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

by Andrew Wareham

  “There’s a reason for that, sir. It is far too light and flimsy a machine. Copper-Bum was lucky to bring his back with a hole in it; they fall to bits far too easily.”

  “You mentioned parachutes yesterday, Tommy. Do you think we should have them?”

  “Not yet, sir. I would like one that would allow me to drift to earth like a piece of thistledown, but they are too big and heavy for these machines. I could not sit in the cockpit wearing a parachute, and I’m not the biggest of men! When the planes get bigger and more powerful, then yes, good idea, but at the moment, impractical.”

  “I agree. I would like them, but not yet. What have you in mind for tomorrow?”

  “Patrols, three and three, alternating, along our trench line at four or five thousand feet depending on the cloud, looking out for scouts. Any that are seen, chase them off, firing the guns gleefully. Not a snowball in hell’s chance of hitting anything, but we can make a Hun change his knickerbockers perhaps.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Get within fifty feet and it might be possible to score some hits. Other than that, pure joss, sir.”

  “I’m out of touch, Tommy. Hardly get a chance to fly these days. What are the longer-term plans?”

  “Request targets to be supplied by Wing, sir. Give us somewhere worthwhile to go and something worth hitting. Say go out on raids two or three times in a week, and patrol up and down our trenches the other days – show busy and let the boys in the front line see that we are there and trying to look after them.”

  It sounded cynical, and probably was, but they could do no more.

  “They say it’s bad in the trenches, Tommy.”

  “It’s what they don’t say that worries me, sir. My wife’s father went to Haslar Hospital a few times while I was off – his only son, sir, blown almost to bits and going slowly, poor fellow! He said to me that the wounded were coming in a steady stream, more of them every day – and only the really bad cases get to Haslar.”

  “That’s Lord Moncur, is it not, Tommy? Got the word through while you were off the field. To be a junior minister, or something like, so it said. Munitions and Food, it seems.”

  “He told me it would come, sir. In confidence, of course. He is a rich man, so it seems, and not likely to get any poorer. Title will go to his brother and then to his son, provided the wife obliges him.”

  “And the money, Tommy?”

  “Some of that will go Monkey’s way, sir. If I don’t come back, she will need it.”

  “Bit of a dodgy time for a man to get married, one might say, Tommy.”

  “Tell her that, sir. It was much more her decision than mine; I wondered if wartime was sensible for setting up house, but she would have no doubts. Now or never seemed to be in her mind!”

  “And children, Tommy?”

  “A girl in her image would please me very much, sir!”

  Major Salmond said no more; he did not approve of his men marrying too young, worrying about families when they should be concerned solely with their military careers, but he was increasingly aware that life was short. If his young men did not enjoy life now, very many of them never would.

  “I will speak with the mechanics tonight, Tommy. Fitting up three Lewises should not take too long.”

  “I’ll come with you, if I may, sir. I would like to chat with the armourer.”

  “Three-o-three rounds, Mr May, tend to do very little damage when they hit an aeroplane. A hole in the fabric at most, unless they hit just right.”

  The armourer was a warrant officer, old in the rank; Tommy suspected that he would have already taken his pension in normal times. His face was heavily tanned, skin dried, parched in fact. Long service in Africa or, more likely, India, Tommy thought.

  “True, sir. They are not really designed for the purpose, sir. Very effective against people, sir, but not for walls and aeroplanes and suchlike objects, sir.”

  “I spent a couple of days at Bisley last year, Mr May. While I was there I was given some rounds produced at the Dum-Dum arsenal. Revolver, they were for. I have some still.”

  Mr May shook his head.

  “Unlawful, sir. Forbidden by the Hague Convention nearly ten years ago, sir. Revolver rounds generally have a cross cut in their crown, sir. For three-o-three it is more normal to strip the casing towards the point, sir. Less easy to spot, as well. Snipers normally worked on their rounds that way, sir, unless they had time on their hands…”

  “Time, Mr May?”

