The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Well done. Rest up for the moment. We haven’t got a plane for you anyway, though there’s a chance some will come in this morning. See Rod to replace your flying gear. I’m glad you’re back – we need you both.”

  Rod came in and did an elaborate double-take.

  “Bad pennies – always turn up. Bloody good thing too – I was going to write your next of kin letters this morning. Saved me an hour of hard labour trying to find something good to say about you.”

  “Oi, I thought they were done by the squadron leader! Do we only get second-class commiserations?”

  “Don’t be silly, lads! He signs them, after I show him the right place to put his name and remind him how to spell it.”

  They thought that was very reasonable.

  “Who else, Rod?”

  “Hank went down. Bailed out - but if he landed, it was in the middle of a bloody great bunch of Germans. He won’t be back. Marcin’s dead.”

  “Good thing we got here, then.”

  Thomas took up the tale.

  “It is. We need experienced men, real fighter pilots. Couldn’t afford to lose you two. Bound to get kiddies as replacements. See the doctor for a check-up – regulations after a parachute jump, just to see you’re not bruised and battered too much.”

  Dick nodded, said he thought he was fit to fly.

  “Got bruises from crotch to shoulders where the bloody straps cut in. Better than not having a parachute at all.”

  Terence made a rare contribution to the conversation.

  “Bloody good fun, parachuting – lovely trip right down to the last inch, as the Irishman said when he fell off the ladder.”

  “Well put.”

  Breakfast was further disturbed by the sound of aircraft landing.

  “See what that is, Rod. If it’s Fat Hermann, tell him I’m busy.”

  Thomas was on his second cup of tea when Rod returned leading five very juvenile pilots.

  “Replacement planes and pilots, Thomas.”

  Rod rolled his eyes heavenwards, said nothing more.

  “Five? They’ll probably be needed by tomorrow. Do sit down, gentlemen, and eat something. Two of our men who were shot down have returned to us, so we have a temporary excess of pilots over planes.”

  More engine noises interrupted Thomas’ little speech. Rod went to see what it was, came back at the run.

  “Four Hurricanes, Thomas. Ferry pilots going back now. I’ve put them into a thirty hundredweight and sent them off as they have to bring more across from England this evening, at last light. The same men we saw before Christmas.”

  “Right, gentlemen. We now have enough planes. You will be flying today.”

  The three flight lieutenants joined Thomas at his table.

  “Four Flights for the time being – I’ll have a Flight myself. What’s the right colour?”

  “Yellow sounds clear over the radio, Thomas.”

  “So be it. I’ll want an experienced man as Yellow Three. David or Shorty?”

  They agreed that Shorty was next on the list for promotion.

  “Okay. Jan, you will have Walenky, David and New Boy One. Tex, Terence and Dick and NB Two. Chas, Feliks, Jerzy and NB Three. Me, Shorty, NB Four and NB Five.”

  They left to round up their Flights and give the new arrivals a briefing on the finger four.

  “Rod, will you ask Wag how many planes I can have and when? Very politely?”

  “Tact shall be my second name, Thomas.”

  “Good. Let’s see what we’ve got to fly them.”

  Jan, Tex and Chas had grabbed the most likely-looking newcomers, leaving a forlorn pair for Thomas.

  “Gentlemen, I am Thomas Stark, squadron leader and for the time being commander of Yellow Flight. Shorty here is Yellow Three, which is the second of a Flight of four. We split into two sections – Leader and wingman, who is Yellow Two; Yellow Three and wingman, who, obviously, is Yellow Four. Never lose contact with your leader. Not ever, unless he’s dead.”

  They nodded, nervously.

  “Right, who’s which?”

  Thomas pointed to the nearer of the pair, a young man of his own height and no more than nineteen at a guess. He looked very meek, shy almost, fair haired and possibly not shaving yet.

  “Flying Officer Michael James, sir.”

  “Thomas unless brass is about. Background?”

