Andrew Wareham

by When Empires Collide (Innocents At War Series 1)

  “I agree. It will need little more than a single lucky bullet in the right place to bring us down. What about in the air? Do you think that there will be defensive fliers attempting to stop us going about our business?”

  Tommy had never considered that question, was inclined to dismiss the possibility.

  “Shooting from a plane travelling at say seventy miles an hour, sir, at another at the same pace and travelling in a different direction? Then, sir, there is the question of what does one shoot with? I do not know what a machine-gun weighs, with its ammunition, but it may well be too much of a burden for our machines, and we will not wish to shoot off the propeller, or the empennage, or any of the struts and wires, sir, which will limit how we can fire.”

  “A good argument, Mr Stark. Given more powerful motors, and lighter machine-guns, possibly strapped onto the upper wing, then it still becomes possible – though aiming will still be the great difficulty. There are lightweight guns, you know - the French have something called a Chauchat and the Danes, of all people, have a Madsen Gun, and we have the Lewis. Given five years, or perhaps ten, and you may be amazed at the advances made.”

  Tommy was forced to agree.

  “Motors, sir, are improving almost beyond recognition. Even in the years I have been flying the horsepower available has nearly doubled, and I doubt not that there are engineers working on great improvements at this very moment. The rotary engine is but one example of all that is new.”

  “Agreed, sir. What of aerial bombardment?”

  “The dropping of explosive devices from the air, sir? Again, sir, the first question is that of weight. Better done from airships, I suspect, sir; they can carry far more than any heavier-than-air machine, although more slowly. They must also stay very high, being such easy targets for guns. They could do very well against large targets such as railway stations and arsenals, and even, I must imagine, against airfields, sir. Possibly against ships, too? But the aeroplane, that is another matter… unless one made it bigger, with two engines… have I not heard of Italian machines, sir, Capronis, I believe, with as many as three engines?”

  Captain Paine nodded gravely.

  “Military machines, designed for the sole purpose of carrying explosive bombs against the foe. Italy has a very long coastline, as you know, and is busy in the design of seaplanes, even flying-boats, which are very big. We shall consider, in the classroom, the nature of these machines, and how best they may be stopped. A large bombing machine based on the French coast could easily reach Dover or Chatham or the Port of London, or Portsmouth and Southampton. The Navy is to an extent concerned, as you may imagine.”

  “I had wondered what there was to study, sir – but one becomes tied up in a very small world when flying, sir.”

  “We shall, I hope, show you a larger universe, Lieutenant Stark. Welcome to Upavon, sir. I trust, and believe, that you will do well here. My condolences on your recent loss, by the way, sir. It is not our habit to dwell on such matters, but I met your father last year when I visited Brooklands and was most impressed by his vision for the future of the air. I believe you were airborne while I was present.”

  Sergeant Grimes collected Tommy and showed him the Mess building – another draughty wooden hut with a few comfortable chairs, some battered tables and an upright piano.

  “Do you play, sir?”

  “No, I am afraid not, Sergeant Grimes.”

  “Officers rarely do, sir, one has discovered. That does not, unfortunately, stop them trying.”

  The billet was a tiny room, less than twelve feet square, containing an iron bedstead and sparse mattress, made up with two blankets and a single pillow; there was a table with an enamel bowl which comprised the washing facilities and a large wardrobe and small chest of drawers which between them took up almost every inch of space. There was no heating.

  “Many officers go into Salisbury, sir, and purchase extra blankets there. They often find them useful at their squadron, too, sir. There is a bathroom and other conveniences at the end of the corridor, sir. Your servant will arrange hot water, sir, if you inform him of your intention to bathe. Normally, sir, the officers make a roster between themselves for use of the bath. Your servant will bring you shaving water in the morning, sir.”

  Sergeant Grimes glanced at Tommy’s chin, and forbore to comment; he shaved twice a week, and it was clear that he needed no more.

  “Private Belling will do for you and Lieutenant Petersham, sir.”

