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

by Andrew Wareham

  “What?”

  “Oh, well, if you insist on being technical, Stark. Thing is, from all I am told, and I haven’t been there myself, as you will appreciate, but it does seem that there might be a pig farm quite close, on the upwind side. Rather a large pig farm. With lots of pigs.”

  Thomas was not amused, took the opportunity of a dig back.

  “Looking on the bright side, sir, the cookhouse will be able to serve its swill straight over the fence – no need to offer it to the men first.”

  “We are doing our best to improve the standards of cooking, Stark. It has not been easy, the way the service has expanded so quickly.”

  “I fully agree, sir. It merely seems a pity that so much of already short rations should be wasted by being burned or rendered otherwise inedible by the cooks.”

  “We are trying to train the cooks, Stark.”

  “Excellent, sir. You might try giving them a few more brain cells as well. Selecting your cooks from the moronically inadequate does not seem the best of policies.”

  “The stupid have to be used for something, Stark. They are conscripted and sent to us and we must set them to work.”

  “Can’t you turn them into politicians, sir?”

  “Been done too often already, Stark!”

  “There we fully agree, sir. When do we go?”

  “I can get four additional lorries to you tomorrow. You can start to run them down as soon as you like. Operational not later than the middle of next week. Congratulations on that float plane, by the way. Lost a few ships to mines lately and suspect they have been laid from the air. Bit of a problem with those Heinkels – they are also used for air-sea rescue, it seems. See them with a red cross on and the law is you must leave them alone, even if they are down in the Channel picking up crashed aircrews so they can fly again.”

  “Well, if that’s the law, sir, it must be obeyed. Far be it from me ever to break the law, sir.”

  “Exactly, Stark. The law is made for the benefit of us all and must never be broken, even if it is acting to benefit a bunch of Hitlerite Nazi bastards.”

  “I’m sure we agree on that, sir. I will tell the lads that they must satisfy themselves that the enemy is not acting under false colours and, provided they are one hundred per cent certain that is the case, they must not shoot them down.”

  “Well done, Stark! I fully agree with your course of action.”

  “I am glad of that, sir. What’s the name of this new field, by the way?”

  “There’s a local village, Chinedean, which gives its name, officially. It’s generally known as RAF Rosegarden.”

  “My word, sir. How remarkably witty.”

  Tommy flew in for a few minutes. He had been at Martlesham Heath for two days, watching as a new plane was given its first airing, and had wandered the few miles north on his way home.

  “What is it, Old Man, the new plane?”

  “Variant on the Beaufort, which is more or less a derivation of the Blenheim. Beaufighter, it’s to be called. Big, heavy, fast, carrying the hell of a payload. Won’t do as a pure fighter – same problem as the Me 110, too clumsy in the turn. It will make a fine fighter bomber. Good for attacking shipping, especially. A bit on the big side for tank-busting, but ideal for warehouses and such. Plenty of use for it. Now that the first models have shown good, I shall recommend orders in the four figures. Go well with the Hurribomber – your smaller, nimbler stuff to work the frontline battlefield while the Beaus cut up the rear. De Havilland has got ideas as well for a light and very fast bomber. Provided we survive the next three months, it should be an interesting war.”

  “We’re down to Rosegarden next week, Old Man.”

  Tommy did not know of the field.

  “On the cliffs not so far from Brighton, next door to a pig farm.”

  “They used to have a pig farm next door to Brooklands, before the Great War. It’s where I picked up this scar across the head. Soft landing, mind you. The hospital hosed me down before they’d let me into Casualty.”

  “I hope to Christ you’re not setting a precedent. Is Cissie well?”

  “Flourishing, like the green bay tree. Growing remarkably large and incredibly cheerful. Not the best time to produce a child, you might think, but I can’t really see us getting defeated, Thomas.”

  “Nor me. All we have to do is fight a draw this summer. Adolf has got to achieve an all-out win if he is to destroy the Navy in every port between Plymouth and Newcastle and then launch an invasion.”

