“Weather’s good at the end of July, so it may well be possible. Pity we have no ground-attack planes as such – it ought to be possible, you know, Maurice, to design a machine for the purpose – slow and short-range so as not to waste weight on petrol; carrying a couple of hundred of one-pound fragmentation bombs and four downward pointing guns; no observer; big wing area. One could do a lot with a machine like that, Maurice.”
“One could, but it is designed specifically for trenchwork, Tommy. Trenches are an aberration – they won’t exist in another war, and will cease to be relevant in this as soon as the breakthrough occurs. No need for such a plane, Tommy – there won’t be trenches for it to attack.”
“But trenches exist, Maurice.”
“Tut, Tommy! They obviously do not – they are the merest temporary expedient and will certainly fall out of use after the next successful Push.”
“There has never been a successful Push.”
“Then one is certainly overdue, Tommy. No need to plan for the present – we must look for a future war of movement, which should have occurred last year and therefore must definitely take place this.”
“I never did learn logic, Maurice.”
“Exactly! See what you have missed! Go back to St Rigobert, Tommy, and rest for the week. You will need to be at your best by the end of the month.”
Bursting Balloons
Chapter Eleven
“Whale grease, sir. The stuff you rub on your cheeks to protect your skin from the cold winds. You must not let the scar heal tight and stoop you over. Slather it on, morning and night, keep the skin supple. It will make the scar a bit broader, but that don’t matter – you ain’t hardly going to be displaying your manly chest to the troops!”
Tommy was irritable; he had been grounded for four days, wasting time and bored.
“I shall be showing it to my wife, Quack, and she is not going to be happy in any case. Finger gone; leg marked up, twice over; cut on the arm and now on the chest. I’m never going to hear the end of it, you realise? Sheer carelessness, that’s what it will be. Think of what might have happened if the bullet had been… Then it will be ‘why’ – why did I have to be the one to make the attack on the Drachen – why could none other have made it.”
“Not a bad question, in fact, sir.”
“Well, the answer is bloody simple! If it’s to be done for the first time, then it’s to be done by me. No argument on that. I shall discover how to do it, if it can be done. If it can’t, I shall bend ears at HQ – and I can get away with that… sometimes. My privilege, and mine alone. I won’t send my pilots up to do anything that I don’t know is possible.”
Quack said no more; he had tried and was far too junior to open his mouth further. He thought Tommy was on the downward slope, was demanding too much of himself and growing reckless.
“The wound is healthy, sir. No sign of infection. Still would benefit from rest for a few days. More than the five we set originally, sir.”
“I fly on the 31st, irrespective, Quack. We will all be up then.”
Tommy stalked off to his office, scowling mightily.
“George! Have we got a replacement for Colne?”
“Rogers, sir, Flight-Sergeant. He’s ready, I am told. I have spoken to Colonel Sarratt, who ain’t happy, but is willing to do as he is told. He has put his papers in to Maurice Baring, who will work the oracle for us, and will inform us when his commission is through; any time now, I would expect. I have put in for a pair of blanks as well, Tommy.”
Tommy nodded, unwilling to say anything. Blank commissions were highly unlawful, but very useful. They would have General Trenchard’s name upon them, as battlefield promotions, but no identity for the recipient. George would fill in the empty spaces when the need arose and they would have their pilot flying within minutes of the vacancy being created.
“Have we got men ready, George?”
“Two who could take a commission now; three more who need another twenty hours of flying time.”
It was illegal, breaching any number of King’s Regulations, and could result in both men being cashiered. It was very convenient, and no questions would be asked while the squadron kept flying. The sole real fear was that they would get a young man posted in who would object to rubbing shoulders with low company – but it was rare for a Guards Lieutenant to take to flying.
“We are ready for the Big Push, it would seem, George. Stocks of bombs and machine-gun rounds are high, I presume?”
“All up to absolute maximum, Tommy. Petrol is high. Lubricating oils are at full. Nothing else needed, other than spare parts for the engines, which are difficult to get hold of. The machine shop is busy all night, fabricating our own spares, apart from those which need special metals.”
“Is Knell happy with what he’s got? Does he need more machinery? Could we organise it?”
“No, he ain’t happy. Yes, he could use more machinery, but that would have to come with skilled men to work it. Can we organise it? Probably not. The machines would have to be brought in from America, and so would their workers. We don’t have the people we need in England, or so I am told. We might do better trying to buy in from Switzerland, or possibly Sweden."
“No contacts in either country, can’t help, George.”
“Then we put up with what we’ve got, Tommy. Take a car and driver and go away for the day – do some shopping in Calais or go sight-seeing somewhere. Just bugger off and stop flapping here!”
Tommy came close to a flounce as he left the office – he was not ‘flapping’, he was looking after his own squadron, as a major should. Who should he speak to next?
Sergeant James called to him.
“Telephone, sir. HQ. Mr Baring, sir.”