  “If so be you have as much as five minutes to spare for each round, sir, then it’s drill a hole, vertically down, sir, at maybe one tenth of an inch gauge, and then drop in a little ball of mercury, taken from a thermometer or an old barometer if you can lay your hands on such. A blob of solder and it’s closed. When the round hits, sir, the mercury carries on up the drilled hole and rips out of the top. Very effective, sir, leaves an exit hole an inch wide.”

  “Very nasty, too.”

  “It works, sir. Impossible for us – I would need six hours or more to work on a pan for a Lewis, sir. I might be able to do something, sir, and keep it fairly much invisible, too. Not taking too long, either. A quick score around the point, sir, using a pair of tin-snips, might do some good. Leave it with me, sir. No need to make any public fuss, sir.”

  Tommy called Smivvels across to him later that evening.

  “Brandy or rum or whisky, Smivvels. A carton of twelve. You would not know how to get hold of such would you? I have a few gold sovereigns to hand.”

  “Not easy, sir, but I do have one or two ideas, sir…”

  Tommy pulled out the last of the purses left by his father, extracted ten coins.

  “Put those in your pocket, Smivvels. If you need more, tell me.”

  “I ought to need less than that, sir. Give me a day or two, sir.”

  “Right. When you pick the stuff up, take it down to Mr May, in the armoury. No need to give any messages with it.”

  The whole squadron knew whose servant Smivvels was.

  The three Bristols took off at first light and paraded along the trench lines at four thousand feet, out of effective range of small-arms fire but well inside that of the high-angle field guns that were being installed in increasing numbers on both sides. Tommy noticed that the British guns fired just as enthusiastically as the German. He would speak to Major Salmond and get him to ask Wing to pass the message to the British gunners that roundels in red, white and blue meant ‘friendly; the Germans carried crosses instead, in black. It mattered very little, he thought, because their accuracy was lamentable, few of the gunners having mastered the concept of firing ahead of a moving target; their shells burst at anything from three to five thousand feet as well, fuses set primarily by guesswork.

  The German guns were slightly more accurate, but they were far more practised, the RFC crossing the trenches more frequently than the German Air Service managed. No doubt it would not last – the German manufacturers must surely be busily producing faster and bigger aeroplanes, having the benefit of an engines industry. For the while, it was pleasant to be obviously superior, masters of the air.

  There was nothing to be seen, no activity at all in the skies, and they cruised for a quiet hour before making their way back home.

  “Boring, Tommy, very boring!”

  “Breakfast time!”

  The wandered across to the Mess, delaying only to watch Colin lead the Parasols up, three abreast.

  “Very flashy, Tommy!”

  “Professional, Noah. It makes it seem very much like a group of workmen taking off to do a job – far less theatrical than the early days when everyone downed tools and stopped to watch when a plane took off – and that was less than a year ago.”

  “But the same planes.”

  They shrugged and set about their bacon and eggs.

  There was no rush and they sat about with second cups of tea and coffee, idly chatting; they were brought to their feet by a low-voiced call of ‘General Officer’ from t
he Mess Sergeant.

  Major Salmond, trailed by Captain Alford, brought General Henderson to them, his little tail of lesser officers marching in step, all beautifully uniformed and sprouting red tabs.

  “We meet again, Captain Stark! Good to see that bit of ribbon, young man! Are these gentlemen members of your flight?”

  “Yes, sir. The Bristol Scout pilots, sir, Flying Officers Arkwright and Jackson, sir.”

  “Better the gentlemen should be full lieutenants than Flying Officers, I think; there will be a future in the RFC for our distinguished pilots!”

  Permanent commissions were a reward worth having, they had decided; both smiled happily.

  “Mentions as well, for all six of you. Observation balloons are a menace; they kill too many of our soldiers. Keep up the good work, gentlemen! The eyes of the whole country are on Three Squadron for your efforts. I believe the photographer chappie wishes to take some, ‘shots’ I believe he calls them, of you.”

