heads will prevail. I have no doubt that the government will call upon the experience and wisdom of those who lead the country outside of parliament and common sense will bring us to a proper treaty with Herr Hitler.”

  “I had heard that the government intended to have Mosley shot as a traitor the day war was declared, sir. I presume you are referring to him. All of his followers are to be arrested and locked-up for the duration. The government is building a prison camp down in the Falkland Islands for them, out of harm’s way and where they can be put to hard labour building a new dockyard using the local stone.”

  Branksome stared suspiciously at Thomas, wondering just who he had been talking to and whether he was related to the wrong people.

  “Stark… Any relation to the fellow who was posing for the newspapers on Monday?”

  “My father, who was obeying orders from the Air Chief Marshal himself. He has returned from Australia to fly again. It was a rare opportunity to put two living and serving VCs together, sir. Of course, he flew with the bulk of the senior men in the last war.”

  Branksome had joined up in ’15 but had never managed to get out to the Western Front, or any other active theatre. He had any number of useful family connections in Whitehall.

  “Very well. I expect to see a taut squadron, Falmersham – none of this slackness with uniform that seems so prevalent. What sort of Mess do you run? How do these foreigners pay their bills?”

  Henry said they did so very easily.

  “The Mess Bill amounts to one half of their pay, sir. No extras. We do not indulge in extravagant entertaining, sir. No formal Mess Nights. We have no wine cellar, for example. The officers eat well, which is sufficient for our needs.”

  Branksome was amazed, and disgusted. The Officers Mess was at the heart of every good unit, he believed.

  “Very poor, Falmersham! I much hope to hear of you doing better in the near future. I expect to be invited to a formal Mess Night in the near future. I need to inspect the field now. You can come along, Stark. You will wish to introduce your Flight.”

  Thomas nodded and smiled. He watched as a sergeant quietly left the control tower and broke into a run outside the door. None of the NCOs would be taken unawares.

  “Red Flight, sir. Three Flying Officers, sir. Mr Palach.”

  Jan clicked his heels and bowed.

  “Mr Cas.”

  Red Three also bowed. He was a Pole and his name apparently consisted of eight consecutive consonants, was regarded as unpronounceable.

  “Mr Byght.”

  Christopher had laid hands on a proper hat and saluted formally.

  “Do you always dress in flying gear when on the ground?”

  “We will be flying in twenty minutes, sir, provided Red One is available to lead us. I am the least experienced man in the squadron, sir, and need the extra time if I am not to let my fellow pilots down.”

  “You are a Cranwell man, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you should be showing them what to do!”

  Christopher so far forgot himself as to laugh.

  “Cranwell taught me how to fly a plane, sir. The squadron is teaching me how to fight a plane – a far more complicated set of skills, sir. I am lucky to have such very experienced teachers, sir. I think I may survive long enough to kill my three Huns and be worth my pay, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Thomas intervened, protecting his junior.

  “The Luftwaffe has three times as many planes and pilots as us, sir. Each of our boys has to kill three to get us onto even terms. Most of the Cranwell boys will be killed in their first combat, sir. They know nothing of modern aerial warfare.”

  “Nonsense! Bloody nonsense! Cranwell is the best training ground in the world and I won’t hear any different! Not that it matters – we shall not be going to war, except possibly at Herr Hitler’s side when he launches his crusade against the Godless Reds!”

  Jan released a reverberating farting noise behind Branksome’s back, stood at attention, face blank as the senior man rounded on him.

  Branksome snorted and marched off to Joe Kelly’s Flight. Thomas heard the greeting.

  “Why, howdy-do, Commodore. Come and set down with us and let’s just chaw the fat. Marek and Petar and ol’ Miro will be right danged delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Is what, Thomas?”

  “Is taking the piss, Jan.”

  “Ha! Good man, Joe.”

  The Air Commodore did not introduce himself to the third Flight. He left the field, driving rather than flying, expressing extreme dissatisfaction with the squadron. Thomas took Red Flight up as he left, debated giving him a fond farewell at zero feet but decided it might be seen as ill-mannered. He contented himself with a battle climb to ten thousand feet which coincidentally took him along the line of the road leading north; the
four engines made a very satisfactory noise.

  “Red One to Red Flight. Check and note fuel use in battle climb. Compare it to ordinary usage. Over.”

  The battle climb was much recommended by the RAF; Thomas had a suspicion that it used too much fuel, reduced time on patrol by several minutes.

  “Red One to Red Four, ease out to port and back. You are too tight. Over.”

  “Red Four to Red One. Wilco. Over.”

  That was a useful term, Thomas mused. ‘Will comply’. Acknowledging understanding of and obedience to an order in one brief word. He watched as Chris took a more correct position.

  “Red Four to Red One. Aircraft at twenty thousand feet, eleven o’clock. Over.”

  “Red One to Red Four. Roger. Bogey or bandit? Over.”

  Thomas was mildly irritated by his own message. ‘’Unknown’ or ‘hostile’ – no gain at all to those codewords. They were just as long as the original.’

  “Red Four to Red One. Bogey is a Wellington. Over.”

  “Red One to Red Four. Well seen. Ceiling for Wellington is Angels Eighteen. Over.”

  Thomas had a suspicion they would be less long-winded when in a wartime situation. It was good practice, however. He noted that Chris had good sight, and his estimation of height was not too bad. He debated making an attack on the Wellington, doubted they had the fuel to climb and dive onto it.

  “Red One to Control. Red Flight permission to pancake. Over.”

  He received his permission and brought the Flight in to land, reflecting that the codeword was both silly and vague – no differentiation between normal and emergency landing.

  “Thomas, the Air Ministry loves you like a son, or so it would seem. You are confirmed as a Flight Lieutenant, ‘bearing in mind your hours flown’. Not entirely irrational, that. You are to take acting-rank as Squadron Leader of 186 Squadron, to be formed with Hurricanes in the immediate future and based here.”