Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Some of you know me – I can recognise one face now, and have probably forgotten two or three others who have flown from the same field at some time. The rules here are simple. We exist to kill Jerry – no other reason. Use those guns of yours at every opportunity. Some of you have been in the Trenches – you know that every Jerry we kill is one who can’t get your mates. Learn the trade. If possible – and I don’t know if it will be – I shall bring in a two-seater for you to train up in, if you want to sit in the pilot’s seat. You will have heard of Major Arkwright, who is also flying from this field. He was an observer. Captain Denham in his squadron was my observer not so many months ago. If I can work the system, and if you are any good, then much may be possible.”

  Some had heard of sergeants taking commissions; for others the possibility was new. Most of them showed interested.

  “Any questions?”

  “Sir, what about aiming bombs?”

  “No sights that work, Sergeant. We get as low as we can and the pilot puts the bus on line and drops by eye. The meanwhile, you are stood in the back, shooting hell out of everything you can see. We hope to have twin-Lewises within a few days, to assist you. As soon as the pilot starts his climb, you get back to watching the sky for Albatroses or anything else that looks unpleasant. Don’t go shooting at Nieuports, Noah won’t like it if you do!”

  “Will we have to navigate, sir?”

  “If we go far behind the Trenches, yes. Normally, no.”

  “We have been issued with service revolvers, sir, in case we get shot down behind the lines. Should we always wear them?”

  “I do. But that’s habit from ’14, as much as anything. Yes, better that you should. You never know…”

  “Terence - the Armourer, Flight Sergeant Edwards – he’s no bloody use to man or beast. Post him, if you would be so good.”

  “Ah… that may not be easy, Tommy. Can be difficult to pick up a replacement.”

  “Get on the telephone to Maurice Baring, Terence. He exists to solve our problems. Tell him as well that we badly need Brock and Buckingham, and incendiary bombs.”

  “I thought Lord Moncur was seeing to the bombs, sir.”

  “He is, Terence, but we must keep everything right with HQ. We make an indent through official channels – that must always happen. Then we have a word in the right ear’ole at HQ, if necessary – that’s being officially unofficial. Occasionally, when it’s convenient, we talk to outsiders, such as my father-in-law – and that’s so unofficial, it must not be mentioned and HQ must not hear of it for at least a fortnight, so that they can’t register their outrage. Always deny it, by the way – we never, ever, talk to outsiders.”

  “Even when we do.”

  “Especially then.”

  “Oh, good. I so love to put my neck on the line.”

  “I am glad to hear that, Terence. You may be quite certain that I shall give you many more opportunities.”

  “I’ll speak to Baring now, Tommy.”

  “Good. After that, organise the observers to their pilots and tell them who’s got which. I’ll find Devon now and have a word with him.”

  “Sergeant Devon, I see you have your wish. You would have done better to stay in the office, you know.”

  “Yes, sir. But, I couldn’t, sir, not when other men were out risking their necks. I can’t sit safe at my little desk, filling out forms recording the deaths of better men.”

  “Nor me, man. We’ll have the twin-Lewises first, to set the example. Will you be happy with the weight?”

  “I’ll muscle up, sir. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Good. We will be flying tomorrow, weather permitting, and I want to be active by this time next week. Pass the word around your Mess – very much on the sly – that if a team of pilot and sergeant ain’t working, then you should have a word with the captain first, and if he agrees then we shall organise a change around. If they have especially good reason – more than not liking the way he picks his nose – then go to the Adjutant who will fill me in on the details. If it’s something they want to keep very quiet – then they talk to you and you will bring it direct to me. Use your discretion, as goes without saying, but you are the unofficial channel – anything I must know but won’t otherwise hear of, you tell me.”

  Devon did not seem particularly pleased to discover that he was official snitch, but he could accept that it might be necessary.

  Flight Sergeant Milligan arrived on the field at four o’clock, his feathers ruffled by the speed of his posting; he was brought before Tommy as senior major and therefore in command until Colonel Kettle arrived.

