A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A crusade, dear boy, to put Tsar Nicky back on his throne and suppress the Godless Bolsheviks, and incidentally pinch the bulk of the Steppe wheat lands for the benefit of the states of Europe.”

  Tommy had a vague idea that England would not gain much from that.

  “Nothing at all, dear boy – but Russia would also lose Siberia, which they have only held for less than a hundred years, after all. Timberland; furs; mines - all accessible from our holdings in China. We are allied to Japan, who could be given a share as well. There’s a strong feeling in London that the Bolsheviks have given Europe an unprecedented opportunity to cut Russia down to size once and for all. And, of course, if we do it now, the Americans will only be junior partners; delay a few years and Uncle Sam will be a damned sight too powerful – replacing the Russian bear with the American eagle ain’t so popular an idea in Whitehall.”

  It was Tommy’s first excursion into the field of Imperial diplomacy; he did not think he liked it much.

  “Yes, well… what do you think we should actually do ourselves, Colonel?”

  “Patrol and wait for orders, I suspect, Tommy. Just for the while, if you see Jerry, attack him, of course; if you don’t, well, we must send the DH4s out to bomb something, and they might stir up some trade for you. That’s the trouble with having bomber aircraft, you know, Tommy. They can’t just sit at home – they have to drop bombs or there’s no point to having them. Railway yards, I should imagine – they’re big and there’s a good chance of hitting them, and if you miss, well there are always warehouses and storage yards next to them.”

  “Three Flight patrols, sir, one day off in four. Fly mornings and afternoons, and not too high, if it can be avoided. What’s the word on Gothas and such things, sir?”

  Nancy answered that there was no change, as far as he knew – they were still wasting their resources on more or less random bombing of England.

  “Causing a lot of annoyance, but not actually achieving anything other than to make people frightened and angry. We are still keeping squadrons and guns on Home Defence, which is probably all they hope for. While they fly at night, they cannot aim precisely; if they fly in the day, the guns can spot them and the RFC has a chance of intercepting them. They are a waste of money, militarily, and they are not causing a big enough panic to bring about a political push to end the war. Ignore them, Tommy. Certainly, don’t go exhausting your boys at nineteen thousand feet or whatever.”

  Colonel Sarratt agreed – there was no gain to patrolling at height, unless they knew there was trade, of course.

  A dead week and then a few two-seaters appeared, rapidly followed by a circus; not, it seemed, a French myth after all.

  ‘Got their timing wrong by a few minutes’, Tommy mused. ‘They wanted us committed to the two-seaters, then they would have ripped our guts out.’

  The circus was a thousand feet higher, a mile distant to the east, diving into the attack, three or four layers of planes, not all of the same type, which struck Tommy as unwise – they would have difficulty keeping together.

  He raised his hand, the order to follow him, led the three Flights into a climbing turn to port, to the northeast, closing the range and forcing the leading planes of the circus into a steeper dive. Another wave and he reversed banked and took his pilots into a hard dive to starboard, almost due east, then zooming, hoping to meet the circus, or parts of it, trying to come out of their dive and reverse their course.

  They were scattered, losing the cohesion of their formation, the triplanes able to match the Camels and more, coming in fast. The older Albatroses were half a mile distant, labouring to close. The opportunity was there, the odds less uneven. Tommy picked his target, waved the Flights in.

  The normal confusion of a dogfight ensued, planes crossing each other at speed, seconds available for a burst, missing with almost all. One of the triplanes carried a streamer, was angling in repeatedly as if he had recognised Tommy and wanted him in particular. German Intelligence was known to have a list of British pilots, to the extent of knowing the numbers of their planes – it was possible, probable in fact, that he had been nominated as a target. Tommy made a show of trying to get on the tail of a passing Albatros, watched the triplane work round towards his rear quarter, turn directly in, a little below him and out of his line of sight. Two seconds to bring the triplane a little closer, then he twitched his wings, as if banking to port, and instead heaved up into the half loop and flick roll of the Immelman, coming out nose down on reverse course, thirty yards from the triplane, slightly higher, the cockpit wide open to his guns. A three second burst sufficed and he stood on his starboard wingtips, climbing hard, changing course violently in case there was another Jerry on his tail.

  The fight ended suddenly, the sky apparently empty, planes travelling at nearly two miles a minute disappearing from each other’s view. Tommy glanced at the landscape and decided he was travelling due north, which was not especially desirable. He banked to the west, picked up his rivers and the railway line that led him home, headed directly to St Rigobert; he was on his own, could not continue to patrol without the company of at least one of his Flight.

  They had gone out twelve strong; two were already down, taxying to the hangars and he could see others approaching as he came to land. He waited on the apron, counted eleven including himself. One of Potter’s boys missing. A youngster with a bare hundred hours, not a great loss to the squadron; no doubt his parents would be less philosophical, but that was not Tommy’s concern.

  “One triplane with a streamer, Nancy. Flight commander or somesuch. I got the feeling he was hunting me specifically – he made at least three attempts to close on me, ignoring others who were nearer to him.”