He was summoned to HQ to discuss plans for the ‘war of movement’; one that was confidently expected to eventuate after the next set of attacks achieved success.
“There is to be a landing on the Belgian coast, to the north of the current lines, not so far from Zeebrugge, Tommy. They will hold a ‘beachhead’, they call it, and the forces that have broken through will link across to them, in the process, it is believed, cutting off a substantial proportion of the German forces that had been holding their front line. The stage after that will be no more than hot pursuit, chasing the German Army back across their frontier and as far as the Rhine. It is expected that there will be a surrender at that point.”
Tommy stared at the map, trying to fix the distances in his head.
“Linking across, Maurice – that’s a long way for marching men, even without resistance. I presume the landing is not to be made before the breakthrough actually occurs… I would not wish to be sat on the coast there with light weapons – field artillery at most – and German armies bringing their heavy guns to bear. If the Dutch were to be persuaded to join in, making an attack from the north, then it might be more practical, but I just don’t see it happening otherwise.”
“The Dutch will not take part in this war, Tommy. Too great a risk, especially now that Russia is effectively out. They would have to be quite certain that they were entering on the winning side. No, what will be done will happen without external assistance.”
“We can assume that there will be no breakthrough, Maurice. Why should there be? There has not been one yet, and there is nothing new in the planning. The sole thing that has changed is that the quality of the troops has fallen. The soldiers at the front now are not the New Army of the Somme, still less the old professionals of 1914; these are predominantly conscripts; less healthy, less willing, less able than the best, who are still hanging on the barbed wire in places. These men will not march through machine-gun fire, Maurice. The word is that they need units of Battle Police behind them to force them over the top; there are whispers of men being shot out of hand for refusing to go. And that is just in small attacks, trying to straighten the line and such.”
Baring shook his head – he had heard the same rumours and had asked questions of peopl
e who knew.
“Battle Police exist, Tommy. They have certainly shot soldiers who refused orders. How many? Unknown – they are all recorded as ‘Killed in Action’. We may be talking of a very few; it may be some hundreds – no records are taken, deliberately. The old days are gone – the brave volunteers no longer seem to exist. The spirit of the men has been broken, I fear. We must have plans to hand – for the German Army is in little better condition. The Germans lost their old professionals and pre-war conscripts at the Somme and have an army of boys and older men who were unfit for compulsory military service; they might break more easily than in the past, or so it is said. What do you suggest?”
“We need more planes, both fighters and ground attack. Pull all of the Home Defence squadrons out to France – every last one of them. Put them to a major assault on the German rear as the breakthrough comes – destroy their trains and road transport. There will be massive losses, as goes without saying. I suspect we might lose the bulk of the green pilots, but it might be possible to close down the transport system for two days or even more. No reserves coming up, no broken units to be pulled out. No supplies moving at all.”
“A single last throw of the dice, Tommy. If it fails, then we are left without an RFC for months until new men and planes replace them. The politicians will never permit it. The Home Defence squadrons will not be released.”
“But they do no good, Maurice – they have not stopped a single raid. They have shot down fewer than a dozen of the raiders.”
“You are allowing facts to get in the way of government policy again, Tommy. The Home Defence squadrons exist to be shown in the newspapers – ‘your government is defending you’. They have no other purpose.”
“Then we must accept that the RFC cannot do very much, Maurice. We will fly and attack, and lose planes and men so that each day’s work is less effective than the day before. There are too few of us to perform the work of the light cavalry in harrying the broken enemy. We can deliver too few bombs to break the communications links. The sole useful suggestion I can make is that all of the Wings on the north-west shall attack solely in the corridor down which the troops must move to link up with the landing, if it takes place.”
Baring noted the suggestion.
“What of deep bombing, Tommy? Heavy bombers to penetrate two and three hundred miles into Germany to attack their factories?”
“Excellent idea, Maurice. A bomber to carry a ton, at least of bombs, with an accurate bombsight so that it can drop from fifteen thousand feet, and with at least seven hundred miles range. The plane to carry four, at least of guns. Targets to be identified in advance as worthwhile – and with accurate navigational aids so that we can reach the right place. Because raids on factories must be performed in daylight, we shall require long-distance fighters to act as escort.”
Both men knew they did not possess such aircraft.
“Using DH4s?”
“At night, two hundred miles at most, better one hundred to give time to stooge around looking for the target. It will probably be possible to hit the towns the factories are located in. Four hundred and sixty pound loads – fairly pointless unless you can put up a couple of a hundred at a time.”
“It won’t work?”
“Not a hope in hell.”
“It may have to, Tommy. It is almost a certainty that an Independent Air Force will be formed, its sole purpose to be strategic bombing. As it will exist, it will be necessary that it shall be seen to have successes.”
Tommy shrugged – this was politics, not war.
“You will have to lie about the successes, Maurice. Why not lie about the existence of the planes as well? That way you can have an imaginary Air Force making non-existent raids with aircraft that have never been built. You can destroy half of Germany without burying any of our pilots. The newspapers will love it.”
