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

by Andrew Wareham

  “All dropped, sir, No ground fire. Archie’s shooting, sir, ahead of us. Miles too high!”

  It sounded very good, so far.

  “There’s gas, sir, bloody great clouds of it pouring out, staying low, sir, rolling down the river and through the trees, almost, like a thick bonfire on a wet night, sir.

  ‘God help any rabbits and deer in that woodland’, Tommy thought.

  All sixteen landed, none touched by the gas.

  “Good raid, Nancy. Actually, it was a bloody filthy business, but they won’t be dropping that stuff on our lads, the dirty bastards!”

  Nancy nodded – he could see no difference between dropping an incendiary on a cookhouse full of soldiers and sending a cloud of gas to achieve the same effect – men died very painfully, and at a distance from their killers. He would not make that argument just now, he thought.

  “What next, Tommy?”

  “Simple run over the fighting near Ypres was what I had thought, Nancy. Any suggestions?”

  “North, along towards the Belgians. Courtesy call, you might say. They might be feeling neglected, and they are allies. My people at HQ say that they are murmuring just at the moment, but if they are left uncared for it might turn into a bloody great shout. Three squadron raids there would be popular. Particularly from you – being a favourite son, you might say.”

  “Where exactly?”

  Nancy had a map prepared showing a line that was in the process of digging in to create a new trench system.

  “Normal story, for this year, Tommy. The stormtroopers took it, but their lesser relatives have it to hold. The garrison troops – if we can call them that – are of poor quality physically, and rumour insists of very low morale. We hear more and more of Reds preaching, and men willing to listen to them. A few hours with bombs about their ears might do no end of good.”

  “Tomorrow as well then? I’ve nothing planned. I wanted to hear about the gas before I committed us to anything big again.”

  “All week might make sense, Tommy.”

  “We want to kill the men in the trenches, Horatio, so mostly small bombs. Say one Flight with hundred pounders – the trenches are newly dug and the bigger bombs might shake them up a bit.”

  “I’ve done some work on the fuses, Tommy – fairly crude stuff, but should work… with luck. On the big bombs, the three hundred pounders, I’ve put in a time fuse. When you pull the toggle that releases the bomb, it also trips the fuse, starts it onto a five-second burn. Even at low speed, that puts you about a hundred and fifty yards distant when it blows – amply sufficient.”

  Tommy did not like the word ‘amply’ – he thought that he would far rather be three or four hundred yards distant. It might do some good, however. It had to be tried.

  “Load up my Flight, Horatio. What’s the chance of the fuse being triggered by a bumpy take-off?”

  “Very slight, Tommy – but I might be inclined to pick a smooth stretch of grass, just in case.”

  “David, Blue, Barbry – hold back twenty seconds, let us get off first.”

  The three smiled, said they were sure there was nothing to worry about, and ordered their Flights to sit tight until the Major was in the air.

  On reaching the trenches, Tommy dropped his big bomb and watched over his shoulder hopefully; it exploded, which made a change, he thought. Mud and sandbags and wooden duckboards flew high into the air – most impressive. It made a loud bang as well. He wondered if it had actually killed any soldiers. The rest of the squadron released their bombs at the same time and the Flights re-grouped and made for home.

  “Excellent, Horatio. We shall do it again, frequently.”

  They were popular raids, with the squadron, they liked attacking second-rate troops whose reaction to a raid was to abandon their guns and dive for cover into bunkers that grew bigger every time they passed over them.

  “They must be spending all night digging, Nancy. Deeper and deeper, with more and more railway sleepers and slabs of concrete added to the roofs. I doubt we’re hitting any of them, but we are making them run fast!”

  Nancy had received no Intelligence reports from that area, could not comment on the raids.

  “Got the first word on the gas, Tommy. It reached as far as the rest camp, but slowly, they got out in front of it, had to run like buggery and then had to clean up. Some of this stuff will cling in corners, or in kitbags and blankets and things like that, and still be dangerous a week later. They won’t be happy Hun going back into the line. Apparently, the loss of the gas shells delayed a planned attack by three days – which has given another seventy-two hours for men to march up to the lines. That makes a difference, so they tell us. There is much pleasure on high.”

  They repeated the raids towards the north of their sector, leading into the Belgian zone, four times a day, going in low into the newly-dug trenches and swinging to port and away on one day, starboard and directly home on the next, so that they would not be too predictable.

  Soon after dawn, Tommy led his Flight into a section on open land, unusually flat and wet for German tastes, he thought. They normally dug in along a slope to give themselves drainage and make the approach more difficult.

  “Shit! What day is it? Port or starboard?”

  He couldn’t remember – yesterday was just a tired haze in his mind. He was on the right of the line; if he turned to starboard, he would be unlikely to collide with his Number Two, whichever way was correct.

  He dropped and banked hard to starboard; the others followed suit, whether by plan or by sharp observation, he didn’t know. He swore all the way home – he could have killed them all through sheer carelessness.

