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

by Andrew Wareham

  She found notebook and pencil.

  “What else, Tommy?”

  “More toffees! Like the ones we ordered to be sent across from Harrods.”

  “Toffees – hard or soft?”

  “Ones to suck, to give a bit of sweetness to counter that bloody castor oil!”

  “What flavour? Caramel or chocolate or liquorice?”

  “Not liquorice! Ordinary sort, except maybe some of those rolled around chocolate in the centre. Lots of them, thinking on it, because I’ll have to share!”

  “Haven’t you got a tuck shop at the airfield?”

  “Surprisingly, no. Most of the chaps would get no farther than the bar, anyway.”

  She could not approve.

  “Handkerchiefs, Tommy! You have no spares – I knew I should watch you pack!”

  There were advantages to a wife, Tommy realised again. He tucked his washing bag inside, double-checking a spare toothbrush and powder. Shaving kit, though he still needed that only every second day; he glanced in the mirror, shook his head at his nearly bare upper lip. The mandatory moustache that all officers must possess by Regulation was still very shy.

  Tommy drove to Long Benchley, wondering idly when next he would sit in his car. He had heard that a few Guards officers had had their own motors taken out to France, for their convenience out of the line, but he felt that it might be frowned upon in the RFC.

  Squire welcomed husband and wife, face a little gloomy as he wondered whether he would ever do so again.

  “All well, Tommy, raring to go, my boy?”

  “Necessary, sir. I had rather stay at home with Monkey, but the war won’t go away, not without men to fight it!”

  Squire agreed, his frown deepening.

  “Kitchener is planning for his New Army to be recruited and trained for the summer of next year, Tommy. Damned near eighteen months before he has the men ready in France, and then it will be six months of fighting, I suppose, before it’s over. New Year of 1917, so I would expect, before victory comes.”

  “So… just hold on for the next year and more, sir? Mark time waiting for the new battalions to arrive and prevent the Germans from advancing further. Fighting at sea, I suppose, and finishing off the colonies, and making all tidy. How is it going in Russia? Read nothing in the papers these last weeks about the war in the east.”

  “You won’t, Tommy! It’s a bloody disaster except on the Austrian borders – and they ain’t important. The Baltic is a German lake, so they say, and the Russians have lost Poland and the Grand Duchies – Lithuania and that lot. The Tsar has gone loopy – shades of George III, it’s whispered, hanging about with mystics and saints and such, and his wife even worse. Some damned mad monk or the other, so they say: Rasputin – supposed to have three balls, Tommy, and all of them overactive! Forget Russia!”

  Tommy was taken aback; even in King Edward’s day London had never seen the like of that.

  “What of the Ottomans? Are they important?”

  “Indian Army will deal with them, Tommy. Maybe the Australians as well – they have to come by way of Suez, so they will be conveniently to hand. Not really our concern, not at the moment. Nor Italy, for they still haven’t come into the war, although they are making favourable noises. For us, Tommy, the war is in France. It looks as if the trenches are here to stay – no war of movement, and that means guns and shells and barbed wire. The side with the most guns and ammunition will have the advantage. I have been asked to involve myself in the organisation of the munitions industry, Tommy, as well as food. Next week sees the barony, my boy! Taking Moncur as the title! Provided brother James does his stuff and there’s a boy, then the line will be secure, as it should be. Do you no harm, either, Tommy – married to Lord Moncur’s daughter!”

  Tommy had not realised that there could be an advantage in having the right sort of wife.

  “Very much so, my boy! When next you come to a promotion they will have to decide whether you are to be breveted or made permanent. If you are permanent, then you might still be around in the years after the war and on your way to general’s rank – and in that case it will help no end if your wife’s father can be seen in the House of Lords. Influence for the RFC, as well as simple snobbery.”

  “Well, I suppose that must be to the good, sir.”

  “Your private income will be known as well, Tommy. We are to be involved in some shell-filling factories, and they will operate cost-plus – a guaranteed profit, especially if we can keep the cost down and the plus up.”

  Squire explained, Tommy looking sadly puzzled.

  “Shell-filling factories are best kept fairly small, Tommy. Very large organisations are more efficient, but it is better to have places producing no more than a thousand tons a week in small plants in fairly rural areas, next to a railway line, of course, with their own sidings. Occasionally there is a mistake, you see. If you have say two hundred tons of ammonal or TNT blow, then you have one hell of a bang and quite a few workers blown to atoms; if you have a huge factory and ten thousand tons going up, then you have a hole a mile wide and nothing left for another mile around it. A big factory would need perhaps thousands of workers and would have to be close to a major town where they could live…”

  “So that means a lot of small places, sir, and a chance for a profit from each?”

  “Exactly, Tommy!”

  “I don’t know that I like it, sir, but I suppose it is no more than business…”

  “Exactly, and honest business at that!”

  “My brother, sir?”

  It was fairly obvious that Squire had had a reason for the last comment.

  “Well on his way to becoming a big man in the field of rations, Tommy. Word is that he has borrowed seven figures lately – backed by Monkton, so the whisper is - and bought into one of the biggest names in baking, planning to expand their production in the field of ration biscuit and of this damned ‘sliced bread’ you see in the poorer shops. There’s money in white bread, it would seem, and not just flour either!”

