No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “You will wish to change out of working dress before seeing him, sir.”

  “No I won’t, Sergeant. I shall be busy today and do not have the time to shift in and out of dress every ten minutes! The Adjutant, man!”

  The Mess Sergeant led them into a large, and bare, entrance hall; the previous owners had, wisely, removed all furnishings when they had surrendered their house to the military. There was a sweeping marble staircase, already showing the marks of polished boots running up and down, and a balcony round three sides with passages off to bedchambers. It promised a degree of comfort.

  “Offices in the ground-floor wing to the right, sir; anteroom and dining room to the left.”

  The rooms were large, high-ceilinged and had been made dingy by the presence of Army desks and chairs. The Adjutant occupied an office nearly twenty feet square, sat in solitary splendour at a large table set to look out of the floor-length double windows. He stood, courteously.

  “Major Stark and Captain Arkwright, I believe? Captain Pearson, Princess Patricia’s Isle of Wight Rifles, gentlemen.”

  He had wings, and two fingers on his left hand; a penguin.

  “Saw you at the Concentration Camp, I believe, Major Stark. I was still flying then, of course. Welcome to Thirty Squadron, gentlemen. Mess fees are somewhat steep at the moment, but I am still discussing that with the CO. He has his little ideas, you know!”

  “Talk to Baring on Trenchard’s staff, if I were you, Captain Pearson. He is very good at unstuffing dummies, I am told. A lot of the boys coming out of training have no money of their own, as you will know. Deduct mine from pay directly, as normal. Same for you, Noah?”

  Noah nodded; he had no money other than his pay, but was not at all concerned – he had few opportunities to spend when on a squadron.

  “Somewhat unusually, we have been sent twelve young men directly from training, with an instruction from General Henderson that they are to be placed initially in your Flights, six apiece. They arrived yesterday afternoon and are awaiting your convenience.”

  “Good. What of extra planes?”

  “Three Bristol Scouts and a solitary Gunbus – and what we are to do with that, I know not!”

  “Use it as a training aircraft; too slow to keep up with the Bristols. Two-seater as well. Useless machine.”

  “Noted. I shall take you into His Nibs, if you are ready. He does not much like to see working uniforms here in the Mess, you know.”

  They shrugged; they had a suspicion that the gentleman would not bother them for too long. There were advantages to being Trenchard’s blue-eyed boys, they knew.

  “By the way, what are you called on this squadron?”

  “The Lord and Master don’t approve of nicknames – ‘not consonant with the dignity of an officer’, you know.”

  Captain Pearson knocked on the door of the adjoining office, waited a few seconds for a response and then led them inside.

  The room was bigger than the Adjutant’s, with a desk rather than a table and a set of bookshelves and a pair of rather ornate wooden cupboards, dressers in fact. It smacked of money, of personal possessions brought with the owner.

  “Major Stark and Captain Arkwright, sir.”

  “Welcome to Thirty Squadron, gentlemen. I presume you have not had time to change into proper dress. We do like to uphold standards here, you know. I am Major Wilbraham, Green Howards, you know!”

  He had wings on his chest but Tommy could not remember ever having seen him – rare in officers of his rank, he had met almost all either at Brooklands before the war or in passing since.

  “Yes, sir. We are both RFC, of course. I understand we are to command Flights, sir, and that our young men are waiting on us. You will know, I do not doubt, that we have only three days in which to familiarise them with their machines and teach them the basics of bombardment techniques. I presume, sir, that they will have had no experience of flying rotaries?”

  “Why have we only three days, Major Stark?”

  “The battle at Loos is timetabled for the 25th, sir. All machines are to be committed to the aid of the Army, sir. General Henderson informed me that every plane must fly on bombardment that is not required for reconnaissance and artillery spotting. You will be glad to hear that Commanding Officers will be permitted to fly for the duration of the offensive, sir. No doubt you will wish to lead us.”

  “I have heard of none of this, Major Stark.”

  “Briefing will take place tomorrow, sir, I am told. Staff officers will tour every squadron to give the details.”