  On the morning of the sixth of June, Tommy rose from the breakfast table with the intention of announcing another day of raids. He had heard nothing of the Independent Air Force, assumed it was business as usual. He was interrupted by activity outside the Mess and then a large figure coming through the door.

  The Mess Sergeant gave the traditional warning of, General Officer!

  The pilots stood, the waiters froze.

  “At ease… finish your… breakfast. No flying… today.”

  They sat; they had a holiday! They wondered why.

  “Captain Allen.”

  Barbry stood.

  “You are now… Major Allen… you have… the squadron. Appoint… acting captain… in your… place. Two existing… Flight Captains… you have… new squadrons… as major. The best… squadron must… provide the… leaders. Paperwork… with adjutant. Colonel Stark… with me.”

  Tommy delayed to swallow the last mouthful of his coffee, followed Trenchard from the Mess, bumped into Maurice Baring outside the door.

  “Glad to see you again, Tommy. You have a Wing. You will not fly, except in your own plane between squadrons or back to England, or for training. That is an absolute order, Tommy – not to be avoided or evaded.”

  It was a sentence of life, Tommy realised. He was likely to see the end of the war now. He wondered what was meant by ‘training’ – that could possibly involve showing the squadrons what to do over enemy territory – he would work that out in time. They could not really mean that he was not to fly again, that would not make sense, not while there was a war on.

  “So I’m now a colonel, Maurice?”

  “Lieutenant-colonel, with effect from today, permanent, not brevet. You will be called across to London within a few days, to discuss strategy. You will probably return at frequent intervals. Your Wing will be employed as night bombers, except in case of emergency. Handley Pages and those poor FEs and your squadron of DH4s, to be replaced by DH9as when they become available. You will spend a month, possibly longer, working them up. Your primary concern will be targets, Tommy. I will leave you to consider why that must be. As commander of a Wing, you will require two or three of staff officers – captains or lieutenants, the choice of bodies will be yours.”

  Tommy was almost overcome – he had no concept of what he must do, or how. A
ll he knew was how to fly.

  “Can I make a sergeant up, Maurice? My gunner was a cadet who failed to make it as a pilot – lack of physical aptitude, but very bright. He would do very well when it came down to picking out targets and deciding on the courses there and back.”

  “We can do many things in this first week when we are getting the Independent Air Force off the ground, as it were. What’s his name?”

  “Ormerod. Can I have a pair of Canadians as well?”

  “All yours, Tommy.”

  “I’ll speak to them in a few minutes. What does the lord and master want of me?”

  “Basically, no more than to greet you after his absence, Tommy. He has an affection for you – entirely platonic, I would hastily add!”

  Tommy showed blank.

  “I mean that he is friendly, Tommy – nothing else.”

  It had not occurred to Tommy that there could be anything else, but he had a very limited experience of the human race.

  “Good to… see you… again, Stark. Lost… so many… that I had… doubts I… ever would. Good job… with that… gas, Stark! Well done… again. Haig… mentioned… you by… name… only yester… day. Wished we… had more… like you.”

  “We have, sir. But they are mostly Canadians and Australians now – we are running out of English boys, sir.”

  “I know… saw it in… London. Too many… rich shirkers… too few left… to come out.”

  “I am related to one of that sort, sir. Became an MP in ’14, sir.”

  “Seen ‘em… Stark! Do better… for a bullet… Parliament… every damned… one of them! Bloody Gothas… dropped bombs… on the… wrong people. Huns… never did… anything… right!”

  “Agreed, sir. There’s something wrong with the way we do things in our country, sir.”

  “So… there is. Talk to… Baring. About the… job.”

  “Simple enough, Tommy. The Independent Air Force is to work on strategic bombing – the destruction of German industry in order to shorten the war. Night bombing essentially. Using a few dozens of planes, the biggest of which, the Handley-Pages, carry a little more than three-quarters of a ton. If we could raid every night, then we might be able to drop a bit more than one hundred tons in a week. That assumes that we are able to service the planes and keep half of them in the air at any given moment.”

  “What’s the range of the Handley-Page, Maurice?”

  “In practical terms? Unknown, you get a different answer every time you ask. Eight hours at seventy-five miles an hour – six hundred miles – but, I would not try to send them three hundred miles from home. The factory says ninety-five, by the way, as a speed, and that is their top, but that speed drinks the juice, and I am told the engine will run hot after two hours and stop running after three. To be honest, I would never ask for more than four hundred and fifty miles, and probably fewer.”

  “Three hours out; two hours stooging about to find the target; three hours to return. A maximum of two hundred and twenty miles from the field. Will that enable us to reach the bulk of German industry?”

  “No. Will you find a target at night?”

  “Not a hope, Maurice. We’ll be lucky if we find Germany. Just as good a chance of bombing Holland or Switzerland. If it’s cloudy, no chance at all of locating any specific place and in any case little prospect of hitting it when we get there. A hundred tons a week? Might hit with one of those tons, in a good week.”

  “That is General Trenchard’s view, Tommy. The effect is that we are far more inclined to seek out tactical targets until the problems of navigation at night, and of bomb-aiming in the darkness, have been solved.”

  “Meaning what, Maurice?”

