He scanned Hill 37 as the light strengthened, counted seven aircraft wrecked, wondered how many he could not see.
The sky was empty now, cleared suddenly of all activity. He doubted that any of the Nieuports had survived. There must have been two full Jastas in that ambush. He wondered if this chap Richthofen had been there – not that it made any difference. They had been waiting, had known they were coming at dawn. Extra Archie as well, all set up and ready to kill.
He rolled over the nearest hummock of mud and grass and then slithered along the narrow gap between the coils of wire. No shots were fired at him. It was possible, he supposed, that feet moving in and out, scouting and mending damage caused by shell bursts, had worn a slightly lower pathway, sufficient to cover a crawling man.
He kept moving, suspecting that if he did not he would eventually be seen and shot.
The apron of wire was about thirty yards wide, and he knew that no-man’s-land was another hundred yards beyond. He guessed that if he tried to wait the better part of sixteen hours for full dark he would be spotted and machine-gunned. He must try to crawl from one patch of cover to another.
This had been farming land, once upon a time, might one day be recovered, in another generation, perhaps. There was a hump of bricks, two feet high, the remains of a shed, a cattle byre probably. There seemed to be a trace leading towards it, as if it was in use, perhaps. An advanced observation point? He pulled out a Colt, held it in his hand as he slid through the mud – the smelly mud, full of what else he could imagine, but did not want to guess. He seemed to remember someone saying something about snipers, hoped he would not become a target for one tucked away behind the British lines. The attack had broken down, had obviously, from the lack of bodies, not reached this far, so it would be business as normal in the lines.
Ten feet short of the brick heap it occurred to him that the Germans had snipers too. He stopped for a second, decided he had to get to cover, tried not to squelch as he crawled.
He could see into a sort of den in the brickwork, dug out a little, lined with a groundsheet. There was a boot and the bottom of a leg just in sight, as of a man lying sprawled in firing position. He did not move. Perhaps he was dead. He twitched, moved the foot an inch, a flea-bite, perhaps; all of the front-line troops were covered in fleas and lice, had to go through delousing stations when they came out of the line, one of the routines the newspapers never mentioned.
Tommy stretched his pistol hand out in front of him, gripping with the other hand in the way he had been taught, remembering that bloody sergeant at Bisley - ‘Push an automatic, pull on a revolver’. He squeezed the trigger, saw the heavy round plough through the neck of the boot and the leg, heard the howl, saw the other leg jerk into sight and fired three more rounds. He heaved up onto to all fours and dived into the pile, put another round into the body of the writhing sniper, followed with a make-sure into the head and then huddled down in case of irate machine-gun fire.
He had not been spotted. He rolled out of the front of the hide. He might have stayed there till dark, he supposed, but the man had fouled himself as he died and the stench was intolerable. The remains of a stone wall ran obliquely across no-man’s-land, six inches to a foot high and offering a little cover. It was worth a try, he thought, forty yards to the British wire, and a pair of shell holes to dive into if he was seen.
“Damned if I’m staying here. That poor sod’s relief must turn up soon after dark and wouldn’t be happy to find him like that and me close to.”
Fifteen minutes on his belly, swimming almost through the mud that seemed to be thicker here, as if the wall formed a channel for the rain water, and other liquids off the hill.
He reached the wire and found himself stuck. The job of barbed wire was to keep Germans out. It did the same for downed fliers.
“Oi! Soldier!”
A voice calling from the trench line.
“Major Stark. RFC!”
“Go left, ten yards.”
Tommy obediently crawled, found a slight dip, a pool of water.
“Wait.”
He had no choice, could see no place to go.
He heard rattling noises, saw a section of wire heaved to one side at the lip of the trench.
“Don’t move yet. To your left. You see the post? A yard away, in the water. Go to it and turn round it on the left side and there’s a path coming back half-right. Got it? Crawl to the post now. When I shout, get up and run.”
There was a coughing explosion, a trench mortar, firing smoke rounds. Four of them in half a minute of rapid fire.
“Run!”
Tommy hauled himself upright and took off along the narrow lane, feeling the two-inch barbs nicking him as he pumped his arms. He fell over the lip of the trench, was grabbed and pulled flat by waiting soldiers. A pair of machine-guns began to probe through the smoke as he dropped.
An aged, but very young, captain was waiting for him.
“Always takes them thirty seconds to get an aim when we do that. We change the location of the paths through the wire every couple of nights, just to amuse them. Stark, did you say?”
“Major Stark, Eighty-One Squadron. From what I saw, I might be the whole of the squadron now.”
“You took a hammering, certainly, sir. We were waiting to go over the top, saw them ambush you, knew they would be waiting for us. The General called off the attack.”
“There would have been a regiment of bloody machine-guns waiting for you. At least he had some sense. You see that little pile of bricks where I came from? It’s bigger on the other side. There’s a sniper in there.”
“Well done, sir. We’ve been looking for that bastard for days now. We heard shots, that’s how come we spotted you. Mud colour the way you are, you weren’t easy to see. I’ll put in a report to the colonel, sir. We’ll try to get the artillery to drop a few shells there, destroy that hide.”
