“Had some bad months, Noah. Six hours a day at fifty feet ain’t conducive to good health, you might say. Thought we were going to lose, as well. At the end of March it looked like Jerry was unstoppable. The Americans tipped it – just enough of extra bodies to hold them back. We’ve been losing ten to one in the air – mostly from ground attack using the wrong planes. We outnumber Jerry now, and that’s the only way we have survived.”
Noah had heard much of the real story, was not entirely surprised by Tommy’s admission of defeat.
“The newspapers are full of our victories in the air, Tommy. I have read a dozen times of your personal successes. This last month, I gather, you have wiped out a massive stores depot, destroyed a mixed brigade of infantry and cavalry and obliterated a great dump of vile new poison gases, all at vast risk and with great dash.”
“Just shows you what a hero I am, Noah. Where would we be without me? There I was, flying sixteen planes at once, all on my own, winning the war single-handed… You should be glad you’ve got me!”
“So I should, how could I not have realised that? When does the bar open?”
“After lunch. If I open it now, they’ll all be asleep by two o’clock.”
“Boom told me that George is coming with us, by the way. Promoted to Wing. Leaves Barbry with no Flight Captains and a new adjutant, poor bugger. He ain’t going to be happy.”
Barbry in fact was simply philosophical – he was trying to make the best of the job he had been given.
“I’m making Black Davenport and Marble as captains, Tommy, for sure. What would you say to Johnny as the third? He ain’t quite as confident in himself as Marble is, but I think he might make it.”
Tommy had no doubts about the ex-sergeant – he was merely less outgoing, not so bouncy as Marble, he believed.
“What does Colonel Sarratt think about three out of the top four in the squadron being rankers, Barbry?”
“No idea, old chap – I haven’t asked him. The squadron is now Independent Air Force in reality rather than just name. I have not been told, but assume we are part of your Wing – it would be logical. Tell me, colonel, sir, what do you think about a squadron of rankers?”
“Utterly shocking, dear boy. It has been explained to me, repeatedly, that only a gentleman can be relied upon in a tight squeeze. Noah can tell you a tale about that – did you ever discover your father, Noah?”
“Must have been a gentleman, Tommy – the sole explanation for me having a Cross was that I was a squire’s by-blow – only blue blood wins medals, you know, haw-haw!”
Barbry had not heard the tale, demanded chapter and verse.
“That’s the daft old bugger, Ponsonby who died firing a pistol at ground attack planes, is it, Tommy?”
“It is. Courageous, I suppose – but cavalry brave – which ain’t so far from being bloody stupid. Much like those idiots in ’14 who couldn’t work out that charging machine-guns wasn’t a very good idea. I can’t remember that they killed any Spandaus with their sabres, and Haw-Haw never brought down any of the planes he shot at.”
“What plans have you got for the Wing, Tommy?”
“How about having a celebration tonight?”
“Forward planning at its best, Tommy!”
“Oh, while I think of it, why is Ormerod called Chubby?”
“Augustus was a chubby lad,
Bright rosy cheeks, Augustus had…”
“Ah – poetry, by the sound of it!”
“As ever, Tommy, you have hit the nail on the head.”
Tommy discovered that he was to bring his Wing together and convert them into an effective night-bombing force. He ordered 96 Squadron to join the Handley-Pages at the Advanced Training School, bade Drongo farewell and attempted to settle in to the new work.
“Noah, I do not wish to show doubtful, but would your squadron do better for the presence of a few planes?”
“There would be much to be said for some pilots and crew as well, Tommy. On the bright side, I do have a full complement of mechanics and riggers, two of each for the sixteen planes. They are busily sweeping out the hangars and setting up the workshops at the moment.”
Tommy took up the telephone, spoke to Maurice Baring.
“You know 180 Squadron, Maurice? Noah’s command? The one with the Handley-Page O400s?”
“Yes, Tommy, I have heard of it.”
“Ah, jolly good! So far, we have Noah in France.”
“Yes… well, that’s a good place for the commanding officer of a squadron based in France, Tommy.”
“He’s feeling just a little lonely, Maurice.”
“Why? Wait a moment! Do you mean he’s the only member of the squadron in France?”
“Well… I wouldn’t necessarily go that far, Maurice. They might be somewhere else in France – but they ain’t here!”
“I should be surprised, Tommy. Why am I not? I will speak to you later.”
Noah received the instruction to report to Croydon where his squadron was waiting orders.
Tommy flew him across in a DH4, having time to spare and suspecting that a colonel’s hat might do some good among the wingless wonders and assorted civilians who made up the staff at Croydon.
“180 Squadron? Been cluttering up the field this last week, Major Arkwright. Can’t imagine why you chose to leave them behind when you left for France!”
“Possibly because I was not informed either that I had their command or that they were present here, Major.”
“Well, it’s hardly my fault if you don’t know what you are doing!”
Tommy put his hat on in place of the anonymous flying helmet.
“Stark, Lieutenant-Colonel, old chap. You were saying something about my Wing, I believe?”
The officious major became instantly obsequious.
