Colonel Kettle introduced him and explained that he would have the function of protecting the bombardment aircraft in their initial attack so that all the planes might get through.
The General was much in favour, the fiercer the bombardment, the greater the Army’s chance of success.
“We have seen very few Jerries in our sector just lately, sir. They have far fewer planes than us and may well have taken them over to be a nuisance to the French.”
“Then your task may be the easier, Major Arkwright – not that I consider anything ‘easier’ in the air – wouldn’t catch me up in one of your damned ‘buses’!”
They laughed, politely.
Pot summed up the meeting and read out his written record of what had been agreed.
“The Army wishes to make an attack on the ridge it refers to as Hill 37. To assist, the RFC is requested to make a synchronised bombardment, precisely at dawn. The RFC has agreed in principle and Eighty-One Squadron will carry out the raid, covered by Eighty Squadron. Date to be agreed. The attack will not take place in rain or fog. The Army will provide exact topographical details of Hill 37, including its height and vegetation cover, if any. The Army will also indicate the location of gunpits and ammunition dumps, to the best of its ability.”
General Peabody-Smirk agreed that to be an accurate record of the meeting; they adjourned to the Mess for drinks.
The red-faced lieutenant returned next day with the details requested.
“Got the Engineers to sit in our lines with those theodolite things and measure them, sir. And they used telescopes to look at the Hill. Should be good!”
“Thank you, Lieutenant!” Pot was at his urbane best, determined to achieve a good relationship with the Army. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Ah, Peabody-Smirk, sir. The General is my father, you know.”
Pot did not know and was not sure he approved.
“Ah! Jolly good show! We hope to make the attack on next Wednesday morning, I believe.”
“That will be ideal, sir. The Frogs are making an attack on Tuesday, well to the south and east of us, and that will, the General hopes, have drawn the reserves away from us.”
“Good thinking!”
“Leaves this weekend free, sir. Going to Paris to see this dancing club they’re all talking about!”
“Which one is that?”
“Oh, the one where that woman Mata Hari used to dance, before they arrested her, sir. Notorious sort of place, but must be harmless now!”
Pot knew nothing of Parisian clubs or dancers, was not particularly interested in the nasty habits of unpleasant youths.
They worked on the plans for the attack, checking all the details they could find, hoping to get everything right, leave nothing to chance. If there were to be more bodies piled in front of the machine-guns, it would not be their fault.
“Sunrise at twenty-seven minutes past five, on Wednesday 2nd May – says so in my almanac, if you work the figures out for Amiens.”
Terence was very pleased with himself – he had bought a Universal Almanac for the year while in London and this was his first use of it.
“When will it be light enough for taking off, Terence?”
“It says that Civil Twilight, whatever that may be, is at four fifty. Nautical Twilight comes earlier, but we ain’t at sea. How light is Civil Twilight?”
“I’m not getting up at a quarter to five to find out. Get your sergeant to do it.”
“He won’t be happy, Tommy.”
“Sergeants ain’t designed to be happy, Terence. Specifications for the job include turning off the happiness switch. Every sergeant is naturally a pessimistic, miserable sod – you’re just giving him reason to be unhappy, which he don’t need.”
“I’m not certain you’re right about that. Equally, I’m not getting up at that time of day, either. Where is he?”
Lieutenant Peabody-Smirk set off for Paris in a mood of some excitement – he had been told that the exotic dancers in the club he was going to removed almost all of their clothing in the process of their performance, and he had never seen even an almost naked lady before. He could not imagine just what sort of thing might happen in such a place, though they had whispered about such things in the school he had left a very few months before. He shared a staff car with his friend, Lieutenant Farquhar, who was also son to a very senior officer and had left training to immediately join the staff, and to be promoted to full lieutenant within six weeks of arriving. Both young men expected to become captain within three months – thoroughly deserved, of course, bearing in mind who they were.
