“Thought I recognised that accent. I’m from the north of Hampshire, Long Benton way.”
“Up on the chalk, sir. No good shootin’ up there, sir.”
“Not the best. Have you got the Brock rounds loaded?”
“Arr, sir. Seen to they meself, like, so as to be sure of they. Not much bloody good, neither. I threw out damn’ near twenty of they for bein’ over-size – needs to watch they any time we uses ‘em, sir.”
Tommy walked back to the hangar, shouted.
“Flight-Sergeant Burke!”
The armourer came at the run.
“Brock rounds, sir? They’re crap, sir! Loaded up your Vickers belt myself, sir. Checked every last one. Three hundred loaded and fourteen thrown out, sir! Each one of them would have caused a jam.”
“Inform the Adjutant and the Intelligence Officer, Burke. We need to warn every squadron. Will you load all Brocks yourself in future, please?”
“Checking them all now, sir. I’ve got two of my lads opening the boxes and inspecting them, sir.”
“Well done!”
The word would rise to HQ and there would be an official complaint sent to the manufacturers and sub-contractors in England – and it would make no difference at all. Profits would come first every time.
“Right now, Denham. We are going in low, at first, but will have to climb to get the balloon, which could well be at more than three thousand feet. Your job is not the balloon – I’ll go for that with the Vickers, unless I get a jam, when I’ll turn for you to get a shot. You look for the guns on the ground and make life hot for them. Literally, with those Brock rounds.”
“Arr, well now, that’ll be summat, won’t it, sir? Travelling at a ‘undred, sir, and climbing seven ‘undred foot a minute. That’ll be some bloody shooting! We got a bit of old rope, sir? I don’ reckon to using that old Challenger mounting, sir. Goin’ to ‘ave this little beauty in both ‘ands like, sir, so it ain’t goin’ to be a bad idea to ‘ave a bit of rope round me middle and tied on.”
Flight-Sergeant Bolton was listening, silently produced rope and fastened it to Denham’s satisfaction.
“Thank’ee muchly, Flight. Back in a couple of hours, like.”
“Wait a bit, Denham.”
Tommy trotted across to his billet, came back with his elephant gun and the box of ammunition.
“Never been able to hit anything with this. Do you want to give it a try?”
“Cor! Bloody right, sir. Shoot a bloody ‘ole through a brick wall with this little feller, sir!”
There was a choice of balloons, some mounting fixed telescopes in the basket now, for the better vision of the artillery observers mounting counter-battery fire. Tommy picked out one that had ascended from a little hill and was perhaps two miles away from the next, far enough distant that the guns could not support each other.
Low over the trenches and behind the lines by the better part of eight miles, then a full turn and power climb, seven hundred feet a minute, four minutes and fifteen seconds, or thereabouts, to three thousand feet. At one hundred miles an hour, that would cover nearly seven miles across the ground, but his speed would be falling off as he climbed, so better to have allowed eight miles, he thought. He wondered if he might not have been wiser still to have given himself nine miles, but he was committed now, and in any case his arithmetic wasn’t adequate to provide an answer and he wasn’t entirely sure that it might not be fewer miles. He gave up – the strain of mathematics was beyond him.
The first guns fired, but they were taken by surprise as he came from the wrong direction and climbing rather than diving. The plan was working so far. He heard a rattle from the Lewis, glanced down to see figures falling around a gun pit, a heavy artillery piece, which was not quite what he had intended, but really good shooting and useful in itself. He raised a thumbs up to Denham.
The balloon was newly sited, as he had hoped, and had only a few guns around it, and them pointing to the west. Things were looking up.
The one larger gun, exactly what he could not see, but assumed a quick-firing cannon or pom-pom, was turning on its mounting, started to fire, streams of red balls, five or six at a time and apparently joined together, like a string of onions. A pom-pom, it seemed. The gun was coming onto line and suddenly ceased firing as Denham gave a sustained burst that wiped out the crew and must have hit into ready-use ammunition, judging from the bright red explosion.
