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

by Andrew Wareham

  The telephone rang.

  The Wing Commander ordered them to be ready to stop any raid coming their way.

  “I thought we were at war with Germany, sir.”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid, Thomas!”

  “Well, nothing from Germany can reach us and get back home again, sir. The French or Belgians could bomb us, but the bloody Germans can’t.”

  “The orders from the Air Ministry are that we must be ready to repel air raids, Thomas. Ours is not to reason why.”

  “Yes, sir. I shall order the guns to be loaded and the fuel tanks topped up, sir. Is there any news on explosive three-o-three rounds, sir? They had them in the last war.”

  Wing Commander Haseltine was very patient.

  “Such rounds are forbidden under the Hague Convention, Thomas. Therefore they can’t exist, as we are not in the habit of breaching the Conventions. I am sure you are confusing them with tracer rounds, Thomas, which are issued already. I understand that tracer rounds of the Great War Buckingham and Brock type are to be issued in the immediate future. They will be used exclusively for raids against balloons.”

  “Very good, sir. Can we have a double allocation, sir? I am sure we will see a lot of balloons.”

  “Do shut up, Thomas! Any issue will be made by mistake, by error that cannot readily be corrected. That will be easier if you keep your bloody great mouth shut!”

  Thomas was suitably chastened.

  “Yes, sir. Have we heard anything about France, sir?”

  “No. That is in part because the officers responsible have all gone to France in the hope of discovering what is happening. I am informed that the telephone connection with Paris is effectively non-functional, due either to sabotage or the volume of traffic on the lines. You may take your own choice of reasons. Be ready to fly out at one hour’s notice. Your heavy equipment should be in Dover by now. Is it?”

  “Our warehouse allocation was filled yesterday, sir. Our lorries are waiting, loaded, at the docks to go first with the most necessary materials.”

  “Well done. I will ensure that the stores are loaded as soon as the word arrives. You can assume Metz and I will give the exact location of the field as soon as anyone chooses to inform me. Fly direct to your field – it’s less than four hundred miles and the weather is set within reason fair.”

  “Yes, sir. Overall command, sir, for the fighters?”

  “Air Commodore Branksome has been promoted and given the honour.”

  Thomas said no more, ended the conversation politely.

  “Rod, will you ask the Idiot Boy to come to the office, please.”

  Thomas was less than delighted with his Intelligence Officer. The young man had graduated with a pass degree in Fine Art three years previously and had commenced employment in the offices of a stockbroker, who happened to be his uncle. He had joined the Auxiliary Air Force and had been failed from pilot training for being short-sighted and had ended up as supernumerary officer, being far too pleasant a chap simply to be thrown out. He had been drafted across to train as a squadron intelligence officer at some time in the previous year and had been dumped on the squadron in August. His nickname had been acquired at an early stage. It was not that he was stupid, as such, he merely lacked the ability to put his intellect to any practical use.

  When asked how he had got on as a stockbroker he had loftily informed them that he had done very well – his function had been to greet and wine and dine clients and persuade them to entrust their funds to his uncle’s hands. He had, it would seem, been successful in this – he was a very likeable young man.

  “Ah, there you are, Idiot. I need to know the location of any and all French Air Force airfields to the east of Metz – as far as the border, that is. Identify the location of the nearest mountains as well. If possible – and it may not be – locate the airfields across the German border.”

  “Yes, sir. I picked up an atlas last week when you told us we might be sent to Eastern France. Unfortunately, there are no detailed maps to be bought in Eastbourne.”

  “Are there any schools that teach French in the town? Senior schools with a Sixth Form. They will have some material and may have teachers who know something about France – though it will be rare to find teachers who know anything useful.”

  “What a clever idea, sir. I shall do their rounds over the next few days.”

  “Tomorrow. We may be in France the day after.”

  That was rather rushed, Idiot thought. He had to find the schools first.

  “Use the telephone directory. Speak to their headmasters and ask their assistance.”

