The Adjutant was into his forties, a veteran of the Great War, probably - taller than Thomas and carrying a beer belly, red-faced, bristling-moustached, balding and quite remarkably jolly. Thomas detested him at first sight.
Thomas heard shouting from the office next to his, gathered that Flight-Sergeant Eastwood had somehow caused offence. Ten minutes later ‘Uncle’ Ledyard reappeared.
“Just given the Flight Sergeant a wake-up call, Thomas. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile – I just give them a warning they’ll be broken down to erk second-class if they cross me! Now then, what do we do for a mess, Thomas?”
“Share with 182. Mess fees as they set, obviously. Costs to be split between the squadrons.”
“What’s the wine-cellar like, old chap?”
“We haven’t got one. Can’t afford it. Foreign squadrons, you see – pilots with no private incomes and living on their pay.”
“Damned poor show if that’s the case! I was talking to old Branksome last week, promised him a damned good spread when he Dined-In with us. Don’t know what to do if we haven’t got a wine-cellar.”
“Tell him there’s a war coming and that we don’t have time to play games. Two months till harvest comes in, Uncle, and a war immediately after. I want to get the squadron onto a full war-footing by then. There’s a good chance we shall be sent early to France and we need to be immediately ready to fight.”
Ledyard drew himself up, pontificated from on high.
“Can’t see it coming to war, myself! Wiser heads will prevail, young Thomas. Get rid of Chamberlain and put Mosley in his place. Suspend Parliament – bunch of bloody old women, they are. Everything will come out right, you’ll see!”
“Not a chance, Uncle! There will be a war and 186 Squadron will be in the middle of it! We will be ready for front-line service by the end of August, Uncle – and I will break any man who does not work to that end, all day, every day. I will require all stores to be at full within three days and I shall demand that every man shall be trained to his limits. You will keep the records for all our personnel – be ready to find a good reason to chuck out any man who don’t fit, Uncle. Every man who is efficient, will fit – no favourites, no friends, and no enemies either. Just two months to go. If the war hasn’t started by the end of the harvest season, it won’t start this year - nobody, not even a dick like Hitler, goes to war at the beginning of winter. We need to hope we have another year, but I doubt it.”
“I do think you should be a little more courteous in your speech, Thomas! Herr Hitler is the new leader of the German people and may well become the President of the whole of the Free World in the great crusade against the Reds.”
“Balls, Uncle! If you had been in Spain to see his Condor Legion deliberately machine-gunning and bombing civilians you would recognise Herr Hitler as a murderous little shit.”
“I did not know you had been in Spain, Thomas. Flying?”
“Mostly against the Italians – they are useless, by the way. Awful planes. I picked up a dozen kills all told, mostly Italian. Almost all of the pilots of 182 fought in Spain. Many of ours will have, I expect. Be careful what you say to them – they are aware of two sorts of people on Earth, Uncle – Fascists and human beings. They are willing to kill any and every Fascist on sight.”
Thomas hoped that would shut the old bugger up. Something needed to.
“Stores, Uncle. When can we bring our kitchens into use?”
“I’ll go and find out, Thomas.”
The pilots began to turn up on the following morning, some off the first train out of London. By midday all had arrived, all flying officers and new to the RAF.
Three of the faces were familiar from Thomas’ earlier flying adventures, including Tex.
“What brings you gentlemen into the RAF? I had thought you would have been settled in the States by now.”
A large American grinned at him. It was Hank.
“Do we call you ‘sir’ now, you being the boss instead of ‘first of equals’?”
“Only if there’s brass about Hank. If I address you formally, you do the same for me. Any other time, it’s Thomas.”
