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

by Andrew Wareham

  They were big, massive, in fact, but not the square behemoths they had referred to; presumably this was another bunch. They looked exactly like the British tanks from what he remembered, but they had large black crosses on them and were in bad company – German infantry accompanying them and taking lifts on the top.

  They might well be captures brought into use by the Germans – even more reason to knock them out. Very ill-mannered to steal the one great British invention of the war. Jack led his planes across, guns firing, drawing the attention of the troops on the ground.

  Tommy dropped to twenty feet and lined up to the tank on the far left of the three, which was crossing an expanse of open land, and easily targeted. He opened up with the Vickers guns, discouraging the infantry from using their light machine-guns, and took a direct line in. The tank was firing at him, he discovered, six-pounder guns flaming; he doubted they would hit, but he would not know if they did. He dropped a fraction lower, releasing the bombs when almost touching the bows of the tank, pulling up another ten feet and pulling his thumb off the blip switch, hoping he had not used it so much as to flood the cylinders.

  He banked to port, holding at one hundred feet and looking to see what he had achieved. The nearest tank was covered in flames; he had hit at the bows and it was stopped. A lid flipped open as he watched and a crewman pushed himself a foot or two out of the hull before collapsing back inside as flame billowed out. He could claim that tank, he thought. The second was still moving forwards, a fifty yards wide patch of flames just to one side, a miss; there was a burning Camel perhaps a hundred yards in front of it, hit by ground-fire, presumably. The third tank was stopped, closed up, the ground beneath it covered in fire, as if the incendiaries had been dropped a little early and had bounced along the ground; the tank shook to an internal explosion, then a second far larger which sent flames out of the gun ports. Two from three – not a bad rate of success. Two of the boys were in sight, Spinner and Tony, forming up on him; he led them home.

  Nancy took their reports, hopefully.

  “Killed two tanks, Nancy. I took one out. I don’t know who got the other one?”

  “Me, Nancy!”

  Spinner was bouncing up and down with joy.

  “I thought I had fluffed it, you know, dropped too early, but the bombs bounced along in a ball of flame and ran underneath and set it alight. I saw Tommy’s tank, all covered in flames where he hit it square on the front. Peter was hit and dropped his as he went in on fire.”

  Nancy noted all that was important, turned to Tony.

  “Missed, Tony?”

  “No, not really. I was lined up on the third tank and saw Spinner had hit and couldn’t change my aim to Peter’s, so I dropped on a small field-gun which was just behind the tanks. I hit it. I saw its ready-use going up as I came round to join Tommy.”

  “Well done. Two tanks and one field artillery piece for the loss of one Camel. What can you tell me of the German tanks, Tommy?”

  “Nothing! They were ours, captured and with crosses painted on, the thieving buggers!”

  “Slack, Tommy. The crews should have blown them up, not let them be captured. Poor behaviour by the Tank Corps, and so my report will say!”

  They waited for the hangars to set their Camels up again, sat to an early lunch on receiving word that they had all taken hits from ground fire, needed patching and checking over.

  “Did either of you notice the rounds hitting you?”

  They had not.

  “Neither did I. So, gentlemen, you must accept that you may have taken damage on any and every patrol, without knowing it. Never do one of these silly victory rolls or loops – you might have a wing waiting to drop off. Other than that, there is little to say about this morning. You did as you were told, and we achieved a degree of success – a lot of success, in fact. We killed two tanks, and those two tanks will not now go on to kill British soldiers – or Canadians or Americans or any of the dozens of other sorts out here now. Did you know there’s a Portuguese division in the line now?”

  They did not. Tommy only knew because Nancy had told him earlier.

  Spinner was peering out of the window, transfixed.

  “I say, Tommy, there’s a lorry driving up to the door of the Mess!”

  “Unusual, Spinner. It might be the postman.”

  “It’s not red, Tommy.”

  “Not the Royal Mail then. Has he tried to come inside?”

