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

by Andrew Wareham

“A paragon, sir! When last did we have a new pilot who could better that?”

  “When last did we have one who could match it? All three of the Flight Commanders to a meeting, Tommy – we need to discuss what we are to do with these green objects coming to us.”

  Tommy sat down in Major Salmond’s office, squeezed into the corner, there being barely space for the three armchairs brought in for the meeting.

  “New pilots, gentlemen, are coming to us so poorly trained that they can hardly get a plane into the air, and cannot always get them back down again! The demands on us for patrols are such that we cannot keep them out of the line until they have learned how to fly. What do we do?”

  “Put in for extras, sir. If we indent for three for every two we actually need, we should keep up to establishment.”

  Brickie Mason’s answer was practical, they agreed, but not necessarily constructive.

  “What say you, Fishy?”

  Captain Pike shook his head; he was quietly upset by the number of unnecessary deaths of keen young men who might eventually have made good pilots.

  “They have to be trained up, sir. That young fellow who died in the Parasol, sir, might have managed his landing better with a few more hours under his belt. How did he lose his wheel, by the way?”

  “Ground fire. An air burst perhaps fifty feet distant. Bad luck.”

  “British Archie, sir?”

  “No, not our gunners on this occasion. He was actually killed by the Germans.”

  “Makes a change, sir. The Parasol is not an easy machine for a youngster to fly. Nor is that Bristol, by the looks of it. Do you agree, Tommy?”

  “The Bristol has the odd vice, I will admit, Fishy. Banking to the right can be twitch-making, if you forget to pull the nose up first, by the right amount. Against that, she will out-turn anything in the air, provided you’re awake.”

  “You’ve been flying since the aeroplane was invented, Tommy, or damned near, anyway! What about for a green boy?”

  “A lot to learn and quickly, Fishy. It ain’t the sort of plane you might want to give your son and heir for Christmas.”

  “Speaks the old married man!”

  They laughed, but accepted the point.

  “So… new pilots must not fly the Parasols, or the Bristols. That means we get them, sir, and train them to fly, and as soon as they are useful, we send them across to Tommy.”

  Major Salmond accepted that to be a fair grievance.

  “What’s the alternative, gentlemen?”

  There was none, other than to rotate the pilots around the machines, and that merely meant that there would be fewer experts on any.

  “Will you be balloon-bursting again, Tommy?”

  “Not as a habit, Brickie. I am given to understand that we are to make a nuisance of ourselves in the Huns’ back-garden, attempting to disrupt his railway lines particularly. The aim seems to be to force him to waste men and guns guarding just about every point of importance – including crossroads and bridges and barge docks, possibly airfields as well. We are certainly to emulate the Royal Naval Air Service and attack airship sheds, if we can find any.”

  Major Salmond snorted his contempt for the airship menace.

  “You won’t, Tommy. Zeppelins are mythical. If they exist at all, they are being kept for the bombardment of England, all fifteen of them! Do you know that you can buy Zeppelin insurance in England now? Put five quid down and you’ll get five hundred if a dirigible drops a bomb on your back garden! My mother put it into her last letter. She lives in Hereford but thinks there might be a chance of the Zeppelins bombing the city because of its ancient historical connections that would make its loss a tragedy for the people of England.”

  The three captain shook their heads gravely; they felt Major Salmond must suffer much from a mother like that, but they could hardly say so.

  “Right, gentlemen. I am going to put Fred Petersham into Tommy’s flight, driving a spare Parasol – we have five all told, you will remember. After that, all new men coming in go to the BE2cs, and losses in the single-seaters are replaced by your more senior men – volunteers, preferably. Will it be possible to set up the RE and the two surviving BE2as for training, Fishy? They belong to you in theory, even if they seem to fly very rarely.”

  It was not a popular suggestion, but it was probably not impossible.

