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

by Andrew Wareham

  The two fell to their knees on the grass, kow-towing as well as they knew how; the new men started to grin.

  The sound of engines interrupted them; six more planes, one running very rough indeed. They turned to look.

  A pair of BE2cs made their unexciting way to earth, taxyed quickly out of the way; three Morane-Saulnier Parasols darted down, bumping a little even in a light wind, while a fourth, lagging behind, crawled at just above stall speed, its engine ragged.

  “Who is it, sir?”

  “Colin – one of the old hands, of course.”

  Tommy knew Colin to be a competent pilot – little of flair in him but never careless.

  “He will be one of yours, Tommy. Provided… Tears in the wing, look – ground fire from the appearance of it.”

  Colin brought the plane down as well as he could, a hard touch that led to the slow collapse of the port wing as he bounced, followed by a horizontal spin carving a rut in the grass. It was not a massive crash, as such things were measured; they ran to the wrecked aeroplane, and heaved the semi-conscious pilot’s belt undone.

  They pulled Colin out and scampered back as the first tendrils of smoke rose; there was still a gallon of petrol in the tank and flames spread rapidly. Five minutes and there was almost nothing left, the wood and canvas burned away, a little scrap metal remaining, and Colin was apparently recovered.

  “Good afternoon, Tommy! Did you have a jolly good leave?”

  “Yes, thank you, Colin. Anything interesting happened here lately?”

  “Very boring, old chap! I hear that I may be flying a new plane soon. The last one’s not much use now, I gather – I never did like it, anyway.”

  “Well, you could just have spoken to the Major, old boy – no need to be quite so drastic!”

  “Never do half a job, Tommy! Excuse me, old chap.”

  Colin turned away and threw up, cheered by the other pilots, who gave him marks out of ten for sound quality and colour.

  “They will never grow up, Tommy! Can hardly blame them, I suppose. Let’s get that poor bugger across to the sick bay – the Attendant can’t do much but he can keep an eye to him for an hour or so.”

  “Still no doctor, sir?”

  “No plans to appoint doctors to the squadrons, Tommy, unless there should be a surplus of staff.”

  “Fewer than a hundred bodies all told in a squadron – not the best use of a qualified man, when you think of it, sir.”

  “Pilots come cheap as well, Tommy. No need to waste doctors on them.”

  “Quite right, sir. It takes the better part of seven years to produce a doctor while a pilot can go solo in four hours and be at the Front inside a month.”

  “And be in a coffin a week later, unless he’s lucky. You will want to look after your new chap, Tommy, explain the ins and outs of flying a single seat rotary very carefully. I would shift one of the men from the BEs or REs, but we need the reconnaissance results more than we want your bombardment machines, I am afraid. To be blunt, Tommy, Henderson is unconvinced that we should be dropping bombs at all, and will not expend resources on it except grudgingly. If there wasn’t a need to persuade Army that we must have more squadrons and more planes, then I cannot imagine that he would countenance the effort it takes to send you out.”

  Tommy doubted that the initiative came from General Henderson at all.

  “There is a feeling back home that the RFC should be seen to be an offensive-spirited body, sir. That we should be taking the war to the Huns, in fact. I think, from all that my father-in-law has told me – and he is not unimportant in the City these days and has the ear of government – that the reporters at home are disappointed with the Army and need the RFC to produce the glory.”

  Major Salmond was able to appreciate that the newspapers were important; their headlines would bring men to the recruiting booths and they had to write exciting stories of success. The trenches offered no excitement at all. Brave young heroes in their flying machines could produce tales of gallantry in which the lone individual made a difference – the pilot was to be the equivalent of the knight on horseback.

  “More bombs, not fewer. Attempts to shoot down the dastardly, spying foe in their reconnaissance machines are to increase, Tommy?”

  “I think so, sir. If it makes sense will be less important than whether it makes headlines.”

  “That will kill a lot of pilots, Tommy.”

  “Hundreds, probably, sir. Men die in the hundreds every day up in the trenches, so I have been told. Our price will seem very low when the numbers are added up, sir.”