“Good. Well, to answer your question, Thomas, we reported into our embassy after we left you in London and were made about as welcome as stray dogs, flea-bitten at that. They made it very clear whose side they were on! Ended up, I told a little clerk sort of man he was a shithouse rat of a Nazi bastard and if he didn’t like it, he could step outside with me. He had me thrown out of the embassy. So all three of us said screw them and we stepped round to your Air Ministry a day or two later. They checked us out and said we could fly but we had to hang on for a few months – they wanted us but couldn’t take us on until the political side was fixed as the American Embassy was complaining about us.”
“What did you do then?”
“What we were told. They instructed us to apply for refugee status – and did the paperwork there and then! They put us into accommodation out of London. Up near to Martlesham Heath – you know, the airfield there where they do some testing and development?”
“Been there.”
“We were taken on as civilian contractors. All three of us. Paid a living wage, and a bit more, and we were flying most days the weather would let us. Couple of weeks back, they tell us we’re in and send us down to London for uniforms and that. Someone’s fiddling something in your Air Ministry place, Thomas - there’s close to a civil war there. Half of them wanted to spit when they saw us, the rest went out of their way, as you lot say, to welcome us. Anyhow – we’re here.”
“What happened to the girls?”
“They’re still in our accommodation up in Suffolk – well, to be more accurate, we all three had some money back in the States so we bought houses up there, close to each other, and set them up in them. No sense selling up and bringing them down here, when you think about it.”
They could be posted to any airfield in the Empire, with no notice. Better to keep a permanent base, and Suffolk was well out in the sticks, distant from possible bombing raids.
“Good. Give your names to the Adjutant as present and on the payroll. Chuck, you’ve got the biggest score, haven’t you?”
“Yep.”
“You are acting-Flight Lieutenant as of now. What’s your surname, by the way?”
“Helmuth. Grandad was a German of some sort.”
“Don’t let it worry you – the King can say the same.”
Four Czechs walked in together. They had arrived penniless at the station and had refused to beg for transport. They were footsore but proud when they arrived.
The remaining three came by taxi, paying the drivers themselves.
“Charles McPherson, sir.”
“Scottish?”
“Couple of hundred years back, sir. I’d call myself Antiguan, sir.”
“I’m Thomas, Charlie. Welcome to 186. See the Adjutant and get yourself sorted out with a room and a servant.”
The Adjutant appeared five minutes later in a state of outrage.
“We can’t put up with that sort here, Thomas!”
“Why not? Seems to be a good pilot from his papers. Flying his own small planes about the Caribbean for five years; showed very well at Hendon. A little older than most of us, which could add some useful maturity to the Mess. Could be a damned good man.”
“He ain’t white! He’s at least a quarter slave.”
“No slaves for a century and more in the West Indies, Uncle. He’s sun-tanned. Flying in the Tropics, that’s no wonder.”
“But…”
“Sun, Uncle. He’s one of us. We need him. He’s 186 Squadron. If you don’t like it – you know what to do.”
“God help us if the newspapers get to hear of it!”
“I shall be cross if they do, Uncle.”
“It’s not right!”
“It is, because I say it is – and I am the squadron leader here. Charlie is one of us and a pilot – don’t forget that, will y
ou!”
Thomas had spent two years flying out of Port Moresby and if any of the local Papuans had asked to fly, he would have had no hesitation in kicking him off the field. This man was one of his, however, and he would get a fair crack.
“Send in the next man, Uncle.”
A silent, unobtrusive, skinny little man slipped sideways through the door, stiffened to attention.
“David Marks, sir. Flying officer.”
“Welcome to 186, David. I am Thomas. Can I see your papers? They sent down nothing in advance in your case.”
“I was only commissioned into the RAF yesterday, sir. I flew a Dornier 17 in last week, landed in Norfolk. I thought it would establish my bona fides. It did. The Dornier is a light bomber but could be a night fighter, so they sent me to Fighter Command when I asked to join the RAF. I was four years in the Luftwaffe, sir. I was given the word that I had been declared a Jew and I chose to leave while I was still alive. Jews in the Luftwaffe are traitors, sir, by definition – they only join to betray it, so they say. I proved them right, sir.”
