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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Electricity, Tommy. Get our own generator and put up lights at one hundred yard intervals down the field. Green filters on the lamps where we want them to touch down, yellow lights after three hundred yards. Reds where they run out of grass. Put up a pair of high searchlights to give them a homing point. Acetylene lamps as back-up.”

  “Have we got any of the stuff we need?”

  “We will have, Tommy. But I need six cartons of good Scotch and as much of gin and brandy as you can lay your hands on.”

  “George?”

  “Can do, Tommy. Need to send a DH4 back to England to pick up necessary equipment.”

  “Barbry, arrange a pilot, please.”

  They moved across to the O400s, were intercepted by the Engineering Officer.

  “Good morning, Captain Tucker.”

  “Sir!”

  Captain Tucker ripped off a very precise salute, worthy of the Guards on parade. Tommy returned it, very kindly; the man was sober now and he must not hold a grudge against him.

  “When can the squadron fly, Captain Tucker?”

  “The squadron can always fly, sir. All of our planes are always ready, sir.”

  Tommy exploded in anger.

  “Get out of these hangars, Captain Tucker, now. I have never heard such crass stupidity in my life! You are unfit to take charge of a horse and cart, Captain Tucker, far less a squadron of aircraft. Major Arkwright, your squadron is grounded, sir, until we have a competent officer in charge of your mechanics. Major Allen, please inform your engineer that he is to take both squadrons on a temporary basis.”

  Barbry left to find Knell, who had, very correctly, not joined them at the O400s.

  Noah stood to attention as he accepted his orders – there was a potential for a court-martial and everything must be done correctly. Captain Tucker might go as far as Brigade to complain that he had been dismissed out of hand without the opportunity to state any case in his own defence. Was that so, then a full disciplinary procedure might ensue – depending on the Brigadier, and he was as yet unknown to them.

  Captain Tucker left the hangars, wise enough not refuse an order, and intercepted Noah afterwards.

  “I say, sir, that was jolly excessive! I meant only to say that I would always keep the squadron on top line, sir.”

  “Colonel Stark expects accurate reports from his subordinates. Captain Tucker. You informed him that the fifteen aircraft we possess were all of them and always ready to fly. None of them under maintenance, none grounded for any reason, every engine inside its hours. That is a nonsense, Captain Tucker. How many of the O400s are within six hours of a fifty hour strip of the engine? How many airframes are due a one-hundred hour check?”

  “Well, sir, that is hardly my business to know, is it, sir? One of the Flight-Sergeants will be looking after the tradesman’s stuff, sir. My job is to command them, sir, and keep them on top line, as I said, sir.”

  Noah could not believe his ears.

  “What was your last squadron, Captain Tucker?”

  “I was at Croydon, sir. In charge of the hangars there, sir.”

  “I see. Where did you train as an engineer, Captain Tucker? RFC? Or were you RE? Perhaps you graduated from one of the Universities in a science?”

  “Sandhurst, sir, on the wartime course, sir. Not as a greasy-handed sort of chap at all, sir. I am an officer, sir, and able to command the Other Ranks, sir. I volunteered for the RFC, sir, on the administration side, sir, having been told by the Pater, sir, that there was a shortage of proper officers here, sir, and the chance for one of the right sort to make a quick progress to the top, sir.”

  “I am sure your father was right, Captain Tucker. His mistake may lie in his definition of the ‘right sort’. The right sort of officer for a hangar is a skilled engineer, such as Captain Morton. I am sure you will be able to find an office to grace, Captain Tucker, but you are of no use at all here. Go away, Captain Tucker, a great distance and very rapidly, sir! Report to George – the Wing Administration Officer, as well as President of the Mess. He might possibly need a captain in his offices – though whether he will need a man as fundamentally ignorant of the RAF as you seem to be, is doubtful. You do realise, I hope, that the Engineering Officer of a squadron is responsible for the condition of his aircraft? If you – personally – pass a plane as fit to fly and it experiences a mechanical failure that kills any or all of its crew, then you will face investigation and a possible court-martial for those deaths.”

