Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Good enough. Got to be a brave sort of bloke to say out loud that he lost his bottle. Is he Navy or one of us now?”

  “Transferred – but what that means, I don’t know. I’ll ask George to see what can be done.”

  They flew and attacked little clouds, taking position on them rather easily. Then they chased each other, which wasn’t so simple. On the third day both squadrons took off, separated to the south and west, well behind the lines, and then hunted each other; they landed each convinced that they had utterly destroyed the opposition.

  “All guns to be loaded at all times from now onwards, Lieutenant Moffat. The squadrons are now operational.”

  They told George to telephone HQ and ask for orders. He came into the Mess half an hour later.

  “Orders are to patrol, both squadrons together. Go north towards the Belgian sector in the first instance. The squadrons will be assigned to a Wing ‘very soon’.”

  Tommy shrugged, made the old response.

  “This year, next year…”

  “Sometime, never,” Noah finished.

  “Dawn patrol, Noah?”

  “Four o’clock in the morning? Sod that!”

  In the absence of a colonel to tell them otherwise, they announced breakfast for the civilised hour of seven o’clock, patrol to take off at eight-thirty. They assured each other that Jerry would not be in the air first thing in the morning, for knowing that there was no local opposition.

  “What heights, Noah?”

  “Twelve thousand and eight, at a guess. Most of the observation work is done even lower than eight thousand, so there’s a good chance Jerry will be hunting RE8s and BEs at around eight thou’ to dive down on them. One of us to mix it first, the other to do the Assyrian on them when they’re busy.”

  “I haven’t Assyrianed since I was a very little boy. Nurse said it was nasty.”

  “’The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold’, you illiterate peasant.”

  “Of course.”

  “Byron?”

  “Who does he play for?”

  “I give up! Ask Monkey.”

  “She knows nothing about sport.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “I knew we were well-matched.”

  Noah drew a deep breath, was thankful they had no audience.

  “What I was suggesting was that you will swan along with Ninety-Six at eight thousand feet in the hope of discovering Jerry up to no good. You having drawn his attention, I shall bring my lot in a dive through the middle, picking off everything loose, and then come back into the general fight.”

  “Sounds good. Why didn’t you say so? Vice versa in the afternoon?”

  “You’re on. Be interesting to see what the result is. Must remember to remind my lot to cock their guns as soon as we’re up.”

  “My lot are so bloody green they’re more likely to gun their cocks! I shall explain exactly what is meant.”

  They took their pilots out at eight thirty on the dot, explaining loudly that they must not be late.

  Ten minutes saw the squadron at eight thousand feet in four loose Flights of four – everyone getting into the action on the first day. Each plane was a hundred feet distant from the remainder of the Flight, in a box, two forward, the others behind and fifty feet higher. The Flights were arranged in the same way, the rear two some two hundred feet above the front pair. Tommy hoped that would allow them to cover each other and keep a good look out. Noah would be using a similar formation nearly a mile higher.

  They reached the trenches near Ypres, turned to the north and began to quarter the sky, hoping to spot their own planes and give them cover when they attracted the enemy.

  Second Lieutenant Peterson, replacement to Dickens, waved and pointed east of north, a little down. Tommy peered and spotted a gaggle of shapes, a dozen or more, too many to be observation machines. They were travelling along their own lines, Tommy thought, probably looking for photographic machines, appeared to be turning towards the squadron, a mile distant. He looked around, waved an arm high and pointed, turned towards the approaching fighters. At a combined speed of more than two hundred miles an hour they covered the intervening distance in little more than fifteen seconds.

  The Jasta came straight in, confident they could perform better in climb and turn and bank, and if need be overhaul the British planes as they fled. At the last moment they began to climb, to avoid the first attack and get onto the Camels’ tails; that was the point at which they began to realise they faced a new machine.

  The Albatros nearest Tommy was painted a bright green and had a streamer on its tail, normally the sign of the commanding officer. Tommy tugged the Camel up into a faster climb and pulled the control lever to starboard, snapping inside the Albatros with a clear view of its belly at one hundred feet. He fired a five second burst, watching his twin streams of Brock carve the plane open; it fell, shedding a wing, finished. He looked about him for the next.

  Peterson was attached to the tail of a blue machine, was ripping it to pieces – far too long a burst, wasteful! Abbott was circling with another, slowly coming onto its tail, not yet in shooting position, not pushing his Camel to its limits, too cautious. He could not spot Colne, but he did see a brown Albatros trying to place itself behind Abbott.

  A tight turn, nose down, onto the brown plane, a hundred feet distant and another short burst, directly into the cockpit, pilot falling over his controls and into a spin, slumped, dead already.

  He could hear machine-guns all around, a dozen individual, whirling fights, all broken up as Noah brought Ninety-Seven down and sent the Albatroses off, diving away back to the east, forced to escape, knowing defeat.

  Tommy looked all round, could discover nothing to fight, pulled up into a climb back to eight thousand. He fired a red flare to call the squadron back, counted them in. Himself plus thirteen. He had instructed any man injured or with a damaged plane to return to the field, hoped the missing pair might be doing that.