  “They know the squadrons and have photographs of the leading pilots, Tommy, taken from our newspapers. You know there’s a price on your head? Iron Cross and promotion for the man who gets you. Same for half a dozen others of ours and the Frogs. You should paint your own insignia on your Camel, Tommy – defiance, still here, sort of thing.”

  “Just a little vulgar, Nancy?”

  “This whole damned war is an exercise in applied vulgarity, Tommy. See what the colonel says.”

  Colonel Sarratt was in favour; he thought the newspapers would like the idea, and it might annoy the Germans.

  “Rather like the knight’s coat of arms, Tommy. It will show defiance – the old guard of the RFC still up and fighting. A sword, with drops of blood dripping from the point. That would tell them who you are and perhaps make them think twice if they saw you.”

  “More likely to make them form a queue to try to get me, sir. Put it on if you wish, sir – but all the other lads will want theirs as well.”

  “So they should, Tommy. What about this circus thing? We got away lightly this time, because they didn’t get their timing right, as far as I can see from your report. What for the future, Tommy?”

  “Patrol higher, sir. Twelve thousand at least, maybe sixteen. No more than two patrols a day because of altitude. Less chance of being taken unawares at height. Has there been any progress with these oxygen bottles, sir?”

  “I don’t know. I shall find out. I believe Jerry has got them in his big bombers. Do you agree that height is the answer, Nancy?”

  “The French met the circuses first, sir. I shall ask them.”

  “What about matching the circuses? Fred and Drongo to take their squadrons up at the same time as you, Tommy. The three of you in sight of each other, looser formation than the circus, but still with numbers.”

  They talked the possibilities over, decided that they must respond somehow, the simplest answer being to send out the whole of the Wing.

  “DH4s to bomb, of course. Camels to run escort at a height. Gives us the initiative, forces them to respond to the raid rather than come hunting us. We shall be at height, they will be rising from their fields. Gives the chance to chase them rather than the other way round.”

&nb
sp; “The French say the circuses only fly once a day, Tommy. They think that Jerry is protecting his resources, building up a reserve of planes, pilots and petrol for the spring. They believe, by the way, that the big German attack will be into Belgium and to the coast, to cut us off from the Channel ports so that everything will have to come in by way of Bordeaux or even Marseille. That would add ten years to the war, of course, and possibly lead to a separate set of negotiations with France. The French government could not afford to lose more of their country, would have to talk. The argument would be that the British had let the Germans conquer more French soil; they might easily be able to break the alliance apart.”

  It seemed very likely – the Germans must know just how shaky the relationship between Britain and France was becoming.

  “Have you heard what London thinks, Nancy?”

  Nancy grimaced – any chance to end the expensive war would do for most of Whitehall.

  “Lloyd George would initiate his own talks with Berlin. An offer of a free hand in eastern Europe; alliance in the Middle East to take and divide up the oilfields; split the French colonies in Africa and Indo-China between England and Germany; evacuate Belgium, restore it as a neutral; Germany to keep Luxembourg and parts of Northern France; Siberia to be split three ways between England, Japan and Germany; Germany to end relations with Mexico and the whole of South America, to keep the Yanks sweet. Something for everyone except France there, and Germany to be kept busy in Russia – which is an impossible conquest. Nothing for Austria-Hungary, of course, and the Ottoman Empire would lose the Arab countries – but they would both try to carve off bits of Russia. The word I have is that Berlin is already aware of the proposals, and the Kaiser is trying to decide whether his Imperial dignity could survive ending the war without a clear-cut victory. He will probably wish to fight on in the end; it then depends on the willingness of his government to shoot him – they might, it’s not impossible – depends how the Army feels about their interpretation of loyalty, whether it is to Empire or Emperor.”

  Tommy thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “That don’t end the war – it just changes who is fighting and where.”

  “Nothing will end the war, Tommy. It will never end now. There will just be occasional and short-lived outbreaks of peace. You have better things to worry about in any case. I hear that the delayed Official Visit is to take place at last – they are due to cross the Channel tomorrow, will descend upon us within days.”

  Flying stopped and the field fell into a frenzy of cleaning and polishing – Royal visitors could not be permitted to see reality. The pilots were instructed to bathe, and to wash their necks, and get haircuts; the moustache was no longer demanded of officers, having become optional following a very foolish court-martial, and those young men who had unsuccessfully attempted to grow hair on their lips were ordered to shave.

  Colonel Sarratt was upset that there was insufficient time to send to the tailors for new uniforms – many of the boys wore mess dress that was several months old, looked a little shabby.

  “As for their working dress, Tommy – impossible! Oil-stained; grease patches; frayed at the cuffs; the collars smeared with whale-grease. They look like scruffy oiks dragged from the gutter. I suppose that some of them might wear flying coats for their photographs by the Camels – but then there would have to be scarves and goggles and flying hats, which are not at all the thing for an officer.”

  Tommy was not even vaguely interested, made it clear that he could not care less about the newspapers.

  “Send across to London, sir, and order the services of a male mannequin – one of these ambiguous types who pose for advertising. Put him into dress uniform and lean him against the cockpit of a Camel – the newspapers will love it!”