  “No, he’s stopped.”

  “I expect the driver’s feet hurt and he doesn’t want to walk too far.”

  “You don’t seem very concerned, Tommy.”

  “I’m not. He’s probably got a good reason. If not, he’s drunk. Either way, someone else can deal with it; it’s not a squadron commander’s business, and I’ve got a plateful of food to eat.”

  “You’re right, Tommy. His feet do hurt. It’s a captain and he’s limping.”

  “That might be good news, Spinner. The best, in fact.” Tommy looked up as the door opened. “Good God! Lazarus!”

  George smiled, tiredly.

  “Morning, Tommy. I need food, a drink and sleep, hopefully in that order. We ended up working for the medical types and couldn’t get away – they needed more transport than FANY could provide. Bloody mess, to put it mildly.”

  He sat, collapsed rather, and tried to eat the plateful put in front of him.

  “Sorry, Tommy, don’t seem to have slept lately.”

  Tommy nodded to the Mess Sergeant, saw George supported, almost carried to a room quickly emptied for him. Nancy appeared, took in the scene and gave a great sigh of relief.

  “He’ll be working by the morning, Tommy. Get the load off my back. I’ll have a word with the RAMC, discover what he’s been doing. Be a gong in it for him, I would think.”

  “Speak to his men, will you? See who’s been lost – there didn’t seem to be many aboard that lorry.”

  “Will do. I have talked with HQ, and they have bent the Frogs’ ears, and Captain Marks will be here at dawn with his merry gang of Chinks. We are authorised to expand the field as necessary and provide such accommodation as is essential. The field will house two squadrons, one of bombers, the other of fighters for the moment. There may be changes to the whole organisation of the Wings, I am told, presumably as a result of our becoming the Royal Air Force next month, on the First of April. All Fools Day seems not inappropriate; I have a signal from London noting that it is expected that we will hold the proper parades to celebrate the formation of the new institution.”

  “What a bunch of complete dicks they are, Nancy! What bombers?”

  “Unknown, Tommy. But you are to fly them - that order came through a few minutes ago. The squadron will re-equip at soonest, the Camels to be used as replacements for other squadrons at need. Pilots are to be withdrawn from service by the end of the week, so as to facilitate their training on the new machines. You are to select your most efficient pilots, Tommy. Others will be posted in as necessary. The order states that you are grounded, by the way, until the new aircraft arrive.”

  “What’s the origin of the order, Nancy?”

  “HQ, but they have no more than rubber-stamped London’s words. You have been selected from on high. You are required to familiarise yourself with the demands of the Drift Bombing Sight, by the way. I have heard of it – said to be effective and enables planes to bomb from eight thousand feet and miss much more closely.”

  “At eight thousand feet, a bomber will be a sitting duck for this new Fokker. It would require a fighter escort, and that ain’t very possible. Sod it, Nancy – we don’t know what the planes will be yet. Grounded, you say? Who am I to complain, or disobey orders?”

  Tommy retired to his office, spent a few minutes deciding what to do with his Flight for the week.

  He sent for the Flight Commanders; they could have the privilege of assisting in the decisions.

  “I am grounded, pending the arrival of new planes, which will be bombers. The squadron wi
ll be re-equipped within the week. Some of you will remain; others can take their Camels to fighter squadrons needing replacements – which means every fighter squadron at the Front, the way things are going. You three get to make a choice; the pilots will do as they are told. First thing we need is a Flight Commander in place of me.”

  “David Irvine, Tommy. He’s raw, but he ain’t green, and he’s got brains dripping out of his ears. He can do the job.”

  The others agreed with Hopalong; David had judgement, they said.

  “Do me – I like the lad. He stayed with us when we were training up on Salisbury Plain. Bright bloke. Whistle him in, will you?”

  David entered the office, coffee cup in hand.

  “Sorry, Tommy, but it will grow cold if I leave it on the table, and I need another cup before going up again.”