  Major Wilbraham realised that this young major knew people, could pull strings, had connections he did not; it was rather upsetting.

  “Ah well, the 25th is a Saturday, so it won’t interfere with Dining In on Friday night. Full Dress, of course. I hope to line up a guest or two, you know.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, we shall be unable to be present. It is not general practice for Full Dress to be worn in the RFC on active service, sir, and we neither of us have brought it to France. I am sure there is a local café where our Flights can obtain egg and chips, sir, and finalise our orders for the morning.”

  “That is not acceptable, Major Stark. All officers must be present!”

  “As you wish, sir. Mess dress of course, we will hardly wish to sit down in our flying coats!”

  Major Wilbraham began to appreciate that he had painted himself into a corner; he had to discover a way out.

  “We shall all wear Mess dress, Major Stark, in light of the offensive commencing at dawn. There cannot be guests in such circumstances, you know!”

  “I am sure we can all make our sacrifices for duty, sir.”

  “Of course. Is that a rosette I see on the MC, Major Stark?”

  “It is, sir. You will note that Captain Arkwright bears the same distinction, sir.”

  “So he does! Congratulations, to you both. You add that distinction to my whole squadron.”

  “Thank you, sir. We must meet our young pilots as a matter of immediacy, sir. They must be familiarised with the Bristol Scouts, as you will appreciate, sir. What do you intend to fly, sir?”

  “I had not realised that I was permitted to fly again, Major Stark – I believe we have a Gunbus on strength now, a machine with which I am familiar.”

  “Very good, sir. If you take care to pick a lightweight observer it will be possible to carry perhaps four Cooper bombs, sir.”

  Major Wilbraham smiled his delight at that prospect.

  “Let me see, we take lunch, as a squadron, at one pm, so you will wish to meet your young men at, say two thirty?”

  “No, sir. It is just after twelve now. We can meet in fifteen minutes, take tea and a bun thereafter and have them in their machines by one thirty. There is no time to lose, sir. I would wish to meet the other Flight Commanders now, if possible, sir.”

  “Arrange it, Adjutant. Speak to the cooks!”

  Captain Pearson led them out, grinning.

  “He will be on the telephone to Sefton Brancker within the minute, gentlemen. I can assure you he will get short thrift as well!”

  Tommy had not met the colonel, but knew him to be their Wing Commander; he had a reputation as a man who would not suffer fools.

  “Our new pilots to meet us in ten minutes, Adj? Where will be best?”

  “Next to the anteroom. I will call them down now. Working dress, sir?”

  “Tommy. This is Noah, Adj. Yes, flying coats to hand, I want them up this afternoon. What’s readiness?”

  “All of the single-seaters are on line, Tommy. Orders from Wing last week that only the BE2cs were to fly on routine business. Obvious that something big’s due very soon.”

  “Saturday at dawn.”

  The Mess Sergeant appeared, made it clear that he was addressing the Adjutant rather than the vulgar newcomers.

  “Captains Parker and Matthews have been asked to report to your office with immediate effect, sir. I believe they are there now, sir.”


  “Thank you. By the way, Tommy, I had two men posted in yesterday, Smivvels and Broughton. They informed me, haughtily, I might add, that they are your batmen. I have assigned them as they told me was correct.”

  “I am used to Smivvels, Adj. Horrible little man, but he does a good job for me.”

  Noah said the same of Broughton.

  “Very protective of my dignity, is Broughton. Looks well to my comfort.”

  Captains Parker and Matthews were also new to the Front, had been sent out to Major Wilbraham’s company two weeks before, though not having served with him previously.

  “Home Defence, the pair of us, sir. Flying BE2cs in the hope that a Zeppelin might come by at convenient height.”

