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

by Andrew Wareham

  “They were supposed to have been put aboard ship last night, Wag. They might have reached Calais at dawn.”

  “Lunchtime tomorrow, if they have been able to refuel. They won’t average as much as twenty miles an hour and the drivers will have to get some sleep. Peter and the rest of the ground staff will take a day longer, I expect. Depends on when they could get aboard a ship.”

  “Effectively, four days before we are on top line, Wag.”

  “Keep it a secret, Thomas. If you don’t tell Hitler, I won’t.”

  “No ack-ack on the field, Wag.”

  “Slit trenches?”

  “None that I have seen.”

  “I’ll get some of the boys digging.”

  Thomas took Red Flight on a preliminary reconnaissance of their area, northeast to the Rhine and then easterly and south inspecting the territory and picking up landmarks. The rivers gave them the easiest guides to the field.

  “Red One to leader. Bandits due north. High in Hunland. Over.”

  There were distant specks, well inside the German border, minding their own business, none of them showing any desire to come south.

  “Leader to Red Flight. Got them. Too far to identify. Appear to be single-engine monoplanes. Over.”

  “Red One to leader. Is training, maybe. Landing and taking off. Over.”

  “Leader to Red One. Agreed. Observe location. Over.”

  It might be practical to pay that airfield a visit at a later date, provided the rules of combat allowed them to venture across the border. If not, they might accidentally come across the field while returning from the unsuccessful pursuit of an intruder. All things were possible. Especially in the first days of a war.

  Thomas called the Flight Commanders into his office.

  “No ground control. No control tower in operation. What’s to be done?”

  “Put the pilots onto radio, Thomas… But no... We haven’t got a single radio yet. Wait till everything gets here before making a decision. Is there a telephone?”

  “Civilian! All calls are made through the local exchange. No military network. Anything we say to Wing or Group or whatever system they cobble together out here will be insecure.”

  They shook their heads in disgust. The newspapers in England had suggested that many of the French were German sympathisers and not to be trusted. Countering that, many of the British newspapers had been German sympathisers too and it was impossible to trust them.

  “We must assume that all telephone calls may be passed on to the Germans. Nothing to be said that is in any way important.”

  They nodded gravely.

  “What of mattresses and blankets, Thomas?”

  They trooped across to see if any progress had been made with accessing the storerooms.

  Wag was gravely triumphant.

  “One mattress to every bed in use tonight, Thomas. Four blankets. No sheets – the dirty buggers put them away unwashed! Pillows are a bit sweaty – best to roll up a coat or spare blanket for tonight. A pile of coat hangers, enough for our needs. Curtains as well – the batmen can see to them. We can sleep comfortably at least.”

  “Well done. Provided we’re not raided, it should be comfortable enough. Dry, that’s all.”

  Wag could do nothing about that. He had come across no alcohol.

  Their two thirty-hundredweight trucks, faster than the three-tonner, came in next morning, the drivers tired but pleased with themselves.

  “Covered each other, we did, sir. Had cans of petrol in the back. Didn’t hardly stop, sir.”

  “Well done. What are you carrying?”

  “Adjutant’s stores, sir. All of his necessary paperwork, sir. Contents of the bars as well, sir. Officers’ and sergeants’ back stores, that is. The bottles not the barrels. Got the lot, sir. And glasses.”

  “A fine sense of priorities, lads. You did very well and it will be noted on your personal records. Initiative which I like to see.”

  Thomas passed his congratulations to Rod – he had trained his men well.

  “Might have brought some ammunition, Rod, but these lads have a good idea of what it means to go to war.”

  “Quite right, sir. Booze first, bullets later.”

  Lunchtime saw a pair of motor coaches arrive, full of the remaining ground staff.

  “’The Eastbourne Charabanc and Bus Company’. That’s your people, Rod. Were they supposed to come across the Channel?”

  “I hired them to Dover, sir. Let me just speak to the drivers.”

