Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  Tommy started to chuckle – a story with an ending and a moral as well – as good as any of the schoolroom books.

  “It won’t happen here. No plane can be taken out of the hangar without your signature – or a senior sergeant’s – on a release form. My last man brought the formal system in after pressure from Wing. The pilots know it’s a court martial offence to take a plane without your release. That applies to me as well. You will want to talk to Noah – you have both squadrons. That gives you thirty-two Camels and some unofficial two-seaters which the sergeants are using. I want you to allow the sergeants to fly and to train up mechanics to replace them; they make good pilots and we can fiddle them into a commission while HQ continues to turn the blind eye.”

  Captain Morton was inclined to be affronted – he did not especially approve of ‘fiddling’ anything. He had decided not to offend his next commanding officer, so said nothing.

  “We were raided this morning and the men are digging trenches. I hope to have a labour gang to take over from them very soon. We lost eight Camels and they should be flying in replacements. None of them to be flown until you are happy with them.”

  “My decision, sir?”

  “Yours entirely. We lost Wing this morning and I have no knowledge of his replacement, but I will not permit him to countermand that order.”

  “Ah… You will not permit the colonel to change orders relating to the operation of his Wing, sir?”

  “That’s right. Wing’s job is to perform necessary administrative tasks, and make sure the unnecessary ones don’t burden me. Apart from that, the colonel can cover for me – when I need protection from the righteous wrath of HQ – which is infrequently, but on those occasions, urgent. Every so often the Army expects us to play at being soldiers, and I cannot be doing with that, you know. I get quite annoyed when the Germans kill my pilots – I really will not tolerate the British doing so. Wing acts as buffer on those occasions.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Not me, old chap. You might wish to talk to Boom about that, I sometimes think he experiences that particular delusion.”

  “I think I shall just go and introduce myself, sir. In the hangars. I feel more at home there, I suspect.”

  “See George, the adjutant, first – he needs to know your face. While I think of it, the Armourer, Lieutenant Moffat, is Navy – we are trying to tidy up his provenance at the moment – and you need to treat him with care – he’s not really one of us, yet, but a useful chap nonetheless. He will always report through you – by the book, that being the Naval way. Bright sort of fellow, but he does think that there is a proper way of doing things.”

  “Why isn’t he RNAS, sir?”

  “He was a submariner, and the RNAS don’t talk to them, it seems. Wouldn’t fit in. Did well this morning, mark you, so treat him with care.”

  Hell-For, Henry and Ikey were waiting for Tommy, demanding a response to the morning’s raid.

  “Shouldn’t let them get away with it, Tommy. Bad for them!”

  “Agreed. What can we do?”

  “Go for their field, strafe them!”

  “One: where? Two: what with?”

  They were silent for a while, then Ikey tentatively asked whether Nancy might not know where they had come from.

  “Forty different fields in range, and they might have come from somewhere else and just used one as a staging point, like they did with the Gotha. From the little we know, there are four or more fields flying the armoured ground-attack machines. Nancy tells me that the airfields are as well protected as their balloon sites. Mostly because we have attacked more than one of them and taught them that they need guns. I can’t think of anything they might like better than to have us attack one of their fields with Camels. They can’t fight us in the air, but they would rip us to bits if we went in for one of their airfields.”

  “So… we do nothing?””

  “You come up with a useful idea, I’ll go with you. I can think of nothing to do just yet. I have seen that the Camel can carry eighty pounds of bombs in clips on the undercarriage, but I don’t see a lot of future in that. I don’t like being a punchbag, either, but I can’t see what to do. I will have a talk with Nancy and see if he can think up anything unpleasant – he’s a bright bloke, after all and we should use him while we can.”

  “Ain’t he staying, Tommy?”

  “Doubt it. He was thrown out of London for telling the truth to the higher-ups – not something the wise man ever does! He’s too clever to be left out here too long – they’ll want him back using his brain in Intelligence. He’s wasted here.”

