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

by Andrew Wareham

  Chubby loaded the Very pistol and leaned out to fire the first green; there was no response from the monitor.

  “Give them a red and a green, Chubby.”

  This time the monitor responded with a signalling lamp, flashing rapid Morse code at them.

  “What’s he saying, Chubby?”

  “Buggered if I know!”

  “Typical navy – not very bright or educated, you know! What’s the wind?”

  The flares had drifted away, very slowly.

  “Low, still. Come round and aim direct for the bows of that great thing. The wind should take us a few yards to her side.”

  The weak moonlight allowed them to see the unusual shape of the monitor – a single massive turret in front of and just below a high bridge and funnel, an almost flat hull aft of the bridge with very low freeboard.

  “Get back, Chubby.”

  Tommy brought the O400 to one hundred feet, hauling on the stiff controls, holding her almost level, drifting very slowly lower, tweaking the throttles gently. The port engine cut out and she dropped her nose into a far steeper dive, still about sixty feet up.

  “Hang on!”

  A last valiant heave on the stick achieved almost nothing and the plane hit with a great splash, port wing low and dragging her round, nose down and filling rapidly, the wingtips no more than twenty yards from the monitor’s side.

  A boat dropped and ropes were thrown within seconds.

  The gunners and Chubby grabbed Tommy under the shoulders, heaved him up like a cork popping out of a shaken fizzy lemonade bottle. They spun him round, pushed him along the fuselage and into the boat where sailors caught hold of him. The three followed, very quickly.

  “That’s all of us, sailor!”

  There was a shouted order and the crew backed water and took the boat quickly away from the sinking plane.

  “Thought you was a Gotha, sir. Didn’t know our lot came that big.”

  “Only a few do, sir.”

  “Not so many now.”

  They glanced across to see the tailplane disappearing, turned back as they came alongside the ship and were hauled aboard.

  There was a welcoming party of armed Marines waiting to take them into custody, almost disappointed at the lack of excitement offered by mere survivors.

  “Welcome aboard HMS Erebus, sir.”

  Tommy, nursing a sore shoulder, managed to come to attention, not recognising the naval marks of rank but deciding that the officer welcoming him had sufficient rings on his sleeves to be fairly senior.

  “Thank you, sir. Your presence – and very rapid action – was most welcome. Lieutenant-Colonel Stark; RAF, of course. Lieutenant Ormerod and two sergeant gunners. The whole of my crew, sir, rescued and, I hope, very happy!”

  “Commander Tennant. Captain is on the bridge while we are firing.”

  There was a thunderous explosion as one of the guns punctuated the Commander’s sentence. A minute later, the other fired.

  “Left and right, sir, for spotting.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Massive guns, Commander Tennant.”

  “Fifteen inch gun-howitzers, sir.”

  The Captain welcomed them later, bombardment complete and returning to Dunkirk.

  “Fortunate that you spotted us, Colonel Stark.”

  “Very much so, sir. Much appreciated, I would add. I was just debating whether to land in Holland, and face interment, or try to find a convoy in the Neutral Shipping lanes, hopefully going to England, or to land in German territory and try to evade capture. To be honest, I didn’t much fancy any of them, sir.”

  “I presume you took damage in a bombing raid, Colonel Stark.”

  “Machine-gun fire, sir, near the Rhine. Details of what we were doing there, sir, I am afraid I must not divulge. At least, we will not be going back there. I think my superiors, sir, would appreciate your not mentioning too publicly that we appeared to be coming from Dutch territory, which we had strayed over in the interests of shortening our flight time.”

  “I presume that it is not entirely usual to discover a colonel piloting even so very large an aircraft, Colonel Stark?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Off record, sir? I landed behind the lines in Belgium a couple of years ago and my superiors seemed to think that made me the man to do something similar in an entirely different place and plane.”

  “It seems that the RAF is commanded by much the same sorts as inhabit the Admiralty, Colonel Stark. Have you been out here since the beginning of the war?”

  “Yes, but with spells back in England, sir.”

  “Jolly good. By the way, it is not our habit to send wireless messages at sea, Colonel Stark, so as not to alert submarines which might overhear us, but I can do so as soon as we are in the approaches to the harbour. Would you wish me to do so?”

  “The telephone will be more discreet, sir. I would prefer to wait until we are ashore, sir. And if anyone should ask, we did not fly last night, sir.”

  “Understood, Colonel Stark.”

  The monitor came to her mooring in the harbour and dropped her steam picket-boat which took the plane crew, huddled in naval greatcoats, to the quayside opposite the Senior Naval Officer’s building. A lieutenant led them inside and explained their provenance and they were hustled out of sight without fuss – apparently no more than survivors brought ashore, not even obviously RAF personnel.

  “A telephone message to my Wing, if you would be so good, sir, and they will send a car for us.”

  An ancient rear-admiral suggested that it would be even more discreet if he was to send them in his own car.

  “That way they’ll be no messages – nothing to be overheard, Colonel! Take that greatcoat off and I can have you put into an army coat – even less conspicuous.”

  Tommy obeyed with thanks, disclosing his flying gear, and the ribbons on his chest.

