Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Come now, Major Stark! What might happen to the less-skilled men who were no longer employed in essential jobs?”

  “Oh! The Army would get them.”

  “Exactly so, sir. Since the Somme, that is an important factor in men’s thinking.”

  It was difficult to blame them, Tommy thought.

  They walked briskly through other parts of the sprawling works, seeing rifles being made in one shop, motor-cycles in another, small quick-firing guns in a third. It was evident that a shop had been built for each as it was invented; there was no over-arching plan to the organisation.

  Tommy enquired and was told that BSA had grown over half a century, piecemeal.

  The canteen had three or four hundred men sat at tables, almost all wearing bowler hats to show senior status.

  “Foremen and their immediate managers, Major Stark. They will speak to their men during the shift and will pass your words on. Who will make your speech?”

  Noah took a quick pace backwards. Tommy maintained a perfectly straight face, said that he seemed to have volunteered. The staff officer, a captain, proffered a thin sheaf of papers.

  “Double-spaced, sir, to make easier reading. Smile as you are introduced. Very short, sir, following the rule – say three things and repeat each three times in different words and then stop talking. Colonel Winstanley was awarded the DSO in the Boer War, which is why he has been with you this afternoon.”

  The elderly, thin colonel coughed and cleared his throat, managed to make himself heard. Presumably he had addressed parades in the past.

  “We at BSA are honoured today by the presence of two of the most outstanding pilots of the RFC. They wished to see the factory that made weapons for them and have shown willing to say a few words as well. Major Arkwright VC must be known to every man in this country by deed; Major Stark is also a much-decorated officer, carrying awards from Belgium and Russia as well as our own country, and will be remembered for his work as a pioneer of aviation before the war, as well as for his many brave actions on the Western Front. Major Stark!”

  There was a smattering of applause and Tommy stepped forward, conscious of dry lips and nervousness – he had never addressed a gathering bigger than a squadron, and never strangers.

  “Pilots generally work alone in their cockpits, so I am not used to the presence of so many people. However, here goes!”

  He received a chuckle and saw that they actually wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He congratulated them on the weapons they had provided him with, was sure they would produce more and better developments. He knew that he could only fly thanks to their efforts – that for every man who was seen to fly and fight there were ten and twenty who were indispensable to him, invisible but doing their very best. Finally, he pointed out that planes cost money, and even pilots were paid a wage, and that without money they could not win the war; they must save and buy War Bonds and do their all to help the government make the new weapons that were needed if they were finally to win.

  They stood and applauded him, and passed a vote of thanks to him for being so good as to see them and speak his mind so clearly.

  He felt a complete fraud.

  “Your turn next time, Noah!”

  “Only fair, Tommy.”

  They left the room, asking the staff officer where they were due next.

  “Half an hour with the local newspapers, gentlemen. It is only one-thirty. Plenty of time yet. Smile!”

  They endured the idiocies of the press and then pleaded that they must fly, literally - missing the planned luncheon.

  The staff captain handed them typed details for their next fortnight.

  “Gosport, tomorrow. The seaplane people there. Then you will be across to Bristol, and next week to Cardiff and then the iron and steel works along the coast and north to the coal mines in the Valleys. Three days away from home. No itinerary beyond that.”

  “What of Christmas?”

  “Home for the week. General Henderson says you must have rest in plenty. The doctors have persuaded him that pilots who are over-worked will be easily shot down or will make mistakes and crash. I understand, by the way, that General Trenchard is unconvinced.”

  They shrugged; it sounded very likely.

  They wondered whether it made sense to give speeches to men and women in factories. Their audiences were unfailingly polite, and seemed glad to see them, but it did not seem probable that the cause of the war was advanced even very slightly by their efforts.

