“Possibly not. Fit only to be flown at night, like the O400. Is your observer’s cockpit set up for navigation? Are there shielded lights so that he can see his maps?”
“No.”
“How do you navigate then?”
“Well… the pilot flies on a compass bearing for the time it takes and then we drop.”
“What about wind?”
“Only if we eat baked beans, old chap.”
“I see. Do you actually hit anything with the bombs?”
“I resent your imputation, Colonel Stark. On our last bombing raid every pilot was one hundred per cent certain that his bombs hit the ground. We considered that as great a success as one might realistically expect.”
“I see. Looked at from that point of view, Major Howard, I am sure that your squadron is doing as well as it can. May I take a closer look at the machines, sir?”
Major Howard waved Tommy forward. He immediately saw that each plane had a third Lewis fitted.
“Have you met night fighters, Major Howard?”
“Not as such, Colonel Stark. We have had reason to believe that they exist, however.”
The Lewis and its pans would weigh less than forty pounds; Tommy could not imagine that to be important.
“If the planes go down, they must be burnt. Jerry is using Lewis guns and captured Vickers as well. He needs three-o-three rounds.”
“The pilots will have that explained to them, sir. I am sure they will act responsibly.”
“Good. They must. If we were to set up beacons at known points just on our side of the lines, could you find them and then fly out on a given course from them? Say we were aiming for an airfield about thirty miles to the rear, what’s the chance of finding it?”
Major Howard thought it might improve the odds.
“We would be able to work out an allowance for wind, sir, and might well be much closer. An airfield is easier to spot than a factory. Worth a try. Your adjutant said you might want to fly a FE, sir?”
“I should, if I am to get a feeling for the plane. But this time as an observer will be more polite, I suppose. I am supposed to be grounded. Get one of your lads to give me an hour, please.”
The FE2b was distinguished by very little, Tommy thought. It climbed slowly, had a poor top speed and was far less manoeuvrable than any more modern plane. It might have some points in its favour as a night bomber – it was at least reliable.
“Carry twenty-pound bombs for almost every raid, Major Howard. Drop them from eight thousand, every plane in the squadron together, and you should get such a scatter that some of the target will be hit. On an airfield, especially, that could be useful… Thinking on it, if your bombs wake the pilots, night after night, then even if you hit nothing you will be doing some good. I would advise that you work out a method of dropping all at the same time. Have a single leader who will fire a Very Light and drop say five seconds after the flare shows. When I tried following a navigator at night a couple of years ago my mechanics set up three red lights on the tailplane. Easy to follow, I found, and visible only from behind. See what you can work out.”
Major Howard was interested, wanted to know what Tommy had been doing.
“Landing behind the lines to pick up a Belgian civilian – a banker, supposed to be an important chap. Poor bugger! There was a bit of a wind and it was raining by the time we took off – he threw up every yard of the way back!”
“What were you flying?”
“An old Gunbus – pretty much knackered, which meant they didn’t care much when I bent it on landing. The rain had turned to sleet by then and getting it down at all was lucky. Got him back in one piece, which was what they wanted. Barbry Allen was navigating for me in the other plane – got the squadron now. Damned good man, you’ll meet him when we have our get togethers.”
Major Howard picked up on the navigation aspect, realised that Barbry must have been an observer, and therefore a sergeant, and was now a major. He was not pleased that he should have been promoted so far so quickly.
“I was a full lieutenant when the war started, the Blues, you know. Came across to the RFC in December ’14 when I saw it was not going to be a horseman’s war. Major now, which is more than I would ever have been in the Blues for another twenty years.”
There was nothing to be said. Tommy had never heard of Major Howard and his chest was very bare. He suspected that the good major was a true Guardsman – lacking in initiative and intelligence, but the finished product when it came to saluting and wearing a uniform.
“Well, Major, much of it is the luck to be in the right place at the right time. I have been lucky, more than once. Get the lads to practice keeping together at night, and work out how to find a target, if you can.”
Tommy felt a fraud, giving orders and encouragement to a man far older and a professional soldier. He consoled himself that he would be far unhappier if the situation was reversed.
Noah took his O400s out at night and got lost; he found his way back via Calais, which was recognisable for its busy and lighted harbour, and for the enthusiasm of the barrage it threw up on hearing aircraft engines.
“Three days grounded, Tommy! Lucky not to lose half the lads, but we all came back with rips and tears in the canvas. Good barrage they put up over Calais. Don’t tell them it was us – they’ll be congratulating themselves for driving the Gothas away and feeling really good about it.”
“Nancy tells me that the German airfields all have a dozen or more of three-inch Archie – or whatever it is in millimetres. Could be dodgy, from what you say.”
“No worries, cobber, as Blue might say. They will be fused for a box barrage, knowing that we use the Drift Sight, which ain’t much use below six thousand feet, and that our ceiling is eight thousand. Suppose we come in at four thou’ in the night?”
“Above the machine-guns, below the barrage. Worth a try. What do you intend to use?”
“Good question. Can’t find any agreement on what is best, Tommy. I think we ought to try the thousand-pounders – if nothing else, the bang will wake the buggers up.”
