“I am aware of that, sir. I flew a Chato for some months and was able to knock down a few Italians in it. The Mosca was far better – I managed one or two Germans in the aircraft.”
The Wing Commander was not pleased to discover that an actual squadron leader had fought in Spain and for the wrong side.
“How many?”
“Twelve, sir. Chuck, Red Flight Commander, has at least seventeen, Japanese and Germans combined. The Air Ministry has checked back on its intelligence – they know a remarkable amount of what is going on in the world of aviation – and have been able to confirm all of mine and Chuck’s from Spain and has witnesses for some of Chuck’s in China. They have given him fourteen kills and three probables.”
“Impressive.”
Haseltine had joined in ’19 and had never flown in aerial combat, though he had bombed and strafed in the Middle East while the RAF was keeping the peace there.
“Too old now to knock up a score myself, Stark.”
“You can’t get a score without an enemy, sir. Twenty years of peace has been unfair to fighter pilots.”
“True indeed, Stark. When do you suppose we will be sending squadrons out to France?”
“Next month, sir. The harvest is coming in now.”
“Nothing changes, does it, Stark? The armies can’t march until their stomachs are full.”
“And then they have to hurry before winter closes them down, sir.”
“That is the way of war, Stark. Pity we shall be fighting the wrong people, you know, but if fight we must, then we shall do the job thoroughly. How do you stand for warlike stores, Stark?”
“Low on petrol, sir. No more than a week’s wartime flying in the dump. Machine gun ammunition is up – two million rounds and all of it good, brought in from Australia and from the new factories in England and Scotland. The old trash has been returned to store for destruction. I am told that an enquiry was held into the Indian stuff – no criminal proceedings but several civil servants and stores officers dismissed.”
Heseltine had heard the same and was equally indignant that the culprits had hardly been punished.
“Must have been half a million pounds in that fiddle, and they have got away with every penny! This country is sick, you know, Stark!”
It was, Thomas agreed, but not so sick as to turn to Hitler’s ideas.
“No sense staying till dinner, Stark – you ain’t about to set a good spread before me! My report will confirm that you are operational and recommend your squadron for action in France, in the event that war comes.”
“Thank you, sir. Fighter pilots must fight, or they grow stale. I have some remarkably well-trained and experienced men, sir – now they need to get some blood on their boots! More blood, in some cases of course.”
The Wing Commander was not at all sure he liked the concept.
“I would rather say that we exist to shoot down enemy planes, you know, Stark. You seem to imply that we exist to kill the pilots.”
“Damned right we do, sir! A plane can be replaced from a factory in a matter of days. A trained pilot takes two years from scratch. The men are the target – that’s why we aim always at the cockpit. No time for playing jolly chivalric heroes, sir. It was the same in the last war, so Noah and my father have told me. Get behind your man and shoot him in the back – Noah has always said that the best kill was the one the enemy knew nothing about because he was dead before he had seen you.”
“Who am I to argue with the man, Stark? By the way, you know him well, naturally, and can solve an argument for me. Been quite a debate on the staff, you know. There was an Arkwright family at Eton and another at Harrow – which one was he?”
Thomas was suddenly angry at the unthinking arrogance, fought to express himself courteously.
“Noah was made up from the ranks, sir. He was educated, if you can call it that, in an industrial school. He has no idea of his parents and his name might not be Arkwright – it sounded like that, so he said when they took him off the streets. He is rather proud of how far he has come – rightly so. I have the great good fortune to be engaged to his younger daughter, sir, and I am delighted that he, of all people, is to be my father-in-law.”
Unspoken was the addition, ‘you can stick that in your pipe and smoke it, you Fascist shit’.
“Oh! I expect he was somebody’s bastard – there must be blood and breeding in him, even if by the back door. Not to worry. I won’t mention it in public. Must be on my way if I’m to be back to my mess in time for dinner. Pity you don’t have a proper mess, Stark – outstanding squadron in everything else!”