  Christmas made a pleasant break, extended to a fortnight by persistent bad weather that made flying about the country impossible. The remainder of January and February found the pair sat indoors more often than out massaging the fading morale of the home population; the winter grew hard, snowfall only occasional but bitter frosts commonplace and sleety rain not rare. They sat in Wilton and put more logs on the fire and enjoyed their children, wondering all the while whether they would continue to do so, would see them grow up even to school age. Noah spent much of his spare time with his head in books; felt he needed to further expand his education.

  They were pulled off speech-making and sent to the Sopwith factory in March, at the request of Mr Sopwith himself.

  “Wanted to get the opinion of working pilots on the new beast, Tommy. Prototype is sat waiting for you, and a second for you, Major Arkwright. I think it will be a damned good fighting scout, but there have been some doubts expressed.”

  They looked at the aeroplanes, solid, powerful machines with fittings to take a pair of synchronised guns.

  “What’s that engine, sir?”

  “130 Le Rhone rotary, Tommy. Should deliver one hundred and twenty in level, low flight. Turn on a sixpence! Good climb, as well. Strong wings – she will dive!”

  “It looks good, sir.”

  Tommy raised an eyebrow to Noah, wondering what his more analytical approach might disclose.

  “Everything is up front, sir. Must be three-quarters of the weight: engine, two guns and pilot, all within seven feet. What’s her stability?”

  “That could be a problem, you understand, Major. A powerful rotary does create a few difficulties, particularly in a plane designed for stunting. We have, in fact, discovered a tendency to perform what you might describe as a ‘ground-loop’ immediately she starts to taxy. The pilot does need to be awake to this.”

  They thought they might perhaps like to give the plane a try.

  “A cautious little excursion, sir!”

  There was an immediate, hard, thrust to the right as soon as the chocks were taken away. Tommy taxyed the new plane away from the hangar, blipping the engine to reduce speed until he had the feel, then allowed her to open up. He had to maintain firm leftward pull on the control lever, but she left the ground almost as quickly as the Pup and climbed faster. She had to be flown, the pilot in active control at all times, but she was almost as responsive as the Pup and far more powerful – and there would be a pair of guns immediately under his eyes, firing where he was looking. He spent twenty minutes getting the feel of the new machine, spotted Noah doing the same, watched as he put his plane into a series of banks to starboard, discovering what she wanted to do. He imitated Noah, trying to pick up the plane’s pattern of behaviour.

  A few more minutes and he turned back to the field, made a quick circuit and then brought her into a landing, fighting for a straight line and a controlled descent, achieving a touch down with no bumps, which he was rather pleased with.

  He watched Noah follow and land very tidily, waited until he joined him over coffee before making any comment, let him speak first.

  “When do we get her in France, Mr Sopwith?”

  “You think she should go to war, Major Arkwright?”

  “The plane is a killer, sir. That is exactly what we want in France. She will never be easy, and should not be put in the hands of green pilots. But I much suspect she will cut through Jerry like a knife through butter.”

  Tommy agreed, ad
ding the rider that she would do the same for inexperienced pilots.

  “Send her out to the best squadrons, Mr Sopwith. The rule should be that no pilot sits in the cockpit of the new machine without a hundred hours on Pups first. What does Mr Hawker say?”

  “Much the same as you two. He thinks she will be one of the best, but she will have no tolerance for bad flying.”

  “Do you want a report in writing, sir? I am much in favour, will do so happily. When, by the way?”

  “End of June, Tommy. Nothing in writing. No need. Never a good idea to write anything that can be misquoted in a court-martial at a later date. What the lawyers don’t know, they can’t lie about.”

  They agreed that to be a fair point.

  “What’s the word from France, Tommy?”

  “I’ve heard nothing, sir. Busy with this nonsense of speaking in factories. What have you picked up?”

  “Not a thing, Tommy, not in terms of facts. All I hear is that it will soon be spring and that there’s to be another great offensive. Whispered, and that cautiously, is that the French are in trouble. They lost huge numbers at Verdun, and things have not got a lot better since – the word is that their army is disaffected, on the verge of mutiny, possibly further than that. The need is to take the pressure off the French before they buckle. All sorts of rumours flying, but it seems that there has to be a big attack by the British if the war is not to be lost outright.”