  Belling showed his face in the corridor – tall, thin, in his forties and presumably close to the end of his final enlistment, shuffling on flat feet, defeated by twenty years of army boots.

  “Hot water and a cup of tea, sir. Seven o’clock, sir. On the dot, sir. Breakfast for quarter to eight, sir.”

  “Every day, Private Belling?”

  “Except Sundays, sir, unless it’s flying weather and they got to make up for missed days due to rain and snow and whatever, sir. Sundays is eight o’clock, sir. No Church Parade, sir, don’t ‘ave ‘em in the RFC.”

  “Good. Thank you, Private Belling.”

  “Sir. Have you got keys for your motor car, sir? Get your trunk, sir, to unpack it.”

  Tommy handed over his keys, a quite unlawful half-crown also in his hand and disappearing into Belling’s pocket with no change of expression. There would be sugar in his tea in the morning.

  “Adjutant will need to see you, sir. Joining papers and details, sir. Next of kin and all that. Lieutenant Petersham should be finished with him now.”

  Sergeant Grimes led Tommy across the gravel again and into another room in the small administrative building; there was an elderly captain resident, talking with a young man a few years older than Tommy.

  “You must be Mr Stark! We were admiring your Lanchester, Mr Stark.”

  The captain’s voice was studiously flat, expressionless, making no comment on the choice of car, or the money that had bought it.

  “It’s a fine vehicle, sir. My father left it to me some three weeks ago, sir.”

  “Oh! I see. This is Lieutenant Petersham, by the way. He owns the Peugeot next to yours.”

  Petersham smiled uncertainly, aware, obviously, that Tommy’s father had recently died but not a reader of newspapers and knowing nothing more.

  “Hello, Stark, old chap! How are you?”

  They exchanged a few comments about cars, then asked the adjutant whether there was anything in the way of a garage or barn where they could put the vehicles out of the freezing weather.

  “This is an aerodrome, gentlemen! We have mechanics by the score who will be happy indeed to poke their noses under the bonnets of your cars – a Lanchester especially will be a treat for them. They will tuck them away, warm and cared for and ready for you to take out of an evening or weekend, and be glad of the opportunity. A bottle or two of the right stuff for Christmas, perhaps, and they will be very content.”

  “Salisbury on Saturday, sir?”

  “Tomorrow morning will be better, gentlemen. Classes start on Wednesday and you will be flying if the weather permits over the weekend. At this time of year, we must take every opportunity.”

  Petersham was much in favour.

  “Jolly good, I need all the hours I can get, sir! Took my licence in the summer and have been able to get no more than six hours since! What about you, Stark? Have you got many hours in?”

  The adjutant intervened to save Tommy from appearing to boast.

  “Mr Stark comes from a flying family, Lieutenant Petersham. I must suppose that he has been in the air since he was a boy.”

  Tommy nodded, avoiding giving a precise figure.

  “What I lack, Mr Petersham, is knowledge of the Army, which you must have. I shall be begging of you, I do not doubt, to put me right.”

  “Jolly good! It’s Charlie, by the way.”

  “Tommy.”

  They shook hands, both feeling they were forming a friendship. The adjutant looked on approvingly.

  �
��We tend to be less formal in the RFC than in the rest of the Army or Navy, gentlemen! I am more normally called ‘Adj’ or ‘Uncle’ than sir, except when senior officers are present, of course, outside the mess, that is. Now then, business, Mr Stark – the Army runs on paper and there are forms to fill in. Let me see, personal details, religion – C of E, I presume? Next of kin?”

  “Bit of a problem there, sir. Got none other than an older half-brother who don’t acknowledge me; never met him, in fact. Nearest to me is the Squire – I have an understanding with his second girl, sir, be looking to marry her in a few years, so he’s almost kin.”

  The adjutant laughed and agreed that near enough was close enough.

  “Education… what was your school?”