There was a pair of heavier explosions behind Tommy; he looked to see Denham putting the rifle down and picking up the Lewis. He pointed to the basket; Tommy saw that the wickerwork was damaged.
The balloon was looming large and Tommy opened fire at a hundred yards, watched rounds of the Brock ammunition sink through the canopy, and then suddenly flare massively. He hauled the Strutter fast to starboard, a violent turn and bank, passing the balloon at perhaps twenty yards. Denham was still firing the Lewis, picking his targets, wholly unmoved by the proximity of thousands of cubic feet of burning hydrogen.
Tommy climbed hard, zig-zagging and trying to keep the balloon between the Strutter and the guns. He crossed the lines at four thousand feet and headed home.
Bridge was waiting, hopefully.
“Killed one balloon, Bridge, as planned, exactly. Private Denham did the hard work. He will have a far longer report than me. Deal with him while I see Pot, will you?”
Tommy turned back to Denham, nodded appreciation.
“That might have been the best shooting I have ever seen, Denham. Did you get the artillery observers?”
“Both of they, sir. They was standing on the side with they old parachutes on, sir, but I put an end to their troublin’, sir.”
“Well done, man! You will be a sergeant by this afternoon.”
Denham blushed bright scarlet, unused to being praised.
Colonel Kettle was happy to see Tommy back, happier still to inform HQ of a balloon. The rule was to telephone General Trenchard immediately with the news of balloons – they were rare and much valued victories.
“Amazing, sir. The man handles a Lewis like a twelve-bore shotgun, and don’t miss. A new type of gun defending the balloon, firing strings of fireballs, it looked like. Some sort of pom-pom, I think.”
“’Flaming onions’, Tommy?”
“Flaming hell, more like, sir. Yes, you could call them that.”
“Rockets?”
“No. Certainly a gun, sir. Looked bloody dangerous to me, whatever they were.”
“They have been reported. Intelligence says they are almost certainly imaginary, because they have not heard of them.”
“My imagination ain’t that inventive, sir.”
“Good point, Tommy.”
“What’s the chance of a Military Medal for Denham, sir? He was a one-man Charge of the Light Brigade, all on his own.”
“I’ll put him up for it, Tommy.
Colonel Kettle did not add that he would also put in for another MC for Tommy. He had heard of an infantry subaltern who had five already, and was like to pick up more. He did not feel that the RFC should be left behind.
They flew continuous patrols for the rest of Sunday, every plane in the air and losing Jeremy, the last of the original pilots who had been present when Tommy took command of the squadron. He was swanning along with his Flight when he suddenly flipped onto his back, throwing out his observer, who had been standing at his gun, and into a spin from eight thousand feet. The remainder of the Flight watched plane and observer separately disappear downwards, saw the plume of fire far below as the Strutter crashed in the rear of the German lines.
“Could have been a stray rifle bullet – a few soldiers firing hopefully – not impossible, Tommy. Might have been a heart attack, though he was an athletic sort of chap, or the strain too much for him – he was hitting the bottle hard again every evening. He might have suddenly frozen on the controls. Or, of course, it might be a control wire snapping, one set of ailerons suddenly biting on one wing – could be sufficient to pull
a plane into a spin.”
“Don’t like that last thought, Fred. I’ll have a word with Flight-Sergeant Bolton.”
Bolton agreed that a structural failure might have been responsible, said that he would have the control wires traced and checked on every plane as soon as the opportunity arose – he would need a wet day with no flying, to give his mechanics twenty-four hours working time on each plane.
He was granted three full days – showery weather turning to persistent rain, the squadron sat in the mess, pretending to each other that they really wished the sun would shine so that they could get into the air again. Tommy watched the pilots, saw how many cheered up and found an appetite for breakfast when he announced no flying until the rain stopped; he saw as well that they were fatigued, many of them going back to bed and sleeping half the day. He spent an hour with Colonel Kettle, discussing plans and seeking advice.