Thomas walked across to the ready room – the Mess anteroom for the traditionalists. The pilots were all there.
“The squadron has been declared fully operational, gentlemen. You have done very well in so short a time. I have spoken to Rod and he is sorting out leave papers. I would be pleased if you would all take the opportunity to get off the field and to relax. If you have nowhere to go, at least get down to the coast and sit on the sea shore. There will be transport organised for those of you who can’t get away. No doubt the pilots in 182 will be pleased to assist.”
Most of 182’s officers were also present and nodded their willingness to do what they could. The two sets of pilots had settled well into their shared mess and Thomas had spoken to Henry about the possibility of joint leave. Hopefully, there would be rooms available in their accommodation in London.
Thomas drove off to Norfolk early next morning, well before breakfast so as to cross London before rush hour made the roads impassable. He was at the Lodge by mid-morning, enjoying a warm welcome.
Tommy woke late in a hotel bedroom in Lymington, disentangling himself from Cissie’s limbs – surprising long and comfortably muscled. He really thought that he should return to Calshot, but he was not flying that day and the squadron routine would run efficiently without him. He freshened up and dressed and wandered downstairs to use the phone.
“Morning, Adj. I won’t be in today. Something came up last night. I can be reached at this number in Lymington in case of emergency. Bye now.”
He ordered breakfasts to their room and made his way upstairs again, reflecting that he was glad he had remembered what to do even after so long a lay-off. Cissie had offered no complaints, at least.
Cissie was in the bathroom when he returned.
“Breakfast in ten minutes, Cissie!”
“Good. I am hungry.”
“Me too.”
He had received a telephone call in his office, Cissie announcing her presence and telling him that he was dining with her for seven o’clock. He had complied without hesitation, wondering what had brought her down to the New Forest and, fortunately, less than half an hour from him. He had discovered that he was the sole reason for her presence and that she was booked in as Mrs Squadron Leader Stark. He had raised no objections at all.
They breakfasted and then drove out into the Forest, idly sight-seeing and lunching at a restaurant towards Hordle.
“This was Poacher Denham’s village, Cissie. Now in America and a big man in aircraft there. Nothing in England for a decorated major who came from a farm labourer’s cottage, of course.”
They walked down to the single shop, glancing about the village.
The shopkeeper was a veteran of the Great War, judging by a missing arm.
“Excuse me, my name is Stark. Do you happen to know where Major Denham of the RFC used to live, before the war?”
“Outside the village by ‘alf a mile, sir. Gamekeeper’s cottage. Our old dad’s still there, with brother Jim. I took the old shop ‘ere for not being no use with a gun no more. You’re the one what made our little bro’ up to an officer, ain’t you? Come back to visit us from the States three times, so ‘e ‘as. Doin’ well for ‘isself. Good to see it, too! Brought a missus with ‘im last time, good-looking lass, so she was! Writes letters, so ‘e do. Got a son now. Left it a bit late, but good thing ‘e ‘as. On the road to the lef
t, sir, if you’re minded to walk so far. Our old dad would be right glad to see you, sir.”
They walked the ten minutes to the cottage and then sat for an hour with the old man, looking at his photographs, and at two of Tommy stood next to a Pup and then a Camel.
“Before thees picked up that old Cross, Master, they were. My boy got two MCs and a DSO before ‘e were done - and made Major! No bugger in our family ever did more than corporal in the Rifles before the boy took to flying. Now ‘e’s in the States and living rich there and damned good thing too! All because of you seeing the good in ‘im, Master. Glad I met you, and your good lady. Wanted to say my thanks to thee all these years, Master.”
It was simply said, heartfelt and acutely embarrassing. Tommy was glad he had come – the old man had few years left in him, he suspected, and he had taken such pleasure in the meeting. There had been one sad note – the old man had asked if there was really going to be another war.