  Thomas stood at a distance while Rod addressed the men. He noticed that one of them, a man of sixty or so, sported a grey walrus moustache, Great War style.

  Rod came back, laughing.

  “Sidney, the older one, drove a London Bus to the Marne in ’14, sir. Said if he’d done it once, he could do it twice. As well, sir, he says he’s the owner and if anyone’s to say where his charabancs go, it’s him.”

  “Give him my thanks, Rod. A meal and a bed as well. Least we can do. Did he see the lorry at Dover?”

  “That’s his as well, sir. It’s following along behind. He says he’ll wait and take the driver back with him. The lorry stays. When he gets back, he says, his son and the lorry driver are both going to join up, so he’ll have nobody to drive the lorry anyway. His son’s got the other coach.”

  “Perhaps there is some hope for the country, Rod.”

  “A lot, sir. It’s just that you’ve seen too many of the little shits who congregate around Westminster and Whitehall. It’s like blowflies, sir – they cluster together where the rotten meat is.”

  Peter the Armourer arrived, together with his rounds and spares and skilled artificers and the squadron was suddenly fully operational. All that was missing was beer and the four spare aircraft which were to be ferried across at some unspecified date.

  “Man cannot live on whisky alone, gentlemen! What do we do?”

  “Go to Metz, Thomas. But I ain’t got no French money. Not much bloody English, either.”

  “Right! I happened to go to the bank last week and make the proper arrangements. Jan, you will take a thirty hundredweight truck and Rod and go into Metz. Find a brewery, if possible. If not, a wholesaler – there must be several in a big place like Metz. Rod, set up an account. Use this to establish our bona fides.”

  This was a wad of francs.

  “Christ, Thomas, how much is it?”

  “A hundred quid – about sixteen thousand francs.”

  “That should buy a few pints.”

  “I hope so. What’s French beer like?”

  “Piss. It’s worse than Watney’s.”

  “Can’t be! Nothing could be that bad.”

  Rod and Jan came back followed by a small van blazoned with the word ‘Nancy’ and a picture of a beer barrel.

  “Arranged a weekly delivery, Thomas. They’re going to set up a rack of barrels in both messes and deliver crates of bottled beer to the other ranks canteen. Ten thou’ cash down, all they asked for. I dropped into a sort of grocery store with the rest. Cheeses and wine, mostly, and a couple of hams. I’ve arranged for a baker to deliver as well. Might as well be comfortable while we’re here.”

  “Why not? It’s only money, after all.”

  Air Commodore Branksome appeared on a visit of inspection, flown in an Anson, the distance from the other fields too great to permit him to drive.

  “Rather close to the border here, Stark. Might be better to find a less exposed field.”

  “Concrete strip, sir. Guarantees we will fly through much of the winter. The alternatives all seem to be grass.”

  Thomas had not looked at any other fields and was perfectly pleased to be within five minutes of the Rhine.

  “It does mean, sir, that some anti-aircraft guns would be very welcome.”

  “Haven’t got any spare, Stark. I’ll talk to the French – they might be able to do something for you. Doubt it, though. Might be able to lay hands on a few Lewis Guns, perhaps.”

 
; Thomas gave up that struggle and led his guest through to lunch.

  “Light meal only at midday, sir. Managed to pick up some hams and cheeses and we get good bread delivered from Metz. Useful having the Czechs with us – they speak French, all of them to some extent.”

  Conversation was interrupted by Jan bringing his Flight in from patrol.

  “Where have they been, Stark?”

  “Familiarisation, sir. Learning the countryside and the location of the French fields. Necessary if anything blows up, sir.”

  “So it is. Far more like to blow over than blow up, Stark. No unnecessary provocation and this whole misunderstanding can be dealt with. How do you stand for ammunition, Stark? Had a great load of tracer of some sort turn up just yesterday. Got to do something with it. The Gladiator squadrons don’t need it, they say. Four-gun machines, of course – they haven’t got the need for so much in store. The Lysanders will take some when they get here, I expect.”

  “Lizzies? What are they to do, sir?”