  “My word, Colonel, you have had a busy war. If you want to be unnoticed, better you should cover that collection, sir!”

  Two hours brought the naval car to the gate, to much saluting from the guard. The word that the Colonel had arrived without his plane quickly spread across the whole field.

  “Morning. Tommy. Can’t keep a good man down, so they say.”

  “Or me, either, Noah. Tried hard, though.”

  “Are those water stains, old chap?”

  “Came down off Knokkeheist, Noah – twice now, that bloody place is unlucky for me. No losses, it was on the way back, of course. Lost the port engine – slowly, fortunately. Took a bit of damage to me shoulder – how much I ain’t certain. Thought it was no more than a bruise, but I might be wrong.”

  Noah stuck his head into George’s office, asked him to send a runner for Quack.

  Colonel Naismith had been sat in the Mess at a secluded table, preparing to write up a report on the night’s events; he appeared at the run when he was told of Tommy’s arrival.

  “I thought I had succeeded in killing you this time, Colonel Stark. I was not looking forward to writing a letter to your wife, I can tell you! What happened?”

  “Police patrol launch on the river, sir. Might have been no more than coincidence. Small boat with a single machine-gun and half a dozen men – I would expect them to send more if they were intending to intercept a plane landing agents in their territory.”

  “You sank it?”

  “Four guns to their one, luckily. Killed them all, I must imagine.”

  “Good. What happened to the men you put down?”

  “Disappeared into the dark, sir. We took off and the port engine began to show damaged a few minutes later. We limped as far as the coast off Knokkeheist, came down in the sea next to a monitor bombarding the shore installations there.”

  “Well done, again!”

  Quack bustled in with the obvious intention of breaking up the briefing and treating his patient.

  “Right shoulder, Quack. I thought it was just bruised. It might be, of course, but it’s s
tiffening fast.”

  Quack cut the tunic open, commenting that it was too messy to salvage; he ripped the shirt wide underneath.

  “Sit down, sir. It’s easy than having to pick you up when you fall down. Spent Spandau round, one of the jacketed sort. Flattened itself on something solid and hit more or less sideways. Well deformed. Barely under the skin, luckily. Take a deep breath now…”

  Tommy yelped and swore as Quack gripped the round and tugged it out before swabbing and then filling the wound with carbolic cream.

  “Stings a bit, that, but it kills most nasty infections before they get started. You can feel it working, I expect.”

  “Just a little, Quack.”

  “I’m going to do the same again later, sir. No sense doing half a job. Sit still while I slap on a dressing. I would strongly advise you to remain off duty for a week, sir. Do not fly in that time – you really should not overwork the arm. I am inclined to send you to HQ, if they have a doctor there these days. It ain’t worthy of the attention of Base Hospital, but it might be more than I should handle.”

  Colonel Naismith had not seen medicine as it was practised in the field before. He was unimpressed, slightly green in the face.

  “I am to drive to HQ, ah, Quack. I could take Colonel Stark with me.”

  “Wait a few minutes, sir, and I will find out if they have a doctor there.”

  Quack came back shaking his head.

  “They will have, soon, but they haven’t now, sir.”

  “I’ll have a chat with Baring, Colonel Stark.”

  A few minutes later and Tommy was called to the telephone.

  “You are to go home, Tommy, staying there for at least two weeks. You will report to the RAF Hospital – go to HQ and they will take you there, I will arrange that, and then go down to Wilton. Fly to Croydon, with your man, and don’t argue – the Wing will survive without you. Major Arkwright is made lieutenant-colonel and will sit in your place until you return. You will be flown in an O400 – as a passenger. General Trenchard is aware of these orders, I would add, and General Salmond will be as well. There will be transport at Croydon, two vehicles, one for you, one for your man to take him directly to Wilton.”

  Tommy had no choice, and found he really did not want one. He was tired, and hurt, and he wanted to go away.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Wretched Victory

  The driver held the rear door and assisted Tommy out, trotting round to the front gate at River Cottage and holding that wide. The front door opened and Monkey stood smiling ruefully.

  “Welcome home, husband. What have you done this time?”

  “A spent round in the shoulder, love. I don’t really need this sling they put on me at the hospital, you know. Has Smivvels arrived yet?”

  “Three hours ago, telling me not to worry, that it was no more than a scratch – and if he thinks that, then there is probably no cause for concern. Come in and sit down, the kettle will be on.”

  Tommy thanked the driver, who had to take the staff car back to London, a long and tedious drive on wartime roads.

  “Four hours – good speed, that man made, but I am weary, I must say, love. Where are the children?”

  “Miss Watkins has taken them out for an airing. She is a good girl, Tommy, a Godsend in many ways.”

  “Good. Have we got time to walk down the road and inform Lucy that Colonel Arkwright has my Wing in my absence? Or will she know already?”

  Monkey said that she knew he was to be promoted, though with no idea of his appointment; she could wait a little while.

  “I understand that as a colonel, he is to be grounded. Indeed, I had vaguely understood that all colonels were grounded, Tommy!”

  He raised his free hand in surrender.

