Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  The doctor said that he had never come across such thinking either – Tommy should not blame himself for not knowing how to deal with it.

  “I dealt with him, anyway, Major Stark. I had a word with General Trenchard, explained that I had come across this case, a plausible coward who would probably talk his way out of a court-martial. Boom agreed that he should not simply be sent as LMF, because there was a chance he would fiddle his way out of that as well. We rigged a court for him; false charges. He was tried three weeks ago, found guilty of conduct unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman, and was cashiered, reduced to the ranks, and dismissed from the RFC. He was made a private soldier in a battalion in the Trenches; he will be taking a part in the attack at Pilckem Ridge – see how he likes that risk!”

  Tommy was impressed – that was how justice should be applied. He had doubts, however.

  “Won’t he just desert, as soon as they are out of the line? Battalions go to rest every few weeks, don’t they?”

  “They do. He don’t! His colonel has been told what he is, has been informed in effect that shooting was too good for him. Private Abbott will remain in the line, shifted from one battalion to another under punishment, watched all the time.”

  Tommy nodded. It was hard, cruel even, but he had no mercy in him for the coward who would let other men down.

  “Looks as if the dog’s home will benefit after all, Doctor.”

  “Hope so. I like dogs.”

  Tommy took a Camel up as soon as he reached the field, pushing it into a hard climb and then proceeding to fly it to its limits. He rolled and banked and even looped – which was a pointless exercise, but amusing - then lost height in a series of inverted Immelman turns, something he had not been certain was possible. He found that he had lost nothing – he could still fly, and probably better than most, if not all of his contemporaries. He came down in less than an hour, satisfied and relieved.

  Noah was waiting for him in the Mess.

  “What was that about, Tommy? You had an audience, you know – you were in sight of the field for almost all of your performance. Your boys will be trying to do the same tomorrow.”

  “Bugger! I didn’t intend that. I wanted to be sure I could still fly, Noah. The doctor said I was ‘fatigued’; over the top, he implied.”

  “We all are, Tommy. Three years now, and no end to it. Do you see it finishing in the next ten years? Seriously?”

  “The Blockade will do it, eventually. Provided Russia don’t collapse and let the Germans feed themselves from their wheat fields. If that happens, then there will be no end, ever. We can’t win on the Western Front, that’s for sure.”

  “No choice but to carry on – and don’t talk loud enough for the boys to hear. So, you gave a flying display to amuse yourself, and to show what can be done with a Camel now that the boys have adequate skills to try it for themselves.”

  “Sorry, Noah!”

  “No problem. The sky is clouding over, rain by morning. They’ll have a day or two to think it over before they do anything stupid.”

  “That will give them time to work out something bloody crazy to try.”

  “Then, we must keep an eye on them. Strictly forbid any lone flights; all testing of aircraft to be done under supervision.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Few things do.”

  Tommy decided to send the boys away for the day – they should go into Calais to do their shopping and drink too much alcohol in a different place – it would be good for them, quite possibly. In any case, he could not put up with a whole day of them shouting and running about, working off their boredom like the overgrown schoolboys that most were.

  He spent most of his own day with his feet up, drinking tea and eating cakes in the Mess and enjoying a long talk with Nancy and Noah, mostly about their plans for the Never-Never Land after the war, pretending that there would be an ‘after’, that it would not go on until they were invalided out as arthritic old wrecks.

  Nancy would stay in Intelligence, he suspected – there would be lots to do, he thought.

  “Chasing Reds and keeping the Russians out, and watching the pace of German rearmament, for when they try to get their own back for losing this war. All great good fun, you know. Gives a man something to do in his spare time. Won’t pay much, but my father has money and to spare – made his pile years back, one of the Uitlanders at the Cape, gold-mining. No brothers or sisters, so all I have to do is stay alive and I shall be almost as rich as you, Tommy. What about you, Noah?”

