Uwe quickly took advantage of it. He rose from his chair and went to sit on the arm of hers. He put his arm around her.
“Don’t distress yourself, Ilse. I promise you, we are putting up such defences that it will be suicidal for the English to venture across our frontier by day or night. You may rely on it.”
He kissed the crown of her head and then her cheek. She turned her lips to him for a moment, in gratitude for the solicitude he showed for her.
Uwe Gratz said again, “We’ll give the English hell every time they try to get through. You have nothing to worry about.”
Chapter Five
Yardley tilted his chair back and lifted his feet onto another chair placed behind his desk for the purpose.
He had once explained to Tearle his reason for this posture.
“Read somewhere it’s beneficial to rest with one’s feet higher than one’s head. Can’t really do that in the office. Next best thing to prop one’s hooves up as high as poss.”
Yardley looked spruce, as he always did. No one would imagine that he had stayed up all night in case his missing crews came home.
At about seven-thirty his conscientious vigilance had been rewarded. An orderly had run into the office to report that an aircraft could be heard approaching.
Yardley had dashed out with Tearle, who had also stayed up, and Alec Wotton, who felt that as long as his pilot was up he ought to be as well. It would never have occurred to Wotton to excuse himself from the chore on the grounds that Eric Yardley was keeping vigil because he commanded the squadron, which had nothing to do with being his pilot.
They had had to wait for a few minutes while the drone of the Eagle engine grew louder, in a sharp wind.
Both Tearle and Wotton had stamped their feet, moved around and flapped their arms trying to keep warm.
Yardley had remained motionless, intent only on watching the sky: yet there was more dynamism, more controlled and contained energy and power, in his immobility than in the movements of the others. It was also a manifestation of his single-mindedness. Only one consideration occupied Yardley’s thoughts for the moment: the safe return of his crews. Everyone knew that he was straining to pick out the sound of a second engine behind the first.
Tearle and Wotton, at least, also knew that, relegated for the moment to a secondary place, there was another reason for the CO’s intense preoccupation. He wanted to prove to Quinn that the latter’s pessimism and strictures had been unjustified. His feud with the Colonel never ceased. There had never been a moment of truce between them since the wing was formed. It was not in either man’s nature to offer or accept a truce; but for different reasons.
At six, Yardley’s batman had fetched a basin and hot water to the Squadron Commander’s office. Yardley had washed and shaved. There was no reason to greet his returning chaps looking scruffy.
He stood on the tarmac looking as though ready for parade. When dressed for flying, he often appeared in as bizarre a rig as anyone; and informality of dress never incurred his wrath as long as it contributed to comfort and therefore efficiency. When there was no reason for it, he did not tolerate it. And as for himself, he had to set an example.
The DH4 appeared over the eastern perimeter of the aerodrome, silhouetted against the rising sun.
Still Yardley listened and searched for the other one.
The DH4 landed and taxied to where Yardley was waiting. He hurried to it as soon as it stopped and examined for signs of damage. There were a few holes and tears but nothing serious.
“What happened?” he asked when the pilot had climbed down from the cockpit.
“Lost our way, sir. In the snowstorm. Started running out of fuel. We dropped some flares and picked out a field near some artillery positions.” He laughed. “Scared ’em. They thought it was Fritz, bombing. They gave us some petrol and we took off as soon as we could see what we were doing.”
“Show me on the map where you forced-landed.”
After they had attended to details in the office, Yardley led the way to breakfast.
The Brigadier, who was about to return to his HQ was there, with Colonel Quinn.
Yardley paused by their table to say good morning.
The Brigadier frowned for a moment at the unshaven and dishevelled pilot and observer and gave Tearle and Wotton a quick glance. They were also unshaven. He realised what had happened.
“So you did sit up all night, Yardley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Glad you two got back,” the Brigadier went on. “What went wrong?”
They told him briefly, while Quinn sat in inscrutable silence.
“Well,” said the Brigadier to Yardley, after the others had moved on, “that reduces the percentage of casualties, what? Now let’s hope the last aircraft turns up.”
Yardley, who by now needed sleep, went to bed. When he woke four hours later, it had still not come home.
Now he was sitting with his office chair tilted back and his feet up, after lunch, in discussion with his adjutant and his observer.
“We have to assume they crashed behind the Hun lines and were taken prisoner or killed,” he said, referring to the crew which was still missing.
“It doesn’t say much for Jerry’s ack-ack,” Tearle remarked.
“The target was very lightly defended, of course,” said Wotton.
“And we steered clear of the worst zones en route,” Yardley added.
“What d’you think the Colonel will do about it?” asked Tearle.
“Oh, he’ll have to let us have another go.” Yardley looked grim, as he often did when he talked of Quinn: either grim or mocking and more usually the latter.
“Have to?”
Yardley’s expression changed. He grinned at his observer.
“That’s right, Alec: have to. The Brigadier made it quite plain what his feelings were. He believes deep penetration into Germany is perfectly feasible. Whether he’s arrived at that conclusion on his own or whether he’s simply concurring with General Trenchard, I don’t know. From what I know of Pollard, he’s followed his own line of reasoning.”
