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

by Andrew Wareham

  “What about the Blenheims, Henry?”

  “They are not to be based here, it would seem. In fact, they never were to be based here and Group does not know where I got the idea they would be.”

  Henry picked up a file with more than forty separate signals relating to the Blenheims.

  “These signals cannot have been sent. Group does not change its mind, as is well known, therefore they cannot have ever said or implied or otherwise have so much as hinted there would be any other squadron than your 186 here.”

  Thomas laughed but noted the warning for his own future – Group did not make mistakes, therefore if mistakes did occur and relate to his squadron, they must be his fault.

  “It’s all very flattering, Henry. If I knew where the Old Man was, I would tell him that we’re the same rank now.”

  “He is at Calshot, on Southampton Water, Thomas. I know Bowhill’s least senior staff officer – he told me this morning. Apparently, he is already in some slight trouble. A Sunderland has trouble taking off in a flat calm – it needs a lop on the water to get unstuck. Your father used the wake of one of the Isle of Wight ferries for the purpose, crossing its stern at one hundred feet, which was a little unpopular. The captain of the paddle steamer was not best pleased.”

  “Good to know the old bugger hasn’t changed – he’ll never grow up!”

  “Bad habit, growing up, Thomas. Fighter pilots never do. Peter Pan was a fighter pilot.”

  “I thought he was a little catamite invented by some old poofter in the West End.”

  “That as well, I would imagine, Thomas. You tend to be too literal-minded, young man!”

  “I come from a prosaic country, Henry. My new squadron – all foreigners, I presume?”

  “It doesn’t say. Probably.”

  “Good. Can I pinch a couple of my lads to be my Flight Commanders? You can have two of the new boys in exchange.”

  “Who do you want?”

  “Jan and Cas know my habits.”

  “I’ll put it to Wing. Should be possible, unless Group has appointed a pair of Flight Commanders already. What about your third?”

  “Make up one of the new men in – the most experienced, probably. Let them know that promotion is available to them.”

  “Sensible.”

  “When does the promotion take effect?”

  “Immediately. I’ll put Joe’s Miro in your place from this morning. You will take over your office today and make a start on the paperwork. Billy will give you a hand until your own adjutant comes in. I’ll get a message down to Calshot for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll send a letter to Holt. I hope to get a weekend or two before the balloon goes up.”

  “Back to your ladylove’s side?”

  “I miss her, Henry. Banal, ain’t it?”

  “Lucky, more likely, Thomas. I envy you. Almost got married myself, five years ago, but it fizzled out… She said I cared more about my career than for her. She wouldn’t have made an RAF wife…”

  Thomas had no doubt that Grace would, but she had grown up in the service, knew that a pilot had two wives – the RAF the more demanding of the pair.

  An office all of his own – he had never had his own working space before, had never wanted one. Now he had a twelve foot square room with a desk and chair and three more hard wooden seats for conferences. There was a notice board and a large waste-paper bin as well. Tucked into the corner there was a filing cabinet; he checked but it was empty so far.

  There was a folder on the desk, sat square on the blotter. He glanced inside it, saw a scheme of organisation for a squadron. Pilots and planes in one set of columns; hangars and mechanics; armoury; fuel dump; transport; stores; kitchens; messes and cooks and servants; adjutant and guard detail. There was a folded note inside the cover.

  ‘Have fun. Henry.’

  There was an unbelievable amount of organisation just for one squadron. All of those people just to keep thirteen planes in the air. He hoped he had a good adjutant, but knew he had no control of the personnel to be sent to him. Normally, in peacetime, a squadron leader would learn the administration bit by bit as he progressed up the ladder, but he had fallen head-first into the job. It could be amusing.

  Jan and Cas knocked on the door. Both had changed out of flying gear and wore hats; they came to the salute.

  “Is right, first time, sir.”

  Thomas returned their salutes, grabbing his hat from the rack to do so.

