A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  His informant was a civilian mechanic sent down by Mr O’Gorman.

  “Sandbags firmly tied in place, I trust?”

  “Well… not tied as such, sir.”

  “Make it so, if you please. I may bank violently, or attempt to dive and zoom, and I do not want flying sandbags to join me in my cockpit.”

  The mechanic was an able man, quickly improvised adequate strapping.

  “Take-off speed?”

  “Depends much on the wind, sir. Very large wing area on this machine, sir. Something in excess of forty, sir. Landing, sir, she is very well-behaved, closer to fifty, sir. If I might suggest, sir, you might wish to remember that you are sat quite high off the grass, sir.”

  “Thank you. That is rather a good point, I suspect!”

  The FE was underpowered, that was indisputable, but Tommy was able to lift her off the grass with a good fifty yards to spare before the fence. The pigsties had been removed, he was pleased to see.

  The FE was a slug, compared even to the DH1; it was well-mannered in the turn and was adequately nimble despite its size, but he could not persuade it to reach eighty miles an hour in level flight and he suspected that its ceiling would be low. He banked increasingly sharply, dived and zoomed and debated a full loop, decided against it just in case it chose to spin or stall out. He brought it down, touched the wheels to the grass and then attempted a full-power climb to one thousand feet, taking more than four minutes to complete; he landed after that.

  Mr O’Gorman was there, waiting for a report.

  “Forty more horsepower and you have a usable machine, sir. Sixty more and you have an extremely valuable fighting aircraft, sir. Add one hundred and you will have a bombardment machine. As it stands, sir, it could neither catch a German, nor run away from him. The machine is very large, which worried me initially, but is in fact no drawback; it behaves very well in the air. But, as under-powered as it currently is, the machine is valueless, sir.”

  “Point taken, Captain Stark. For its general handling, have you any comments?”

  “A larger rudder perhaps, but it is fundamentally suitable, I think. A larger engine will permit a greater petrol tank. A harness of some sort for the gunner would be welcome, sir, even a belt on a rope, sir. I might not enjoy hanging over the edge of the gunner’s cockpit trying to aim a Lewis with both hands, sir, in the absence of some sort of safety equipment.”

  “It could be disconcerting, that I must confess, Captain Stark. Would you send this machine to France?”

  “As it stands, sir? No. It will not catch the German, and thus has no great purpose.”

  “Agreed, Captain Stark. Is it worthwhile in your opinion to continue to develop the machine?”

  “Is there progress on an interruptor gear, sir?”

  “No. A year at least before we see a reliable mechanism.”

  “Then we need a stopgap, sir.”

  “I tend to agree with you, Captain Stark – but how long it will take, I do not know. Either to find a supply of powerful engines, or to develop a gear for firing through the propeller.”

  It seemed that they were at a stop, a dead-end for the short term at least. There was a recognised need for a pursuit machine, and the various designers and firms were making their drawings, but the capacity to manufacture the machines did not exist, and would not for some considerable time. Such being the case, there was very little point to wandering around the south of England looking at the various prototypes. Tommy wondered whether it was the same in Germany and Austria; he doubted it, the Prussians were said to be the model of military efficiency, but they had produced their Taubes, and they were really outdated and incapable of improvement, so perhaps…

  He simply did not know, but he was certain he was wasting his time for the while, and was too close to senior officers for his own safety. If he was not careful he would find himself opening his mouth to the wrong person; from all he had heard, every general surrounded himself with a staff, whose main function was to act as toadies, running to him with information on every junior who might be so wicked as to think for himself. The best thing would be to get back to France, to a squadron, to flying every day and doing something useful.

