“Sounds useful. Have you heard anything about the Sunderland?”
“Nothing. You know what fighter pilots are like.”
“Ignorant; narrow-minded; totally focussed on the one thing they know. Noah tells me yours is a foreign squadron?”
“Best sort. Almost every man a professional with a grudge to work off. Half of us have scores from Spain and China and the rest know how to learn. Saw some Cranwell boys as we were setting up, making up the numbers. They are going to die young, too many of them. No idea of how to fight. Not taught, poor little sods.”
The taxi put them down outside their bank and they wandered in, ignoring the queues for the tellers and aiming for a gentleman who seemed to be available for other services.
“One of your managers, please. My name is Stark, from Brisbane. There will be a substantial deposit in my name, I believe. Tommy Stark, senior.”
Five minutes saw them in an office, repeating the formalities of identification.
“Your account is established and is remarkably healthy, Mr Stark.”
The assistant-manager seemed unwilling to give figures in Thomas’ presence.
“My son is aware of the family’s wealth, sir. I will wish to make a transfer of funds to his accounts, sufficient to provide him with an income for the next few years. He will be marrying at some time in the near future and will need to establish himself. I am returning to the RAF as a squadron leader, but I have no wish to live on my pay, so I have brought enough with me to get by on. We must accept the possibility that either of us could be shot down, or crash, so I want to make provision for the rapid transfer of deposits between our accounts in such case.”
It was out of the ordinary, but so were five-figure current accounts. The needs of such rare clients of the bank could always be met.
When they returned to Holt, they discovered that Lucinda had arrived home in the afternoon. She was polite and very tired but believed she had done well enough in her examinations.
“One of the London hospitals – Guys or Barts, I hope. I will know in a couple of weeks.”
She showed little interest in Tommy’s presence and was hardly enthralled to hear of her sister’s engagement.
“Congratulations. I do trust you will be happy.”
Thomas and Grace spent most of their days driving and house-hunting, having decided that Norfolk was as good a place as any to base themselves. It was likely they would both be posted away, they thought. They did not set a date for a wedding, preferring to wait on the harvest to discover if there was to be a war that year.
“All very traditional, little lady. The troops don’t march until the wheat is in and the next year’s food supply is secure. The invaders then hope to steal from the defeated and the defending side at least have something to eat while they fight.”
“Do we have any idea of who Hitler will attack?”
“The politicians think it will be Poland. The theory is that Germany will take the Polish agricultural lands and use them as the basis to build their strength to go into Russia. If Germany fights Russia then they won’t attack in the West, so it’s very much wishful thinking on their part. They are convinced that Russia must be an enemy of Germany.”
“Impossible for the Reds to ally with the Fascists, so Russia will keep Hitler occupied for years, in which time we can build our defences?”
“That’s the hope, Grace. They might be wrong, though. What if Hitler chooses to conquer the industrialised countries instead? A far better base for an invasion of Russia, if it is his long-term aim.”
“Or half and half. Take Poland for its wheat fields and then turn on the West for coal and iron and then, finally, go into Russia on a far stronger basis.”
“That would be politically inconvenient so they are convinced it cannot happen. Henry gets the word on how the bigwigs are thinking and briefs us each week, to give us some idea of what to expect. His opinion is that ‘thinking’ is too strong a word for the cerebral processes of our masters – most of them are either fundamentally stupid or self-indulgent to the extent that they believe nothing can ever go wrong for them. They know what they want and it must happen, because the world cannot be unkind to them!”
“Useless objects, are they not, Thomas?”
“They are politicians!”
Tommy went down to London, booked in at the Dorchester in the late afternoon and asked at the desk if there were any messages for him.
There was one sealed envelope.
‘See you tonight, old chap. N.’
He laughed and wandered up to unpack in his room, found a porter there ready to perform the service for him.
“I know your face, don’t I?”
“Driver, sir. With the squadron in ’18, sir.”
“So you were, corporal as I remember, on gate duty and manned the Vickers anti-aircraft gun we kept there.”
“That’s right, sir. Have you come back to the RAF, sir?”
“Getting my uniforms, Driver. Coastal Command.”
“Good thing too, sir. My son’s joined up, in the RAF, learning to be a mechanic, sir. Been in the best part of three years now. Rising eighteen, he is. I’ll tell ‘im to put in for Coastal Command, sir.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him, Driver. I’ll be on Sunderlands and they have an engineer in their crew.”
“Thank you, sir. Be just right, that would.”
Tommy changed for dinner and made his way down to the lounge and waited with a gin and tonic. Nancy arrived soon after seven, beautifully turned out and smiling.
“Tommy! You look well. Couldn’t resist a second round?”
“How could I turn down the chance to get into trouble again, Nancy? I understand you are still in the same business?”
“Got to keep the old brain ticking over, Tommy. My car’s outside. We’ll eat elsewhere – I know a little place where they can actually cook. I like the company as well. I hear your boy Thomas is doing very well, old chap. He’ll have his own squadron within a month and he’ll take it across to France when the balloon goes up. They intend to send Hurricanes, Gladiators and almost all of the Battles across. Spitfires to be held back for Home defence, which may be a sensible idea. He’ll be given a bunch of Americans and some of the wilder elements who have turned up with pilot’s licences – up to him to make something of them.”
