The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Winds were commonly stronger at height, sometimes very much so. Cloud cover could vary over a few miles. There was no Chain Home system in France, no way of checking the story.

  “Well, you can’t claim the kills. Trainee pilots – unheard of.”

  “No it’s not, sir. There is plenty of precedent from the last war. I should have to go up the chain, sir, for the sake of my pilots, if their just kills were not attributed to them.”

  “You are under specific orders not to fire unless there is reason to suppose you are under attack.”

  “They appeared to be Me 109s heading directly into us, sir.”

  “Very well. Don’t blame me if you find your airfield under attack in revenge!”

  “I will not, sir – though I might ask just how the Germans knew who had attacked them and where our field was.”

  “The French are all blabber-mouthed. No secrets there. These things get out you know. The Germans know all we are up to.”

  Thomas said nothing, wondering just how much of that information came from their sympathisers in the RAF.

  “It must not happen again, Stark! I shall have the devil of a job to keep it from the Press.”

  “I might have thought they – and you - would wish to publish the news of such a victory, sir.”

  “Unnecessary provocation, Stark. Your seniors and betters are doing their best to halt this ludicrous war and they are not helped by inflammatory actions of this nature. There will be no more of it! You are to defend your own territory, no more!”

  Thomas sat down to plan single Flight patrols for the next day, roaming from the Swiss border back to Metz. There might well be trade, birds to be flushed in such areas.

  The roster made, he called for a duplicate of the official report of the squadron’s day - their War Diary – and placed it into an envelope addressed directly to Noah at the Air Ministry. He sent it off in the courier’s bag, knowing that the mail was sorted before delivery at HQ, that the envelope would not come to Branksome’s attention.

  He sat then to write an addition to his letter to Grace. He would continue to post them one a week, though he suspected they were unlikely to reach her for a month or more. He would do what he could and put up with the inefficiency of the RAF.

  Red Flight came in next afternoon claiming a Junkers 52, the trimotor, shot down on the edge of Swiss territory. Their camera films clearly showed a large swastika on the plane. It was a legitimate target. Idiot awarded them a quarter each and refused point-blank to give them extras for the three engines.

  Branksome was on the telephone within the hour.

  “A civilian airliner, Stark! In Swiss airspace, to add insult to injury!”

  “The Ju 52, with Luftwaffe markings, crashed on French soil, sir. It was engaged over France. Flight Lieutenant Jan observed French army personnel motoring to the scene, sir. No doubt the French will be able to confirm his statement.”

  “I am informed that the scheduled route for this aircraft has always taken it over French territory to enter the passes into Switzerland. It has not got the ceiling to fly over the mountains.”

  “Then they should have known better in time of war, sir. They presented a legitimate target and were shot down by my squadron in pursuit of their duty to King and Country, sir. I would be glad to think that other officers were as zealous, sir.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that, Stark?”

  “I am merely saying that my squadron will kill Fascist bastards wherever they find them, sir. I cannot remember who said that the only good Indian was a dead Indian, but the same principle applies here, sir. We have the opportunity to kill German Fascists, sir. We will willingly kill any others we can discover, sir.”

  Branksome slammed the receiver down.

  Thomas shook his head in mock reproach. His time in Spain had left him unforgiving of collaborators.

  “Rod – get all the paperwork up to scratch, please. There is a good chance you will have a new squadron leader in a few hours.”

  “You were a fraction tactless, Thomas.”

  “So I was – I have no use for his sort, Rod. The feeling is, of course, entirely mutual. It is just a question of who has the most friends now. I am surprised to have heard nothing from Wing.”

  “No Wing any more, Thomas. Sent home as an unnecessary layer of administration. They are right, for once.”

  The weather broke that evening, torrential rain accompanying high winds that left the hangars shut with the planes wrapped up warm inside. Thomas spent the next morning catching up on his routine before yelling down the corridor.

  “Idiot! What’s the forecast?”