  “Reporting for duty, sir. Flight Sergeant Milligan, Armourer, sir.”

  “Good! I did not expect to see you so quickly.”

  “Neither did I, sir. I was at Amiens, on my way to the workshops at the Central Air Park, sir, when I was suddenly turned around and put into a tender and told that I was Armourer to Eighty and Eighty-One Squadrons, sir.”

  “You are replacing a man who lacks initiative, Flight. I want twin-Lewises on the DH4s, and there are three-pounder quick-firing naval guns to be set up around the field, on the eastern boundary, in fact, and modified to be fired at targets on the ground as well, if need be. Preferably, the job finished yesterday.”

  “Then I better get into it, hadn’t I, sir. Should I see the Adjutant first, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ll get Uncle Terence to see to your paperwork and we’ll throw the other bloke off as well. Is your transport still here?”

  “Scrounging a cuppa at the back of the kitchens, so he said, sir.”

  “Good. We’ll hold him for half an hour.”

  Tommy heard Milligan’s voice a few minutes later, in the corridor, talking with the Adjutant’s confidential sergeant, who was showing him round to his workshops.

  “Bit of a hard bugger, that Major Stark, ain’t he, Sarge? No second chances for the bloke in his armoury, just throws him out with no notice for not being good enough.”

  Tommy did not hear the reply, sat at his desk and wondered whether he had become unnecessarily rigid. The Armourer, Edwards, had not been able to do the job instantly; it was war and he had no time to play games. If a man could not do his job, then he was out, whether he liked it or not, and he did not think that was to be too hard.

  He wondered what Noah thought, but chose not to ask him in case he did not like the answer.

  “Lieutenant Gough, Second-Lieutenants Young and Perkins! You are mine in Red Flight. It’s a big field and we shall take off in line abreast at twenty foot distant. Hold the line until we reach five thousand feet when I shall raise my right fist and make a turn to starboard; you will turn in sequence to end up in line astern, gap of one hundred feet. After that, and as soon as we are established in line, you will follow me precisely, copying every manoeuvre I make. If you lose me, return immediately to the field. Your observers will know where you are and will give you a course home at any time. Clear?”

  The three muttered, or spoke up confidently, and agreed that it was.

  “After about one hour, I shall lead you back to the field and land, still in line astern. We shall then discuss our morning’s little excursion while the mechanics work their wizardry, and then we shall take off again. On the second patrol, we shall indulge in low-level work. You will copy my movements. Nothing else. No initiative. No imagination. Follow Father, and hope that you may come home again. Tomorrow, if this works, we are to play with a trench on the old line at the Somme. We shall attack it with live munitions. Mistakes may be unfortunate, so learn carefully today.”

  Tommy thought that to be sufficiently uncompromising; so did his pilots.

  He landed, not entirely dissatisfied. They had tried, and, if they were not perfect, well, they would improve. He pulled them together in the anteroom and called for tea and sticky buns, or whatever had been baked that morning. He received little fruit tartlets with a honey and sugar glaze, ate one very suspiciously and then competed with the other
three to clear the platter.

  “Frogs, they may be, but they know a damned sight more about cooking than we do!”

  “We found that out last night, sir! That was the best dinner I have ever eaten!”

  “Call me Tommy, Hugh. Familiar name, yours?”

  “Runs in the family, Tommy.”

  Hugh Gough thought that was explanation in itself, as did the two younger men, both familiar with the well-known military clan and its fame in the Victorian Empire

  Tommy nodded wisely; he would ask Terence later, or Pot when he finally arrived.

  “Good. Now, flying this morning. I have seen worse, and many times, from new pilots. Keep an eye on me when possible so that you turn exactly when I do – if it’s on a raid, I will probably be running away from trouble, and you will want to do the same. Watch your height when banking – it’s very easy to lose fifty feet when you are making a turn, and we typically bomb trenches at fifty! That apart, don’t be so considerate of your engines and wings – if you overheat an engine so that the pistons, and whatever the thingies are, have to be replaced, so what? If the rigger has to reset every wire you’ve got – well he’s going to lose a night’s sleep. Tough luck! If you don’t turn hard, or pull out of a dive right on the limits, you might never sleep again. Planes come cheap. You don’t.”