  “None, sir. Came back from the States when I was ten or thereabouts, a few years after the influenza epidemic when my mother died, and my father thought I might not fit in too well at Harrow, which was his school. So, with one thing and another, I had a tutor or two in New York and learned my mathematics around the flying people at Brooklands and picked up what I could, and I had my reading and writing earlier when my father went back to Nevada, and that seemed all I might ever need. Never did fancy the idea of going to Oxford, and my father was none too keen, because they sent him down after a year or so – I never quite got around to asking him why.”

  “Quite; one might not, I can understand. No school. Did you pass the entry examination, Mr Stark? Wait a moment, ha, yes, I see your official letter of appointment states that you were unable to sit for reasons beyond your control but have been granted a pass. Unusual, but clearly in order, Mr Stark. More normal for Royalty, but it seems that it was felt you should be one of us. Let me see, paybook and identity tags, herewith. Your bank, Mr Stark?”

  “I have an account with the South Hampshire in Farnborough, sir.”

  “Very good. Now Mess Fund – we contribute just two guineas a week, Mr Stark, and we assume that you will be here for some three months…”

  “Twenty-five pounds and six shillings, sir; let me see.”

  Tommy pulled out the drawstring purse and tipped out sovereigns to the appropriate amount then felt about in his pockets, coming up with two half-crowns and a shilling.

  “My father became American in his habits, sir, and left purses of sovereigns in the safe, sir.”

  It was wiser, Tommy thought, not to specify exactly how many purses, or how fat.

  “Very well, sir. You will be at liberty this afternoon while the remainder of the class arrives from the station and settles in. I would suggest that you find your working uniforms and then take a stroll around the hangars; introduce yourselves generally and have a look at the machines. No flying today, in this wind.”

  “Working uniform, Private Belling?”

  “Sir. Normal at Upavon, sir, is long stockings and shoes, sir. Commandant don’t like puttees, not for flying. Most of the officers stick with their regimentals, sir, and just replace the badges with RFC. I think you’ll be the only one in a maternity jacket, sir.”

  The RFC tunic buttoned at the side, a swathe of blank material across the chest that could not catch in rigging wires, or such was the official argument. It was high-collared and conveniently warm in winter, or at height.

  “Cold outside, sir. You’ll want your flying coat, sir.”

  The leather greatcoat stretched almost to the feet, inelegant in the eyes of the Army, but useful in an open cockpit in a seventy mile an hour slipstream.

  “Peaked cap, sir!”

  Tommy put down the flying helmet that he had picked up out of habit and left the room.

  Petersham appeared in the facings of the KOYLI, far smarter, even in working dress.

  “Trenchard’s old regiment, Tommy – which can’t do any harm, I suspect!”

  “I am not entirely certain what the letters stand for, Charlie.”

  “Damned Yankees, all the same! Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, young man – one of the premier regiments in the country, after the Guards; many of us would say ‘before’ the Guards, of course!”

  Tommy grinned and raised a hand in admission of guilt.

  “I simply know none of these things, Charlie. Had I been to school, perhaps… But as it is, I am no more than an ignorant hick from the sticks.”

  “Let us proceed to the hangars – note that officers never ‘walk’ and rarely ‘march’ and it is undignified merely to saunter, Tommy!”

  “As you will, Charlie.”

  The hangars were in a slightly better state of repair than the offices and officer’s billets, due no doubt to the fact that most of their inhabitants were sergeants, masters of working the system and looking after their own comfort.

  “The sergeant’s mess will be warmer, better furnished and equipped with a larger cellar than ours, Tommy. Fact of life!”

  Tommy noted yet another piece of information.

  “An interesting collection of machines, Charlie – dragged off the scrapheap, one must imagine! Bleriot single and two seaters; a Bristol Box Kite; Farman Longhorns, and Shorthorns. There are some BE 2s; and that looks like a pair of Avro 504s, very modern machines, in fact. The Farmans are stable enough and well-behaved – good trainers, one must imagine. The Bleriots have few vices, and not many virtues either. The BE2, of course, is best compared to a Pickford’s wagon, and is almost as exciting to fly – it is said to be impossible to persuade it to stunt.”