  “For what, sir?”

  “The bloody weather, man! I am not interested in horse racing!”

  “Oh. Ah, rain for three days, sir. An Atlantic depression has blown inland, very deep. The remnants of a West Indies hurricane, sir, blowing out here. Probability of accuracy is high, sir.”

  “Rod!”

  “Thomas?”

  “Three ton lorry for two o’clock. The squadron is going to town.”

  “Which town, Thomas?”

  “Metz. Nancy is too far and Paris needs a whole weekend. We shall look at the shops and drink too much beer in different surroundings.”

  “What if Air Commodore Branksome calls, Thomas?”

  “Squadron is stood down for weather. The rivers are in flood. The roads are all cut and the railway is not working. We are not at home to uninvited callers.”

  “Very well, Thomas. The telephone line will be so bad that we can’t hear a word he’s saying.”

  “Well thought, Rod. I shall bring a bottle of something special back from town for you.”

  “Don’t get too wild, Thomas. The Frogs might not like it.”

  “The Frogs aren’t going to get it.”

  Rod had seen pilots in a restive mood before, unable to fly and needing a release from boredom; he knew when to say nothing more.

  The estaminets were closed – pavement cafes did not work in heavy rain. The bars were open, packed and welcoming, at first…

  The squadron rolled back onto the lorry soon after ten, mostly drunk, some of them battered, all in joyous mood and shouting their triumphs at each other.

  The last bar they had wandered into was evidently the meeting place of the right wing sympathisers of the town. Thomas had wondered just why they had been urged to go to that particular watering hole and had noticed a number of patrons from their previous port of call sheltering down the street, watching with smiles as they made their entrance – he had been just too drunk to care.

  The first fight broke out within two minutes, Chuck, Jean and Up taking on five locals who had chosen to offer them the straight-armed Nazi salute. After two fairly equal minutes another pair joined in armed with bottles. The whole squadron piled in and threw them all into the street, through the door, which Thomas thought showed considerable restraint.

  The seven returned with reinforcements ten minutes later. The barman produced a handgun and Hank hit him hard with one of his own bottles. The police arrived and separated the mob into three factions – the squadron, Nazi supporters and Communists who had turned up on their heels and joined the fray. There were no dead, somewhat to the relief of the police who had not fancied the political repercussions of a publicised riot.

  Thomas gained the impression from the senior policeman who talked to him, almost apologetically, that the town and local countryside was split three ways.

  “Young men of the Right, who went to Spain and fought for Franco – a few scores, sir. Young men and women of the Left, who went to Spain and joined the International Brigade – forty or so. Apart from them – some thousands of their elders and a good number of their contemporaries who do not care and will fight for nobody. This is not a popular war, sir – I would ask you to keep out of town, if you would be so good. We do not want more fighting. Next time, they will be armed, sir.”

  “You fought in the last war, sir?”<
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  “I did. I was taken prisoner in ’14 and spent the war in a camp in England. I was conscripted into the German Imperial army, of course – Alsace-Lorraine was taken from France after 1870. Many of the local people consider themselves as much German as French, sir, despite the deportations of the German settlers after the last war.”

  Thomas chose not to ask after the policeman’s national inclination.

  “I think, perhaps, it would be wiser to take the longer journey to Paris for future relaxation, sir.”

  “Very much so, Squadron Leader. For the while, your transport awaits you, sir. No reports will be made – in the absence of corpses, nothing occurred. Au revoir!”

  It was still raining at breakfast. Thomas inspected his pilots and was thankful they would not attempt to fly. Bruised and battered, a number of them stiff this morning, all of them delighted with the evening’s pleasures. Thomas stood.

  “Gentlemen, we are banned from Metz, except for purposes of trade, of course. Future excursions must take the form of weekends in Paris. I shall make enquiries of the best way of getting there for leave. Not for a few weeks, I suspect.”

  Sat in his office, nursing an aching head and pouring hot coffee into himself hopefully, Thomas called for Rod.