“Your English is very good, David. Thomas, by the way, not ‘sir’.”
“My parents spent five years in England, in London working for an importer. I could have stayed here but thought I was a good German – my parents never went near a synagogue in all their lives and attended a Protestant church for weddings and such. They disappeared last week and I much fear they are dead. I was wrong to think I was a German – four Jewish grandparents say I was wrong. Now I am back in England to be a good Jew.”
“No, you’re wrong there, David. You are very welcome, but while you are here, you will be a good fighter pilot. Nothing else matters.”
“I stand corrected. Thank you, Thomas.”
“My pleasure, David. Send in the last man, will you.”
“Jean-Michel Poivre, sir.”
“French national, Jean? I am Thomas.”
“I am French, Thomas, but am a criminal in France. Safer to be here.”
“So be it. Will Jean do as a name?”
“Why not, Thomas. Poivre, by the way, is a name of choice. It will do.”
“Your papers say you flew in China and then in Spain, Jean.”
“The usual, Thomas. Many of us did – like you.”
“I don’t recall your face, Jean.”
“I refuelled at your last field twice. I remembered you because they said you had a dozen and I only had eleven!”
“That will change when the war comes. This squadron is likely to be sent out to France when the war starts. Will you be safe?”
“Likely, Thomas. I recognised a Russian secret policeman from Spain and shot him in Paris. That was regarded as bad manners rather than a crime and I was given the chance to escape before the police came for me. They will not wish to chase me again.”
“Good enough, Jean. Join our band of thugs – some of the best fighter pilots in the world!”
Jean laughed – he had no illusions about his trade.
Thomas called the Adjutant that afternoon following an uninspired lunch.
“Egg and chips followed by rhubarb and custard. Lukewarm. Stewed tea. What the bloody hell was that supposed to be, Uncle?”
“Mess fees are so low that I can’t cater for all our needs, Thomas. I must provide for Dining-In and that takes half of the money I’ve got. For the rest, I’ve got to make do. You can’t have something for nothing!”
“Bugger Dining-In! There will be no formal dinners at the expense of decent food during the rest of the week. I expect good, solid breakfasts; two courses for lunch of edible food; three course dinners, well-cooked and of a good size. Tea and coffee will always be available and will be fresh and of good quality. No money will be wasted on wines and fine dining. None! If you don’t like it, if you prefer to kiss Branksome’s arse, get him to find you a more congenial posting. Carry on like this, Uncle, and you will be out on your ear! Your performance is not good enough, not by a long chalk! If you want a posting to one of the fields in Egypt, you are going the right way about it. I expect a better performance from you, to make up for your appallingly bad start here.”
Ledyard had spent the previous twenty years making friends in the higher echelons and had been able to idle his days away in comfortable postings. He was unprepared to be wantonly abused by young upstarts who did not know how things were done in the RAF and who, outlandishly, had more friends than him. He stormed out of the office and retired to sulk in solitude and to compose a careful message to Air Vice Commodore Branksome.
Flight Sergeant Eastwood left a copy of the message on Thomas’ desk within minutes of it being sent, dropping the copy on the blotter while Thomas was out of the room to preserve a semblance of anonymity.
Thomas read the slip of paper and tore it into shreds before binning it to protect Eastwood’s anonymity. He took to the telephone.
“Noah, how are you, sir? I need some advice – my bloody adjutant is useless and is going behind my back to Branksome, trying the Old Pals Act to undercut me.”
“Is he? What’s his name?”
“Ledyard.”
“Fat sod, a couple of years older than me. Going bald?”
“That’s him.”
“Bone idle! Potters along as a flight lieutenant, hand in the till to keep him in his booze but not enough to be noticed by the accountants. Crawls to his good friends and stabs all his enemies in the back. I’ll have a word with Stuffy Dowding – he won’t care about Ledyard, but he detests Branksome. Where do you want him to go?”
