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

by Andrew Wareham

  It was a lot of fuss and bother – if one of them should be hit… well, a dusting of flour would do no great harm, surely.

  Tommy took off and banked hard, nose up and pulling the rotary into a right-hand turn so that it snapped round onto its course at less than two hundred feet. He wondered whether the assembled novices would be foolish enough to attempt the same in a rotary machine, then dismissed his worries – it would be their funeral.

  He thumbed the blip switch and dropped speed to about sixty miles an hour, not far above the machine’s stall, a little more than best landing speed, then held it rigidly straight along the length of the trench, determining just where he should release the bombs. On his third pass he tugged at a left-hand cord, felt a very slight jump as the load dropped away. He banked and climbed and looked down at the white smear on the muddy ground. Over by at least ten yards and to the left of the trench itself by several feet; a very definite miss.

  On the second run he held the Scout to as nearly as possible the same line, dropped a fraction earlier from the right wing.

  In the trench and within a yard of the circle representing a machine-gun. A high-explosive bomb would have destroyed gun and gunners. A hit.

  Tommy dropped another six bombs at the same height and speed, achieved a good degree of accuracy, apart from one which caught in the release clip and tumbled away on its own course. Out of interest, he dropped the last two at high speed and from one hundred feet. Neither landed in the trench.

  He supposed that he must amuse the trainees and so pulled up into a loop – always spectacular even if rather pointless - and came out at a bare one hundred feet and directly into his landing. It looked impressive. He called to the mechanics to top up the fuel and check the oil tank before joining the experts at the trench.

  “At low speed gentlemen, and as close to the ground as I would wish to risk, it is possible to place the bombs with some accuracy. The release mechanism can be refined, but it will do. I do not know what the results would be if there was to be a pair of machine guns in that trench and firing upwards, given that once on the bombing line, I am committed to constant speed, course and height for the better part of ten seconds.”

  They considered that and then suggested that if the gunners held their nerve he would not survive the experience.

  “However, Captain Stark, I am sure you need not worry about that. The Hun is a cowardly beast, one understands, and will run every time!”

  The speaker was a short, overweight and middle-aged gentleman, peering at the world from behind a thick pair of spectacles; there was small chance that he would ever have to face the Hun.

  “Quite possibly you are right, sir. There is the offchance of meeting up with one of the enemy who is of a more resolute kind, of course.”

  “Oh, I would not fear that, Captain Stark!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  The frost in Tommy’s words penetrated the scientific gentleman’s complacency; he became aware that he might have said something out of place, but he did not know what. He was rescued by a colleague.

  “I am sure Professor Banningham did not intend to use the word ‘fear’, Captain Stark, or not to give it so commonplace a context.”

  A subtle elbow nudged the professor in his back, causing him almost to fall over.

  “Oh! Of course! A, ah, slip of the tongue, Captain Stark, a lapsus linguae, one might say, or perhaps, as a man of action rather than education, you might not, of course…”

  The possessor of the elbow whispered in the professor’s ear.

  “Why don’t I what?”

  The words were repeated.

  “Oh! Well, I think that’s a jolly rude thing to say to a colleague!”

  The professor obeyed the command, however, stumping off to the car that had brought the party to the edge of the airfield.

  “Believe it or not, Captain Stark, that is a highly intelligent man and possessed of a keenly analytical brain; he should not, however, be let out on his own.”

  “He is certainly a little short of an understanding of common courtesy, sir. I am happy to accept that there was no malice to his words. Now, sir, considering bombing. It is clear that it can be done. It is obvious to me that there will be a high casualty rate among the bombers, at least while using the machines presently available. An aeroplane with a pair of machine-guns firing forward into the trench would have a far greater chance of survival – but that demands far more power of the engine.”

  They agreed that the procedure would be hazardous, should be resorted to only rarely.

  “Large bombs or small, Captain Stark?”

  “Small for trench work, I feel, sir. Large for targets behind the fighting line. Railway junctions; factories; ammunition dumps; barge basins; harbours; airfields and airship sheds – what else might one consider as a target?”

