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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Worth trying to hit them, sir.”

  “Good practice for your lads. Take the first sorties yourself, Stark. Your pilots have heard of you, vaguely. They need to see that you can do what you talk about.”

  Thomas was a little surprised – it had not occurred to him that he needed to prove himself in front of his own pilots. He had told Jim that he could take the first Flight out; he should not go back on that. He called the flight lieutenants together after lunch.

  “Group Captain Tucker was pleased with all he saw this morning. Well done. From tomorrow morning we will be operational in this sector. There have been occasional RDF, that is Radio Direction Finder sightings from the Chain Home system, thought to be Luftwaffe recce planes nosing about the coastal convoys routes, trying to locate the swept channels the ships use. This is to be discouraged. We shall have Flights in the ready room for daylight hours. I’ll have a word with Control about timings. What I have in mind is for Jim to take early mornings; me to follow; then Robert followed by George and John. Doing it that way, Jim and George can continue to work with the new men and we can shuffle the lads about to finally decide the sections and the Flights.”

  “The four of us to take Flights as a permanence, Thomas?”

  George, naturally, had the question.

  “Yes. You are flight commanders as of tomorrow morning. No need to get a replacement flight lieutenant for the drunk. I have requested one more experienced man to make up the squadron. The pilots can take it in turns to be available twice in the day.”

  “Makes sense, old chap. The five sergeants will be ready to join them next week. Working well, they are. Better than me when I first joined my squadron – but that was peacetime, of course. Will we be keeping all five of them or will they be sent to make up numbers elsewhere, Thomas?”

  “You tell me, George. I would want to keep them. A fortnight in France left me knackered, flying all day every day. It would make sense to have relief pilots, assuming we have enough to keep the planes in the air. A couple of days we flew for ten hours, which was more than tiring. Add to that, no RDF in France so half or more of the patrols were dead – we saw nothing. With the system we have here, we will be sent up to incoming raids every time. The chance of a dud patrol is almost nil.”

  “That, old son, will be bloody ruinous! Going up with the near certainty of a fight every time will exhaust the lads in quick order. Won’t do me any favours, I can tell you!”

  “Agreed, George. We need those sergeants and the other three as well. What’s the word on them, Jim?”

  “Ivor will be good. But not for another hundred hours – he still has to think about flying, doesn’t react intuitively. I think that’s the word, anyway.”

  John grinned and assured him it was. He was known to read books, kept a shelf of them in his room, somewhat to the awe of the other pilots.

  “What of the other two, Jim?”

  “Good question, Thomas. Theo flies best of the three – very light hands, as the jockeys say – but he hasn’t got the killer in him. There’s a chance he won’t press the tit when he gets into firing position. Can’t understand it meself. Nice chap – and that might be his problem. Think he must have had a hard time of it at school, the bullies would have been queuing up for him. I want to give him a week and then pass him to you for a decision, Thomas. Might be you could take him out to have a look at these recce planes – throw him in the deep end when he won’t be a risk to the rest of us.”

  “Will do, if I can. That makes good sense, Jim. What about the third of them, Martin?”

  “Not much of a pilot. Tries to grab the plane and force it do what he wants. He won’t ever be much better. He’ll kill anything that he can get behind. Wouldn’t want him near my sister, if you know what I mean. Nasty piece of work. Another week of trying to ruin his Hurricane and we can take him on as one of us – he’ll be a good fighter pilot while he lasts.”

  “Short-lived?”

  “For sure. He’ll get the bit between his teeth – kill two and be sure he can use his last rounds to down a third if he manages to set himself five yards off the cockpit. Brilliant but short, Martin’s career will be – but I’ll bet he gets a dozen in his few weeks.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Jim. Tell him he’s in if he makes that last extra effort at flying.”

  George agreed – the boy sounded like the sort they needed. The others shrugged – they were fighter pilots, not renowned for their love of the human race.