Tommy found his legs were trembling, that he could barely walk. They half-carried him to the officers’ dug-out, sat him on the floor against a wall and gave him first-aid in the form of a teacup half full of Navy Rum.
“Kill or cure, old chap! You won’t need a plane to fly home after a shot of that stuff. Keeps us going, I can tell you. You’re bleeding, did you know?”
“Your barbed wire is bloody sharp, sir.”
“Meant to be. I’ll get you back to our Aid Post. They’ll want to clean you up – not wishing to be offensive, old chap, but you stink!”
“That’s what an hour of wading through shit does for you! Thinking on it, everything flows downhill, and I was underneath the, leavings shall we say, of a thousand Jerries.”
They laughed, and escorted him away down the communications trench and eventually to open ground, out of sight half a mile away.
The Aid Post ordered him to strip, washed him down, scrubbed him in carbolic soap and painted all of his cuts and scratches bright scarlet, telling him that no bugs could survive that stuff. They put his uniform and flying coat into a sack which they handed to an orderly to carry, dressing him in clean khaki underwear, trousers and jacket, of which they had a large supply.
“Launder it up and at least the men have something clean to wear on the way back to Blighty, sir. Get plenty of new stuff in every day.”
“I suppose you do. Years since this last happened to me. I crashed into a pig farm, back in 1910; they wouldn’t let me inside the hospital until they had hosed me down.”
“Not a good habit to get into, sir.”
“I don’t know – if you’re going to crash, better into something soft!”
A short walk to the roadhead beyond which traffic was not permitted, for attracting artillery attention, and they put him into a small lorry. Another hour and he was dropped off outside the Mess at St Rigobert, the smelly sack at his feet.
Noah limped out of the Mess, stared disapprovingly at his dress, told him he wasn’t coming into the Mess pretending to be a private soldier.
“They knew we were
coming. Some bastard in the Army shouted off his mouth. Better get changed, Tommy, there’s going to be an inquest into this one!”
“Who did we lose, Noah?”
“Who did we keep? Poacher Denham came home, claimed three. I managed one myself. Lost seven of mine. Just nine of us left. And six usable buses. I bent mine landing – wheel shot off, didn’t know it till I came down. One broken little toe!”
“And for my lot, Noah?”
“Three came home, Tommy. One of them with a dead observer. Now that you’re back, it’s twelve pilots and fourteen observers. I presume your Devon is a goner?”
“Shot to bits. Legs and belly. Stayed in the cockpit firing his Lewises while I ran for it.”
Noah said nothing, for lack of a useful reply.
Tommy changed, passed the Colts back to Smivvels.
“Clean ‘em and reload the clip, man. I’d have been a goner without them.”
In fact, he thought, he would simply have used his Service .455, but there was no need to say so. Smivvels would be proud of himself for ever.
“Uniforms are in the sack I dropped outside. They’re covered in shit. Literally. Wash ‘em or throw ‘em away – whichever makes sense. There’s five gold sovereigns in the pocket that I keep in case I need to buy help from civilians on the other side of the lines. I lost them when I crashed.”
Smivvels smiled his thanks – there was no need to speak unlawful words, it being forbidden for an officer to give money to an Other Ranks.
Tommy was tired, knackered, out on his feet; he needed to go to bed, to rest; he walked slowly down the corridor and up the stairs to Colonel Kettle’s offices.
“You were ambushed, Tommy.”
“Someone opened his mouth, sir. It can’t have been here – there was no leave during the few days that counted. None of ours were off camp.”
Pot sent for Noah.
“Did any of your pilots leave the field in the past week, Noah?”
“None, sir. We all stayed here, the weather being good enough for patrols every day.”
“Then it was at Boom Trenchard’s HQ or at General Peabody-Smirk’s that there was a leak.”
“No other possibility, sir.”
“I have already spoken to Boom and told him that. I’ll have a word with Maurice Baring in a minute, reinforce the message. For the while, what do we do?”
“Not much, sir.” Tommy sat down, slowly. “I have neither planes nor men left.”
“I have men for two Flights, sir. Given planes, we can be active tomorrow.”
“Jesus! Tommy, who survived of yours?”
“I don’t know yet, sir. I have not spoken to them yet.”
“Do so now. I shall try to get some orders.”
Rupert Fotheringham was sat in the Mess, staring at a whisky. The glass was still full.
“Tommy, they told me you had walked out. I flew back. Lost my observer. Two of the boys made it as well, Cartmell and Hall. Cartmell’s observer says that he flew straight in and bombed his target at ten feet and hedge-hopped his way out again; he claims that he used the Lewises on a line of machine-guns as he went. I believe him.”
“What about Hall?”
“He turned back. Landed with his bombs aboard.”
“Where are they?”
Rupert nodded across the Mess to two figures, sat at different tables.
“Cartmell, Alfie, isn’t it?”
Rupert nodded.
“Alfie! Would you come over here please?”
Cartmell came slowly across, walking like an old man, stood to attention.
“Sit down, please. Tell me the story.”
Halting, stumbling, obviously in shock, the bare bones quickly told.
“Have you reported to Twittock yet?”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“Well done. Very well done! We will not be flying again today, that is a certainty. Have a drink and get some sleep. I am proud of you.”