  “Good. That said, Wing wants more cameras in the air and particularly full coverage of the area around and behind Hill 60. That name is never to be mentioned in conversation or in letters, gentlemen.”

  “What is it, sir, and where?”

  “In the Salient, just behind the German trenches, and a high point of some value. It is to be a target, one gathers, but how is unclear. It seems to be essential that there shall be photographs of its existing topography – which implies that they have some way in mind to change that shape.”

  “Naval guns brought up on armoured trains, sir. Thirteen and fifteen-inch gun-howitzers throwing more than a ton of high explosive, sir. That will modify any hill!”

  “You might be right at that Brickie. I do not know. Perhaps they intend to dig a ditch as big as the Kiel Canal from Calais and float battleships down it.”

  “A new Suez, sir, from the Seine to the Meuse – or somewhere like that. Might explain why they’ve brought the Chinese in.”

  “I did not know they had, Fishy. Are you sure?”

  “Two weeks back, sir, when I went down to the Aircraft Park to collect our latest BE2c, sir. Must have been ten thousand of the little buggers, sir, by the side of the road and all busy building an artillery dump, sir, throwing up earth walls. There’s millions of them spare in China, sir. Send them up and you could build a canal in a year.”

  “Could be… anything’s possible these days!”

  Tommy went in search of Fred Petersham, found him in the Mess anteroom, drinking tea and talking earnestly with others of the young pilots.

  “St Saens, sir, the Fourth Piano Concerto, which I would argue to be one of the most intellectually stimulating pieces ever composed; the second movement is a source of unending delight, sir. Had he produced nothing else, that one work would have given him a name to live forever. The Modernists, of course, disagree – this Stravinsky fellow is their god!”

  Tommy had heard of neither.

  “I suspect my wife might be more familiar with the gentlemen than I, Fred. Do you play the piano?”

  “Not at all well, Tommy. I had hopes when I was younger, but I must accept that I might just be part of a minor piano trio. The concert stage is not for me!”

  Tommy gathered that this was by way of being a tragedy and tried to make appropriate noises.

  “We must buy a record, if we can find one, Fred. For the while, though, I want to talk to you about flying a Parasol in place of poor old what-was-his-name. I need a third man for them. Hopefully, we shall be changing to a newer type of Morane in a few weeks, or perhaps not. Or we might be able to convert to six Bristols. Whatever we do, I need another good man now.”

  Fred made it clear that he would be honoured; Tommy could rely on him.

  “Good. Have you had anything to drink, other than tea, today?”

  “Not in the afternoon, Tommy!”

  “Excellent. Get your flying gear and we shall have a first session with the Parasol.”

  Fred literally ran to his billet.

  “I say, Tommy, couldn’t help overhearing, but, does it really matter if a chap has a drink or two before flying?”

  Tommy smiled politely, knowing that Brickie was one of those who carried a hip-flask.

  “None of my pilots will take a single-seater off the ground if they have drunk anything during the day, Brickie. Rotaries kill too many sober pilots to take any chances.”

  “Well, you always did have a reputation as a cautious flier, Tommy. People at Brooklands seemed to be impressed by it.”

  “I also have a reputation as a live flier, Brickie. I’m impressed by that.”

&nb
sp; There was a general laugh - no conversation in the Mess ever private – and the pilots there turned back to their business, which in most cases involved calling for another beer.

  “Right, Fred. You’re wearing fug boots, I see. They will keep you warm but take extra care not to be heavy on the controls. Same with those fur gloves – don’t let them make you clumsy. I wear silk gloves – was I you then I would write home and ask them to send you out half a dozen pairs. Always keep a pair of towels clean to take up with you – you will need to wipe your goggles, don’t want to be forced to take them off and then screw your eyes up against the cold wind.”

  Fred listened and promised to be good.

