“Well then, Millie, that is what we must do. Will you speak to Mrs Kinver and ask her to come to see me? If everything works out, then you may go when it is convenient to you. It is important that the soldiers have their shells and you will be doing a useful job in the filling factory – more useful than scrubbing my floors. When the war is over, and if Major Stark is still living here, then we can talk again about a job, perhaps.”
The new factory had been created on a purpose-built railway siding a mile away from the village, a safe distance in case of mishap, but close enough for the workers to consider the factory ‘local’. Most of the men and all the women would have refused to go ‘foreign’ to work. It was said that arrangements were being made for a bus service for beginning and end of shifts for the winter months, when the walk through mud and cold rain would be unattractive, even for thirty or more shillings a week.
The Women’s Welfare Committee met on the following afternoon and devoted its time to bewailing the appalling state of things – how could the ladies conceivably survive in the absence of servants?
“Only the elderly remain! The young girls have all gone to this disgraceful factory! What business have they, setting up factories in these parts? Such things belong to the North Country, and to Wales, perhaps, but not to us!”
Mrs Armitage, a comfortable fifty, could not imagine how civilisation could survive, while Mrs Prendergast – a lady of indeterminate age, due to unremitting effort on her part – was sure that the girls would all be corrupted and would soon end up on the streets of Aldershot, or Portsmouth even!
“Giving that sort money can only be bad for them! Better far they should remain in our care!”
“We must employ older women, part-time, I fear, ladies.”
Monkey’s contribution produced scowls – older ladies commonly had children, which were a nuisance, and often failed to come in on their days for reasons of family illness and such.
“It will not be the same! This war is bringing civilisation to an end!”
That, Monkey thought, was perfectly true, but it would create a new civilisation in its place. She did not venture to say so, however – it would have been too deep a concept for the ladies.
“Have you heard from the Major, Mrs Stark?”
The Major was a hero of the war, and hence a figure of importance to the ladies; they asked of him every week.
“He writes me that he has taken a minor injury, a finger blown off his left hand and a ‘scratch’ upon his face. How great a scratch it may transpire to be, I can only guess. Flying coarsens the skin exposed to the elements and may make a scar greater than would naturally be the case.”
“He is to remain in France, one presumes? A lost finger is not the sort of wound to discourage a man of his sort!”
Monkey had some suspicions of Mrs Prendergast – she seemed to employ a succession of strong young garden boys – and did not like her obvious approval of men of Tommy’s ‘sort’.”
Conversation turned to more important matters – the Arbuthnot’s Home Farm had slaughtered a pig and presumed that a shoulder or leg would be very welcome among the ladies. There was no rationing, though it was increasingly discussed, but the shops were not always full and fresh meat was scarcer than it had used to be.
“Oranges – none to be found in Salisbury yesterday – one never knows what will be short next!”
Monkey really did not know what was short, for she had no interest in the kitchen; she was once again thankful that the housekeeper was well into her forties and unlikely to go gallivanting off to a shell-filling factory. Cooking for Tommy might be traditionally one of Monkey’s duties, but she simply would not know how to go about it; Mrs Rudge could continue to perform that task, she hoped.
Tommy forced dinner into his unwilling, acid belly; Beef Wellington, again, after a French Onion Soup, and with English vegetables, well boiled. To be followed, he was promised, by a suety pudding, with plums! A single glass of wine, and that half-full, and no port – he dared not drink before flying, mainly because he very much wished to. He was sure he would feel better for two or three glasses of port and a snifter of brandy, and he was certain he would be dead within the month if he once allowed himself to start indulging.
Coffee and then the wait till midnight when he could allow himself to change into flying uniform and put on his long coat and slowly stow everything into its correct pocket. Then the wander down to the hangar, to the lights that showed mechanics who were busy all night, every night.
It was almost raining, spitting in the wind.
Barbry was waiting for him.
“Been experimenting, sir.”
‘Sir’ told him that Colonel Naismith or another senior officer was nearby.
“What have you been doing, Flight?”
“The centre bulb, sir, on the tailplane. We have made it bigger and brighter. More likely to show up on a cloudy night.”
“Sounds wise. Is there a chance it may burn out?”
“Possible, sir, yes. But the other two will still be there.”
“I have been thinking, too, Flight. Instead of circling overhead when I have landed, fly out for five minutes and then back again. Two or three times, probably. If you circle the ground, then you are pinpointing it for any search. I shall fire a red flare when I take off and then follow the river valley south at five hundred feet and at sixty – you should be able to overtake at seven hundred and full speed.”
Barbry nodded. “First one to see the other, fire a green flare to port.”
“Should work, with a bit of luck.”
Barbry was sure it would work, because they would fly no more than two minutes from the landing strip. The banker – and his pilot - was more important than the Belgians on the ground; they must take their chances.
Tommy was annoyed with himself that he could not remember the young pilot’s name – he was John, but he could not lay his tongue to the boy’s surname. It was an informal service…
“Satisfied with the plan for the night, John?”
“Good plan, Tommy – but I don’t like the weather.”