  He took the squadron further north, seeing nothing, then came back and led them a distance to the south before deciding it was time to go home.

  One of the missing Camels was home, already parked up; Abbott, Tommy saw. The second was being wheeled into the hangar, canvas flapping.

  Captain Bowdler listened to their patrol reports and noted their claims and made no comment. He compared figures with Noah’s man, and sat down to establish confirmation of the scores, a kill given only if one or more other pilots had also seen it. They noted in their reports that the German aircraft were gaudily painted in different colours, unlike their own uniform colour schemes.

  “Either a way of allowing each pilot to identify himself or they are running short of paint, can’t find enough of one colour for a whole Jasta.”

  They put together a joint report for HQ and individually for the Squadron Diaries.

  “Attacked by twenty-four of which they certainly killed eleven; probables, three; damaged; six. They scored hits on not fewer than twenty in total, and destroyed the Jasta leader. That should serve to announce that times have changed!”

  The pilots had compared notes and between them were certain of more than thirty kills; they thought that they must have been attacked by far more than two dozen Albatroses.

  “Eleven? Bloody eleven?”

  There was a roar of outrage; Captain Bowdler tried to calm them.

  “There was an Albatros painted bright scarlet with a blue tail. Just one with that mix.”

  “Yes. I shot him to bits.”

  “I got him.”

  “I was on his tail, put half a belt into him.”

  “I put a dozen rounds into his cockpit!”

  The four pilots started to argue with each other; each then slowly began to wonder if he simply had not seen the other three. If that was so, then what else might he not have seen? The better pilots realised that they had been blind to everything other than their target – and that might kill them on another day. The majority of the pil
ots, however, still knew that they were right – there must have been other scarlet and blue Albatroses.

  Bowdler tried to placate them.

  “All four of you attacked that one Albatros. One quarter of a kill each, gentlemen! Flying so fast, taking quick shots, it is small wonder that you didn’t see each other.”

  Privately, Captain Bowdler was amazed that they had not killed each other. The two missing planes had returned damaged to the field and Sooty was certain that one had been hit by Brock rounds; he said they left a characteristic scorch on the canvas.

  Tommy tried to make peace.

  “Eleven ain’t bad, gentlemen. That’s a Jasta that will be sat licking its wounds for a day or two.”

  There was some indignation from his pilots, backed by the Flight Commanders, Hell-For speaking for them.

  “Easy for you to say, Tommy! You know that you got two. Puts you up to twenty. Maybe you should sit in the rear Flight next time, give us a chance at the game.”

  “We’ll try again this afternoon. You’ll all get your opportunity. What do you think about the Flight formation?”

  They hummed and hawed and tried to express themselves clearly, which was not easy – they had not been selected for a facility with words and instinctively mistrusted the smooth-tongued. Twenty minutes produced the tentative conclusion that the box was good for observation on patrol, but not so convenient in an actual fight.

  “Best get into line abreast as we attack, Tommy?”

  “Try it this afternoon. Front pair to slow a fraction so that the rear two can come in left and right of them. If that works, well and good. If it don’t we’ll try it differently. We’ll talk it through after the next scrap. Keep your eyes open, see what you think.”

  They discovered that afternoon that the German generals were no brighter than the British. The survivors of the morning’s fight had gone home and reported being attacked and far outclassed by a new machine and had been disbelieved. They had been taken by surprise, had been careless, still asleep; there were no new machines other than the big Bristol Fighters and the SE5as; if the machines that had attacked them were rotary engined then they were no more than the old Pups. As for twin guns – the Pups did not carry them, so they were singles.

  A second Jasta was sent out to the same part of the lines and was sternly instructed to get their act together and do a damned sight better than the fools of the morning. Noah led Ninety-Seven in a climb into them from the left, turning in fast and hard while Tommy brought Ninety-Six in a diving turn onto their tails as they broke from the initial onslaught.

  Hell-For and Henry led their Flights through the formation and carried on a couple of miles to the east, hoping to pick up survivors making a break for home. Between them they swarmed two damaged Albatroses down, adding to the total. The two squadrons lost one plane.

  Tommy was called to the telephone before dinner, was almost deafened by the triumphant roars of Boom Trenchard.

  “One lost… four damaged… Camels! Two Jastas… smashed! You won’t… have the chance… to kill… so many… in a day… again. They will… be cautious. Just what… we want! The air… is ours! Tell… your squadrons… I am… proud of… them!”

  Three days of summer rain followed, the thunder-showers not breaking up until late evening and preventing any flying. Four new pilots arrived by road and the ferry pilots risked taking off before dawn to bring new machines in before the first rain fell of a morning. They were at full strength and ready to repeat their successes when the skies cleared.

  They decided to patrol separately on this occasion, to spread their presence rather than concentrate on the one part of their sector.

  Half an hour along the lines – the air empty. Tommy turned due east, the westerly wind pushing him across and into the German rear. The anti-aircraft guns were busy, more of them than ever and well-sighted, clustering explosions around the squadron and responding quickly to changes in height. He led the squadron up to ten thousand and then to twelve before they became more inaccurate.