  Tommy made his decision while he was driving back to Wilton, very slowly for the number of army wagons on the road, almost all horse-drawn, holding to the centre of the carriageway and ponderously overladen. He had the time to glance at the loads – mostly rations, it seemed; bully beef, potatoes, flour, even some nets of cabbages, crates of plum and raspberry jam, quite a number with the name of Stark stamped on the plywood. It was strange, he thought, that the numbers of wagons going east fairly well matched those travelling west; a little thought and organisation by the quartermasters could probably have halved the number of vehicles on the roads. Half an hour before he reached Wilton he passed a dozen motor lorries on the road south to Salisbury and the coast, each displaying a red flag, carrying munitions for France; ten minutes later he overtook a line of horse-drawn wagons going north, carrying shells to the artillery range on Salisbury Plain. There was no overall organisation that he could discover.

  “Is all going well, Tommy? Are there new aeroplanes soon to go to France to win the war?”

  “No.”

  Monkey was brought up short by the flat negative; the Telegraph had been quite certain that morning that British inventiveness would very soon bring the conflict to its inevitable victory.

  “We have no engines, Monkey, and slight prospect of achieving any in the next year. De Havilland has the ideas for a pursuit machine that could drive the Germans out of the skies – but he cannot put engines into them. The Aircraft Factory has a design that will do the job – it ain’t elegant, but it will work, except that it is underpowered. There will be nothing new in France this year, unless we can buy from the French, and they are short of machines themselves.”

  “But, you are expected to visit the various manufacturers, to fly their new machines, Tommy. How can you do that if there are no engines?”

  “I cannot. I am due in London next week to report on all I have seen and to give my opinion on these new designs. While I am there I shall request a return to France. Nothing else to do, Monkey, because, if I do not, I shall very quickly be posted to one of the new training fields to spend my days very dangerously.”

  “Dangerously?”

  “Allowing rank novices, many of whom are hopelessly ill-suited to flying, to take the controls of machines while I try to tell them their mistakes. Not my idea of fun, Monkey!”

  She had not considered the hazards of teaching new pilots.

  “Have you ever taught anyone to fly, Tommy?”

  “Quite a few, in fact. There were always hopeful aviators turning up at Brooklands with money in their pockets and the wish to learn. A flat sovereign for a two-hour lesson, if I had access to a machine and the wind was low; a good way of making my pocket-money, Monkey. Some of them used to look a bit unhappy when they realised how old I was, but mostly they knuckled under and did as I told them. Must have had a dozen men each summer, trundling around in a Longhorn – not a bad machine to learn on, in fact. Never killed one of them while they were learning. Couple of them killed themselves a few weeks later, but that was their concern, not mine.”

  “Well then, you must be a jolly good teacher!”

  Loyalty before any other consideration – she could never imagine that he was anything less than the best.

  “But, I am, of course, Monkey! Thing is, these were men – not boys fresh from school – and they really wanted to fly, for the sake of it. They knew a bit about it, and wanted to be part of flying. Many of the boys coming forward as pilots now will be very willing to do their bit in the war, and will think that they can make a difference as young heroes of the sky, but they would never have flown otherwise, not for pleasure, not because they could not imagine doing anything else. They will not be naturals. Teaching them could be very hard work. I wouldn’t know where to start – I knew how to
fly before ever I sat in a machine, for watching and being a part of the world. How could I teach men to be pilots when I don’t really understand what I am doing, because I do it without having to think about it?”

  She could not answer the question, mostly because it might sound like criticism if she thought she could do something better than him; she changed the subject.

  “Do you think I should do something for the war, Tommy?”

  “What have you in mind?”

  “There is a Ladies’ Committee in the village, Tommy, which raises money and puts together ‘comforts’ for the troops – parcels to be sent out to ‘our boys’, as I understand is the correct term for the soldiers in the field.”

  “It sounds perfectly appalling, my love. Who is involved, and do you have to be part of it? Will you be regarded as not of the right sort if you don’t join in?”

  She nodded, grimacing.

  “Lady Masters, the widow of Sir Henry Masters, DSO – I quote – she never forgets to add the decoration when mentioning his name. He died in the Boer War and left her with three sons, two of whom have gone to the war and the third, who is still at school, will take his turn when he is old enough.”

