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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Glad you’re back, Tommy. In good time, too. Six hours yet before your leave is up. Don’t bother to unpack, you ain’t staying! Off to your new posting in the morning.”

  Captain Alford smiled to cushion his words. He picked up a large package and rattled it.

  “Had to keep this in here to protect it from the gannets in the Mess. They swear blind it must be something sweet in here!”

  Tommy ripped off the paper, disclosing the name of Harrods on the brightly painted front of the box.

  “Best Toffee Selection, Adj. Sent out by my wife. Four pounds weight! If that lot had got into it, I would be lucky if there had been one left!”

  He opened the lid, picked out one of the chocolate sort for himself and offered them to the adjutant.

  “Take two, old chap! You won’t get a second chance because I must take these through with me.”

  He entered the mess anteroom, chewing stickily, held the sweets up in the air and then put them down on a central table and stepped back. There was a greedy rush, most of the pilots only a very few months removed from the school tuck shop and toffee and chocolates there.

  Tommy managed to snaffle one more before the box was empty; he had another large bag tucked away in his travelling valise, and those were not coming into the public domain.

  “Dinner for nineteen-thirty, old chap. Mess dress.”

  “Got your way with that, did you, Adj?”

  “Major Salmond agreed that we ought to grow up just a little, Tommy. We are soldiers as well as airmen, you know. Apparently, the last man who tried it was such a fool that he made a complete muff of it, but this time round the Major agrees.”

  “Ah, well, if you say so, Adj. Where am I off to, by the way?”

  “The Bombardment Squadron – I don’t know its number, or if it has been given one yet. It’s very much an experimental sort of affair. Airfield at a tiny place which calls itself Droncourt. Just a few miles up the road from here, to the north, not so far from the Belgians. Take yourself off in the morning; we’ll provide the transport for Smivvels, who is to go with you as the squadron is forming from new. You are to fly the Bristol across. Noah and Jack have already gone; the others of your Flight are to remain here. The old Parasols have been stood down and we have new BE2cs to replace them. Slightly better engine and they will take a Lewis in the rear seat, where the observer is these days. You’ll get a map, by the way, as you won’t know where the place is by name. There will be a bit of a going away bash tonight, after dinner, so brace yourself!”

  There was a very large party that night; Tommy appeared, correctly turned out and with the black and gold vertically striped ribbon next to the Military Cross. He was glad they were not welcoming guests and in full fig, miniature medals displayed; mess dress was quite sufficient.

  They ate and saluted the King’s health and then Major Salmond rose to announce Tommy’s departure and to enquire whether he had placed the wrapping paper of one of his toffees on his breast.

  Tommy was forced to stand and reply, to gravely inform the assembled officers that it was the ribbon of the Russian Order of St George, Fourth Class. He had discovered, he said, that the First Class was reserved exclusively for Royalty; the Second for Presidents and Prime Ministers; the Third for Generals and Admirals; the Fourth for soldiers, sailors and airmen who had actually seen a war; and the Fifth Class was granted only to congenital idiots; he understood that the whole squadron was to be so honoured next week. He then ran to the bar, announcing that the first drink was on his account, the pursuit, originally determined to debag him, diverted by thirst.

  He felt very ill next morning and delayed his departure until he had drunk coffee and persuaded his belly to accept toast.

  He examined the Bristol and decided that it was fit to fly, and hoped that he was. His guns were all in the cockpit and there was a Lewis in the wing mounting, pointing out to the left. He checked that the cocking mechanism worked and that the spare pans were correctly placed in their holder. Mr May, the Armourer, appeared and gave him the thumbs up; he took a closer look at the rounds in the pan and saw that they showed evidence of tampering, that the points had been doctored. He grinned and returned the salute.

  He taxyed out and took off, climbed to a thousand feet and then banked hard to starboard, dived as steeply as he dared and gave the field a last farewell at twenty feet. It was illegal, and irresponsible, but expected of him – he had a reputation to maintain. It was a pity that they had only low canvas hangars, impossible to fly through, unlike the big wooden structures the French used. He climbed back to one thousand and turned to his course, a matter of twenty miles north and a little east and arrived at Droncourt less than half an hour after take off.

