Andrew Wareham

by When Empires Collide (Innocents At War Series 1)

  “At least he didn’t panic, Tommy!”

  Major Salmond was stood at his side, he discovered. He had not noticed him walk up, absorbed in his concern that the new man was going to kill a very good observer.

  “A point in his favour, sir. He does not have to be a fool merely because he is a horse soldier!”

  “Quite. If he was then he would very probably have remained in his trade. He has displayed the sense to become a flier, after all.”

  “Very true, sir. I could wish he had become a flier in another squadron, however. I must go, sir.”

  “So you must. I came over to say that I have just received word from General Henderson that you are substantive in your rank, seniority from last month. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you, sir. I believe that I must ask my Commanding Officer’s permission to marry, must I not, sir?”

  “You have my blessing, Tommy. Marry your Monkey and raise a tribe of little apes in your image, sir!”

  Tommy laughed as he took a final glance around the Tabloid before climbing in and tightening his lap belt; he had to take the buckle in an extra notch, he noticed. He was not eating enough, or perhaps the diet of castor oil was doing him no favours. He would be in trouble when he presented himself before Monkey if he was all skin and bone.

  He waved to the mechanic, caught the engine as it fired and pointed to the man with the chock ropes. The Tabloid surged forward and he glanced at the very few dials in front of him, saw nothing wrong and guided the tiny biplane across the grass and into the air.

  The rush of air across his face, and the smell of castor oil up his nose, the feeling of freedom from the ground; he was in his natural element, where he belonged. He made a gentle, delicate turn to his right, levelled off and then began to climb hard. Cecil was a quarter of mile away, two or three hundred feet higher. Tommy glanced at the railway line which ran to the north-west just here, the main line to Calais, which was too close; it was going to be a tight-run thing whether they kept the harbour safe and out of the range of the siege guns. The course was correct; first mark in Cecil’s favour.

  Twenty minutes and they were nearing Ypres and the messy fighting that was going on through the ridges and valleys there. No such thing as a line to be seen; a series of isolated actions, many of them no more than battalion size and with cavalry heavily involved. The battle was stabilising, however, more troops coming up from the south and others marching out of Calais. The word was that the first brigades were arriving from India, their ships offloading at Marseilles where the men took to the railway, a long series of express trains heading north. The extra bodies might well tip the scales in favour of the Entente.

  There was a gun line almost below them, newly formed, it had not been there yesterday; Tommy dived, identified them as British, put a cross on his map. He made a scrawled note on his board, ‘60lb, four batteries’?

  He climbed back to the BE2, waved his left hand; time to head a little west. Sergeant Jackson waved back, leaned out of his cockpit, pointing with his carbine.

  It was the signal for enemy in sight; Tommy quartered the area towards Ypres, finally spotted a Taube, a two-seater at about a thousand feet and crossing their front obliquely. The Taube’s observer seemed to have a camera, pointing over the side at the guns; that had to be stopped if at all possible. He dived, turning to put himself immediately astern of the Taube.

  The German observer was entirely caught up in his photography and the pilot was doing his best to maintain level and straight flight for him; neither looked behind. Tommy came to within fifty feet of their tail, the bird wing shape visible almost as feathers; he pulled the cord leading to the two triggers on the heavy rifle. He missed, but the loud explosions alerted the pilot who banked sharply and tried to climb, slowing his aeroplane and showing its belly.

  Tommy pulled his service revolver and fired six shots, single-handed; one at least hit, the Dum-Dum round making a visible hole close to the underside of the observer’s cockpit. He dropped the Webley and took out a Colt automatic, resting his arm on his own cockpit coaming and squeezing off all eight rounds, the range down to a bare twenty feet. He banked away, making a little height, to see what he had achieved.

  The observer was huddled over his camera, the pilot flying one-handed but still in control. They might yet get their photographs back to their people.

  Tommy flew as close as he dared, levelled out with his wingtip almost touching the Taube, his speed nearly identical. He cocked the second Colt, took deliberate aim with each shot; the pilot jerked with the second, collapsed with the third. The Taube dropped into a nose-dive, fell through nearly a thousand feet and smashed into a hillside, catching fire as it hit. The camera was not likely to survive that.