Rupert made seconding noises, took the boy to the bar.
“Second Lieutenant Hall. Here, now!”
Hall marched across, came to attention.
“At ease. Tell me what happened, before I read the Intelligence Officer’s report.”
“I turned back, sir. I decided the attack could not be made.”
“Go to your quarters and do not leave except under escort. Consider yourself under arrest.”
“Sir.”
“Mess Sergeant!”
The sergeant came at the run.
“Escort this officer and take his sidearm.”
“Sir.”
Tommy made his way back to Pot.
“Just spoken to my three, sir. MC to Rupert and to Alfie Cartmell, and MM to Cartmell’s observer, sir. Strongest citation we can manage. Cartmell to be promoted to full lieutenant, sir. The boy did all that could ever be asked of a man.”
“Boom has said that he will put any recommendations through, Tommy. What of your other man?”
“Hall. He lost his bottle, sir. Turned away and brought his bombs back. He, I quote, ‘decided that the attack could not be made’. He is in his quarters under arrest, sir.”
“I don’t want a court-martial, Tommy. We don’t need that. I shall LMF him, send him to the rear as a private soldier.”
An officer stripped of his rank for Lack of Moral Fibre could demand a court-martial to clear his name. Should the court find against him, then he could, and probably would, be shot for cowardice in action. Very few contested the ruling and, being an administrative process, it could go unreported in the wider world.
“I shall keep his observer, of course, sir. None of his fault.”
The squadrons remained grounded for a week, waiting for orders and action from on high.
The Army’s Provost Branch commenced an investigation into the leak of information and rapidly discovered Lieutenant Peabody-Smirk’s visit to La Paloma Blanca. With the enthusiastic assistance of the French Deuxieme Bureau, the premises were raided and confessions were obtained that showed some of the staff to be agents in the pay of German Intelligence. Investigation was unable to prove directly that the lieutenant had given specific information relating to the raid; he could be shown to have been in compromising circumstances, but no more.
Maurice Baring telephoned Tommy with the details.
“The boy certainly shot his mouth off, as well as other parts of his anatomy! We could not get a conviction, for sure. He has, with his father’s whole-hearted approval, been transferred to a battalion in the line and may be expected to undertake his full share of perilous duties. He has also been given treatment for an outbreak of pubic lice – he caught the crabs as a result of his adventuring.”
“Twelve of my pilots caught bullets, Maurice.”
“I know, Tommy. It is the way the system works. Boom has informed Army that there will be no further adventures in mutual cooperation unless and until they can guarantee confidentiality. He is not happy.”
“Pity. It was a good idea. It makes sense for us to raid specific targets, Maurice, rather than randomly bomb whatever takes our fancy.”
“Agreed. But…”
“As you say.”
“The decorations are through, Tommy. You may inform Lieutenant Cartmell of his promotion and his MC and his observer’s MM. Rupert Fotheringham gets his as well. Hall’s observer has been made Flight Sergeant – he did his best. Noah’s Denham has his MC to go with the MM – makes him a rarity. Your two squadrons are to go to the rear, to reequip and make up your numbers. You will send yourselves and the pilots on leave and return at the beginning of June to pick up your new aircraft. Colonel Kettle will have the details by this afternoon.”
Bursting Balloons
Chapter Five
“Change of plans, gentlemen. You are required to report to London, to attend a Court of Inquiry into the losses of the Second of May.”
Colonel Kettle’s voice was studiously uninflected, gave nothing away.
“What and who, sir?”
“Good question, Tommy. General Trenchard supported the idea of working with the Army to determine a target and to cooperate in the attack upon it. The plan failed. If it may be shown that the very concept was flawed, then Trenchard loses a round in the most important battle, the fight between him and Henderson.”
“Oh, I see! I had thought it might be dealing with something insignificant, like the deaths of a dozen of my pilots, and seven of Noah’s.”
“Good Lord, no, young man! Who cares about the deaths of a few airmen? Plenty more where they came from!”
“Can I take the Colts with me, sir?”
“No. Tempting though it might be, you must not. You will answer all questions politely and calmly, and will at some stage just mention that you and Rupert and Alfie managed to hit your assigned targets. Intelligence has obtained Jerry’s reports again – I wish I knew how they do that! They confirm that they lost nearly one hundred men to your bombing, and eight machine-guns and a single field piece and a day’s stock of artillery rounds. They comment that had all sixteen aircraft managed to bomb then the losses would have been ‘proportionately greater’. Noah, you will not comment on the fact that under attack by an estimated twenty-eight Albatroses your squadron lost seven planes but still managed to shoot down four; you will of course merely mention it.”
Tommy wrote the figures on a spare sheet of paper, tucked into his wallet.
“All very quiet and courteous, sir?”
“No raised voices, ever. Modesty when they ask how you got back – crawled through the mud, under the wire, spotting and killing a sniper as you went. Your observer, mortally wounded by machine-gun fire, stayed in the cockpit he could not leave, firing his Lewises to the last moment. Shot twice in the lower belly and in the legs as well, dying fast but fighting to the last.”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 10
