A few more minutes and Tommy was ushered into a cab and put on his way to Paddington, the presentation box tucked away in an inside pocket.
There were trains, the lines were cleared, he was assured, and he sat in his first-class seat to Salisbury and then after a slight delay, out to Wilton, home before mid-afternoon.
“Tommy! Can we afford it?”
“I paid just two hundred, Monkey – a thieves’ bargain. The owner has two sons in the RFC.”
She stood in front of her mirror and agreed it was a ridiculously low price; it was magnificent.
“I am posted to Thirty-Two Squadron as CO, Monkey. They are at Netheravon until February, learning the bombardment trade. They are, at the moment, idle and incompetent. I have about nine weeks to alter that. Noah is on his way from France, and there is a chance that Fred Petersham will be sent across as well, and Barbry Allen, who flew with me last month and was made an officer in reward. Between us, we shall turn these idle good-for-nothings upside down and inside out. I am to join them towards the end of the week. I shall be at home very frequently, with General Henderson’s permission.”
It could hardly be better – he would be home for Christmas.
“We must have a dinner party, Tommy. Mrs Wyndham, of course; Fred and Barbry if I can invite two other unattached young ladies – which might be a problem in such a respectable village. I fear it will have to be just the four of us, in fact. I shall discuss the matter with the ladies on the Committee.”
Rather surprisingly, the ladies felt that River Cottage should certainly extend its hospitality in local society; there were young widows and unmarried misses who had lost their fiancés to the war and who could return to the social scene in the genteel company of the Starks. Arrangements would be made, they said, and the fortunate females would meet Mrs Stark of a morning soon.
“An introduction to the County, Tommy. Necessary for the children, you know. Also, I am sure that your two young men will be glad to meet respectable young ladies. You may wish to extend the hospitality of the Mess over the Festive Season – and that means you must have made some local contacts.”
Tommy could not understand quite why the County was so important to him; Monkey patiently explained that in seventeen or so years they would be looking to introduce their grown-up daughter to the society of eligible young men. The County would be one source of potential husbands.
“The RFC will, of course, be open to her – she will meet many of the finest young men through your acquaintance in the Corps. Even if you have left the service you will still keep in contact with your many friends and colleagues.”
“Exactly so, my love.”
“A mother must take care to introduce her daughter into the correct levels of society, Tommy. I presume we will not wish to send her away to one of these boarding schools, so it will be necessary to make acquaintances elsewhere.”
Tommy had not realised that child-rearing made such demands on the parents.
Noah appeared and took his bedroom, saying it felt like coming home to be in Wilton again.
“Three of the boys are on their way to Netheravon, Tommy. Frank and Blue and Micky volunteered to join us when they heard there was the chance. Joe, the American, has taken over the Morane as his own, Tommy, and goes out hunting two and three times a day. He has four confirmed kills, including a Fokker, and intends to make ten before Christmas, so he says. He takes too many risks for my taste, but he has come home every time so far.”
“Crazy – but he might do it. He must be one of the best natural fliers I have ever seen. At least he will be keeping the Fokkers entertained; if they have to look over their shoulders every time they go out, then the two-seaters will be a little safer.”
“Intelligence says that the Hun has put a price on your head, Tommy – a straight Iron Cross for the man who puts you down. They are said to have done the same for Louis Strange and Lanoe Hawker.”
“Then I am in good company, Noah; the best, in fact. Now then, this squadron we are going to – have you heard any rumours?”
“Nothing! No names, no scandals - no nothing. They are unknowns.”
“Peculiar. We go across in the morning and make our mark. You are officially second-in-command, senior Fight Commander.”
“They might not like that, Tommy.”
“Then they can lump it, Noah! After spending the last three months in idleness, they can take whatever I choose to throw at them. There should be a new adjutant in residence and he can inform me of the leave record and the mess-bills of various individuals. I shall dump any who drink too much, of course. Do you know the RE7, by the way?”
“Never heard of it.”
They drove to Netheravon in the Lanchester, timing the trip at forty minutes in thawing snow and thickening mud.
“Always possible to get home of an evening if the schedule permits, Noah. We shall take the weekend anyway. I presume most of the squadron will have plans made for the weekend – no need for them to cancel, while they understand it is the last weekend until I am satisfied with their performance.”
Noah grinned, having a suspicion that Tommy would take a lot of satisfying.
The gate guard was huddled around a charcoal brazier; three privates, all of them unhappy with the duty.
Tommy heard a mutter of ‘Christ’ as the most alert of the three spotted his rank and ran to the gate to salute and open up.
“Major Stark, CO of Thirty-Two Squadron, soldier. Captain Arkwright, second-in-command, with me.”
“Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but can I see your papers, sir?”
The soldier glanced at the cards, confirmed the names on them.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Well done, soldier. That was exactly the right thing to do. Now get back inside and get warm again – it’s a wicked cold wind blowing across the Plain today!”
“Sir!”
“Station Warrant Officer is on top of his job, Noah. Correct behaviour to check on us the first time we come in.”
The administration buildings were close to the gate. Opposite to them was a newly constructed wooden garage, protecting at least a dozen cars from the elements.