  “I think I shall do as I am told, Nancy. Lucy has a number of plans for me, and her father will support her, that I much fear. I shall be good – why not? I am a happy man, and a lucky one, provided I live, and I have passed the age of dying now. Flyers who have three years in are far more likely to survive than the boys with just a few weeks under their belt. No plans for me, I don’t need ‘em.”

  Tommy said much the same; he was set up for life. He knew for a fact that Monkey was managing his money, and doing it remarkably well. He might, probably would, shift across to America or Australia, countries where flying would be far bigger than in England – but only if Monkey agreed.

  “Worst part of this war is being separated from her, you know, Nancy. It could be fun otherwise, much of it, but not that part.”

  The rain let up for part of the afternoon and they watched the gunners at exercise, swinging the pom-poms about and making a thundering racket with practice blanks while the machine-gunners cut loose with all they had.

  Tommy was moderately impressed but decided he must speak to the staff captain who was enjoying himself so much. He thought a little and then phrased his question very carefully, so that it might be understood.

  “I say, Captain Montmorency, do you think it might be an idea to build the earth walls behind the pom-poms a little higher? Some of those Vickers were traversing a bit low, I thought. If they had had live rounds up the spout then I suspect they might have depopulated one or two gun positions.”

  “I say, old boy, do you really think so? That would not be terribly jolly, I suspect! I’ll speak to the Engineering Officer, discover if he can find any men with shovels and things.”

  “Jolly good idea, old chap!”

  Bursting Balloons

  Chapter Nine

  “Dawn patrol! Why do we have dawn patrols, Nancy?”

  “They are good for you, Tommy. They wake you out of your horrible sweaty pits and send you out into the bright, blue skies, all for the benefit of your health. ‘A healthy mind in a healthy body’, you know – you will think pure thoughts all day for flying at dawn!”

  “I had far rather think impurely and get up at nine o’clock.”

  “Then you should be thankful to your masters for arranging a convenient little war that is so much better for you. What’s that?”

  Nancy wondered why Tommy had suddenly dived under the table and was now huddling against the brick wall of the dining room.

  “Get down! On the floor! Get to the walls!”

  There was a crashing of tables and crockery as the pilots and then the waiters realised what was happening.

  “Down, Nancy!”

  All of the guns were firing and Nancy picked up the roar of aircraft engines at full power, followed by a series of explosions, none of them especially large.

  The guns stopped and Tommy ran to the door, staring at the sky, but they were all gone.

  Two Flights of Camels had been pushed out onto the apron ready for the dawn take off; they were a heap of smouldering trash. There were three columns of smoke visible on the field. Tommy walked out past the hangars, looked around the perimeter, spotted another downed plane just on the other side of the fence.

  “Got four, Nancy. Let’s discover our losses.”

  Men were running with stretchers; many were limping to the sick bay. At least a dozen bodies lay motionless.

  He went into the hangars, found the bulk of the mechanics clustered together.


  “Captain Black?”

  “Bought it, sir. A little bomb, sir, more of a grenade like, came bouncing in and he tried to kick it out like it was a football, but it blew up a foot away from him. No real losses other than him, sir. The guns got two planes that were trying for the hangars, sir. There was only seven or eight of them.”

  “Get shovels and start digging. Narrow trenches outside the hangar doors. Deep enough for you to jump in next time.”

  The mechanics thought that was a good idea; there were no complaints about skilled men doing labourers’ work. They ran.

  The bulk of the losses were among the lesser bodies – the gate guards and the private soldiers who worked in the stores and the armoury and as drivers. They had been breakfasting when the raid came in, had been bombed and machine-gunned.

  “Where’s Colonel Ponsonby?”

  A surviving lieutenant of his staff said that the old gentleman had been walking across from an inspection of the gate guard, a ritual he performed at least twice a week, and had stood his ground, revolver in hand, firing up at the planes as they came in. His staff had followed his example.

  “I’m the only one left, sir. They missed me.”

  “Seems as if we are unlucky in our Wing Commanders, Lieutenant. What do you do now?”

