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

by Andrew Wareham

  Tommy and Cissie had been able to make the journey, courtesy of Nancy arranging for a vehicle to take Cissie to London to join Tommy on the Friday and make the unpredictable train journey with a day to spare.

  The celebration was muted by the news coming in of evacuation from the Belgian coast, with the doubt that much of the BEF could be rescued.

  Noah had wondered if his son would be able to attend, asked Nancy if he knew where he was.

  “Can’t tell you, Noah. Not secrecy – I don’t know. I’ve heard nothing from him in ten days. He’s with Gort’s HQ on temporary attachment.”

  Both men thought Tom should be safe there – the HQ would be pulled out towards the front of the evacuation.

  Thomas wore uniform, as was almost obligatory in wartime – he could have sought a concession from Group but had preferred not to. He had roped Jim in as best man, remembering at the last minute that he needed one.

  Grace wore a new dress, one that could serve at a dinner party quite equally. She had dispensed with bridesmaids, though any of her ferry pilot comrades would have stood with her.

  She walked into the church on her father’s arm, stood next to her bridegroom smiling with unalloyed pleasure, lightening up the old church.

  The vicar was ancient and short sighted, saw only a pair of blurs before him. He set about his business, bustling about the service in practical fashion. He had intended to go into retirement but the war had intervened, made it impossible to find a replacement; he soldiered on increasingly aware of the onset of old man’s bladder which had lately reduced the length of all sermons and blessings, probably to the pleasure of his congregation.

  The wedding breakfast was much curtailed – rationing did not tolerate feasting. The supply of alcohol was less restricted and the noise level rose rapidly.

  “Well, Thomas? What have you been doing to the brass? My father says that Dowding in person had to come to your rescue.”

  “I slapped down a bloody fool who still thinks the RAF is a circus act.”

  She had learned much about the RAF in the past months with the ferry service. It seemed entirely reasonable to her that much of the brass thought that way.

  “Are you safe from this court-martial business, Thomas?”

  “So Dowding says. I gather they have posted the halfwit – Hallam-Pettigrew - to airfield protection. His function now is to inspect ack-ack positions at the new fields as they are brought into operation. He can’t make too big a cock of that. With luck. Most of the fields have got no guns yet – we are short of Oerlikons and Bofors and three point seven inch.”

  “Why don’t they just get rid of the incompetents, Thomas?”

  “Once they started, where would they stop? Bad habit, getting rid of brass merely because they are useless.”

  Tommy interrupted to ask Thomas how he was getting on with his new squadron.

  “When do you think you will be ready to take them down south, my son?”

  “Four more weeks, Old Man. They still have some bad habits ingrained – like this nonsense of wanting to open fire at four hundred yards. Two of them are due to be awarded the noble order of the boot – one drunk; one wants to live forever – not quite chicken but too willing to think twice, or so I judge him. He’s full of bull and talks a good fight and I might simply dislike him. I’m not certain of him yet and won’t damn him till I am. Might have to wait until we actually go operational. I’m giving the drunk enough rope to hang himself.”

  “Bloody drink, Thomas – it’s the curse of this country. Too many piss-artists at all levels, starting at the very top, in Downing Street.”

  “What exactly are you doing now, Old Man?”

  “I’m working with the aircraft development side of the Air Ministry, believe it or not. The new man, Beaverbrook, wants to get some idea of what makes sense for next year’s aircraft. I’m looking at the ground-attack proposals. Some of them make good sense. The thinking is to replace the Hurricanes as fighters in a year or so and turn them into fighter-bombers.”

  “Good idea. Hell of a plane – strong and a good gun-platform, but she’s getting outdated. Give her four cannon and a pair of bombs and she can go after tanks, or small ships, or beat up trenches. No need to tell you about that.”

  “I’ll talk to you again, when the current set of problems are over. Where’s Cissie?”

  “With Noah and Jim, over on the left, look.”

  “Young, isn’t he?”

  “Very – but he picked up five in less than a fortnight. If he lives, he’ll be one of the best.”