  Tommy looked at the watch dangling from the cockpit; nearly ten minutes spent on that encounter. He returned once more to the BE2, waved for the return home, wearily positioned himself behind and above the slower machine and escorted it to the field.

  Cecil made a very bad landing, bouncing three times; Tommy made his normal tight and neat touch down, waved to the mechanics to park the machine. He delayed a few minutes to reload rifle and pistols.

  Cecil was talking to Major Salmond, started shouting when Tommy reached the tent.

  “That was no more than murder! You had driven the Hun away – you did not need to do more but you went as close as you could and shot the pilot!”

  Tommy ignored him.

  “Taube, sir, the Albatros make, I think. Two-seater and with a camera. The observer had been photographing our guns, sir. I destroyed the photographs, which meant downing the aircraft. Dived in from a thousand feet, sir; caught alight on impact.”

  “Well done, Captain Stark! The first victory for our squadron, and with a pair of witnesses to fully confirm it. I shall tell General Henderson immediately. He will be interested to know that the Germans are using cameras, and very glad to know that their pictures will not be going home.”

  Major Salmond looked expectantly at Cecil, waited a few seconds before he spoke.

  “You may wish to apologise to your flight commander, Mr Roberts?”

  “What? Apologise? No, damned if I do! That was butchery!”

  “It was the performance of an unpleasant duty, Mr Roberts. I shall inform General Henderson that you are unfit for service as a pilot and recommend that you should return to your regiment, sir. Until you hear more you are grounded and will remain in your tent. Can Sergeant Jackson be made into a pilot, Tommy?”

  “He is top of my list, sir. I will speak to him immediately and arrange training with him, if you wish, sir.”

  “Please do. You are still in my office, Mr Roberts. Why?”

  “You do realise who I am, sir? The Salisburys are not exactly insignificant, you know!”

  “One more word and you will be stood in front of a court-martial, sir. And before you open your foolish mouth again, you might be well-advised to discover just who my relations are! Get out!”

  Tommy left as well, seeking out Sergeant Jackson.

  “Pilot, sir? Yes, please, sir. Anything Cuddy Arkwright can do, I can match, sir!”

  “You are too junior for a DSO, Captain Stark, and there is no other decoration available – though there is word that the War Office is looking at the possibility of a new order, half-way between the DSO and the Mention in Despatches, but it don’t exist yet. So you have a third Mention, and an official commendation from on high. They have inspected the remains of the Taube and recovered the body of the camera – totally destroyed, but evidence that the thing existed. An order has been promulgated that all reconnaissance aircraft are to be intercepted and driven off if at all possible. The ideal will be to down them, of course, and more attention is being paid to the possibility of mounting a Lewis Gun. There is definitely to be a purchase of single-seat Nieuports, which have power enough to carry the weight of a gun. I am also told that consideration is being given to bombardment. I suspect that you may find yourself with a pair
of fused seventeen-pounder shells, one on either side of the cockpit and a pair of strings to pull!”

  “I may find myself, sir?”

  “You indeed, Tommy. You are the blue-eyed boy, after all! If a new idea is to be tested, who better to give it to?”

  When Empires Collide

  Chapter Eleven

  “At long last, gentlemen, we are to be based at our own, permanent airfield. An end to tents! A mess with walls! A kitchen that can produce something other than bully beef hash! A wine-cellar!”

  There was a cheer for each of Major Salmond’s pronouncements, a roar for the last two.

  “It is mid-way between St Omer and Hazebrouck, nicely placed for the current line of trenches and useful for the fighting at Ypres, which shows no sign of ending. The German High Command is continuing to pour troops into the Ypres Salient, and the BEF is doing the same in response. Neither side will pull back. I am informed that the word from Intelligence is that train-loads of German troops are still arriving in the rear areas and must be expected to join the onslaught. You will know that our Russian allies have not been able to capitalise on their first successes on the eastern frontier of Germany, though they are doing rather well in Austria-Hungary.”