“Three grandsons I got, Master. When the time comes, they’ll be where they should be. Young Jack joined up the year before last when ‘e was just seventeen, in that RAF of yours, to learn a trade. Gone over to Bomber Command, so ‘e said in ‘is last letter. More money in being a gunner and wireless operator, so ‘e said. Chance of training to be a pilot, like ‘is uncle, as well.”
“What squadron is he?”
The old man did not know that.
“Jack’s dad will know, Master, but ‘e’s out at work, won’t be ‘ome till mid-evening maybe.”
“Look, sir, tell him to send me a note at Calshot. I’m on flying boats there. I’ll see about having Jack transferred to my command. If he is as good as his uncle, I can look after him as well.”
“Better than being a gunner on a bomber, Cissie. A good way of getting dead young, that is. I would like to look after Poacher’s nephew. Where next?”
“Down to Hurst Point? Take a look at the Solent and then work our way back to Lymington. I must go back to London tomorrow.”
“And I cannot stay away from the office another day. Will you marry me, Cissie? I was going to ask you next time we met. If we call the banns soon, we have a chance of getting wed before the war starts – which I would like.”
“So would I, Tommy. I have been intending to marry you since the day we met. Do you want me to leave my job?”
“Yes. London is likely to be a bad place for you, and for anybody else if the Germans take airfields in Belgium and northern France. Look about for a house wherever takes your fancy and we can base ourselves there.”
“Will do, my lord!”
“Don’t worry about price. I forget how much I’m worth just now. The advantage of a war-profiteer half-brother… in name at least, my father had great doubts about his provenance. He made millions before he was shot as a traitor, much to my approval.”
She was a little surprised at this casual avowal of the skeleton in the cupboard.
“Actually, Tommy, I’m worth a few quid myself – my father left me well off. I was surprised, he had never seemed to notice my existence except to regret that I wasn’t a second son.”
“Nancy never mentioned you in our conversations about your family.”
“He hardly met me before the war – I stayed at the house in the country. The menfolk lived in Town, and he is a decade my elder. We only came to know each other after my father died and I went up to University. He approved, by the way.”
“He would. There’s a great deal of good in Nancy.”
They inspected the Solent and looked at the Isle of Wight, very close at Hurst Point, and spent a few minutes watching a Sunderland returning to base.
“Big, aren’t they, Tommy.”
“Huge. Beautiful machines, though to benefit from slight modifications. Insufficiently armed just yet, but more guns are to be fitted to the newer models.”
“Will they be needed?”
“Almost of a certainty. If we go out on submarine patrols into the North Sea, which seems likely, then we will come in reach of the German coast. Some of their light bombers can be tooled up as fighters – like our Blenheims – and will be sent out to hunt us. We’ve got a dozen rifle-calibre machine guns at the moment – it will make sense to add some cannon or fifty-calibre guns additionally. The extra weight could knock a little off our speed, but that don’t matter for the work we do. The new models will have bigger engines and fuel tanks and will be good for fourteen hour patrols. We have six bunks and a small galley with a pair of burners to knock out a fried breakfast – and a real karzi as well!”
“I shall not ask what that might be, sir!”
“Neither you should, ma’am!”
“What do you think about children, Tommy?”
“If you are in favour, so am I. I have the two already, as you know, and I’m rather pleased with the way they have turned out. You won’t meet Elisabeth Jane for a few years but I think you’ll like her. Thomas you must see soon. He has a fighter squadron so it’s best you should meet him before the war starts – you may not get another opportunity.”
“Cold-blooded, Tommy?”
“Realistic, love. They tell me that one pilot in three died in the last war and there’s no reason to suppose this will be any better. He has a score already, of course – he picked up a dozen in Spain – so he’s better than average and he’s not green. Last time, new pilots had about one chance in four of lasting for three weeks in the worst months. On average, year in, year out, they had about a fifty per cent chance of seeing out three months. If they lasted that first three months, the great bulk survived the following year. It’s surprising just how many there were like me and Noah – in at the beginning and still there at the end. Have you ever met Noah, by the way?”