  “An overpowering lady?”

  “Stupid as well! She stopped me in the street on Tuesday, asked if that was my husband who she had seen in civilian clothes in church on Sunday. I had pleasure in informing her that you were Captain Stark, MC, of the RFC, recently wounded while flying in France. The old besom then told me she was pleased that we thought in a proper fashion, but that it was a pity you were not in a real regiment; she had, however, been told that the aeroplane was quite useful in war, so she could not wholly disapprove of your actions. She then invited me to attend a meeting of the Committee to be held in the Church rooms tomorrow afternoon; I was, she told me, to be sure to obtain your permission, she would not wish to come between husband and wife!”

  “Do you really want to spend time in her company, Monkey?”

  “No, but I do like living in the village, and it is necessary, so my mama warned me, to fit in with the local ladies, because otherwise it could be a very lonely existence. Which it will be when you go back to France.”

  “You could spend time at Long Benchley, love – your mother will want company now that poor George is such a worry to her. What has been decided by the way?”

  There was to have been a meeting earlier in the week at George’s hospital to decide where he would go on his discharge, healed as much as was possible.

  “I received a letter this morning, Tommy. There is a nursing home outside Guildford which has a very good name, it seems. The doctors at Haslar recommended it, and George is to be taken there in the next few days. He will have his own room, with a balcony and a view out over the hills of the Sussex Weald. They have classes in painting and sewing and other interesting hobbies, and they have a large library. Some of the patients play musical instruments as well, but I do not believe that George will be able to achieve that. They have a resident doctor and trained nurses, and menservants, porters they call them, who will assist him in moving around. It will be better than staying on his own at home. Many of the men there play bridge or other card games, which will give him an interest…”

  She broke down in tears, unable to keep up the bright façade. George had been a hunting, shooting and fishing squire in the making, happy when inspecting his father’s farms and chatting with the tenants.

  “Sewing and painting, Tommy? Poor old George!”

  “Poor man indeed! I cannot see him lasting long, you know, poor fellow! There is nothing for him to fight for, no future of any sort. If I was ever to be badly hurt, it would not matter, because I have you to live for; I would have a reason to fight my way back to life. He has nothing.”

  “But we have everything, between us, do we not, Tommy! We have so much while he has nothing at all. I was always used to envy George, for being the man of the house, the heir to my father and to the land; he had everything then. Now, I have you – and I could never be sure that was more than a hope, a wonderful dream, for I always feared that your aeroplanes would take you away from me. Now, even if you were to die tomorrow, I would have the memories, and would always know that you had loved me.”

  He was quite certain that he had nothing about him that deserved such devotion; he would not say so, however, for that might hurt her.

  “I shall stay here in Wilton, Tommy, but when you go back to France I shall ask Mama if she would wish to be the first guest in our house. I suspect she might be pleased of a change of scene.”

  “Good idea. Lavinia and her spouse as well?”

  “She is definitely increasing and will not wish to travel, besides which she must support her husband in his first months as a Member of Parliament.”

  “How fortunate!”

  She grinned, said no more on the topic.

  “Will you join the local Party, Tommy?”

  “Why?”

  She giggled at the blank-faced amazement he displayed.

  “Because you are an important figure in the village, of course! You will be very welcome and all of the gentlemen of the County will make much of you!”

  “That sounds like a very good reason to run in the opposite direction!”

  “I know, but I much suspect my father would approve of you doing so. I know – because my father told me so in the last letter – that your brother has joined the Party in Farnborough, and I believe that Papa would wish you to display your virtue as well – though the reason for it escapes me.”

  “Me too. But if it must be so, then I will perform my duty. I have a great deal of respect for your father, and not merely for his wisdom in siring you! I will do as I am told.”