  “Gate guards, Rod. How do we equip them at the moment?”

  “Detachment of two and a senior aircraftman or sergeant, Thomas. Revolver to the NCO. Do you think we should upgrade after last night?”

  Thomas told Rod of the policeman’s comments.

  “Possibly armed German-sympathisers who have some sort of military experience? Could be nasty. There’s a sentry box out on the perimeter, opposite side to the gate.”

  “That red-brick thing? Seen it there, wondered what it was for. Thought it might belong to the farm next door.”

  “No. There’s a gate in the wire there. Perhaps the French bought their milk from the farm.”

  “Man it? Two with rifles? Four at the gate, with rifles again? How big is the gatehouse, Rod? I should have inspected it before now.”

  They walked across to the guardroom, to the amazed displeasure of the sergeant on duty who was resting with his feet up.

  “At ease, sergeant – if you can stand any easier.”

  Very wisely, the sergeant said nothing at all.

  The gatehouse was solidly built as if it was expected to actually defend the field.

  “Concrete walls and firing points, sir.”

  Rod thought he should be formal in the presence of other ranks.

  “Three men with rifles and their NCO at all times, Adjutant? Two to the box on the other side of the field.”

  They looked out, realised that the hangars obscured the view, the sentry box could not be seen from the gatehouse.

  “No telephone, sir.”

  The sergeant did not like the idea of leaving his men out of sight and contact during the night especially.

  “Give them a flare pistol, perhaps?”

  It was not a satisfactory solution.

  The sergeant was experienced in dealing with a hostile population, having been posted to Palestine just three years previously.

  “Perimeter patrol in a thirty-hundredweight, sir? Mobile, safer than stationary.”

  “Bring that in, Adjutant.”

  They returned to the offices and brought in the new regime and put in a request for eight more men to act as gate guards.

  Air Commodore Branksome wanted to know why they needed the extra.

  “Local senior police officer, sir. Warned me, on the sly, that there are forty or more of Communists returned to the area from fighting in Spain. Some of them are armed, he says. Since the Nazi-Soviet Pact, they are a danger to us. He advised me to increase security on the field, sir.”

  Literally, a Red rag to a bull.

  “Bloody Reds! I’ll get the men to you within the week. What else do you require?”

  “Could use a couple of Lewis Guns or Vickers, sir. Put them up on one of the thirty-hundredweight lorries, sir.”

  “I can get you four Brens. The guns were sent across to be set up at HQ, but we can have no possible use for them; we are miles away from the front line. You should get them before the end of the week.”

  “Wag, would you know how to set up a Bren Gun on a lorry?”

  “No, Thomas. Not something I have ever tried. Have a word with Peter. If he knows what the mounting should look like and can rough out a drawing, I can cobble something up.”

  The Armourer knew all about Brens, so he said.

  “There was a proposal that every field should have a lorry mounted with a Bren for defensive purposes. On a dual purpose mounting, so it could be raised to shoot parachute troops if they tried an assault. The cyclic rate is far too low to use it for ack-ack, of course. Magazine is too small as well. I have a manual tucked away in my trunk, Thomas, with the original drawings in it. Never threw it away, for some reason. I expect I’m just a hoarder.”

  “I want you and Wag to fit a mounting to the three RAF lorries. Better not cut a hole in the roof of the ten-tonner – it wouldn’t be polite.”

  “It’s got a canvas hood over the rear. We could modify that and put the Bren on a tripod to fire over the cab, Thomas.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Brens arrived together with eight men – soldiers, not RAF. There was a message that the soldiers were surplus to requirement, having been posted to RAF HQ, which could not possibly have a need for them.

  “What the hell do we do with a corporal and seven men, Rod?”

  “Give them a thirty-hundredweight and the rear sentry box, Thomas. They to take all responsibility for night security of the perimeter. Four on, four off, through the night – not too hard for them. They can probably arrange for two men to sleep the whole night in rotation. Up to the corporal. I’ll speak with him.”