  “Check your side-arm is loaded before every take off. Work the cocking mechanism on the Lewis if you’re carrying one. Check you have a flare pistol and loads for it. Every single time, Fred. The mechanics are reliable and the armourer knows his job – you can trust them. But it’s your neck on the line, so check and double-check. Have you taken your revolver to the armourer for a work over? It will be a new piece, so you should ensure that it has been made properly – mistakes can happen in a factory. Everything that you can make sure of yourself, you should do, every flight!”

  Fred promised that he would, though he was starting to wonder just why a man with Tommy’s reputation should be so worried about the most elementary matters.

  “Now, flying, this afternoon. Wind is where it normally is, which is in the south-west. Take off and then climb to one thousand feet before attempting to turn. At one thousand feet, make one and one half circuits of the field. That is six turns, all to port, then land. We shall discuss any issues that arise before you take off again.”

  Fred started and took off, leaving the ground earlier than Tommy would have and not quite bouncing; first comment noted.

  He climbed to one thousand feet; good line and not pushing to maximum, which was wise as a general rule. First congratulation, all written in the little notebook half-concealed in Tommy’s hand.

  Turn and bank to port; clumsy, losing the better part of one hundred feet and not even, tightening towards the end when he should have been smoothly coming onto his bearing. Second turn showed less of a drop in height but was jerky, almost a series of short straight lines, and taking far too long so that he was a good quarter of a mile further distant from the field by the time it was complete. Third better; fourth terrible; fifth almost a spin out as he panicked from the previous effort; sixth was adequate.

  Fred landed, a little too fast and running far on the grass, but better than too slow and crashing in. He taxyed back to the hangar, switched off.

  “One or two problems there, Tommy.”

  Tommy read out his list, voice deadpan.

  “Take off after the plane wants to – keep it down just for a second or two. Nose up into your turns and smooth. Lose a little speed as you go in to the bank. Up you go and repeat, then land and take off again immediately and do the same again.”

  Tommy watched, huddled up in his flying coat against the icy wind; it was not strong but it was bitter. Fred would be freezing; no more after this session.

  The turns were better and he lost far less height, improving each time. A good landing and second take off and a very neat repetition; the boy was a good pupil, able to teach himself. His final landing was precise for speed and line.

  “Well done, Fred. No more today – I don’t like this wind, it could pick up quickly. Tomorrow you will practice these turns to port again and again, through the morning, if it’s clear. In the afternoon I will take you through starboard turns. Learn them as quickly as you have today, and you will be on patrol with us the day after tomorrow. How’s your mathematics?”

  “Not too bad, Tommy. I can count.”

  “Good. If a plane is at an altitude of fifty feet and a speed of sixty miles an hour, how long will it take a twenty-pound bomb to hit, and how far away from the target should you drop it? If you can find an answer for that – and I don’t know how to - then give me figures for one hundred feet and a thousand and two thousand.”

  Fred thought he should have declared himself innumerate, though Tommy might well not have known the word.

  He sat down with pencil and paper and tried to remember how fast things fell; the science teacher had mentioned that barely three years before… Try thirty feet in a second, he seemed to recall thirty in it somewhere, and more than one second for some strange reason. Fifty feet, say a second and a half. Sixty miles an hour was a mile a minute, which was five thousand two hundred and eighty feet – he knew that, he discovered. A quick scribble made that eighty-eight feet a second, surprisingly fast. A second and a half says one hundred and thirty-two feet. He had an answer; drop the bomb some forty-five yards before reaching the target. All he need do now was multiply it up – twice as much for one hundred feet, then another ten times for one thousand and double it for two! Simplicity itself.

  He wrote down his list and found Tommy in his office, handed the figures to him.

  Tommy glanced at the numbers, thanked Fred sincerely and pinned them to the wall; he had an official table for bombing distances and times. He presumed it was accurate, and for all he knew so it was; it would do. They would work from these, now official, data.

  A Deadly Caper

  Chapter Seven

  “Wing has supplied us with a number of targets to be bombed, Tommy. They are of more or less equal importance and should be attacked ‘as is convenient’.”

