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

by Andrew Wareham

  The procedure was swift and harsh.

  “Theo, I am told that you will not make the grade as a fighter pilot. You are an excellent pilot but show little enthusiasm for fighting. What do you have to say?”

  Theo looked down at his feet, would not catch Thomas’ eye. He muttered an answer.

  “I like flying, sir. I don’t know if I could shoot at another pilot. Even pretending to makes me feel sick.”

  “Then you are of no use to me. You have failed training and will revert to sergeant. Change your badges of rank before you leave the camp. I suggest you should find one of the sergeant pilots who is of the same build as you and make an exchange of uniforms with him. He will certainly eventually need officer’s clothing.”

  Theo winced, came close to tears.

  “Can I have another chance, sir? I’m sure I could do better if I forced myself.”

  “No. You have failed. I want you off camp immediately. Do not go into the mess. Tony, organise one of your sergeants to escort him.”

  “Sir. Attention! About turn! March!”

  Tony came back half an hour later.

  “Put him in a lorry to go to Peterborough, Thomas. Takes time but there’s no direct link from Holt and I don’t want him broken down on some station in between and maybe brought back to us by the police. He swapped for a working uniform with Sergeant Ardingley – they’re much the same height. I cut the wings off. I grabbed his side arm as well, just in case. He was in tears when I put him up in the lorry, said his parents would never forgive him for letting them down. He can’t ever go home. Bad enough to be sent to a Hurricane squadron, he said. Not to make the grade here is impossible. He asked me three times if I couldn’t speak to you to give him another chance.”

  “To kill himself and let down his wingman? No. Better this way, Tony. For me, that is. There’s nothing that will ever be better for him. I just hope he waits to get off the field and out of our hands before he commits suicide.”

  There was a sudden noise of engines and they stuck their heads out to see a Flight scrambling.

  “John and his three… Still haven’t finalised the Flights. Do you know who he has with him today?”

  Tony shook his head and they trotted down to the ready room to read the lists on the wall and listen to the wireless.

  Control was vectoring the Flight onto a contact a few miles out to sea, told the Flight they should have it in sight.

  “Blue Leader. Have a Heinkel 59 in sight. Seems to be flying a box search pattern. Over.”

  “Control. No known downed aircraft in that position. Recce aircraft. Over.”

  “Blue Leader. Roger. Over.”

  Thomas listened to John’s brief orders and visualised the attack by one section as the other flew top cover.

  “Blue Leader. Splashed Heinkel. Flamer. Over.”

  “Control. Return to base. Over.”

  The He 59 was an older floatplane and had petrol tanks in the floats, vulnerable to fire.

  Fifteen minutes saw the Flight touching down, showing no signs of damage.

  The Idiot greeted them and took their reports.

  John walked across to Thomas.

  “He had red crosses, Thomas.”

  “Not no more, John. Well done. Nothing down in the sea within fifty miles of that location, John. He was mapping the minefields.”

  “Fair enough, Thomas. Mine, in any case.”

  “Talk me through it, John.”

  He had opened fire at less than one hundred yards and had used two bursts to set the Heinkel on fire.

  “I’m sure the first flames showed from the belly, Thomas, not from the floats.”

  “Auxiliary fuel tanks, maybe? Idiot might know.”

  Intelligence confirmed that the He 59 could carry additional fuel, the tanks installed in the carrying space which could otherwise be used for a stretcher.

  “Definitely not in the way of picking up survivors, John.”

  They marked the addition to John’s score and forgot about the Geneva Convention and the treatment of Red Cross planes and vehicles.

  “The whole squadron to go south together, gentlemen. There will be twenty-three of us – an impressive display. Four Flights to lead – sixteen planes, the number made up by Sergeant Ardingley. You may regard yourself as operational, Sergeant Ardingley. Also, the remaining sergeants and two pilot officers. Well done, all of you!”

  There were smiles of pleasure and mutual handshakes.

  “The seven new men will be fed into the Flights as relief pilots, or as replacements when the unfortunate need arises. Those of you who experienced the hairy fortnight in France will know that pilots need rest periods. I want to be able to put twelve planes up every day. There may be times when we have to do that five or six times a day. Work it out – we need reliefs. We are lucky – we have got them and they have been given training to bring them up to our standard.”

  This was very close to line-shooting, they feared. British pilots did not boast about their ability – over-modesty was demanded in speech.

  “Enough of slapping ourselves on the back, gentlemen. I shall lead the remaining half dozen in three sections in line abreast, Ivor and Martin to port, the four sergeants to starboard. Flight plan will avoid London – too much ack-ack there, trigger-happy and too dim to tell a Hurricane from a Heinkel.”

  “Are the stories about Rosegarden true, Thomas?”

  “Doubt it Robert. Few stories are in my experience. Which ones?”

  “On a cliff top with crosswinds all the time?”

  “Probably. It’s a fairly big grass field – no hard runway – so it should be possible to land and take off into the wind. We’ll see when we get there. It might be difficult, but the Hurricane is a forgiving sort. It should be possible. Landing back with damage might be a sod, mind you. We’ll see when we get there. It’s a satellite field and there are others within a few miles.”