  “Pointless, I presume? I am Tommy Stark, this is Noah Arkwright. We are to attempt to organise the little boys into Flights of Bristols – poor fellows! I am given to understand that you will receive orders tomorrow relating to the two-seaters – and I do not know what they will be. Some are to be butchered into bombardment machines – flying single with a bomb carrier cobbled up; but many must continue as reconnaissance and artillery spotters. Have we any Fokkers in our immediate sector at the moment? We will have, I don’t doubt, when battle commences.”

  “No, not yet. Lost just one man in the fortnight, and him not killed – piled in on landing. The observer said he had a sneezing fit, thinks a fly or mosquito or something flew up his nose so that he lost control at ten feet.”

  “Damned bad luck that – could happen to any of us.”

  “It could, Tommy. I’m Peter Parker, by the way – first ever of my family not to join the Navy! This is Matt – his parents had a sense of humour.”

  “News to me, Peter! Second son of the family is always Matthew, you know – George for the eldest, then Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Been so since the jolly Conqueror, my boy!”

  “What happens if there are too few sons?” Noah was intrigued, unfamiliar with the habits of the aristocracy.

  “Disowned, Noah, formally, with the ghosts of the ancestors lined up in stern approval. My grandfather went through three wives before he could attain the requisite number – twenty-five years between my father and Uncle John! Damned daughters kept getting in the way, so I am reliably informed.”

  Noah could not help enquiring what happened in the case of a sixth.

  “Cast out for an excess of enthusiasm, my boy!”

  The Adjutant had remained silent, now glanced at his watch.

  “Three minutes until the gathering of your clans, gentlemen.”

  “Twelve of them, Peter, Matt. By the time they have had a couple of days on the rotaries there will be fewer, inevitably. Do you need to enlarge your Flights?”

  “I could use one, Tommy,” Peter replied.

  “Will do if I have a spare and the CO is agreeable. For the rest, we may go oversize, but I doubt by too many!”

  The Adjutant led Tommy and Noah into a large chamber, possibly once a formal withdrawing room but now taken over for squadron briefings with two rows of chairs and a lectern and blackboard. The dozen young men stood to attention as their seniors entered.

  “Chalk in the box here if you want to play schoolteachers, Tommy.” The Adjutant smirked and left; he limped just a little, Tommy noticed.

  “Please sit down, gentlemen. I am Tommy Stark and this is Noah Arkwright. The six of you to the left are mine, those on the right belong to Noah. You will be flying Bristol Scouts. Our first active patrol will take off at dawn on Saturday – orders specifically from General Henderson. Today, you may have noticed, is Tuesday. That gives you three days and a couple of hours this afternoon to master the Bristol Scout. Hands up any man who has flown a rotary.”

  Seven hands rose and claimed variously one and two hours in Avro 504s.

  “Better than I had feared. The Bristol Scout is somewhat more powerful than the Avro. It will carry in its present incarnation four or eight bombs of twenty pounds and possibly a Lewis Gun on the port wing. It is possible to set the plane up for a pair of Lewises, though I have never quite seen the point. Very often the Lewis will be left at home and you will carry one hundred and sixty pounds of bombs, which may be any combination of shrapnel, high explosive or incendiaries. Accurate bombardment occurs at a height of fifty feet and a speed just above stalling. You must learn to control your machines under such conditions.”

  Tommy watched the faces, trying to detect the foolhardy few who would be much in favour of such a jolly exciting game, but they all seemed equally keen, he feared.

  “The thing to remember about a rotary is that it is forever spinning to the right, so you must be in charge all the time, keeping her on the straight and narrow. As an absolute order, do not attempt ever to bank to starboard at low level and never turn right onto course below one thousand feet. On patrol, you will follow me. You will see me lift my nose when banking and you must follow my example. You will learn by how much over the next three days. Now, put on your flying coats and come out with us. You will be assigned to your machines and your own mechanic and rigger will show you round and quickly explain the cockpit. I want everybody in the air for an hour today, and Noah and I will give you your individual orders.”

  Tommy led them out, eager and chattering, schoolboys hastening off to Sports Afternoon.

  No Longer A Game

  Chapter Four

  “One lost, Tommy, and him not dead. Better than we could have hoped for.”