She shook her head.
“You should – he is a remarkable man. I was feather-bedded, you know, coming from a flying background. Like Thomas, I was a veteran pilot when the war began. Noah started from nothing – literally. Everything he is – and that’s a lot – he created for himself. He’s a better man than me in every way.”
She was not convinced; she doubted that such a person existed.
“I’ll telephone Noah when we get to the hotel, find out where he is for the while. I know he’s actually had to spend some weekends in London – must be getting serious if the brass can’t quit their offices by three o’clock on Friday!”
“He’s up at Holt the whole weekend and Thomas is there too. He’s engaged to Noah’s daughter Grace – attractive little girl and a good pilot in her own right. Can you get away on Saturday?”
“Easily.”
“Good. Would you like to come up to Holt and meet them all? Bit of a shock, I know, to have the lot dumped on you at once.”
She felt she could manage the strain.
“I hoped you could… Can you get to Croydon, the airfield, for six in the morning?”
“Six? That’s Friday night!”
“Well, I know it’s early, but Noah is arranging for me to pick up a kite from Eastleigh for five o’clock to fly up to Holt – easier that way than driving for hours. There will be room for a passenger and all our bags – it’s a Dragon Rapide that they’re evaluating for military service when the war starts. They’ve lengthened the strip at Holt since Grace started working for her twin licence.”
Cissie had never flown and did not know that she ever wished to. She nodded bravely – she would be there.
“Excellent! Far better to fly than drive. What time train are you on in the morning?”
“Seven o’clock at the station here to pick up an express out of Southampton at eight. I can be at the LSE before eleven, and out again by twelve. They don’t like lecturers resigning on short notice but deeply deprecate married women working at all – my farewells will be expedited!”
“Short-sighted of them. The last war saw millions of women working and this one will demand more. What do we do for an engagement ring? Time is a problem – I must be at the base for the next two days if I am to ta
ke the weekend off.”
“I do just happen to have my mother’s ring at my apartment, Tommy. Her finger was the same size as mine, I know – I checked when I made use of her wedding ring!”
“When did she die?”
“The Flu’ – in ’18. At much the same time as your wife Grace.”
“So many died then – the War was over, but the dying was worse if anything.”
“Let’s hope this one will be better. You may place the ring on my finger on Saturday morning, Tommy.”
He drove into Eastleigh with the first light of dawn on the Saturday, a fine morning and a happy one, he felt. There was an armed guard in a new gatehouse who stopped him and demanded identification.
“Stark, Squadron Leader.”
“Yes, sir. If I could just see your papers, sir?”
Tommy had all in his pocket, was pleased that the guard was alert, awake to the needs of wartime.
“Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. You are on my list of expected visitors, sir. Please to park your car on the tarmac below the control tower, sir, next to the other three. Your ground crew is waiting there, sir.”
Tommy could just see the tapered wings of a Dragon Rapide on the other side of the tower. He parked and carried his pair of large suitcases across to the plane, a mechanic scurrying across to unburden him before he reached the door.
“Squadron Leader Stark, sir? She’s all ready for you, sir. Fully fuelled and engines run up, sir. Well inside her hours, sir. Range is about seven hundred miles, sir. Have you a flight plan, sir? I can file it with the tower for you sir.”
The mechanic escorted Tommy and took him through the checks.
“You have a radio, sir, set to control tower frequency. Croydon will use the same, sir. You will be Rapide Stark, sir, for your identification. My father was your mechanic in ’17, sir. Still going strong.”
Tommy asked the right questions and pretended to remember the name, as was obligatory. He could not put a face to it.
He started and ran up the engines and signalled for the trolley to be taken away and then obtained permission to taxi, glancing again at the windsock to ensure he went to the correct end of the field.
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 20
