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

by Andrew Wareham

  “No matter, Tony. The best laid plans of mice and men…”

  “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera in a Jock accent, I know, Thomas! Take a walk across to the mess and tell them we’re here would you? I haven’t done that yet and don’t have the time. Take Peter the Pole with you – he wants to talk to you informally but privately.”

  “About what?”

  Tony shrugged – it was private.

  Thomas walked across to the ready room where the pilots had congregated for lack of other facilities. They had got up a game of cricket, lacking a bat or ball but using their imagination to fill in the detail. They were arguing a no-ball when Thomas arrived. Peter was watching, puzzled.

  “Ancient English sport, Peter, played by ancient English idiots who have never forgiven the Australians for doing it better. I’m going to walk across to find the mess. Fancy the exercise?”

  Peter realised he was being invited to join Thomas, fell in beside him.

  Eighty yards from the ready room to the gate in the perimeter fence. A gravelled footpath led to the side of a narrow valley, almost two hundred feet deep, widening out rapidly as they walked down rough-made steps.

  “Bloody neck-breaker that will be when it’s raining, Peter!”

  “Not good drunk. Is beautiful country – look!”

  The path turned a corner and showed an expanse of sea through the tree-filled valley, a narrow beach and a large building set back a few yards at a height of perhaps thirty feet above sea level.

  “The mess, I presume, Peter. An old country house, once upon a time – Victorian from the look of it. Red brick with turrets. Back in the days before the Great War when the gentry had money to throw away on such things. Probably a duke’s seaside cottage! Forty or fifty bedrooms on two floors. Dining rooms and a ballroom and various lounges on the ground floor. Easy to turn it into an expensive hotel. Tennis courts to the side. A pleasure garden to the front leading to a balustrade to lean on and look out to sea. Run down in the morning for an invigorating swim.”

  “Not no bloody more, Thomas. Is barbed wire and sign says ‘Mines’.”

  “Presumably they don’t want Adolf dipping his toes in the water there.”

  “No bugger want that. Thomas, is can I ask to have Polish sign on my Hurricane? Is four squares, two red, two white like chequerboard.”

  “As well as the roundels, Peter? Got to have them or some Spitfire will shoot you down one day for not knowing what you are.”

  “Yes. On the side of cockpit. Personal.”

  “Yes. Do it. I will tell all of the pilots that they can put their own insignia on their planes. You won’t always fly the same plane, Thomas, and sometimes relief pilots will fly yours. Good idea though. My father had a sword painted on the side of his Camel – he has a photograph of it at home.”

  “Good. I tell my fitter to do it tomorrow. Maybe some bastard Nazi see it and know he been killed by a Pole.”

  “A lot of Nazis, I hope, Peter. Where’s the main door? Round the front? Good exercise before dinner, walking down the chine – get a respectable thirst on.”

  “Is supposed to eat dinner, not drink it.”

  “Maybe. Here we are. Everything open, nobody in sight. Shop!”

  “What?”

  “Call ‘shop’ if the place is empty and you want service.”

  “Bloody English!”

  Thomas looked about him, saw the signs of military occupation in boot-scuffed skirting boards and floors and patches of new paint to the walls replacing torn wallpaper. It was not too bad, yet.

  The mess sergeant appeared.

  “Squadron dining room to the right, sir, looking out over the sea. Bar to the left, also giving a nautical view. Bedrooms are upstairs, sir. Those on the first floor are larger than the rooms on the higher level. Your batman has chosen yours, sir. The rest remain to be allocated. The lorry with the pilots’ suitcases has not driven in yet, sir.”

  “Peter, go up and grab a room. Rogers!”

  The batman appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Where’s my room, Rogers?”

  “First floor, sir. On the left. I have unpacked your bags. There is a private bathroom next to it, sir. The bedrooms along the left-hand corridor are the largest, sir.”

  “Put up the names of the Adjutant and the flight lieutenants on their doors, Rogers. For the rest – first come, first served. Oh, put Shorty Hyman’s name up as well – there’s a strong likelihood that he will be promoted quickly.”