That was too much even for Baring to swallow. The interview was terminated.
Colonel Sarratt made a tour of each of his squadrons, bringing them orders for the day of the Big Push.
“A creeping barrage, gentlemen. The artillery will fire in front of the advancing troops, increasing their range by about one hundred yards a minute. Your function will be to attack after the barrage has moved on, in cases where the troops have been held up by strongpoints that still remain.”
“So, sir, we are to fly through the barrage to deal with its misses?”
“That it to express it a little baldly perhaps, Tommy.”
“We will be shot to pieces by our own barrage, sir. It won’t work. We would have to come in very low and at least a quarter of an hour after the barrage had moved on. Otherwise, we won’t survive.”
“The orders envisage an almost immediate response.”
“No.”
“I shall speak to Brigade, but they won’t be very pleased, you know.”
“Tell the Brigadier that he can lead the first Flight, if he wishes. Then his successor can make a more sensible set of orders.”
“I shall demand an interview with him, and express your words as mine, Tommy. I have never been under fire before. It will be an educational experience. I hope my successor will be as dedicated to your interests.”
“Who is our Brigadier these days, sir?”
“Salmond, I believe, retains the post. There has been talk of changes at high. His name has been offered as one of those to be promoted.”
“He is an able man, sir. Rarely so. He was my CO for a time in ’14, and was active at Brooklands before the war. He will listen, or he used to do so, anyway. Three years of war may well have changed him as well.”
To his surprise, Colonel Sarratt survived the experience of defying authority. He came away from Brigade empowered to ‘modify the orders in the light of experience’.
“You will note, Tommy, that he does not specify when that experience shall have been gained. I shall interpret it to mean ‘past experience’ – it may save my neck in case of court martial. As far as I understand the case, you are to make your attacks when you are at least safe from our own fire. That decision is, of course, exclusively mine to make, and will be posted under my signature.”
“I had thought you were a career officer, sir.”
“I am. Was, at least. I have, much to my surprise, discovered that there are things more important than my next promotion. Fortunately, my current rank is substantive – I will not fall from the rank of lieutenant-colonel, though I much suspect I shall be pensioned off in it.”
“Knock on my door after the war, if that eventuates, sir. If I am not still in the land of the living, Lord Moncur will know your name.”
“I suspect that may qualify as corruption, Major Stark. It sounds like an excellent idea!”
Tommy flew again in the days before the Big Push, satisfying himself that he had not lost the edge that he demanded of himself. He had never worried before, wondered if he was finally growing up, or whether he had been taken by premature aging and was no longer confident.
On the day before the Big Push, he led his Flight up to the edge of the Belgian sector, and then well inside it when he spotted a group of two-seaters, three miles distant and two thousand feet lower.
‘Eight of them,’ he mused.
So many together could not be on a photographic mission – they had to be making a bombing raid and must have a specific target, probably as a result of intelligence. They were on a course due west, as if for the coast. It might be as well to head them off, to prevent them making their attack – it was possible that it was important to them. He pointed to his numbers three and four, new men with five quarter-kills between them, Forrester and Walker, waved them to circle to the east and come in behind the two-seaters. Lieutenant Rogers was behind him as number two and he signalled to him that he was going to take a westerly heading to come in from the front.
A full-speed dive, turning to the port and after six minutes swinging hard into a right turn, almost dead ahead of the two-seaters and surprising them
.
They were definitely seeking a very specific point to bomb, their observers’ heads buried in their maps when they were not looking anxiously down to identify landmarks. They had not been watching the sky for attackers, or giving no more than a cursory glance about, so anxious to navigate precisely.
A glance over his shoulder, signalling Rogers to place himself in line abreast, pointing to the right; a wave in return.
He did not recognise the two-seaters, thought they might be a new Halberstadt from their general lines. A fixed gun for the pilot and a Parabellum for the observer seemed probable. He would discover soon, he suspected.
To his surprise, the two-seaters held their course, line astern, losing height as if to go into a bombing run, ignoring the risk from just two fighters.
‘Crazy’, he thought, aiming onto the lead two-seater which was still holding its line, opening fire at longer than normal distance, more than one hundred yards, through the engine and cockpit and then turning onto the second man. He spotted Rogers wasting ammunition with too long a burst on the third in line. A new man’s mistake, but he pulled onto the fourth as his first man burst into flames.
Tommy’s second was carrying incendiaries, blew up in a great scarlet ball of fire.
Pretty – better than Guy Fawkes night, he mused.
It occurred to him that there were - had been - men inside that explosion. Their problem, he rationalised, they were volunteers, would have done the same to him if they had been good enough - kill or be killed. He would be killed for sure if he spent time in the air thinking about such things, what did they call 'em, moral issues, that was it; he banked hard to get back into the fight. He might think about the moralities one day - after the war.
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 26