“A rich squadron, Noah.”
Tommy parked the Lanchester in a space towards the end, watched with amusement as a corporal doubled across.
“Excuse me, sir. That is Captain Ross’ parking space…”
His voice tailed off as he realised that he was addressing a major, presumably the new CO.
“It is mine now. Where is Captain Ross?”
“He drove across to Andover, sir. He wanted a haircut. No flying today, sir.”
“No. The weather will not permit us to get into the air today.”
Tommy wandered across the cinder driveway to the offices, glancing about him for a reception party. The gatehouse should have a telephone, and the guards should have used it as soon as he drew away.
A single, familiar captain limped onto the veranda and came to attention.
“Naughton, sir. Adjutant since yesterday.”
“I thought you were dead, Jim! I was told you went down in a Bleriot two-seater a fortnight after we landed in France.”
“I did, Tommy. I was lucky – she broke in two as we hit and I was in the bit that didn’t have the petrol tank.”
“More than lucky! This is Noah, who is my second. I’m told this squadron is a bloody shambles, Jim. What’s your first opinion?”
“Understatement, Tommy. Drunks and playboys and idiot younger sons of the aristocracy – all carefully selected by the previous CO, who was all three rolled into one.”
“There will be four, perhaps five, of youngsters who I have selected, Jim. Due here as soon as they can get away.”
“Is Fred Petersham one of them? He reached here last night.”
“Good. He knows his way around in France. He will be useful. What’s the time? Ten o’clock? I can get into my office and put in a couple of hours there.”
“Almos
t nothing waiting by way of routine, Tommy. The last man was a wizard with paper.”
“That’s part of the job. I want to take a look at the mess-bills, Jim.”
“One or two are very high, Tommy. Mess fees are crazy! Fifty pounds a quarter over and above pay!”
“Bring that to an end, now. Mess fees to be no more than officer’s pay, without flying pay. That’s more than most of the messes in France demand.”
“The Wine Committee will not be pleased, Tommy. More than half of the fees are used to meet their costs – one of the best cellars I have ever seen, we have here, Tommy!”
“Give me their names, Jim. They’ll be high on my little list.”
“Ha! They’ll none of them be missed, Tommy!”
“That sounds rather like a quote, Jim.”
“The Lord High Executioner, Tommy.”
Tommy smiled his kindest.
“The Mikado, you bloody peasant – you have heard of Gilbert and Sullivan?”
“Of course! I saw them do fifteen rounds for the heavyweight championship!”
The Adjutant admitted defeat and flung open an office door.
“Your domain, my lord!”
“Good Christ!”
The office had been recently and lavishly decorated and contained an antique walnut desk and sideboard, together with delicate chairs of presumably great age. The walls were papered in cream with vast embossed crimson clocks, and the curtains were of red velvet. Tommy had never ventured inside a high-class brothel, but he imagined it would look much like this.
“The last CO was posted out so quickly he had no opportunity to dispose of his possessions, Tommy. I expect he will be back for them.”
“He’s three days south on the boat to South Africa, Jim. He will take over the sole training field in Rhodesia, wherever that is.”
“Poor bugger! I’ll bring the mess bills to you.”
“Have a glance about the place, Noah. Check the hangars especially for activity.”
Noah knew exactly what to look for in the hangars, having come up from sergeant-mechanic.
An hour and Tommy had an insight into his squadron.
“Twelve pilots, Jim. Two of them are bottle a day men: one malt whisky, the other Armagnac. The Engineering Officer signs for between eight and twelve whiskies a night. Most of the others drink beer – between six and eight pints a night typically. I will speak to each man separately, Jim – I need to do so in any case. Will you make me up a little folder for each man, please? I will want to keep records of their flying hours and of their scores at bombardment practice. Do they have squadron lunch?”
“Served at one o’clock, sir. All officers expected to attend unless they have permission to be off-field. Mess dress.”
“That ends. Working dress only to be worn before six pm. What’s the record for accidents, Jim?”
“Most peculiar, Tommy! None in the past four months. One only in August when they first came here.”
“Impossible! Bring me the Engineering Officer’s reports, Jim. Hours flown for each plane; expenditure of petrol; indents for spares; all of it.”
Another hour and they sat back in the little, uncomfortable chairs.
“They flew each plane for an average of ten hours a week in the second fortnight of August. That fell to three hours a week in September and two in October. This month is even less believable – eight planes have not moved and the remaining four have seen nine hours between them. Most of the pilots have flown no more than sixty hours in the better part of four months!”
“Looks like it, Tommy!”
“Write those figures up as report for me, Jim. Addressed to General Henderson with a covering letter of some sort – you know the sort of thing. I arrived here and this is what I have discovered, you know what I want.”
Tommy and Noah walked into lunch just before one o’clock, in working uniforms, staring forbiddingly at the loungers in Mess Dress.
Tommy stood at the head of the table, introduced himself, made a brief speech.
