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

by Andrew Wareham

  “There’s talk of reforming the squadrons, Tommy, to split them up into reconnaissance and bombardment units. The word is that Three would become entirely a patrol squadron – so your flight would be hived off and become part of a new squadron entirely.”

  “Brigadier Sykes was talking of that when last I saw him, sir. It makes sense in a lot of ways, but I don’t much like the idea of changing squadrons. Might be I will have no choice – captains don’t make policy, sir. I had rather stay here, but I don’t want to change to a BE2c, thank’ee kindly!”

  “They are a good plane for their work.”

  “One day, sir, the Hun will come up with a pursuit plane with a forward-firing gun. A big, two-engined biplane, sir, with a pair of machine-guns in front of the pilot, perhaps. Provided the engines are powerful enough – and the Huns make the best engines at the moment – then the BE2c will be so much dead meat, sir.”

  “Please God that day will not come soon, Tommy. Not until we have a powerful escort plane.”

  “We must hope, sir. Bedtime for me – I have to be up bright and early in the morning.”

  “I’ll be there to see you off, Tommy.”

  The snow had tailed off and left only a thin dusting across the field, though the sky threatened more to come and the wind from the west was only fitful. There was a prospect of a harsh easterly, according to the weather-prophets at Wing, and that in February meant blizzards on the European plains. It was bitterly cold in the pre-dawn darkness.

  “Go now, or not for a fortnight, Tommy. Perhaps you might be wiser to call it off this morning. You will probably be able to get out and back again in clear weather, but it’s by no means a certainty.”

  Tommy was slightly irritated by Major Salmond’s remark; the major was his commanding officer and should not be offering him a choice. He expected orders from the boss, not havering. If he ever came to command a squadron, he would say yes or no, but never perhaps.

  “Better to go now, sir, than spend the rest of the month looking at the sky and wondering if today will be the day. We are bombed up and all of the engines have been turned over. Ten minutes from now and we will have light enough to go. Can you chase up Wing this morning, sir? Still no mail!”

  “Stuck in Calais, I expect, Tommy. The port is too small for the traffic going through it, despite the new docks being built. I shall send a moan as far as I can up the line – letters are necessary for morale, Tommy. Every man on the field wants his post from home.”

  “I’m luckier than most, I know, sir – the bulk of the men have been out since August. Is there any prospect of a leave rota for the pilots, sir?”

  “Under discussion, Tommy. I should be able to tell you all more by the end of the week, possibly today even. Commanding Officers may be granted discretion to send men to England when conditions permit. If it snows heavily, then there will be little sense in keeping you all here.”

  “Then let us pray for snow, sir. Getting light in the east, sir. Time to go. We need a bugler to call the charge, sir; maybe a brass band to play stirring martial music to fire the blood!”

  “Not in my squadron, you don’t, Tommy. Who should go on leave first from your people?”

  “Colin and Jack and Noah have been out longest, sir. Hell-For can go when they come back. Myself and Fred have got a long time to wait.”

  They took off; Tommy had decided that the Parasols should go first, being slightly slower than the Bristols, the Flight in two lines of three only fifty yards apart. Colin was to navigate, a simple task involving finding the town of Ypres and then following the railway track out past Hill 60 and the Caterpillar. Neither hill nor ridge was particularly high, being spoil heaps thrown up in the construction of the railway line, but they stood out for their recognisable shape. They expected no more than twenty-five minutes of flying time, much of that being taken up by the initial climb.

  Tommy discovered that he was sweating despite the cold; his stomach was churning, fingers clenching on the control lever; he was afraid, he realised, much as he had felt the year previously in the snowstorm on Salisbury Plain when he had been lucky to bring himself and Charlie home. Strange, he thought, licking his dry lips; he was rarely frightened in the air. He wondered why this morning was different – the weather perhaps, with its threat of a sudden deterioration, or the half-light of a cloudy winter dawn might be the cause… No! The reason was obvious – he was not at the front this time, he had to follow rather than lead. Instead of relying on himself, he had to accept the judgement of another man, and he knew that he was the best in the air – any other man was less trustworthy than he was. He almost laughed at himself, at the arrogance he had discovered; but he was still afraid.

  He shrugged; it would not affect his behaviour in any way, fear was not to be surrendered to. He had been frightened before and knew he would not permit it to change his behaviour, but he must make sure that it did not make him fly badly. He made an effort to relax, to sit easily at the controls, to be precise in his every movement.

  They crossed the German trenches, picking up the railway tracks again and losing height gradually. Observers on the ground would have spotted them but should not be able to see where they were aiming for. Planes would often use the railway line as an aid to finding their course and there would be nothing to lead the people on the ground to suspect their target, or even to realise that there was a target, that this was anything other than an ordinary patrol.

  Explosions crashed high and behind them; anti-aircraft guns – Archie they were starting to call them – waking up late this morning. It might be breakfast time, the gun crews having to run from their mess to take post. The gunners used range-finders and should soon spot that they were losing height… Tommy wondered if they had telephone lines that would enable them to spread the word around the rear area.