“Yes, sir. There seems to have been a degree of misinformation, sir. Cross-purposes, you know, sir. The old left hand not knowing what the right is doing, sir.”
“Fancy that, Major. We are now at two o’clock in the afternoon and have a four hour flight in front of us. Can you have the planes ready to fly for not later than three o’clock, Major?”
“Ah, not easily, sir. We could have them petrolled up, of course, but the crews may not exactly be all on site, sir. In fact, I believe they may have gone into Town, for the day, and probably the evening too, sir.”
“Have they now? With whose permission?”
“Well, sir, not exactly with ‘permission’, sir, in so many words, but they are something of a nuisance hanging about underfoot, you know, sir, so it is easier, if you know what I mean, sir…”
“I shall expect to welcome them to their field not later than noon tomorrow, sir. I shall be waiting for them, as will Major Arkwright. I shall certainly be rather upset if I do not see them on time. General Trenchard wishes to greet them as members of his Independent Air Force, and I have invited him to luncheon, which will be taken as a squadron.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I must just make a note of your name, Major Grayling, is it not? There is a need for advanced observation officers in France just now. The intention is that a number of suitably senior men shall fly as observers in RE8s, with the aim of using the wireless to inform squadrons of suitable targets. I am sure you would wish to see active service, Major Grayling. I can assure you, that if my squadron does not arrive in good order and on time, then you will be granted the opportunity.”
They flew back, only laughing after they had left the ground.
“Not so bad, this business of being a colonel, Noah.”
The squadron arrived, only twelve strong, flying very tidily in its three Flights and landing in careful formation. They needed three times as much field as a Camel and carved ruts in the soft turf.
“Maurice, I need a clinker track, a runway, for these big Handley-Pages. They are too heavy for grass if it’s rained in the past couple of days.”
“A quarter of a mile of clinker track, Tommy?”
> “Barely sufficient, Maurice. Three furlongs would make better sense. I don’t know just how much they would need to get up with a full load, but I doubt that a quarter of a mile will do the job.”
“Within the week, I hope, Tommy. There is a great hurry to get the big bombers in the air, Tommy.”
Tommy had matured, could understand just what that comment meant.
“Boom needs to show Haig that he is busy and that his new Force will be earning its keep very quickly… That’s what this business of ‘strategic targets’ is all about, isn’t it? There was never any intention of bombing into Germany, Maurice.”
“Hush, Tommy. Certain things are better thought than said. Off the record, because I am not saying these thoughts out loud, there is a political push for revenge on Germany – expressed initially by bombing raids on German towns. The reality is to be disguised by claiming that the raids are on factories, but the truth is that we are expected to kill civilians as a punishment on the country for making war on us. The newspapers will make much of a retaliation for the Zeppelin and Gotha raids and the politicians will bask in the adoration of the public. Sickening, and Boom will have no part in it. The actual raids will be on airfields and other directly military targets, to the extent that we can identify and discover them. It is possible that we will attempt to bomb very specific targets in Germany. If we can locate gas factories, or shell-filling plants, both of which are to be found in rural locations, then we may send you off to them. But not otherwise.”
Tommy was glad to hear those words. It had been occurring to him that the random bombardment of civilians was a crime, and one that he was unwilling to become a part of. He was relieved to discover that Trenchard, who was a peculiar beast but not entirely to be despised, thought the same way.
“Good. I ain’t much of a chap for preaching and moralising and that, Maurice, but I don’t like butchering women and children just because Jerry started doing it first. I don’t wear my collar back-to-front, but it ain’t right, you know!”
“Well said, Tommy. Even that fearful butcher Haig has said that, you know!”
“First time I’ve ever been on the same side as him, Maurice. Probably be the last!”
Chapter Nine
A Wretched Victory
Three spare O400s flew in from the Central Air Park, their ferry pilots distinctly upset.
“Was four, sir. Some bloody fool came in from England, sir, as we were taking off. Don’t know what he thought he was doing – must have seen us and went to circle while we were getting up, collided with Sid at one hundred feet. Misjudged our speed, maybe? He didn’t survive to tell us I should think – they went down together. An old RE8, it was – useless plane, hopeless pilot!”
“Waste of a good man, from the sound of it. The staff car will take you back.”
Tommy told George to order up another plane – they needed a full complement.
“Do you know who’s where in the Wing, George?”
“DH4s and O400s here, Tommy. FEs are a few miles to the north, closer to the fighting zones, for not having the same range.”
“What can the FEs carry, George?”
“A little more than the DH4, Tommy. Far lower ceiling and speed. They can only live at night, of course.”
“Which means they will be ordered out in daylight whenever there’s a panic. Not more than once a fortnight!”
“Impossible to send the Wing out as a unit, Tommy. Speeds and rate of climb are so different that they could never hold together.”
That had not occurred to Tommy, he wondered what he must do about that and retired to think. He sat quietly at his desk in the office, unused since Wilbraham’s day and fussily over-ornate, but comfortable. Smivvels liked the room – it had dignity, he said.