“Nor me. Cold and wet. Bugger! Have we got any flying gear for the banker?”
They had not thought of that; five minutes scurrying dug up a leather coat, old but still waterproof, and heavy gauntlets and an old leather flying hat with strings to tie it on. He would probably not die of exposure with that to protect him.
The food they had carried two nights before was still in the hangar – a sack of flour and five cartons of bully beef which Tommy told the mechanics to load into his empty cockpit, ‘in order to maintain the centre of gravity’.
John took off, Tommy in line astern, very close behind him, the three lights held firmly horizontal. It would be an interesting hour, Tommy thought, concentrating wholly on the lights.
Twenty minutes and he was sure the lights were growing bigger and brighter and had to force himself awake – he was closing the gap on the Gunbus in front, the lights were unchanged.
Three quarters of an hour and there was a cold rain beating into his right ear and dripping slowly down his cheek and into his scarf. He had spare scarves tucked away under his seat, but he could not change them in flight.
They continued to fly. The decision to return home was in Tommy’ hands – a flare and they would turn back.
He could see the red lights still, could not justify giving up.
Ten more minutes and Barbry picked up the signal lights on the ground and blipped the red lights on and off. Tommy stared down as John banked to his left; two sets of white lights, exactly as before. He dropped into his landing, steep and bumping a little but down.
He leaned out of the cockpit and called for the plane to be turned, felt hands gripping the wings and pulling the Gunbus back to the further set of lights.
“I have clothing for the passenger – in the front cockpit. Take the sack and boxes as well.”
A voice yelled that they had the coat and gloves; he ha
d a waterproof hat already.
There was an outburst of shouting, an argument.
“What is happening? You must hurry. The rain is getting heavier!”
“He has changed his mind – he says the plane will crash. It cannot take off in this rain. He will not come!”
“Have you a gun?”
“No.”
“Take this pistol. If he will not come, shoot him.”
Tommy worked the slide on one of the Colts, handed it over with the warning that it was cocked.
Another minute and a figure appeared in front of him, was hoisted up into the cockpit by several sets of hands and slumped into the seat.
“There is a belt. Heave it tight on him.”
A man put a foot on the wing root beside the pilot’s cockpit, lifted himself up and passed back the pistol.
“I must not keep it – too dangerous. Death for me and my family if I am found with a gun in the house.”
Tommy flicked the catch down, made the automatic safe and tucked it behind his seat.
“I must fire a flare now. Are there Germans close?”
“Not that we know of. Our thanks for the food! Good luck!”
Tommy fired his red flare and then allowed the engine to build its revolutions as he rolled forward, holding the machine on the ground a little longer than he had last time.
They rose, up into the increasing rain, bumping in the gusts of wind; Tommy heard a wailing followed by sustained retching. His passenger was not a natural flier it seemed. With luck, the rain would wash away most of the vomit, and it wasn’t his plane anyway.
Red lights close in front of him – which was a piece of remarkable luck, he thought. He fired his green flare and tucked in very close to Barbry.
They bounced, shuddered and spewed their way to the trenches and then across, dropping lower when in home territory. The rain was heavier still, and landing might be a matter of splashing into mud, which might rip off the wheels and leave the Gunbus on its skids, and wholly uncontrollable. He would have no choice other than to switch off and wait for the plane to stop, hopefully the right way up.
Barbry fired off a pair of reds, a wake-up call to the mechanics, if they needed one. They would almost certainly have rescue teams ready and waiting in this weather. The oil drum flared and the carbide lamps were turned to their highest setting.
Barbry and John were in front and landed immediately; there was no gain to waiting in circuit.
Tommy slowed and watched, saw a great splash and the Gunbus sliding across the small field, coming to a halt apparently unharmed. The field had a slight slope, right to left he recalled, barely one or two degrees perhaps, but worth taking advantage of. He eased his nose to starboard a fraction and cut the speed as far as he dared; landing in the rain was a difficult business, the wet canvas of the wings losing lift, which demanded a higher velocity – but how much was a matter of guesswork. He touched and cut the engine – less chance of fire, slightly, if the engine was off when they hit something nasty.
They slipped across the grass, the tail slowly overtaking the front in an incipient ground spin. They stopped before the plane rolled over, Tommy sat, hands slack on the controls, unable to do a thing to influence the plane’s movement.
Tommy unstrapped and jumped to the ground and then took the pace to the front cockpit.
“Out! We are safe, but move quickly, now!”
A short, overweight and very smelly figure levered himself out of the cockpit and tottered. Tommy grabbed him by the hands, standing as far distant as was possible, and guided him down. The banker dropped to his knees in the mud, crossing himself and muttering some sort of prayer. Tommy was inclined to be peeved – the man would be better employed thanking some damned good airmen.
The mechanics ran across and sniffed and, with one accord, stepped back.
“Get him across to the officers’ billets and put him into a hot bath and find him some clothing, please. We had a difficult flight.”
Colonel Naismith arrived and heard the instructions and began to laugh; he shone a lantern onto the man’s face and nodded his satisfaction, breaking into fluent French, to the admiration of all around.