“Try it, Noah. First raid is to be on the Lys, on the barge docks there. A thousand-pounder apiece and make up with twenties, so as to get a spread. Could be amusing.”
Wing had been given a choice of targets and Tommy had chosen the Lys for being, he hoped, easy to find. The barge docks themselves should be busy at night and there was a chance of lights. The distance was not excessive, either. He had decided to send all three squadrons out, the FE2s first and to arrive two or three minutes before the O400s and ten minutes in advance of the DH4s. In theory, if the FEs bombed first, hopefully aiming at lights on the barge docks, then the O400s should be able to see their bombs explode and use them as an aiming point. The DH4s could come in at ten thousand feet initially, and would be able to pick out the huge flashes of the thousand-pounders and drop on or close to them.
“All planes, gentlemen, for this first endeavour – opening night, you might say.”
Noah left sixteen strong and came back with fifteen. Barbry landed minutes later with all of his intact. Major Howard telephoned to say that he was missing two.
“Three from forty-eight, is not too bad, viewed in some lights. It does mean that after sixteen raids, we shall have no planes left.”
Nancy tried to offer comfort, but he could think of none.
“Do they know how the losses occurred, Tommy? Archie? Night fighters?”
“Unknown. They could simply be lost and have landed elsewhere and be coming back tomorrow. Engine failures? Possibly pilot error – it is possible to lose your feel for the plane at night and simply stall out when you think you are still in level flight. I don’t know.”
“Noah, do you have spirit levels fitted in your cockpits?”
“No. Good idea, Tommy. I’ll try to get some. They’ll need a little light on them as well. Is there any word on the bombing?”
“Too early. Nancy will probably hear from their people
in Belgium in a couple of days. Did you see anything?”
“The big bombs went bang. Noisy buggers, they are. As for seeing – not really. The gunners were looking out but couldn’t tell if we hit anything.”
They spent two days practising well south of the lines, waiting hopefully to be told that they had smashed a part of the German supply network.
“Reports in, Tommy.”
“Tell me, Nancy. Your expression says the results are not especially good.”
“The FE2s bombed lights on the river, Tommy. About five miles from the barge dock there is a ‘wet canteen’, I believe we call them. A place that sells beer to the Other Ranks. It was closed, but the staff were cleaning up and throwing out the empties, using lights, of course. The other squadrons followed the example of the FEs. Bombs exploded within a half mile of the canteen, in all directions. A few actually landed on the building itself, including one of the thousand-pounders. The staff, of course, had already left at some speed. At a rough guess, nearly twenty tons of bombs landed in the immediate area and broke most of the bottles and glasses in the place. One of the bombs landed on the canal bank and damaged it sufficiently to cause an amount of local flooding. It was not necessarily the greatest of successes.”
“Ah, well, Nancy. If at first, you don’t succeed…”
“Goody! Shall we try for an airfield next?”
Tommy, Chubby and Nancy spent much of the following day crouched over their maps. Headquarters had instructed them to attempt an airfield not far from Comines, conveniently close to the Lys.
“Just five miles northwest of the town itself, gentlemen. Not too difficult to locate, because of the river, which is just one mile distant. Full of Archie, the whole area, so we recommend that you follow a course to reach the river to the north of the field and then turn to the southeast. Come home by way of Ypres – an easy landmark, even at night.”
It transpired that Ypres was full of Archie as well – British, but of the opinion that only Gothas flew at night.
Noah was philosophical after the raid on the airfield, but not especially pleased.
“Not the best of ideas to fly with a full moon, Tommy. Amazing just how well Archie can shoot, these days. Lost three over Ypres.”
Tommy grounded his squadrons for the remainder of the bright moonlit nights, and then, most fortunately, a storm front blew in from the west. They did not fly for a fortnight.
Nancy gave a briefing to the three majors, summarising the effects of their raid on the field near Comines.
“The field is one of the largest in our sector, and contains two Jastas, all ground-attack, Halberstadts and Junkers. There are six large hangars and the messes and barracks associated with two Jastas. In the ten minute period of the raid the squadrons hit the field with at least thirty bombs, mostly twenty-pounders. This left a number of holes in the grass which had to be filled in before flying next day. One of the thousand-pounders hit the gatehouse, to the discomfiture of the four military police therein. None of the other big bombs landed within one hundred yards of the perimeter. One load of bombs, more than twenty of twenty-pounders, presumably dropped by an FE2, landed in and among the barracks area and caused the death of at least forty ground staff. Many others were injured. One of the hundred-pounders landed in an officers’ mess, empty at that time of night, and destroyed the bar and wine-cellar – with deleterious effects on morale, no doubt. None of the hangars were hit. No planes were damaged. No pilots were killed.”
Nancy sat to silence.
Tommy stood.
“Night bombing does not seem to work very well, gentlemen. Day bombing is impossible. I am to fly to London tomorrow to discuss the best use of our planes. Have you any comments?”
“It’s obvious, Tommy. Go to Croydon every morning, load up with beer and whisky and return in the afternoon. The morale of the whole army could be massively improved.”
“In terms of bombing, Noah?”
