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

by Andrew Wareham

  Charlie looked up, twitched a finger.

  “Thomas, what about parachutes? Germans going down?”

  “As a rule, leave them alone. If they land in England, they’re out of the war. If, by any chance, we should be flying over German-held territory, that could be a different matter. If they ever start shooting at any of ours – well, that will be the end of good manners as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Good enough, Thomas. When do we start flying?”

  “When Wag releases thirteen planes as fit to fly. He’s boss.”

  “Good. I prefer it that way. I used to argue with my own mechanics but I still did what they told me in the end.”

  “So you must, all of you. Have all of the issues of flying clothing been made?”

  There were universal headshakes.

  “I shall ask why. Politely, of course. For now, the bar’s open and I shall join you in the mess in a short while.”

  “Uncle, why no issue of flying clothing yet?”

  “I can’t do everything at once, Thomas! Only got one pair of hands.”

  “Every pilot to be fully equipped with his issue by ten o’clock in the morning, Uncle. Without fail. All issues to fit comfortably, tailored if necessary. This squadron exists to get pilots into the air – their needs come first. Stop pissing about with your Mess Dinners and get the important things in hand, Uncle. I don’t expect to tell you how to do your job! Get your finger out!”

  Ledyard was a few years from his pension, dared not take offence and give grounds for a court-martial that would dismiss him from the service. He was in his forties and would find it almost impossible to discover other work – he might end up as a night watchman, sat in a cold hut at some factory’s gate.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Two minutes and Thomas heard him shouting – his clerks would have to suffer for another couple of days.

  Thomas took the squadron up for the first time after lunch next day. They had eaten a far better meal and were much more inclined to work for the RAF.

  “Leader to squadron. Red Flight to my left by three hundred feet. Green to my right, same distance. Blue, on my tail and above three hundred feet. Over.”

  The radio codes needed be amended; they were still slow, wasting precious seconds.

  The formation should give maximum visibility, he hoped. They would discuss it when on the ground again.

  The three hundred feet became four after argument in front of a blackboard and the expenditure of many sticks of chalk. There was general agreement that the loose finger-four was the way to go.

  Thomas told them of 182’s experience with camera guns. Then he revealed that they would be fitted with them during the week. They looked thoughtful at that.

  A signal arrived, ‘confidential to the squadron leader’ and sent by a special courier. Thomas opened the envelope and grinned, evilly.

  “Uncle, could you come here, please.”

  Ledyard appeared, wondering what the complaint would be this time.

  “You are posted, Uncle. You are to board the trooper Pegasus at Southampton docks tomorrow morning at oh-eight hundred hours, for passage to Aden where you will act as Senior Catering Officer to the RAF detachment in country. Signed by the big man himself – Salmond in person! Hand over to Flight-Sergeant Eastwood with immediate effect and take yourself off to Eastbourne for the three o’clock train to London. Travel warrants here, enclosed with the order. You will need to arrange overnight accommodation in Southampton, I should imagine. Goodbye!”

  There was no appealing an order from the highest authority in the RAF. Ledyard could not even resign – he did not have sufficient time to put his papers in and get them accepted before he must sail. The same applied to a medical exemption from hard-lying in a desert country. He was defeated. He staggered out of the office, shouted to Eastwood that he was posted and the Flight-Sergeant must take temporary charge.

  “It will only be temporary – I’ve reported that you are idle and incompetent. Your next superior can deal with you!”

  Noah rang at much the same time.

  “Satisfactory, Thomas?”

  “Highly, sir! Made my afternoon! What about a replacement? Can I have my Flight-Sergeant commissioned and put in official charge as Adjutant? He has been doing the bulk of the work since Ledyard came.”

  “Maybe. I’ll see if it can be done. If the big man will accept it, then it can go through immediately. There’s a panic on and all sorts of red tape is being cut. The word is that Downing Street has committed itself to the Imperial Defence Committee – if Hitler invades Poland, there will definitely be war. Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa have signified that they’ll back the Mother Country. India has no choice. Chamberlain can’t go back on that commitment, even if it was made in his name rather than by him personally – and that’s well possible. A number of senior men are willing to push Chamberlain into doing the right thing and will do it for him if needs be.”

  Thomas called Flight Sergeant Eastwood to his office after dinner that evening. He smelt of beer, had no doubt been celebrating Ledyard’s dismissal.

  “Apologies for pulling you out of the Sergeant’s Mess, Mr Eastwood. You were commissioned as a pilot officer an hour ago – no choice, like it or lump it, it’s done! Wartime powers and all that, even if we ain’t at war – yet! You will take over as Adjutant with immediate effect. Allocate yourself a room and find a temporary uniform. Tailoring will be no problem – it can be arranged.”

  Thomas would dig into his own pocket – surreptitiously – if necessary.

  “What’s your name? I’m Thomas.”

  “Rodney, Thomas.”

  “Welcome aboard, Rod. You know the job. You know how it has been cocked-up just of late. Put it right, Rod.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I ask what the details of what has happened to Mr Ledyard?”

  Thomas told him, sent him out of the office roaring with laughter.

