“Good God! You must be the youngest majors in the Army.”
“I don’t think so, sir. I have heard of a Brigadier, in fact, of my age. Living brings promotion, very often, sir. Noah, of course, has done far better than me.”
The lined old face showed curiosity – or some expression other than its normal vagueness. The old gentleman still had a full head of hair, not even a sprinkling of grey, a rich chestnut, out of keeping with the rest of his sagging face and body. Tommy hoped he would do as well when he reached fifty, if he did. Ponsonby had been an active horseman, no doubt would still sit tall in the saddle, but he was aging fast.
Noah smiled his best, spoke his politest.
“Ranker, sir! Entered the Engineers as a boy soldier, transferred to the RFC at the earliest possible moment, was made a mechanic, became a sergeant and took the opportunity to fly when it came available. In August ’14 it was impossible to replace the losses of pilots from England, so I was made a pilot and Flying Officer. Then I became a lieutenant after a successful patrol and things seemed to progress from there.”
“Good God! I don’t know that I have ever heard the like, haw-haw! A ranker! Well! It would not have done in the old Lilywhite 6th, you know – never had them, wouldn’t have let one inside the Mess. Tell me, how do you live, Major Arkwright? You can’t have much of an income.”
“The RFC has flying pay, sir. It doubles our pay. Like almost all of the pilots, I live on my pay.”
“Live on your pay? How does one do that? How do you buy your chargers?”
“The RFC supplies them, sir. A Camel at the moment.”
“No, not that, on parade, man! You must have your officer’s charger for Ceremonial Duty.”
“No, sir. The RFC has no horses on the establishment. Indeed, sir, I much doubt that many of my pilots have ever ridden. Of course, as you must have noticed, we don’t have parades in the RFC, except Pay Parade for the Other Ranks. No sergeant-majors either, apart from the occasional Warrant Officer, who we normally dump.”
The old man slumped back in his chair, out of his depth, unable to comprehend such perversion of the military way of life.
“Don’t quite understand, you know, Major Arkwright. How did you get that VC, if you are not a gentleman born? Blue blood and heroics, you know, the two go together – you’re not a bastard, are you now? Some gentleman’s by-blow?”
Tommy collapsed, unable to keep a straight face any longer. Noah took a step forward, stood in front of him.
“Well, actually, Colonel Ponsonby, I do not know. My little brother and I lived on the streets, sir. I cannot remember my parents, though, of course, I presume I had a mother at least.”
“Must have done, Major, in the nature of things – must have a dam, and a sire too! Or, at least, horses do… It might be an explanation, you know. Worth looking into!”
“I’ll mention it to the Intelligence Officer, sir. He is very good at finding things out.”
“Good idea! Strange sort of chap, that one – are you sure he’s everything a man ought to be?”
“I understand he has a happy wife, sir.”
“Very peculiar, can’t make sense of it, myself. Never married, of course – you don’t in my regiment, you know, except for the colonel, if he really must. Still mustn’t keep you lads from your business. Go and score a few more, gentlemen!”
“He’s bloody mad, Noah!”
“I shall consult with my aristocratic Papa, Tommy. He will know. I like his wig.”
“Wig?”
“On his head? Hairy sort of thing?”
“Was it a wig? I was hoping to have as fine a head of hair as him at his age!”
“But you can! Go out and buy one. Didn’t you see when he shook his head in amazement? His head turned left but the wig still pointed forward. I don’t know what would happen if he made an about turn.”
“Impossible! He would have to acknowledge the existence of another direction – and that would be too difficult for the poor old chap. I wonder if they issued compasses in the cavalry?”
They returned to the hangars, waited for the first flights of the morning to return.
Hell-For came in, ran across shouting his amazement.
“They actually had Fokker Monoplanes, Tommy! The old E1, the Eindeckers! They put a Flight of six of them up, top cover for Halberstadts. Hardly fair game, I thought.”
“I presume that did not stop you from potting them, Hell-For.”
