Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “If you change your mind ever, you will be able to contact me, you will know how – assuming the generals haven’t got me. We always need men who can make things work.”

  They stood in the hangar, staring at a whole squadron’s supply of DH4s. They were large, single-engined, sturdy, with a synchronised Vickers and a Lewis for the observer. They had substantial bomb racks.

  “In-line Eagle, sir. Rolls Royce. Very powerful, so they tell me.”

  “They look good. Which makes a change. Is that the chief mechanic?”

  They pointed to an important-seeming NCO carrying a board and consulting his papers.

  “The Flight Sergeant, sir? Dickson? No! He’s just a spare body what wanders about making a nuisance of himself. One of those who always carries a clip-board so that it looks like he’s important. ‘Assistant to the Engineering Branch’, he says he is, sir. Coming to the end of the line, he is, though he don’t know it, because he’s getting on everybody’s tits. Soon now, the word is going to be dropped that he ain’t no use, sir, and then he’ll get posted.”

  “Not to France, for Christ’s sake! We have enough useless buggers there already.”

  “Scapa Flow, I was thinking, sir. Right up in the tail end of nowhere; cold, miserable and nothing useful to do – suit him down to the ground. Liaison with the Navy, that’s what he’ll be. I’ll pull up the paperwork when the chance arises, sir. Mechanic’s over here, sir.”

  Sergeant Smith led them across to a busy-seeming Flight Sergeant, a man with far too much to do to be disturbed unnecessarily. They admired his performance.

  “Majors Arkwright and Stark, Flight, to go to HQ in France, soonest. Should be there already. Taking a pair of DH4s by way of Dover. What can they have? When?”

  “Who did you say?” The Flight Sergeant dragged his attention away from his sheaf of papers, stood and saluted. “You can make Swingate with half an hour of daylight to spare, sirs. I’ll have two planes ready for you inside twenty minutes. They were supposed to be ferried out tomorrow and should be all signed off. Cup of tea in the canteen, at the back, and we shall be right.”

  Flight Sergeant Dickson joined them in the canteen, pointing out that it was Other Ranks only and that they should not be there.

  “Good of you to tell us, my man. We are looking for our observers – the planes are two-seaters. Major Plunkett told us to take the first two volunteers. You’ll do. Get your gear and join me at the plane in fifteen minutes! Quickly now!”

  Sergeant Smith watched him run, deeply impressed.

  “Won’t see him again this afternoon, sir! Never seen him move that fast before! Well done, sir.”

  “Thank’ee, Sergeant Smith. All I hope is that he won’t be back – last bloody man I would want as an observer.”

  “No fear, sir. He’ll be locked in the bogs by now – bad attack of the runs, sir, very sorry, otherwise engaged, can’t fly today!”

  They laughed, but they weren’t very amused.

  They finished their tea, made their thanks, as was necessary, the canteen cook having been very polite to them, and watched as two planes were wheeled out.

  “Warmed up for you, sir. No more than two minutes to get oil pressure up. She’ll set down at fifty or thereabouts, sir. Take off unloaded inside two hundred yards. Give her three with a full bomb load – four hundred and sixty pounds, thereabouts, sir. If you cut her to an hour’s petrol, then you can put an extra hundred pounder aboard. I have heard, sir, that some of the lads in France have fitted a twin-Lewis mount. Pick up a skinny observer, I would, sir, for that game – but he’ll need be well-muscled to swing them about.”

  “What do you reckon she’ll do in the dive, Flight?”

  “Better than anything we’ve had yet, sir. Still no bomb sight, sir, not worth the name, so you’ll be working very low. You won’t get more than a hundred out of her, but she will climb hard. One thing I’ve noticed, sir, we ain’t getting a call for more than one in ten for replacements each month.”

  Tommy was impressed; on average over the past year nearly a quarter of machines had been written off strength each month due to accident, major breakdown or enemy action. Ten per cent suggested a very reliable machine.

  They took off together, side by side, pushed the machines into a fast climb, almost six hundred feet a minute, which Tommy thought was impressive for a heavy machine. Forty minutes brought them to Swingate Down, and a daylight landing.