  A quiet word at the newsagents when he went in to pay the account put him in the direction of the local Conservative stalwart, the backbone of the Party in the village and a member of the Constituency Committee. The gentleman had been a soldier, he was told, still kept his rank and was said to have volunteered for service again at the beginning of the war; far too old, of course, but an enthusiast nonetheless.

  Politics was man’s business, exclusively; was he to introduce himself with Monkey on his arm she would be suspected of suffragettism and he would be seen as condoning her heresy. Tommy wandered up to Poona Cottage on his own.

  “Is Captain Postnett at home?”

  The ancient manservant, rigid backed, an ex-batman, who had answered the door admitted that he was and took Tommy’s card. On observing military rank he begged Tommy to come inside.

  “Captain Stark, sir.”

  “Ha! You must be the flying gentleman! Pleased to meet you, my boy! Picked up this new Military Cross, I heard? Well done, sir!”

  They shook hands, formally.

  “Thought I should get to know my neighbours while I am still in England, Captain Postnett. Just got medical clearance from the doctors as fit to fly and should be back to France very soon, you know, sir. In London, next week and I shall be badgering the brasshats for a posting!”

  Captain Postnett was at least sixty – one foot in the grave in Tommy’s opinion – with the fading remains of a tropical tan still visible despite his ten years in England. He was dressed in tweeds and wore a necktie, in his own house of an afternoon – a formal gentleman.

  “RFC – didn’t have them in my day, you know! What’s it like, this flying business?”

  “Indescribable, sir, like nothing else on Earth. To be a mile high, up in the sky, able to see for ten miles all around you, travelling faster than an express train - it has never been possible before, sir, and aeroplanes can only get faster and fly higher!”

  “Don’t think it would do for me, Captain Stark. Just a common foot-soldier, sir, in the Wiltshires – and my battalion always in the wrong place, too! When there was a war in India, we were in Devizes; in the Boer War, we were in garrison in Jamaica! Still a captain when I came to thirty years in and decided enough was enough, but I did my bit, I
think, Captain Stark!”

  “We cannot all be lucky, sir. I wanted to speak to you particularly in fact, sir, for I gather that you are our local man in the Party; I feel that I should put my name forward, not as a member as such – not right for a serving soldier to be involved directly in politics – but so that you know we feel the right way, sir.”

  “Very proper, my boy! Good to see there is none of this Liberal nonsense in you, still less these damned Reds. Should be put against a wall and shot, every last man of them! Did you hear of that wicked bugger in the by-election in Farnborough? Stood up and said he was a pacifist, of all things! A damned traitor by any name, Captain Stark! The crowd booed him off the platform, of course, and pelted him – and he was lucky it was only mud they threw! Had to have a police escort at his side every time he left his house after that; can’t imagine what might have happened since the election was over and his police guard went home again! Whatever it is, he deserves it! He was an elementary school teacher – and I say was, for the School Board sacked him as a Hun-lover!”

  Captain Postnett’s already red face had turned an alarming puce; Tommy thought there was a very good chance he would have an apoplexy and die on the spot. He was rather disappointed when his host sat back down and rang for the manservant.

  “Take a glass while you’re here, Captain Stark? Drop of Scotch will go down very nicely, I suspect!”

  There was no choice, and Tommy was not a teetotaller, but he did not love whisky of an afternoon.

  “What’s the chance of the Spring Offensive driving the Huns back to where they came from, Captain Stark? The papers seem full of it.”

  “The papers are full of it, Captain Postnett; I shall not specify what ‘it’ is.”

  “You think not, Captain Stark?”

  “Not a chance, sir. Quite impossible. One machine-gun, sir, is a match for a battalion of soldiers in the open. The Huns have thousands of the things. A landing from the sea to the north of Holland, that might be possible and could end the war. But I see no hope of a successful battle in France. Two more years, sir, and it may be possible to mass great numbers of guns and blow a way forward while the Russians attack at the same time from the East. From the little I have read, however, the Russians are not about to do very much at all.”