  “Exactly! According to the Navy, they already regularly put a hundred small ships to sea overnight from the Channel and southern North Sea ports and have at least forty of destroyers and cruisers fast enough to intercept a fleet at sea. New patrol boats are being converted in every yard on the south coast, more or less. Adolf hasn’t got the ships to meet them.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “No invasion is possible without first destroying the whole of Fighter Command so that the ports can be bombed flat. We keep enough fighters to defend the ports, he has lost, especially if we can produce more AA guns.”

  “We all agree that. Haven’t bothered to tell the journalists – it’s too complex for them. Politicians are more or less in the dark as well - they might interfere in sensible planning if they thought there was a chance of winning. The factories are gearing up and production is increasing every week, Thomas. There’s still the better part of a million unemployed though, wanting to get to work and with nothing to do. Christmas before they’re all mopped up, so I’m told. We need to open up new factories in the places where the men are, up North, mostly.”

  “Crazy! Wasting men when we need every hand in use. Talking of business, how is my sister?”

  “Making money. Producing guns and bombs and refusing to make aircraft. There’s an all Australian plane in the pipeline. She says its old-fashioned and no bloody good. She’s busy with the light cannon and with sub-contracting to the shipyards. Says we’re making a mint.”

  “Can’t be bad!”

  “Too right, mate. I must go – due to get down to Hurn tonight and then to Plymouth tomorrow. Discussing new aircraft for Coastal Command. See you, my son.”

  “Don’t get shot down by mistake, Old Man.”

  “Shan’t – I’m too old to be caught now, even driving a tired old Anson. I’ve tried to borrow a Spitfire, but they won’t let me near one.”

  “Can’t imagine why. My regards to Cissie.”

  Thomas watched the Anson take off, heading almost directly west to take the wide swing around London and then due south to the New Forest. He ambled across to the mess to address the pilots before lunch.

  “RAF Rosegarden, Thomas? Never heard of it, old chap.”

  “Newly taken over, I believe, George. The intention is to fly down on Monday. Half the ground crews to go south by lorry on Sunday, the remainder to follow as soon as we leave the field. I will try to get hold of transport planes to take Monday’s people down so that we can be operational within the day. Don’t like the idea of being right there on the coast and unable to get everybody off the ground because we’re short of mechanics.”

  They agreed that it did not sound desirable.

  “Still down one experienced pilot, Thomas?”

  “I’ve reminded Tucker – more than that I cannot do.”

  There was no need to comment that they had eight inexperienced pilots, all of whom wished to step up.

  “George, can you drop into the office for a few minutes after we’ve eaten?”

  “Delighted, old chap – just meet the demands of haute cuisine and I shall be with you.”

  There was a sausage to go with the egg and chips. It was big and pale and curly, tasted of pork.

  “What part of the pig did this come from, Thomas?”

  “Mi no savvy, master.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry – I was back in the Territory for a moment – they eat everything there.”

  “Papua, is that? I wis
h this sausage was back there. Still, it’s edible. Tony, you see the menus. What is this?”

  “Cumberland sausage, George.”

  “Ah, that explains much. North Country – ‘ee ba gum’ and such.”

  “That’s Lancashire.”

  “Same place – it’s north of the Thames.”

  Thomas was vaguely aware of the prejudice among the middle classes against the North of England. It mattered little to him – they were all Pommies.

  George sat down in the office, happily at home. It had never occurred to him that his existence in the squadron might be at risk.

  “What can I do for you, Thomas, old bean? Was that your father I saw climbing into an Anson when I brought the youths in? Weighed down by all that ribbon?”

  “Yes, he’s been at Martlesham Heath, dropped in to say hello while he could. He’s waiting to take over a shipping attack wing, Coastal Command. Running errands for the Ministry in the interim.”

  “Poor bugger! Wouldn’t wish that fate on any man, working for the big brass.”

  “He’s seeing this chap Beaverbrook a lot. Says he’s a little shit as a person but a damned good administrator. He’s really shaking up aircraft production and repair. No shortage of planes, that’s for sure.”