  “Do I wish to know what there might be in those loaves, sir?”

  “It probably ain’t poisonous, Tommy, and it will fill their bellies, but I wouldn’t wish to eat it. Enough said! The man wishes to become rich. Good luck to him, and to you, Tommy! My lawyers are keeping an eye to him, what you might call a watching brief, just to make sure that his natural heir may be protected should the need arise.”

  “Still no sign of a wife, sir?”

  “The man has no use for women, Tommy. His interests all wear trousers!”

  “Oh! So, no heir of his body, in the ordinary way of things, you must say, in which case, it may be argued that I am nearest to him. Do I want his dirty money, sir?”

  “No such thing, my boy! The man who earns it may be disgusting; the way he does it may be corrupt; but the gold shines clean and pure! Let us join the ladies – they must have made their greetings and discussed all they do not wish us to hear by now.”

  Tommy laughed and opened the door for Squire.

  “What of George, sir?”

  “Going downhill, Tommy. Fast. He is able to leave his bed now, but has no interest in living. He will make no effort. A mouthful of food and he pushes his plate away. A page of a book and he drops it. Most of his days he sits, eye closed, in a morphine-coloured dream; he says he can remember that way, and the past was so much better… He does not want visitors, Tommy, not even his sister, and he liked Grace better than any of us, I suspect. You will not see him again, that I am certain of, and, Lord knows, I cannot blame him for not wanting to live – a tube in his bladder and a bag at his side, never-ending pain, injections every few hours, an arm gone, his manhood destroyed! I would take a revolver in to him, was it not that I lack the courage to do my own son the final favour!”

  Tommy turned his face away from the older man’s tears; the gentleman did not weep, or not when it might be seen.

  They dined and talked and rose early, Squire and his lady choosing to
accompany them to Croydon in the morning, so that Monkey should not return alone in the back seat of the big car.

  “Captain Stark, to join 3 Squadron, sir.”

  Tommy saluted the major sat at a desk close to the doors of the administration building; he doubted that he was the man who would actually dispose of him, but he was nearest and would be able to push him in the right direction among the mob of scurrying uniforms.

  “Not my affair, young man! If you happen to have a dozen of aeroplanes in your back pocket, then I shall welcome you, otherwise, take yourself across to that office over yonder full of busily typing clerks.”

  The major smiled and pointed.

  There was a small room with space comfortably for two desks, but with six soldiers hunched over typewriters, their elbows banging each other. A corporal sat in the doorway at a tiny table, overflowing with documents. Tommy noticed that the men were all old for their rank, presumably recent volunteers from offices using the civilian skills they had brought with them.

  “Captain Stark, corporal.”

  The corporal rose to his feet and stood to attention, picking up three sheets of paper, all stapled together. He tore off the top sheet.

  “Orders, sir, and your authority to take your aeroplane, sir. 3 Squadron is still in its field close to Ypres, sir. Within range of your machine, sir, but one must recommend you to refuel at Dover, sir.”

  “Thank you, corporal. I shall follow your advice. Do you have word of the weather over the Channel?”

  “Low cloud, sir, but not actually raining. The forecast is that the wind will rise, sir, and the afternoon may become quite unpleasant.”

  Two hours of actual flying time to reach the airfield said that Tommy should be in the air as soon as possible.

  “What do I do with my trunk, corporal?”

  The corporal waved to a military policeman stood by the entrance.

  “The provost will escort your trunk to the proper place, sir. Believe it or not, sir, we have had cases of theft recently, porters at the railway sidings looting the baggage going through their hands!”

  “That’s quite shocking, corporal.”

  “It is, sir, too. Damned men in a soft job and paid twice as much as we are with their overtime and stealing from men going out to fight. They found two of the porters what was doing it last week, sir; kicked the shit out of them, the lads did! Now we’ve got the provosts to watch over our stuff, and stop the lads killing them.”

  Tommy led the provost out to the car and watched as he called a pair of private soldiers across to do the actual work.

  “I must go Monkey; weather is good for flying now, but the afternoon may be bad.”

  Squire and his lady removed themselves from the immediate vicinity and allowed a minute or two of privacy for a farewell.

  “Look after yourself, little lady. Take care!”

  “I will see you in spring, I hope, Tommy.”

  They had discussed the possibility of leave; Tommy had thought a week might be possible before the Spring Offensive, which seemed a certainty – every army made an attack in spring, it was tradition.

  A private soldier appeared and picked up his bag.

  “This way, sir.”

  Tommy followed silently – better over quickly. He turned to wave at the corner of the building and was gone.

  Squire led his womenfolk to the car, nodded to the chauffeur and set about organising his world, as was his duty.

  “Long Benchley tonight, Grace, then home to Wilton tomorrow? Your mother would like to join you soon, for a break. Little point to visiting your brother, as Tommy must have told you. What are you going to do with yourself, Grace?”

  Squire was at his bracing best, standing tall and confident, disposing of his own family for its own good.