  “No, sir, not me, sir – that would be the fault of the mechanics who had worked on the plane, sir.”

  “No, Captain Tucker. The sole and whole responsibility is yours. If Captain Morton discovers one of the O400s to be unfit to fly, then you will quite possibly discover a Military Policeman wishing to interview you. You informed Colonel Stark that, I quote, ‘all of your planes were always ready’. If that is shown to be a falsehood, sir, then you may confidently expect to be broken. General Trenchard will have no mercy, I can assure you for a man who showed such a callous lack of concern for the lives of fliers. There is a strong chance, Captain Tucker, that you may find yourself carrying a rifle as a private in an infantry battalion in the front line within a very few days. Was I you, sir, I would send an urgent letter to your jolly Pater – in the hope that he has sufficient influence to save your neck!”

  “He is an Archdeacon, sir, with a stall at Winchester Cathedral, and has some hopes of a bishopric before too long!”

  “Then beg the old bugger to pray for you, Captain Tucker – you may well need Divine aid, and before too long!”

  Tommy returned to his office and the telephone, it having occurred to him that he should inform Brigade of his actions, and of the bitter complaints and claims of highhandedness that might be made. The problem was that he had not been informed of the identity or location of a Brigadier.

  “Maurice, how are you this fine morning?”

  “Tommy, what have you done this time?”

  “Thrown an incompetent idiot out of Noah’s hangars, Maurice. His Engineering Officer, who knows nothing about planes or engines, it transpires, but his father is a jolly vicar or some such who thought he would do well in the RAF, for lack of the right sort of chaps as officers there. Thing is, Maurice, I do need to inform Brigade of the chap’s existence before he goes banging on the door and complaining of persecution.”

  “Actually, Tommy, we haven’t got any Brigades yet. Everything comes direct to us here. You say that the man is not an engineer as such?”

  “Captain Tucker, Maurice, is a jolly good product of Sandhurst who knows how to command Other Ranks. Of course, he is not, I quote, one of the greasy-handed types – none of his business, you know. I have put Knell in charge of both squadrons on this field, while waiting for a skilled man to replace Tucker.”

  “Long wait, Tommy. There are almost none available. Any replacement will have to come from the ranks – there are none to hand in England. We are not training officers as engineers, Tommy.”

  “God help the RAF, Maurice. Can you promote Knell to major, and allow him to nominate the best of his flight-sergeants to a commission as his number two?”

  “Send in the names, Tommy. Get George to pull up the paperwork. Everything here is in a shambles, Tommy. All I do all day, every day, is cut corners and create something out of nothing here. When will you be flying?”

  “A week probably – I had hoped to get the first of the O400s up today, but I can’t trust any of them to be safe to fly. If this fellow Tucker makes a fuss, break him for me, Maurice. He has given me a squadron that must be grounded – Noah is less than amused, I can assure you.”

  “Is he happy with his pilots, Tommy?”

  “He can’t really know until he has taken them up, Maurice. They seem normal in the Mess; what they will be like sober, we don’t yet know.”

  Knell was content to take over the O400s, commenting that they used the same Eagle engine as the DH4s, making it far simpler to organise his works
hops.

  “Guns, Tommy. Do you intend to man them at night? Has Jerry any night fighters, do you know?”

  “An excellent question, Knell? Have we?”

  “Several squadrons on Home Service, Tommy.”

  “That answers the question. They will have some, and better than ours. Keep the guns and the gunners. When can Noah have his squadron, Knell?”

  “Eight of them today, Tommy. The three replacements which came in from Central Air Park have not been touched. Captain Tucker said that they would have been serviced there, so we need not waste our time with them. Four of the squadron have no logs made up – I don’t know their history. The only thing to do is to give them full hundred hour checks, engines out and on the benches, the lot. The seven will be to hand in two days.”

  “The good eight, Knell… are you relying on their logs or have you asked their mechanics?”