The car was a Rolls with a chauffeur, unsurprisingly.
They ate well and drank sparingly.
“What’s Noah’s son like, Tommy?”
“Bright and sulky – outshone by his sisters all his life. Put his brain to work and you’ll have a good man, Nancy. Needs shaking up a bit. Find him a bad woman to chase him round his bedroom at night and he might well change his attitude. Sit him down in an office with a hundred bits of paper to make sense of and a deadline to produce a report on what they mean, and I think you’d get more than your money’s worth. He could go as a subaltern and he would do the work - but Thomas thinks he’s too valuable to waste as a brown job.”
“Right. I’ll speak to Noah and tell him I want the boy and we’ll get him a commission, so he doesn’t stand out as a civilian when the war starts – that’s easily done. He can sit down in one of the offices out in the sticks. We keep a couple of houses out in Hertfordshire, quietly out of the way, and do a lot of radio listening and other things there. If he’s got a brain, then he’ll soon be drawn into the game. If he don’t make the grade, I’ll have him out in the field, sat down in Switzerland probably, listening to the neutrals and collecting the gen for us.”
They parted at midnight, Tommy agreeing to come to dinner with Nancy’s family on the Friday.
“In uniform, of course, Tommy. Have a few guests there afterwards. People you should know.”
Chapter Nine
The Gathering Clouds
The party was relatively quiet – a little music from a massive gramophone in the background, excellent wines and cocktails, much in the way of conversation between the thirty or so
guests assembled in the huge room in Nancy’s town house.
Some of the faces were familiar from long back, including an American of Tommy’s age with an old burn scar across his face from the Great War.
“Joe, what brings you to London?”
“Oh, this and that, Tommy. I work in Washington these days. I’m attached to the Embassy temporarily.”
Tommy asked no more – Joe had obviously gravitated from flying into Intelligence in some form. He had spent years in a prison camp to learn German so it was a logical progression.
“You’re Coastal Command, I hear, Tommy. Going to be busy. The Hun will have his submarines out from day one, and the Navy won’t be able to catch them all, not by a long way. You need five hundred Sunderlands and PBYs, all patrolling in the Atlantic and a score of aircraft carriers to cover the stretch where land-based planes can’t reach.”
It sounded all too likely and was impossible of achievement.
Nancy’s wife, tall, slender, beautiful as Tommy remembered, introduced him to some of her female acquaintance - variously single, divorced and unconcerned; most spotted the decorations and some recalled the name. Several made it clear that they were interested; he remained speaking to a few, but not for more than a minute or two.
“Twenty years single and I have forgotten how to talk to women, Nancy. Not to worry. It’s almost as much fun watching the world go by as being a part of it. Is that Churchill in the corner, talking so intently?”
“It is. I’ll introduce you later. He is our only hope for replacing Chamberlain – anyone else in the party is just another of the same bunch of appeasers and retrenchment merchants. Churchill ain’t much use – he lacks the intelligence – but he’s the best of what we’ve got. He will go into a coalition with Labour and allow them to look after the civilian population and plan for post-war, mainly because he won’t realise that’s what they’re doing. Necessary – I don’t like Labour much but if they don’t take power the Communists will. My office knows just how much the Conservatives are hated now. We will build armed forces of maybe five million men and women, Tommy. When we win the war, we don’t want them choosing to keep their guns and turn them on Whitehall and Westminster. It’s not impossible.”
“Taking the long view, Nancy?”
“Someone must, Tommy.” He turned to a woman just behind him. “You’ve not met my sister, Cissie – Cecelia by baptism but she hates the name. Ten years my junior – the afterthought.”
Cissie was at least as intelligent as Nancy and showed hardly any physical similarity. While he was precise and neat, she stood tall and robust, dark hair long and casually contained, blue eyes sparkling, a broad smile as she made her greeting.
“You’re Tommy Stark, then? I know what you look like, of course. You don’t match the photographs in my brother’s possession. They all show a terribly keen young man – not the impression you give, I must say.”
“Press photos show what they want the public to see, Cissie. I was under orders to cooperate. I will be again on Monday when they trot me out with Noah for the benefit of the hero-worshipping masses.”
“Might be preferable to be obscure. I find it easier.”
“What do you do?”
“I lecture. Economics at LSE.”
Tommy smiled and offered his congratulations. He had an idea of the nature of Economics but had never heard of the LSE. Nancy tried to control his laughter.
“The LSE, Tommy – the London School of Economics – is one of the leading colleges in the world. It is also very left-wing. Several of its lecturers were killed in Spain.”
“Shouldn’t have been there if they couldn’t look after themselves. No place for amateurs, or so my son tells me.”
Cissie, inclined to be irate, noticed that he seemed to be approving of his son’s activities, which seemed to be out of character for a senior military man.
“Was your son in the International Brigade?”
“No. He was a pilot for the Republican Air Arm. He has a dozen Italians and Germans to his name.”