  “But…”

  Major Salmond gave up – the figures were against him.

  “Tea-time, Tommy. I keep the bar shut until it is too late to mount another patrol. Wing can sometimes telephone us with the order to put a pair of planes up to look at a flare-up in the trenches, so we stay rigorously sober until the lights come on. You will need to watch some of your lads for hip-flasks, by the way.”

  “Will do, sir. What is Wing?”

  “Administration, mostly. We are grouped in pairs of squadrons under a colonel, in expectation, I think, that we will get much bigger in short order.”

  “Not this year, sir. No engines!”

  “I have heard that we are to bring in Nieuports, Tommy. I know that Henderson has been talking to the Frogs and arranging some purchases.”

  “They make a good machine, sir.”

  “You have flown them, of course, Tommy. Is there anything you have not flown?”

  “I would really like to try that big Russian thing, sir. The Ilya Mourometz – four-engined and carrying a ton of bombs over six hundred miles. That must be a remarkable machine to handle, it was covered in Flight magazine recently. Failing that, there are always the Capronis, and I have not so much as seen a picture of one of them.”

  Major Salmond did not enthuse over the Italian aeroplane.

  “Slow and under-powered, Tommy, from all I have heard. Oh, bugger, there’s Gilbert looking about him with some poor little chap to see me. A second-lieutenant with wings. One of our new men. You had better come with me, Tommy.”

  Captain Philbert came to attention.

  “A new pilot, sir. Lieutenant Cooper-Bunce.”

  The young gentleman stiffened and shook Major Salmond’s hand.

  “Welcome to Three Squadron, Lieutenant Cooper-Bunce. Is this your first posting?”

  “Yes, sir. I am one of the lucky ones, sir. We were told that men were needed urgently in France and so the four of us who were most advanced in training at our school were sent out, sir. I took the ferry yesterday, sir.”

  Tommy caught Major Salmond’s eye; they winced in unison.

  “Captain Stark will be your flight commander, Lieutenant Cooper-Bunce. He will wish to talk with you and discuss what is to be done first. Are you fully equipped – flying coat, scarves, gloves, warm pullovers and such?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Mother saw to everything just as soon as the RFC accepted me.”

  “Well… I am sure that was very good of her.” Major Salmond looked at the pink youth and wondered whether he should have left his mother’s apron-strings at all. “Captain Philbert, have you seen to your formalities yet?”

  “Yes, sir. The important things have all been dealt with.”

  “Thank you.” Major Salmond turned to Tommy, nodded to the office across from the Mess.

  “Flight Commanders share the room there, Tommy. I hope eventually to get some more huts put up so that you can have an office apiece. You will want to take Mr Cooper-Bunce for an introductory chat.”

  Tommy led the new man into the office, spotted an empty desk that was obviously his – the other two piled with paperwork. The room was perhaps twenty feet square, big enough for its purpose he thought, but it was cluttered with boxes and crates that had not been found a home of their own.

  “Pull up a crate to sit on, Mr Cooper-Bunce. What’s your name, by the way? We tend to be informal here.”

 
; “Christopher, sir. Not a lot shorter.”

  “Oh, well, you will have a nickname within a day and that will be easier. Don’t use that crate!”

  The crate had ‘Very’ stencilled on its side and Tommy suspected it might be full of flares.

  “Now then, Christopher. You were advanced in your training, so obviously you had flown solo.”

  “Oh yes, sir. I soloed after four hours, sir, in a Longhorn.”

  “Good. What happened after that?”

  “I flew six hours in a Shorthorn, sir, and then flew a BE2c for an hour. Then I had an hour in the Avro 504, dual. That was last week because then I was posted; they gave me three days at home first, sir.”

  “Seven hours solo; twelve hours total in the air.”

  “Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, but is that the Military Cross, sir?”

  “Yes, it is. No doubt you will win one yourself, one day. Let’s get a cup of tea and a cake before that greedy mob eat them all up.”

  They took their tea to a table in the corner of the half-empty mess; most of the pilots who had flown that afternoon were still washing and changing, trickling in as they were ready.