  They were led out to pose self-consciously by a Bristol, Lewis Gun prominent and bombs in their clips. Noah and Jack found their uniforms quickly modified by lieutenant’s pips – it might be a little in advance of the reality, but the needs of the newspapers must come before military etiquette. The photographer was a busy gentleman, insistent on his needs and those of his ‘masters in the Press’.

  “Flying coat open, Captain Stark, to display the ribbon on the breast of your tunic. No, keep the scarf, sir! Very dashing!”

  “But… scarves are not part of the uniform, you know.”

  “Damned well should be, Captain Stark; most impressive! Now, chin up, eyes fixed on the sky where you have just seen the perfidious enemy approaching. Next shot must show you dashing into the cockpit, off to blast the foe from the air!”

  “But, we don’t do things like that…”

  “Nonsense, sir. Of course you do! There will be photographs in all of the newspapers showing you to do so.”

  “Oh, bugger it! If I must, I must! What does ‘perfidious’ mean, by the way?”

  “Damned if I know, sir, but the foe has been perfidious since before the Boer War and I am not about to change things.”

  “All that my wife’s father ever said about the newspapers seems to be true!”

  Mention of female interest rang an immediate bell; a notebook appeared.

  “You seem young to be a married man, sir. Who is your wife’s father, by the way? It all adds a little more of interest to the readers.”

  “Lord Moncur; I married Grace, his second daughter, at the beginning of December.”

  “So you did, now – I remember the photographs of Sykes pinning the medal on – not very good shots, I could have made much more of them! Moncur, did you say? Quite the coming man, sir. I shall make very sure that the editors know, sir… a son dying in hospital, I believe, and his daughter’s husband avenging her brother in the skies of France – should be half a page in that, sir. Mr Lloyd George will like that, good for the government, you know! The old ladies at home will think it very touching, as well.”

  General Henderson, his face in the background of several of the shots, was also much impressed. Mr Lloyd George had control of the purse-strings, and if the RFC produced good copy for the government then he could be expected to be generous in response. Mr Lloyd George was renowned as an honest man – if one did him a favour, then he offered an immediate reward; any number of Society females had found their husbands made baronet or even a peer as a result of their meeting Mr Lloyd George, and his gratitude extended into the Services and the City.

  Thirty minutes and the General and his entourage were off, other squadrons to visit, other places to be seen. The newspapers were important in this war because of the need for recruits to come forward to the Army and all generals in the field were under strict orders to ensure that the Press saw everything it should - and nothing it should not, naturally – and to wine and dine its members very thoroughly.

  “It’s a strange war, Tommy!”

  “It is that, sir. I am not sure I understand it or like it.”

  “Unnecessary that you should, Tommy. Just play your part in it. What’s the time, by the way?”

  “The Parasols have been out for one hour and twenty minutes, sir. They should be back within reason soon.”

  They stood and watched the sky, listening hopefully for engine noise above the unending low roar of the trenches.

  “Coming in low, sir, all three, north of east. Holding their formation, so far. Red flare, sir!”

  Tommy ran to door of the first hangar where there was an empty sixty-pounder shell case hanging upside down and an iron bar by its side. He rattled the bar inside the case, their own fire bell, signalling the emergency. Men came running, some with sandbags, four pushing a hand pump on wheels, others carrying buckets of water; the sick bay attendant came behind two men with a stretcher while a driver started up the Crossley tender that was their ambulance.

  A Parasol with rips in the canvas of one wing came in and taxyed across to the hangars while a second started a circuit of the field. The third made its approach to the grass, losing height and speed more quickly than normal. There was a chorus of shouts as men on the ground spotted that the undercarriage was damaged, one wheel dangling, horizontal, the other in place.

  “Better if both had gone, Tommy!”

  “Can you see who it is, sir?”

  “That’s Colin circling and Hell-For by the hangar, so it must be Copper-Bum.”