  They nodded easily – they could fly; no problems getting down; bound to be a piece of cake.

  “What’s this about a pig farm, Thomas?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see it. Supposed to be large and smelly and very close.”

  “Don’t want porkers straying onto the field when I’m taking off!”

  “The guard will have instructions to shoot any trespassers.”

  “Fresh bacon?”

  “Pork chops?”

  “Prefer leg, meself…”

  The idea came to them all – the guards might be ordered to be broad in their interpretation of ‘trespass’.

  “Suckling pig, small and agile and very likely to crawl under a fence, Thomas…”

  “No! We shall not cut holes in the boundary fence, nor shall we organise raiding parties to climb over. On pain of my extreme displeasure, gentlemen! I shall ground any pork bandits.”

  They muttered that he had no sense of humour.

  “Pork makes me fart.”

  That was a reasonable explanation, they agreed.

  “Flying for nine o’clock Monday morning, if the weather agrees. If not, whenever possible.”

  The weather had been consistently poor, rain showers on most days. The cricketers objected; the more thoughtful hoped it might rain unbroken to October.

  The lorries started their runs on Saturday expecting to take the daylight hours to reach the Sussex coast and unload and then come back overnight with a relief driver. Ammunition and petrol was to remain, together with the bulk of the spares and the tools in the hangars. A new squadron was to fly in on Tuesday.

  “If it works, Tony, then next time, all we will need will be to shift the personnel and their bedding and kitbags and a suitcase each. Stores can remain, including rations. It would make shifting a squadron a simple task.”

  “Why is that important, Thomas?”

  “Get knackered with too many scrambles or lose a lot of men in a short time, it becomes possible to pull one squadron and insert another with little disruption.”

  “So it does.
Good thought… But it ain’t your thought, is it? The brass have actually been planning and making sense.”

  “Keith Park, I’m told. Able to think on his feet. Of course, he’s a Kiwi – not a Pommie with his head stuck up his arse.”

  “Good record in the Great War.”

  “So the Old Man has told me. The word is that Park is actually able to do his job - and do it well.”

  “Not many of the brass can claim that, Thomas. There might be hope for us yet.”

  Grace did not get leave for the weekend, to Thomas’ disappointment. He had to be content with writing his normal letter.

  Monday was dry and bright and they flew – rather impressively, they thought, making a farewell circuit of Holt, all of them in formation, each Flight making its cross-over turns to maintain the finger four at constant speed. They were pleased with themselves for managing the complicated manoeuvre so casually.

  Thomas was busy on the radio, contacting the sector stations as they flew west towards Oxford and then south and finally east along the coast from Chichester and over Brighton to the new field. The control system worked well and no squadrons were scrambled to intercept them, no ack-ack opened up. The level of efficiency seemed hopeful – they would need it for next few weeks.

  They circled the new field, hopefully calling to control. A slight delay and a voice responded.

  “Control, Rosegarden. Sorry, taking a pee. Didn’t expect you for an hour. Field is clear to land, wind gusty from the south west, along the coast. Over.”

  “Garden Leader. One circuit. Land by Flights. Over.”

  Thomas had been informed that his code was now ‘Garden’ and that he must use it. He inspected the field, saw that it was more or less oblong, about two hundred yards wide, and occupied the bulk of a headland, sea to its southern boundary and curving back for a hundred or so yards on east and west sides. They could come in from the sea to the south east and have a good five hundred yards to land in. The turf seemed flat and level and there were tyre marks and shallow ruts showing where the previous squadron had normally landed.

  He watched as Jim took his Red Flight in four abreast, tidily close to the cliff edge and moving off to the hangars with no difficulties for space. George, John and Robert followed, all competently.

  The four sergeants were watching him and he waved to Kerfoot, the nearest to him, and pointed them down, slotting in behind them by a hundred yards with Ivor and Martin at his side. It was annoying he thought as he lined up, that he must address sergeants by surname – an officer could not be on first-name terms with Other Ranks.

  He glanced around him, spotted the buildings of the pig farm close to the northern boundary. There were lines of pens with churned up fields to their front. Hundreds of pigs and tons of mud. The fence was tall wire mesh with a blackthorn hedge to five feet. It should be pig-proof.

  They landed, all without difficulty. A wind from due south would force them to come in from the inland quarter but should still present no overwhelming problem.

  Two of the hangars were pre-war built, tall and roomy. Four more had been added, roughly constructed with corrugated iron cladding over concrete stanchions, high enough for the Hurricanes to be worked over but on the gloomy side. There was space for two dozen planes, with a little imagination on the part of the mechanics.

  Tony’s flight sergeant was waiting by the hangars, under instructions to familiarise the boss with his new surroundings.

  “Office is in the base of the control tower, sir. here by the side of the hangars. Ready room is the hut added at the side of that. It’s big, sir – three huts knocked into one and with tables so that a meal can be served when needed. Other ranks’ accommodation, sir, is behind the hangars and stretches across to the boundary fence. Cook halls and messes as well, sir. Stores separated by their own fence. Armoury and magazine, sir, to the opposite end of the hangars, away from the control tower. Fuel dump beyond them, but close. No bomb dump, in the nature of things.”