  Noah Arkwright and Jack Jackson came across to them as they sat.

  “Glad you’re back, Tommy. I’m to be one of yours; Jack as well. They say we are to have the new Bristol Scout as well as the Parasols.”

  “Brought one with me, Noah. Don’t know about the other two – I presume they will be delivered from the Park.”

  “What are they like, Tommy?”

  “You’ve flown the Avro 504, Noah? Much the same but a little faster, a lot tighter and able to carry eighty pounds easily and twice as much with the loss of just a few miles in speed. It will take a Lewis on the wing and it’s just a question of where to mount it – port and within reach of the pilot for a reload, or on the upper wing and in line but out of reach, a string to the trigger.”

  “’You pays your money…’”

  “’And you takes your choice’, Noah. What have they got on the Parasols?”

  “Rifles. Possible to tuck a Lewis up on top, but very difficult to take an aim – the plane’s so light it’s forever bobbing about, Tommy.”

  Tommy grunted, mind busy with the possibilities for a flight of six, three and three; he suddenly remembered the new man.

  “Oh, Noah, this is our sixth pilot, Cooper-Bunce, I believe.”

  “Copper-Bum? Glad to meet you, old boy! I’ll take you to meet the others in our flight. No need to introduce you to everybody else, not until we know you’re staying.”

  Fortunately, the new man failed to understand the significance of that comment; Tommy overheard, thought it was a little cruel, but he wanted to note down a couple of ideas while they were fresh in his mind so he wandered out to the office.

  When Tommy came back in, ten minutes later, Copper-Bum was ensconced in the middle of the flight, tea-cup to hand and name accepted, having no choice in that matter. The new man stood as Tommy approached, was hauled back to his seat by Noah’s ungentle hand twitching his coat-tail.

  “None of that in the mess, Copper-Bum. Tommy, you know Jack Jackson well enough, and Colin, who has staggered across from the sick-bay, still a delicate shade of green in the face. You’ve not met Hell-For.”

  “Lieutenant Leather, sir.”

  Tommy grinned; it was one of the better nicknames.

  “My pleasure, gentlemen all. No need to introduce myself, which is one advantage of coming back home. Any changes in the rules while I have been busy doing other and better things?”

  There was a concerted head shake.

  “The Nut tried to make us dress for dinner and all eat at the same time every night; that lasted one evening, rather to his displeasure. Jack dressed as a jockey, being a shortish chap, and Colin put on a tutu as he enjoys his ballet, and I found a sailor’s uniform, which was right for Noah, and Hell-For stuck on horns and carried a trident; the Nut was quite upset – seemed to think we were mocking him, but the CO thought it was a great joke. The whisper is that he is not long for this squadron, Tommy.”

  “Days, one understands, Noah.”

  “I had rather it was hours, but as long as we see the back of him I shall be content. We are practising our rendering of ‘Gilbert the Filbert, the Colonel of the Knuts’, best music-hall style, to serenade his passing. Do we know of his replacement, Tommy?”

  “No idea! Plenty of penguins in England who would want to get a bit closer to the sharp end, Noah.”

  They could accept that as true – every pilot knew of men who had survived crashes and would never fly again but still wanted to be useful.

  “How many Parasols do we have in the Squadron?”

  “Just three now, sir, due to the wilful carelessness of people, unnamed, who keep breaking them.”

  “One Bristol, for the while. I want you to take turns in the Bristol so that any of us can take up either sort. I’ll speak to Major Salmond to arrange it. Copper-Bum, I want you up in a Parasol tomorrow, getting in every hour you can manage. Hell-For and Colin will take turns as your chaperone, leading you around the locality and pointing out the sights. Do not cross the trenches tomorrow. Have you a side-arm?”

  Pistols had not been issued in England.

  “I’ll speak to the Nut and arrange for one. It will be deducted from your pay, of course; officers buy their own side-arm. Have you ever fired a revolver?”

  He had never so much as seen one.

  “A Lewis Gun?”

  There was a mute headshake.

  “I’ve seen one and know how to load and cock one in theory… Anyone else?”