  Nothing came through for three days – the pilots sat in the ready room and read newspapers, slept or tried to converse, none of them successfully.

  George’s Flight was scrambled in the late afternoon, swearing as they ran while doing up the buttons opened on a hot day. The four were in the air in three minutes, which Thomas was prepared to accept for a first attempt. He listened on the radio as Control sent the Flight out to sea at ten thousand feet, calling course changes and achieving an interception.

  “Red leader. One Heinkel 111 at angels eight, turning due east at speed. Tally-ho. Over.”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  “Red Leader. Red Three, Four, hold back for a second go. Red Two, line astern. Diving now. Over.”

  A short break and then they heard machine gun fire.

  “Red Leader. Red Three, Four. Attack now. Over.”

  A few seconds and George’s voice again.

  “Red Leader to Control. Flamer. Heinkel is afire, going down hard… Splashing now. Wing torn off… going under. No sign of survivors. Over.”

  Control ordered their return to base.

  Fifteen minutes and the radio crackled and George requested permission to land. Thomas walked outside to watch, saw the four land in two pairs, all very correctly, heading off to the hangars.

  The four pilots came inside, laughing together, obviously pleased with their success. The Idiot appeared from his little office, clipboard ready and a tense expression as he readied himself to ask his questions.

  “One Heinkel 111, shared four ways, Idiot.”

  “Very good, George. Did you see any markings on the planes? Any numbers or letters that could identify its squadron?”

  They agreed they had, but were not entirely sure just what the letters were. They had been too busy for reading.

  “Anything else distinctive, would you say?”

  Peter had seen patches on the port wing.

  “Had been repaired, Idiot. Not new plane.”

  “Useful to know, Peter. That means it was one of the squadrons involved in the attack on Belgium and France, probably. A good chance there was an experienced crew aboard.”

  “Gunners missed, Idiot. In France, often they hit. Maybe old plane, new crew?”

  “Might be. Possibly replacements for gunners killed in the first raids. Many planes were damaged then, their crews taking casualties. Did you see anything else?”

  They had spotted nothing out of the ordinary and retired to the mess to initiate the celebration of the squadron’s first kill.

  “Has there been any progress on the request for camera guns, Idiot?”

  “Due in a few days, Thomas. They probably would not have the definition to show numbers.”

  “Pity. They’ll be useful. Easy to identify a Heinkel with that big wing. No problems there?”

  “Nice and straightforward – but it took four to down one bomber, Thomas.”

  “Popguns. What do you expect?”

  “Aiming at the cockpit, the way you did in France.”

  “I shall remind them of the need, Idiot. What’s the word on airfield defences?”

  “Precious little. The bulk of Bofors guns remained behind in France. We were one of the few exceptions, you know.”

  The ground staff had traipsed across France in a hopeful convoy, finally ending up on the Breton coast and finding a ship there. They had loaded their lorries aboard and had followed with their two Bofors and the dozen of Vickers K Guns they had collected and had turned up
in Poole harbour unexpected in the early morning before being sent round to Southampton to offload at the docks there. According to Idiot’s account there had then been a three-way dispute between the services as to who laid their hands on the cache of weapons.

  “We picked up a hundred rifles and four Brens on the way, Thomas. Worth their weight in gold, it would seem. If we had known, we could have loaded more on the lorries – but we weren’t told.”

  “So, to get back to the topic, we can forget about guns round the field when we get south.”

  “It seems so, Thomas. There might be some Great War vintage stuff, but not much. The word I’ve been given is that the bulk of guns available are going to Portsmouth and Chatham, to protect the ships there. Makes sense if there’s a fear of invasion.”

  Regrettably, Thomas had to admit that it did.

  “Keep an eye out when we do go south. Basically make sure we have slit trenches and shelters where possible.”

  “We are short of lorries again, Thomas. The transport we brought back was all taken into pool, obviously, not having a squadron at the time.”