  “Passed out of Cranwell, Thomas. Course shortened but they gave us sixty hours on Hurricanes.”

  “Good. We will show you how to fly to war as soon as we get into the air. Forget everything Cranwell taught you about fighting a Hurricane. What about you?”

  Thomas glanced at the second novice, a six-footer and broad in the shoulders with a battered face.

  “Same course as FO James, Thomas. FO Bob Roberts. I was in the College Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? Oh, Rugby Union, is that? We play League mostly in Queensland. You won’t be running about with balls in your hands here – unless the Luftwaffe get an unlucky shot in. Right, listen! We fly the finger four in this squadron. The successful squadrons of the last couple of days all do. Vics of three don’t work. We shoot at fifty yards; your guns will be synchronised to facilitate that.”

  They nodded, shocked at such iconoclasm.

  “Maintain rigorous radio discipline. If everybody’s shouting, nobody can be heard. If you see something, tell me. How, Jim?”

  “Ah… Yellow Two to Yellow Leader. Bandit at red twenty, angels ten. Over.”

  “Good. Shorten it – leave out ‘Yellow Leader’ because you won’t be talking to anybody else. If you have an idea of distance, give it – if you are uncertain, leave it out.”

  “That’s what they told us at Cranwell, Thomas.”

  “Then they got something right.”

  Rod came back.

  “Wag says you can have sixteen planes for ten o’clock.”

  “Good. Take Bob and Jim here and settle them in, Rod. I’ll talk to Peters. Ready room for nine forty-five. Jan, Chas, Tex, flying for ten o’clock.”

  Thomas went to the radio room, nodded to Molyneux.

  “Try to get Group Captain Peters to the microphone. If you can’t, I’ll write a message for you.”

  It seemed that the Group Captain was camped out in his communications room. He was immediately available.

  “When can you fly, Stark?”

  “Full squadron of sixteen in four Flights for ten o’clock, sir. Two of mine who bailed out, Dick and Terence, made it back together. By bike.”

  “Good men. Tell them they’ve got a Mention. Patrol generally north, Stark. Your own discretion, but fifteen thousand seems good for height. Try to get raids coming in. The French are flying Curtises and Moranes over Belgium so watch out for them – some of them are scoring heavily. Their bombers are mostly down. No Belgians left. More squadrons of Hurricanes are coming from England. No Spitfires. Watch for Blenheims and Battles although they will mostly be to the west. Don’t try ground attack - the Hun has hundreds of ack-ack units with them. As many patrols as you can manage today, Stark. I’m trying to get more AA guns to the fields but the Army has first claim. If you have a choice of targets go for those bloody Stukas – they’re playing hell with the soldiers.”

  “Right, sir. Will do.”

  “I know you will. Don’t get killed if you can avoid it, Stark. I have a message for you, from London. Message reads ‘Got the bastards, Thomas. Nancy.’”

  “Good news, sir. I’ll explain face to face, sir. Any messages from Nancy should never be given out over the radio, sir.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never heard the name.”

  “Ask your galloping major, sir – also best unnamed.”

  “Will do. Good hunting! Over.”

  Major Curtis appeared an hour later.

  “Highly satisfactory outcome in London. They won’t shoot the peer – he’s in the War Cabinet until they can freeze him out and send him as ambassador somewhere. He can sit the war out talking to his pal Franco
, or to Lindbergh, and regretting the whole business. The clean up has started already. Some postings of very senior officers to places far overseas. Any number of civil servants in the higher grades posted out of London, sent to offices in the primitive provinces, you know!”

  Thomas was mildly amused – it all seemed a very clean-handed sort of revenge.

  “Milk and water stuff, you might think, Thomas, but these are people who have spent their lives in the corridors of power, whose whole existence has been measured by their rise to prominence in London, their eminence in the eyes of the few who know what power truly is. Now they have been exiled from the only stage they ever hoped to strut on. It hurts, Thomas. Honestly.”