  “An attack. Another Somme.”

  “Probably. They say that Haig has welcomed the prospect – he thinks he can get it right this time, provided he is not let down again by weaklings who can’t swallow a few necessary casualties.”

  “God help us all!”

  Bursting Balloons

  Chapter Two

  “There is a telegram waiting, gentlemen, addressed to both of you.”

  They had landed the BE2c on a road outside a pit at Coalville in Leicestershire, hoping that the flimsy barriers they could see would serve to keep all traffic out for the minutes they needed. They had accepted landing on the road in the knowledge that the coal was all moved by railway and that the area was so poor that there would be almost no motor traffic; they still did not fancy the possibility of colliding with a horse and cart.

  It was not their first visit to a colliery, but the logic of airmen addressing miners escaped them, and both had steadfastly refused previous invitations to make a tour underground. They had simply arrived before one in the afternoon to speak to the two-to-ten shift going down and then to the six-to-two men when they had come out of the baths – in those modern pits that possessed such things – and before they went home.

  Miners were still paid at little more than the pre-war rates and as soon as a union man had told them, both had refused to exhort them to save more and buy War Bonds.

  The mine manager handed them the yellow envelope.

  ‘REPORT CROYDON SOONEST’

  “That tells us a lot. Have you petrol to hand, sir? If your man could refill the tank, then we can give you fifteen minutes to speak to the waiting miners, but no more. Croydon is two hours, or thereabouts, in this old bus, and we must be there before the light fails. We were to stay overnight in the hotel outside Nottingham, but that obviously cannot be. Have you a telephone, sir? Will you inform the hotel that we cannot be there?”

  The manager, a silent gentleman by nature, it seemed, pointed to the handset in his office. Tommy rang Wilton, told Monkey that it was likely that he was bound for France, passed the equipment to Noah.

  Twenty minutes saw the plane turned and the barriers re-established for their take off.

  Away from the ears of civilians, they felt free to speculate, shouting to each other over the engine noise.

  “The Big Push at Arras, Noah?”

  “Bloody ground attack, Tommy. They’ve lost men, bet you, and want replacements. Croydon will be full of men pulled out of the training fields, any money you like!”

  “And wet behind the ears kiddies, done eight hours and sent off to meet the bogyman.”

  That, they feared, went without saying.

  They reached Croydon in late afternoon, a convenient time as there would be very little traffic taking off for France. Noah was pilot, circled the field and fired a green flare, received no response and turned into the wind and brought the old plane down and taxyed across to the hangars, vaguely hoping that someone might acknowledge his presence and suggest a parking place. He was ignored and, spotting a line of RE8s, which were more or less the same sort of thing, put the BE2c onto the end of the line.

  They picked up their bags and wandered across to the offices, anonymous in their flying coats and helmets, looking about hopefully for familiar faces.

  There were nameplates on the office doors now, together with a description of function.

  “Captain Woodward, Pilots in Transit, Noah. Do you think we are transitory?”

  “It is the nature of all pilots to be so, dear boy. Let us speak to the gentleman.”

  They knocked and entered, found the room empty but warm; they unbuttoned. There was a sergeant in a connecting office.

  “Captain’s taking afternoon tea, sirs…” The sergeant spotted rank and ribbons, grabbed a hat, stood and saluted. “Excuse me, sirs. Can I help?”

  “Received a telegram saying to report here at soonest. Nothing else.”

  “Right, sir. There should be papers on the desk in that case. Names, gentlemen?”

  “Majors Arkwright and Stark.”

  “Right, gentlemen… No, nothing here in the ‘Movements’ folder. Special cases, then. Best to go to the Major’s office, sir. I will lead you there.”

  The sergeant took them through a maze of temporary wooden and corrugated iron huts, impossible for an outsider to navigate.