  “Talk to Tucker’s people, Idiot. See what we can beg from them for a few days. I suppose we could try to send some of our stuff by rail…”

  “Not if you want to see it again this year, Thomas. The railways are completely buggered.”

  “Nothing changes, it would seem.”

  Word came to scramble a Flight soon after eight next morning. Thomas led his three pilots out at the run and was off the ground in two and a half minutes.

  “Green leader, airborne. Over.”

  “Control, a single contact off Cromer by three miles. Make angels eight. Over.”

  At that distance, the contact should be already visible. They stared ahead, due east but the sun was high enough that they did not have to squint.

  “Green Three, angels two, port ten degrees. Floatplane. Over.”

  “Green leader. Got it. Heinkel 115. Green Three cover. Green Two on me. Tally-ho. Over.”

  Thomas dived hard to port, trying to remember details of the Heinkel floatplane. It was a torpedo bomber, he recalled, and commonly also used as a minelayer or reconnaissance plane. Armed with two machine guns, or perhaps it was three. Limited agility, due to the floats. He levelled off and then banked to starboard and dropped again, holding fire until he was close. The floatplane spotted him and tried to bank away, falling to sea level in the hope of scaring him out of his own dive.

  He levelled out at fifty feet, much closer to the water than he fancied and pulled his aiming ring onto the nose, waiting until the cockpit occupied the whole of his sights, then a quick burst and pulling up and over the crashing plane.

  “Green Two. Got him. Over.”

  Thomas pulled round in a circle over the splashed aircraft, spotted a single crewman launching a tiny dinghy. He climbed to two thousand feet.

  “Green leader. Control, Heinkel 115 down at three miles distant Cromer. One survivor in dinghy. Over.”

  “Control. Cromer lifeboat launching. Circle to give marker. Over.”

  The floatplane sank, leaving the dinghy and its lone occupant. Twenty minutes brought the lifeboat to pick up the prisoner.

  “Green leader. Lifeboat on site. Over.”

  “Control. Pancake. Over.”

  Thomas led his Flight back home, content that he had provided a lesson in how to deal with slow bombers.

  “What markings did you see, Thomas?”

  “None to recall, Idiot. It certainly had letters and numbers but I just wasn’t looking at them.”

  Iain volunteered that he had seen ‘17’ on the side.

  “It had letters as well, but they were in that curly Gothic script and I couldn’t read them, Idiot.”

  “Bloody nuisance, German script. Don’t see why they can’t fit in with the rest of Europe.”

  They agreed with the Idiot – it did not make sense.

  “Like the Chinese, isn’t it? We lived in Shanghai until I was fourteen. Couldn’t ever make sense of their writing.”

  They thought that was interesting, asked Idiot what his father had done over there.

  “He worked for one of the big companies, Jardine Mathieson. Still does, but in Singapore, their big offices are there. I came back to finish my schooling and go up to University. I was intending to go back east, but I ended up in the City instead. Don’t know what I’ll do when this lot is over.”

  “Something useful, I expect.”

  “God, I hope not, Iain. I could imagine nothing more boring.”

  “Unchanged in some ways then, Idiot?”

  “Good Lord, yes, Thomas! You don’t consider the RAF useful, do you?”

  “Good question, Idiot. I suppose I have to answer that I don’t consider the RAF at all.”

  “Very wise. Makes you up to eleven and a half kills in the RAF, by the way. Do they give you a gold medal for that?”

  “No idea. Ask Tucker.”

  “Thomas, message from Cromer, from the lifeboat station. What are they to do with their German prisoner?”

  “Give him to the local police, Tony. They can put him in their cells until he is collected.”

  “They want to know if we wish to take him for the evening, to give him a meal and a greeting, a salute from fighting men to an honourable foe?”

  “Tell them to get stuffed. He’s a bloody Hun and it’s a pity he didn’t get shot with his crew. I’ve given him the only salute he’ll get from me.”

  “I’ll put that a little more tactfully, Thomas. The answer is in the negative.”