“I threatened him with Egypt – it struck me as hot and dry.”
“Aden will be better – the most God-awful place on Earth. It will take a couple of days. Nothing said till the word comes through. What’s your squadron like?”
“It will be good, Noah. Three Americans who I know and respect. Four Czechs who are new to me – they look different but are all the same at first glance - solid, reliable men who will do their job. One German Jew who learned his trade in the Luftwaffe and will have a lot to tell us all – useful man! One West Indian who is a bit on the brown side but looks like a flier. One Frog who’s got a score from Spain and I don’t ask for more than that. They ain’t going to be jolly English gentlefolk, Noah, but they are the sort I want behind me when it comes to a scrap. What’s the word on the war?”
“Not to be quoted, Thomas, but a certainty now. The word from the Intelligence people is of a German invasion of Poland – army units being shifted to the east; Luftwaffe building strength on its airfields close to the border; navy exercising in the Baltic. All of the signs of preparation to go as soon as the harvest is in. The only thing in doubt is whether Chamberlain will have the balls to go through with his promises to the Poles.”
The conversation turned to families and came to its end. Thomas made his way to the ready room where his pilots were assembled for a three o’clock meeting. It was two minutes past the hour.
“I am late. I am sorry – I was delayed by a phone call to the Air Ministry. Please sit down, smoke if you wish.”
They sank back into their chairs, almost all lit cigarettes. Thomas glanced quickly around the dozen, saw that they were together, two rows of six easy chairs dragged to the centre of the room. No loners by choice; none isolated.
“First thing is to welcome you to the Squadron. I am glad to see you here – every man an experienced flier, many of you with scores from Spain and China. The word is we will be fighting Germany this year, so you will be picking up more kills.”
There were grunts of satisfaction – that was why they were fighter pilots.
“We will be sent out to France as soon as the war starts. We will be one of the first there… Provided, that is, I can inform the Air Ministry that the squadron is efficient and ready to go. That is up to you – and me. The Hurricane is a solid fighter, a little slow but a good gun platform. Get within fifty yards of a bomber and put three seconds’ worth of fire into the cockpit and the job will be done. Then
it will be to move on and do the same again.”
They nodded, hearing the words they wanted.
“Three Flights – Red, Blue, Green. Your Flight Commanders are here and will have introduced themselves, I hope. Would you stand for a moment, gentlemen?”
Jan, Cas and Chuck levered themselves to their feet and took theatrical bows.
“Thank you.”
They fell back into their chairs, sprawling out comfortably, making the point that they were all pilots together.
“We will put you into Flights fairly much at random. I shall set up a list of seniorities, so that you know who is in charge if I go down. In terms of dates of joining the RAF, the order is Jan, then Cas, finally Hank. I intend to use the finger-four formation for Flights and retain it when the squadron flies together. The most important thing we must all learn is to work with the Controllers and Chain Home system.”
Jan and Cas knew what he was talking about; the rest had not heard the names.
“Chain Home is RDF – radio direction finding. They have installations along the coast which you will see when we get into the air. Somehow – I’m no scientist and I don’t know how it works – this system can see planes in the air at a distance of fifty or more miles and send the information to us. Distance, direction, height and number, all going to the Controller who will then direct us onto them – they call that ‘vectoring’. It means that if a raid is coming in, we can be sent directly to it. No wasted petrol.”
One of the Czechs raised a hand.
“Thomas, all squadron or one Flight?”
“Depends on how big the raid is. They see one reconnaissance plane, they maybe send two Hurricanes – a section. Three or four, a Flight. A big raid, the squadron, perhaps two or three squadrons.”
“Is good. No waste of time.”
“Sometimes – it will not always work. It is a new invention.”
“It works at all, it helps. Worth trying hard.”
“I agree. It takes away some of our freedom in the air but it gives advantages. We are here to kill Germans and to prevent them killing our civilians. The RDF will help us with both.”
The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Page 18