  A more experienced pilot would have stood a better chance of bringing the machine in; they could afford the loss of the green flier more than one of the old hands.

  “He’s cut the engine, sir. Too soon, perhaps.”

  The Parasol was still twenty feet above the grass, settling slowly.

  “They say there’s a new sort of Morane coming out. Monoplane but lower wing, Tommy.”

  “We’ll need at least one new one, sir.”

  Copper-Bum was still flying the machine; they saw the wings warp as he pulled back on the stick, hoping to drop the tail in first.

  “Too slow for that, do you think, Tommy?”

  “Here she goes…”

  The nose thumped forward and down and the single wheel dug in, turning the whole plane. The tail was rising, trying to flip over; it broke away and the remainder of the fuselage spun around on the grass, crumpling on itself. Running men converged on the wreckage, throwing sand onto the engine hopefully. Two big mechanics swung axes, carefully, smashing down the side of the cockpit for others to grab the unmoving pilot.

  “He’s stuck, sir!”

  The sick bay attendant forced his way through the crowd of helpful men, stopped and turned away towards Major Salmond and Tommy, stood just to the side, ready to take command if they were needed.

  “One of them formers or stringer things, sir, whatever you call ‘em, the long wooden bits that run down from the nose to the tail, sir. Broke up, sir, splintered, and the sharp bit’s gone through him, sir. Up from underneath and out between his shoulders, sir.”

  “Dead?”

  “They don’t come deader than that, sir.”

  “Another letter home, Tommy. Where’s Captain Alford?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Put in for a pilot and another plane, Adj. Try to get a Bristol – these Parasols are past it. If you can’t get a Scout, then see if any of these new Moranes are out yet. There’s supposed to be a supply of Nieuports coming as another possibility.”

  The Adjutant nodded and limped back to his office, calling for his sergeant.

  The Adjutant and sergeant and his corporal clerk had Copper-Bum’s billet cleared within half an hour, all his personal effects sealed in a little bag, his uniforms in his trunk. They would have everything in the post or on a tender to the ferries by morning; there would be nothing left except the corpse, boxed up in an official issue coffin and tucked away in a storage space behind the sick bay. A telephone call and they were in contact with the padre at Wing.<
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  “Do you know the poor lad’s denomination, Captain Alford?”

  A quick glance at the boy’s file showed Methodist, and Captain Alford knew there was no chaplain within easy reach.

  “C of E, sir.”

  “I shall perform the service myself, Captain Alford. Have you consecrated ground to hand?”

  “One moment, sir, I am new in this posting. My first death.” He put the telephone down, called to his sergeant.

  “We called all the rest Catholic, sir, and had the local priest tuck them away in his graveyard, sir.”

  Captain Alford picked up the telephone, much regretted that there was no Protestant graveyard in the locality.

  “Bring him down to Wing for ten o’clock, Captain Alford, with a firing party for the salute.”

  “Can you find a party at Wing, sir? We seem not to have the requisite riflemen here.”

  The padre was a man of immense tolerance and patience, needed all of it on occasion.

  “I will make the arrangements. Just bring the body on time, Captain Alford, with fellow-officers to salute his passing.”

  Captain Alford informed Major Salmond of the need for official mourners and they raked up three men with colds and ear ache who could not fly; all were BE2c pilots and had hardly spoken to Copper-Bum, but all they had to do was salute at the correct time at the graveside and they could hardly expect to spend their time on the ground in idleness.

  It took less than twenty-four hours to expunge every trace of the young man; within a week he would have been forgotten – there was no place for mourning on an airfield.

  “Do you want Fred Petersham as your number three on the Parasols, Tommy?”

  “Not especially – I’ve killed one of that family, sir… Better take him. He’ll think I have a down on him otherwise. Has he flown yet, sir?”

  “BE2c, Tommy. Competent. Managed to take off and land without a single bounce and his observer said that he did as he was told on the patrol.”