  “The boys want to get their own back, Nancy. I’ve told them that we don’t know who attacked us or where from and that I ain’t going in at fifty feet against the guns they’ve got on the airfields these days. Have you any ideas?”

  “But of course, dear boy! Have the mechanics set your remaining Camels up for bombardment for the morning. Have Noah run a dawn patrol, pre-dawn actually for cover. If I was Jerry, I would come back first thing tomorrow with twice as many machines, because it would be unexpected. When do your replacements come in?”

  “If they have them at Amiens, any time now. If they have to come from the factories, tomorrow, late morning or afternoon.”

  “If they get here today, have the mechanics work them up ready for five o’clock, take them up with Noah. If Jerry don’t come then they can go as escort for the bombing machines. I’ll have the precise target for late this afternoon.”

  Tommy spoke with Noah when he brought his people in from patrol.

  “Got four two-seaters, Tommy. Haven’t seen more than one all week. They must have been given the word that we would be down today. They were mistaken!”

  Noah agreed that Nancy’s suggestion seemed sensible.

  “If your replacements come in, Tommy, then I’ll take my patrols five miles distant from the field while you run direct cover. What are you expecting to hit tomorrow?”

  “No idea. Nancy hasn’t told me.”

  The ferry pilots arrived in mid-afternoon, eight new Camels, unmarked except for roundels.

  “Paint ‘em up, put their numbers on and have them ready to go for first light, if you can, Captain Morton.”

  “Different engine, sir. More powerful, by a little, I would say. If I need spares there might be a problem.”

  “Do what you can, Captain Morton. If you can’t, the decision is yours – you know the rules, we keep to them, even if there is no colonel at Wing to enforce them.”

  “Lieutenant Moffat wishes to speak with you, sir. What about, I don’t know – he does tend to be rather formal, does he not, sir?”

  “Navy. Brought up in bad habits, poor chap. Where is he, in his den?”

  Lieutenant Moffat was busy in his office, writing up requisitions for expended rounds.

  “Sir!” Moffat stood and saluted. “Beg permission, sir, to recommend a change in your dispositions, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I wish to place four of the pom-poms on the western perimeter of the field, sir. And the twelve Lewis Guns, sir, in addition to the four Vickers already there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think we can expect another raid, sir, and soon. Jerry will know that he failed in his main aim this morning. He will want to take another bite at the cherry before we increase our anti-aircraft cover. He knows that the pom-poms, which did most of the damage today, are all on the east of the field, so we may expect him to circle round and hit from the west. I have men and time sufficient only to move the four guns, sir.”

  “Do it. When you are ready, look at the possibility of mounting a gun on a lorry. If it can be done, set one up in the next few days. Test it. If it actually works, then we will see what is possible for the rest.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Tommy nodded casually and left him to it.

  “The sooner we transfer him to the RFC, and get the starch out of his collar, the better, Cap
tain Morton. What do they call you, by the way?”

  “Me? Knell. With a ‘K’.”

  “What?”

  “’Mort’, the Frogs called me in ’14. That became ‘Death’, obviously, which led to ‘Death Knell’, which was too long.”

  “I’m Tommy, Knell.”

  “What do we do with ‘Moffat’, Tommy?”

  “Good question – the obvious ain’t acceptable – a little too offensive. What’s his first name?”

  “Naval officers don’t have such things. They’re all called Horatio.”

  “Problem solved.”

  Nancy presented himself in Tommy’s office soon after four that afternoon. He had spent at least an hour on the telephone, they had noticed.

  “At six o’clock every morning, the Meteorological Officers and Adjutants from every field in the south-western sector of the Imperial air forces are brought into the Sector HQ at Cortemarck. They drive to the chateau, park up and wait until precisely five minutes to six when the door is opened for them. They are then informed of weather conditions and the activity for their own field over the next twenty-four hours from 0800. They leave by six-twenty – but that can vary by five minutes. The building itself is ancient and massively built in stone. Twenty-pound bombs would do little to it. Because it is unimportant as a target, it has no anti-aircraft defences.”