  Austria-Hungary was irrelevant to the war in Belgium and Northern France, as they all knew; they were also aware that Russia had experienced a catastrophic defeat and was in panic-stricken retreat well to the east of the German frontier.

  “The entrenched front line now extends effectively unbroken from the North Sea to the Swiss border and I think it is fair to say, gentlemen, that the war has finally assumed a recognisable pattern. No more of running about in small circles trying to find out where either or both sides might be!”

  There was reluctant laughter – the past weeks had not been funny.

  “There are reports of high-angle guns in the German lines, and one must expect them to become commonplace. As a result, we shall now seek to operate at three thousand feet, rather than two. This will put us above the effective reach of the machine-gun at least.”

  “We won’t be able to see much at that height, sir.”

  “We shall not be trying to identify units of cavalry, Tommy, nor to discover whether the infantry have German spikes on their heads! If they are on the German side of the trenchline, then we will generally expect them not to be our people!”

  The laughter was full-throated this time.

  “What will we be doing, sir?”

  “Looking for guns, mostly, and placing their position so that our own artillery can aim accurately at them. We shall also be nosing about the German rear.”

  This brought any number of vulgar comments, as was to be expected.

  “And, gentlemen! We shall be making ourselves useful there. Look at what the adjutant’s got!”

  Cries of ‘oooh’, ‘whee’, ‘can I have one too’ and ‘isn’t that a whopper’ took up the next two minutes.

  “You may well ask what it is.”

  There was an obedient shout.

  “What is it?”

  Major Salmond smiled fixedly; it was occasionally difficult to appreciate schoolboy humour, but the young pilots loved nothing better.

  ‘It’ was a metal object some two feet in length, cylindrical and thicker than a man’s arm, pointed at the bottom and with four fins at the top.

  “It is an explosive bomb, gentlemen! Of twenty pounds weight. The intention is that the fortunate pilot will climb to great heights and, hopefully, drop them onto German airships, thus to ignite the hydrogen with interesting results. In the absence of airships – and we in this squadron have yet to see one, to my knowledge – we shall endeavour to aim them at gun positions; at railway lines, stations and trains; at motor transport; even at marching columns of infantry. Enthusiasts may attempt to direct them onto ammunition dumps, leaving at great speed before their bombs land!”

  They obliged with laughter, but it had a thoughtful quality.

  “Tented infantry, sir?”

  “No, Noah. I am sure you will all know why.”

  They looked blank.

  “How does one distinguish between an infantry encampment and an Aid Post or first hospital?”

  “Not tented infantry, sir!”

  There was a mutter of agreement.

  “Initially, all bombardment will be the privilege of our two Tabloids. They are to be replaced, incidentally, by other aircraft in the near future. And, before you ask, I do not know what and when. I am hoping for Nieuports – the RFC has definitely purchased some. It may be the Bristol Scout, of course.”

  The Bristol Scout was a monoplane; it could mount a Lewis gun offset in the nose but was then so slow as to be unable to catch anything with it. It was said to have the capacity to carry a few pounds in addition to its pilot.

  “Have we a supply of the bombs, sir, or are they yet to come?”

  “Two lorry loads will be awaiting us at our new field, which we will transfer to over the next two days. I expect to mount our first patrols in three days from now.”

  Tommy was, on balance, glad to hear that the Tabloids were to go. They had been worked hard, overworked in fact, and made increasing demands on the mechanics and riggers. They had not been designed to fly four hours a day, every day, and were becoming aged, creaky and temperamental. Still a better machine in many ways than the BE2c, but they were at the end of their lives.

  Tommy discussed the bombing proposal with Major Salmond.

  “Myself and Michael Mulgrew, sir, to go on these bombardments. Michael is the steadier man – brought up to the responsibilities of the elder son, perhaps. Will it be possible to take a pair of BE2s along to watch what is happening? An uninvolved eye might see much that we would miss in the middle of the action.”

