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

by Andrew Wareham

  Tommy nodded; he had long ceased to be a boy, in his head.

  “Grow up fast or die, sir – not pleasant alternatives. There will be some very hard young men returning to England if this war ever ends, and I rather fear for the country, sir.”

  “I am frankly terrified, Major Stark. The very best of our young men have volunteered and some have died and the remainder have developed a very tough skin; when they return and discover the nature of the second-raters sat in the chairs of power, then I do not know what they may do.”

  Tommy had not considered the future, not in the sense of what a young and temporary major might do in a country in which he was insignificant.

  “I have a wife and little daughter, sir. What I want will not matter – they will determine all that I do.”

  “You are a lucky man, Major Stark. Please take care tomorrow – I have no wish to write a letter home to say that I was responsible for taking you away from them.”

  “I always take care, sir. I am a pilot – and the old saying applies. ‘There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are very few old, bold pilots’. I do not know where that was first said, or about whom, but I heard it when I was very young, and it has stuck in my head.”

  Naismith nodded – he had first heard that adage in India, nearly twenty years before, but instead of pilots, the adage referred to military spies. He had been taking his first steps in the world of Intelligence, and had been guilty of enthusiasm – always deplored in that particular game.

  “A quarter of a ton, you said, Major Stark?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite a lot of pigeons.”

  “A wireless transmitter and its batteries and aerial weighs no more than a hundredweight. You could deliver five.”

  “Perhaps, sir. It depends on how the Breguet carries its bombs. They are probably held outside in clamps – which would do a wireless set very little good.”

  “Pity. We shall see.”

  The orderly led Tommy to the landing field attached to Brigade, where there was a pair of Farmans permanently based, used mostly to carry Trenchard about his little empire. The large Breguet was being warmed up by a pair of mechanics.

  “Radial engine, sir, and needs to be looked after. If you are to be no more than five minutes on the ground, you may keep her running, idling, that is. More than that, she will overheat and might need half an hour to cool down. Designed to run at low revs, sir, and she is slow; on the other hand there is plenty of spare power for carrying. You can fly her single-handed, sir – leaving the observer at home if you are intending to pick up a passenger. You can mount a Lewis in the observer’s cockpit. Flexible mount. The Frogs have set them up to take a bloody great cannon, sir, a Hotchkiss – quick-firer, so they say, but the observer has to be his own gunner and loader, so it ain’t that rapid. Don’t recommend the Hotchkiss, sir.”

  “Nor me, flight-sergeant. What’s its range, the cannon, that is? Could you use it for balloon-busting?”

  “The gun would be accurate at half a mile, sir. Are you?”

  “Forget about the Hotchkiss. Landing speed?”

  “Probably less than forty, sir. Watch the gauges, by the way, sir – they’re written in Frog. Them kilometres and things. Divide by eight and multiply by five, sir… Never mind, sir. Forty is about sixty-five on the dial, sir.”

  “Sixty-five.” Tommy memorised the figure for his first approach; after that he would have the feel for her.

  “Any bad habits, flight-sergeant?”

  “Me or the machine, sir? I got plenty.”

  “I think I have only time to learn about the Breguet just now.”

  “None that I’m told, sir. Fuel gauge is unreliable, of course, but so are they all. She’s good for three hours, so they say, sir. The Frogs said three and a half, but I don’t really reckon I’d want to risk my neck on the last few minutes. The looks of ‘er says she’d glide like a brick, sir.”

  “Will she be tail-heavy without the cannon and an observer?”

  “Probably. Don’t know for sure, sir. No drawings, don’t know where her centre of gravity lies. She’s big and powerful, so it should not, might not, be a problem. Taxy her, sir – take off and bump to get the feel of her.”

  Tommy scowled; he had not bumped a machine intentionally in years, it was a trick for amateurs.

  “Is she ready to fly?”

  “Ran her for five minutes, sir. Checked oil and petrol and water. She’s yours if you want her, sir.”