  Nancy produced a map, pointed to useful landmarks and railway lines and showed that it could be seen easily.

  “There is a section of heavy woodland to the north and west, Tommy, and it might be wiser to come in from due east. The cars are parked in the big yard here, on the eastern side. It is surrounded by a low wooden rail fence.”

  “Ikey and Henry have the bombs. One from due east, the other from north-east, ten seconds apart. Machine-gunning as well, of course. Hell-For thirty seconds later, from the east. Me one minute after that, from the north, loaded Brock and trying for the windows along the frontage of the chateau as well as the cars. Ikey to hit at precisely five-fifty-three.”

  Nancy was impressed – he had spent half an hour trying to work out the best way of attacking.

  “Done it before, Nancy, or things like it. It all seems simple, now. Have you asked permission for the raid?”

  “Colonel Ponsonby gave it, verbally, yesterday evening.”

  “So he did! I was there at the time. We shall brief the boys this evening, before dinner.”

  “Sounds like a very good raid, Tommy. What’s its point?”

  Ikey was inclined to analyse as well as do – possibly an undesirable trait in a pilot, but it would be valuable if he survived to become a major in charge of a squadron.

  “These are skilled and experienced officers, trained and useful to their squadrons or Jastas or whatever they are. We kill them and we affect their efficiency, very slightly. We also pass the message that if they attack our hangars, we shall seek out their officers. It would not be very hard to send out Flights roaming at low-level and picking off every staff car they could see. We could attack their HQ as well. We don’t as a rule because the generals do not like to be in the firing line. If we start chopping their big men, they will retaliate against ours. They might get the message.”

  “What if they don’t, Tommy?”

  “Then every airfield will use one of its Flights to run a standing patrol, two planes in the air, circling the field, all day every day. Add to that, a lot more Archie. We have more planes than they do; we can afford it.”

  There was no dawn attack next morning and Tommy led the bombardment machines off to Cortemarck for their own raid.

  They climbed to eight thousand feet, a convenient height for a patrol and giving no indication of their destination to the observers on the ground. They picked out the target and Tommy checked his watch and gave a thumbs up to Ikey. Henry peeled off behind Ikey, pointing a little north of the chateau to give himself the extra time. Twenty more seconds and Hell-For stood on his starboard wings and took his Flight in a curling dive losing height and constantly changing direction in case there were guns down there.

  Tommy could see the parked cars and the tiny figures stepping out and clustering together, probably taking a quick smoke and exchanging greetings before starting the day’s business. He heard Ikey’s guns rattle, saw men spin round and fall, cars rock, one or two taking fire. Sixteen twenty-pound bombs fell in and around them. Tommy saw three separate explosions against the wall of the chateau, the bombs, released at shallow angle, bouncing along the hard ground of the parking area.

  There was no return fire and Henry’s four came in from the side adding to the fire and smoke and knocking down some of those running from the attack.

  A few seconds delay and men were picking themselves up, starting to drag the wounded away from the flames, and then Hell-For came in, very low, his machine-gun fire ricocheting off the stone walls and adding to the butchery. Tommy held back, taking his Flight into a quick circle, dropping low, behind the woodland, out of sight, engine noise lost in the unending mutter from the Front. Nearly a minute and he brought his four planes into the attack. As he had hoped, there had been just sufficient time for the rescuers to start work. He sprayed his twin stream of Vickers rounds across the parking area and along the stone walls. He saw windows disappear, an open door ripped off and explosive rounds detonating in a hallway. A petrol tank blew and the two cars next to it caught fire.

  A single pass and he led the Flight west, away from the scene, up to five thousand and home, circling the field at St Rigobert as the other twelve landed, then dropping in himself.

  Nancy took his report, sombrely, responding to the atmosphere. The squadron was satisfied, but not too proud of the day’s work.

