“Give a dog a good name, sir! A small hole in the shoulder was all. I hardly noticed I had been hit. A spent round bouncing off an engine casing – it put us down in the sea several hours later, having damaged the oil pipes, I suspect – she began to run hot and then just stopped, and the O400 can’t fly on one engine. I was lucky – again! There was a monitor performing a bombardment of the coast and I was able to set down beside her.”
Lord Moncur was more used to young staff officers in London, boasting of the unspecified deeds they had performed, or the acts of heroism that would flow from them, if only they were permitted to serve at the Front, where they so much wished to be. He concluded that Tommy was understating the case, once again – those who actually fought tended to, he believed.
“I suppose it’s of no use to tell you to be careful, Tommy? The feeling is growing in Whitehall that there are signs of cracks in the German resolve – this war may not have another year in it. The great offensive had to be a success, because it seems they lack the manpower and the munitions to mount another. They may even lack the will to continue – the Kaiser has lost much of his popularity among the ordinary people. He has made some big mistakes, which have been noticed. His fleet was to hold the oceans of the world, he said, but it stays at home, hiding behind the minefields, wasting resources and doing nothing. Submarines might be effective, but they ain’t the stuff that newspaper headlines are made of – battleships win glory in battle, but submarines are seen as back-stabbing assassins who kill merchant ships. The army has not won in the west, and has made peace with Russia, without destroying the country, as was promised. Second-best, sort of thing. In the air, Richthofen died, and he had been made much of as the invulnerable man of iron, and his successors are still fighting the same battles – very heroic, but not achieving much. All the ordinary German knows is hunger – the food just ain’t there in sufficiency – and no prospect of things changing, except for the worse. Many of the clever chaps in Whitehall think that soon, perhaps, the will to carry on is simply going to disappear – that the war will fizzle out for lack of guns and bullets coming to the front.”
“Please God it may, sir. How close are we to the same?”
Lord Moncur shrugged – he simply could not answer the question.
“There are more strikes and there is great resentment of the rich and the profiteers, but there are no reports of revolutionaries getting a hearing. There should be – the conditions are ripe, I would have thought – but not a word reaches us of anything other than people complaining that things are wrong – no attempts to put them right at the point of a gun. It can’t last, in my opinion, but there will be no popular uprising this year.”
“In some ways, a pity, sir. This war has been very badly run, you know.”
“It is getting a little better, Tommy, as we have become more serious about it, and more willing to suffer inconvenience. A few of the profiteers have been caught – although the bulk continue in their ways. The political leadership is weak, however! Lloyd-George continues to run the whole show, a one-man band, but he cannot do everything, and there are none with the will or the ability to challenge him. He is very good, but even he is not perfect!”
Tommy was neither surprised nor especially interested to hear this.
“What of the military, sir? Will Haig survive?”
“Another year and he will fall, Tommy. His arrogance is growing – he has abused a number of newspaper editors for daring to question him. They will break him when the opportunity arises – they have more power than him, though he is unaware of the fact. He is still surrounding himself with staff officers whose sole skill lies in flattery – they provide him with inaccurate, occasionally overtly false, information to further their own careers and he will not be told that he does not know the reality of the war in France. He will not, in my opinion, last beyond Christmas.”
“Good. That is the first cheerful news I have heard in months, sir.”
A few more days and he was called back to London, ordered to present himself to the doctors again.
They congratulated him on his strength and innate fitness, told him he was healing well but was not yet back to form.
“Do not fly for another four weeks, Colonel Stark. There is still some slight damage to the muscle that could be worsened by violent exercise. I believe you have been flying the Handley-Page, sir? It is renowned among the medical men for its demanding nature, and the ills that its pilots experience – stiff controls that must be held rigidly into place, I am told.”
“The controls tend to permit drift, sir – the plane will fall off line very easily on take off and landing, with potentially disastrous results. It is possible to feel the movement starting and to gently counter it, sir – and that is better flying than forcing the plane to hold its line. One unexpected bounce may overcome the tightest grip on the stick and set all awry. Better, sir, to fly the plane than attempt to bully it.”
The doctor thought that might be true, but not for every man to attain.
“Easier said than done, Colonel Stark! How many thousands of hours have you, sir, compared to the average pilot?”
“I don’t actually know, doctor. I haven’t added them up for many months – a lot, I suspect. You are right, of course, the bulk of pilots are woefully inexperienced. I have some expectation of being grounded, sir – because of my rank. I do not intend to fly the O400 when I can avoid it – it is not my favourite among aircraft. It is the biggest, so I am happy to have had a few hours in its cockpit, but it is not so pleasant a plane that I wish to repeat the experience.”
“Do not, Colonel Stark. I would advise you, sir, as well, to eat more and drink less, if I may be so bold. You are of a healthier habit of body than was the case even two weeks ago, sir, being still a young man and able to recover quickly. Take more care of your health, sir!”
“I shall, doctor, the more easily for sitting in an office!”