  “So it is. Enough bullshit now. Welcome to 186 Squadron. You two are my Flight Commanders, at my request. The third will be sent in over the next few days, I hope. I know nothing about the pilots coming in or about the adjutant. We will be sharing the Mess with 182 but will have our own rooms, so we will have to move. I will ask Billy if we can keep our servants, but that’s not especially important. The only order I have waiting is for all pilots to carry sidearms as soon as war is declared.”

  “Is what, ‘sidearms’?”

  “Revolver, a big cowboy gun. Thirty-eight or forty-four, I believe. In case you bale out over enemy territory.”

  “Is bloody stupid. German troops has got rifles, not cowboy guns.”

  “I expect the brass remember 1914. My father shot down his first Hun with a revolver – flew within twenty yards of him. Poor bugger was flying a Taube. Had a camera aboard.”

  “Ha! No choice. Must shoot cameras. They say your father big pilot in war, Thomas?

  “Fighters and ground-attack and outright bombers, Jan. Scored more than thirty and picked up a VC and a lot of other stuff.”

  “Good man. Kill many Huns!”

  Two days of idleness and then the squadron’s planes arrived an hour after dawn and parked outside the new hangars, their pilots demanding transport to the railway station. Thomas borrowed Henry’s single three-ton lorry and shoved them aboard, much to their indignation. The ferry pilots were all officers, older men who had not been promoted in their squadrons and had drifted into rear-echelon jobs and tended to stand on their dignity; they were not used to lorries and said so loudly.

  “Tough shit! I have no transport yet. Use the three-tonner or walk.”

  They scowled and helped each other up over the high tailboard, ignoring the titters of more athletic aircraftmen watching the performance.

  Billy wandered across, nodding to some of the ferry pilots he had served with in the previous decade.

  “When the war comes, they will be replaced by civilian pilots, Thomas. They will be posted to operational squadrons, poor buggers!”

  “Who are you sorry for, Billy? Them or their squadrons?”

  “No comment. Eighteen Hurries, Thomas?”

  “The factories are producing the planes faster than the RAF is training pilots. Or mechanics, it would seem. According to the latest signal, I should have a full complement of mechanics arriving today. The planes were not due for another week.”

  “Cluttering up the delivery field, I expect. They needed to get them out of the way.”

  “It will rain tonight, by the looks of the clouds. I want those canvas wings out of the weather. The mechanics will do it, if they’re here on time. I don’t really want to ask Henry to lend me his people, particularly because he ain’t on the field at the moment.”

  Billy laughed.

  “Very important meeting at Group. I gather that there are modifications to be made to the uniform which must be fully discussed. Something to do with Mess Dress for pilot officers, I gather.”

  “We don’t have pilot officers in the squadrons, Billy. The armourer, perhaps and maybe the deputy to the Engineering Officer. None of the pilots are pilot officers.”

  “Ah! Not so, Thomas. If a sergeant pilot is commissioned, as you were, he becomes a pilot officer and it is possible that wartime short commissions will take that rank.”

  “I didn’t become a pilot officer for more than five minutes when I was commissioned.”

  “That’s because they fiddled everything.”

 
“Quite right too. That’s what regulations are for.”

  “Not a viewpoint I can share as Adjutant. I’ll have a word with Spoonie and ask him to have his lads bring your planes inside. You’ll owe him a favour which will make him happy. Always useful to be up on the blokes next door – never know when it will be handy.”

  The Hurricanes disappeared into cover over the next three hours, dispersed through the three hangars and each placed at a precise distance from the next, convenient for working on them.

  Thomas sent a message of thanks, very politely.

  The squadron’s people began to arrive later in the morning, cooks first in a remarkable example of efficiency. Unfortunately, neither adjutant nor stores turned up and the kitchens remained empty of activity for lack of anything to cook.

  “Billy! Can I come begging?”

  “Of course, Thomas. My kitchens are ready. Long experience of the RAF. I’ll square things up with your man when he arrives. When are your other people due?”

  “Christ knows! The signals say that the ground staff are all to come in today. Probably at a minute before midnight!”