  Noah had actually fired a Lewis, on the range in 1913.

  “You are to be our Armaments Officer, Noah. I’ll speak to the Major and get a range sorted out for our use. Be a bit of a bugger if we had them fitted and none of us knew which end the bullets came out of.”

  They nodded solemnly.

  “Jack, I want you to hold my hand tomorrow morning, lead me on a tour of the local sights. Things must have changed in the time I’ve been away.”

  “Not much, Tommy, they ain’t gone nowhere very far.”

  Jack’s accent was definitely not that of the upper classes; Copper-Bum’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “How many hours have you been able to put together over winter, Jack?”

  “Nobbut two ‘undred and twenty, Tommy – been some real crappy weather of late.”

  Jack had noticed the new man’s reaction to his accent, dropped further into his home dialect, somewhere to the north of the Midlands, Tommy thought.

  “Not a tenth of yours, Tommy, is it?”

  Noah asked the question in innocent tones, deliberately not looking at Copper-Bum.

  “Not quite, Noah! Hardly flown at all while I’ve been away; bit short of fifteen hundred. Mind you, this is my fifth year at the game, after all.”

  “Oh, I say, sir, are you that Captain Stark? They did not tell me you were here!”

  “I returned this morning, Copper-Bum – and I’m Tommy unless there’s an officer of colonel or above stood next to you!”

  Colin changed the subject, to protect Tommy from hero-worshipping interrogation.

  “What about things at Home, Tommy? Any changes that you noticed?”

  They talked for a couple of hours and drank a beer before wandering in to dinner, the flight together merely because they had been gathered in the ante-room.

  “Excuse me, Tommy, but do we dine like this every night? Informally?”

  “I doubt it, Copper-Bum. We always had a squadron evening once a week where we dressed and ate together. Do we still, Noah?”

  “Tuesdays, Tommy. Most Thursdays the captains and the major dine together, as well – easier than having a formal weekly meeting of a morning, I think.”

  “Good. We need to do the right thing, sometimes, or we’ll forget how to. I expect it was all very formal back at your training school, was it, Copper-Bum?”

  “Yes, T
ommy. Right the way down to Mr Vice giving the toast. I suppose we can’t do that here, can we?”

  “On Tuesdays – that will be you, I would expect, this week coming.”

  They ate their first course, obediently, for the Mess-Sergeant would have been upset if they had rejected it; he did his best, but the ingredients and skills were not available in his kitchen for anything more than an anonymous brown soup. There was fish, fresh from the coast and well-prepared, to follow.

  “Got a refugee, a Belgian chap, in the kitchens, Tommy. Comes from a village somewhere up the coast and knows what to do with fish. He’s even better with crab and lobster!”

  “How did we arrange that?”

  “Whip round on the Mess Bill, Tommy, puts a wage in his pocket. The Nut don’t like it, because it ain’t Regulation to have a foreign civilian working for us, of course, but that don’t stop him eating his bloody fish!”

  Beef followed with English vegetables; it was edible, at least. They watched Tommy’s face as a selection of sugar tarts came to table.

  “These are good! Another refugee?”

  “Buy ‘em in, Tommy. Set up shop in the village, so she has, selling to the soldiers out of the line. Quartermaster drops her a sack of sugar and a few pounds of butter each week, and buys from her two or three times a week. For all of us, officers and sergeants as well. It ain’t very lawful, you might say, but it works. Rumour insists that ain’t all the QM gets from her, but that’s their business.”

  The squadron had settled in, it seemed, was well looked after by the locals.

  “What are the men’s rations like, do you know?”

  “Varies, Tommy. Some of the stuff coming out of cans is a bit manky, but we can look after ourselves fairly easily behind the lines; there’s stuff to buy in from the farms, with just a bit of a fiddle. The soldiers up in the trenches are said to be a bit unhappy about the food they get.”

  “I heard rumours, back in England. I can’t see it getting any better. The word was that so many men had joined up that the farms were going to be short of workers.”

  “Must be the same here in Frogland, Tommy. Still, England will be able to bring in from the Empire, and from America. Just take a bit of organising.”