They arrived at the door of the renamed club – now ‘La Paloma Blanca’, Spanish and very exotic – and paid an entry fee amounting to five English pounds, which they thought was pretty steep, but suggested there would be highly expensive entertainment inside. Champagne at two pounds a bottle was brought to their table without their asking – there was nothing else to drink. There was a chorus line on a small stage, performing a rather tired can-can to the music of three hard-working fiddles, an accordion and a piano last tuned before the war. A pair of girls joined them at the table and filled their glasses and encouraged them to call for another bottle. They were very friendly lasses, speaking in carefully broken English and telling them what a joli time they would have.
The music changed to a far slower beat and a single girl took the stage and proceeded to perform a slow strip until parading in a G-String.
“Later, per’aps, she go further!”
There was much giggling and the girls called for another bottle; they received ten per cent of the price for all they could move.
Two hours later both lieutenants were drunk and a different pair of young ladies arrived and took them over. They spotted the staff tabs on the lapels and called a third to join them and turn the conversation to the war. It took ten minutes to discover they were planning a very secret attack on the Scarpe. Another ten minutes and both were upstairs in separate rooms, their virginity rapidly removed, to their absolute amazement and delight, and every bit of information they possessed equally thoroughly extracted.
They returned to their billets on Sunday night, flat broke, hungover and still in a state of euphoria. What they had said, and to whom, they had no idea.
The girls passed the information on to their minders in German Intelligence and pocketed the reward they were given. It had been a profitable weekend.
Briefing for the raid was simple, but within reason thorough. Pot introduced the session.
“We are to cooperate with the Army. They are making an attack on Hill 37 and we are to bomb its guns as the soldiers come in. Hopefully, we will suppress the machine-guns and allow the soldiers to get into the German defences. If we fail, then it will be a smaller-scale Somme.”
Tommy stood and pinned a large sketch to the wall of the anteroom.
“At dawn on the Second, tomorrow morning, we shall attack this hill. Assuming no more than a light wind, such as we have now, then the twenty-four miles to the target will take sixteen minutes. We will form up over the field, so we must move at twenty minutes before dawn, allowing the Flights to take off at thirty second intervals, as normal. Sunrise will be at twenty-seven minutes past five, so Red Flight, myself leading, will leave the ground at precisely seven minutes past five – to the second!”
“Will we be able to see, Tommy?”
“Just, Rupert. To assist, I have organised – actually, I suggested and Terence has done the hard work, of course – oil drums with wood fires in to give us points to line up on as we take off. I’ve done it before and it works.”
Rupert was happy with that answer; if Tommy said that it would work, he had no further query.
“We will fly at one thousand feet in a direct line to the target, and have the advantage that we will be coming out of the west, where the sky will be darker. Two minutes from the target and the Flights will form up to my left, in line abreast. I will fire a red Very
to give the timing. It won’t be noticed from the ground, there are flares all over the place every night along the lines. We will dive together, so that we won’t be passing through each other’s bomb bursts. My Flight will aim for this line of machine-guns. We will carry Hales Bombs and incendiaries.”
He pointed to his sketch, showed exactly where he hoped to bomb.
“Rupert, you have these guns – I think they are field artillery. Hundred-pounders for you.”
“Got them, Tommy.”
“Mike, these marks here look as if they might be ammunition dumps, first reserve stuff. Try for them. Mixture of hundred-pounders and incendiaries.”
Captain Prentice peered and nodded.
“John, this seems to be a trench line – the Army ain’t clear about it, but that’s what they think. Fill it with Hales Bombs, anyway.”
Captain Smythe-Smythe could see no difficulty in that task.
“Having bombed, climb to four thousand, turn to starboard and get the hell out of it. Directly home.”
“Do we know anything about Archie, Tommy?”
“The Army has told me nothing, Rupert. I would assume the normal allocation of guns we have seen elsewhere.”
Noah took over.
“We shall take off immediately after you, in our Flights. We now have four Flights, thanks to the presence of Captain Fermor who joined us today.”
Captain Fermor, noticeable for the size of his walrus moustache and very little else, they thought, stood, nodded and sat again.
