“Have you any letters, any messages for us to take back?”
“Non. Can you return in four nights?”
“If they will let us, yes. We must obey orders from the generals.”
They waved acceptance and stepped away into the darkness. Tommy could see a figure knelt by the near light, assumed there was another at the other end, intending to extinguish them and disappear into the darkness. He watched leaves blow across the plane, realised that he had a crosswind – a bigger problem at take off than at landing.
“How wide is this strip, Barbry?”
“Not very, Tommy. Two or three times our wingspan.”
“Hold tight!”
Tommy had been blipping the engine continuously, now allowed it to build up to full power, trundling along the ground, holding the machine down as long as he could. He was nervous that a pothole might cause the front skids to tilt downwards and dig in, with disastrous effect, but was sure that they would be blown into the trees if he took off too soon. He let the plane rise and delicately applied left rudder, trying to keep straight; he heard a brushing noise underneath and a shout from Barbry.
“Some sort of sodding fir tree, Tommy! I thought we were going birds-nesting for a few seconds!”
“O ye of little faith! Take us home, young man!”
Tommy climbed to three thousand feet, thinking there was small need to fly low and inform the opposition that they were making night flights into their territory. It would need little imagination to deduce that the British were making landings for the benefit of spies.
Barbry gave a series of course corrections, able at the height to locate clusters of lights that might be known towns. He was aware that they might be new and unknown barracks, but it seemed unlikely that the German Army had provided street lighting for the comfort of its soldiers.
The trench lines showed at a greater distance at night. There was an occasional muted grumble of shelling, artillery called to support against raids; flares rose from one section or another every minute; it was possible to see lights from dugouts and bunkers that would have been hidden below the surface at ground level. At a greater distance the fires of locomotives could be seen moving as supplies were brought up within a couple of miles of the trenches.
Giving a working wireless system, Tommy thought, it would be possible for an observer to bring heavy artillery fire down on the trains. They stayed out of range in the daytime, but a night flying spotter could do a lot of damage – once. He would mention the idea to Colonel Naismith; perhaps he could suggest that the old man should come up with him to see for himself.
“Five minutes, Tommy. Navigation’s easier than I expected. I never realised they were so busy at night.”
The two rows of carbide lamps glared white in the night, easily distinguished from electric or kerosene lamps by their colour. Tommy swept across them at one hundred feet, feeling that he should make his presence felt, the demon-king appearing out of the blackness; he had liked pantomime as a little boy, which was not so many years before. The oil-drum took light and he lined up into the wind and made a simple touch down.
“Wouldn’t fancy doing it in the rain, Barbry, but it works easily enough in clear conditions.”
Colonel Naismith was waiting, had probably been pacing up and down at the landing field since they had left.
“Tight taking off, sir. Crosswind was unpleasant. They want us back in four nights, sir. Why, they did not say.”
“Could you go in without a navigator, Major Stark?”
“No.”
The flat negative shook Colonel Naismith – he had been prepared for reluctance, for slow persuasion, but he had not expected simple refusal.
“We very much wish to bring a man out from Namur, Major Stark. The gentleman is a banker and has knowledge of overseas investments made by his and other institutions. He would be able to release substantial sums in American dollars particularly, which the Belgian government would like to make use of. Bring the gentleman out, and put him within reach of telegraphic facilities and his country would benefit very greatly. He has been able to send his family away – they are in fact in Switzerland already – but he could not board a train east without being arrested and would never cross the borders if he managed to sneak away. He is to be in Namur on legitimate business of his bank, all cleared with the German Occupation government.”
“I could not guarantee to find the landing ground without a navigator, sir. The odds are very high that I could not do it. I am willing to be helpful, but do not believe that I can be. I cannot fly and navigate, sir – it is hard by day, would be simply impossible at night.”
Barbry intervened, suggested it need not be too difficult.
“Two planes, sir. Me in another Gunbus, in front by a bit. A little red light on the tail, sir, for Major Stark to follow. I can find the place. We just need another good pilot.”
“Could that work, Major Stark?”
“I think so, sir. I will do my best to make it work. Can you organise another plane and a pilot, today if possible? A night or two of practice would help.”
“I will have a plane here by mid-afternoon, with a pilot inside it, obviously. I would like you to try another landing ground tomorrow night, to drop off money and food as well as some pigeons. Tonight, and two nights after, could be for practice.”
“Right, sir. A meal now and some sleep, I think.”
“Hungry, Major Stark?”
“I missed dinner, sir.”
Colonel Naismith said nothing; there had been time to spare for Tommy to eat, if he had been able to stomach food before flying. He had seen the problem before with men going out to danger, the belly simply betraying them; he had watched them lose weight and energy, had seen them either recover, or die from taking badly calculated risks. He needed Tommy – he knew the ground, he could land and take off from it and he could not afford to put another, new man in his place. He knew as well that sympathy would not be wanted and that a promise of an easier billet after completing the job might be taken as an insult, a vote of no-confidence, as it were. He could say nothing, but he could see the prospect of writing a letter of condolence looming: a widow and an orphan to be told that some unknown colonel had chosen to send their man into even greater danger than normal. But they needed the banker; he could preserve the independence of the rump of a Belgian state that remained, and that would send a message to the Balkan kingdoms as well – they could hope for freedom, could continue to rally their people to the fight.