“The battle starts on Saturday, sir. It must last some weeks, and they are tired already. What do I do?”
Colonel Kettle could draw on experience from his army days, before flying was invented. He had Boer War ribbons on his tunic.
“Not very much, Tommy. Keep an eye on them and forcibly rest individuals who have become a danger to themselves – they won’t realise it, you need to watch ‘em. A couple of days on the ground may keep them going for another month. I shall be watching you and Noah, by the way – don’t be surprised if I ground you! Make the most of wet days – start the beer flowing in the afternoon and get them to bed sozzled by mid-evening. Most of them will be having disturbed nights and will need the sleep of the drunk!”
Two new pilots appeared and said they were disappointed they could not fly because of the rain. Tommy took them away before the other pilots started to throw things at them.
“How many hours, gentlemen?”
“Well… not many since I soloed, sir. The school said the need at the front was urgent and we had to get over here quickly while we still had a chance of wartime flying. They said that the battle was going to end the war, sir, so we needed to hurry.”
“I am sure they said a lot of things. How many?”
“Three, sir, solo – but they were in a rotary.”
“And you?” Tommy turned to the second hopeful.
“Five, sir. Four of them rotary.”
“You belong to Fred and Blue. Find them and tell them that you are their new hands. They will take you to the hangars and show you the cockpit of a Strutter. Memorise every word they say – they are both experienced and capable men.”
Tommy shooed them out of his office and walked in on Jim.
“Have you got their details, Jim? This may be your only chance to talk to them. Eight hours between them. Have you cleared everything for Flight-Sergeant Penrose?”
“He’s on strength as a pilot, Tommy. Recommendation for a commission has gone in. One of the new boys can be spare dickey – we are now one over strength.”
“Not for long, I suspect, Jim. What do the weathermen say for tomorrow?”
“Same as today, thick mist and rain, then easing off into isolated showers. Some flying will be possible on Thursday and more on Friday, they hope.”
“Clearing up for Saturday?”
“Looks like it.”
“No doubt the generals will remind us that ‘the sun shines on the righteous’.”
“Naturally, Tommy. They will no doubt be convinced of the fact. What are you intending to do with your day off?”
He had not thought of ‘doing’ anything.
“I’ve borrowed Pot’s staff car for the afternoon, Tommy. Driving across to Calais to pick up an English newspaper – they come into Calais same day, rather than a week old as we normally get them. I want to buy some socks as well – there’s a couple of shops there stock good English stuff.”
It was not the most exciting itinerary, perhaps, but it would make a change from the field. Tommy told Fred where he would be and sat in the car, happy to allow Jim to drive, despite his infirmities; he suspected that Jim could forget his lameness behind the wheel.
They passed a series of new, tented camps along the road – the reserves, all ready to exploit the big breakthrough and march into Belgium and then into the heartland of Germany. They were buzzing with activity, full of keen young men who knew that they were in the right place at the right time – they were to be part of the greatest success in military history, they would be able to boast all their lives that they marched with Haig to Berlin.
“Maybe, Tommy.”
“You ain’t seen it from the air, Jim. Sorry! Didn’t mean to be that callous! Any money you like that we fly over acres of uncut wire on Thursday and Friday. The guns just ain’t touching it.”
The hotels and restaurants of Calais were full of newspaper people, almost all men, waiting to accompany the victorious army. They fell like vultures on Tommy – the new ribbons on his tunic attracting them and then a few recognising his face.
“Nothing to be published before next week, sir, but what can you tell us?”
“I can’t, gentlemen. This damned weather has kept us on the ground – which is why I am doing some overdue shopping today! I can hear the great barrage – but so can you! I know that it’s the biggest in history and I have to hope that it’s doing its job.”
He did not dare say more than that, especially with Jim poking him in the back. He saw one or two faces frown as they picked up on ‘hope’, but the bulk were perfectly satisfied.