  A call came from the public telephone box at Eastbourne railway station. Billy’s sergeant took it, there being neither phone nor adjutant in Thomas’ offices.

  “A Flight Sergeant Eastwood, sir. He is at the station in company with some eighty of ground staff, sir, all for 186 Squadron. Each man has his kitbag and most have a suitcase as well, sir. Impractical for them to march, sir.”

  “Can I borrow your three-tonner again, Sergeant? All kitbags and suitcases aboard the lorry together with Flight Sergeant Eastwood and at least two men to unload here. The men to start marching and the lorry will make shuttle runs to pick them up as they go.”

  “Certainly, sir. I will confirm that this will be possible, sir.”

  “I shall speak to him myself, Sergeant.”

  Billy was entertained and sent his pair of thirty-hundredweight trucks to assist as well.

  “The Adjutant has not yet been posted, Flight Sergeant Eastwood. For the while, I would be obliged if you would set up the offices and get the administration in hand.”

  Eastwood was well into his thirties, heavily tanned as if he had recently come back from India or the Middle East. He was lean as well, all fat sweated off him. Thomas doubted he would weigh 120 pounds and he was of much the same height as himself. He moved rapidly, very fit still. Taking off his hat as he entered his offices Thomas saw he was almost wholly bald which made him older than his years in appearance. There was an alert intelligence in his brown eyes which Thomas was thankful for – he needed a quick brain at work for the next few days.

  “Stores, sir?”

  “Neither stores nor storemen.”

  “Unsurprising, sir. I knew the Squadron was forming from nothing, sir, so I have pens, ink and paper in my suitcase. We have desks, chairs and filing cabinets, I see, sir. A pair of typewriters, too – but neither ribbons nor paper for them. Not to worry, sir. Have we a supply of forms in the cabinets?”

  He opened the drawers, found them all empty.

  “Little changes in the RAF, sir. All will be well inside the week. For the while, sir, I shall get the men settled into their barracks and organise the sergeants as necessary. They can make a start today, sir.”

  “Thank you, Flight. We are using 182’s kitchens until our stores arrive. The Adjutant, Mr Sinclair, will wish to speak with you, I expect.”

  “That will be arranged, sir. I have worked for Mr Sinclair before, sir. I started in his offices in 1922, sir, as a very raw erk.”

  “Excellent! Always easier if you know each other already.”

  The RAF had been fairly small in the Twenties and early Thirties. Most of the older men knew each other by name at least. An erk was a male member of the RAF of the lowest rank

  The Engineering Officer drove in during the afternoon.

  “Flight Lieutenant Carter, sir! I’m a bit late, sir – picked up a puncture in the middle of nowhere and my damned spare was flat!”

  Thomas was not himself a mechanical man but it struck him as a little peculiar that his most senior in that line should be so slapdash.

  “Lucky I had a pump with me – always keep one in the old flivver, you know. Hand job. Forgot just how much effort it takes to put thirty pounds into a tyre!”

  Thomas laughed. He had helped pump up a tyre on a De Havilland Rapide on a strip in the Territory a couple of years previously and knew just how much labour was involved.

  “The Hurricanes arrived this morning, Mr Carter. 182 Squadron very kindly put them under cover for me. The planes were not supposed to get here for another week, of course.”

  “That will be a damned nuisance, trying to organise their hangars around them, sir.”

  “Call me Thomas when the brass ain’t about.”

  “And you can call me Wag, sir.”

  “As in a tail?”

  “No, Thomas. My name Carter led to Wagoner but that was too long.”

  “Ah! Logical! I don’t shorten for obvious reasons.”

  “Because of your father?”

  “Just that, Wag.”

  “Awkward, in some ways. I saw in the papers that he’s back and in Coastal Command.”

  “Down at Calshot. He’s been running a pair of airlines in Australia, got used to bigger planes.”

  “Don’t get a lot bigger than a Sunderland. Interesting beasts. The Americans are building with six engines now, I’m told, and the Japanese have the huge great Kawasaki of theirs. I would like to get a look at one of them – interesting engines they must have.”