  “There is a committee in Wilton, Father. One of these local groups to collect for the regiment – the Wiltshires for us, of course – and send out parcels containing cake and cigarettes and bars of chocolate for the men at the front. I refuse to call them ‘boys’, Father – it’s not right when they are fighting and dying like men.”

  “Best you should be seen to play a part in such activities. The disadvantage of living in a village is that everybody there knows exactly what you are doing at any given moment, my dear. If you do not play your part then it will be known and remembered for the next fifty years. Piece of advice, Grace – turn some of your big garden to vegetables! Grow some potatoes and cabbages and beans, and be seen to pick up a fork or trowel yourself. There will be a push in the newspapers to growing our own food, where it is possible and it will be noticed if you are a leader in the village.”

  Grace assumed that her father had been talking to the right people in London and that he knew what would be said within a few weeks. She nodded; the gardener would receive his instructions as soon as she was home again.

  “How old is he, the gardener, that is?”

  “Not a young man, more than forty, I would think, Father. I know he has children, his eldest girl about fifteen. Why?”

  “A younger man would eventually join up. There will be conscription one day, though not this year, of a certainty. What of the boys?”

  “Twelve, perhaps. Far too young to go to war.”

  “Good. You might think of hiring on another youngster, a maid perhaps or the gardener’s son. Food prices are rising and wages are still low; an extra wage in the household, even a few pennies, will be very welcome.”

  Grace considered that for a few seconds, then agreed.

  “We have a chauffeur, Father, to drive the car for me. I would do better to learn myself, rather than have a man of fighting age kept out of uniform.”

  Squire’s views had changed; he was taking lessons from his own chauffeur, who would soon be joining up himself.

  “Much wiser, unless you can find a man in his fifties who can drive – and there won’t be many of them about; driving is a young man’s game.”

  “Right, Father. While mother is with me we shall go up to London, I think, to pick up a few things for Tommy. He wants another flying coat and a few bits and pieces and I can send them out to him.”

  Squire did not wholly approve of two women venturing as far as London on their own, but felt that he had to give his approval – the war was changing things.

  Tommy was led to the Flying Office, handed over to the captain in charge, a scarred and limping thirty-years old veteran pilot who seemed likely to fly no more.

  “Captain Stark? John Chivers, I met you at Brooklands a couple of years ago, I recall.”

  “So you did, sir! You had one of those French Deperdussins as a private aeroplane, did you not?”

  “I did, too. Nippy little beast for its day – damned near killed me when its undercarriage collapsed landing down at Brighton! Stayed on in the Corps but I’m a penguin now! You are to take a Bristol Scout out to 3 Squadron, a ‘C’ model and new from the factory. Flown down here yesterday; our mechanics have checked it over and you are high for petrol and oil, which the factory does not always remember! New modification on it, clips for aerial bombs, with a trigger release, which apparently you know about?”

  “That is very quick, Chivers – we only discussed the idea last week. I have spent the last month talking with some of the manufacturers and flying some of their new stuff – not that there’s a lot doing! I was to have gone back to Mr O’Gorman to have my ears bent about his new RE model, but this posting came first.”

  Chivers laughed - O’Gorman had polarised the RFC; either one regarded him as a saint and the saviour of British aviation or he was the biggest menace since Napoleon. The wise junior officer took no sides.

  Tommy delayed to strap on his holster and load his officer’s sidearm before accompanying Chivers to the hangars.

  “Better to carry that thing where it can be seen, old boy. Not something we ever imagined for a pilot, is it? But it is official for officers to do so when on active service, and that is what you are on again. Let us check
your documents against the number of the machine and then you are ready to go. Better now than later, from what the weather wallahs say.”

  Captain Chivers watched, enviously, as Tommy made ready to fly, buttoning his fleece waistcoat to the neck, winding the silk scarf over the collar and under his flying coat, finally pulling on his gloves.

  “I say, old chap! Silk gloves! Rather posh, are they not?”

  “Warm and flexible, Chivers. Major de Havilland gave me the nod on them – six pairs tucked away in me bag! They really do work. Now then, let’s find this machine.”

  “Shoes, not boots, old chap?”

  “Colder, but I like to feel the controls.”

  “Have you tried fug boots?”

  “Sounds quite disgusting, Chivers! What are they?”

  “Thigh high, soft leather lined with felt or some such. Very warm and not too thick on the soles.”

  “They sound like a possibility. I shall see if I can lay hands on a pair; give them a try at least.”

  “The squadron will have them. Good luck, now!”

  A mechanic thrust a clip-board under Tommy’s nose and demanded that he should sign for the machine, a new come-out in Tommy’s experience.

  “Takes it off our hands, sir. If you crash on take-off, it’s your machine, sir, not ours.”

  “Well, I’m unlikely to care either way, am I?”

  “No, sir, but it saves us a lot of fuss and bother!”

  “Give me the pen, man! Have you checked this one’s engine yourself?”

  “Yes, sir. New and tight. Ran her this morning. Thirty seconds, sir, and call for chocks. Control wires new set up, sir – very tight, very responsive.”