  Tommy taxyed the Breguet out to the edge of the field and throttled up, the engine slowly building power while a pair of air mechanics held chocks to her main wheels. She sat nose up, the pilot’s seat a good eight feet above the ground and with limited forward visibility; an observer would be useful at take off. He signalled the chocks away and began to make speed down the grass towards the far fence, some three hundred yards distant. The tail rose at one hundred yards but the wheels showed no sign of becoming unattached, the control lever stayed determinedly stiff.

  There was nothing for Tommy to do. He could not change his mind and hope to stop before the fence; he would either fly over it, or crash through it… The Breguet felt lighter at two hundred yards; Tommy clenched his teeth and resisted temptation, made no attempt to pull her up. At two hundred and fifty she slowly rose into the air, was at ten feet when she passed over the eight feet high fence. Tommy continued at full power, attempted to increase the angle of climb, felt the machine resist – it preferred to potter along gently. He reached one thousand feet after ten minutes, five or six miles away from the field, and made a gentle bank to port, automatically choosing the side favoured by the rotary; he presumed it would not matter with the radial engine. He held his height and made a half circuit and brought her to a very slow and gentle landing, taking a good two hundred yards to come to rest.

  He taxyed in and called for the step ladder – necessary with a machine so high off the ground.

  “Satisfactory, sir? Bit tight for taking off, I thought, sir.”

  “Given a field of five hundred yards, she would probably do very well as a bombardment machine. I would not wish to take her up loaded without a quarter of a mile in front of me. Warn the pilot who takes her back to the Frogs that she needs every yard we have got here to get off the ground. I will be using the Gunbus tomorrow night, flight-sergeant, Lewis Gun fitted. Give some thought to where we can load crates of homing pigeons – the birds must be kept safe if they are to be useful.”

  It was not an ordinary part of the flight-sergeant’s duties, but he had a feeling that protest or remonstration might be unwise.

  Tommy found Colonel Naismith.

  “Breguet is useless for our purpose, sir. She needs at least four hundred yards to take off in safety. I have told the mechanics to prepare a Gunbus. Do you intend that we should return with any load, sir?”

  “No. Pity about the Breguet. Can you think of any other machine that might do the job?”

  “Not really, sir. Anything else we have is either too stiff to land in a confined space, or will not carry any load for lack of a place to put it. Have you thought, sir, of a straight stretch of road as a landing ground? Half a mile of road, with no potholes, of course, would enable me to get down and take off in the Breguet.”

  “Probably not, Major Stark. Roads in hill country tend not to be straight. Plenty of them down on the Flanders Plain, but commonly with German lorries and wagons travelling them.”

  “Noah Arkwright shot down a lorry – supposed to be the only one of us to have achieved that. I doubt I wish to emulate him.”

  Colonel Naismith stared, half-convinced that it was a pilot’s legpull.

  “How did he manage that, Major Stark?”

  “He was flying at six feet over the airfield at Roulers, sir, when we raided it, and the lorry was unfortunate to be pulling in with a load of stores.”

  “At six feet?”

  “Yes, sir. Noah, that was, not the lorry.”

  “Why?”

&n
bsp; “We had just bombed at fifty feet, sir, and were wandering about looking for trouble before we went back home. The other Flights were upstairs, mixing it up with a bunch of Fokkers and Pfalz and Aviatiks who had been in circuit, and we had the job of beating up the hangars and barracks and committing mayhem generally.”

  “Mad, the lot of you! What did you do while your Noah was shooting down lorries?”

  “I picked up an Aviatik that was in process of trying to take off, sir. He stopped taking off at about five feet.”

  “Crazy! You might see some Germans tomorrow night, in camps or barracks or marching down roads, that sort of thing. Just leave them alone, will you? The aim is to make it a secret mission.”

  “You mean, restrain my homicidal impulses, sir?”

  “Yes, and the suicidal ones!”

  No Longer A Game

  Chapter Seven

  “Flight Sergeant Allen, sir. Reporting as your observer and navigator.”

  A short man, little more than five feet and thin with it; dark haired and sallow skinned, matt-black speckles in the pores. Tommy had seen that before.