“Of course not – don’t be bloody daft! I gave them to the boys and took Knocker down with me to the Halberstadts. Picked up eleven between us! The boys took three each; I had two Halberstadts and Knocker got the other three. Best day’s shooting ever!”
Knocker was a lieutenant, transferred to the RFC from the Pay Corps – to the surprise of all. He refused to explain the origin of his nickname.
They besieged Nancy, bubbling over with delight, the young second-lieutenants so very proud of their achievement. Tommy joined them, offered his most formal congratulations.
“Three apiece for the new men – we can’t call you that any longer! We always used to have a Squadron Board up in the Mess, when last I was in single-seaters. I think we might just do that again. Not for us, but it will pass a message to any visitors who come through.”
They were much in favour – they might be a newly formed squadron, but they were no slouches when it came to fighting.
During the day it transpired that the Germans had put up every plane they possessed to protect their two-seaters. All were outdated, aircraft banished to the backwaters and now forced into front-line service, and incapable of surviving. They had been relegated when it had become clear that they could not live with the DH2s and FEs; now they had been trotted out to face the Camel, an even more superior fighter plane.
Every pilot in the two squadrons scored at least once; the lucky and the exceptionally aggressive picked up three. Lieutenant Perkins claimed, and was awarded, four.
Tommy made his second report of the day to Colonel Ponsonby, a few minutes before dinner.
“Some of the highest figures ever recorded, sir. The Camel is a very fine aircraft and will be the best for at least two more months, we are told. They tell us – Intelligence, that is – that both Fokker and Albatros have superior machines in development, and that the factories are being hurried to get them to the Front. There are Pfalz fighters as well, all due fairly soon. For the while, sir, we are the top dogs, and our figures show that fact. I have added a list, sir, of pilots due decorations for their actions.”
“What, these MC things? Not quite certain I approve, you know, Major Stark. Wasn’t the done thing to show off with medals and such in the Regiment, you know!”
Tommy had heard that some of the cavalry had always refused to put their men forward for decorations; they said that to be a member of the Regiment was all the honour any man needed.
“It is our habit, sir, to recognise our young men. Pilots are lone wolves, sir. They do not charge with squadron or troop – they fight singly, alone, without aid. They should be given the medals that are their only reward, and which are too often their parents’ sole consolation. On the Somme my squadron initially lost sixteen pilots and also two of their replacements, sir. The RFC is unique, sir, and its men deserve to be praised for all they do.”
Colonel Ponsonby did not like to be addressed in a firm tone; he capitulated.
“Very well – it is a different sort of war to any I have known. Seven Mentions in Despatches; three of these Military Crosses; no DSOs, I see.”
“No, sir. I am the sole major in the squadron and have earned no medals in the last week or two.”
“I suppose that man Arkwright will have a list as well. You know, Major Stark, I do think war should be the province of the gentleman, do not you?”
“No, sir, I do not. I have made arrangements, sir, for a pair of old two-seaters to be sent to us, and I believe Noah has done the same. It is our intention to give willing NCOs flyin
g training, sir. We will then post some to training fields in England, where they can be passed out and commissioned in the ordinary way. Others may fill in gaps in our ranks when they arise, and we will arrange battlefield commissions for them; it ain’t entirely lawful in King’s Regulations, sir, but it ain’t specifically forbidden.”
“I cannot approve, Major Stark!”
“That is your prerogative, sir. I shall not require your approval, merely your signature in the appropriate places.”
“But… I shan’t give it, haw-haw!”
“Fear not, sir. I shall have it written for you – there is always a clerk who is a fine hand with a pen, sir. Almost dinner time, sir. I’ll leave your copy of the reports on your desk, sir. Your sergeant will send your report to HQ, sir. By the way, sir, have you located staff officers, yet? It is normal for the Commander of a Wing to have a pair at least of lieutenants, perhaps a captain, as his aides.”