  “Good idea, Tommy. I shall come along myself, and Noah Arkwright, I think – he has a cool head for being that little bit older. Sergeant Jackson is to be made, by the way; he will be at least as good as Noah, and we should train up any others we want very quickly. The word is that the new flying schools will be sending their first crop out to us before Christmas – not just the trickle we have seen so far, but at least four courses of twenty. All schoolboys, undergraduates at best, out to enjoy a jolly good war, you know.”

  “How utterly spiffing! I will have a word with Noah, explain what we want and get him to name the most likely of the sergeants. How many, sir?”

  “At least two, no more than four. General Henderson will accept that many but will raise an eyebrow at more than that. He is not wholly convinced that a pilot need not be a gentleman born, while Brigadier Sykes, back in London, is utterly opposed to making officers from the ranks. Trenchard is in France now, of course, as a colonel, and will be taking over command of three squadrons initially. Still only the four squadrons flying at the moment, but the other two are almost in the air now; who will have them, I don’t know. What will Trenchard think about sergeants being made, Tommy? You have met him more recently than me.”

  “No idea, sir! I suspect that if they fly well and often, he will accept them. If Brigadier Sykes does not like them, then Trenchard will be inclined to favour them, of course. How well he will work with General Henderson is another question.”

  “But not one for us to ask, Tommy. Mere captains and majors are not to be heard to speculate about such matters.”

  Mail arrived as they settled into their permanent home, the military postal service able at last to find them. Tommy settled down in his billet to read a pile of twelve letters, each numbered, as he had suggested. He was disturbed within half an hour by noise in the corridor.

  The officers’ billets were timber-built, but within reason sturdy, wind and waterproof; single rooms for the captains, shared doubles for the lesser mortals; two bathrooms, unheated, which gave thought for winter; and with a pair of tiny cubbyholes for the officers’ servants to stow their necessary gear. The officers’ comfort had been looked after by any aircraftman who was spare, and had been very much h
it and miss, but that was to be remedied in the new location. There was a knock at Tommy’s door and the new Station Warrant Officer, a younger man who had some appreciation of the needs of the RFC, begged his pardon for disturbing him.

  “One officer’s servant, sir! Captains to have their own man, sir! Other officers, one between two, sir!”

  “Thank you, Mr Smith. Oh! Is that Aircraftman Smivvels, I see?”

  “Yes, sir! With respect, sir, he gave me to understand that he had been your servant previous, like, sir.”

  “He was my servant in my last squadron, and did a very good job indeed. I shall be very happy to have him back again.”

  “Very good, sir!”

  “Thank you, Mr Smith. Your consideration is much appreciated.”

  Smivvels was glad to be back as servant to an open-handed young officer. Any officer would have done, for he had been forced to perform service duties for several weeks and had not enjoyed being an actual aircraftman, sweeping out the hangars, performing cookhouse fatigues, parading morning and night, standing guard and looking busy at all times. Far better the privileged life of an officer’s servant! He swept into Tommy’s room, emptied his wardrobe and started to sort his uniforms into piles for laundry, for ironing, for repair, for replacement, shaking his head and bewailing the damage that had been done in his absence.

  “It will be a week before I have you turned out properly again, sir! And where I am to find shirts in France, I do not know!”

  He squawked in outrage on discovering Tommy’s flying gear dropped on the floor.

  “You will be cleanly turned out by the end of the day, sir.”

  Tommy turned back to his letters, which contained very little in the way of news, because, it would seem, not much had happened at home, or not that affected Monkey. She had received his letters at least and was excited that he had been promoted, and Uncle James had informed them of the Mention in Despatches! Brother George had been sent to France, as had been forecast, but they had heard nothing of him since, although that was unsurprising for he was no writer of letters; she was not, in fact, entirely certain that he could write, she could never remember him putting pen to paper. Lavinia’s husband showed no inclination to join the colours, but he was playing some part in local committees to organise agricultural production, necessary because so many farm labourers had gone off to war; Tommy would be amused to hear that it was rumoured that his name had been put forward for a seat in the House of Commons.