  “Where were you a miner, Flight?”

  “Radstock, sir. Down in Somerset, my father a Durham man by birth, brought down as a gunpowder man forty year ago. I did ten year underground, sir, until I was one and twenty when I told they old managers to take their ‘prentice papers and shove ‘em. I was joined up next day, as an Engineer, being as ‘ow I ‘ad a part-completed apprenticeship, and transferred to the RFC in 1912, sir, with three years in. I started flying as observer just as soon as I could, sir.”

  Tommy nodded, hearing what was unsaid.

  “Have you put in any hours in the pilot’s seat?”

  “Forty, sir, being as ‘ow the Major turned a blind eye. Farman, sir, and Gunbus, and a few in a Parasol.”

  “No promises – I can’t guarantee to deliver ‘em! I will do what I can. If we make a go of this job, then I will be able to ask for a favour or two. When we are in the company of officers, then it’s toffee-nosed, old chap – be sure to sound like one of the jolly boys!”

  “Ooh, yeth, thir! They’ll all think I come from dear old Eton!”

  “Just that – what’s your nickname to be? Barbry, I suppose, from the old song.”

  “Scarlet Town, sir – I shall even sing in a sweet tenor in the Mess.”

  “Good. Do you have a destination for tonight?”

  “Yes, sir. About sixty miles, sir, in a forest on a hillside a good few miles south on the road to Namur. I think they may use bicycles to come the distance from the town, sir; three or four hours on the road each way, afternoon and next morning, from what I was told. Getting food off the farmers, that’s their excuse, sir; accounts for the pigeons if they get stopped. The map says the landing ground is at an altitude of about four hundred feet, sir, using a foresters’ ride, by the look of it, sir. If the wind holds as it is at the moment, just south of west, then we take a track a little south of east. There’s the valley leading up to Namur, sir, which will give us a good marker, provided the moon stays that bit clear, which it promises to now. The mechanics are running me another lead off the engine for a little electric lamp, sir, so that I can follow the chart.”

  “Good enough, Barbry. Fly past and land into the wind, of course. If we can. Do we want the Lewis mounted?”

  “In the dark, sir?”

  “Good point. Might be useful if we get ambushed on the ground. We shall see whether it gets in the way of the pigeon crates.”

  Pigeons came in wicker baskets, it seemed, and were surprisingly lightweight; the mechanics had managed to fiddle the carriers into the space between the two cockpits, an empty gap in the fuselage, canvas covered and secure for the birds. They huddled together, upset at being moved by night and very unsure of the noise of the engine, and silently miserable at the whole interference with their routine. There was a sack of maize for their food which weighed far more than the birds and was tucked under Barbry’s seat.

  “Fitted the Lewis, sir. Just in case.”

  The sergeant mechanic was very brisk and matter of fact – but he was staying behind at the base field.

  Tommy nodded and smiled and strapped on his revolver and dug out the Colt automatics for the first time in months. They were oiled and ready, Smivvels having taken responsibility for them; he liked the automatics, thought they were very snappy, added to the major’s style, in his opinion.

  Colonel Naismith joined them in their final preparations, open-mouthed as he listened to them.

  Tommy tucked the automatics under his seat, where they would not slide about.

  “Have you a personal side-arm, Barbry?”

  “Short Lee-Enfield, sir – nicked it off a cavalry regiment in August ’14. Their QM was a drunk, sir. We did very well for equipment as a squadron, sir, being as how we had a dozen cartons of Scotch we had picked up coming through Calais. The pilots all flew across, sir, you remember, but the ground crews came by the ferries. Calais was a real bloody mess then, stores everywhere!”

  “I know. I was there. We did well out of that shambles ourselves. Pinched just about everything that wasn’t nailed down!”

  “’Foraged’, sir. Must use the proper words.”

  “So we did. Foraged everything in sight!”

  Colonel Naismith was carefully not hearing their conversation, decided to turn the subject to present business.

  “Are you sure you can make this flight, Major Stark?”