  Colin waggled his wings, the sign that he was about to go into his dive. A Very flare might have attracted too much attention from the ground. The six planes closed up on each other, flying just a few feet apart but still in their two lines.

  There were machine-guns sited in nests along the Caterpillar, just starting to open fire, but very inaccurate. Peering across, Tommy thought they were placed as second line defences against a breakthrough on the ground; he was sure he could see men trying to lift their weapons to fire upwards. They were not set up on high-angle mountings and none were coming at all close. He made a mental note of their positions – but he suspected that a very few days would find them properly equipped against further aerial attacks. He glanced at the ground, one hundred feet, perhaps; he concentrated on Colin’s machine, waiting for his bombs to drop. They were actually over the railway cutting now, turning a couple of degrees to follow the tracks, lights ahead of them, not all of the floods turned off yet, and a mass of men and wagons and handcarts around wooden warehouse shacks.

  The flare came and Colin’s Parasol jumped upwards, relieved of the weight of the bombs. Tommy tugged his lanyard, all of his bombs gone and the Bristol rising. A climbing turn away and over the edge of the Caterpillar ridge and then across Hill 60 and banking to the west, climbing as fast as possible, all six still in formation. Fred was holding tight, Tommy was pleased to see; he had every chance of surviving to become a good pilot.

  More gunfire, the air-bursts closer this time, the gunners awake to their presence, but none within a couple of hundred feet, just close enough to get a whiff of their chemicals. Across the lines, the knot in his guts easing, no shake in his hands now. Reaching the field and seeing no stir in the wind flags, the air wholly still. A glance to the east showed the thick grey clouds closer and higher but a few hours until snowfall, he estimated, turning his attention to his landing, where he had to be an example of everything that was best.

  The BE2cs followed them down; Tommy realised he had not noticed them during the attack and mentally kicked himself. Had they been Hun scouts and armed then they could have knocked him down, all unseen. He had concentrated so much on his flying
, and on himself, that he had neglected observation of the sky; however scared he might be in future, he must never allow his attention to slacken off like that. Interesting, he thought, that the fear of dying might make death the more likely; foolish as well. Pilots could not afford to be foolish.

  Elbow was waiting for their reports, listened to each in turn, noting that all had seen the same – which was remarkably little. He turned to Fishy for his account of the raid.

  “I don’t think that as many as a half of the Cooper bombs exploded, Elbow. I counted five larger explosions, and possibly missed some. Perhaps some fell into mud, too soft for the percussion fuses. On the good side, the ones that went off cut a lot of men down and the incendiaries set fire to wooden shacks and cartloads of stores. Quite a few cart-horses as well. Hard to replace, heavy horses. There was at least one train in the sidings, and that was on fire too.”

  “I do not suppose you could give any figures, Fishy?”

  “Not a chance! Johnny has a camera mounted to the side. He may have taken some pictures.”

  Johnny had, or more correctly, his observer had, and they were on their way to the darkroom at Wing.

  Elbow sat down in his office and proceeded to write his report on the morning; it was very short. He took it rather nervously to Major Salmond.

  “Six aeroplanes made a bombardment raid, Elbow, and dropped their ordnance on the correct spot. It is probable that some of the larger bombs failed to explode, but no certain count could be taken. It is clear that some fires were started, but their actual effect cannot be quantified in terms of stores or wagons lost. It is the case that trucks on a stationary train were set on fire, but it is unknown whether they were loaded. It is highly probable that a number of men and carthorses were killed or wounded, but how many is unquantifiable. Photographs were taken which may resolve some of the questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rather bald, Elbow. Would it not be possible to, what shall we say, spice it up a little? We must have some idea of how much damage was done – we could add the most probable figures.”

  “We could indeed, sir. I regret, however, that although I am a poet, I am not a writer of romantic fiction!”

  “You are also a lieutenant while I am a major, young man!”

  “Yes, sir.” The reply was made in a very little voice.

  “Right! I will accept that you must attempt to be as accurate as possible. Do not find a necessity to downgrade the achievements of the men who actually fly in order to err on the side of caution!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now bugger off to Wing and get a look at those photographs just as soon as they are developed. Take a count from them, if you can.”

  Elbow asked the Adjutant if he could have transport to Wing, was told he could go in a Crossley tender that was to leave in half an hour or so. He went in search of Tommy while he was waiting, found him at the breakfast table, taking tea and toast, his stomach too acid for anything more robust.

  “Do you think that my reports denigrate the actions of the pilots, Tommy?”

  “Denigrate? No. Why should they? Thing is, Elbow, your reports have got no feeling in them, so they seem to say that we generally do very little, which is true, in its way. We don’t do a lot, except die occasionally – and that’s the bit you don’t bring out. How can you?”

  “What you mean, Tommy, is that you take almost the same risks every time you take off, even if it is an uneventful patrol, and my reports do not recognise that… They can’t, can they? I have never flown, Tommy, so I can’t know about the feelings of flying. Can I arrange for you or one of the other pilots to take me up?”

  “Can’t be me – I fly a single-seater. Talk to Fishy or Brickie, and get Major Salmond’s permission. Now, bugger off – you’re making too much noise at breakfast!”

