Major Case thought about that proposal, then shook his head.
“We have never had a mutiny in the RFC, Uncle. If I tried sending this lot out on a cross-country run then I think we’d have a massive revolt on our hands. No, we’ll just rely on the castor oil to work the fat off them – it keeps them lean enough to fit in their cockpits. Talking of which, Tommy, have you heard from your brother-in-law?”
“Not directly, sir. My wife tells me that he was very pleased to see us at our ‘place of battle’, and no doubt felt much invigorated by his close contact with our brave warriors.”
“I wonder just what he does in his spare time, Tommy?”
“I would hate to guess, sir. Of course, being so important a fellow and essential to the war effort, I cannot imagine that he has any spare time. I sometimes regard him with contempt, sir, for not coming out to fight; but whenever I consider the matter, I am far more thankful that he is not one of us.”
George made his sole contribution to the discussion, wondering just why they were so proud of being in the front line of butchery.
“Precious little of honour in this war, Tommy. I sometimes wonder if I am ‘one of us’, you know.”
A Deadly Caper
Chapter Eleven
“You want a whole squadron show, sir?”
“Better that way, Tommy. We all want a part in this one. As much as anything, Tommy, we have to demonstrate that we ain’t an opera company, all revolving around a prima donna. Three Flights, each pilot with a part to play and a chance of picking up a gong or two. I’m not calling you a glory hunter, Tommy, but there are those who will if they don’t get their own opportunity to shine.”
Tommy was inclined to be offended; merely because he had taken greater risks, for being the best flier among them, they were inclined to suggest that he was pot-hunting, looking for trophies to line up on the walls of the ancestral home.
“All I thought was that this is likely to be a risky one, sir, and we ought to keep the Parasols out of it, for being the frailer plane, less able to take damage than the Bristols.”
“We don’t know that the airfield has any guns mounted, Tommy. The chances seem to be that it has nothing ready for an attack from the air. I think, myself, it’s this Prussian inflexibility of mind; they know that they ain’t an operational field, so there is no need to expect action against them. We want to make good and sure that they keep guns and men out of the trenches to defend every airfield they’ve got. So, we risk the Parasols as well. Thirteen planes, Tommy, because you ain’t leaving me behind on this one!”
“You haven’t been able to get many hours in lately, sir.”
“So, it’s time I did, Tommy. I’m in!”
Michael and George were called into the office and the four sat to plan their attack; in the absence of any detailed maps or drawings of the airfield, this was not the most complex of tasks.
Major Case outlined the little he knew.
“The information, given by a civilian watching from a distance, is that they take-off ‘soon after dawn’. How long is ‘soon’? We assume ten minutes, but that is not a certainty. Then they perform circuits and landings for an hour. All in line like good little boys, I do not doubt; what would you expect, a minute apart?”
Ten or twelve of them, taking off at the interval they would maintain and then circling the field, making their landing and immediately taking off again. They were advanced in their training, or so it must be assumed, and would be practicing holding their formation as much as anything else.
“Take-off and climb to what, a thousand feet?”
“Seems as good a guess as any, Mike. They count in metres, don’t they? Probably three hundred metres, or four hundred – they would use round figures, same as we do.”
“Clockwise, sir?”
“Good question, George. Tommy, what are you wiggling your hands for?”
“Trying to remember which way is which, sir. They are rotary engined, like us, aren’t they? That means they would probably get their trainees to circuit to port at low level. Anti-clockwise.”
“I say, that’s clever, Tommy!”
Tommy thought it was rather good, himself.
George was perturbed, was struck by qualms of conscience.
“Is it really the right sort of thing to do, sir? Attacking their boys in training, picking soft targets to kill? Is it a manly sort of thing to do? Is this an honourable act, sir?”
“Yes, George, it truly is. These boys will not have the chance to grow up to kill our soldiers, or our pilots. When you say ‘boys’, it is not as if they are children, they are not of school age – they are grown men and soldiers of the Kaiser. They are legitimate targets of war, and the only ones available to us.”
“Well… you are the CO, sir, and I am not about to question your orders – even if I don’t like ‘em very much. I know you are right in theory, but it’s the practice that concerns me!”
“This whole bloody war concerns me, George. All we can do is win it. If that means killing pilots in the last stage of training, so be it! Anyway, we haven’t killed them yet – there is such a thing as counting one’s chickens!”
George opened his mouth as if to say more, then subsided into silence.
They looked at the geographical map of Flanders, designed to be pinned on a classroom wall in a peacetime primary school, but all they had available, and traced a route along the river and left onto a canal – almost straight and easy to spot – which they must follow for about two miles before taking a turn north, the airfield well in sight at that point.
“What do we do when we get there, gentlemen?”
Michael was first to speak.
“Incendiaries at fifty feet, along the hangars and barrack huts, or whatever they have, followed by a zoom into the circuit, which will be breaking up by then. One or two Flights only to carry half a load of incendiaries as well as a gun; the rest, gun only and into the circuit immediately.”
It sounded good. The next question was who. Michael again had the answer.