  “You’ve got my Flight, David. Acting-Captain. Have we any replacement to hand this morning?”

  “Two Canucks… as the Canadians like to call themselves, just come in, Tommy.”

  “Good. I’m grounded for the while, until our new aircraft come in, bombers of some sort. Do you want to stay with the squadron and change to big, fat bombers or go off to fly Camels?”

  “I’m staying, Tommy. The Camel is outclassed now.”

  “Fair enough. Grab whichever of the Canucks you fancy and introduce yourself to Spinner and Tony. Don’t let Spinner start talking about cricket. Both did well this morning, far better than I had hoped for, being green. Do that now, David, we still have to put up as many planes as we can, so get them flying this afternoon, twice if possible.”

  David left; they heard Nancy stop him outside the door and announce that he was improperly dressed; presumably he had extra stars for his shoulders.

  “How did he know that David was promoted?”

  “He’s Intelligence, Tommy. He knows everything. What he don’t know, he’s good at guessing.”

  “So he is. What of you three, Camels or Bombers?”

  Hopalong and Jack wanted to keep their Camels; Blue preferred to remain in Tommy’s squadron.

  “I’m a Digger, mate – I like bad company.”

  “You’re more than welcome. The three of you make your decisions for tomorrow morning; we’ll put a list on the board of who is staying and going. Tell them – simpler than asking.”

  The pilots taken off Camels made a great, ceremonial moan of complaint; most looked relieved. Tommy brought the whole squadron together to explain that the Camel jockeys would all be transferred out, with his thanks for the work they had done, and his best wishes for their future. Those remaining would all convert to flying bombers.

  “What bombers, Tommy?”

  “God alone knows, Marble, and He hasn’t chosen to tell me. Word is, and how reliable I don’t know, that they are to be English made. The French are selling to the Americans, who haven’t got anything of their own. If they are English, then there’s only two real choices at the moment – the DH4 and the big Handley-Page, the O400. The O400 is big and slow, and has a ceiling of eight thousand feet; it can’t live in the day, must be restricted to night work. The DH4 is faster and handier, might survive in the daytime.”

  “What about the DH9, Tommy?”

  “Useless. It’s being re-engined, I am told, and will certainly be put into service – but not before the end of the summer, I hear.”

  “We won’t get Big Acks, will we, Tommy?”

  “No. Policy is that they will go for artillery spotting and reconnaissance work; most are for Home Service – why, I know not. The Armstrong-Whitley ain’t much better than the RE8, and has a poor bomb load.”

  “Can the DH4 survive in the day, Tommy?”

  “Below two hundred feet, yes. At eight thou’, no. Don’t worry about that – I’ll speak sweetly to HQ if the question arises.”

  They laughed, mostly to cover their unease.

  “When do they come in, Tommy?”

  “Don’t know, Johnny. Soon, I would expect – they have taken you off flying from this morning. I don’t imagine they intend to send you on holiday just at the moment, so I would keep my ears cocked, if I was you. There is no shortage of pilots, by the way – by luck, there was a large batch of Canadians sent across in late winter – some of whom are here now and very welcome.”

  There was a silence; none of the assembled pilots stepped forward. Tommy glanced across, saw Blue and David shaking their heads.

  “Oh dear! Slight technical error on my part; it seems we no longer have any Canadian pilots. Still, I am sure that some of the next replacements who come in will be Canucks.”

  Sixteen sergeant observers came in later in the morning, dumped from the back of a lorry, not even the limited comfort of a tender. They had been sent from England in a batch, the product of a course in observer bomb-aiming. All had passed the course and knew how to use the Drift Sight.

  Tommy was pleased, enquired of its details, just how accurate it might be.

  “Did you hit your targets?”

  The oldest of the sergeants, well into his twenties and showing signs of baldness, had been made their leader, by general agreement, and had the task of answering silly questions from officers who knew no better.