  “We’ll need him, Thomas.”

  “For sure. Is Cissie well?”

  “Flourishing and happy with it. I’m lucky, yet again. Be good, my son. And you, my daughter!”

  They laughed as Tommy made his way to his wife’s side.

  “What’s the plan, Grace?”

  “We pull out in half an hour and go across to our house at East Runton for the weekend. Back to work on Monday. My father has come up in a training Anson and he’ll take me down with him.”

  “Well and good. Not what I might have wanted in terms of a honeymoon – we’ll just have to make the most of what we’ve got.”

  Monday went off in fine style – Thomas caught Andrew Faulds taking a swig from his hip flask while sat waiting in his cockpit for the word to take off. He grounded him on the spot.

  “Tony! Who’s our boss now?”

  “Group Captain Tucker. Based up near Lincoln, got some of the fighter squadrons on the East Coast.”

  “Can you get through to him?”

  “If the telephones will permit, yes.”

  Thirty minutes later Tony called Thomas to the phone.

  “Stark, sir. Very well, sir, thank you. I have grounded one of my pilots and want him out as soon as possible, sir. Hip flask and raising his spirits before take off. Flight Lieutenant Faulds, sir.”

  The thin, distant voice asked for the spelling.

  “You’ll get a written order today, Stark. Posted to Scotland, to fly guard at Scapa Flow. A fate worse than death.”

  “He was sent to me from Wick, sir. Not much use there.”

  “Sod it! I’ll find something else for him. He’ll be out before dinner. I’ll order up a replacement for you as well. I’ve got a spare body on one of my Defiant squadrons – should be able to make the transition to a Hurricane.”

  “Thankful to, I would hope, sir.”

  “That is not to be said, Stark. When do you expect to be ready to go south?”

  “If there was an emergency, tomorrow, sir. I would like two more weeks of intensive training. Can’t exhaust the pilots with long hours of training if they are on notice to scramble, sir. They have the basics now but I would like them to have more… A fortnight today, sir, if you wish.”

  “Plan for that, Stark. There’s a few more days left in the evacuation from Belgium and then it will be a matter of Adolf getting his fighter squadrons to Channel fields. The big attack on England should start early in July and every possible squadron is wanted at the coast by the end of June.”

  “We will be there, sir.”

  Three hours later posting orders arrived for Faulds. He was to take ship for Singapore, to join a squadron flying Gladiators.

  “They are to be replaced by something brought from America, sometime, Faulds. Continue drinking as you are at the moment and you will be permanently grounded. You sail next week, from Liverpool I gather. Get off the field immediately. You will have transport to the railway station.”

  “What do I do while I am waiting for the ship?”

  “Get drunk, I expect. But not on this field. Get out of my sight, Faulds – you have let your squadron down. I had recommended that you be cashiered and then called up as a private soldier because you are a disgrace as an officer. Go now or I shall have you taken to the station in handcuffs. Your papers and warrants are in this envelope.”

  Tony was stood at Faulds’ side, ordered him to about face and march out
.

  The replacement arrived by staff car in mid-afternoon, luxuriating in the thick cushioning in the rear of the Humber.

  “Flying Officer Marks, sir. Ted. Posted in, sir.”

  “First time those seats have been used by a lowly pilot, I’ll bet, Ted. I’m Thomas.”

  “Comfortable – nice to know how the brass live, Thomas. It seems that you were in a hurry to get a replacement, Thomas?”

  “We go south in a fortnight. In that time you have to convert to a Hurricane and pick up the basic tricks of the fighter trade.”

  “The Defiant is supposed to be a fighter, so they tell me. I flew a few hours on a Hurricane in training – sufficient to know what I was missing in a Defiant. How do you fly here, Thomas? We have heard that the tight formations and the squadron area attacks have been dumped by some squadrons.”