They found the English Haberdashery, newly established, and bought socks and handkerchiefs and discovered a rack of silk scarves – ‘Official RFC Pattern’ – which Tommy descended on.
“Good to see that these are official pattern, Jim, when I know they are not part of the uniform.”
“Perhaps the manufacturers feel they ought to be, and know that these would be, if only they were.”
“Does that make sense, Jim?”
“As much as anything else in this bloody war, Tommy. Let’s find some papers.”
The papers were still full of the great battle in the North Sea, skipping over the losses among the battle-cruisers and giving accounts of individual heroism, by the destroyers particularly. All agreed that the German High Seas Fleet had attempted to break out into the Atlantic and had been driven back to their harbours, which they should expect never to leave again.
Tommy was half convinced – the Germans had taken a strategic defeat, certainly, but they had killed two for one – this was no Trafalgar and Jellicoe was not the successor to Nelson. The Fleet could have lost the war, had they been defeated; that had not happened, but they had not won the war either.
For the rest, there was a report that the squadron had defeated a major enemy raid, destroying six two-seaters that had attempted to penetrate the British lines. Major Stark had distinguished himself, yet again, while Major Arkwright VC, his close colleague and friend, continued to build his score of downed enemies. The two together were close to wiping out the German presence in their sector of the lines.
“Amazing stuff, Jim. Not a word that was untrue, yet the impression wholly false. Stupid! We know that we are going to have Hell’s own job when Jerry reorganises and gets new planes together in squadrons. Sod it, man. Let’s have something to eat and get back to St Michel.”
Three days of idleness were followed by a showery Friday, the rain clearing through the day, but insufficiently for the plan to attack German airfields to be put into effect.
They managed a squadron patrol seeing nothing, other than pools of standing water where previously there had been mud. The foot-soldiers would be slowed down even below their standard marching pace.
“The barrage will ease down to a short break before dawn, then every gun will reload and fire simultaneously. More than fourteen hundred of them in the same second! Ten minutes and then the men go over the top. That, gentlemen, is when we come into the equation!”
The pilots listened to Colonel Kettle, mostly with trepidation – almos
t none of them had mastered maths, and they could not see why they should be called upon to do sums at such an important moment. Only Angus was wholly unmoved, because he did not know what an equation was.
“The Strutters will attack the trenches, laying their eggs along the line and spraying Jerry with Vickers and Lewis Gun fire.”
Colonel Kettle stood down and waved Tommy to his place.
“We will bombard from fifty feet, as normal. The Vickers will hopefully suppress the light Archie so that all of our bombs can hit inside the trenches. Lewis guns will seek out any target they can spot – guns especially. The DH2s will be providing us with protection from Jerry – no Fokkers to attack us from above or get behind us.”
There was general approval of that last announcement - they said at length that they did not want Fokkers anywhere near their behinds.
“One pass, gentlemen. Drop the bombs and come straight back for more. Try to keep with your Flights and go back out again, all four of you together. We should try to hit the trenches three or four times each during the morning. Keep a careful eye out for the soldiers – they may well be through and into the second and third lines in very short time. If the cavalry burst through, then seek guns to their front, if at all possible.”
Tommy did not believe what he was saying, but it had to be said.
They rose before dawn, willingly on this occasion, and clustered together outside the mess, listening as the guns fired as quickly as they could, pumping out every possible round, and then stopped, exactly together. They reloaded and then fired, all as one, the loudest noise the pilots had ever heard. They sat in their planes and listened and waited. Five intense minutes, and the guns ceased.
Tommy fired a green flare and the squadron took off, four Flights barely fifty feet apart. They flew across the lines and stared down at their northern sector of the attack.
Tommy came close to vomiting.
The wire was almost intact, and the machine-guns were firing from their concrete pill-boxes, and the New Army was marching shoulder to shoulder, sixty pound packs on their backs, rifles held at the high port, and falling in their thousands every minute to the scything guns. No Man’s Land was carpeted with khaki bodies, almost touching each other, so many were down.
Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4) Page 22