“Futile, Tommy. Unless you can send in a spy to build a big bonfire on the target and light it as we come near, hopeless.”
Tommy flew to Croydon, using an old RE8 which had landed with its engine misfiring a week previously and had been forgotten by its owners – presumably, they certainly had not asked for it back. The mechanics had repaired it as a matter of course and Tommy had appropriated it after a couple of days – it was probably the first time the plane had performed a useful function. He took Nancy with him to hold his hand in London, and keep his mouth shut in the company of generals and their staff.
He knew almost every man in the big room, including General Salmond, which was useful. Boom was present together with Maurice Baring, which was not perhaps encouraging; he was going to tread on their toes.
“Colonel Stark, welcome, sir. What can you tell us about night bombing? Is it a practical and useful exercise?”
Tommy remembered his father’s words of many years before.
“It is an exercise in applied futility, sir. The chance of actually finding a target is low. The possibility of hitting it is non-existent. Our experience is that the risk of accident is high and that losses from all causes can be as high as ten per cent on each raid. The sole function of the aircraft should be as daylight bombers under massive escort, sir. If, say, you were to put up five, or possibly six squadrons of Dolphins and Camels, to each squadron of bombers, then it might be feasible to attack targets within say fifty miles of the bombers’ fields and achieve some success. Sending the bombers out in daytime without escort will lose the lot within three raids.”
The responses were much as Tommy had anticipated. The RAF had bombers and therefore they must bomb. There were insufficient fighters to provide escorts, so they must bomb at night. The squadrons must develop greater accuracy.
“How, sir?”
“You are one of our leading pilots, Colonel Stark. How do you suggest?”
“I don’t, sir. I know of no way of finding my location in the dark. I cannot allow for wind, if I cannot observe my actual track across the ground. I cannot locate landmarks that I cannot see. I cannot use the Drift Sight if I cannot see the ground. The sole suggestion I have is that you must persuade the targets to turn lights on as we come near. Perhaps you can send spies with a can of petrol to set fire to a building.”
They gave some thought to the final suggestion, regretfully concluded that it might not be practical; they would lose a lot of spies.
“Are there any targets you could possibly see, Colonel Stark?”
“Harbours, perhaps, sir. It is possible to distinguish between sea and land – they are of a different colour even at night. If we fly with a new moon to give a little light, then we might be able to locate Zeebrugge or Ostend, sir.”
“And then you could bomb the ships in the harbour?”
“No, sir. Not that accurate. We could probably hit the town and some of the bombs might hit the harbour area.”
“That would kill Belgian civilians, Colonel Stark.”
“If we bomb anywhere in Belgium, sir, we are more likely to kill Belgian civilians than anyone else. There are more of them, and we will be dropping fairly much at random.”
General Salmond could not accept that.
“Then you must not bomb anywhere within the limits of Belgium, Luxembourg or occupied France, Colonel Stark. That we must insist upon.”
“The fighting zone is clear of civilians, sir. May we drop there?”
“Yes. That is sensible.”
“We can fly into Germany, sir. It will be impossible to discover targets there with any certainty.”
One of the several staff officers, silent up to now, came up with a suggestion.
“Certain, ah, industrial processes, Colonel Stark, involve much of flame and smoke. One may see from the train going north on the East Coast line a number of, ah, blast furnaces. They must work both night and day, sir.”
“If so, and if they lie within our range, then we could expect to attack them, Major.”
Maurice Ba
ring spoke, for the first time.
“The Ruhr, I believe, contains much of Germany’s industry. Does it lie within range?”
There was a call for maps of Europe, and a delay while coffee and tea were served. Eventually the most junior of the staff officers set to with a ruler, paper and pencil.
“About two hundred and ten miles, sir, from the airfield to the Ruhr. Easily practical, sir. According to Handley-Page, the O400 has a range of eight hours and a speed of ninety-five miles per hour, sir. Allowing for take off and forming up, it will require three hours to reach the Ruhr. Then it will be a matter of spotting a blast furnace and bombing it – half an hour more at most.”
There was a silence in the room, accusing eyes turning on the young man. Tommy thought it was interesting to watch who took longest to realise there was something wrong.
“You, sir… sit on… the small… brain you… possess!”
“Well said, General Trenchard.”
General Salmond allowed himself a small smile.
“Do tell the poor young gentleman, Colonel Stark.”
Tommy had been checking on his fingers, was happy he had his sums right.
“The speed of ninety-five miles an hour cannot be sustained without overheating and then stopping the engines. You must allow no more than seventy-five. That then demands four hours to form up and reach the Ruhr. You then must find and bomb your target – thirty minutes is wildly ambitious. Double that. You have used up five hours, and have left your O400 over the Ruhr, its bombs dropped. Tell me, sir. What does it do next?”
“Well, Colonel Stark, I expect it will return to… Oh!”
“Exactly, sir. It will run out of petrol a bit less than one hour away from its field.”
The young staff officer flushed a delicate pink and shrank into his collar.
Tommy had a little pity and suggested that if they sent out just two planes, taking off together, then they would not need to form up and would be able to climb slowly while making their distance. It then became just possible for them to bomb and come home again. With luck.
A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6) Page 23