“We shall climb to four thousand initially. My Flight will provide low cover at one thousand, descending as we reach Hill 37. The other three will respond to circumstances – a free hand, gentlemen. When the bombers return, we follow.”
It seemed very simple, a model to be followed in future.
Pot stood again.
“The bar closes at eight tonight, gentlemen, and your servants will wake you for four o’clock. Good luck.”
Smivvels was cleaning the Colt automatics when Tommy returned, cold sober, to his room.
“Been sat in the trunk these six months, sir. Loaded and ready, sir. I made the arrangements and you can put them in the holsters in the cockpit, sir.”
“Why?”
“Good luck, sir. You always been carrying these, sir, whenever you got out of a scrape of some sort. You need ‘em, sir.”
“I hope not. I wonder if that old elephant gun is still sculling about?”
“Went down with the American gentleman, Joe, sir. Christmas time, sir, so I heard. He did a pair of Albatroses one day and thought he might get three the next. He didn’t.”
“A short life and busy. He must have had a score when he went.”
“Twenty-five, they said, sir. In a camp in Germany, so they said, a bit burned, but not too bad. Managed to get out when he hit the ground.”
“He’ll see the end of the war then. Lucky chap!”
Smivvels snorted, he had no patience with doom and gloom.
“It ain’t luck, sir. Some of it is, out of course. But you got you ‘ave the right sort of knowhow too. And the proper planes, and stuff. I’ll just stick these in the cockpit, sir.”
Tommy grunted and went to bed. As always, he slept quickly and untroubled, waking refreshed in the morning. He had noticed that pilots who started to sleep badly soon went down – premonitions, he supposed.
He ate breakfast, manfully – the CO had to set an example. He called for extra toast and another pot of coffee, loudly, so that the others would see his appetite was unimpaired – no worries at his table!
He shoved his head outside – a warm late spring morning, clear skies and a light wind, unusually from the east and sure to stay dry.
“Perfect, Terence! What more could we ask for?”
The Adjutant scowled; he did not like mornings, thought nine o’clock too early to rise. Half past four was last night, as far as he was concerned.
“The fire pots are ready, Tommy. Soaked the wood in petrol last night so it will catch and burn high quickly.”
“Excellent! Ah, we are honoured – here comes Pot.”
Colonel Kettle also had no love for the dawn. He scowled.
“How in hell can you drink coffee at this time of day, Tommy? Give me indigestion all morning.”
“Ah, good morning to you, sir! Are we feeling at our brightest and best this fine May morning? Too much dancing around the Maypole yesterday, perhaps?”
“Shut up, Tommy! It’s too early in the morning.”
Poacher Denham made his way outside, starting to sing.
“Wake me early in the morning, Mother,
For I shall be Queen of the May…”
He broke into a run as pilots looked for heavy objects to throw.
“Good tenor, that lad! What song is that?”
Tommy shook his head.
Noah shook his, but in dismay at their ignorance.
“Music-hall, you ignorant peasants! Tearing at the heart-strings, a single violin, the bedroom scene on stage, little girl dying of consumption and singing in a faint thread of a voice to her grieving Mama… Used to get the old dears wiping at their eyes, thinking of their own dead girls, or their sisters – every family lost children. That meant they couldn’t see the hands dipping in their bags and running. Used to love that song, guaranteed a lump of fried fish each that night for me and my brother.”
They stared, dumbfounded, wondering just how much, if at all, he was pulling their legs.
“I forget, sometimes, Noah.”
“I don’t, Tommy. Not ever.”
“Heard anything from your brother?”
“He’s lucky. Caught a Blighty one in February. Came out of hospital last week, according to the last letter. Thinks he’ll be discharged as he can’t use his left arm fully. I’ve told Lucy and she’ll see what can be arranged for him. He made corporal and should be able to find a decent job.”
It was a different world, Tommy thought, and he commonly forgot that Noah had for years been part of it. That was for another day, however, they had work to do. He made a show of looking at his watch and rose from the table, leading the ceremonial parade to the latrines.