  The field was quite large and showed some evidence that the last farmer on it had grown potatoes, the traces of the ridges just visible, but fairly well flattened. There was an area of woodland to the west, trees in lines, so probably an orchard on poorer land. To the east the land began to rise to a small ridge, rough pasture, judging by the morning shadows. Both north and south of the field was ploughed land, still in cultivation it seemed.

  There were planes lined up outside a row of canvas hangars, some Bristols and a number of Parasols as well. He could see nothing in circuit, no planes taking off or lining up to land, so he fired a green flare and turned into the wind. There was no response from the ground, which he assumed to be affirmative, and he lined up and landed as close to the hangars as he could reasonably reach, taxying the last few feet and placing the machine next to the last Bristol in line.

  A sergeant mechanic came out to him.

  “Captain Stark, joining the squadron.”

  “Sergeant Porter, sir. Senior sergeant mechanic at the moment. We were told you were due to arrive today, sir.”

  “Good. I would like to have a word with the Armourer before I go to report, if you would take me to him.”

  The Armourer was a very young warrant officer, recently promoted by the look of his uniform.

  “Mr Oakes, sir.”

  “I have some unusual rounds in my Lewis Gun, Mr Oakes…”

  “Yes, sir. Mr May of your last squadron discussed them with me, sir. All will be accounted for, sir, and kept to one side, you might say.”

  “Very good, Mr Oakes. We shall do very well together, I suspect.”

  Mr Oakes was sure that they would.

  Tommy made his way to the offices, looking for the Adjutant.

  The Adjutant was in the uniform of the Buffs, a major, which might lead to problems, Tommy thought, if he was to be second-in-command as a captain. Adjutant was always an administrative position, separate from the line of command, but it was generally the case that his own rank was lower than that of the squadron commander and no more than equal to the Flight commanders.

  Tommy stood to attention, unable to salute bareheaded.

  “Good morning, sir. Captain Stark reporting for duty.”

  “Good morning, Mr Stark. Glad to meet you. Major McGuire – call me ‘Uncle’ – all the others do. Then read this order from London.”

  Tommy took the single sheet, read and re-read its brief contents.

  “That’s a surprise, Uncle! More than that, in fact. Why?”

  “You are to take command in the absence of the CO. The other two captains have seniority in the rank – one made in 1913 and the other as far back as ’09. So you are breveted as major, with effect from this day. Congratulations. It’s not the fastest of promotions I have heard of in this war, but it ain’t exactly slow going! You go back to captain as soon as the war ends, unless the brevet is made permanent first.”

  “I must write a letter home. Monkey – my wife – will be more than pleased.”

  The Adjutant was surprised to hear that Tommy was married; he hardly looked old enough to shave, but perhaps he had a young face.

  “CO’s off to Wing at the moment, and there is no flying this morning – the squadron only becomes operational today, strictly s
peaking. Most of the pilots will be idling in the mess – coffee and tea only in the mornings – apart from a few catching up on their sleep after a weekend of debauchery – or as close as one can come to such in this benighted neck of the woods! Your billet is in the hut attached to this admin block – as is appropriate for a senior officer. Major Case is, naturally, immediately next to you and I am the other side. Your servant, Smivvels, has arrived and is no doubt busily establishing your presence; he seems a particularly horrible little man and thus ideally suited to his function. Is he any good? It will be simple to replace him, if you wish.”

  “He will do, Uncle. He turns me out within reason tidy and keeps the room clean and the laundry up to date, and he don’t play the old retainer, which I prefer. I have a strong suspicion that he don’t give a damn whether I live or die, but he does the job because it’s softer than any other number he could find. Makes life simpler.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, old chap. You hear a lot of bloody nonsense talked about batmen, but most them do a good job because it makes for an easier life. Better that way – we’re in the Army, not in some damned country house as Lord of the Manor!”