  Rogers trotted off to find pieces of card and a pen and drawing pins. He was much in favour of a proper order among the officers who did not, in his opinion, behave to each other with a correct degree of dignity.

  Thomas declared the squadron operational in mid-afternoon.

  He had an over-full complement of pilots – for the first time in the war and probably the last. The mechanics had all flown in and found the hangars ready to step into. The squadron’s other ground staff had taken over working kitchens and stores and the guards had discovered a comfortable gatehouse.

  The barracks huts were draughty and would probably be intolerably cold in winter – but this was the English summer and they were no worse than cool at night.

  The field was quite desirable, apart from the smell, and that was not intolerable – though the barracks rooms closer to the fence might find it a little offensive.

  They were distant from the sector station and its resident wing commander. No doubt the wing commander would appear on occasion, but he would have to make an effort to get to the squadron so might not be seen too often.

  “Tony, have you spoken to Wing today?”

  “No – putting off the awful hour.”

  “Understandable. I’ll do it now. What’s his name?”

  “’Sir’?”

  “I’ll ask the controller.”

  “Bertram Plunkett, Thomas. Plonker Plunkett – played rugby for the RAF until a few years ago. In the pack. Big chap, wouldn’t fit into a fighter cockpit these days. Plays cricket, too – very keen. Shoots as well. And fishes. Very sporting. Country family, as you might gather. Rather a jolly sort of fellow. Everybody’s pal – you’ll hate him. Thinks he’s funny and is pleased when people laugh at him, not realising why. Makes a good wing commander because he’s idle with it – he won’t get on your back.”

  Thomas was not wholly convinced of the man’s virtues.

  “Useless if I want him to do something. Harmless otherwise. Is that what you’re saying, Johnny?”

  “Basically. He’ll want you to field a cricket team.”

  “He can get stuffed for that! Too busy for games this summer. What’s the group captain like?”

  “McIntyre – lean and keen. Very clever, better at thinking than doing. Won’t go anywhere near Plonker if he can avoid it. You’ll see him once a fortnight on his rota of inspection, more often if there’s a cock-up but never less. He listens to everything you say. If you make a request that seems sensible, he’ll order someone to do something about it, but he won’t act himself.”

  “Waste of time, it would seem. Not to worry. I’ll speak to Plonker now.”

  “You won’t Thomas. Not at past four in the afternoon – he’ll be nowhere near his office. Send a message that you will be on the telephone at ten in the morning. I’ll talk to sector control and tell them that Rosegarden is open for trade, shall I?”

  “Please. From dawn, if they need us. I want to spend a couple of hours this evening just getting a look at the landmarks.”

  “Easy to find, Thomas. Brighton has its piers which stand out and from there you’re close to the RDF masts of the Chain Home station.”

  The lorry pulled in with Shorty aboard, two hours later than expected.

  “Road closed, Thomas. Had to go ten miles inland and find our way without any signposts to guide us. There was an army convoy blocking the coast road – wouldn’t say what or why but a lot of their trucks carried red flags. Mine laying along the beaches, I reckon.”<
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  “Good enough, Shorty. How’s the hand?”

  “Lost just the one finger and the third’s a bit stiff. No problem in use. Doctors have given me the all clear to fly and I’ve been up in a Hurricane to make sure for meself.”

  “Welcome home, mate.”

  “Thanks. What are we doing?”

  “Convoy protection, I think, but we haven’t been told yet. Hopefully, we are operational and will be briefed soon.”

  Shorty nodded, glancing round the crowded ready room.

  “Where’s the mess, boss?”

  “Down in the valley on the west. Couple of furlongs distant – a scenic walk when it ain’t raining. Your room has been allocated. Should be comfortable.”

  “Good. What’s the smell?”

  “Pig shit.”

  “Thought it was familiar – reminds me of China.”

  They flew late that afternoon and declared it was very scenic and then spent their first evening in the new mess. That was quite pleasant as well.