  Tommy scratched his head.

  “It would be convenient for me to take a month’s leave just now, sir.”

  “Their convenience, not yours, Tommy.”

  “What do you think they mean, sir?”

  “I don’t.”

  Tommy was silent a few seconds while he tried to understand Major Salmond’s meaning.

  “You mean that they think it might be an awfully jolly idea if we dropped a few bombs on these chappies and it might do some good, perhaps. But really, they are not convinced that aerial bombardment is such a very good thing at all.”

  “Precisely, Tommy.”

  “So we are to go and be shot at because some absolute idiot thinks it might be the sort of thing aeroplanes ought to do, though he ain’t sure why.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I remember my father looking at a machine about five years ago, sir, and telling me it was ‘an exercise in applied futility’. It wasn’t ours, and I wasn’t in the pilot’s seat and so I didn’t give a damn, but the principle is about the same, surely?”

  Major Salmond smiled in the kindliest way; it was time to educate the young man, to introduce him to reality.

  “Not quite, Tommy. Do you know how much an air-burst shell and its fuse costs?”

  “No idea, sir. I have never been to the shop and bought one.”

  “Very wise! It depends on its size, of course, but the fuse alone costs nearly two shillings, and the brass and cordite and high explosive must come to at least another ten for a typical three incher. If you fly over the trenches and cause them to fire a hundred shells at you, and rattle off a couple of thousand rounds of machine-gun ammunition, then you will have cost the Huns seventy or eighty pounds – wasted money. Britain has got more money than Germany, so their economy will collapse first in a spending race. Add to that, we can borrow from the United States, and the Huns can’t.”

  “I thought the Americans were neutral, sir.”

  “They think that, too.”

  “But…”

  “British firms own more than half of the big ranches in Texas, Tommy, and almost all of the railways in South America. A lot of the silver mines in the Rockies are British owned. The Yanks would like to lay their hands on all of those. They will lend money, against security.”

  “So they’re neutral, but on the side of the Dollar.”

  “Quite right, Tommy. So they should be. If the British and German Empires wish to destroy each other, why should America object? Being entirely reasonable, Tommy
, what would you do if you were American?”

  “Good question, sir. In fact, considering the matter, I wonder if I am?”

  “Am what?”

  “American. I know that my mother was, and I was born in the States, and knowing my father, he would never have filled in any sets of forms at embassies or such places. I have no birth certificate, sir, so I might not be English, in which case I would have to be American, perhaps.”

  “Could be useful one day, Tommy. You might want to go and visit your relatives when this shambles is over.”

  “That’s a thought, too, sir. I must talk it over with Monkey when next I see her. Mail is slow coming again, sir.”

  “Nothing in a week, Tommy. It tends to come in a rush and then not at all for a fortnight. Old man’s problem.”

  Tommy did not understand.

  “No matter, Tommy. Take the list of targets and make a decision on which to hit and when. Do not act to a recognisable pattern, Tommy! Don’t, for example, go through them alphabetically – it might make you predictable.”

  “Would that matter, sir?”

  “If they possess mobile anti-aircraft guns, yes.”

  “Good point. Have they?”

  “I don’t know – you can always find out.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Wise! By the way, what was the ‘exercise in futility’?”

  “Oh, one of these bright ideas that half-baked engineers come up with, sir. A multi-plane – looked like nothing so much as a Venetian blind, it had so many wings, and one poor little engine in the middle struggling to lift it. I suspect, sir, that if it had only had a five-hundred horsepower engine then it would have flown like an angel, but they only had forty to play with, so they built it lightweight. It never left the ground, which was lucky for the pilot. I saw it taxying, sir, laughed so much I nearly wet meself! I think it got up to a good five miles an hour before it hit a bump and shook itself to death. Wings falling off like autumn leaves!”

  “Those early days were fun, in some ways, Tommy. Laugh a minute! Except when you were weeping, of course.”