  “Which brings us to the question of jolly pilots, old boy. Five sergeants, to wit.”

  “Exactly. What’s your opinion?”

  “Ardingley could join the squadron today. He wants nothing more than to kill the Hun. He ain’t going to last, if you ask me, Thomas-me-lad! He’ll take too many chances trying to make his kills. If he does live, then he’s quick promotion material. Good family, too good to be a sergeant. I suspect the problem is he’s got Spain against his name – they wouldn’t take him into officer training for being too Red.”

  It was not unlikely, Thomas thought.

  “The other four?”

  “Rock solid, Thomas. They ain’t going to set the world on fire but they’ll make some kills and will be safe wingmen. I would put all five onto operations, if the choice was mine, old chap.”

  “So be it. I don’t keep a dog and bark, George. I asked you to do the job and I’ll take your word that it has been done. They are your lads – tell them that they will be operational as soon as we get to Rosegarden. We will be running four Flights and rotating pilots on and off flying so they all get at least one day a week of rest, more if possible. Put them into sections – pairs who fly together. The fifth body will go with one of new pilot officers, if they all make the grade. Obviously, you are a flight commander, George.”

  “Thank’ee, squire. I wasn’t sure you would make me up, you know.”

  “Neither was I. You’ve done the job I asked for. Keep doing the job and you’ll have no problems with me.”

  “Fair enough, old chap. I won’t let you down, you know.”

  “Good – I’ll guarantee you won’t let me down twice. I don’t think you will once. Ask Jim to come in, if you spot him. I must get his opinion on his three.”

  “He’s had a harder job than me, Thomas. I thought he was getting it easy with only three – but it ain’t that way at all. Bloody hours that lad’s spent trying to get the spotty youths up to scratch. Mind you, scratching’s about all they’re good for – the standards for officers and gentlemen are declining in my humble opinion.”

  “Too many bloody Diggers hanging about the place, George. Bound to lower standards.”

  “Jim, what have you to tell me of your three wise men?”

  “Not bloody much, Thomas! Was I ever that green?”

  “Yes. Less than a month ago. But you hardened up quickly. Funny, the rugby-playing lad who came out with you – forget his name – seemed far more likely a prospect. Died in days while you made the grade. Odd how it goes.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Bob, I think. We were quite friendly at Cranwell. Can’t remember his face now. Anyway, three green youths, Thomas. Ivor can fly almost well enough but will get better slowly if at all. Take him on as operational or dump him now. On balance, he might be more of a use than liability, so put him on operations. Martin is an animal – no sense trying to teach him the elegancies of flight – but he will kill. Very happily, I suspect. Put him on operations and give him a very patient sergeant mechanic who will mend his bent planes uncomplainingly. Theo flies well, far outstrips me. Do well in one of these weather flights, you know, in the special planes at thirty-five thousand feet taking instrument readings far out to sea. He won’t ever make a fighter pilot. No sense of needing to make the kill. Get rid of him, Thomas – he’s a liability.”

  “Will do, Jim – if I can. I’ll speak to Tucker now. Have a word with the other three flight lieutenants – you will be my commanders so will need to work out your Flights as from our first day at Rosegarden. Ease the new boys in between you. Make up your sections as well as you can – lads who will work together naturally, if possible. Pick your own wingmen on the premise that they stand next in line for promotion.”

  “For new squadrons or for us, Thomas?”

  “Three months, Jim. Mid-June now and the weather makes a sea crossing a dodgy business in autumn and winter. If Fat Hermann is to beat us in the air, he’s got a little more than twelve weeks to do it. He’s wasting time at the moment, probably because he has to create new fields along the Pas de Calais. His fighters need a short sea crossing if they are to have time over England. He should be able to set up within the next fortnight and get his petrol and ammunition in. If he has any sense – which is debatable – he’ll be hammering us by the first week of July. That will give him eleven or twelve weeks at us. In that time, we will lose men.”

  “Pray for shit weather, Thomas.”