  “Army cooperation. They can act as light bombers and artillery spotters, you know. Four guns as well, two fixed and two in the observer’s cockpit. Useful little machines!”

  “So slow that they can be targeted by an infantryman with a rifle, sir.”

  “Not if the infantryman’s got his head down because of their bombs and guns! Anyway, they are coming, like it or not.”

  Thomas shook his head in dismay – the Lysanders were no more than flying death-traps in daylight.

  “As you say, sir. Not our decision. We could certainly use some of the tracer. Do you know which sort it is?”

  “No, something new, I gather. How much do you want?”

  “A lorry load, sir, if you will give the authorisation. I’ll send our own big lorry across to pick it up.”

  “Will do, Stark. This is a damned good cheese, you know. Where did you get it?”

  Thomas called Rod across, asked if they had more of the cheese tucked away.

  “Picked up three wheels only yesterday, sir. I’ll have one put in the Anson.”

  Tracer was forgotten as Branksome made his thanks for the most unexpected gift. He was flown out a few minutes later, to be back at base with daylight to spare.

  “Rod, one letter of authorisation from the Air Commodore, to take a lorry load of tracer for the squadron. Send the ten-tonner across immediately. Two drivers and run through the night. Turn up to HQ at dawn and get loaded early and come away as soon as possible. I told Branksome we would send the big lorry across.”

  “He will have thought you meant the three-tonner, sir. That’s the biggest vehicle we should have.”

  “Tut! A simple misunderstanding, Rod. I believe the new tracer is actually an explosive round, deliberately misnamed to prevent nasty questions.”

  “How wicked. I’ll get as many as we can load, Thomas.”

  Peter confirmed the new rounds were of the most desirable sort and loaded the Brownings with them in place of ball.

  “Very good. I think we shall indulge in a whole squadron patrol tomorrow, Peter. Time we showed ourselves along the border, I think.”

  “Of course, Thomas. Be careful of the westerly wind, Thomas – you would not wish to be accidentally blown over into enemy territory.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Gathering Clouds

  Tommy enjoyed flying the Sunderland. It was huge, powerful and well-mannered and could cruise all day if required. Six hundred miles out and back gave a reserve of fuel when they landed – always wise to have time to fly elsewhere if landing was impossible at home. Calshot had the great advantage that the sheltered waters of Poole Harbour were in sight and Portsmouth was very close, though not necessarily welcoming to strange aircraft.

  Southampton Water was protected enough that it rarely offered more than a slight chop on the water and was sufficiently busy that a flat calm was uncommon. There was normally a wake to cut up the water and allow a take off.

  The navigator called from his desk well behind the pilots’ seats.

  “Following the Channel coast west, sir, out into the Western Approaches. Two hours at one-sixty knots, sir, followed by a box search for two hours. Height of two thousand feet, sir, if we hope to see a periscope.”

  There were submarines out in the Atlantic – one major passenger liner, the Athenia, had been sunk on the first day of the war. The patrol was intended to close the entrances to the Channel so that no U-boat could come in from the Atlantic to access the mass of traffic crossing from Dover.

  Opinion was that there would be no attempt to enter the Channel as the relatively shallow water and difficult navigation would make it impossible for the modern submarine – far larger than the Great War boats – to survive. The Sunderlands were no more than belt and braces, an extra precaution, it was hoped.

  Tommy agreed and nudged the intercom switch.

  “It might make more sense to go further into Biscay, to keep an eye out on the sea lanes into Bordeaux, or to head towards the south of Ireland, to watch over the Atlantic ships coming to Bristol or into Southampton.”

  The navigator agreed, but the orders had come from on high.

  “Not to worry, Vic. We shall do as we are told. Coastal convoy is due in ten minutes, according to the Navy. We should see them off Weymouth. Mostly freighters collected off the West country and escorted for the run to London – though why, I am unsure. No chance of air attack on them and German surface craft can’t possibly enter the Channel. Check communications to all guns, the bomb room and with the radio operator, George.”