  Air Vice Commodore Branksome paid the squadron a visit, distinctly displeased to find a ranker officer in one of his squadrons and even more unhappy that the commission had been approved at the very top. He did not dare express direct disapproval – that might do his career no good at all.

  “I was surprised, Stark, to discover that Mr Ledyard had been superseded and posted out of the country – he had been at sea for twenty-four hours before I was even informed!”

  “I was pleasantly surprised by the order myself, sir. I am not in the habit of arguing with the Air Chief Marshal, sir. I assumed Group would have been aware of all that was happening.”

  Branksome could not call Thomas a liar. He was certain that strings had been pulled, the whole business deliberately organised behind his back. He could do nothing about it.

  “I would have expected that I might have been consulted about Mr Ledyard’s replacement.”

  “I am sorry, sir. It struck me as a minor matter, too unimportant to bother a senior officer with. Mr Eastwood was in situ and had shown himself highly capable, was already marked down for a commission when a vacancy arose – it was only logical for him to step up into Ledyard’s shoes, knowing the squadron already.”

  “I can’t like having a ranker officer under my command. No income of his own – how can he keep his end up in the mess?”

  “Only three of my pilots have private incomes, sir. The remaining nine are poor in this country with nothing other than their pay. The mess must reflect their needs, sir. As the RAF expands to meet the demands of war, there will be more and more pilots with no money of their own. I have already informed my pilots that they do not need to purchase full dress – there will be no dinners demanding that of them.”

  Branksome was horrified.

  “You have no authority to do such a thing, Stark. You must rescind the order and demand that every pilot shall be properly equipped. The formal dinner is at the heart and soul of all that it means to be an officer!”

  “My men are pilots first and officers second. I will no
t have them worried about tailors’ bills, sir. I have the informal approval of a number of senior men, sir, and expect the ruling to be promulgated throughout the whole of the RAF as soon as war is declared.”

  It was a challenge to battle, Branksome realised. Stark was stating that he believed his array of friends could outweigh Branksome’s. He was also aware that war was now officially expected, and the RAF was tooling itself up for almost immediate conflict. He believed it to be wrongheaded, and was convinced Britain should be marching at Germany’s side to put down the Reds and bring Russia back into the European polity, and in the process create a power strong enough to put America in its place. He could not change the political decision, must ready himself for the long term, when the foolishness of war was discovered and the policy was reversed.

  He declined to rise to the provocation, and merely said he regretted that Mr Stark had chosen to put himself among the forefront of those who found war an excuse to dispense with the demands of civilised society.

  “If, however, that I is so, then so be it. No doubt decency will eventually prevail! I see you have persisted with the nonsense of Flights of four aircraft, Stark.”

  “It works, sir. It will enable us to kill more Germans. That is its sole and whole justification. Fighters exist to kill the enemy – they have no other purpose, sir. I believe my squadron will be on top line within six weeks, sir. Ready, that is, to go out and destroy any attacker who presents himself, and to chase them out of their hiding holes if they will not come to us!”

  “You are aware of the policy regarding wanton aggression, Mr Stark. There will be no need at all to provoke Herr Hitler. The war will be an aberration and should not be pursued unnecessarily.”

  Thomas agreed, happily. The concept of necessity must mean different things to different men. He would certainly do nothing unnecessary, would give no instructions that did not lead to the shooting down of enemy aircraft, wherever they might be found.

  “When do we expect the Mark 2 Hurricane to be rolled out, sir? I know they are in an advanced stage of development. Is there any chance we will take them to France with us?”

  “I was not aware you were going to France, Stark. As for a Mark 2, I see no need for it. The existing Hurricane is the best fighter in the world, apart from the Spitfire. No need for any modifications, that I am aware of.”

  Thomas shrugged and forbore to argue. He did not want Branksome poking his nose into the squadron’s cockpits and discovering the armour plate behind his pilots’ backs.

  “What are these so-called improvements that you expect from a Mark 2, Stark?”

  “All-metal wings, sir and a variable pitch propeller, primarily. The benefits are obvious.”

  They were not to Branksome, but he had never himself actually flown a Hurricane, having progressed beyond the need for the vulgarity of actually taking to the air.

  “All-metal wings? They will increase weight, will they not?”

  “A slightly more powerful engine should compensate for it, sir. Rolls-Royce have that in hand. They will give far greater strength in the dive, enable a higher speed in achieving an attacking position. There is, of course, the obvious advantage in winter that the plane will not have to be wheeled into the hangars every time it lands.”

  The benefits of a variable pitch propeller had been discussed at length for some years and Branksome was aware of them.

  “There is also some discussion of guns, sir. I know that the Hawker factory is considering a twelve-gun wing and giving a lot of attention to the development and mounting of cannon. There is also some thought being given to the use of a fifty-calibre machine gun, though that is hampered by the insistence on developing a British-made fifty. The Americans have an outstanding gun in their Browning and it is readily available.”

  “British will be better, Stark. Worth waiting a little for a proper gun, assuming that we need one.”

  Again, it was not worth arguing.