“Five Bristols can carry the incendiaries; they can climb faster after bombing the hangars. Eight Parasols directly into the airborne targets.”
They agreed; ‘targets’ sounded better as well.
“If there are planes still on the ground, the Bristols can attack them as well. Eight Parasols ought to be sufficient to create havoc in the air. We normally fly in Flights at most so the Hun never sees the whole of a squadron together; that on its own should do some good.”
“Surprise - in itself half the battle, Michael.”
“Withdrawal, sir?” George showed himself alert, perhaps feeling that he must not be overlooked.
“Across the town of Roulers and then south-west and home. Intelligence has asked that we should show ourselves over the town, as a sort of reward to its own people there. They have sent us this information at some considerable risk to themselves; they deserve to see that we are taking action on the stuff they deliver.”
George nodded gravely; his whole attitude had been grave of late, Tommy reflected.
“Brave people! I couldn’t fancy just living there, day after day, waiting for the banging on the door, almost knowing it must come; one day someone will open his mouth, or they will be seen in the wrong place. We have it bad enough, after all! Flying for two patrols of two hours a day can be hard, can make sleeping difficult. Think of twenty-four hours a day of that sort of strain!”
Tommy listened to George, and found himself agreeing; flying was easy compared to the efforts of those men and women. It sounded as if George was finding the going tough, though, if he was not sleeping well.
“Reform the Flights, sir, for the return?”
“I am open to your opinions on that, gentlemen.”
They discussed the question, decided that they should not hang about, trying to gather together. If they saw a plane near them, join up with it, otherwise, home at speed.
“Logical. The Adjutant has the weather
predictions, for what they are worth. Uncle!”
The Adjutant came in, sheets of paper in his hand.
“Weather predictions for today and tomorrow, gentlemen. These are sometimes correct. Guesses for three days hence – these are never right. Flights of imagination for next week – a waste of time and effort! The only weather reports you can rely upon are those for yesterday, I fear.”
They applauded.
“Now then, tomorrow morning is expected to be dry, bright and almost wind-free. Ideal weather for flying. Much the same as today, in fact.”
“It rained this morning, Uncle.”
“No, it didn’t. I have yesterday’s forecast here – ‘dry and sunny’.”
Major Case dismissed the weather forecasts. They would fly if they could; if not, then the next day.
“Take off tomorrow morning at ten minutes past six. Climb to three thousand feet to cross the lines – allow ten minutes for that, and then a matter, I calculate, of some six minutes to reach the canal, at full throttle. Reduce speed for the attack to what, gentlemen?”
They looked at Tommy, the experienced hand.
“Bristols to sixty, sir. No point to releasing bombs at any greater speed. Parasols to maintain full speed until making their attacks, at which point the individual will do as he judges wise.”
“Agreed?”
George and Michael nodded.
“Very good. Brief your own Flights before dinner, gentlemen. Let us inform the hangars of our desires for the morning. In flying terms, that is, gentlemen!”
Noah listened to Tommy’s briefing, could see only one hole in it.
“What do we do if the shop is shut, Tommy?”
“What, if they’ve all gone home on leave, nobody remaining on business? No idea. Follow my example. I shall probably drop the incendiaries on anything that resembles a target, because I don’t fancy landing with them still aboard.”
That was the real question; they had no wish at all to bring the incendiaries back home.
They breakfasted before dawn, thirteen of them, all making a great display of appetite, to show each other that they had no qualms.
“Line abreast as we go in, Tommy?”
“Targets of opportunity, Drongo. Two pairs will be better, behind the CO, drifting left or right as seems good. But not into each other!”
They nodded and forced down the next mouthful.
They could hear the mechanics starting the engines, turning them over in a final check then pushing the planes out into their line.
Major Case made a performance of looking at his watch and then stood to lead them out into the first light of dawn. They stared at the sky, deciding it was almost empty of cloud. The wind was light as well. Perfect weather for flying. Just what they wanted. Landing again would be simple, in little more than an hour – a nice, short patrol.
The five Bristols took off first, heaviest loaded and slightly slower today. Two lines of four Parasols followed, all well, no engines failing, thirteen in the air and making height. Major Case led them across the trench lines, somewhat south of east, picked up the river and followed it to the canal, Archie greeting them with a few shells, none of them accurate for altitude. They had noticed before that the German range-finders were less accurate first thing in the morning; possibly the low sun interfered with their lenses, or something scientific like that. Perhaps the gunners were simply not at their best at getting-up time.
Two minutes along the canal, an airfield visible to the north-east, exactly where it should be; they could see activity on the ground, picked up planes taking off, circling, landing… Spot on!
Major Case put his nose down and led the Bristols in while Michael and George, as they had previously agreed, took their Flights left and right into the circuit.
Tommy pressed the blip switch, then again and again, keeping speed down in the dive. There was a neat, precisely spaced row of six hangars separated by perhaps fifty yards from a block of barracks huts. He waved to Drongo and Fred, pointed them to the huts while he and Noah lined up on the hangars.