  They tucked the machines away by the new hangars, passing them across to a keen-seeming mechanic who walked towards them looking for work.

  “I want to take off at first light, Corporal. Do you know the weather forecast?”

  “Don’t have them things around ‘ere, sir. Captain got annoyed with them for always being wrong, sir. It looks dry enough to me, sir. Westerly wind, and that’s more often than not dry round these parts, sir. Three other planes in, sir, to take off first thing. All of ‘em new, sir. We’ll be checking them over and refuelling, sir. Anything to say about this one, sir?”

  “Noticed nothing wrong with the engine, Corporal, but have a word with a rigger, will you? Got a feeling that the ailerons ain’t quite balanced, maybe a couple of degrees difference between them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The mechanic was not impressed. Two degrees of difference on the ailerons was very hard to detect, sounded suspiciously like bullshit to him, a pilot putting on airs before the lesser mortals.

  “I’ll just note the details, sir. Number 63, sir.”

  They habitually used only the last two digits for reference.

  “Pilot’s name, sir?”

  “Stark. That’s Major Arkwright next to me.”

  “Oh!”

  They took their flying coats off, displaying the ribbons underneath, aware that to be fair they should have done so immediately they had left their cockpits. Bundled up for flying there was no indication of either rank or experience.

  “Sorry, sir. We do get a fair amount of what you might call line-shooting from some of the newer pilots coming through, sir.”

  “Eight hours solo and know it all, Corporal? Heard it myself! What do we do for overnighting?”

  “There’s a transit hut, sir – half a dozen, in fact, all knocked in together. You can get a meal and there’s beds and ablutions as well, sir. Get a wet afternoon after a dry morning and there’s sometimes as many as a dozen pilots waiting for the weather to break, sir.”

  They made their way to the offices, showed their faces to the duty officer, a wingless wonder who was unknown to them but who knew their names, rather obsequiously. He led them into the temporary mess. Three pilots inside stood as they entered, came to attention as they spotted Noah’s ribbon.

  Tommy glanced at them, all three green hands from their new-looking uniforms, probably uninteresting. He took a second look at one, not very tall, a pick-axe handle wide on the shoulders, held a hand out.

  “Mr Denham! Good to see you! What are you driving?”

  “Arr, sir, they ‘ave given I a Nieuport, sir. Scout, sir. I been at the new Aerial Gunnery place for a couple of months, they reckoning that maybe I could show other blokes ‘ow to shoot. Ain’t very difficult, so I reckons, sir. Get yourself ten foot off the little old Jerry’s tail and fire a dozen rounds up ‘is jacksie, and there you are, all over, sir!”

  “Quite right too! I’ve always found that to work. Do you know what squadron you are going to?”

  “Arr, well, sir, I don’t reckon I knows very much, sir. They comes up to I this morning, sir, and says to pack up me old kitbag, like, and get over to Croydon and shift me old arse over to France, quicktime. So, the CO put me up in the back of the old Tabloid what ‘e’s got for ‘is own buggering about with, and I got there about two o’clock, sir, and come in ‘ere just too late to want to cross the Ditch this afternoon. Due to take ‘er to the Central Air Park, so they says.”

  Tommy raised an eyebrow to Noah, who was more likely to be given a scout squadron.

 
“Change in orders, Mr Denham, conveyed verbally. Just tuck yourself in behind us when we leave in the morning, and come along to HQ. If, as I hope, I get single-seaters, you’re mine!”

  “Arr, sir. That’ll do me, sir!”

  “Have we dined yet, do you know?”

  “Mess-sergeant said as ‘ow ‘e’d be feeding us about sevenish, sir. Won’t be no more coming in after six, so they’ll know who to cook for.”

  “Excellent! Is the bar open?”

  “Arr, I reckons it will be if we shouts loud enough, sir.”

  Tommy glanced at the other two young pilots, both joined from school, at a guess, and open-mouthed in horror at Denham’s deep New Forest accent. They had noticed the MM on his breast, had wondered how a medal reserved for Other Ranks was to be found on a pilot, now realised that he was a parvenu, a complete outsider, not a gentleman who had quixotically joined up as a private soldier. Tommy had pity on them, suggested they should join him in a beer.