  “Fuel dump is too close, would you say?”

  “If it blows, sir, we lose the armoury and the hangars for sure.”

  “I’ll speak to Group. We’ll likely have to live with it. Thanks for pointing it out. Have you spotted the officers mess yet? It’s supposed to be in a hotel, fairly close.”

  “On the Brighton side, sir, to the west. It’s down in a chine – a valley leading to the sea. Well protected. Must have been a posh place before it was taken over. Haven’t been down there but I reckon from a distance it might have forty rooms.”

  “Good. Should be comfortable.”

  “There’s a footpath down, sir, maybe four hundred yards. The road goes from the hangars out past the stores to the gatehouse then it looks like a mile inland before it turns down towards Brighton. I expect there’s a driveway from the hotel connecting to the road.”

  “Steep, the footpath?”

  “Got steps on it in places, sir.”

  “Keep us fit – look on the bright side.”

  Thomas shrugged – there was a chance of drunken pilots rolling down to the bottom, but he could live with that.

  “Good. That’s very clear, Flight. Thank you. Anything else of interest?”

  “Pair of guns, sir, dug in at the cliff edge, sir, about a quarter of a mile from the field, to the east and on their own separate road in – track, more like. New. I got in yesterday and talked with the gunners. Naval six inch, sir – old guns, they said, but usable for coastal defence. They’ve got a pair of light ack-ack with them – I didn’t see what exactly, but they’ll cover us as well, as much as they can with two guns.”

  “Might be useful. Have we got anything of our own?”

  “A Vickers on a high angle mounting at the gate, sir. Gun pits standing empty, waiting for something to put in them.”

  “Not so good. I suppose we’ll have to look after ourselves when the time comes. Are there any dispersal shelters for the planes?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, sir.”

  “Might be good exercise, building blast pens for the Hurricanes. We’ll deal with that when we can. Is your office close to mine?”

  “In the control tower, sir. Our field controller is there now, sir.”

  Thomas took the hint and made for the tower. It was not an inspiring edifice, white painted timber and thirty feet tall on a circular base of about sixty feet. It stood higher than the hangars with windows all round to give a clear view. There were two offices, large and small on the ground floor, the little one marked CO and empty except for desk and chair. The other was the Adjutant’s domain, probably too small for his needs but close and convenient. A stairway rose at the rear, zig-zagging up the wall.

  There was a middle floor, split into four offices, all empty, and then a ladder to the control room, manned by a flight lieutenant and a single sergeant.

  “’Morning, sir. Johnny Haskins. Sergeant Smith plays with the radios.”

  There were four telephones on the desk and empty boards on the walls.

  Haskins was bright scarlet across half of his face, petrol burns that had come close to his eyes and taken part of his hair. His mouth was twisted down on the one side and the ear was a pink stub.

  “I didn’t land in a sudden rain squall, sir.”

  “Thomas, Johnny. Bad luck! What’s your procedure?”

  “You give me a list of the squadron each night for the next morning. Flights and their leaders. Reserves. Off duty. That goes up on the boards. I get word from the sector field, who are informed by Chain Home and the Observer Corps about what’s happening. I call you on the internal phone in the ready room and will order up section, Flight or whole squadron, giving height and vector. In the air, I give further directions until you are in contact – then you are on your own. You are a full squadron – normally I would expect twelve or thirteen of you up. I may need to call for an extra Flight. I can envisage pulling every pilot and plane up – if the invasion comes.”

  “We fly in fours, Johnny. At the momen
t, I have twenty-two bods, one more due today. Seven of them are green and have been training with us. I want to feed them in slowly to the Flights to give the experienced hands a break. On big days, they may have to come in quicker than I might like. What’s trade like at the moment?”

  “At sea exclusively just now. The Navy is insisting on putting convoys through the Channel – almost entirely colliers these days. Hermann takes a poke at them most days. Messy. If you get there before the Hun, you can give his bombers a going over. Get there late and you’ll be low and the fighter escort will be on top of you. I can’t do much for you. I think the intention is to put you directly under sector control within a few days. It will be better if that comes off – they see more than me. It works fairly well. Watch out for the Navy though – they fire at every plane on principle.”

  “Met them before, Johnny. I hope to be operational for first light tomorrow.”

  “I’ll work on that assumption, Thomas. First lists to me this evening?”

  “Will do. Will you be messing with us?”

  “Should be, as long as I don’t put your youngsters off their food.”

  “Your face? They’ll see a lot worse than that before many days have gone by.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Breaking Storm

  “New pilot, Thomas. Telephoned from Brighton station – taxi there won’t take him this far. It would use too much petrol.”

  “Send a lorry, Tony. No alternative. Have we any stores to pick up while it’s there?”

  “No. We don’t buy from the local shops – too expensive.”

  “Annoying to waste the time and fuel, but I don’t see any choice.”

  “Agreed. I wanted to send all of the lorries back to Holt in convoy, but this would delay them by the better part of three hours by the time the one has been into Brighton and back. I’ll send the rest off and the other can stay here until they get back tomorrow. I wanted to have a spare vehicle with them, against breakdown.”