  “They said at the training field that we should never push a plane to its absolute limits, Tommy. Far safer not to.”

  “That, of course, is true, Rowley, isn’t it?”

  Rowley Young admitted that to be his name. He still had not forgiven his parents.

  Tommy straightened his face, returned to business.

  “How do you know what your bus’ limits are, Rowley?”

  “By… Good question, s…, Tommy. I don’t know.”

  “By discovering them – it’s the only way. A plane’s limits depend on the pilot as well. Some can do more than others. That’s a simple fact, one man may be able to turn a bit tighter, another has the knack of diving steeper, and still living. You must find out what you can do with your plane, Rowley, preferably without killing yourself.”

  They nodded, one after another, accepting the truth of his statement, and not liking it.

  “One more thing, you have an observer tucked in behind you. If you kill yourself, you do him in as well. He’s only a sergeant and you have a responsibility to the Other Ranks – you’re officers and that’s part of your job. Don’t forget him. Which brings me onto the whole question of using the observer. He’s there to be a gunner, except in the unlikely event that they use us as spotters for the artillery. Give him the chance to use his guns, and if he shouts, listen. He might want you to bank to give him a shot at a Jerry on your tail – so do as he tells you.”

  “But… should we obey orders from a sergeant, Tommy? Won’t it give them ideas above their station?”

  “Probably – but it might keep you alive. ‘You pays your money, and you takes your choice’, like they say in the fairgrounds.”

  “The RFC is different, isn’t it, Tommy? We don’t have the same rules as the Army.”

  “Very much so, Hugh. We only have one rule, and that’s simple – ‘be good, or be dead’. In this plane, and on low level bombardment, you work as a team, or you die. Your choice. Mechanics should have finished by now. Low level work. Watch the ground – the countryside here is full of low hills – fifty feet can become ten inside a second. Try not to fly flat and level into a hillside – it ain’t habit-forming. Take a pee before you go up, and then follow me again.”

  Tommy took them to the west, to the flatter land closer to the coast, and played in the fields. Some of them were occupied by battalions practicing their drill; such fun it was to see them flinging themselves face-down in the mud, and very good experience for them, too! As a final piece of entertainment, he spotted a staff car with four brasshats and a driver, brought the planes round behind them on the road in a gentle curve and overtook at a tight fifty feet; he looked back, but the car hadn’t run into the ditch.

  “Can’t win them all,” he said to himself and took the Flight home.

  “Gentlemen, tell me. What have you noticed about our new planes?”

  They looked at their aircraft, puzzled, then Hugh started to laugh.

  “They are bare, Tommy. No numbers, no squadron markings, nothing other than the roundels. No proof!”

  “Exactly. Do not beat up staff officers except you are flying in an unidentifiable machine. Captain Askey!”

  The Engineering Officer trotted across – he never walked.

  “As a matter of the most absolute urgency, Captain Askey, I want numbers and a squadron marking on the tailplanes of all aircraft. The numbers inside the next thirty minutes, which I estimate is how long we’ve got before the ‘enemy’ descends upon us.”

  “Instantly, sir. Every plane, sir?”

  “As soon as they hit the ground, Captain Askey.”

  It was in fact three hours before a Captain from the Army Provost Department drove into the gate and was brought to Tommy.

  “Dangerous flying, Captain? Not to be encouraged, sir! Who was it?”

  “A Flight of four DH4s, Major Stark.”

  “Which squadron?”

  “We don’t know. They were unmarked. But Eighty-One Squadron has been newly equipped with DH4s.”

  “We have indeed, Captain. You had better come to the hangars with me.”

  There were sixteen DH4s, eight of them outside the hangars on the apron and ready to be taken up, the remainder inside with mechanics working on them. Each had a number prominently painted on both sides of the fuselage and a red square on the fin.