  “Very good, sir. What do I do for the girl’s schools?”

  “Speak to the headmistresses, Idiot.”

  That was a stroke of genius, he thought.

  Thomas had the location of seven separate military fields before dinner next night. There were rather a lot of them, Idiot apologised.

  “Can’t work out which will be ours, sir.”

  “Close to the German border, there are bound to be a number of defensive fields. We shall make ours offensive. How far is the most distant? What is the best route for us to fly? What landmarks are there to act as navigational aids? Which towns do we pass near?”

  It was all very complicated stuff.

  “Should we pass over the towns, sir, to show the French that their allies are here?”

  “No, Idiot. They should have anti-aircraft defences in place by now. We do not wish to display unknown aircraft to the gunners.”

  “I say, sir, they wouldn’t really shoot at us, would they?”

  “According to my father, ack-ack will shoot at anybody and everybody, gleefully. They may have changed in the last twenty years but I doubt it.”

  “Oh.”

  The Intelligence Officer wandered off, stopping at the Adjutant’s office to ask whether he knew who the squadron leader’s father was – evidently he had flown in the last war.

  Air Commodore Branksome telephoned from France, probably with orders. The line was so poor that Thomas could not understand a word he said.

  Wing Commander Haseltine was uncomplimentary when Thomas called him.

  “Why are you still in England?”

  “I have received no orders and no destination, sir. The Air Commodore rang me up ten minutes ago but I couldn’t hear a word he said after the first ten seconds. He got his name out and then the line became crackles and buzzes and that was it.”

  “Bloody typical! You are to fly to a field just to the east of Metz – I don’t know the exact distance, but it can’t be far from the city. It’s on a road. Your stores were put aboard ship from Dover last night. There will be a pair of the new Bombays coming in at any time now to pick up personnel and stores. The field is operational, according to the Frogs. There is petrol there, so they say. They are leaving a manned cookhouse which you can take over eventually, when all is to hand. Take off as soon as you can. Henry will be taking 182 out inside the hour, so clear the field for him. There will be a Spitfire squadron coming in by mid-afternoon, probably. If not, it will be Defiants, unless they send something else. Auxiliary Air Force, anyway – gentlemen, at least!”

  “Rod! We flew out an hour ago! Be ready to board a pair of Bombays any time.”

  “What, both of them?”

  “Spread yourself wide!”

  For amusement’s sake, Thomas activated the Klaxon that had been installed outside his offices. He was quite pleased that the ready room was full of pilots inside two minutes, most of them frantically doing up buttons but all present and able to scramble.

  “East of Metz, a field only a few miles out on a main road. Follow me. When I get lost, you will have an excuse. If in doubt, land at the nearest field you can see – but not on the other side of the border. Distance is about one hundred minutes, at a rough guess, cruising at two-fifty. Height, fifteen thousand unless conditions demand something else. North of Rouen and Reims, as outlined on the maps issued earlier in the week. Guns w
ill be loaded. Keep a good watch for the opposition. The field is close to the border. Take off in fifteen minutes. Inform your batmen that there will be a pair of Bombays coming for them this morning – which means today sometime.”

  There were no questions.

  Thomas led the three Flights up in loose formation and directly out over the Channel towards Northern France, thankful for a fairly clear sky that enabled him to see France within the first few minutes of climbing. He settled onto his heading and looked around anxiously, counting twelve Hurricanes and relaxing a little.

  There was nothing in the air besides them. He was surprised at first and then accepted that the Chain Home system meant there was no need for standing patrols along the coast, provided it worked. The sea was busy to their north, the Straits of Dover full of shipping, almost all of it merchant and with little by way of escorts. He presumed there were anti-submarine patrols to the north, preventing them from entering the Channel. That was the Navy’s business. He checked again that he had the flare pistol to hand and that he knew the recognition code for the day; he had no wish to be on the wrong side of five inch cannon or whatever the Navy used these days.