  Thomas had never found engines to be especially exciting, as long as they continued to work.

  “I’ve taken a glance at your hangars, Wag. A lot of big wooden crates and smaller cartons stacked up at the rear. Hopefully, they contain all you need. Take an inventory when you can and let me know if there’s anything missing. Inspect the petrol dump while you’re at it. There should be an Armourer here today – he will report to you, obviously. We have no transport as yet, which is a bloody nuisance. I will want you to have oversight of the vehicles, if that suits your convenience.”

  “Better with me than in the Adjutant’s hands, Thomas. I can make sure they run their routines on the engines every day.”

  “Quite right too, Wag. We share the Officers Mess with 182. Very informal. Low Mess Bills – got to be, most of our pilots are foreign and have no money in this country other than their pay.”

  “Know how to fly, do they? Don’t want my aircraft in the hands of amateurs, Thomas!”

  “Most of them have had time in China and Spain, Wag. Both of the existing Flight Lieutenants have had six months in the RAF and have shown good on their Hurricanes. Don’t know anything about the third man. He must have some experience. Might be that I will have to choose one of the men coming in – I don’t know. Anyway, we’ll deal with that as it comes. Tell me when the planes will be ready to fly. I want to get the lads into the air at soonest – we can’t have too long before the war starts.”

  “I’ll look at their books and get them all checked over, Thomas. No promises.”

  “Good enough, Wag. Except in an absolute emergency, safety must come first. If we happen to be fighting off an invasion, then we may have to put anything that can fly for half an hour into the air – but not if we can avoid it.”

  “Will there be an invasion, Thomas?”

  “Not while we still have a Navy. If all of the ships should be sunk, well, we might be in the wrong place, this close to the shore.”

  To their amazement, there was a full outfit of stores and machinery waiting in the boxes in the hangars.

  “More than full, Thomas! There’s metal-working machines there which are not laid down in the specs but which will be bloody handy. Capstan lathes and metal folders, which we are not supposed to have. I will be able to turn a lot of spares myself and make up modifications on the fly.”

  “A sheet of armour
plate for the back of the seats would be more than welcome, Wag. Neck and shoulders down to the hips and able to stop a twenty mil cannon shell. It will add a bit to the weight but that’s not too important. I can lose five miles an hour to save my neck.”

  “Very non-standard, Thomas! Official opinion is that a competent pilot should never permit an enemy to get onto his tail.”

  “Balls, Wag.”

  “I fully agree, Thomas. I will experiment and see what I can rig up, preferably hidden out of casual sight. Anything else?”

  “A pair of thirty-seven mil cannon in the wings?”

  “No can do, old chap. I’ll talk to the Armourer when he gets here, see what he can do for explosive rounds.”

  “Unlawful under the Hague Convention, Wag?”

  “Mr Hague can stuff his convention where the sun don’t shine, Thomas. I’m interested in bringing my pilots home.”

  “Me too, Wag.”

  The Armourer arrived by taxi, a fresh-faced young man and a contemporary of John Smith of 182 Squadron.

  “Fell off my motor-bike, sir. My father bought it for me to celebrate me passing-out and I broke both arms within the week. Back in harness now, sir, and posted here, having been replaced in my original squadron.”

  “I see you did not come down by motor-bike.”

  “No, sir, my father sold it.”

  “Very wise! I am Thomas, by the way…”

  “I am Peter Parmenter, Thomas.”

  “Welcome aboard, Pete. Given an adjutant and we shall be ready for our pilots to arrive. What do you think about explosive bullets, by the way?”

  “They go bang, Thomas. Have we got any?”

  “Go and find out, Pete.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Gathering Clouds

  “Flight Lieutenant Ledyard, old chap. Adrian by name but just call me Uncle – goes with the job, same unofficial title for most adjutants in the RAF after all! Now then, young Thomas, let’s just see about setting up my department and then I’ll show you how to run a squadron - properly, RAF-style!”