  “Gentlemen – I must make a brief announcement, even though the bar is open. Do not venture onto the beach. Do not go swimming. There is a minefield on the other side of the wire. It is live. The mines will go bang. The noise will offend my fragile ears. The explosion will, at minimum, blow your legs off. You may decide for yourself which effect is the most important. Please understand that this is not a joke. There may well be soldiers standing sentry along the cliffs against invasion. They probably are a joke. That is all I have to say, except that in celebration of our new field, the first drink is on my account. Red Flight is on readiness for five in the morning.”

  Jim scowled and shrugged and ordered a pint of shandy – beer mixed with lemonade to make it weak. Erik Janssen, Peter and Charlie Poole did the same, dutifully.

  “Strong Flight you have there, Jim.”

  “Charlie is a good wingman, Thomas. Peter and Erik naturally work together. From my point of view, a damned good thing, Thomas. Erik might be able to restrain Peter, keep him alive a bit longer. A lot of bitterness in Peter – he is a killing man now. What he was before the Germans invaded Poland, I don’t know, but he’s dangerous these days. Glad I’ve got him in the Flight – just what we want.”

  The ready room telephone rang at ten minutes past five next morning.

  “Red Flight scramble. Eastbound convoy under attack. Course one seven zero degrees. Angels eight. Over.”

  They ran and were airborne in a little more than two minutes.

  The convoy was well inshore, perhaps five miles out to sea and distant no more than ten miles from Rosegarden. The Hurricanes were unable to make their assigned height before spotting the ships.

  A single armed trawler was firing a high-angle twelve pounder at an unseen target. She probably had machine guns as well but was not using them.

  “Red Leader. Convoy in sight, Under high level attack. Over.”

  “Control. Small plot. Two or three. Angels ten. Over.”

  “Red Leader. Buster. Over.”

  They thrashed their engines and climbed hard, reached ten thousand feet to see a pair of distant specks heading for the French coast, too far off to be caught.

  Jim reported to Control, was told to remain on patrol, protecting the ships, until relieved. They throttled back and dropped their speed to a comfortable two hundred and performed wide circles around the convoy for forty boring minutes until they saw Green Flight coming to take over.

  Back home, Jim reported.

  “Too little, too late, Idiot. We achieved nothing, except to look silly.”

  “I expect you were good at that, though.”

  “If I wanted a comedian, I’d go to the music hall. Any further questions?”

  The Idiot retired – he had only been trying to offer light relief, couldn’t understand why Jim had reacted so sourly. Thomas, who had happened to be standing within hearing range, wanting to get an unofficial take on what had gone wrong, decided not to approach Jim for a few minutes.

  “Breakfast is waiting in the ready room, Jim.”

  “What is your recommendation, Jim?”

  “Go to twenty thousand feet – at least – before dawn and patrol at that height, waiting for the Hun to come. We have to be there first if we are to catch them. Do we have a timetable, a schedule for where to find the convoys at first light?”

  “I don’t. Wing might have. Group should have. Failing that, we can get someone from on high to speak to the Admiralty. I doubt it will take more than six months to get a reply. I will try, Jim.”

  Thomas telephoned Wing precisely at ten o’clock. A sergeant responded.

  “Squadron Leader Stark? Sorry, sir, Wing Commander Plunkett has an important meeting at the moment. With the Army, sir. All morning set aside for it. I understand they are arranging a gymkhana. Then there will be lunch, and he has a cricket match this afternoon. He doesn’t normally get into his office on a Wednesday – sports day, sir. I will remind him of your presence and expect he will contact you on Thursday, sir.”

  “Don’t bother, Sergeant. Just tell him we are operational as of now and he need not worry himself about us.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Would you be so kind as to forward the message to Group, Sergeant? I am unwilling to go over the Wing Commander’s head.”

  “I can do that immediately, sir. The message will be on the Group Captain’s desk within a few minutes of my contacting his office.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. If you should ever be passing Rosegarden, knock on my door.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  Thomas shouted across to Tony, briefed him on the call.