  “For once, not my fault, love. You remember that I landed behind the lines a couple of years ago? The fellow who organised that had another, similar job and wanted me to do it. On this occasion I had no choice when it came to acting the fool – it came down right from the top as an order. I took a Handley-Page across and dropped off a bunch of Red troublemakers in Germany, to organise strikes and mutinies, it seems. That is not to be mentioned, by the way.”

  Monkey, a wealthy woman and aware of the fact, did not approve. Encouraging Reds was short-sighted in the extreme, she believed, however German they might be. It was an infection that evidently spread, from Russia to Germany so far, but who knew where next?

  “What went wrong?” She asked, aware that things often went astray when Tommy was involved.

  “A police patrol boat on the Rhine, in the wrong place with a machine-gun, put a burst into us as we took off, damaged an engine. I think this round that hit me ricocheted off the metal engine covers. The gunners ended their troubling for them, but the engine died on the way home and left us in the water next to a monitor conducting a bombardment of Knokkeheist, of all places – you know, where Noah once saved my neck for me? Barely got me feet wet and Chubby and the two gunners walked across into the boat. No losses.”

  “Chubby?”

  “Augustus Ormerod, the young man who failed as a pilot, you remember?”

  “Got him.”

  The children returned and were discovered to have grown.

  “War over, Dada?”

  “No, Elisabeth Jane, but soon. I am sent home for a week or two, to get better. I hurt my shoulder.”

  “Good. Sit down, not good to stand.”

  He sat, obediently, deeply impressed.

  “She is a clever girl, Colonel Stark. Very clever indeed. She has some of her letters already, sir.”

  Tommy stood and greeted Miss Watkins, writing her off as pleasant, blandly pretty, quite bright herself – not a patch on Monkey. She would do well for David, or even Blue, perhaps – though she might be a little sheltered for a robust gentleman of his stamp.

  A message down the road and Lucy arrived, pushing a perambulator with her own offspring tucked up inside. Tommy noticed that she was pushing her own pram – no nursemaid to perform the task, no doubt for lack of bodies to take the job, she could afford a wage.

  “Noah has the Wing as colonel, Lucy. Grounded, unless exceptional circumstances supervene, which they are not likely to do. This Independent Air Force is probably less prone to take casualties than the bulk of the RAF – to an extent because night-flying is less possible than day. The latest German push is fizzling out, seems little more than half-hearted, for some reason.”

  Lady Lucy had inside information, from her father.

  “The flu’, Tommy. The new sort that’s coming through, the one that started in Austria. If you had the sort that came in February and March, you seem to be safe, but of those who get the new one, then at least one in ten is dying, more of the young and fit. My father says that the word is that the German army is taking bigger casualties from the flu’ than from the fighting; they may not be able to continue, in fact. The Americans in France are showing signs of the infection, he says, probably because they have a better medical service which knows what’s going on. It may be that the British forces will suffer less, because the mild epidemic earlier in the year spread widely through them. Some of the wilder doctors – the self-publicists who love newspaper headlines – are comparing this new flu’ to the Black Death. Mostly in Spain, that is – no censorship there to keep the newspapers even slightly responsible!”

  Tommy remembered that almost all of the squadron had suffered from the sniffles, not much more than a heavy cold, he had thought. The application of large doses of whisky had seemed to cure it.

  “Interesting, ain’t it – a little bug doing something that Haig is incapable of.”

  “Winning the war, you mean? It might.”

  Monkey was not wholly convinced – she had not had a cold in years, knew she was healthy enough to shake off any of these newfangled ailments the doctors kept inventing. She turned the conversation to less morbid matters.

  Later, eating his dinner, Tommy noticed that the food was not up
to Cook’s normal standard.

  “Shortages, Tommy. One cannot always get hold of everything one might like; butter, for example, is very short and we must use this appalling ‘margarine’. Easier in some ways out in the countryside, as we are – pigs are regularly slaughtered without the knowledge of the authorities, and fresh vegetables are always to hand. In the towns, I am told, there are flourishing black markets – anything is available to those who will pay. For the honest, though, there are times when one cannot lay hands on everything.”

  “Submarines preventing food imports?”

  “So I am told, Tommy. Not a disaster for us, but many poor children are suffering.”

  “The poor always suffer more than the rich, love. Nothing to be done about it, other than make the whole country richer.”

  She agreed absently, having other things on her mind as it came closer to bedtime.

  “Tommy, are you not wearing the sling today?”

  “Not after a week, Monkey. The wound has closed and the arm will do better for exercise. Should we drive across to Long Benchley tomorrow, to see your mother?”

  “Good idea. I’ll drive. In the Lanchester, more room for the children.”

  Tommy regretted the suggestion, but he was unwilling to argue. He merely suggested, hopefully, that they should make a telephone call, in case the visit might be inconvenient. It was, but only mildly so.

  “We are to go the day after tomorrow, Tommy – my father will be there for the weekend – he has managed to get some time booked for himself, for a change.”

  “What’s this I hear, Tommy? I was talking with General Salmond – these Liberty engines again, they might finally actually be reaching us in some numbers and your DH9a may finally arrive to replace the DH4s – and he mentioned your name. Something about taking agents into Germany and then flying your crew out despite being wounded?”