“Good. I am informed that you are to report to General Salmond, who is in London this week, Colonel Stark. The message states that you are to present yourself at 1400 hours – I have only got twelve numerals on my watch, myself, but these military types have their little ways, you know, sir!”
Tommy laughed, wondering just how many times he had heard that joke, and left for the canteen and a luncheon that showed no evidence of shortages of any sort. Presumably only lesser mortals were expected to stint themselves.
“Welcome, Colonel Stark!”
General Salmond stood and offered a salute before Tommy could, rather to his surprise.
“I am pleased, and proud, to inform you that you are the recipient of the Victoria Cross for your actions in piloting your aircrew to safety when yourself wounded by machine-gun fire. Well done, sir!”
Tommy made his thanks, thinking that it was an overstatement of the little he had done. There had been other occasions when he had risked his neck, however – he could regard it as a cumulative reward.
There was a tailor waiting in the background; his tunic was taken from him, the scarlet ribbon properly placed within a few minutes and then the presentation to the press, which seemed to last for hours.
Colonel Naismith materialised at his side when it was over.
“You should have received this when you came out with my banker, Colonel Stark, but I was unavoidably busy with him. I am very pleased to see the omission repaired, sir. You may be interested to know that one of your passengers has already created a mutiny in the High Seas Fleet. He was shot for his pains, but it is now certain that the battleships will not sail again.”
General Salmond held Tommy back for a few minutes after the show was over.
“Visit your tailor in the morning, sir. A full set of uniforms. You are to have a brigade – acting, I am afraid, I cannot arrange a permanence in the rank – in the RAF. Colonel Arkwright will retain your Wing, of course. You are to have three Wings of De Havilland and Camel ground-attack squadrons, Brigadier-General. In confidence, there is t
o be a major attack within a very few weeks – Jerry is overstretched and much weakened and we believe he may be thrown back to the Rhine by the end of the year. For once, sir, this is not a pipe-dream emanating from the overheated imaginations of a Headquarters far distant from the front lines. Intelligence believes it to be real.”
“Has the flu’ played any part in this, sir? I heard a rumour that they were losing more soldiers to the epidemic than to the Army.”
“God knows, Brigadier-General Stark. All things are possible. It is certainly the case that the German army is overstretched and weakened and probably unable to defend the territory it has taken. The Ottomans are also on the retreat, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire is facing political collapse. The opportunity is available to us. The need will be for an unrelenting offensive – your ground-attack aircraft will be called upon all day, every day.”
“So be it, sir. Will you send out replacement pilots in advance, and as many planes as may be available, so that they can spend a few hours in practice before they go out into the real world, sir?”
“You seem to think there will be casualties, Brigadier-General.”
“They will die like flies, sir. There is nothing more dangerous than ground-attack in unsuitable aircraft – and none of our planes have been designed for the purpose.”
“The DH9a…”
“Is a useful bomber, sir. It is not designed for work at fifty feet, yet that is what it will be used for. Not to worry, sir. Send out the eighteen-year olds; they will die for not having discovered fear yet. If it ends the war, it may be worthwhile.”
General Salmond shook his head – he was no Haig, not an uncaring butcher, given the choice.
“I suspect you are right. Go home for a few days. We will send you out on Monday, from Croydon, by Handley-Page. We have converted one for transport purposes, at your suggestion, I believe. There may be more, if this one proves its worth. I shall be back in France myself by the time you arrive.”
Back to Wilton in the General’s Rolls-Royce – true luxury, Tommy thought, and a slightly quicker journey as well.
“Salisbury in the morning, love. I am a Brigadier-General now.”
“And you have your Cross at last – I did not think you would rest content without one, Tommy.”
“I did not go in search of it, love. It came more as a result of all I have been made to do in the past few years than for any one action.”
“But the last one helped, no doubt.”
“Without doubt.”
“Be ready for all that comes in the morning, Tommy. You must go in uniform, you know. civilian attire is no longer permitted except on prolonged sick leave.”
Gieves was its normal efficient self.
“A Brigadier-General’s uniform, sir? RAF, of course, sir… will you require the light blue or do you prefer the more traditional khaki, sir? Either is allowable, it would seem.”
The tailor allowed his slight distaste for that laxity to show; in his opinion, a uniform had no options. Tommy preferred khaki to the comic-opera light blue, which rumour insisted had been produced for the Tsarist cavalry, who no longer existed, leaving acres of cloth in the mills of the North Country and needing to be used up.
“Required when, sir?”
“I must fly back to France on Monday, I am afraid.”
“Fittings on Friday, sir. Fortunately, we have your cut on record, sir, which will make the task the more easy. Let me see, now, VC, DSO and bar; MC and three bars; two Belgian decorations and the Tsarist Russian order, sir. One still does not show the Mention, sir. A memorable display, sir. May I offer our congratulations on the VC, sir – though, to be sure, one cannot be surprised!”
They had brought the children with them and took them through the narrow streets to find the bookshops – it was never too young for a child to discover that a visit to town was not complete without a book. The streets were busy but the townsfolk seemed subdued; there was far less bustle than had used to be the case.