  “Good. All yours. Does this bloody rain look like stopping?”

  “Forecast says it has another day in it. You can expect to fly the day after tomorrow.”

  An Intelligence Officer arrived from HQ, driving in with no prior warning.

  “Major Curtis. Got a bit of trade for you, Squadron Leader, if you fancy it.”

  Thomas showed immediately enthusiastic, certain in his own mind that he would be out on his ear if he so much as seemed dubious. Major was a senior rank in Intelligence and he was Army and so must have permission from on high to speak directly to a squadron of the RAF.

  “Where do you want us to go, sir?”

  “Due east, about one hundred and fifty miles, not so far from Ludwigshafen. There’s a field outside the town, a quarter of a mile from a barracks. The barracks is empty at the moment. Tomorrow, at eleven hundred hours, precisely, a battalion of Panzergrenadiers is to take up residence. Nothing earthshattering in that and there’s nothing out of the ordinary in them, except that the movement is to take place by air. Fat Hermann has persuaded Adolf that the mobility of the Wehrmacht could be much increased by taking them out of lorries and putting them into planes for all ordinary purposes. They could be switched all around Germany in a matter of hours, rather than blocking the roads with lorry convoys for days. London thinks it might be a good idea to point out the drawbacks of the scheme – we don’t want an airborne Wehrmacht and a setback now will mean that the thousand or so of extra Ju 52s will not be built for the purpose.”

  “When are they expected to land, sir?”

  “Don’t know, for sure, but they are due to march in on the dot of eleven hundred hours. They will want probably forty-five minutes to form up after landing and then fifteen for the short march. Ten hundred is a good bet. The timings come from observation of their rehearsals with a few planes at a time. We expect them to use thirty-six planes.”

  “Grass field or concrete runway, sir?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “You could land three Ju 52s side by side on grass. If they have a concrete runway, they won’t mow the grass or fill in the potholes and wi
ll have to land one at a time on the strip. Three times as fast on grass.”

  “Lend me your telephone, please.”

  Five minutes established the field to have a long concrete runway.

  “Good. They will have to circle the field and wait their turn. Allows us a couple of minutes of leeway.”

  “Excellent! You will do it?”

  “We shall, sir. We cannot get them all, you appreciate.”

  “I did not. Why?”

  Thomas explained that they carried some thirteen seconds of ammunition in the wings.

  “A good pilot can fire in bursts of three seconds – but that is not easy. The Ju 52 is big and will require probably two bursts to hit a fuel tank or carve up the cockpit. One apiece would be a remarkable achievement. Better than that? I might be able to knock down a brace. Four others of my pilots will probably do the same, but we have a lot of experience from Spain and China. Half of the lads are still learning the basic tricks. If there is an escort, one Flight will have to run cover for us, or we will get none.”

  “No escort, but there is a field with Me 110s just five miles distant.”

  “Three minutes at minimum to scramble and reach us. We won’t need that long to get in and start running. What about the route inwards? Do you know of any observation stations watching for bombers coming in?”

  “None. They believe bombing will take place only on the coast. The Americans have called for bombing of civilian targets to be forbidden and the Germans know that we have ordered the RAF not to bomb inland.”

  “Good. It’s a futile exercise in any case – a waste of military resources. The RAF should be bombing the German armed forces, in conjunction with our army, the way we did in the last months of 1918.”

  “I agree – I saw that as a very young second lieutenant in the Skins. It worked well. The Germans have been practising it for the last three years. We have not.”

  Thomas did not know what the ‘Skins’ were but gathered that he jolly well should.

  “A hundred and fifty miles. Say forty minutes flying time going in. Petrol saving so that we can come back a damned sight faster, sir. Take off at oh nine eighteen, precisely, and that should bring us nicely into place to be nasty, with luck. Can you get me a precise weather forecast, sir?”