  “Have you flown any of them, Tommy?”

  “All except the Avro. I want to try that – it has a rotary engine, you know, which is said to be the way that all aeroplanes must eventually go. The engine delivers massive power for its weight, though it does have the odd drawback, but no doubt the designers are working on that at this very moment!”

  Tommy looked about for the officer in charge, could not see a uniformed figure in the main hangar and tried to spot an office where he might be sat.

  “Over to the left, Tommy. Tall chap in the dungaree suit, pips on his shoulder, under the grease.”

  “Not that way!”

  Tommy stopped Charlie from walking into the propeller of a BE2 and steered him round the walkway at the edge of the hangar.

  “If a mechanic is working on an engine, then there is always the chance that he will turn it over. The propeller may not reach more than a couple of hundred revs, and that only for a second or two, but that is more than sufficient to chop off your head. You must never cut across the hangar floor, Charlie – you might break a propeller and they cost money!”

  “What about people, aren’t they important?”

  “Not at all, Charlie – very cheap to make new people. Much easier than building an aeroplane, or so I understand!”

  They came to attention and saluted the captain in the oily dungarees; normally they would not have saluted as he had no hat and could not return the courtesy, but on the occasion of their first meeting it was correct to do so.

  “New course, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Petersham and this is Lieutenant Stark, sir.”

  “Captain Becke, gentlemen. I am pleased to meet you, though not for the first time, Mr Stark?”

  “Of course, sir. You were introduced to me by Mr Sopwith last year, when you were discussing the French machine that was visiting. A Breguet, was it not?”

  “It was, Mr Stark. You will find two of them in the other hangar. You were testing a new Bleriot two seater that day, were you not?”

  “I was indeed, sir. The wind had risen while I was in the air, was gusting up to half a gale, and landing was an interesting experience. I believe that at one point I was quite stationary in the air, some fifty feet up!”

  “Mr Sopwith swore that you were actually blown backwards in one of the gusts, I remember, Mr Stark. You eventually side-slipped the machine into a landing. Most impressive!”

  Tommy made no direct answer – he could hardly have simply stayed up in the air.

  “The machine is sadly underpowered, sir!”r />
  “I agree. But it is what we have to work with. Have you flown the new Morane-Saulnier yet?”

  “No, sir. I am told that there are only a few prototypes yet, and all in France.”

  “I have hopes of it. We expect to receive one as soon as full production commences. It is a monoplane, of course, and must be faster than a biplane.”

  Captain Becke brought Charlie into the conversation, courteously asking him of his experience.

  “None, really, sir. I have a licence – got it on a Longhorn, in fact, and flew a Shorthorn as well for a few hours. Got a lot to learn, I think, sir.”

  “You are at the right place for that. What do you think the first lesson should be, Mr Stark? If there is one thing to remember, what must it be?”

  “Never turn back, sir. If you have a dead engine then you may survive crashing into anything in front of you, but turning will certainly be your death!”

  “Very true, Mr Stark!”

  Captain Becke knew that Tommy’s father had been killed just a few weeks before; he was fairly sure now how he had died.

  They continued their tour, counting eleven different types of aeroplane ranging in appearance from the most modern to the appallingly quaint.

  “Thing is, Charlie, that the designers become fixed on one idea – they don’t, mostly, try to make a machine that meets all criteria. Some put stability before everything; others want speed; a few seek climb and altitude; one or two want a machine that can loop and roll and dive. Some want endurance, an aeroplane that can stay up for three, even four hours, though what the gain of that is, I do not know, because they all sacrifice speed to get that length. Can you tell me what the sense is in flying for three hours at sixty miles an hour rather than two at ninety?”

  “Difficult, Tommy. But, I am sure they have very good reasons, if only they can think of them.”

  They wandered back to their billets where mess dress was laid out for them; they took Belling’s hint and changed before making their way across to the communal living space. The other six officers were there already, making a noise and talking animatedly, to show that they were all at home and thoroughly confident.