  A staff officer who no longer had a master was unemployed, had to find something to do. Those who had been posted from a regiment simply returned to it; boys who had joined the staff immediately upon receiving their commission might not be welcomed in the regiment of which they were nominally a part, but which had never seen them.

  “Volunteer for flying training, sir. If they will take me.”

  “I shall speak to HQ. There will be a place for you.”

  The losses were heavy in terms of numbers, but had little impact on the squadrons. No pilots or mechanics had been lost and the eight planes could be replaced inside a day.

  Nancy made a formal report to HQ while George requested the services of a labour gang. There was a need, they had found, for trenches for the men to take cover in.

  “HQ wants to know what the planes were, Tommy, and what they attacked with.”

  “Good question. Did Lieutenant Moffat survive?”

  “He’s busy, issuing ready-use ammunition to make up expenditure. He was layer on a pom-pom, got at least one.”

  Tommy was pleased to hear that, reminded Noah that he had said he would be well at the front if there was a raid.

  An hour of questioning survivors from the breakfast party established that the planes had dropped fragmentation grenades and small bombs, no more than ten-pounders. Each had fired a pair of downward-pointing machine-guns as well.

  “Specific anti-personnel weapons, Tommy, designed solely for ground-attack.”

  “Just that, Noah. Not interested in the buildings; they were out to kill our people.”

  “Logical. If they had killed the bulk of our air-mechanics, they would have closed us down for weeks.”

  They walked across to the burned-out German wrecks on the field, tried to make out what they had been.

  “Trench-strafers, Tommy. Halberstadt, probably. ‘Sturm’, or something like that,” Noah announced.

  “Nancy?”

  “No idea! The pictures they send me are of planes that haven’t been burned first.”

  “Right, Noah, why? What have you spotted?”

  “Look at the underside of the engine and around the cockpit, gentlemen.”

  Tommy glanced and nodded.

  “You’re right. Should have seen it for myself. Obvious.”

  Nancy was irritated – they were not playing games, he thought, they could genuinely see something he had missed.

  “Armour, Nancy. Sheets of steel plate, thick enough to stop a rifle-calibre machine-gun round.”

  “Got it. Inadequate against the pom-poms, though.”

  “Luckily. Kept them out of the hangars. Good thing they are short of planes. If they had sent twenty in we would still probably have shot down no more than four, and the rest would have played hell with the hangars and Mess buildings.”

  Nancy was aware that German aircraft production was rising rapidly, the aircraft factories having won in the fight with the Imperial Navy for scarce coal and metals.

  “There will be more planes arriving soon.”

  “For sure?” Tommy was not very pleased to hear that; he had hoped the blockade might be biting.

  “A certainty. More and better – observation, trench bombardment and fighting machines particularly. From about September, or so I have been told. Fokker is producing something. Albatross and Pfalz as well. There will be Hannoveranas and Halberstadts, and a metal Junkers, and a bigger Gotha, and Zeppelin are producing a giant called a Staaken. Winter may well be hairy and the spring promises to be a first-rate sod.”

  Tommy sagged at the shoulders; the war had been looking up, just a little. Now it was down again.

  “Your report should say that there is an urgent need for heavier weaponry around the airfields, Nancy. The pom-poms seem to be effective – so a dozen to each field. Add to that heavier machine-guns – half-inch calibre at least. Train the machine-gunners to target the wings – they won’t be able to armour-plate them. More men as well – we should man the guns for every daylight hour. No point at night – neither side can see to take aim.”

  “Will do, Tommy.”

  Tommy made his way to the telephone, spoke to a mid-ranking gentleman at HQ, all senior to him unavailable on urgent business, many of them in London.

  “We need an Engineering Officer as a matter of urgency. Colonel Ponsonby died, for standing out with a revolver shooting at eight planes armed with machine-guns. What? No, it was not bloody heroic! It was crass stupidity – which is something he was good at! Yes, I know I shot a plane down with a hand gun – a Taube, no better armed, and from behind at a range of twenty feet – rather a different case. He had four staff officers and three of them died at his side. The fourth, by the way, is putting in for pilot training – can’t remember his name – Plinkerton-Plonkerton-Twee or some-such, jolly good sport, don’t you know; he’ll make a good pilot for a deadly RE8, but don’t send him my way. The planes were armoured – sheet metal surrounding cockpit and engine. Machine-gunners should be told to go for the wings if they can.”