  “Our experience in France says that the finger four of the Luftwaffe works. The Flight or squadron to be in loose contact and able to see all round. Most attacks end up being made in sections of two, watching each other’s tails. You’ll learn, Ted. We are still organising our Flights – swapping people about so they can get experience of working with each other. You’ll fly with Jim tomorrow. He’s younger than you, less time in the RAF, but joined us green in France and made a score in days.”

  Ted had been out of training for a year, long enough to know his way around a squadron. He suspected he was being asked to give quiet advice on routines and basic paperwork.

  “I can learn from him, Thomas. He must have the fighter pilot’s eye.”

  “Thanks, Ted. I need every pilot pulling together at the moment. You are replacing a competent pilot who had developed the habit of carrying a hip flask. Not a good idea when flying.”

  “Bloody stupid, if you ask me, Thomas. Have I got time to go up this afternoon, just to remind myself of a Hurry’s cockpit before flying with the squadron tomorrow?”

  “No. Rain clouds in the west, might be coming this way. Jim will look after you in the morning – he can take you out early and show you the landmarks. Tony will settle you in now.”

  Thomas sat back, pleased with his new man – a forgettable face and in no way out of the ordinary in speech or attitude but a pilot who would fit in and probably show effective. No place for another prima donna but every need for strength in the chorus – a comment made by Iain Farquhar which had stuck in his mind. Iain had mentioned being a keen amateur tenor who had once wondered if he might not have an operatic career; his family had not approved – opera singing was show business and low, and the Farquhars had been soldiers since forever.

  He sat back with an hour to spare before dinner, wishing he was to go home to Grace to eat. It had been a short weekend, but busy and happy, a foretaste of their future life, he hoped. He mentally kicked himself – he had no time to dream. Tomorrow’s exercises were more important.

  The squadron needed to practise breaking when bounced. If they were committed to attacking bombers at eight to ten thousand feet there was every chance that the fighter escort would dive on them from height, would have the advantage of speed, coming out of the sun as well. The squadron must scatter but not leave themselves vulnerable as individuals, and preferably not collide with each other in the scurry to get clear. Also, they must score on the bombers, if at all possible.

  He sat with pencil and paper and came up with possibilities to talk over when it was raining and they were stuck on the ground.

  Rogers was ready with mess dress for the evening; he changed rapidly and wandered across

  to lead the almost formal procession to the table, their one concession to RAF tradition. He stood before the food came to table.

  “You will have noticed that Faulds is no longer with us. Nor is his hip flask. Ted Marks has replaced him and is not displeased to have come to Hurricanes after surviving a term of penal servitude – Defiants, was it not, Ted?”

  “Guilty, m’lud!”

  There was a mutter of sympathy around the board.

  “Cruel and unusual punishment, Thomas! No man should suffer that fate!”

  “I bow to your knowledge of the law, Aloysius.”

  O’Mara had taken his degree and commenced pupillage as a barrister before joining up. He had been a member of his university’s air squadron and had been through a short training course before going to active service.

  Soup was served, normally one of the better courses, fresh vegetables readily available in the depths of Norfolk.

  The main course followed, distinguished by the tiny size of the slices of beef, much outweighed by beans, carrots and potatoes.

  It could have been worse, Thomas thought – the overall quantity was enough to fill their stomachs, even if plainer than they might have wished. At least the beef was fresh, not canned from the Argentine.

  There were strawberries afterwards, the early season crop, naturally sweet and available off ration.

  “Could be worse, gentlemen. The advantage of being deep in the agricultural sticks – the food ain’t elegant, but it has some flavour and there’s enough of it. Tony, what’s the information from Dunkirk?”

  A peacetime mess avoided talking shop; that prohibition ceased when at war in all except the most traditional of regiments.

  “All I have heard says that they have pulled out the bulk of the BEF, Thomas. A lot of French as well. Must be the better part of two hundred thousand men so far. No tanks or guns or lorries. The most of the men are carrying a rifle and nothing else.”

  “That can be dealt with, Tony. Can’t replace a quarter of a million men in a hurry, but you can buy tanks and guns in quick time.”