  “Asked. The mechanics guarantee their logs – they have written them up personally.”

  “Good. I want a candidate to become lieutenant, Knell, preferably from among the O400 mechanics, but one of yours if you have an outstanding man. I might be able to fiddle two, if you can show good reason – possession of formal qualifications, that sort of thing. You will have both squadrons as a permanence. What do you know about the FEs, Knell?”

  “Not much. Horribly outdated beasts, but reliable in their way. Very slow, but they are pushers, so they must be. Was I you, Tommy, I would never try to mix them with the DH4s on a raid, but they might be able to go out with the O400s, having much the same ceiling and speed.”

  “Good. I am going on a visit to them in the morning. Anything I should look for?”

  “Guns, Tommy. Officially they have two. Keen pilots will have a third mounted. The navigator/gunner is expected to fire the two, one mounted front, one on a post to fire backwards, but it is possible to stick one to the side of the pilot, fixed and firing forward over the gunner’s head. They might not be sensible on a night bomber.”

  “They will be dropping from a height, will have no need for extra guns for ground attack. Just extra weight, which they do not require.”

  “Barbry, what conclusions have you come to regarding night bombing?”

  Barbry started to laugh.

  “First, Tommy, that we will only go out once a night, which is a damned sight better than four times in a day. Second, taking off will be easy, but returning, finding the field and then landing will be a bit of a bugger. Third, it will be very dark. Fourth, to use the Drift Sight, you must be able to see it; we don’t fancy switching on a light close to the target. Fifth, to read a map at night demands that you can see that, and that you can see the country below in order to place yourself. Sixth – it’s a waste of time and effort.”

  “You consider it an impossibility, you would say.”

  “Not at all, Tommy. We shall take to the air, fly for many miles and drop bombs. We shall then, hopefully, return to the field and land. The process of bombing is by no means impossible. The only problem will lie in dropping the bombs on a known and pre-selected target.”

  “Think it through, Barbry. You might get some ideas as you try it. When do you intend to start night flights?”

  “When Knell gives the go-ahead, Tommy. He has some ideas for lights, especially for landing. I don’t want to risk killing too many of the squadron just yet.”

  Tommy gave up, he wandered off for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of quiet thought.

  Mail came in and he sat down with Monkey’s letter; The letter explained in full what Noah had told him about Miss Watkins and her embarrassing predicament. He laughed as he discovered the poor girl’s history, chuckled as he picked up the suggestion that Drongo, with his rich father, might make a good husband. He doubted that, somehow – he had a strong suspicion that Drongo’s tastes did not turn to the female of the species; a good friend and fighter pilot, but not, one might say, a marrying man. Fred Petersham was not really a possibility, either, but more because he would be expected to find a wife among the crops of debutantes who would reappear after the war. David was a prospect, however, and it would do him good to have a wife; Barbry as well – he must make sure they both visited River Cottage on leaves, if ever the leave roster was reinstated. He wondered just how he would put his conclusions on paper, decided he would not – those comments could be made in person, one day.

  “Chubby, have you thought about navigation at night?”

  “Straight lines, Tommy.”

  “An excellent idea, I am sure. Jolly good things, in their place. From where, to where?”

  “Certain landmarks will show up at night, Tommy. Rivers particularly, on moonlit nights. Work out a track in advance. As an imaginary example, fly at o-five degrees for thirty-five minutes, and you will see the River – say the Lys – at a bend shaped like – give them a drawing to compare with. A little light down in the navigator’s cockpit, at knee-height say, will allow him to see the picture. When they spot the bend and cross it, then turn to heading, say twenty degrees, and fly for forty minutes and you will see another river, or canal, maybe. Having got the right spot, then ten minutes perhaps at ten degrees, or whatever, will put you over the target. Then drop on anything you can see. Going home is simple. Fly southwest until you see the Channel or the North Sea, whichever, then follow the coast until you see Calais, or Dunkirk more likely, then it’s ten minutes at one hundred and fifty degrees and you pick up the lights of the field.”