  The captain at HQ said gravely that he would take note of Tommy’s recommendations and he would make urgent representations relating to the replacement of Colonel Ponsonby.

  “Sod Colonel Ponsonby. I need an Engineering Officer, and within a day. Wing can look after itself for a week or two – they’ve got a couple of sergeants, that’s all they actually need. The hangars must have a skilled man.”

  “What about Colonel Ponsonby’s burial? We must show respect, I believe.”

  “Deal with that later. I must have an Engineering Officer. Do that now.”

  “I do think that matters of priorities are my concern rather than yours, Major Stark.”

  “As you will, Captain. I can see that you have your own definitions of what is important. I know that General Trenchard is not in France just at the moment; I shall speak to London instead.”

  The captain was offended and brought the call to an end. He found his senior and poured out the story, outraged at the airs put on by mere squadron commanders.

  “Weather’s good in Mesopotamia at this time of year, Captain – temperature’s no more than one hundred degrees and the water allowance is a generous six pints a day, if you’re lucky.”

  “Do what, sir?”

  “Mesopotamia. The desert, fighting the Turks, you know? Cut your knackers off if you get captured. Place you’ll be posted to tomorrow, if you’re lucky. You do know who Stark is? Who his wife’s father is? Tread on Stark’s toe and they’ll chop your foot off, old chap!”

  “You are joking, I trust, sir!”

  “Get him an Engineering Officer inside the next two hours. Telephone him with the name and his estimated time of arriv
al. Grovel – you’re good at doing that, just pretend he’s a general – jolly good joke, old chap, ho-ho-ho! You might survive. It depends just how annoyed he is and whether he’s been able to place a telephone call to London yet. Choose one of the insignificant types to push around next time; it’s safer.”

  The captain was upset to be treated in such a fashion and tottered off to the Mess – it was time for morning tea. He found a crony there and poured the story into his ear.

  “Stark? You said what to Stark? He’s been about since August ’14. Knows everyone! On top of that, his wife’s father is in the government, Lord Moncur. Even worse, they say he’s rich – rolling in it! You can’t offend that man, not until he puts his foot right in it. He’s wild and careless and one day he’ll go too far, probably, but until then the only thing you say to Stark is ‘yes, sir’. Have you got his Engineering Officer yet? No? I wouldn’t take time to finish that cup of tea if I was you!”

  The replacement arrived at St Rigobert in mid-afternoon, stepping down from the rear cockpit of a Bristol Fighter en route elsewhere.

  “Captain Morton, sir. I am to take over your hangars, I believe.”

  “You are very welcome, Captain Morton. Have you experience with the Camel?”

  “Limited, sir. I was at Croydon - flown over in a great hurry, directly here - and worked on a few that passed through and showed problems. My last squadron had Pups, sir, six months ago. I was sent back to England for falling out with the squadron commander, sir.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “We had a delivery of bad petrol – contaminated somehow, might even have been sabotaged – you never know, sir, it’s possible. There was certainly sand in the petrol drums, and that got into the engines before we discovered we had a problem. I grounded every plane and insisted on stripping every engine. The squadron commander wanted to fly every Pup that had not yet shown a problem. We had a rather public falling-out which ended with my explaining just why he was a complete dickhead. The pilots cheered every insult – the discussion being conducted in the Mess after breakfast. Apparently, this was undesirable from the point of view of discipline, so Wing ordered me home. The major took up his plane as I was packing my personal toolbox and getting my stuff together. His engine started to run rough at a hundred feet but he carried on. He never came back. Nor, of course, did I, but I only ended up in Croydon; I refuse to speculate about his eventual destination.”