  “What are you flying, gentlemen?”

  “Ah, we have been given RE8s, sir, to take to Central Air Park. Should we follow you as well, instead, sir?”

  “No. No use for RE8s in either of our squadrons, not that I know what our squadrons will be yet. But I doubt we’ll be using them. Go to Amiens, and good luck to you!”

  The food was uninspiring, but the beer was adequate and they slept soundly.

  In the morning, they flew directly to Trenchard’s headquarters and tried to find someone who wanted to know them.

  There was an air of gloom and hurried, bustling, pointless activity – every man knew he must do something, but none knew what.

  Ten minutes of being brushed off by the lower orders of the Staff and Tommy grew irritated and led the way to the stairs and up to Maurice Baring’s office.

  “Good morning, gentlemen! We had expected you yesterday?”

  “’Morning, sir. We received a telegram in early afternoon, at a coal mine in Leicestershire.”

  “Typical! What were you doing at a colliery, of all places?”

  “Good question, sir! Speaking to miners and encouraging them to dig more coal, but under no circumstances to ask for a living wage for so doing. Not my idea of fun, sir!”

  Baring made no direct reply.

  “I shall take you into Himself in a minute. He has a colonel with him at the moment, from the Quartermasters, explaining that the RFC is being wasteful of stores, particularly of petrol and lubricating oil, both of which are very expensive. He is proposing a reduction of use of at least ten per cent, or as a compromise, that they supply both at a lower quality. He cannot understand why the petrol for aero engines should be more expensive than that for motor cars and believes that the general should encourage thrift among his people. I expect Boom to start shouting at any time now. There he goes!”

  The basso-profundo voice was bellowing for Baring; as he opened the communicating door they could hear Trenchard’s demands.

  “Take this… prick away… and bloody well… shoot him! Wasting air… that useful… men could… breathe!”

  The main door of the office opened and closed; a couple of minutes later and Baring called all three before their master.

  “Major Stark… and Arkwright… welcome! Who… is this?”

  “Second Lieutenant Denham, sir, recently commissioned as a pilot and perhaps the best shot I have ever come across, sir. A natural scout pilot, sir.”

  “Good! You… are welcome… too, Denham.”

  Denham stayed silent, wisely.

  “Bloody disaster… Stark! Lost more… than fifty pilots… in two weeks. More every… day. Trench work. Scouts outclassed. Two-seaters no… more than death… traps. New Hun ‘Jastas…’ their new fighter squadrons. As we heard… last year. New pilots… von Richthofen… or some such. Others… as well. One week! Train up… squadrons. Do something.”

  “Flying what, sir?”

  “DH4, Stark. Nieuports, Arkwright. Same as… Somme. Cover each other. Worked once.”

  They saluted, comment being pointless. Baring led them out.

  “New squadrons, forming now from planes being ferried in yesterday and today. Pilots are mostly new as well. If you can put them into action in less than a week, it will be much appreciated. You will be flying over Arras and its rear, I am afraid. You have a fairly free hand for the next few days. Dump any pilot who doesn’t make the grade with you. There is a permanent need for bodies to fly reconnaissance and artillery spotting. We outnumber the Germans by at least three to one in the air, and they are butchering us. Better tactics and thoroughly trained pilots – which, I know, has been your demand since forever. This Richthofen fellow has become a figure of fear – he must have a score of forty already! He is flying a damned good plane in the Albatros, which has two synchronised Spandaus. The RNAS have got a Sopwith triplane that matches it – but only a few of them. The Nieuport can stunt to match the Albatros, but has only got the one gun, mounted over the wing. There’s a squadron of the new SE5as working up at the moment, but their synchronisers are duff, and they have to rely on a single Lewis over the wing for a few weeks yet. Besides that, Bristol have a new two-seater, an FE2, they call it, which may be good; should be in business in a few days. Lots of possibilities!”

  The three pilots exchanged glances, able to see behind the bright façade.

  “What’s happening on the ground, Maurice?”