  “You said no flying this morning, Uncle? What about this afternoon?”

  “Patrols along the trenches, as a possibility. Orders from Major Case are to fly if you wish. Familiarisation, he said. Getting a look at the view, I suppose. Not a flier, meself.”

  Tommy grinned and suggested that the aim would be to discover the landmarks that would lead them home to the field.

  “Embarrassing to get lost and have to land somewhere else to ask for directions home! People tend to laugh at pilots that need pointing in the right direction, you know. Will you have a word with the mechanics, Uncle, make sure that the planes are ready and all have a Lewis fitted? Can they all take one?”

  “Very good question, Major Stark!”

  “Tommy.”

  “Always wiser to be sure of things, Tommy. When it comes to the planes, you’re asking the wrong chap, old boy. As I said, I don’t fly. Don’t walk that much, either.”

  He limped around his desk, using a stick.

  “Caught a packet in the knee at Mons. Kept the leg, but I don’t know why – might do better without the bloody thing! I’ll lead you into the mess, see who’s there. First thing, though, you’ll want to get out of the flying coat – we don’t wear them in the Mess - and stick some crowns on your shoulders; picked them up from stores for you when I saw the signal. I’ll show you to your quarters. See you in ten minutes?”

  Tommy nodded and went in to change, found Smivvels ostentatiously busy.

  “Put these up for me, Smivvels. Flying this afternoon, say for one o’clock, unless we change our minds.”

  “Major, sir! If I may say so, sir, congratulations! Mess dress or working, this morning, sir?”

  “Working – breeches and stockings, collar and necktie. I am not to show myself as a gentleman of leisure, Smivvels.”

  “Quite right, sir.”

  Tommy appeared in eight minutes, noted but not commented on by the adjutant.

  “Beg pardon, for asking, Tommy, but just what is that on your chest?”

  “That is a question I must get used to, I suspect, Uncle. It’s Russian – given away at Christmas but reached us belatedly.”

  They entered the mess together, Noah and Jack sat next to the door, intentionally first to greet him.

  “What’s that you’re wearing now, Tommy? Better take those crowns off your shoulder before a real major sees you, old chap!”

  “Good morning, gentlemen! Did you have good leaves? I see you’re still not sober!”

  They laughed and called for coffee, vaguely introducing others in the room and making way for the two captains, both known to Tommy from pre-war days.

  “I thought that Major Stark might be you, Tommy. Just seemed that you might have been older than I remembered.”

  Captain Finch was well into his twenties and had joined the RFC just before the war, in the course at Upavon immediately prior to Tommy’s. He had learned to fly at Brooklands, had in fact taken a few lessons from Tommy in ’13.

  “No comments about age, Mike! They cannot count very well in the War Office and haven’t asked any questions.”

  “To be expected! You’ve met George Martin-Soper as well, have you not?”

  “Frequently! George was there at Brooklands when my father tested his last machine, were you not, George?”

  “I was, Tommy. Not a good day, old fellow!”

  “Worse for the Old Chap than for me, George. But not much fun for any of us, when you consider it.”

  There was a sympathetic nod; both had lost friends and acquaintances, it was a part of flying, but they did not have to like it.

  “What are we supposed to be doing here, George?”

  “You know, Tommy, that is one of the better questions of our time. The reality, I much suspect, is that the RFC has a number of single-seater planes. They are valueless for observation purposes, as is not difficult to see! So, something must be done with them, and some young gentleman, naming no names, has been buggering about the trenches and their immediate rear and dropping bombs on them, and on their balloons – which was a very neat trick, by the way – and giving the brass ideas. Now, you know what a bad thing that must be – the brass exists to be stupid and is very good at it, and now they have been caused to think and the strain of that has come up with us!”

  “Ah! We are in fact to bugger about and drop bombs on the Huns’ rear – from a great height, one trusts!”