  “Meaning that we shall attack airfields and troop concentrations far more than factories in Germany.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the darkness?”

  “It does tend to be quite dark at night, Tommy.”

  “We might hit a few of them, Maurice. But not very often.”

  “No doubt you will do your best, Tommy.”

  “So I shall. Thank you, Maurice.”

  “We need your sort, Tommy. With luck, you will be available after the war, now.”

  Tommy went in search of the squadron, found them, as he had hoped, still in the Mess, cheering the promotions and mocking the mighty who had been suddenly revealed to them.

  “Did you know, Tommy?”

  “Not a thing, Barbry, but you will make a good major. Blue and David as well – I’m glad I did not have to make the choice of which of you had to take the squadron. Who in hell is that over there?”

  There was a familiar figure sat in the corner, drinking coffee and grinning.

  “Said I’d be back, Tommy!”

  “Noah, you bloody old fool! You could have swung the lead for another three months, man! What have you got?”

  “Squadron of Handley-Page O400s, Tommy. Night bombers. You have the Wing. They can’t keep good friends separated, it would seem. Boom thought it was terribly funny, you know.”

  “What a wonderful chap he is, Noah! One joke is good enough to keep him laughing for two years! How are things at home?”

  Noah told him of Monkey’s agricultural tribulations, laughing mightily at the antics of the randy farmer.

  “What’s it all to do with Monkey?”

  Noah explained that a landlord was expected to take a paternal interest in the lives of his tenants, to ensure that all was for the best in his little world.

  “So, I’m expected to tell some bloody yokel to do up his fly-buttons, am I? Come off it, Noah! Anyway, what do they expect if they send young girls away from their homes and give them the chance to make fools of themselves? Bloody daft, if you ask me!”

  “Agreed. Where are we to be located, Tommy?”

  “Bloody good question. George should have the paperwork. Not that I’m going anywhere today – got to give Smivvels time to pack up. We can find you a room overnight. I need to speak to some of the lads – I have to pick up staff officers, would you believe!”

  Mac and Abe were flattered to be asked but wondered whether it was right to leave the squadron – they had come across the ocean to fly in the war. Tommy persuaded them that they would be performing a valuable task, and one that would see them as captains inside the year. They agreed that their duty was clear; Abe thought they would never believe it in Medicine Hat.

  Sergeant Ormerod had no hesitation in accepting a commission; he would write home to his mother that he was to become a lieutenant.

  “You can tell her as well that you have an MM for your tripehound – one of the very few to be shot down by a gunner. It came through yesterday – very conveniently! I had been intending to line up a quick parade before dinner tonight, but that will have to be dropped. You can arrange uniforms today – easily done, have a word with George. He keeps a supply from the effects of chaps who don’t need them anymore. No sense sending uniforms back to their families – they ain’t going to wear them.”

  “Right, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Tommy – between officers! What is your name, by the way?”

  “Augustus, Tommy. Normally called Chubby, of course.”

  “Chubby? So be it.”

  Tommy had not the faintest idea why, but he would never argue with a man’s name. One of the others would explain one day, probably.

  “George, you have some paperwork, I understand.”

  “I have indeed, Tommy. An office full of it. As I am to be your Wing Administrative Officer – whatever that might be – as a major, which I don’t object to at all, I have no doubt I will soon have much more. We will be based at the old Advanced Training School, which has a long expanse of turf. It seems that the Handley-Page takes her time in getting off the ground, and almost as much in landing. There are offices in plenty, you will remember, and no occupants, being just that little bit further back than is ideal for the single-seaters. Half an hour’s flying time
back from the old front lines, which gives time for a squadron to form up. It could be very useful. First need will be to recruit cooks.”

  Tommy knew that George would spend his own money to hire civilians, which was not quite unlawful, as they had long discovered, but was certainly out of the ordinary. He also knew that George was not a poor man; he had flown before the war, which suggested he had a large private income. It would be right to offer to share the costs, but there was no need to volunteer cash immediately; it would be offensive to do so, in fact.

  “Is the squadron there yet, George?”

  “Good question, Tommy! The many sheets of paper dumped upon me may contain the answer – I shall probably discover it before too many days have passed. Noah might know.”

  Noah in fact knew nothing at all. Until five o’clock on the previous afternoon he had understood that he was to take a squadron of Dolphins across to France, and had reported to Croydon to meet his pilots and fly out in the morning. Arriving, all had changed and he was driven to the railway station and sent to Dover and thus to Calais and to the field this morning in Boom’s entourage.

  “Just the normal sort of shambles, Noah.”

  “I much suspect this is a little more, Tommy. I imagine that it has been decided that single-seaters are not for me – that I am to be protected from their vicissitudes. My wife’s father has more than sufficient pull in the background to arrange that. Any money you like, I shall be made colonel before too long, Tommy, and will sit in my office with a superior smile on my face – and not a damned thing I can do about it – even if I want to, and I am not certain that I do. Blue and David are looking worn, Tommy – ten years older than when I saw them six months ago. You don’t exactly look like a spring lamb, old chap!”