  “Canadians took Vimy Ridge, with a massive number of deaths. The 3rd Army have made advances on the Scarpe, with huge casualties. The 6th Army have come up against the Hindenburg Line and gone nowhere, with vast losses. What the French are doing is unclear, but it may not be very much at all. The Frogs have got political problems as well. The whole Push is really to try to bolster the French and keep them in the war. A guess says that the Army as a whole is losing four men for every three Germans. As we outnumber Jerry by five to three, we are, of course, winning.”

  “Of course. And we must not forget, Maurice, that we are jolly sportsmen, and that will make all the difference.”

  “Naturally, Tommy. You will both be flying from the same field. Don’t remain here for lunch – you will not enjoy the company and your mouths would get you in trouble, again! Go straight to St Rigobert, if you please. You will be short of experienced men, and I see the Second Lieutenant here – I am sorry, I did not catch your name – has the MM. Substantive Lieutenant and acting-Captain, Tommy?”

  “Good idea, Maurice. Mr Denham is not the most experienced of pilots, but he is a natural shot. You agree, Noah?”

  “Poacher Denham will be one of my Flight Commanders, Maurice.”

  “Arr, now, Poacher, sir?”

  “Gamekeeper is too long, my man!”

  “Arr, Poacher it be, then, Squire!”

  “Just Noah, thank’ee kindly.”

  Baring was amused by the rustic accent, until he realised that it was not assumed.

  “Ah… West Country, I assume?”

  “Arr now, Hordle, sir, down in the New Forest, sir. Ain’t one of them Somerset blokes, sir, not with all that cider and whatever that bloody cheese is, sir.”

  “Of course not. I should have realised.”

  Baring showed them the location of their field on his map, pointing out that HQ now actually knew where their squadrons were to be found.

  “Twenty miles back, is all, fifteen minutes. Close to the Front, in fact, not much out of artillery range. There are new Krupp guns coming into service now, thought to have a range of sixty miles or more, so we are all in the firing line, you might say.”

  “No doubt GHQ will be taken a few more miles south, Maurice. No reason for General Haig to be within range of the guns!”

  “Not so bloody loud, Tommy! You could be court-martialled for that, and then I would have to stand in the dock with you for publicly agreeing, and we cannot afford that sort of scandal! Mind you, Lloyd George might not object – he could use that as a handle to get rid of Haig. The political scene is getting very nasty
, so they tell me in Whitehall. Glad I am in France, Tommy! I had ambitions to be a politician myself, you know, but not now. I shall retire to a life of literature and scholarship when this damned war is over. Politicians playing while good men die! I am sick of it all!”

  “Who is not, Maurice? Can you pull some strings for me? Hell-For Leather was in Photographic Intelligence at Henderson’s place, and I don’t know where Drongo is. We could use both.”

  “Will do. You can’t have Fred Petersham, by the way. He’s got his own squadron and will be coming out very soon with something you will know, Tommy – a new Sopwith?”

  “Due in June, Maurice. A beast! Powerful and beautifully unstable. Got a hairy rotary as well, tries to ground loop as soon as you start her and then does her damnedest to spin you in the moment you get her off the ground. Provided you can fly her, she will be the best thing ever. She’ll kill green pilots faster than this Richthofen fellow!”

  “Watch that one, Tommy! He’s putting together a big squadron – Jasta, one must say - of good pilots, so we hear, and he’s butchering everything he gets near. What’s the word on the Americans?”

  “My countrymen are about to join us, so I am told. They may be in by now. A year and they will be over here in numbers. Two years, and they will be pulling their weight, for having learned how to play the game. They’ll give Haig another two million men to butcher – won’t he be pleased!”

  “Go away, Tommy! Please!”

  They flew their planes across to St Rigobert, found a large field with some sort of factory and warehouses and tall brick towers to the side. They spotted aircraft lined up outside one of the big sheds and assumed that the mechanics had used their sense and commandeered a building as a hangar.

  A circuit of the field and they saw narrow valleys on either side, each with a stream, probably twenty feet lower than the grass. The airfield had been sited with rare good sense, should probably drain quickly and be usable after rain.

  The three planes landed and taxyed across, discovered a concrete apron newly laid outside the warehouses; their opinion of the field rose again. There was a swarm of mechanics waiting for them.