  “Major Plunkett, sir? Major Arkwright and Major Stark, sir, ordered to report to Croydon at soonest, sir.”

  They noticed the number of ‘sirs’ per sentence; it was an indication of the sergeant’s opinion of the officer.

  Major Plunkett was a desk-bound warrior, a red-faced fifty, possessed of a fierce moustache and a martial air, and a uniform with an empty left breast, not a ribbon in sight; no wings, either.

  “Ha! Expected you before this.”

  “We received a telegram at one o’clock, Major. At Coalville in Leicestershire.”

  “Oh! Well, if that’s how it was, nothing to be done now. Orders from France, counter-signed by General Henderson. You are to report to General Trenchard, this afternoon. Well, you can’t do that now. You could fly to Swingate Down and then pick up a night boat, I suppose, and be in Calais before dawn, and then find transport…”

  That did not seem a very good idea.

  “Fly to Swingate Down, by all means, Major. Overnight there and then fly out to HQ at first light. Dawn just before six o’clock in April. We should be knocking at General Trenchard’s door well before eight. What have you available for us to take out, Major?”

  “Not very much, to be honest… Let me see now. Do you know the DH4?”

  “No. Heard of it. Bombardment machine, is it not?”

  “Yes. Said to be the best yet. A worthy successor to the RE7, I am told.”

  They grunted in unison.

  “Flown them, Major. Bloody useless!”

  “Oh. It’s supposed to be better than the One and a Half Strutter.”

  They grunted again.

  “Most things are.”

  Major Plunkett was becoming desperate now.

  “It can be used for trench attack and for medium-range work.”

  “Even bloody worse – I’ve seen too much of trench attack. Where is this cow? Do you want us to take one apiece?”

  “Well… Can you be sure to get a completely new machine across, to France? It’s a long way you know.”

  Tommy succumbed to his growing irritation. He did not like the idea of going back to France at no notice, with hardly any opportunity to say goodbye, and with his uniforms all still
in Wilton.

  “Do you see these funny things on my chest? They’re called ‘Wings’. I have had a licence for seven years now and I’ve got more hours in my logbook than almost anyone else in the RFC! If I can’t fly the bloody plane, there’s no man in this Corps who can. And Major Arkwright can match me!”

  “Who did you say?”

  Major Plunkett pulled out a pair of thick-lensed spectacles and balanced them on his nose.

  “Sorry, old chap, didn’t quite see who you were; can’t really hear so well, either. Damned nuisance these specs, you know, don’t wear them except I must – natural enough, isn’t it!”

  “You could stand for the whole running of this war, Major – the blind leading the bloody stupid, and listening to nothing! Where are these bloody planes?”

  Major Plunkett was not quite certain – he tended not to go out to the hangars, he said – but he called his own sergeant out of his little office to take them away.

  “Paperwork, sir? The hangars will require Releases for the two planes, sir. Two DH4s, sir. Second drawer of the filing cabinet, sir. In the red folder. Your signature in the central box, sir. Pilots will sign at the bottom.”

  The sergeant twitched the sheets out of the Major’s hand and led them to the door.

  “Officers’ Ablutions, over here, gentlemen. I shall take these papers to Hangar Three, just over there.” He pointed. “If the planes are ready, then I shall get them organised, gentlemen. If they ain’t, then we shall have them to hand for dawn, sir, and I shall arrange accommodation and dinner.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. What’s your name?”

  “Smith, sir. And no, sir, I do not want a posting to France, thank you. Very satisfied with the existence here, sir.”

  “Could be a commission in it if you went out, Sergeant Smith.”

  “Tempting, sir… But not sufficient to end up with a rifle in me hand making a last stand after the generals had killed the whole of the army and left us to save their necks, sir!”

  Tommy shrugged; he felt he should have taken a disciplinary stance, but was too honest to argue. It seemed a not unlikely set of events to him.