  “The red makes it easier to spot one of our own in a hurry, Captain. Useful identification when you have planes crossing each other at a hundred miles an hour.”

  The Provost did not touch the paint to see if it was still wet, but they could see his fingers itching to do so.

  “Obviously not Eighty-One Squadron, sir. I shall inform the general that I am continuing the investigations. It would seem, Major Stark, that the four aircraft appeared from nowhere and descended to no more than ten feet above the staff car and terrified the driver. They were very lucky not to be overset. The General was unhappy, sir.”

  “The irresponsibility of some pilots never fails to amaze me, Captain. I shall warn all of my people never to do anything so very foolish.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Word of advice, sir? Don’t lay it on so thick next time – nothing makes a good copper more suspicious than a perfect excuse and an innocent manner!”

  “I would not know, Captain. I have had very little experience of coppers, good or bad.”

  “And a very good thing too, sir. Keep it that way. Goodbye, sir.”

  “Noah?”

  “Come in, Tommy. Just finished reaming out one of my boys. Seems to think he knows better than me when it comes to flying. He’s got one more chance.”

  “Maurice Baring said he would replace any man we wanted to dump. He can go and fly a bloody RE8 if that what he wants.”

  “I should imagine that’s what he will be doing by this time tomorrow. His problem!”

  “Tell your lads not to misbehave with staff cars and marching battalions, will you, Noah? I’ve just said farewell to a copper who couldn’t find the evidence that it was me, but don’t believe a word I’ve said to him. He’ll be watching us, I think.”

  “Tut! Naughty man! I’ll pass the word. What are we doing tomorrow?”

  They flew as a pair of squadrons, Noah providing cover and deciding it was almost an impossible task.

  “The DH4s are at least as fast as the Nieuport, Tommy. Less manoeuvrable, of course, but almost impossible to keep up with. We are likely to drift off, be a mile distant when you come out of the dive. Close escort just ain’t possible, Tommy. Best thing I can think of is to put a Flight to cover your target area and the rest of us to patrol in the vicinity, try to keep Jerry at a distance. It won’t work, but it�
�s all I can come up with.”

  “We tried. If it don’t come off, so be it. Is that Pot finally turned up?”

  They peered at the figure walking across to the hangars, decided it definitely was.

  “Old bugger’s put on a belly over winter, Tommy.”

  “Age creeping up on him. Must be thirty-five if he’s a day.”

  “Ancient!”

  They stood to attention, made their greetings.

  “Don’t know the Nieuport, Noah. What’s it like?”

  “Undergunned, otherwise not a bad plane, sir.”

  “Do what you can. There’s a replacement coming, but not for another three months, more or less. What about the DH4, Tommy?”

  “I’ve flown worse, sir. We need a bomb-sight as a matter of urgency. I know we ain’t going to get one, because anything they’ve tried out weighs too much. What’s the prospect of a two engined machine, sir?”

  “Next year. And a four a few months after. By 1920, we shall have some outstanding aircraft, gentlemen – but not yet. The SE5a is due to enter service this month, provided they can make the synchroniser work. The new Sopwith will be the answer, I am certain, for this year at least. The plan is for you both to get them and to form an answer to the big Jastas.”

  “That sounds like fun, sir. We will have the privilege of looking for the best Jerry has to offer and then making our challenge to them, by the sound of things. Give us the best of pilots, culled from the existing squadrons at the Front, sir, and it will work. But not with boys who have four hours under their belts.”

  Colonel Kettle shrugged.

  “We do what we can do with the facilities the great men make available to us. That’s another way of saying we shall be screwed again, gentlemen.”

  They laughed.

  “Hard winter, sir?”

  “Not at all, Noah! I have had a wonderful time working in London. I have drunk too much and slept too little, and done nothing towards winning the war. That made my work the most positive of all of the staff there – most of them actively contributed to losing the bloody war! I am glad to be back here where the air is cleaner. And I have a far better office here, provided only you can keep incompetent pilots from crashing into it, gentlemen.”