  George was sat in the right-hand seat as co-pilot, looking idly to their front, waiting to take over the controls after the first hour. He turned his attention to the intercom and made the series of checks on the other five men in the crew.

  “All present and correct, Tommy. Permission to test fire the guns?”

  “Granted.”

  The plane vibrated gently as the nose and tail guns fired.

  “Any progress on the extra guns, Tommy?”

  “More to be fitted as available, Vic. The Mark II is coming into production with gunports to the belly port and starboard and extra pilot’s fixed guns as well as more to the nose and possibly a dorsal turret. The Mark III is on the drawing board and will have fifty calibres in the waist and sixteen three-o-threes in total. There’s progress on aerial depth-charges instead of bombs, but that may take a few months yet. Apparently, the diaphragms for the depth settings are too frail to sustain a drop from a thousand feet. They have to be made more robust yet still be sensitive enough to function.”

  “Leave that to the boffins, Tommy. Too bloody complicated for me. Convoy in sight… Looks like a half a dozen of Welsh colliers and four bigger ships out of the Atlantic. Escort is sod all – one fishing trawler with a couple of guns tacked on fore and aft and a little motor launch of some sort. Opening fire, Tommy!”

  “Recognition signal, Vic!”

  The correct flares were fired as Tommy hauled the Sunderland into as violent a bank and climb as it could manage. There was a yell from below where one of the bomb crew was brewing up coffee on the stove.

  “Check whether Morry’s burned himself.”

  The trawler ceased fire and made a light signal which they could not read. The Navy’s radios did not operate on the same frequencies as the RAF and the two services could not talk directly to each other.

  “Ignorant sods! There’s nothing else in Europe looks even vaguely like a Sunderland! Can’t be bothered to memorise their aircraft recognition charts. Good thing they can’t shoot straight either.”

  “Should I come forward with the Aldis light, sir?”

  Reg, the radio operator, thought he ought to try to be helpful. He was a sergeant and still felt uncomfortable in the crew; too many officers too close for his taste.

  “No. Not worth the effort, Reg. Radio back to Calshot, inform them that the convoy fired at us and request the Adjutant to complain to Portsmouth. It won’t achieve anyt
hing but it has to be done. Copy the message to Bowhill– he might achieve more. If that four inch gun had been a quarter of a mile closer, it could have shot us down.”

  “Tail gunner to pilot, Morry’s been scalded across his left hand. He was just pouring the kettle when we banked.”

  The tail gunner had taken a first-aid course, the only man in the crew who had done so.

  “How severe, Mac?”

  “Painful, no more, Tommy. I’ve soaked it in cold water. No great blistering. He can last till this afternoon to see the doctor.”

  “Good. What about loading up the bombs?”

  “Not so good, Tommy.”

  “Pilot to navigator. If need arises, assist in the Bomb Room.”

  The Sunderland stored its bombs in the belly but dropped them from under the wing, having to load them, half a ton at a time, onto a rack which was swung out and then back to reload. It was cumbersome and needed quick work by the two men in the Bomb Room if the plane was to make a second bombing run on a rapidly submerging target. Being a seaplane, it could not drop from the body of the aircraft.

  The big plane climbed slowly to eight thousand feet and then levelled off, the spare crewmen all scanning the sea with binoculars, hopefully. They saw nothing.

  Vic called that two hours were up and they were on station. George brought the plane down to two thousand feet and then followed instructions to commence the box search, quartering the sea hopefully for three hours. In that time they spotted two fishing boats.

  Tommy returned to the pilot’s seat and called for the return course for Calshot.

  “Another blank, Tommy.”

  “While we are here, they won’t be, George. That’s the name of the game. Keep the door tightly closed and the burglar can’t get in.”

  They splashed down and motored towards the shore, gunners and bomb hands forming the mooring party in the bows, the nose turret heaved back to the side to allow access to bollards. They threw a line to the motor boat that came out to tow them in. A pair of mechanics came aboard and reported to Tommy.