Tearle agreed. “The Colonel’s so bally determined to reach the top of the tree, to overtake Pollard and all the other Brigadier-Generals who stand in his way. He’d like to take General Trenchard’s place. Opposing any policy that anyone senior to him orders or advises comes automatically.”
Yardley reflected for a moment.
“What you’re saying, Harold, is that it’s more conspicuous to challenge official strategy and produce a successful alternative than to follow it and make a success of that.”
“Precisely.”
Wotton was keeping his own counsel. He was only 21, five years younger than Tearle and seven years younger than Yardley. Also, he had been commissioned from the ranks; thanks to Yardley, whose observer he had been when Yardley was a captain commanding a flight in their last squadron. They had been flying first of all FE2s which had been replaced by the faster RE8, which could do 102 m.p.h. It was a death-trap and needed highly skilful handling.
He owed more than his commission to Yardley, who had also made sure that his courage and skill behind a Lewis gun were recognised, when he was still a sergeant, by a Military Medal. More valuable to him than either the decoration or commission, he knew that he also owed his life to his pilot. Yardley had fought and manoeuvred his way out of many engagements which a lesser man and less accomplished pilot would not have survived.
Yardley had also brought them home more than once when others were lost in bad weather or by navigational errors. And that was more relevant to night bombing than was the ability to survive fighter attack.
Tearle, who had served on that squadron with them, and been posted with them to be the nucleus of the new squadron being formed, lived in hope of being able to fly again. To this end, he adduced every factor that came to mind which would help to get him back into a cockpit. His wounded leg was not quick enough of movement to permit swift and violent ev
asive action under attack by Albatros or Fokker fighters; but it was adequate for long straight-and-level flights and for jinking out of the way of anti-aircraft shells.
He said, “I think you can demolish the Colonel’s objections, Major.”
They were privately on first-name terms, but Tearle was conscientious in his role of squadron adjutant; particularly when anyone else was present. This was an informal discussion, but they were on duty. If it had not been so informal he would have gone further than “Major” and addressed Ian Yardley as “sir”.
“So do I; but say on, Harold.”
“It’s clear that the Hun’s night defences, for the time being anyway, consist of Archie, which can be steered around en route, and both Archie and balloons around major targets. Those are both considerable snags, I know; but by flying high enough, balloons can be dodged and Archie made less lethal: even though some bombing accuracy has to be sacrificed. But does that matter over a big target?”
“Doesn’t matter too much: bombs anywhere on a factory or railway junction do enough damage to be worthwhile. Anyway, the main effect of night bombing is on enemy morale. It doesn’t so much matter what we hit, as the fact that we are getting through to the target.”
“Anyway,” said Wotton, “no one’s ever seen barrage balloons higher than seven thousand two hundred feet: if we bombed from just above that, we can still be reasonably accurate. And unless the Archie’s exceptionally thick we’re not too vulnerable up there. Not at night. Not with our speed.”
“It’s not as if fighters were any real threat at night,” Tearle went on. Even against Zeppelins, much slower than aeroplanes, we’ve had hardly any success, have we? And think how many of the Zeps we have brought down at night have been with bombs dropped on them from above, not with machine-gun fire!”
“That’s right,” Yardley agreed. “And that’s one form of attack the Hun can’t use on us. Searchlights are the biggest menace. Without them, Archie’s wildly inaccurate. And except on moonlight nights, fighters won’t be able to find us without them. If we had enough aircraft, I’d try a raid with one formation flying low to knock out searchlights with small bombs and machine-guns while the rest stay at about eight thousand and do the bombing.”
“That would be damn good sport, too,” Tearle said. “I used to hate searchlights when we were at the Front. Damn things always seemed so smug and immune from attack.”
“There really isn’t much to bother about at night but weather and navigation.” Yardley looked at his observer. “Have to get you more involved in navigation, Alec.”
“Fine. But how do we communicate?”
Communication between pilot and observer was a constant problem in the DH4. Their cockpits were four feet apart and separated by the petrol tank. Speaking tubes had been tried, but were so crude that they were often useless in the roar of the engine. There was a system of hand signals, but this was of necessity very limited.
“I’ve been thinking about message-passing. What we need is first of all some way of calling each other up when we have a message to give. A light in the cockpit, to flash. It could be worked by a torch battery.”
“That should be easy enough. And then what? Morse?”
“No!” Yardley laughed. “At the speed at which most pilots and observers can read and send, it would take half an hour to get a few words across. Written messages are the answer. Passing them from one cockpit to another is the tricky part. What we need is some simplification of the kind of arrangement they have in shops for sending a customer’s money from a counter to the cashier, and getting the change back. Those containers, running on overhead wires.”
“There are enough ruddy wires on an aeroplane already.”
Tearle, who had not commented, asked, “What would you use as containers?”
“Something the size of an empty Verey cartridge would do.”
“If we could rig up an endless belt between the front and rear cockpits,” said Wotton, “we could put messages in empty Verey cartridges without them falling out.”
“That shouldn’t be beyond the ingenuity of the technical chaps. I’ll tell them to work something out.”