  “Some complaint that you are using too much petrol, Stark. No need to spend so many hours in the air, wearing out machines and men. I can see you must train these foreigners in our ways, Stark – they can’t be as good as British fliers. Don’t be wasteful, however. What’s this about camera guns?”

  “The most useful of training aids, sir. I have recommended they be installed as standard in every aircraft. The pilot can check his own aim and improve it with their use.”

  “Unnecessary, Stark! Simple to see whether one is hitting the enemy or not. Waste of money!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Gathering Clouds

  Wing Commander Haseltine was a forward-thinking man. Thomas knew that, because Haseltine had told him so.

  “No sense planning to win the last war, Stark – we must be thinking about the next!”

  “I can agree there, sir.”

  “The war against Russia could be long and hard and will demand the forces of Europe to be united, of course. Our country’s role will be predominantly naval, in the nature of things, but the RAF will play its part!”

  “Sir, a Hurricane cannot reach Russia.”

  “From airfields in Poland, Stark – right on the border. If the Poles won’t cooperate – and they are a prickly lot – then the need will be to invade them first. Our allies in Germany will do so for us, and soon.”

  Another bloody Fascist. Thomas was becoming tired of the breed. It was logical that there would be pockets of them together – Branksome would have a coterie of followers, juniors he had been able to promote and bring up with him. It was necessary to work with them if the squadron was to be declared operational, but there was a limit to the nonsense Thomas was prepared to tolerate. He had to walk a fine line – he could not be continually begging Noah to come to his rescue.

  “I understand that the Imperial Defence Committee has met recently, sir. They pledged the Dominions and India to the support of the Prime Minister’s guarantees to Poland.”

  “What a strange thing to do! Are you sure?”

  “My informants were quite certain, sir.”

  “I’ll be damned!”

  Thomas considered that not unlikely.

  “But… that means to go to war with Germany.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be treason to suggest alliance with Germany. I am told – how accurately, I don’t know - that internment camps are being built already on some islands, though which ones, I don’t know. It can’t really be the Falklands, don’t you agree, sir?”

  Haseltine hoped it might not be.

  “I am quite sure every member of the British Union of Fascists is to be arrested and any in sensitive positions – army officers and such – will be locked away for the duration of the war.”

  Haseltine was relieved, to an extent.

  “Members, you say? No officer is permitted to become a member of any political party.”

  “Sympathisers as well, sir. I was told that the counter-espionage people have access to the bank accounts of the Fascists, sir. They know the identity of every person who has written out a cheque in their favour.”

  “Even people who have only and unwittingly signed a cheque made out by their wife, at her request and never looking at the payee?”

  Thomas did not know but suspected that might be a mitigating circumstance. He needed to bring the conversation to an end - his powers of invention were waning.

  “Have you heard which squadrons are to be sent to France, sir? I am sure you agree that we are now wholly operational and must be considered.”

  The Wing Commander had been invited to inspect the squadron and observe its efficiency in getting into the air – scrambling – in less than two minutes from the initial alarm. He had sat through a show of camera gun films and had agreed that they were highly accurate in their shooting.

  “I have not been consulted – obviously, it’s not a decision to be made at Wing. I shall inform Group that you are ready in all respects and yours is a fully operational squadron. The morale of your pilots is obviously high
. Pity I couldn’t get to meet them properly at a Dinner, but you have explained the income problem – they are here and their money is overseas. Natural enough, when one thinks of it. Can’t say I like the background of all of your men – not the right sort, all of them, a bit Yiddish and all that and those Americans – not exactly the sort one likes, you know! Rather fine nicknames for the Czechs – jolly funny!”

  Thomas had thought they were rather silly, but they had been given the names by the ground staff and they had stuck. Rubber Cheque; Blank Cheque; Check Mate; Check Up – Rubber, Blank, Mate and Up were now used exclusively and the pilots themselves had no objection. It made them part of the clan of pilots, perhaps.

  “I must say, I don’t quite understand the provenance of ‘Locker’ Marks, Stark.”

  “His name is David, sir. Hence, Davy Jones’ Locker, because he once commented that he wouldn’t fancy crashing into the Channel, which is so close to the field.”

  “Ah! I see! Rather clever, what?”

  Thomas supposed it depended on the individual’s definition of cleverness. He smiled kindly.

  “Are you sure about these Flights of four, Stark? I could promote a flight lieutenant for you, you know.”

  “They work, sir. I know the Luftwaffe uses them and believe that the Japanese do as well. Those are the two air forces with the greatest recent combat experience. The Italians have flown to war as well, but you can ignore them – their engines are useless.”

  “But Mussolini has done so much to modernise Italy – the trains all run on time, you know.”

  “Their aero-engines don’t, sir. Very poor. They rely on biplane fighters as well, mostly because they can’t build fast monoplanes yet. If they can buy engines from BMW or Mercedes, being allies, they might offer a challenge – but they are not just now.”

  “Strange… one might have expected better of them. Mussolini, you know, such a fine chap, really bringing Italy up to date. Not to worry – there’s much to be said for a good biplane, you know.”