  “Barracks, Captain Stark, spring to mind.”

  “There, the best would be smaller bombs, sir, to kill people. Larger bombs when the aim is to disrupt the mechanical world.”

  The civilian experts did not like to be reminded that the aim of the exercise might be to kill; they much preferred to think of hitting abstract targets.

  “How accurate would you expect to be from ten thousand feet, Captain Stark?”

  “Why sir, I would expect to be as close to the target as I am from fifty feet. Looking at the trench, sir, I was, on average, two feet away from the target at fifty; from two hundred times that height, sir, then I would expect to be four hundred feet distant, on average. Of course, sir, there is as well the problem of windage – at a height of two miles one must expect air currents that will provide a lateral movement of the bomb and which will be quite unpredictable.”

  They considered his statement and decided that it was mathematically valid. The quickest of them had a solution within the minute.

  “Assume you had one hundred aeroplanes, Captain Stark, each carrying say twenty bombs, then if they were released simultaneously to command, there would be a spread of bombs, the bulk of them missing the target, but a proportion actually hitting and achieving the aim of the exercise.”

  “True, sir. Railway junctions are commonly in towns, sir. What would happen, do you think, to the bombs that missed the target?”

  “I believe I once heard it to be said that one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, Captain Stark! If the action will help to win the war, then it must be taken.”

  Tommy reflected that the comment was easily said, and was probably true, but was being made by a man who would be hundreds of miles away from the civilians whose houses and families might be destroyed by his bombs.

  He returned home after doing the polite with the staff at Netheravon, discussing the war and training and the desire of every man on the staff to be back in France where he could be killed by his enemies rather than by the trainees who were supposed to be on his side.

  “Schoolboys, Captain Stark, all used to success, to being the great men, the sportsmen who were the tin gods of their Houses, or undergraduates who had their Blues and were the best of jolly good chaps. The very concept of working is unknown to them! As for taking orders – my dear chap! They are officers and their function is to give orders, don’t you know! We have lost two from this course already; one for absolute stupidity – he tried to push a Shorthorn into a loop, or so I suppose from the way he hauled the nose up. He stalled in, unsurprisingly.”

  Tommy had flown many hours in a Farman, did not know that it was possible to loop the machine; from the comments he heard, he presumed it was not.

  “Perhaps I should not have looped the Scout in their view. I am sorry!”

  “No, they will certainly try, but by the time they sit inside a Scout they should have some slight idea of how to do so. The right-hand bank at low level in a rotary worried me, I will admit; that can be a killer.”

  “Nose up before you begin the turn is the trick, or so I have found. The Tabloid would turn on a sixpence, I found, and woul
d not spin. The Scout seems equally well behaved. I like its lines, too.”

  “The more fanciful are referring to it as ‘the Bullet’, one understands. It is a very popular name in the tabloid press. There is a ‘D’ in development that will refine the machine a little further. What do you think to carrying a Lewis, Captain Stark?”

  “Never tried one on the upper wing, aiming might not be easy in the space of a couple of seconds. Offset to the left? Given a sight, then possibly, I do not know. My limited experience says very close range. I have tried to fire a rifle and missed. The one success I have had was with pistols at twenty feet. The need is for a fixed gun firing straight ahead on a level with the pilot’s eye – and even then, with a machine bouncing about in the disturbed air of another aeroplane, the chances of a hit are not high.”

  “So… get close, match speeds and only then open fire using an offset gun?”

  “It’s the only prescription I can give, yes. With the addition, of course, that you need to be behind him.”

  “In the back?”

  “If at all possible, yes. The intention is to get rid of an enemy scout, to prevent him from going home to tell them what he has seen. We are not playing Cowboys and Indians, you know.”

  The instructors were appalled, or said that they were. Two of them had seen the war in France and nodded thoughtfully, but they had to live in the same Mess as their outraged colleagues.

  “We are fighting for the future of Western Civilisation, you know, Stark, old chap!”