“We’d have nothing to worry about then except the weather,” Wotton said. “Since night fighters aren’t going to bother us.”
The telephone rang.
“Yes?” Yardley said.
“Wing adjutant here, sir. Colonel’s compliments and will you come over to his office, please.”
Yardley stood up and went to put on his greatcoat and cap.
“That’s right, Alec,” he said. “Once we get all the navigation problems licked — by improving communication between the crew — there’ll only be the weather left to overcome. Fighters aren’t going to bother us at night. I’ll tell the Colonel that.”
*
Lieutenant-Colonel Rollo Quinn, DSO, may have been full of quiet charm and gentle humour among his cronies, but it didn’t show as he glowered at Yardley that afternoon.
Yardley would have been surprised to hear that Quinn had any cronies. He had one or two maladjusted friends around the place, but crony was too intimate a term to describe his relationship with any of them: it was more a matter of mutual favouritism and connivance. Any of them would have abandoned any of the others at any time, to further his own interests or save his own skin.
Quinn and Yardley had known each other for a long time and it had never been a cordial acquaintanceship.
They had been on the same squadron before the war, when Quinn was a Captain and Yardley a Lieutenant. They had come to France with the squadron in the first week of the war. Rapid expansion of the Service had brought promotion to the Squadron Commander and Quinn had in turn been promoted to replace him.
In those days and throughout the first two and a half years of the war, Squadron Commanders had been forbidden to put themselves in danger of capture or to risk their lives and limbs by flying behind enemy lines.
Many COs ignored this embargo, but Quinn was notorious for his zeal in its observance.
It was not until he was again promoted and posted to command his first wing of three squadrons, that the MC which he had been blocking was finally awarded to Yardley. A DSO followed soon after. The new wing he had been given to form and command would eventually comprise of five squadrons, but even that would not satisfy Quinn for long.
Quinn’s own decoration had been the fruit of commanding a successful wing rather than of his own gallantry in action. As the German’s tactic was not to cross the British or French lines, but to wait behind their own for the Royal Flying Corps and Aviation Militaire to venture into their territory, Quinn had had virtually no personal contact with the enemy throughout his three years and five months at the Front.
It was this knowledge and the contempt for Quinn which it generated that were responsible for the disdain with which Yardley returned Quinn’s scowl.
“Against my better judgment,” Quinn told him, “I’m going to allow you a second shot at proving your squadron is fit for night bombing.”
To start with, Yardley thought, he hasn’t got any judgment, better or worse. All he has is an ingrown instinct for self-preservation, which amounts to the same thing in this instance. The fact is that the Brigadier must have as good as told him to let us fly another long-range night sortie.
He made no comment.
After a wait of several seconds, Quinn lifted his upper lip twice, ferret-like, and rapped on his desk with a ruler.
“Well?” he said.
“Very good, sir.”
“And you can damned well push it to the limit of your range, what’s more. As you’re so stubbornly insistent about the validity of this type of operation.”
“Very good, sir.”
“It’s a great deal less of a risk than day bombing, evidently.”
Quinn did not sneer, but there was an unpleasant inflection in his voice, his hostile, pale eyes held an implied jeer. His upper lip gave another quick twitch to reveal the g
ap between his incisors.
“So it would seem, sir.”
“Ack-ack not much of a threat unless you happen to choose a more significant target than the last one. Same can be said about balloons. And, of course, no fighters to contend with.”
“No, sir, no sign of fighters.”
“So no doubt you’ll pick another similar target.”
That time, sarcasm did show itself.
“It might even be worth returning to the same one, Colonel. The Hun won’t expect us back so soon. And as we’ve already flown the route once by night, we have learned some landmarks. That should help our navigation.”
Quinn felt the familiar irritation which Yardley had always aroused in him, ever since the day he won a flying competition on their first squadron; in which Quinn had come several places below.
He would allow Yardley no possible excuse for another failure. In his eyes, the sortie last night had been a failure, despite the loss of only three machines and four men.
“You will practise your navigation for the next six days.”
“Very good, sir.”
In fact, the weather prevented them from doing so on three of the days in the following week. At the end of that time Quinn summoned Yardley and told him to get on with the next operation; he had had quite enough time for preparation; for someone who displayed such confidence, he said.
Which took them up to the day on which Uwe Gratz came home on leave and told Ilse Nauroth he would soon be stationed on a new fighter aerodrome on the outskirts of Schutzstadt.
Chapter Six
It was only the second Sunday since one of Yardley’s bombs had obliterated Horst Nauroth, and the sharpened memories of him which Sunday brought caused them a fresh sadness.
To begin with, they had to go to church as usual and their eyes could not avoid the fresh-turned earth heaped over his grave as they walked up the path.
Frau Nauroth began to cry and a moment later tears were streaming down Ilse’s face. Both women walked with heads bowed. Ilse’s hand under her mother’s arm was more than a gesture of love and sympathy, it was a necessary support. Frau Nauroth walked with difficulty at the best of times, and distress coupled to the fatigue of many sleepless nights made her hobble worse than ever.
Night Raiders Page 4