  “I’ll put a bottle of Scotch to one side, Thomas. I’ve got half a dozen left from last Christmas – kept ‘em for bribes. I suspect it will go to a good home.”

  No more needed be said.

  Group Captain McIntyre called within the hour.

  “Squadron Leader Stark, I am glad to see you are operational so very quickly. Well done, sir! You will know that we expect the onslaught at any time now – indeed, it should have started already. Fat Hermann is letting us off the hook with his foolish sloth. Every day sees another dozen and more of Spitfires and Hurricanes made new or repaired and refurbished, and another few pilots trained.”

  “Who the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad, sir. The gods must be on our side this once.”

  “Possibly true, Stark. Now, what is the exact state of your squadron? You seem to be remarkably well-off for pilots.”

  “I am, sir. I have sixteen of experienced men and five sergeant pilots and two green pilot officers who have trained hard and are ready to be taken on their first sorties. I have just twenty-four Hurricanes. I could use a greater supply of the special tracer rounds, sir.”

  “De Wilde explosive bullets, I believe, Stark. There was some thought that they might be used exclusively for ground attack or to destroy runaway balloons.”

  “Large numbers of balloons around here, sir.”

  “In that case, you must have the rounds. They are in short supply, but some squadrons have refused them. I understand they are ‘unsporting’.”

  “My word! How jolly, sir!”

  “That is my feeling, Stark.”

  The voice was uninflected, dry, almost monotone. Thomas gained the impression that it concealed a man far more intelligent than him.

  “That apart, sir, I am satisfied that the squadron is ready to rejoin the fight.”

  “Good. I see you have two Polish pilots, Stark? Would you prefer them to be transferred to the all-Polish squadrons which are forming in England now?”

  “No, sir. Definitely not. My last squadron was full of Poles, Czechs and Americans – all experienced men who had already fought the Germans and their allies and had no illusions about why they wished to fight them again. I had not heard that there were Polish squadrons forming – and I do not doubt that they will be the greatest of assets to this country.”

  “I bow to
your experience, Stark. Your own record is such that you must be listened to.”

  “Thank you, sir. One point, sir – sergeant pilots. They do the same work as officers and are equally as valuable, yet they cannot talk with the other pilots in the mess at night and should be briefed separately. In my opinion, sir, they are a nonsense. I would request that my five be commissioned as pilot officers, sir, at the earliest possible moment.”

  “Request noted, Stark, and your reasons accepted. I cannot do it. There is a strong body of belief that officers are gentlemen and cannot be drawn directly from the body of the people. The Air Ministry would not countenance a simple mass commissioning of the sergeants before they had flown to battle. The moment they start to score, Stark, send me their names – direct, not through Wing – and I will deal with them in routine fashion. Nothing unusual in giving a commission to a successful sergeant.”

  “I will definitely do so, sir.”

  “Good. I expect to visit you on Friday afternoon, Stark. If possible, I shall be in company with Wing Commander Plunkett. He may not be playing cricket then.”

  Red Flight was circling a westward convoy next day when Sector Control scrambled the remainder of the squadron to their assistance.

  Control had a large raid on its screen, coming cross-Channel on a direct line for the convoy.

  Thomas led three Flights, leaving John on the ground to bring three of the new pilots along if necessary. He had put Martin in place as his wingman in Blue Flight, thinking he should bear the burden initially.

  Martin took off bumpily, hauling the nose up too early, and then wandered two or three hundred feet at a time off course, heaving jerkily back into line. He obviously had a fierce grip on the controls, forcing them rather than tickling them into place. The concept of flying his plane eluded him – he drove it.

  Control vectored the squadron onto the convoy. As was inevitable, they arrived after the raid they were responding to. There was a tangle of aircraft over the ships. A destroyer and two trawlers were pumping up anti-aircraft fire in a hopeful barrage, not aimed at any individual aircraft.