  “Agreed, but I have never seen such bloody idiocy in all my life! What was he doing?”

  The fourth trainee to take to the air – or attempt to do so – had achieved a stall at five feet, almost an impossibility.

  “I think I saw him try to give full rudder to port while pulling into too steep a climb. I don’t think he quite understood the instructions.”

  Noah was not too displeased with the performance of his own six, who had all managed to take off, make a full circuit and then bring themselves into a landing; they might not have been pretty, but they had survived. Five of Tommy’s six had completed the manoeuvre as well.

  “Repeat turning to the left all morning tomorrow, Tommy, then try to starboard in the afternoon?”

  “It worked with Fred Petersham, it might do for these boys – though I doubt any of them are as bright as Fred. Have you heard anything of him, by the way?”

  “Nothing.”

  That was to the good, on balance – they might have picked up the news if he had died.

  They gathered the surviving eleven into the briefing room and laid out the plans for the following day.

  “A very satisfactory couple of hours, gentlemen. By this time tomorrow, I expect you to be able to take off, make a circuit left and right, then land; no more than that and I shall be satisfied. On Thursday we will take you up in your Flights and practice formation – all day! I need it too, I’m getting rusty – I have been flying in a pair for too long. On Friday we shall practice low-level work – flying at fifty feet, one eye on the ground, one eye on your leader, one eye on the man closest to you. You may note that this demands three eyes – that is why the Army, in its wisdom, grants us flying pay. That brings us to Saturday, when you will begin to earn your money. You will learn more about Saturday during the remainder of the week; it is secret information still today. I would advise you to drink lightly tonight – you will need your wits about you in the morning.”

  They changed and Tommy made his way to the sick bay, to talk with the attendant, a third-year medical student who had chosen to volunteer rather than complete his training. He was competent at more than bandaging as a result, though not as useful as a fully-qualified doctor might have been.

  “How is the boy who crashed in, Quack?”

  “Hospitalised, obviously, but he will keep both legs and arms, I think, unless infection supervenes. The burns were not as severe as I first feared; you pulled him out in time. He will not be too severely scarred and I think his eyes will be unharmed. If he is lucky, he will be fit f
or service in six months.”

  “If he is lucky he will never be passed fit for flying, Quack. He will probably get the twitch after six months of wondering whether it might not happen again; then his chances will be non-existent. Now then, the reason why I am here. You may have noticed that your supplies of kaolin and morph are high?”

  “Enormous, sir!”

  “You can call me Tommy. The reason is that we fly rotaries – which are lubricated by castor oil…”

  “Oh! Oh, I see! Yes, that does offer an explanation.”

  “I would be obliged, Quack, if you would present yourself at the hangars after breakfast with thirteen made-up bottles of convenient pocket size. Dish ‘em out, one apiece. I keep a quart Winchester in my bags, have it refilled whenever possible, but I shall line up and take my bottle like a good boy in the morning; Noah the same. Give a little talk on the need to carry the stuff at all times and drive home that you will refill them without question and expect to see each man every week for the purpose, more often if necessary.”

  “Sensible. They’ll rip the lining of their guts out otherwise. Am I allowed to call you Tommy, sir? In public?”

  “Probably not in the company of the CO. Generally, yes. You ain’t an officer, quite, but you’re more than a Warrant Officer, unofficially; so, why not?”

  Dinner was tediously formal, Major Wilbraham expecting civilised courtesy of his officers; gentlemen to hold converse with those on either side but never across the table. The King’s Health was formally toasted and then Major Wilbraham rose to make a little speech before the decanters circulated.

  He formally welcomed Major Stark and Captain Arkwright to his squadron, commenting on their decorations and how he hoped and expected all of his other pilots to emulate them. He advised the young gentlemen especially to take careful note of all their superiors said and did, though he rather doubted they could hope to imitate Major Stark quite yet.

  “Major Stark is, as you all should know, one of the veterans of English aviation. Those of you of foreign extraction may not as yet be aware of the fact.”