There was an anthill of movement on the ground, men running apparently at random, but none going to man guns. There were no guns, as Major Case had predicted. He levelled out at just fifty feet, terrified men diving to the ground hands over their heads, apart from one officer who stood at the door to a hangar, firing his pistol at them. Where the bullets went, Tommy had no idea – it was a pointless gesture, perhaps, but very brave and an example to his men who had run.
“A good officer,” Tommy thought, releasing his bombs and taking the risk, even so low above the ground, of glancing quickly at the clips, checking both sets were empty. The flechettes had made him twitchy, he supposed.
He zoomed and banked hard to port, a safe turn across the grass of the landing field, seeing nothing at first but then spotting a biplane which had just landed and was attempting to take off again, to make its escape. Its tail was lifting as he lined up behind and to the right, estimating where he should hit; he leaned across and fired a short burst that set canvas fluttering around the rudder. A little more to the starboard, holes along the fuselage; the pilot was clearly visible in his cockpit, looking over his shoulder, mouth open in a last shout of rage at his death as it marched towards him. The plane tumbled in as the doctored rounds blew his head clean off his shoulders.
“Quick, anyway!” Tommy thought, looking about him for anything else of interest, spotting a monoplane burning on the ground; black crosses visible, much to his relief. The four other Bristols, were in sight, still low down, Noah on his tail, where he should be, gun firing… Tommy scanned to his left, saw a motor truck skid sideways under the bullet strikes. The hangars came in sight as he banked, four well afire, a good chance that the flames would spread, a line of planes parked tidily… He risked a bank to starboard, carefully, nose up, losing no height – which was fortunate at fifty feet. The gun swung more or less onto the bearing and he leant across to the trigger, emptied the remaining rounds and pulled into a climb. He would not attempt a reload until he had a good thousand feet underneath him. He banked again; he was climbing to the north and did not want to go further into Hunland. He spotted a pair of Parasols, lined up to join them.
Noah was still on his tail, reliable as ever, watching the skies around him. Tommy levelled off and leaned across to the Lewis Gun, disengaged the empty pan and heaved it back into the cockpit. First step. He checked the cockpit and his few gauges, all still safe, the plane still level. He picked up a heavier, full pan, turned it in his hand until it was properly aligned and then leaned across and sat it above the machine-gun’s breech, pushed it until he felt it click home. He turned his attention back to flying, caught the Bristol as it tried to nose down, brought it level and steady again. He leaned across a third time, pulled at the cocking lever and jacked the first round into the chamber. If he had done everything precisely correctly, then the gun was ready to fire again. He would discover if he had done the job right when he pulled the trigger.
He raised a hand to Noah, watched all around as he went through the same procedure.
Two more Parasols appeared, and then the pair of Drongo and Fred in their Bristols. There was nothing else to be seen, and no movement at the airfield. Time to go home. The town of Roulers was just a couple of miles away, a little to the north of west; he turned towards the built-up area, led the eight planes across the centre and then away on a more southerly bearing, direct for Droncourt.
There were four Parasols and a single Bristol already down; all back with no losses.
They landed in their pairs and taxyed to their places outside the hangars, mechanics coming out at the run, waving.
Major Case, George and Michael and two other Parasol pilots were clustered around Maurice, the Intelligence Officer, giving their reports.
George was shaking his head.
“Gun jammed, fired three bloody rounds! Wash-out!”
Michael commiserated with his bad luck.
�
�Got me one of the Fokkers, Tommy. Blew him to bits in the air!” He waved his arms excitedly, pantomiming the explosion as the petrol tank blew.
The other two Parasol pilots claimed another Fokker between them, one half apiece. They confirmed Michael’s kill.
Major Case congratulated them; he had bounced his incendiaries inside a hangar, he said, purely by luck, and he had seen a great gout of flame, thought he might have hit a petrol bowser, for refuelling. He had seen no target for his gun.
The four Parasol pilots who had joined Tommy claimed two more kills, both Taubes, and to have frightened another three into very rapid descent.
Noah had hit a motor-lorry – an achievement, he said, very few pilots had shot down a lorry. His incendiaries and Tommy’s had set three more hangars alight and he had seen Major Case’s success; he could confirm Tommy’s Aviatik as well – it was just airborne when he hit it.
Tommy claimed his kill and said that he had fired at a row of parked planes but had no idea whether he had hit any.
Drongo and Fred had landed their bombs in the barracks area, had seen flames coming from at least three huts, perhaps more. They had then caught a monoplane of some sort, perhaps a Pfalz, and had given it half a pan of ammunition each, Drongo first then Fred as they passed, had seen it go down, half each.
“Six planes down, gentlemen. Hangars destroyed, some damage done to the barracks accommodation. A great success to report to Colonel Trenchard.”
Major Case was delighted; the squadron had achieved one of the most productive actions to date. He ran to the telephone.
Later in the morning the Adjutant’s confidential clerk, a sergeant, called Tommy to the CO’s office. The Armourer, Mr Oakes, was there already, together with the Adjutant.
“Tell Major Stark, Mr Oakes.”
A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2) Page 27