“Working dress will be worn before six pm in future, gentlemen. The Mess bar will not open until that time. I shall be talking to each of you, individually, today and tomorrow. Please attend my office with your Log Book, gentlemen. We shall be flying every day that is not actually raining or fog-bound, starting from Friday. Those of you who have weekend engagements may fulfil them this week. You may expect to fly seven days a week thereafter, and for a minimum of two hours morning and afternoon. We shall go out to France in January and will be operational by mid-February. Any pilot who is not capable of meeting the demands of active service will be grounded, stripped of wings and rank and transferred out of the RFC to the Army. This treatment will be extended to drunks as well – if you cannot survive without alcohol then you may expect to become a private in an infantry battalion in the trenches. This squadron is incapable of meeting the demands of the RFC at the moment. I shall replace every pilot if it becomes necessary. That is all for today, gentlemen. Enjoy your luncheon. Mess sergeant! Alcohol will not be served with the meal – the bar is not open.”
Soup, rare beef, a sweet course of a sort unknown to Tommy; a rich meal for the middle of the day. That would end as soon as the reduction in mess fees was felt.
Tommy left the silent Mess to their glasses of water and returned to his office, calling the Adjutant to replace the desk and chairs with Issue furniture at the earliest moment.
“I shall suffer paralysis of the bum if I have to sit on these fancy chairs any longer, Jim.”
“The hangars are in good condition, Tommy. Flight-Sergeant Bolton was mustered in yesterday and is senior mechanic and is satisfied with all that he has seen so far. It would seem that the mechanics have had almost unlimited time to work on the machines!”
“Good. We will change that. What had the Engineering Officer to say?”
“Nothing, Tommy. He is the Captain Ross who was off to Andover for his haircut. Goes every second day, it would seem – they are not at all sure just what he does there. He’s almost bald, by the way.”
Noah was entertained, offered the opinion that he must have a love nest there, though Andover was not the most likely of locations for that form of amusement.
Tommy instructed the Adjutant to send Captain Ross to him immediately he reappeared at the field.
“I shall be sleeping here for the next few nights, I would expect, Jim. Has my servant turned up?”
“He was driven in an hour ago, Tommy. He has taken over your quarters.”
“Good. He will make me comfortable, at least. Did you bring Broughton, Noah?”
“He should have reached here yesterday, Tommy.”
“Good. Could you ask Fred Petersham to report to me, Jim? I’ll make him the first to be seen, for knowing that it will be an easy job.”
Fred was quietly happy to be back on a squadron – he had found Trenchard’s HQ to be an unfriendly environment.
“Bloody staff officers, Tommy! If the human race was a club, they would all be black-balled!”
“I agree, Fred. Are you fit to fly? Shot in the belly – that’s not a trivial wound.”
“Missed everything important, Tommy. They cut out a couple of feet of guts and everything else was untouched. Don’t even get indigestion now.”
Tommy did not believe him – but who was he to call a gentleman a liar?
“Good. I want you flying at soonest. That will mean organising observer/navigators. I want you to work in pairs, the same two together, so that you can get into the habit of talking to each other. So, you’ll get a man more or less at random at first – if his face fits, well and good; if you can’t get on with him, change him – as many times as necessary.”
“Will do, Tommy. Oh, my sister Meg sends her regards. She saw the stuff in the papers and was really pleased for you. She’s down in the South, living in her own house near Brighton and working part-time in one of the big hospitals they’ve set up there. She ain’t a nurse, of course, but she’s
busy helping out with the men who have been crippled or blinded and need things doing for them.”
“Braver person than me, Fred! You are invited for Christmas, by the way, Fred. Monkey is organising a small party.”
“Who’s next, Jim?”
“Captain Lord Cecil Mathers, third son to the Marquess of Timberfells, and previously senior Flight Commander. He is the bottle of Armagnac.”
Captain Mathers was little if anything older than Tommy, was a short, naturally spare man with a drinker’s pot-belly. He smiled in the most superior fashion, confident in his rank and place and knowing that he had three close relatives who were Cabinet Ministers.
“Good afternoon, sir. Rather surprised that you chose to close the Mess bar, sir. Not the best way of starting here, perhaps!”
“All officers on this squadron are forbidden to drink during and before the working day, Captain Mathers. I have your Mess Bill in front of me, sir, and find that your consumption of alcohol is excessive for a pilot. I must formally order you to conform to the instructions regarding drinking.”
“Now, just you look here, Major Stark! You will not treat me like some jumped-up ranker who has no business mixing with his betters! My personal habits are my business and mine alone. And it is correct to address me as Captain Lord Cecil – not Mathers!”
“Am I to understand that you are refusing my order, sir? Wait one moment before you reply. Adjutant!”
Captain Naughton entered the office, grave-faced, uniform precise, all buttons fastened although he had been in shirt-sleeves behind his desk.
“Sir!”
“I require you to act as an impartial witness, sir. I have ordered Captain Mathers to conform to the squadron standing orders regarding the consumption of alcohol. I am now to repeat that order.”
Tommy stood and waited for Mathers to rise in his turn.
“Captain Mathers! No pilot on this squadron will consume alcohol before six pm on any day on which he may be flying. That order applies to you. Do you understand, sir?”
“I understand that you are making the greatest error of your short career, sir. You may win now, but we will not forget you for the whole of your existence if you continue in this foolishness!”
No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3) Page 22