“There will be a meal within the hour, Major Stark, and for you, Flight-Sergeant Allen. Get some sleep afterwards, if you can, gentlemen.”
A second Gunbus was sat outside the hangar when Tommy surfaced in late morning, mechanics working happily to fit the lights, a change from the normal routine that demanded thought and ingenuity.
“Be ready before full dark, sir. Engines all checked as well, sir. Branches and pine needles removed as well, sir – low flying is all very well, sir, but you might have pushed it a bit last night!”
“I’m glad it was dark, sergeant – if I could have seen what I was doing I might have got quite twitchy!”
“What, you, sir? Not much chance of that, I would say, sir!”
Tommy laughed and turned away, partly in embarrassment, more because he realised that he enjoyed being the hero; there was a pleasure in seeing pointing fingers and knowing that he was being identified, that old and able men in the RFC were proud to work for him and help him get into the air.
It would kill him, if he was not careful – he would take the risks that others demanded of him, because he was the great man, the paragon who could do things others would not dream of. He wished he could be home again; he could talk it over with Monkey and listen to her advice, given solely for his benefit and with all of her love.
He sat down to the next page of the weekly letter, written every day in instalments; he must mention that he was pulled away from front-line flying to do a particular job for
Brigadier Trenchard. She might be deceived into thinking that he was safer for a while – anything to make her a little less worried.
He returned to the hangar after dinner – he had noticed that Colonel Naismith had been concerned that he had not eaten on the previous evening.
“We put three lights on the tail, sir. If you can see all three, then you know you’re in line, not straying to one side or the other. Add to that, sir, one bulb might pop, but it ain’t so likely that all three will go at the same time.”
“Well thought, sergeant. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
The young pilot of the Gunbus introduced himself, said that he had been out for a couple of months and was at home with the machine. He was clearly expecting to be sent away and replaced by a far more experienced man, and he very much wanted to stay and be part of the adventure and to be able to say that he had flown with the great Major Stark on a special mission.
“Glad to meet you, John. Flight-Sergeant Allen will be your navigator, and he will be in command; he has done the real flight before and knows exactly what is needed. His orders come from me, in effect. If you are right with that, well and good; if taking orders from an NCO offends you, say so now.”
“I can obey orders, I believe, sir. Flight-Sergeant Allen has the command.”
“Well done. Keep your eyes open and your brain working – night flying is a new game and we all have a lot to learn about it. New ideas will be very welcome.”
They took off in line astern, Tommy finding it surprisingly easy to follow the red lights. They practised circuits for an hour, refuelled and set off cross-country, all successfully. The scheme worked on a clear night without much in the way of wind, but they were still relieved to be back on the ground.
“What do you do in case of rain?” Colonel Naismith asked.
“Stay home, sir. Can your banker delay for a second night?”
“No. He will be missed by morning. When he fails to show at breakfast the hunt will be up.”
“We will go if we possibly can, sir. What about this run tonight, sir?”
“Fifty miles, to land on the canal towpath on the way to Ghent. Flat, twenty feet wide and straight for a mile. Lights as before – different people of course. Down, heave your cargo over the side – the right side, not into the canal – and take off, no need to speak to them or to delay for anything.”
“If there are no lights, sir?”
“Make a circuit of the area, fly away for twenty minutes in case they have been delayed, then try again. Still no lights, come home.”
They nodded – a canal should be easier to find than a clearing in a forest, and a mile of straight towpath meant they could take off without turning around.
The canal was found, a straight gleaming stripe under the moon; they flew along it for five miles seeing no lights and carried on for another ten minutes before reversing course and trying again. There was still nothing to be seen, rather to Tommy’s relief; the wind was a little stronger and was blowing across the canal, which could have led to a wet landing or take off. They flew away and swore as lights appeared behind them.
“Did we see them, sir?”
“Yes. Stand to the Lewis as we come in. I wish we had a searchlight aboard!”
“Too bloody heavy… Only one set of lights, sir. Wrong colour, sir.”
“Shit! I am passing over at two hundred feet, Barbry.”
They crossed at a full seventy miles an hour, far above landing speed, able to pick out the headlights of a motor lorry and the helmets and uniforms of a German Army unit.
“Reversing course, Barbry. Give them a burst as we pass.”
Tommy cut speed, appeared to enter a landing glide; the waiting party made no attempt to shoot, possibly hoping for a bloodless capture. Barbry opened fire at one hundred yards, the lights giving him a simple target in the darkness; they left after the single pass, returned to Colonel Naismith.
“Presumably the Belgians were captured and forced to divulge the landing place, sir. Fortunate for us that they did not give all the details. Brave men and women!”
“Dead by now, I expect, Major Stark. Well done for shooting up the lorry – the Hun can pay for their success! I just hope that they have had no reports of your landing near Namur.”