  “I’m sorry – I did not realise. I had thought we were fighting to restore Belgian neutrality and keep the German fleet out of the Channel ports.”

  Military Cross or not, they decided that he was a rather peculiar sort of chap; they wondered what school he had been to.

  He flew directly to Bristol and landed at the company’s airfield outside the town, next to a growing factory with new buildings being thrown up at top speed. He was ushered inside to speak to the designers, having been given tea first, as was obviously necessary after so long a flight.

  “How did the bombing go, Captain Stark?”

  “At very low level, it was satisfactory, sir. But I think the casualties among the aeroplanes would be high. Fifty feet at low speed gave the best results. Even a company of riflemen would score a good few hits in those circumstances; a pair of machine-guns would be a certain killer. I have been thinking about an answer and all I can come up with is to have half of a squadron dashing about at a couple of thousand feet and dropping bombs almost at random to divert attention while a single flight comes in at ground level.”

  “That would work a few times, of course, until they came to expect you.”

  “Just so, sir. From a practical viewpoint, you might well be able to improve on the carrying and release of the bombs. I think you might want to set up clips for a pair of twenty-pound bombs on either side, or for as many as ten four-pounders in their place. Working off a simple trigger – possibly four triggers?”

  That was not impossible, they thought.

  “Other than that, a mounting for a Lewis, in a position that will enable the pilot to change an empty pan of ammunition. Ideally above the upper wing, but I don’t see how that could be done.”

  Not for a reload, they agreed, except by using a heavy mounting to allow the gun to be hauled up and down.

  “The French are talking of wedges on the propeller, Captain Stark. A gun firing ahead, through the blades. They have also designed what they call a ‘pulpit’, a front cockpit built out from the undercarriage and placed in front of the airscrew, carrying a gunner with a Lewis. It wobbles, we are told, and there can be no communication between pilot and gunner.”

  “So the gunner takes an aim and just when he is ready to fire the pilot hares off after another target… Might lead to a lot of bad-temper, but I don’t know that it would result in many successes! It sounds to me like a very good way of giving a tractor all of the disadvantages of a pusher!”

  The engineers from Bristol agreed.

  “What of a twin-engine machine, Captain Stark, two seater, with a pair of Vickers in the rear cockpit, to fire sideways, up and to the rear?”

  “Good in its way, provided the engines are powerful, because it will need the speed to overhaul its target and fire from in front of it. You could use it solely as a close escort to a BE, I suppose… but it would be asking a lot of the gunner. Heavy guns, Vickers, and would take a lot of heaving about, but a powerful punch. It seems to me, sir, that if you have twin engines then you could put a pair of guns in the nose instead. Do without an observer and you would gain speed as well or you could add a bomb load or perhaps a bit of armour plate to the cockpit. What about handling, sir? Could you give the RFC a machine that could be thrown about like a Scout?”

  That, it seemed, was asking too much; to make a two-seater that could be thrown about would demand structural strength that they could not deliver within the limitations of weight imposed by the engines.

  “A long range bombardment machine, perhaps? Or put floats on it for reconnaissance at sea? But if it won’t handle well, then it cannot be used for pursuit, sir.”

  “Back to the drawing-board, Captain Stark?”

  “I fear so, sir. Have you consulted Mr O’Gorman on the matter of design, sir? I am sure he would have much to say.”

  “That is a certainty, Captain Stark. Mr O’Gorman always has much to say! Have you been in contact with de Havilland or Sopwith, by the way?”

  Tommy had, and was not certain that he should be discussing them with a competitor.

  “They are deeply concerned about the shortage of engines, sir. Mr Sopwith is looking at a powerful rotary tractor, as soon as there is an interruptor gear, while Mr de Havilland is still developing his pushers. Neither is giving consideration to bombardment machines. I do not know what Vickers is doing at Joyce Green and doubt I shall be able to see them before I return to France.”

  “The RFC has a down on monoplanes, Captain Stark; hence the new Bristol Scout. Do you agree, as an experienced testing pilot, that we should consider only the multi-wing machine?”