Colonel Ponsonby’s mind was diverted to this important matter; he wondered if he might not be able to land a lieutenant from the Brigade of Guards, to add a touch of class to the establishment. He accompanied Tommy downstairs and into the Mess, not changing for dinner as the last Flight had only just touched down, its pilots forced to eat in working dress. It would have been wrong to show the unfortunates up by changing his dress when they could not.
“Tell me, Major Stark, do you think we should dine-in on occasions?”
“No, sir. Most of the pilots do not have the appropriate dress, sir. It is the RFC rule for pilots on active service to leave their full dress behind in England. One trunk, sir, is the whole of the baggage entitlement, for ease of transferring pilots from one field to another.”
“One trunk? How does a man live from one trunk? I had twelve when I went out to South Africa, and had to buy new in Cape Town, for not wanting to show shabby, you know. Can’t wear a Dress Coat more than twice, not the thing, haw-haw!”
“The RFC is a new Corps, sir. New ways of doing things.”
“No. You’re wrong there, Major Stark. No way of doing new things in the Army, haw-haw!”
Nancy placed a message from Intelligence on Tommy’s desk.
“Fresh in, Tommy. Hot from the lips of the Oberst’s mistress in deepest Belgium.”
Tommy refused to speculate, except for enquiring what an Oberst might be; he knew what a mistress was. He read the few lines.
“There will be a raid on the railway yards at Hazebrouck, probably tomorrow morning. A single Gotha will drop as many as ten of fifty-kilogram armour-piercing bombs. It will take off at first dawn.”
Nancy nodded; he believed the source of the message to be unimpeachable.
“Why armour-piercing?”
“They penetrate deep into the permanent way – the railway tracks, that is – and blow up perhaps as much as ten feet underground, making a great crater in the track that can take days to repair.”
Tommy knew that Hazebrouck was situated conveniently for Ypres, would probably be very important in the build-up to the Big Push.
“If it’s not raining, I shall take my Flight there for say forty minutes after dawn. I shall be able to patrol the junction for an hour before having to return. Hell-For relieves me, if nothing has happened, and Henry third, Ikey fourth. If they haven’t turned up by nine o’clock, we’ll give up for the day, come back again next morning.”
“They will be there, Tommy. They have been ordered west from their normal base at Freiburg and will return after the one raid.”
“Boom ordered us to use single Flights against the Gothas… Should I break that rule?”
“No. The chances are that they will miss anyway. Better not to take a risk when you are doing well elsewhere. How are things at home, by the way?”
Monkey was busy, rushed off her feet, too few hours in the day for all that she now found to do. Her father had passed effective control of Tommy’s money into her hands after she had shown that she understood the City and the Stock Exchange, and she spent at least an hour a day in telephone calls to her brokers, more in perusal of the Financial papers.
She had already spotted a pair of mining companies raising funds to dig wolfram in Africa, had bought into them early, and had sold out again a very few weeks later before their prices peaked and entered a calamitous decline. She had told her father that their prospectuses had been ‘too plausible’ – they were just what was demanded at the time. The war was using increasing amounts of wolfram for hardening steel, and it was obviously about to rise in price, a sure source of profit.
“But only, Papa, if the mines actually existed and contained the reserves they claimed, and were located within reach of a railway line or navigable river. A rise in price of forty per cent in three weeks seemed ample to me, and long enough for people in London to look at an atlas and then actually read the surveyors’ reports.”
Lord Moncur was much impressed; he had sold out his holdings after the price had begun to drop, had only made thirty per cent, and that because he had been able to dump his shares in after-hours dealings, not available to the ordinary investor.
“What next, my dear?”
“Advice and information, sir. My broker tells me that there is an interesting issue to be made, new shares that will be immediately traded on the Exchange. Holdings in woollen mills that have contracts for uniforms, and in sheep farms in South Africa and Australia that will supply the raw fleeces. It sounds ideal as a long-term investment, a home for a few hundred thousand for a number of years, but, sir, the name of Mr Horatio Bottomley MP has been mentioned as being involved. I do not know too much about him, but there is a certain whiff of the unconventional about Mr Bottomley, or so I have been told.”