  “Taught them a lesson, Tommy?”

  “No – killed the buggers, Nancy! Slaughterhouse work. Sent a message. Unpleasant business. May have proved effective, though.”

  “How many staff cars, Tommy?”

  “Twelve to fifteen, maybe. Two officers to each, and a goodly number of them down. Can’t give you a count, but the hospital will be busy.”

  It was the first time any of the new pilots there had actually gone out with the specific intent of killing men rather than downing planes. They accepted that the planes had contained pilots, but somehow that was different to knocking down men on the ground.

  “Get used to it, lads. There’s a Big Push coming! We shall be busy in the Trenches.”

  They returned to the ordinary business of patrolling, picking up the occasional two-seater and looking yearningly at the balloons. It was too soon, Tommy thought; the balloons would be looking back at them still, waiting on top readiness, hopeful almost. Three days after the Cortemarck raid there was a questioning telephone call from HQ.

  “Major Stark? Just come across your report of Monday’s raid at this place called Cortemarck. It appears to be a sort of Sector Base, rather like our Wing?”

  “Bit more than that, Captain. Brigade, probably. Command of up to fifteen fields, we think.”

  “I see… exactly what was the aim of the raid, Major Stark?”

  “To kill Germans – that’s what we try to do most days, you know. I appreciate that things are different up at head office, but out in the sticks here, towards the front lines, we tend to do things like that.”

  “I do appreciate that the war involves killing the enemy, Major Stark! I merely wondered why you had chosen to attack that particular target.”

  Tommy feigned surprise, aware that he was not a capable actor, and caring very little. He knew as well that Colonel Ponsonby had attracted any amount of unfavourable attention during his sojourn at HQ and that none of the officers there believed that he had been anything more than a figurehead at Wing.

  “Oh, my dear chap! I don’t choose targets – I do as Wing tells me. I merely carried out Colonel Ponsonby’s last orders. Poor old fellow! It would have been disrespectful to have ignored him merely because he was dead. After all, it’s not as if dying would have made much diffe
rence to him, in terms of his brain power, that is.”

  “Thank you, Major Stark. I will be forced to pass the matter up the line, I am afraid.”

  “The Front Line, is that? Whatever would bring you there?”

  “I meant, Major Stark, that I must place this report on Mr Baring’s desk!”

  “A very good idea – I am sure he will be pleased to read it. A literary gentleman, as I am sure you will know, always pleased to have something new to get his teeth into.”

  “He will most likely find the need to take the whole business to General Trenchard, sir!”

  “Ah! I haven’t spoken to him for weeks. I must buy some cotton wool for my ears. Anything else I can do for you, old chap? Have you any word on our new Wing, by the way?”

  The captain evidently had not, for he hung up.

  “Nancy! We may well be called to HQ in the near future. The report on the Cortemarck raid has surfaced.”

  “I received word this morning from my people that Jerry was hopping up and down with rage. There will have been protests, I expect, that the raid was in breach of normal expectations of good behaviour.”

  “Do what?”

  “Jerry will have moaned in Swiss ears, most likely, possibly Dutch or Swedish, and their embassy in Paris will have spoken to our ambassador, and he in turn will have had a word with one of Haig’s minions who will have discreetly and informally asked someone at HQ just what the hell is going on. Generals do not bash their opposite numbers – could be habit-forming. Private soldiers are expected to get killed; generals ain’t. It extends downwards. How can you run a war if your planners and office-wallahs are getting shot every couple of minutes? We are expected to leave the commanders strictly alone. We chose to break the rules and will certainly get our wrists slapped – but my people at HQ will look after us – they told me to do it. I expect there has been a problem elsewhere – possibly with these long-range Krupp guns, the Big Berthas. They might have dropped a shell or two rather close to GHQ, and need reminding of the rules. Bombard towns and such like behind the lines, but keep clear of the sensitive places.”