The rain suddenly increased again, particles of hail mixed in; they ran for cover.
“Another five minutes and we would have lost you, Major Stark.”
“You very nearly did, sir. Might I strongly recommend, sir, that you wait for better weather before trying any more of these games?”
“Your recommendation is noted, Major Stark.”
“Would it be possible to make up a small parachute, sir? The pigeons could be dropped with no need for the plane to land then.”
“Well thought, Major Stark!”
“I rather think we have broken the Gunbuses, sir. They will not be flying in the near future, if ever.”
“Less than two thousand pounds worth of aeroplane, Major Stark, in exchange for several millions of dollars. No loss!”
“Neither it is, sir. I find I am tired, sir. Will you be available in the morning?”
“No. I shall be escorting the Belgian gentleman to Paris and then to the destination of his choice – which may be to Zurich or Geneva, or even to New York. The young pilot, Second Lieutenant Butcher, is made full Lieutenant with immediate effect – that is arranged and required only his survival tonight to be gazetted. Flight-Sergeant Allen is to become a full lieutenant as well, posted to your Thirty Squadron. I presume that was your intent?”
“It was, and is, sir. He will do well as a pilot, sir. He has substantial experience already.”
“I know. I asked of his squadron.”
“Thank you, sir. That was all I wanted of you. Not perhaps an elegant way of phrasing it – but you appreciate what I mean, sir. I am tired. I must go to bed!”
“So you must. My regards to your lady wife, by the way. I am sure we will meet one day. She is Moncur’s daughter, is she not?”
“Yes, sir. Grace, his second girl.”
“Very good. Off you go – you are falling down on your feet!”
Tommy breakfasted in mid-morning, was sitting back with a second cup of coffee when Baring appeared and took a seat at his side.
“We are to purchase bombardment machines from the French, Major Stark. Probably the Breguet that you tested a few days back. They will be formed into a squadron and used for tactical bombing over and behind the trenches. The theory is that the squadron will fly a dozen strong in a close box, the guns of each protecting all. The CO will fly. If you are interested in the innovation, the squadron is yours. You will be able to pick and choose pilots and Flight Commanders to a great extent. It is Brigadier Trenchard’s intention to introduce sergeant pilots into the RFC, with the expectation that the successful gentlemen will take a permanent commission within a few months of appointment. Such being the case, you will wish to select your observer/navigators with especial care.”
“No great need to take too much care, sir – I shall be spoiled for choice – there are so many good sergeants and flight-sergeants out there. I will be honoured to accept the command, sir – it will be a chance to use the aeroplane for its proper purpose. Planes should be carrying loads in controlled conditions, sir, not playing at Cowboys and Indians as we have been lately.”
“Good. I would not make that last point to Brigadier Trenchard, by the way. He does like his knights of the air. He will want to see you in an hour or two – so don’t leave Headquarters just yet.”
Tommy finished his coffee and wandered into the Mess Anteroom, discovered his confederates of the previous night waiting for him.
“We are both made lieutenant, sir. I am sure you know that to be so. We wished to give you our thanks, sir.”
Barbry made the little speech, straight-faced, his King’s English clipped and precise.
“I’ve been listening to them this last year, sir – just in case the unlikely might happen. I must write a letter home to me Mam, sir; so proud she will be!”
�
��Good. I am pleased for you both. I am to be given a bombardment squadron with new French planes. If you want, I will ask for you both.”
“Whistle, sir, and I shall come.”
“And me, sir. I have made lieutenant in just two months, thanks to you. Captain inside another six, perhaps?” Lieutenant Butcher was full of enthusiasm; Tommy hoped he would live.
“Off you go. I will see you both in the near future.”
An orderly came at the run to bring Tommy to the presence, leading him to the great man’s office and delaying him in the hallway while he fetched a clothes brush and then twitched his tie into place.
“Photographer, sir!”
“Newspapers?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tommy groaned inwardly and promised himself that he would watch his tongue; he would say nothing tactless to the gentlemen of the press; ideally, he would say nothing at all, which they would prefer for being able to put their own words into his mouth.
He placed his cap neatly square so that he could make a salute and entered the office.
Brigadier Trenchard stood from his desk and exchanged the most formal of greetings before introducing a civilian in full morning-dress.
“M. Belfort… of the… Belgian… government and… emissary of… his king!”
Tommy stiffened into another salute, received a bow in exchange, the newspaperman in the corner recording their every move on his cameras. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Tommy saw that the photographer had three cameras and two assistants who unloaded and reloaded his plates so that he had a machine ever-ready.
M. Belfort proceeded into a brief speech, in fluent English. Tommy realised that to be a necessity – he would never have found an English officer outside of Intelligence who had a word of French, still less the Flemish of the part of Belgium that remained free.
What was he saying?
‘Acts of bravery’; ‘supreme courage’ – that was just a fraction enthusiastic. ‘Service to the country and King of Belgium’ – fair enough. ‘Chevalier of the Legion D’Honneur, Belgique’ – ooh! Another bit of ribbon – how was he going to explain this one away to Monkey?
No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3) Page 18