  “Exactly so, Tommy. Very wise to keep a distance from a Hun’s rear – never know what you might discover! It’s the sort of thing that sounds like a very good idea to staff officers. They will measure our success by the number of bombs we drop. As for hitting our targets, that will be no problem, old chap, because there are so many Huns about, we are bound to hit something, and if we don’t hit a railway station we might hit a sausage boiler, and either will be valuable in the greater scheme of things.”

  George seemed more lively than Tommy recalled; he had always been a serious sort of chap, given a bit to piety – he could remember him not wanting to fly on a Sunday. Not to worry, he was the better for it. Tommy tried to match his humour.

  “Exactly so – deprive Fritz of his sausage and we make it impossible for him to contribute to the war effort. A well-known fact!”

  They clicked their heels and bowed to each other, a la Prussian.

  “Have we decided on Flights yet, gentlemen?”

  “We were leaving that till you turned up, Tommy. Major Case will have the last word, but he wants us to work out what we can. We have six Bristols, and eight Parasols, which is convenient in some ways, there being twelve pilots and the Major and leaving one spare. You know the Parasol, do you not, Tommy?”

  “Know it, hardly flown one though; couple of hours, maybe. I had a Tabloid when I first came out, shifted to the Bristol when I came back. Can’t say I like wing warping as an idea. I prefer ailerons, but it’s all much of a muchness when you look at it. Where have you put the Lewis?”

  “Under the wing seems favourite. It’s a damned nuisance in an above-wing mounting, got to remember where to point it when you can’t even see it, and can’t reload. There’s talk of the Frogs mounting a gun on the engine, directly in front of the pilot, and firing through the prop. They seem to think they can reinforce the blades against bullet strike.”

  “Heard of it. Talked it over with some of the designers in England. Thing they wanted to know was, where do the bullets go that actually hit the wedges on the propeller?”

  They were fairly sure that the bullets would ricochet, but the more they thought of that, the less they liked the prospect. Michael summed up their discussion.

  “If even one in a thousand comes straight back, Tommy, then for every twenty pans you fire from the Lewis, one is going to whistle past your ear…”

  “Or through it.”

 
“Sod that for a game of skittles! I don’t mind too much being shot down by the Hun but I object to being shot down by meself!”

  They decided to delay flying till the next morning, the afternoon to be spent ‘familiarising themselves with the guns’. They all needed more sleep.

  They ate a lunch that could be generously described as bad – fried bully-beef and soggy mashed potato followed by prunes and thin custard. Tommy made his way to the Adjutant.

  “Just taken lunch, Uncle. Flying a rotary, lubricated by castor oil, and some twat of a cook gives us prunes?”

  “Ah! Disadvantage of not being a flying type, dear boy! Prunes off the menu. Any other suggestions?”

  “Shoot the cook?”

  “Very difficult to get hold of a cook, as such, Tommy. Thing is, so many men joined-up that the Army needs thousands more cooks to feed ‘em all. It’s ended up that anyone with flat feet or getting on a bit in years gets stuffed into the cookhouse.”

  “We found that in Three Squadron, Uncle. Solved it by having a whip round, just an extra half a crown a week on the mess bill, and hiring in a couple of Belgian refugees. It ain’t very legal, but there is no specific regulation that says you can’t have Belgian cooks, and the food was a damned sight better than this.”

  “How do I find Belgian refugees?”

  “Throw a brick out of your window. You’ll likely hit one. What’s the Squadron Warrant Officer like?”

  “Very good, for a pompous, self-satisfied prick!”

  “Typical Warrant Officer, in fact, Uncle. Tell him you want a pair of Belgian refugees hired on as cooks, today if not sooner, and that you’ll turn a blind eye to any who may be found in the Sergeants’ Mess.”

  “That is definitely unlawful, Tommy. I’ll get on with it now.”

  Breakfast next morning consisted of almost raw bacon, fried and scrambled eggs, omelettes, toast, brioches and the best coffee they had ever tasted.

  They told the cook that bacon should be grotesquely overdone to meet English tastes and slipped a bottle of brandy through to the kitchen in celebration of the change of personnel.