  Colonel Sarratt thought it was a serious comment, turned it down on the grounds that it might take too long to arrange – the services of such people were generally hired months in advance – they were important in the industry.

  “No, Tommy, it will have to be you and Fred, I fear – but not Drongo, I really do not think we should put him before the photographer’s lens – one never knows what he might get up to! We would have to check his fly-buttons!”

  “Poacher Denham is a powerful looking young fellow, sir. Stand him next to a Camel, with those massive shoulders and barrel chest on display, and you won’t notice his height. He has the advantage of a high score as well.”

  “Good point, Tommy! I should have thought of him. Provided he can keep his mouth shut, no difficulty. As well, we can have him photographed with HRH – he will be shorter than the Prince and that will go down well – showing Royalty off at its best.”

  Nancy, present but silent, treasuring the expressions crossing Tommy’s face, led him away before he could call for the guillotine.

  “’Les aristos a la lanterne’, Tommy? Or perhaps not… what might Cromwell have said?”

  “Something about warts, wasn’t it?”

  “It was indeed, Tommy. Your comprehension of history never fails to amaze me.”

  “Do you think, Nancy, that we should arrange for one of the other Wings to run patrols near us during the day?”

  “Do what? Why? Oh! No, not at all necessary, Tommy. They will know about the visit, over in Hunland, and will order their own people well clear. The Kaiser would have them shot if they attempted to bomb Royalty. It’s not as if it was the Belgians – who are rather second-rate in the Royalty department; our people are family, you know, all of them are related through Victoria, cousins and well-known to each other. Unthinkable, dear boy!”

  The day itself was undisturbed by enemy action, so Tommy presumed that Nancy must have been correct. The apron outside the hangars was decorated with artfully displayed Camels, far more than would ever have been wheeled out for patrol; the gun crews stood to their pom-poms and Vickers, but the sky was empty, as Nancy expected. Colonel Sarratt inspected the Camels anxiously – all had had personal insignia painted on and he wished, as a last minute thought, to examine the nature of the pictures.

  The party was somewhat larger than on the previous occasion, an extra ration of hangers-on this time, being an official visit rather than a whirlwind tour of the Front. Many of the military gentlemen were aged, dugouts from the Boer War carrying chests full of well-won medals, and all with bursting bladders after an hour of bumping across the disintegrating roads of Northern France. Orderlies had been thoughtfully provided to lead them to the latrines, themselves well-scrubbed and disinfected.

  Ten minutes after leaving the cars and the party was assembled, ready for the ceremony to commence and speeches to be made. They stood in the Mess anteroom, the bar firmly shut despite any number of yearning glances, and Colonel Sarratt briefly welcomed the visitors to St Rigobert, then stepping back for General Salmond to repeat all he had said before the Prince stood forward.

  Tommy and the other pilots to be decorated stood in a stiff line, getting their breath back. They had presented themselves in full dress and had been sent back to their billets to don their working uniforms – this was a wartime occasion, they were told. It had taken only a couple of minutes to change clothes but far longer to remove the little hooks from the dress uniform and place them on the breasts of their working jackets; it was essential that the Prince must be able to simply hang the medals on their chest in one swift movement, something he had done many times before.

  Tommy was certain that Smivvels would have made no mistake; he hoped the other men’s servants were equally trustworthy – nothing must go wrong in front of the newspapermen, who would not write about any accidents but were inveterate gossips. He stood forward first, as he was to be awarded the most senior decorations.

  He stood stiffly as his second DSO was officially placed to his chest, followed by third and fourth MCs, with appropriate comments made; he knew that there was an infantry captain who now had seven of them to add to a VC, and was still collecting, which suggested the man was very
lucky indeed still to be alive, and quite remarkably brave as well. Another functionary then stepped forward, commenting in slightly accented English that this was the second occasion on which they had met following his acts of daring; Tommy supposed he must be the Belgian he had come across after the business with the banker, but he could not remember his face. A sash was draped around Tommy’s neck, bearing the enamelled cross of the Officer of the Order of Leopold, military division, for his services to the Belgian Crown; he wondered if it carried a title with it, whether he was now a Chevalier, or somesuch – Monkey might like to be a Dame.

  The ceremony continued, MCs handed over and Mentions commented upon, and then the inspection of the field commenced, limited to the hangars, one blade of grass being much like the next. Colonel Sarratt placed himself next to the Prince, to answer any questions, while Tommy marched next to the Belgian gentleman.

  “I see many guns around the edge of the field, Major Stark.”

  “The Germans have many ground-attack aircraft, sir. It seems likely that we will be raided if they make a Push in the spring.”

  “They will do so, I believe, Major Stark. You are wise to make preparations against the event. A pity that your senior officers will not credit their own Intelligence reports, sir. If you are forced out of this field, where do you go?”

  Tommy had not envisaged the possibility, said so, received a headshake.

  “It is not impossible, Major Stark, that the Germans will make a strong attack on a narrow front, seeking to penetrate to the sea and then tidy up behind them. You might well find yourself in the way of such an advance.”

  “Then I shall bring the possibility before my colonel, sir. He will not like it – but he is not a stupid man, despite being a career soldier.”