  George wondered that they should not have offered hospitality to their downed enemy.

  “After all, Thomas, his war’s over. Can’t really call him a menace to us any longer.”

  “He’s a Hun. An enemy to the human race, to the whole of civilisation. Murdering bastards who should all be dead, George. You’ve heard of Guernica and Rotterdam? Every town and city in England is likely to face the same from those animals. I really wish he had drowned with the others of his crew – why should we waste food on those scum? Have a word with Sergeant Ardingley if you want to hear what they did in Spain. I am told they bombed and machine gunned the refugee columns in France as well.”

  “I expect that was under orders. So as to block the roads to the armies, I expect.”

  “Balls, George! The roads were jam-packed solid anyway – they couldn’t get more blocked than they were. Ask Idiot about trying to shift the ground crews from one field to another as we ran.”

  Idiot surfaced from his pint in the corner where he sat quietly.

  “Could have taken hours to get over a crossroads, so many refugees shoulder to shoulder, poor sods. They killed them for the fun of it, not from military need. Possibly they wanted to terrorise the population in advance of occupying France – whichever, it was murder in any man’s language.”

  George said no more on that topic.

  “When do we go south, Thomas?”

  “No confirmation, George, but I’m planning for next Monday. So far, I have not been given a field to go to and we are short of lorries for the journey. Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Shan’t, old boy, but I’d like to get back south. Left a lovely little girl in Sevenoaks, wouldn’t mind going back there before some horrible sod of a soldier or somesuch comes knocking on her door.”

  They laughed and then listened to a rumble of thunder in the distance.

  “Guns at sea?”

  Tony poked his head out of the door.

  “No, tall clouds close to – wet as hell within a few minutes.”

  It was still raining the following morning when Tony ushered a young officer into Thomas’ office.

  “We have a Quack, Thomas. A real genuine-Bedouin Medical Officer, all of our own!”

  “A rare privilege. You may be useful, Quack, come in and sit down. You’re soaking, man – been out in the rain?”

  “No taxi, sir, and half an hour in a pony and trap from
the station.”

  “Oh dear! I hope Miss Overstone hasn’t caught a chill. Very pleasant young lady. Damned nuisance having no telephone at the station. You should go and ask after her health when next you are in town, Tony.”

  “Subtle indeed, Thomas. Let me introduce Flight Lieutenant Horner, who is a qualified doctor. He tells me he has completed his months in a hospital, post-graduation but preferred to join the RAF rather than serve in a civilian hospital.”

  “Family connections, sir. My mother’s brother was RFC and then RAF.”

  “Thomas, not sir. You are more than welcome, Quack. We had an orderly in France who did his best but simply did not know sufficient for our needs. Pilots pulled out with burns need immediate treatment which I hope you will be able to provide. Tony will settle you in and you must give him a full listing of all you need for your sickbay. Can’t guarantee you will get it, but we will try. I expect the squadron to be sent south within days, to a more active field. You are here just in time.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Breaking Storm

  “Got a field for you, Stark, tucked away down on the Sussex coast, not so far from the place you were before you went to France. Up on the cliffs between Eastbourne and Brighton – chalk soil, dry, fairly much flat, drains quickly. Big field as well, all grass. No runway but don’t need one on that land. Satellite field, of course – which means it’s short of brass, which you won’t object to.”

  Thomas listened in growing suspicion – Group Captain Tucker was far too cheerful. There had to be a sting in the tail.

  “Place was in civilian use for years, got its own little control tower and has had hangars added over the past year. Huts for the troops and an old hotel nearby – less than a quarter of a mile – taken over for the officers. Idyllic location, you might say. By the seaside.”

  “How lovely, sir. What?”

  “What what?”

  “What’s wrong with the bloody place, sir?”

  “Ah! Well, I wouldn’t call it wrong, not in the sense of not being right, Stark. I expect some people might, but I regard the country air as being part of Old England, you know.”