They could achieve nothing by talking about the possibility of failure of the mission; they were committed.
The weather was forecast to hold clear for another two nights, nothing worse than a light shower and patchy cloud, so the prophets said.
They practised following the lights, the front aircraft turning and changing height and then making radical course changes; Tommy managed to hang on.
A final conference and a reminder to Tommy of the major alteration that would be made as they reached the valley of the Meuse, and they assured Colonel Naismith that they would be ready to go.
“Bloody weather is worsening. There may be heavy rain in the small hours.”
“We can but try, sir. You need this man.”
“I do. The country needs him. But take as few chances as you can – ah, what the Hell am I saying? Do the job if you possibly can, Major Stark. If you cannot, then come back home alive. Do not kill yourself attempting the impossible.”
“Certainly, sir. Nothing greater than the improbable.”
“Keep it down to the unlikely, if you would be so good. Trenchard is due to return tomorrow afternoon. He will be conferring with General French and will stay overnight at his HQ. He will very much expect to greet you in the morning.”
“General French not present at the conference, sir?”
“They were talking about him, not to him! No further comment, Major Stark. I certainly did not say that General French should have been replaced a year ago, and nor did I say that his replacement should not be General Haig, who is chiefly characterised by his commitment to cherish ignorance and stupidity as the virtues that made old England great!”
“That was no comment, sir?”
Naismith shook his head, implying that no sensible comment could be made.
“I shall be returning to England after this business, Major Stark. I will not fit in as a staff officer at Headquarters due to malicious possession of more than two brain cells. I much hope to end up in the embassy in Washington, where there will be interesting work for a man in my line. Would you wish to come along?”
“No work for a pilot in an embassy, sir. Due to a lack of education on my part, I am not well suited to the office existence – the reading and writing bit comes hard, sir.”
“Are you serious, Major Stark?”
“Very much so, sir. I did not attend school after we returned to England some five years before the war, sir. I think my father knew that I could read and write and do sums – provided the numbers ain’t too big – and believed that I would become an engineer by spending my days in the workshops and hangars with him; unfortunately, I became a pilot instead; much more fun!”
“Grossly irresponsible on his part, of course – from certain points of view. If you live through this war you will have gained all the education you need, I suspect. What will you do?”
“For sure? I do not know, sir. Visit the States, I think, and then quite possibly take a ship to Australia. Talking with Australians has given me a feeling that flying will be big there. It depends on my wife, however. She is taking enough at home – sitting, waiting, caring for our little girl and twitching at every knock on the door. I have a lot to make up to her, sir.”
“I know what you mean. It’s easier for us, we can keep busy out here – we don’t have to sit and wait.”
Monkey might not have agreed with Colonel Naismith, facing domestic crisis as she was.
“They be payin’ thirty shillin’ a week as ever is, ma’m. And for a sixty hour week, ma’m, all day Sundays off. And, ma’m, if so be you works at night, what some old soul called Dora lets you, you gets forty-five bob!”
The downstairs maid had had her head thoroughly turned by th
e prospects of riches; she saw eight shillings a week and her keep in service, and worked the necessary hours to do the job, six and a half days a week. Monkey thought of explaining that Dora was the Defence of the Realm Act, but decided she would be wasting her time.
“What will you do in this shell-factory, Millie?”
Millie was the second maid to join, and leave, her in the year.
“Pack the ‘ot explosive into the shells, ma’m, what they showed us ‘ow when us ‘ad a look last week. It comes down the big pipes, what is kept ‘ot by steam, ma’m, and pours into big vats and gets took off by the bucket-full and the exact amount stuck inside each one of they shells, dependin’ on size. Then you sticks an ‘sploder bag in the top and screws in a wooden plug and goes onto the next one on the trolley. And you got to be careful not to splash none, ma’m, acos of what it gets dry, and then it can go off, and blow up everythin’ in the factory.”
“What happens when the trolley is full, Millie?”
“Then it gets pushed off down the tracks inside the place and the next one comes. They got men to do the really ‘eavy work of pushing they trolleys – well, they ain’t men exactly, more like boys most of ‘em, and one or two what is soldiers what got sent back for bein’ shot up too much to fight no more.”
“When do you want to start your new job, Millie?”
“They wants new people all the time, ma’m.”
There was no choice; Monkey could not keep the girl in the house when there was necessary work to be done.
“Old Mrs Kinver, ma’m, the widow woman. She ain’t got no money comin’ in and she’s got ‘er two youngest still at ‘ome. Georgy, what was ‘er oldest boy, got killed at that Salient and Mick, her second, was a sailor what went down on Cressy, and ‘er old man got called back to the Colours – in ‘is last year in the Reserve, so ‘e was – and ‘e got a bullet through the legs, so ‘e ain’t workin’ now, though ‘e still drinks ‘is share of the beer! So she needs the money, ma’m, and she were in service like afore she got married. She could do ‘alf a day Monday to Saturday, and ‘er Mary be twelve and could do the same, or even a full day if you wanted.”
No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3) Page 17