  “No. ‘Sure’ and ‘flying’ are words that don’t mix, sir. We shall give it our best try. In theory, we should be able to get there, and if there are lights, we will land – or try to. If we succeed in landing, then we shall attempt to take off again. It may well work. I rather hope so!”

  “Mad! Raving bloody lunatics, the pair of you! How do you propose to take off from here in the dark, and how are you going to land again?”

  “An empty oil-drum, sir, one of the big ones, a full barrel, placed at the perimeter fence, upwind. Dry wood, well soaked in petrol, and set alight as soon as I fire a green Very flare. Take off will be simple enough, more or less, with that as an aiming point. Returning, we have to find the place first and the mechanics will put out two lines of four carbide lamps at this end of the field for me to spot from the air. When I’ve got them, I shall fly over and round, fire off a flare and the oil-drum will be set afire again. I land in front of the lamps, pointing at the big fire – all set up with the wind, of course. It might work.”

  “But it might not.”

  “Up to Barbry, essentially, sir. If he navigates me back with effectively zero error, then I will see the lights and all will be well.”

  “And, if he don’t?”

  “That might lead to what we sometimes refer to as a technical error, sir. He has a strong incentive, of course – he’s sat in front and hits first.”

  “I wonder if I was ever as carefree as you RFC people?”

  “No man is as free from care as us, sir! If we cared about our skins, we would stay on the ground. The very fact of flying tells you we are slightly mad and grossly irresponsible! Of course, Barbry would tell you that flying compares very favourably with going down a coal mine every day. I do not know that I could do that, you know, sir.”

  “Nor me, Major Stark. Nor me!”

  Take off worked, somewhat to Tommy’s surprise; he could see the light at the end of the field and was able to keep the Gunbus straight while she built up flying speed. Barbry sat, head down, over his chart, and the pigeons muttered to each other and Tommy slowly climbed, peering at the spirit level glowing under a tiny bulb and keeping him in level flight. He checked his watch frequently while he tried to keep speed to a constant sixty-five miles an hour, as he had agreed with Barbry. Fifty minutes precisely should see them in the vicinity of the landing ground, provided the wind remained constant in speed and bearing. The valley of the Meuse should be in sight ten minutes before that, while the moon and clouds remained kind.
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br />   There were too many provisos for his liking. Night flying was not Tommy’s favourite occupation; he had made a few flights for Sopwith two years previously, when he had been trying out ideas for equipping his landing field for a night mail service. The night mail was still carried by train, as far as Tommy knew.

  They reached the fifty-five-minute point, passing over a black countryside, lights distantly in sight from villages and the occasional farm but still with no indication of a landing ground. Barbry whistled down the communication tube.

  “Drop to eight hundred feet, Tommy, and continue on this course for one minute from… now!”

  Tommy did as he was told. The black countryside now showed trees under the moonlight. A lot of trees. A forest.

  “Make a precise turn of ninety degrees to port at my word, holding thirty seconds, then a second turn. Go… now!”

  A few seconds, then a shout.

  “White lights to starboard, two, a distance apart. Bank now, sixty degrees!”

  Tommy obeyed, spotted the lights very close.

  “Drop to six hundred feet, Tommy!”

  Tommy hoped they were short trees, and flew over the two lights, one then the other. They were probably three hundred yards apart, he estimated.

  “Turn and make the landing, Tommy.”

  He did not know just how close the trees grew to the lights, set himself on line and lost height in a steeper dive than he would normally like over the first light. The ground came in sight, very close, and he pulled into a landing, bouncing on very uneven turf.

  “Barbry, get the ground people to turn us round by the wingtips, and walk with us back to the first light, turn us into the wind there. We can stay a few minutes on the ground before she overheats, but not too many.”

  Figures appeared and obeyed instructions. Two minutes and Tommy was in take off position and breathing more comfortably.

  Barbry heaved the pigeon baskets out and passed them one by one to waiting hands; he followed with the heavy sack of maize, shouting to an eager young girl that it was too much for her to handle, waving for a man to take the load.