  They crossed the French coast carefully distant from any harbour. Four guns in an isolated battery fired at them, the explosions five thousand feet and half a mile behind them.

  “Leader to all. Disregard ill-mannered Frogs. Over.”

  He made a note on the clipboard on his right.

  “First hostile action. French ack-ack, off line and low. 1031 hours.”

  He wondered if that would be the pattern of this war.

  The French had no RDF and it seemed reasonable that they would have patrols up on their borders. They saw nothing.

  They spotted Rouen, just about where it should be, perhaps five minutes earlier than estimated.

  Thomas noted they seemed to have a westerly tailwind of… he tried to do the sums in his head and gave up. He noted ten miles an hour as a good estimate.

  “Red One to Leader. Is columns of transport heading north. Over.”

  Thomas glanced down, spotted three major roads full of black dots heading slowly north.

  “Leader to Red One. Got them. Over.”

  The distance was excessive to be sure, but they might have been tank transporters crawling towards the borders, mixed in with lorries. The French had the world’s biggest tanks, and a lot of them, from all he had heard. Renaults, he believed.

  Past Reims and about ten minutes up on schedule. Definitely a tailwind. Likely to be common, from all he had been told. Metz came up, the rivers and the cathedral giving a certain identification. Glancing across, he could pick up the line of the Rhine easily. He thought there might be the glint of sun on aircraft windscreens far to the north, but it could just as likely be imagination. He was not attempting to find out with fuel tanks less than half full.

  He spotted a road heading due east, a proper road, not a farm lane. It had a few vehicles, lorries mostly but he saw a horse-drawn farm cart as well. There was a runway, concrete showing clearly, dead straight and alien to the landscape. Heavily forested to the north, he saw, miles of trees, which could be annoying coming in damaged.

  “Leader to all aircraft. Field at four miles. Orbit at two thousand feet. Over.”

  A rapid dive, speed building. If the owners were not expecting them and opened fire, they would be able to get clear the more easily.

  There was someone home. The control tower released three greens, a figure leaning out from the balcony with a flare pistol.

  “Leader to all aircraft. Assume that to be a welcome mat. Land in Flights, loose formation. Over.”

  There was no need to impress the natives by flashy flying.

  He could see no sign of aircraft, nothing parked outside the four big hangars. They were open and empty. The French had left, presumably for Paris, as had been arranged. There were numbers prominent on the hangars.

  “Leader to Flight Commanders. Red, Blue, Green in order to One, Two and Three. Self to Four. Over.”

  There was no time to acknowledge, the pilots busy with their landings on an unfamiliar field with no known landmarks to give them height or line.

  No mechanics came out with chocks. The pilots had to locate them and drag them across themselves.

  A single, elderly French officer came trotting across to them from the control tower.

  “186 Squadron?”

  Thomas drew himself to attention and gave a bow, saluting being impossible.

  “Squadron Leader Stark, sir.”

  “Colbert, Commandant, m’sieu. I am your welcome. Just me. The field is yours, sir. There are cooks in the kitchens and they will stay while you need them. There are stores of food as well – provisions, you would say? I have not used my English in twenty years and forget some of the words. There is petrol and oil in big tanks at the dump, over there. The ammunition is empty as we use different.”

  “Thank you, Major Colbert. You are very good. Have you seen any German activity?”

  “None close, sir. All over the other side of their border. We have no guns on the field.”

  That could be annoying. Thomas decided to mention the absence of ack-ack to Branksome. He doubted it would make any difference, but it would be as well to make it clear… He would write a formal message, with copies to the squadron files, just to cover himself against need. If he ended up in the middle of the flaming wrecks of thirteen Hurricanes then it would be as well to have paper protection for the inquest.

  Major Colbert led them to the mess and made a brief speech of welcome and handed Thomas the keys to the bar before going out to his car and waving goodbye as he left. Thomas opened the shutters hopefully and discovered a bar that would have graced any London hotel for size and elegance; it was empty.