  “No. Provided that the construction is sound – and I would say tubular steel as a prerequisite – and the engine is powerful, then there are many advantages to the monoplane. The simplest means of attack is dive and zoom – a rapid descent, slowing to fire, then a fast dive and climb away – and a monoplane can outperform a biplane of similar power in those manoeuvres. That said, I must repeat – strength, sir!”

  “Agreed, Captain Stark. What of a triplane?”

  “Never flown one, sir. I would expect it to climb, to turn and bank, to roll far quicker than a biplane or monoplane, but I doubt it could have the speed of either. In close fighting, it should have the edge. More than three wings seems unlikely, to me; the only multiplane I ever saw never left the ground. What do they call it, diminishing returns?”

  “Probably, Captain Stark.”

  They parted, Tommy to the railway station and the run to Swindon on an express, followed by the cross-country line to Salisbury and then a slow potter out to Wilton. The journey suited him, slower on each stage until he finally crawled into the little station half a mile from his home. He was wearing his flying gear, including the long leather coat, and decided to walk through the evening’s rain rather than try to find transport of any kind. There was a motor-bus, supposedly meeting the trains, but it reached the station at erratic intervals and might mean a wait of one minute or sixty. Ten brisk minutes through the dark streets saw him home, Monkey welcoming him at the front door and leading him through to the kitchen to remove the wet coat and hang it up a distance from the fire.

  “There is a telegram, Tommy. It came an hour ago. It was addressed to you, so I did not open the envelope.”

  He tore the flimsy brown paper open, read the few words, handed it across to her.

  “’Report Croydon to join 3 Squadron 0800 hours, 16th January 1915.’ Five days, Tommy. I did not know the
squadron was in England.”

  “It is not, Monkey. I am probably to collect a machine to ferry out to the squadron, or perhaps to sit in the observer’s cockpit and go to France the quick way. Good of them to give me the extra few hours in England. It can take a full day to go by way of Dover and the ferry and train. Drive to Long Benchley on the 15th and then get the chauffeur to take us to Croydon and bring you back again, do you think?”

  It seemed good, to her, inasmuch that planning for his return to the war could be in any way ‘good’. She wrote a quick letter to her mother to inform her of the plans; it was not yet six o’clock; she could run the letter up to the post box a hundred yards away and it would reach Long Benchley with the second morning delivery.

  Idle days, late rising and sitting long and talking, walking the valley and ambling across the side of the Downs, making the most of each other in the little time remaining to them; early to bed and enjoying that too. In Monkey’s case, deliberately creating memories that might have to endure for a lifetime, and if there should be a baby, so very much the better.

  On the last day Tommy put his travelling bag together; his leather trunk was already packed for him by Mrs Rudge and the maids. He would put the trunk into the hands of the staff at Croydon and they would send it out to France with the next consignment of stores; it might well reach 3 Squadron within two days, the need for spares so great that there were daily deliveries as the squadrons kept machines in the air for far longer than their designers had ever intended.

  Monkey watched as he checked the Colts were unloaded before tucking them into the bottom of his bag.

  “What about the revolver, Tommy?”

  “Pilot’s sidearm, love. I shall wear it. Keep it out of sight until I dress up to fly, out of courtesy to the civilians. The base wallahs probably won’t like the Dum-Dum rounds, so I’ll keep them hidden as well. For the rest – spare underclothes, in case the trunk is delayed; four pairs of stockings, always need to look after the feet, you know, last thing you want is blisters. An extra woolly jumper, so that one can be washed as soon as it gets full of castor oil. Silk scarves, and the silk gloves that Major de Havilland sent; they are certainly warm and very supple. See if you can get hold of more scarves and gloves, will you, love? Perhaps you could drive across to the silk mill at Whitchurch, it’s not so many miles away; you might be able to order gloves and scarves there. If you can get them, write me and I will enquire who else in the squadron wants them. If you go up to Town shopping at any time, you might pick up a flying coat for me – a second will always come in handy. You know my height, and they have my measurements.”