  Peterson, who obviously had exceptional sight, waved and pointed high to a formation at least three thousand feet above them. Tommy was already having difficulty breathing, wondered how they managed at fifteen thousand. He waved back to Peterson, turned to port, edging into a northerly track and dropping a little in height, innocently pottering along, he hoped, quite unaware of the ambushers above him. Another gentle turn, putting a little of west into their course, and the planes above put their noses down into the attack, swooping fast to come onto their tails. Tommy punched his right arm high and snapped into the sharpest climbing right-hand turn he could risk.

  Round hard, underneath and behind the diving planes, crossing them at three hundred yards, out of effective range – only the most brilliant, or luckiest of shots, would allow for that distance and deflection. Still climbing and turning hard, hauling the control lever to the limits and onto their tails, closing the range, the Camels a good ten miles an hour faster as they dived in.

  Tommy picked out a green machine, the nearest to him and worked onto its tail. It banked hard left and he cut the corner, out-turning it, opened fire as it heaved to the right. He closed far faster on the right turn, gave a brief burst at thirty feet, ripping open the petrol tank, a ball of flame.

  He looked about, saw Abbott with an Albatros trying to close on him and diving away instead of turning.

  “Bloody fool! A word with that young man!”

  Tommy cut across the curve, pushing the Camel to its limits and closing easily, onto the tail, looking quickly behind and about him. Empty sky – he raised his nose a little and opened fire, just in front of the Albatros, let his nose sink so that the exploding bullets walked back down the engine and into the cockpit. Noah’s old trick, still working even at forty miles an hour faster.

  Two down. He pulled back up towards the fight, saw the action suddenly finish, planes scattering. Three minutes from beginning to end, the only sign of activity trails of smoke going down. He looked around for Abbott, could not see him, hoped he had obeyed orders and gone home. Any single aircraft was to immediately return to the field – there was no future to being alone on the wrong side of the lines. He obeyed his own orders.

  There were Camels landing as he arrived and three at least taxying in; he picked a clear stretch of field and dropped into it, pulled across to the hangars and switched off. A count said twelve down, plus himself; he glanced back – one more taxying, two touching down, side by side. All home. It couldn’t last – there must be losses again, but it was pleasant for the while.

  He spoke to the Intelligence Officer and wandered across to his office.

  “George! Would you find Mr Abbott and ask him to see me, please.”

  “Will you want me as a witness, Tommy?”

  Tommy realised that George expected a court-martial.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “Just a whisper. I don’t think it was for my ears, but Peterson asked Colne if he was happy that Abbott was good to go.”

  Tommy had not met up with the expression.

  “Horse-racing, some thoroughbreds ain’t quite willing to put everything into it. They say they ain’t good to go, and generally sell them off as riding horses, gentlemen’s hacks.”

  Not quite yellow, but not prepared to push all the way; no use to the squadron. Tommy nodded decisively.

  “Yes, George. Come in with him.”

  Abbott was white-faced, lips tight, when he came in, knowing he was in trouble.

  “Tell me, Mr Abbott, are you happy as a pilot in this squadron?”

  It was an unpromising beginning; Abbott wilted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you do when you were attacked this afternoon, Mr Abbott?”

  “I used the Camel’s speed to avoid the attacker, sir. With the intention of then coming back to the fight, sir.”

  “What do you know of the Camel’s ability to turn, Mr Abbott, compared with, say, the Albatro
s?”

  “Ah… the Camel can turn harder to the right, sir, but right turns are dangerous, so it’s better to avoid them if they are not necessary.”

  George winced, took out a notepad and scribbled down the actual words.

  “Necessary… An interesting word, Mr Abbott. Tell me now, what do you think your job is as the pilot of a Camel?”

  “Obey orders, sir; not get shot down; attack German aircraft when possible.”

  “Possible… another intriguing word. Was it impossible to turn inside the Albatros that was on your tail this afternoon? Was it not possible to turn to the attack and kill it?”

  Abbott breathed a sigh of relief, knew he was on strong ground here.

  “No, sir. Better to get clear first and then choose a better opportunity to fight. No sense in taking a risk, sir.”

  “I see. I was in two minds when I called you in here, Abbott. I was not sure whether to give you advice and a second chance, or whether to throw you off my squadron. I am still undecided, but the question now is whether I simply put you out of the gate or instead call a court-martial on you for cowardice. I strongly suspect that you are yellow, Abbott – and if that is the case then I should not simply send you to another squadron, to let them down. It would be better for the RFC to see you stripped of your commission and sent off as LMF, but it might be more honest to see you shot as a coward. What do you say?”

  “It’s not cowardice to refuse to take foolish risks, sir!”

  “What is foolish? You could have fought this afternoon. You chose to run. I don’t like courts-martial – they are too casual in finding officers guilty, in my opinion. I shall send you off to the doctor at HQ – he’s a good man and will decide whether you are unfit to fly or if you should be disgraced. You will never return to this squadron, whatever he decides. If you fly again, it will not be in a fighter plane. Now, go away before I change my mind; I am being generous to you, too much so, I suspect. George, please get on the telephone to the Medical Officer at HQ and tell him that you are sending this gentleman to his care. Then put him in a tender with his personal possessions and get rid of him.”