  “That sounds very easy. What happens if it gets cloudy?”

  “Go home.”

  “And if the wind gets up and blows you off course?”

  “You’re buggered.”

  “And drop the bombs and head southwest until you see the sea.”

  “That’s right, Tommy. Advantage of the big petrol tanks on bombers – you can stooge about for a couple of hours in reasonable safety.”

  “Set up a course for us to try – down to the south, if we can spot rivers there. See if it’s possible. Have there been any suggestions for targets yet?”

  “None.”

  “I’ll speak to Nancy. Who has Noah got as Intelligence Officer?”

  “Not here yet, Tommy. Due today, in fact. Probably got lost.”

  “Normal for the breed – Nancy is very rare, you know.”

  “Targets, Nancy?”

  “Why, do you think you will be able to hit some?”

  “No, but we’ve got to have somewhere so we know what we’re missing.”

  “Entirely rational, Tommy. If you have a target then you at least have something to aim at, even if you can’t aim straight.”

  “Not at all – we can only aim at it if we find it first.”

  “What happens if you don’t find it, Tommy?”

  “Drop the bombs and hope. We can be sure of being somewhere in Hunland.”

  “What if you hit civilians?”

  “There’s a good bet we’ll kill them.”

  “But, that’s pointless, Tommy!”

  “So are civilians, Nancy.”

  That was unanswerable, except by a philosopher, and it would take a brave and persistent one of those to enter debate with Tommy.

  Tommy took pity on the poor chap.

  “Nancy, the whole and sole aim of so called strategic bombing is to butcher civilians, in retaliation for the Gothas and the Lusitania. The statesmen in Westminster wish the public to know that we can outHun the Germans. They know that we cannot hope to hit German industry, and they also know that the blockade is doing far more than ever we could to slow the production of weapons of war. The aim is to destroy at random, and to kill the women and children in deliberate retaliation for their raids. It is a vile process, and I think that Boom sees it as so. I think that is why he wishes to attack airfields, tactical targets, if at all possible. I don’t think we can do it, but we shall try.”

  “I hope you are wrong, Tommy. I suspect you are right. I had an ambition when I was a boy to enter the House of Commons and eventual
ly become a Minister of the Crown, Prime Minister, perhaps. Not any more.”

  “Maurice Baring said the same to me last year, Nancy. I understand his argument. And yours.”

  “Noah says he will be flying tomorrow, Tommy. Daylight, to get the feel of the O400.”

  “He’s welcome, Nancy. I shall wait until he has his squadron on line – then I want to try one of them. Never flown anything that big. It’s bloody enormous – you have to climb a twenty-foot ladder to get up to the cockpit.”

  “I thought you were forbidden to fly, Tommy.”

  “Only on operations, Nancy. Learning the performance of my aircraft must be acceptable.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not staying on the bloody ground, Nancy, not for the whole of my existence. I shall be good - I will only go on operations when there is a problem to solve and which I need to see. But I can’t sit in an office all day, every day. Has Noah’s Intelligence Officer turned up yet?”

  “He has. He says he has worked with you before. Elbow Lumley?”

  “Good God, yes. He turned himself into a useful chap, Nancy. He will be welcome.”

  “What do you expect him to do, Tommy?”

  “Write reports, using the right words. He’s honest. He won’t claim that we did anything that we did not, but he will have enough sense not to say that the original orders were bloody stupid.”

  “A paragon indeed.”

  “I don’t know about that, Nancy. He wrote poetry, once, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, but it’s a start.”

  “These are our FEs, sir.”

  The major commanding the FE2b night bombers was a very formal gentleman, ancient, in Tommy’s eyes. He was sure the old chap was at least thirty.

  “Funny how pushers seem so quaint now, Major Howard. When I tested them back in ’15 they did not seem at all out of the ordinary. Not much good, but not outlandish.”

  “The French still fly Voisins, you know, Colonel Stark.”

  “True – they are completely bloody useless, of course.”

  “I would not describe our FEs as useless, Colonel Stark.”