“Horatio Bottomley is a rogue, a trickster, a charlatan and, not to put too fine an edge upon it, an habitual liar. He is well-loved by the common man, for his newspapers that champion their interests, apparently. He runs a number of investment clubs for the little man who can save as little as two or three shillings a week and who send him their Postal Orders every payday. The sums are aggregated, put together, invested on the Stock Exchange, and, at the end of each year, their accumulated dividends are shared out in proportion to the investors. The word is that the money goes into his pockets, and that he pays the ‘dividends’ from the flow of funds coming in. If the little men stop sending their shillings, or, even worse, ask for them back, the whole scheme will collapse.”
“What will happen then, Papa?”
“Mr Bottomley will be investigated, charged, found guilty, imprisoned for several years. The money will be lost – no doubt disappeared into Swiss bank accounts and into the pockets of bribed politicians and whores – if you will excuse me, my dear!”
“I have heard the word, Papa. What of the thrifty little men, who have done their best for their families?”
“They lose everything. But then, they always do. The world does not exist for the benefit of little men.”
“Perhaps Tommy is right to say that he does not like England, now that he has discovered the nature of the country.”
“It is a wonderful country for the likes of us, Grace. But we are part of the few, not the many.”
“As are your grandchildren, sir. And I must make provision for their future rather than give money away to the deserving. Avoid investments in which Mr Horatio Bottomley is interested – a simple but absolute rule. Swiss bank accounts, sir, are they readily available? One might wish to stow away a certain amount of cash in a safe location, in case the war should go wrong on us, or to avoid the attentions of more extreme politicians who might become elected in future.”
“Not an impossibility, Grace. I shall put my lawyers in touch – they have a simple route in place for some of my funds to be spirited away on occasion. Useful for keeping money away from the attentions of the taxman – no great need for His Majesty’s Inland Revenue to take too much of my earnings!”
Monkey was almost shocked, but the iniquitous Income Tax took more of their money
than she could believe was really right – she wrote down the name of the lawyers.
“I have sold out of all of the shell filling plants, sir. Have you seen the medical reports on the yellow jaundice of the skin affecting the girls employed in them? Mention of deformed and sickly babies born to them, and of tumours and wasting illnesses. The medical men say that the worst effects can be avoided by providing protective clothing, and making the girls to work in gasmasks of a sort. The managers have replied that these measures would be too expensive and would slow down their rate of work and they have refused to implement them. The government says that we must have more shells, irrespective of their cost in money or health. I will have no part in that, sir. I cannot force improvements, so I will not be involved. Dirty money, sir!”
“There is no such thing, Grace. You mean ‘dirty people’. I shall get out as well. It was Pontius Pilate, was it not, who washed his hands and left the blame to other people? Like him, I cannot change this world, so I must turn a blind eye to it.”
Bursting Balloons
Chapter Eight
“If you are to arrive at Hazebrouck at sixteen thousand feet for forty minutes after dawn, which should give you ten minutes in hand, Tommy, then I calculate that you should take off at ten minutes after first light. Climb the first eight thousand feet at full pace, Tommy, a thousand a minute, and then spend twenty minutes on the next eight thousand, much more slowly, if the quacks are to be believed. What is your effective ceiling, by the way?”
“Said to be nineteen thousand, but I have made no attempt to go above twelve so far, Nancy.”
“Very wise! The effects of flying at altitude are not well known, but my informants at HQ seemed to agree that they exist; apparently the Alpinists Club has some records of the experience of climbers at height. Lose height more slowly than you gain it, is their advice. So, when you come home, ten minutes to drop to twelve thousand and then five minutes of level flight; then another ten minutes to take you to about six thousand and, if you have the petrol, ten minutes there before you come down to land.”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 18