  “A bullet or a hempen noose would hurt more, and that’s what they deserve, Major.”

  “Such savagery! It’s not how the game is played, I’m afraid. Their children and grandchildren will stake their claims in time and try to re-establish the family name and power. Couldn’t be done if they were hanged.”

  “A pity, even so, Major. I shall be flying at ten o’clock. Is there a job to do?”

  “Not at the moment. Just a piece of technical advice. Bridges – what’s the chance of destroying them from the air?”

  “With a dive-bomber and specialised delayed-fuse bombs that will explode underground, quite high. With the planes we’ve got, nil. Possibly, with three or four squadrons of heavy bombers dropping thousand pounders from ten thousand feet, it might just be done. Basically, I don’t think the RAF can do it.”

  “Pity. The Army can’t either.”

  “Which means what, sir?”

  “Retreat. Gort has marched the army north into Belgium. Now he needs to pull back – provided he can determine which direction to pull in. There is a rumour that the Germans are coming through the Ardennes and will head due west to the Channel coast, which will place them to the south of the BEF, as well as to the north. They’ve taken Holland and are pushing down already. I’ve driven through part of the area south of the Ardennes and there is no sign of them yet, or in my mind, probably ever. Single lane country backroads over hills and through narrow valleys don’t lend themselves to the passage of columns of tanks.”

  “Do you want us to fly a recce over the Ardennes, sir?”

  “No. No need. Chasing mares’ nests. They ain’t there so there’s no point looking for ‘em. Go Stuka hunting, that’s my advice, Thomas. Even if they’re going home empty, kill them so they can’t come back again.”

  “Will do, sir. I must go – we have new bodies, five of them, sent out from England. We need their planes, that’s for sure, but we could do without five little boys who believe all they’ve been taught in training. We’ve been the better part of a year working out how to fly effectively. They’ve got to pick up our habits in the next ten minutes.”

  “Good luck. Do you want me to requisition their replacements when I get back to HQ?”

  “We will need more planes, sir. Better have bodies to fly them.”

  “Where’s your next field, Thomas?”

  “No idea. We haven’t been told for fear the French might hear and think we were planning to rat on them.”

  “Well, of course we are. We’d be bloody fools if we were not. We do need to keep it a secret from them, and from Churchill. The old man thinks we can hold the Germans if only we show resolute. Half the French agree with him. The rest are running already. We can’t win with just half.”

  “Shorty, I have Jim as Yellow Two. You’ve got Bob as Yellow Four. Take him away and explain where you want him. Jim, with me.”

  Jim, who did not especially like the nickname but could not protest to his squadron leader, followed. They walked together to the hangars where the Hurricanes were being set out on the hard apron. Thomas pointed to his plane.

  “This is me. Camouflage top fuselage and upper wings. Pale blue underside. Yours will be the same by tomorrow morning. RAF roundel. No other markings. Should have letters; will have one day when we get round to it. Makes it difficult to tell one from another. So memorise my face, hopefully. Even better, don’t lose position on me. You are my wingman – which means your main ambition in life is to guard my tail. You will also watch for anything behind Shorty and Bob. They and I will be watching out for you. So, you must be never farther than three hundred feet from me – behind, to either side, above or below but not normally in front.”

  “They told us at Cranwell to keep within ten feet of our leader.”

  “Forget it. Cranwell is full of shit.”

  The vulgarity silenced Jim – he could not believe he had heard correctly.

  “You can’t fly within ten feet of me because neither of us will be keeping to a straight course. We weave in three dimensions about the mean direction of travel, if you want a technical exposition of the process. Never fly straight for more than three seconds. Vary height, speed and direction continually and randomly. If you can be predicted, you can be killed and probably will be.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. That’s what most of us said the first time we were told the facts of flying life. Second thing is, watch! Keep your head moving, your eyes swivelling. The man who kills you is the one you don’t see. So see him and kill him instead.”

  “They said at Cranwell we were to attack the plane, not the pilot, Thomas.”