  “Sergeant Ormerod, sir. Not as to say hit the aiming point, no, sir. But we were very often in the same field with it, sir.”

  Sergeant Ormerod sounded more middle-class, better educated than would be expected of a sergeant.

  “Where did you train?”

  “Netheravon, sir, on Salisbury Plain.”

  “I know that area well. Up on the Downs. The fields there can be two miles wide.”

  “Yes, sir. That made it easier, I will admit, sir.”

  “If all sixteen dropped their bombs at once, at the same time and place, that is, do you think they would hit the target then?”

  “Very probably, sir. I would not be at all surprised if one or two came very close.”

  “I am pleased. We shall continue the policy of dropping from fifty feet. Are your sights any good at low-level?”

  “Valueless, sir, below six thousand.”

  “Honestly spoken, Sergeant. How many of you are familiar with the Lewis Gun?”

  “When you say ‘familiar’, sir, what exactly do you mean?”

  “Can you use twin-Lewises, change their pans, clear blockages, aim-off, and hit your targets?” There was a chorus of ‘no’ accompanied by emphatic headshakes.

  “I intend to be operational within one week of our aircraft arriving, whatever they are. They will probably be DH4s; the O400 has a crew of at least four, so they would have sent three times as many of you for them. You must be useful as gunners by the time we fly. I shall arrange for you to be trained.”

  They tried to look enthusiastic at the prospect.

  George took over, still tired but somehow seeming refreshed.

  “If you look out of the window you will see approximately one thousand Chinamen working hard. You will see concrete being poured for an apron; huts being erected; hangars reaching to one half of their eventual height. By Monday, all will be finished, and you will have huts to live in, and beds to sleep in as well. You will have a Mess of your own, restricted to Flight Personnel only; it will have a bar. But, unfortunately, today is Friday – so you have three days and nights of roughing it in tents. Before you moan too loudly, you will notice all of the Second Lieutenant pilots doing the same – three to a tent. You go onto flying pay from today. It is our policy to promote our people as quickly as possible. It may be practical to give you flying instruction. If it can be done, it will be. For the moment, see my administrative sergeant and deal with the pack-drill – record names and numbers and all the rest of the rigmarole. Report to the Armoury for duty after you have eaten the midday meal.”

  The sergeants filed out in a state of rare shock – most of them were old hands who had seen it all, done it all, but they had never been run around in this fashion before. George showed them to their tents.

 
Nancy wandered in with Horatio, said that the matter of training was in hand, but they needed more Lewis Guns and several hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition; it would help if they had a far larger armoury building as well.

  “See George, Horatio.”

  “Will do, Tommy. Have we heard from the RAMC yet, by the way?”

  “Nancy?”

  “HQ tipped me the wink a few minutes ago, Tommy. General Salmond himself has been given that report. The senior doctor at the Field Hospital where George took the wounded, a half-colonel, I gather, has put in three separate citations for gallantry under fire – pulling out wounded from under Jerry’s nose, it appears. George went in with eight men in his lorry, crew for the pair of Vickers he had put aboard. He dropped most of them off with the guns at an infantry strongpoint that needed some help and then he went off with the driver and two men to pick up whoever he could find. Repeatedly, over two days, the mad bugger!”

  “That will make him happier with himself, Nancy. He’s been fretting for months about being in but not part of the fight.”

  “Captain Marks to see you, Tommy.”

  “Morning, Tommy, good to see you again. Clinker track, runway, for the use of – where and how big?”

  “On the prevailing wind, as normal, if you would, Captain Marks. Long. We will be working bombing planes off this field. What’s the chance of two of them, say fifty yards apart, and a quarter of a mile long?”

  “That can be done, certainly.”

  “Excellent! We’ll take four.”

  “You’ll get two in the coming week. If, and it’s unlikely, they let me stay, then you’ll get another pair.”

  “Two would be much appreciated, Captain Marks.”

  “Everything else will be ready for Monday, as promised.”