“People are too fatigued to hurry and make a noise, Tommy.”
There were soldiers by the score, by the hundred, in fact, all stiffening to the salute, all requiring a response. Young officers were also abundant, rigid in their awe. The civilians noticed the decorations but said nothing; in previous years they had cheered.
“The whole country is tired, Monkey. It must come to an end soon.”
“Most people think it will never end, Tommy. It has become normal. If the government was to ensure that food was equally available to all, they might not want it to end, for there is work for every man and most women, and wages are rising in many occupations. It is not all disaster, you know.”
“But, so many die, Monkey!”
“They do. Far too many, but the living may be in some ways better off… I think, purely as a personal opinion, that the reason why there has been no uprising against the war is because the great mass of ordinary people can find ways in which they have become a little more comfortable. The dead are gone, but the living are less abused than they were.”
It was an unpleasant concept, and one that Tommy rejected as abhorrent – it devalued all that he had done, he felt. Then he wondered who he had fought for, and why. He suspected, in the back of his mind, that he might have flown for himself, for the personal challenge, for the joy of living when other, lesser men had failed – it was not an acceptable thought, and he rapidly buried it.
“Can we still take a luncheon in town, or should we go home, Monkey?”
“Better for the children to drive home. We can eat here on Friday when we come in for your fittings. You may not find the experience too enjoyable.”
The children stayed at home as fittings at a tailor could be tediously long. Two hours sufficed, on this occasion, and they walked to the Rose and Crown, ancient and set by the river, long a favourite of theirs. They were found a table instantly, discovered that Tommy, still in his colonel’s uniform, was lowest ranking in the room. There were dozens of training camps and fields on Salisbury Plain, and no shortage of brigadier-generals and major-generals of both services, all of whom noticed the decorations and, hatless, stiffened to attention. It was almost embarrassing, Tommy thought.
They ate undisturbed, as courtesy demanded, but suffered a number of gentlemen passing on their way out afterwards, all with a word or two of respect to offer, two who recognised him with more to say.
“Colonel Stark?”
“Brigadier-General, sir. Waiting on Gieves’ convenience, General Sykes. A pleasure to meet again, sir. My wife, Mrs Stark, sir.”
Sykes had achieved the wartime rank of Major-General, not quite the eminence he had desired, expected in fact. He held a senior position but was not the overall commander of the RAF, to his chagrin. He was generous in his congratulations to Tommy, but very slightly bitter as well – the far younger man had outstripped him, by luck rather than merit, no doubt.
“Where are you appointed, Brigadier-General Stark?”
“Back to France, sir. On Monday next. I have a brigade of ground-attack aircraft to bring together, I am told.”
“Very much your thing, Brigadier-General. You are aware of the tactical functions of the RAF – far more important than this dog-fighting business that draws so much attention.”
It irritated Tommy to honestly agree with that statement – he did not like Sykes and would far rather have opposed him. He was glad when he left.
“Colonel Stark, is it not?”
“General Petersham, a pleasure to see you, sir! I’m now Brigadier-General Stark, in fact, sir, waiting on my uniforms. I am so sorry, sir, for your sons.”
“Charlie was a loss, but long over. James? Well – I sometimes felt he was a changeling, you know! He was born to die in battle, probably through doing something stupid! He could hardly have done anything else!”
Tommy nodded his agreement.
“Fred is doing very well, sir, or was when last I saw him.”
“Still is, as of last week, Br
igadier-General. By far the most able of the lads, for what he has between his ears. Mrs Stark? My pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I must get back to the salt mines – trying to bring raw conscripts to their duty, most of them unwilling to make the least effort, I would add.”
They left, and discovered that the hotel would not present a bill – the VC, they said, demanded consideration. That was irritating too.
“The first time I have met General Sykes, Tommy. Very political! I am told that he plants daggers in every back he sees, as a matter of policy, just in case they might come to oppose him.”
“I shall watch out for his malice, love. Is there more to buy today?”
“No. Home, while we may.”
The Handley-Page had been equipped with a closed cabin seating four passengers in some discomfort; only Tommy and Smivvels were aboard for this flight. More important was a cargo bay, in use to carry spares out to the fields.
The pilot was ancient, in Tommy’s eyes, dug out from the training field where he had languished since the war began. He was a lieutenant, having had no opportunity to rise.
“Long time, Tommy!”
“Not since Brooklands, Edgar. Where have you been?”
Nowhere, was the reply, and he had done nothing.
It was a brief conversation, for they had nothing to talk about.
They landed at the Central Air Park, where Tommy was met by a staff car and Smivvels was dumped onto a tender – tradition surfacing.
“New field outside Hazebrouck, sir, which has a set of offices attached. I am to be your driver, sir, at your satisfaction. Pink, sir.”
“Excellent, Pink. Do you know where the other squadrons in the Brigade are located?”
“All close, sir. All in driving distance, rather than flying. I drove your staff officers across yesterday, sir, despite it being Sunday, which some of them found unconscionable, sir.”
A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6) Page 27