  “I told you they were full of shit.”

  “Oh.”

  “We open fire at a maximum of fifty yards, aiming at the cockpit. A three second burst. How long is three seconds, Jim?”

  Jim counted off the time, carefully.

  “And one, and two, and three.”

  “That’s correct. That’s how long you fire for. You can do that four times and then you run out of bullets. That many bullets in fuselage or wing will not kill a plane. That number of bullets in a cockpit will blow the pilot to buggery. There is no other way of doing it, not if you want to make a score.”

  The boy looked quite pale, Thomas noticed. He had never thought of himself as a killer and did not enjoy the concept now.

  “I’m officially seventeen and a half claims now – I expect I shot one poor sod’s legs off. Twelve of those were in Spain, so you’ve only got five and a half to go to catch me up. You have a duty to get to three – if you find yourself going down in a flamer with only two to your name, grab hold of the stick and ram one of the buggers, take him with you. The Hun outnumbers us three to one, so you must kill three to break even. Die with two, we lose. Get three, we’re drawing. On your fourth, we’re in profit. Simple arithmetic – even a fighter pilot can count that far.”

  “Oh.”

  “You really will have to think of something else to say, Jim. Come and meet Wag.”

  The engineering officer was talking with a flight sergeant, turned from him to nod to Thomas.

  “Guns, Thomas. All the new ones are set to the Dowding Spread and we can’t fix them in the time available.”

  “We’ll put up with it, Wag. No choice. Can you and Peter work on them overnight?”

  “Two nights, at least, Thomas. We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “I know you will, Wag. This is Jim who is to fly wingman to me. Have you allocated a plane to him?”

  “In the Yellow Two position. Sergeant Booth!”

  A dirty-handed sergeant unearthed himself from an engine.

  “Sir?”

  “Your pilot, Mr James. Look after him.”

  “Yes, sir. Good plane, sir. Just doing a last little bit of greasing. Get her painted up tonight. Almost out of light blue, sir.”

  Thomas shook his head – he was doing that a lot recently.

  “Nothing much I can do about that, Booth. Maybe at our next field. Are you ready to move?”

  “Thirty minutes, sir, to pack up and be gone.”

  “Good. Look after Mr James, explain our take off and landing procedures to him. Go through the checks. Take him through a scramble. Remind him of the difference between the seat belt and the parachute.”
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  The seat belts were fastened by a single clip which opened by a smart blow on its front. The parachute harness was also fastened by a single quick-release buckle. It was unwise to open the wrong one of these when bailing out.

  Thomas gave the word at ten o’clock precisely.

  “Get off your backsides, you idle buggers! Time to go.”

  The new pilots had been waiting for a klaxon and a run to their planes, probably with cries of joy, cheers and good luck wishes. They had a sense of anti-climax – their first patrol deserved a little more in the way of drama.

  Jan led Red Flight out in formation, followed by Blue and Green. Thomas had chosen to bring up the rear on this occasion.

  They climbed economically, reached fifteen thousand and settled into a two hundred miles an hour cruise.

  Smoke climbed high in four separate locations. Two of them were tinged with black, red flames visible at the base of the fires.

  “Leader. Petrol fires. Fuel dumps going up. Army retreating to their west. Over.”

  They continued north, hoping to intercept raids coming in from the north east. They saw nothing for half an hour. Thomas ordered the squadron due west for five minutes before coming back round to a course for the field. They landed still having seen nothing.

  “The sky’s a big place, Jim, and planes are small in it. Without the Chain Home radar system, we see nothing nine times out of ten. Work it out – if there are ten raids up at any one time and we are patrolling in an area two hundred miles by one hundred, that gives two thousand square miles for each raid to hide in. The absolute most you can see even vaguely is five miles in any direction. So, you can see twenty square miles – with a lot of luck – and they’ve got one hundred times that much to be lost in. Before you can shoot ‘em down, you have to find them.”