There was no simple answer; it would be necessary, he suspected, to organise timetables, like the railway had, if they were to hit a single target. He took a sheet of paper and a pencil, laboriously set out a block, labelled it ‘time’ and ‘height’.
A few more minutes and he discovered that the squadrons would need to arrive at different times over the target, so that planes bombing from eight thousand feet should not drop on those at six thousand. Slowest should take off earliest, he thought, but might return last. He needed another column – he did not want his O400s and DH4s arriving home and attempting to land in the dark in the same minutes.
“Chubby – could you have a look at this for me?”
Lieutenant Ormerod could, and was surprised to discover the progress Tommy had made.
He thought that he would be able to set up some tables, enabling them to read off the times the different planes should take off for raids at given distances.
“Ask Mac and Abe to see me, will you, Chubby.”
The pair arrived, anxious to be put to work.
“Bombs, Mac. I want you to find out what other squadrons use against different targets – when it’s best to use the various sizes and types of bomb. There are twenties and forties and one hundredweight and two hundred and thirties, and for some strange reason, two hundred and fifties; then there are the big bombs, five hundred and fifties and three times as great, sixteen hundred and fifty – the heaviest bomb having to be hung outside the fuselage. Then, there’s the new incendiaries, which use phosphorus, and what exact weight they are, I don’t know. What would you do with each sort – other than put one into a plane and drop it – what are they fit for? When you’ve decided, check the stocks of bombs and make sure we have enough and keep them coming.”
Mac thought he could perform that useful task.
“Abe, something new for you. I want you to try to find out what actual damage our raids do. There may be photographs at HQ, for example, of what airfields looked like before we paid them a visit. Compare them with any photographs taken afterwards. That sort of thing. Intelligence often gets reports from the other side – see if you can read copies of them. Nancy will give you a hand.”
Tommy remembered flying a prototype of the FE2 in 1915 – he had been unimpressed by its performance, he recalled. He must visit the field and take a flight in one of the newer models – he could not give orders for its use without some knowledge of the beast. That could wait for a few days, however. There were more important things to consider.
“George, night-flying – have we got flares to show the pilots the landing strip?”
“Not really, Tommy. Oil drums, that’s all.”
“What about small searchlights, would they be practical?”
“Maybe. I’ll look into it. Better to talk with Noah and his engineer.”
“Noah’s engineer? Hasn’t Knell got both squadrons?”
“Better discuss that, Tommy. Might be a problem.”
Noah rolled his eyes to the heavens when Tommy asked if all was well in the hangars.
“Anything but, Tommy. I have tried the voice of sweet reason, so far. It ain’t working. My chap was promoted captain last year, so your Knell is senior to him. As far as I’m concerned, that’s it and all about it. My dear fellow is Captain Tucker – the man you spoke to in the Mess last night, you remember?”
Tommy did recall the brief conversation, distastefully. Captain Tucker was in his early twenties and had a store of smutty jokes that might have set undergraduates to roaring with laughter but were hardly the sort of thing one wished to hear in an Officer’s Mess. Tommy had drifted away from his end of the room and tried to ignore everything, until he heard him absolutely shouting.
“I’ve got a good one now! ‘I say, I say, I say, what’s the difference between a Salvation Army lass and a girl in the bath?’”
There had been a dead silence as Tommy stood and walked across.
“’A Salvation Army lass has a soul full of hope and…’”
“That will be quite sufficient, sir. Perhaps you have drunk enough tonight and would prefer to leave the Mess. You will wish to discuss the proper conduct of an officer and a gentleman with the President of the Mess tomorrow, w
hen you are sober. Good night!”
George had taken him by the arm and shown him the door, grimacing.
Tommy scowled; he wondered if he was growing stuffy, but decided that he simply had no taste for adolescent vulgarity. He had not bothered to discover the new officer’s name, had hoped he might be a guest from another squadron.
“Captain Tucker is convinced that he has sole voice on the O400s and that Knell should concern himself with the DH4s, and mind his own business when it comes to Tucker’s planes. Knell has responded by refusing Tucker permission to use his machinery.”
“God help us all, Noah. Where’s Barbry?”
“Flying. His lot are working out the best formations for dropping at night. They don’t fancy being too close together in the dark. They don’t want to show lights that will identify them as targets for Archie. They’re trying to work out something sensible. We start with my lot tomorrow, as soon as I have twelve planes cleared for use. Everything is delayed for lack of parts. Captain Tucker did not order spares until he knew what would be wanted.”
“Would Captain Tucker be a happier man elsewhere, Noah?”
“He’s got a week, Tommy. I don’t want to dump him if he might be any good. Not so easy to pick up bodies as it used to be. A lot more squadrons, and no training of engineers in England. They have to rise through the ranks out here.”
“Typical, just what I have come to expect, Noah.”
The three inspected the hangars next day – rain tipping down and flying impossible.
“Good morning, Knell. How many DH4s are down?”
“None down as such, Tommy. Four going through a one hundred hours routine, two taken off service for their fifty hours – they won’t be flying today, so it makes sense to do them a little early.”
“Good. Have you any ideas about night landings, Knell?”
A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6) Page 21