“Shake three times, gentlemen,” he called, received the ritual reply.
“More than that’s playing with it!”
They walked silently to the planes and peered at them before stepping up to their cockpits.
“All ready, Sergeant Devon?”
A difficult man to get to know, Tommy mused. No nickname, no informality, but perfectly friendly and good at the job. He didn’t quite fit in, probably because of his anomalous background. He wondered just who Devon’s parents had been, or still were, for that matter. To business, no time for idle speculation.
He called for the start, listened to the engine for the few seconds it took to warm up. The mechanics would have been working on the machine all night, would have run the engine up for him as they made their final checks on oil pressure.
The oil drums lit up and Tommy led the squadron out, the Flights forming on each other and taking off in sequence, all highly efficiently. He was pleased with the way the boys had come on – they showed well, had made great efforts to learn and to perform as he wanted. There was a good chance that many of them would live.
A thousand feet, not too bumpy before the sun had had time to warm the air. The sky growing lighter in the east, still almost black behind them – perfect for surprise. He could see the target now, the ridge giving a simple recognition. He checked the clock on the panel against his watch; both agreed on three minutes to go.
He spotted the Nieuports closing, one Flight low, the other three climbing hard.
He fired the red flare and began his dive towards his aiming point. There was a rattle of machine-gun fire, then more bursts. He looked around, trying to keep his attention on his aiming as well.
The sky above him was suddenly full, a great mob of planes twisting and turning, taking snap shots. Sergeant Devon opened fire w
ith his twin Lewises.
“Thirty of them. More. The Nieuports are in trouble!”
That was their job in this raid, to keep the trouble to themselves and give the DH4s a clear run. Twenty seconds on a straight run…
The ground suddenly exploded, a mass of machine-guns at point-blank range.
The plane shuddered under hits from two or three guns; out of the corner of his eye Tommy saw four separate explosions, his bombers going down in pieces. He held his line, pulled the release and tried to climb away.
The plane refused to rise, too much damaged. The engine was coughing. He pressed the trigger on the Vickers – going out fighting, he thought. Sergeant Milligan had loaded Brock, he saw – he could do some damage. Devon was silent, hit he presumed. The ground was coming up fast. He would have gone in already had he not been flying down slope. He stopped firing, must be close to the attacking soldiers, if any had got across the mud. He switched off and made a last attempt to heave the nose up before he crashed.
Skidding, clattering, bouncing downhill and into deep mud, wings shattering. A final crunch and splash and stopped. Snatching at the lap belt, grabbing the Colts that Smivvels had insisted on – an unlikely man to be psychic, he thought. He put them in his pockets and heaved himself to his feet, bruised and sore but whole. Devon was covered in blood, but was moving, grabbing at the Lewises and using them to pull himself up.
“Get out, sir! Run! I’m going nowhere. Some in the legs and two low down in the belly. They’re not hurting yet – which ain’t the best of news, I suspect! Get out!”
Devon swung the Lewises slowly to his left.
“Company coming. Get out on the bloody right. Go!”
Tommy rolled over the cockpit coaming, onto the stubs of the wing and down into the mud that had saved their necks as they hit. He could waddle through it, he found. Devon opened fire, sweeping the guns in an arc, probably unable to aim straight and doing all he could. There was a crackle of rifle fire in return.
Tommy crouched over and made his way to a belt of barbed wire, spotting a pair of red tags that marked the way through for raiding parties going out. He had been told that there were always zig-zag passages discreetly marked by painted stakes that could be seen from one side only. Marks, he thought, that was it, Captain Marks talking about the nights when he had taken wiring parties out in the earlier days of the war. He dropped as machine-gun fire scythed across the track, not knowing if it was aimed at him or at attacking soldiers or at Sergeant Devon. He found a slightly lower patch in the mud and curled up, making as small a target as he could. He heard Devon’s Lewises again, followed by an explosion that he thought might be a grenade. He peered cautiously, picked out flames where the plane had been.
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 9