  Accommodation was in an annex to the side of the mess. There was a single room for each officer containing bed frame, sideboard and a large wardrobe. There were no mattresses or blankets or clothes hangers.

  “Where’s the dining room?”

  Jan had found the cooks and the tables to the side. The kitchens were fully equipped and had crockery and cutlery, to Thomas’ relief.

  “Is eating in ten minutes, Thomas. Cooks say they have meal for all officers. Other messes for sergeants and men ready for when they get here. Food for the week.”

  “Thank Christ for that. How do you know, Jan?”

  “Speak French. Better than English. Learn in school.”

  “Useful, that. I had been wondering how we were to get on for talking to the Frogs. Handy to have a man who knows the language. What do we do about mattresses?”

  “Is in store. Locked up. Cooks told me where. At Quartermaster’s, behind Hangar Three. Put there for when they take field back again. When he arrives, Wag can open doors without breaking too much.”

  “Excellent. Shall we eat?”

  Mid-afternoon saw the Bombays fly in, slowly, watched with interest by the squadron – they were new in service and were the first monoplane transport they had seen. According to the limited information available they were either a transport that could be used as a bomber or a medium bomber that was better put to other work. Rod and Idiot Boy stepped down from the lead plane, followed by a score of mechanics. Wag and two dozen more of his people came out of the other aircraft. They started to unload the cargo hold.

  “Not a lot of value to us, Thomas!”

  Rod was displeased with the service.

  “They carry twenty-four passengers and a ton of cargo, in theory. Most of that ton is supposed to be bombs, which are fitted on external racks. Can’t put much else onto those racks and the hold is small. The mechanics got all of their hand tools aboard. All of the important ground staff squeezed in but we had to leave my clerks and the Armourer and his people and about thirty others of hangar staff and cooks and batmen and such. I put them and their bags into charabancs to go to Dover. Hired ‘em from Eastbourne – they used to do day trips there for the holidaymakers. Hire
d a lorry as well, a ten-tonner. Putting everything we need into that – my sergeant’s dealing with the loading.”

  “Where did you find the money, Rod?”

  “Emergency powers, Thomas. I requisitioned them and they are to send the invoices to Wing, later.”

  “What emergency powers?”

  “How do I know? They didn’t know either.”

  “Whose name did you use on the paperwork?”

  “Air Commodore Branksome.”

  “Jesus!”

  “It worked last time, sir. They tell me it was a complete shambles in ’14. I’m betting this time will be no better.”

  “If questions are asked, Rod, blame it all on Flight Lieutenant Ledyard – with any luck, they won’t know the exact date he left. That should delay things long enough while they try to get answers from Aden.”

  “I had intended to do that, Thomas. His name has appeared on quite a few documents these last weeks.”

  “Enough! I wish to know nothing more, Rod. Have those documents come across my desk for a counter-signature?”

  “Only the safe ones. The fiddles all have a very poor and obvious forgery of your name on them – a badly-cut rubber stamp, really amateurish. Any investigation will show that you never saw the papers.”

  “You didn’t like Ledyard, did you, Rod.”

  “Not at all – idle, big-mouthed and not half as clever as he thought he was! One of these mornings there will be a great big hairy Military Policeman banging on his door. That will teach him to shout at me!”

  Thomas shrugged and dropped the matter. The less he knew, the better. He waited an hour and then walked across to the hangars, smiling sympathetically.

  “Wag, how bad is it?”

  “Could be worse, Thomas. The Frog petrol seems to be 100-octane, which will do for us. Their oil is good. I checked both – ran some through filters just to make sure it had not been sabotaged. Anything’s possible in foreign parts, Thomas!”

  That was news to Thomas, but he was not to argue with the man he needed.

  “We have started refuelling. Have to use the Frog bowsers, of course – they’re American, in fact. Bought them in rather than design their own. They are actually quite efficient. Red Flight is operational except that we have no spare rounds for the Brownings – what they have in the wings is all we’ve got until the lorries get here.”