“Oh, well done! What is he doing now?”
“In a Hurricane squadron in Sussex.”
“And you have joined again, I see.”
“Sunderlands – as befits the older and more sedate gentleman. They tell me fighters are a young man’s game. They might be right.”
She laughed and said she had heard of many German fighter pilots of the previous war who were now senior men in the Luftwaffe, almost none of them flying.
Nancy grinned.
“They couldn’t shoe-horn fat Hermann into a cockpit these days, despite his much-vaunted willingness to fight.”
“Goering? He had Richthofen’s Circus, didn’t he?”
“At the end. He did what he could with it. Now Hitler’s greatest ally, so he says. Still has a flying brain but it’s fogged with heroin and brandy. Nine days out of ten his decisions make good sense but he’s capable of the stupidest cock-ups on occasion. We could do worse than have him in charge of the opposition.”
Cissie was displeased, thought they seemed to welcome the prospect of war. Tommy grinned and shook his head.
“That’s what you keep people like us for, ma’am. Dig us out of the back cupboard and dust us down when the guns start to fire and give us pretty medals and tell us to keep quiet elsewhen.”
She was impressed by the comment, thought it showed a depth.
“Is there such a word as ‘elsewhen’, Tommy?”
“It’s a very good word.”
“I’m sure it is. A pity it doesn’t exist.”
Nancy wandered off, left them to their discussion. An hour later he noticed they were still in company, talking comfortably with a group of academics and their wives, some of the most scholarly people in London, brought together because the war coming would demand their abilities in government and administration. It was as well that they should know each other.
“Who’s the VC, Nancy?”
Churchill’s growl brought Nancy to the alert; the old man liked the company of heroes.
“Tommy Stark, the ground attack and fighter pilot. He’s come back from Australia, left his daughter in charge of his airlines and small arms factory there – he tells me she’s a better businessman than him. He’s joined Coastal Command, because they will still let him fly at his age. His son is with a fighter squadron in Sussex after coming back from Spain with a dozen kills to his name.”
“Sounds like a damned Red!”
“No, sir. Just a man who hates the Nazis and their Italian pals.”
“He’ll do then. ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend’ – I have heard worse ideas.”
“Very sound, all of them. The son’s engaged to a daughter of Noah Arkwright, also a flying VC.”
“Good family! Introduce me, will you?”
“Well, Stark, are we going to win this war?”
“If it starts in ’42, yes, sir. If it starts this autumn, after the harvest, no. We still have two million and more unemployed in this country. They should be marching in training camps or working in factories to produce planes and guns. I am told it will be two years at least before they will be put to work. If that’s so, they’ll probably be given their jobs by Hitler. If the war starts this year, the Americans will have to win it because we will be lucky to fight a draw. From the little I have heard, the Americans may stay neutral.”
“Yet you have come from Australia to fight for your country.”
“I am a flyer, sir. I have nothing to lose as well. My daughter has the family firms in hand and my son is flying for the RAF. Better I should make myself useful. Add to that, I know nothing more exciting than taking a plane up into the air with the chance there’s a Hun waiting for me. They won’t let me inside a Hurricane or Spitfire – they say I am too old – but I can go hunting in a Sunderland, and I shall!”
“You seem to think war is a blood sport, Stark.”
“It is – but my foxes fight back. Tried hunting when I was a boy
in Hampshire. Not much of a game to my mind.”
“What does the RAF need, Stark? Most of all?”
“Pilots, sir. Recruited the way the Germans do it. The best and only the best to fly. Open exams and tests for any boy who wants to put his name down - the cleverest and the fittest, no matter who their parents are or where they come from. Everything I hear tells me that the German pilots are better than ours for being brighter and more athletic.”
Churchill did not approve – the right sort were important to him.
“You sound a bit Red, Stark.”
“Twenty years in Australia, where men are valued for their ability not for their father’s money, has made a difference to me. In the Great War I brought more than a score of men up from the ranks and into a pilot’s seat – and they were among the best we had. One of them has more than forty kills to his credit, and a VC, and I was told he was the wrong sort, could never be successful because of his background. If that’s Red, then so be it, sir. We cannot afford to waste the men we have.”
“The RAF has sergeant pilots, does it not? Good idea to make more of them?”
“No. If they are good enough to fly, they are good enough to take a commission. Sergeant pilots are a bloody nonsense.”
“But, how can they fit into a Mess?”
“How can the Mess fit them? If they’re good to fly and fight, they’re all I want, sir. It’s also all the country needs. We’re short of pilots and are taking on any man who has flown overseas. Why can’t we take on our own people?”
Churchill could not understand his argument – England was great because of its history and that did not include giving commissions to oiks and plebs. They parted with some dissatisfaction.
“If he’s the best you can find in Parliament, God help Britain, Nancy.”
“God won’t but the newspapers and wireless will, Tommy. If Goebbels can make a superman out of unlikely material like Hitler, we can do as well for Churchill. The people want a strong and wise leader – we’ll make damned sure they get one!”
“Who does run this country, Nancy?”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 14