  “Too bloody right, Jim. The more of this English rain and fog we see, the happier I’ll be. Keep a grin on your face, mate – you go out looking like death warmed up and all of the youngsters will know we’re doomed.”

  “Fair point. Are we operational still this weekend?”

  “I’m about to talk to Tucker. I’ll enquire. Hope so – no fighter escort for these floatplanes and recce bombers. A couple more of soft kills will do the lads good. If you get a chance, go in hard and close, Jim, show them how to do it.”

  “They know, Thomas. Your lot swore you opened fire at fifty feet on your floatplane.”

  Group Captain Tucker was happy for them to take any contacts picked up over the weekend. His own squadrons were a little too far north to get down the Norfolk coast in a hurry.

  “Got a man for you, by the way, Stark. Got his orders to him a couple of hours ago. He’s in London so he’ll report at Rosegarden on Monday. One of your old hands. American by the name of Hyman. Just come off wound leave. If his papers are accurate, he has a score as long as your arm.”

  “One of the China hands, sir. Most of the Americans stayed there, went down south and joined the Flying Tigers. A few came across to Spain and those that survived went to us, mostly. They saw the bombing and didn’t like the bastards who did it. Shorty was in China early when the Japanese were flying lousy old biplanes and were inexperienced with it. Banzai and a head-on attack was all they knew – they seem to have thought it was bad-mannered when the opposition snuck up behind them and shot them in the back. They learned, eventually, I am told. The lads have told me the Chinese paid them a good salary and a bloody great bonus for every Jap they put down – made them enthusiastic.”

  “Sounds like an idea our people could copy, Stark. I wouldn’t mind earning a decent wage.”

  “Much to be said for it, sir. Any word from France?”

  “Armistice any day now. We are pulling out every man we can get onto a ship, except that Churchill wants to send another army to the south, into Brittany to hold there and eventually break out. The man’s bloody daft!”

  “Better him than Halifax.”

  “That goes without saying, Stark. Especially on an open telephone. Happy with your doctor?”

  “Little Jack? Well worth having, sir. Ge
t a doctor onto an injured pilot as soon as you get him out of his plane and you may save a lot more than we do now.”

  “Agreed. Right, Stark. I shall probably make this my farewell – shouldn’t need to bother you again. You’ll be in good hands down south. Most of Park’s men know what they’re doing and you won’t have too many idiots on your back.”

  “Good. Do you know who the Wing Commander will be, sir?”

  “No idea. Nor your Group Captain. I am told your field is only big enough for a single squadron, so you won’t have too much brass to contend with. Good luck.”

  “Before you hang up, sir. One last little job for you. One of the new pilot officers, the one I mentioned last week, Theo… someone or the other, can’t see his papers offhand…”

  “I have the list, Stark. Theo… got him. Very high marks throughout his training. Hasn’t got it, you said.”

  “He’s brilliant in the air, sir. Wonderful flier. But he’s got no kill in him. He won’t ever make a fighter pilot. Put him into testing, perhaps, or send him out on unarmed recce work or weather patrols – but don’t leave him with me. He’s useless to the squadron and he’ll die messily or lose it and refuse to fly or something equally silly.”

  “I’ve got nothing for him in the flying line, Stark. I can’t post him elsewhere – I’m all fighter squadrons. Take him or break him.”

  “He’s no use to me, sir. Broken it is. How do you want him?”

  “Inform him he cannot make the grade and that he is to be posted out. Not as an officer – if newly-fledged pilot officers don’t qualify, they can be broken back to sergeant. They definitely lose their wings in that case. Then give him a travel warrant and send him up to me. With luck he’ll go absent and then I can get rid of him rather than have him hanging about the offices doing nothing useful and damaging morale.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Nasty business, being responsible for destroying a man, ain’t it? Good luck down south, Stark.”

  Thomas swore quietly then yelled for Tony.

  “Theo to my office, please, Tony. I am going to break him. I want a warrant to take him to Group and he is to be off camp within the hour. Stay with me as witness, please.”