  Elbow returned from Wing with copies of the photographs which showed a satisfactory number of fires and tiny, sprawled bodies and smashed transport. There was a stationary train, and it was alight in two places, although the engine seemed untouched. Wing sent its congratulations on a successful raid.

  Snow began to fall in big, slow flakes from a windless, low sky.

  Major Salmond appeared in the Mess soon afterwards.

  “The weather wizards say that this snow ain’t going to let up for days, and that it will be followed by a big freeze. Wing says that I can assume they know what they are talking about – this once. So, I can authorise leave.”

  He waited for the cheers to die down.

  “All of those pilots and observers who came out in August will go for ten days. Captain Alford has their names and travel warrants written out. That accounts for nearly two thirds of us, including me! The obvious exception must be Tommy, who has had his time in England already! When the ten days are up, and the first men return, then the rest of you will go, but only if flying is still off. I cannot do better than that, but there is a good chance that we shall be grounded for the three weeks. Tommy will be senior officer on the field in charge of flying, in my absence. Captain Alford will be in command of the ground.”

  Tommy nodded; to be in command of flying when they were grounded should be no great hardship.

  “Mechanics and other ground staff will also take leave, on the same basis, Captain Anderson. Two men out of every three to go home for ten days from tomorrow morning. I know that the bulk of your sergeants have been with us since August, so make sure that men with families go first, in case the second batch cannot get away.”

  The field emptied, every truck and wagon put into use to get men to the nearest railhead.

  Tommy sat to dinner with Fred Petersham and four other newer pilots from the reconnaissance planes, one observer as well, the bulk of them being non-commissioned.

  “We will need to split officer-of-the-day duties between us, while I think of it. It won’t make many demands while we are short of men on the field. It will mean keeping sober for the day and not leaving the field, but not much else.”

  “Pretending we are soldiers, in fact, Tommy!”

  Tommy made no answer to that; he would have to think about it.

  Captain Alford came in and joined them.

  “Tommy, it would be easier for the cooks if the few of us remaining all ate at the same time. Will that be acceptable to you?”

  It was a reasonable proposal and Tommy accepted it in all innocence. Captain Alford smiled very quietly, expecting that once they were in the habit of dining together it would stick. He was not a great man for formality and tradition, but he did feel that it would be good for the squadron if every officer met at least once a day and socialised in the Mess afterwards. It would make them seem to be soldiers, as well. Informality and esprit de corps was one thing, but they were still soldiers of the King and should occasionally remind themselves of that fact.

  “What about these bombs that failed to explode, Adj? Should we do something about them?”

  “Such as?”

  Tommy was at a loss – his knowledge of bombs was that they went ‘bang’, or failed to do so sometimes, it would seem.

  “Perhaps we could talk to Mr May, sir?”

  “Good idea, Tommy. He has not taken leave, for having nowhere to go. Never married and out of England for the better part of thirty years for liking the life in India and transferring to the Indian Army, before reaching retirement age and wangling a transfer back again to an English battalion that was coming home last year. Damned near forty years in and he knows how to work the system and arranged a posting to the RFC when his last battalion started to question his age. The effect of all that is that he has lost contact with all of his relatives – two brothers as next of kin, but the latest address he could give for either dates back to 1890! He hopes to die in harness, I think.”

  “Poor old fellow! All very well in time of war, but what will happen to him when there is peace again?”

  “Warrant officer carries a small pension, and he might find an entitlement to an alms hous
e or such in his home town, if he’s lucky. Probably he won’t and it will be a pair of rooms in a tenement and die uncared for. There’s nothing for a man without a family, Tommy. At least that won’t be a worry for you!”

  Tommy did not know if Captain Alford was married; he had never mentioned a wife on the occasions they had met before the war, so it seemed likely he was not. He smiled and said that he knew he was lucky.

  “Let’s hope it snows like hell for another ten days, Adj. I want to go home again!”

  Mr May was happy to discuss aerial bombs with Tommy, and was unable to offer any useful advice on their fuses and detonators.

  “The trouble is, sir, that if you make the detonator too sensitive, then the vibrations of an engine in flight might be sufficient to set it off, which you might not like. If it is insensitive, as you might say, then it has to be hit mighty sharply to explode at all, and falling in mud, of which there is rather a lot in and around the trenches, may cause it not to go off. Both Cooper and Hales Bomb suffer the same, sir. I understand that there are new bombs due out which have a safety cap on the fuse, with a little propeller attached to unwind it while falling, but that means the bomb will have to fall some hundreds of feet to arm itself.”

  “Not very satisfactory, Mr May, when one considers that low-level attacks are likely to be far more precise.”

  “Exactly, sir. I have been able to modify a few pans of Lewis ammunition, sir, as we discussed. The cognac was very welcome, sir.”

  “We all need something to warm ourselves in this weather, Mr May!”

  “We do indeed, sir. The old blood gets thinned after years in the Shiny, sir. Good place to be, India, but not to come back from!”

  “I can imagine that, Mr May. It seems, thinking on it, that low-level work must be conducted using only the grenades and the incendiary bombs. Mind you, I doubt we shall conduct many more of low-level raids – too many machine-guns waiting for us, I suspect.”