  A week before and the news had been of unmitigated disaster; now, it seemed that total defeat had been avoided.

  General discussion around the table agreed that provided the factories could be kept in production the war was not lost. They retired to the bar.

  “Thought you would take a few days off for a honeymoon, Thomas?”

  “No, Robert. We’ve agreed that a holiday can wait for a year or two. When the war’s over, we’ll sail to Australia – six weeks of idleness. For the while, Grace is still needed as a ferry pilot and I suppose I can keep myself busy here.”

  “Was that your father I saw, Thomas? Weighed down by the amount on his chest?”

  “It was. The Old Man is in planning now, he tells me, considering the production of ground attack aircraft. Might be us in a years’ time. The Hurry’s getting outdated, so they tell me.”

  “It’s a damned good fighter, Thomas. It will bash anything Adolf’s got.”

  “This year, I agree, Robert. Next year might be different. We get hold of a new mark with cannon and more power and bombing capacity and we will be roaming over northern France, looking for targets.”

  “Sounds good to me, though we do have to win the next stage of the war first.”

  The telephone rang, very early; the morning was wet and Thomas was trying to get ahead of his paperwork.

  “Tucker. I’m sending you eight green objects just come out of the OTU – the Operational Training Unit. They know remarkably little and can do less. I want you to mix them in with your pilots, take them up in Flights and generally spend the next month training them. Take them south with you. As they come up to scratch, feed them into operational flying to give your men a rest. There will be more planes coming in, and ground crews for them. We lost pilots unnecessarily in the Great War, sending them up with no more than eight hours to their names. This time, we want a few hundred hours of experience before they so much as see a Hun.”

  Thomas’ first dismay abated – thinking on the idea, it actually made sense. He would be able to rest his pilots at least one day in four, more as the boys learned their trade.

  “When do they arrive, sir? The sooner the better if we are to migrate south in ten days. It sounds sensible, sir. We will need a number more of ground people – cooks and batmen and such. Are they still conscripting the unfit and the incompetent?”
>
  “I could send you a hundred of those, Stark.”

  “Do so, sir. The boys do like having servants – it makes them feel pampered and costs nothing because you have to find some occupation for the hopeless. They don’t have the aptitude to make mechanics, but they can do something useful for the squadron, and we can teach them to handle a machine gun on the field. That’s a thought, sir. You could send a dozen Vickers K Guns with them. They ain’t much use as ack-ack, but loaded tracer they might put the wind up a Stuka.”

  “Can’t make any promises, Stark. Not impossible. I’ll see what can be done.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll give my adjutant the good news – nothing he’ll like more than to find accommodation and stores for another fifty bodies.”

  “I should pay you a visit at some time, Stark. Make an official inspection before you disappear. My records say that the squadron is poorly disciplined, scruffy and unable to meet the most basic standards. I had better correct that if I am to hand you over to another Group.”

  “I didn’t know Hallam-Pettigrew had had the opportunity to file a report, sir.”

  “He posted it to his office.”

  “Malicious old sod! Determined to get a final shot in.”

  “He’s been posted again, after one week in airfield defences. He proposed mobile anti-aircraft batteries – horse drawn. Small carts with a pair of Lewis Guns in each.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sent the suggestion up to the Air Ministry. He’s been transferred to Scapa Flow to act as air-liaison officer with the Navy there.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer chap. He’ll enjoy being ignored by the sailors.”

  “Especially with winter coming. Billeted in a hut with the mess a quarter of a mile distant, having to walk through blizzards to get there… Wouldn’t wish a posting to Scapa on my worst enemy.”

  “Wouldn’t you, sir? I would!”

  “How unkind, Stark. I should see you tomorrow or Thursday, depending on the weather.”

  “Knock up something special for luncheon, Thomas?”

  “No, Tony. Buggered if we should go short for the rest of the week just to fill the bellies of the brass. Spam, egg and chips – it’s edible and it’s what we’re used to. At least we get plenty of eggs here.”