A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  “You are sure of the need, Tommy?”

  “A certainty, sir. If they attack, then they must try to flatten the RFC first. I would regard that as a given, sir. I would want to see as many more guns in trenches and pits around the perimeter as you can lay hands on, sir. A dawn standing patrol as well, sir. Just as soon as the weather looks up in spring then I would have two men up at five thousand feet from ten minutes before dawn. They won’t be able to do a lot other than fire a flare to alert the gunners, but even that would be useful.”

  Colonel Sarratt was, if not convinced, persuaded that there were reasonable precautions to be taken. He talked to the Engineers and to HQ and managed to get hold of a labour detachment to dig air raid shelters, concrete-lined and with thick roofs, close to the doors of the billets and near the hangars as an addition to the slit trenches already present. He requested concrete reinforcing to the hangar walls, but that was too costly, it seemed.

  “When the war of movement resumes, Tommy, then we shall move to fields further forward, leaving this one to the French for defence of their frontiers. The Frogs can pay for their own airfields; we ain’t. The Treasury never changes – mean in mind and spirit!”

  The Treasury was the heart of government, Tommy had been told, and must epitomise all of the public figures who led the country. Colonel Sarratt did not agree, but he still believed in honest politicians, and in virgin whores, no doubt.

  “What about guns, sir?”

  “None available, officially. Can’t get hold of Lewises, because the Camel don’t carry them. Pom-poms are no longer to hand – the Navy has got them for anti-aircraft on ships, but only two-pounders; Horatio has some one-pounders in his little den now. They will be set up as soon as we can organise gun pits for them – over the next month, if it’s not too cold to pour concrete. He says that if we can’t get pits – if it snows hard, perhaps - he can use railway sleepers to make up bases for them.”

  Tommy approved – Colonel Sarratt was becoming increasingly useful, as he discovered real life rather than the world of the imagination that was Headquarters.

  Colonel Sarratt finally achieved his desire – leave was granted to his Wing.

  “Christmas is coming, Tommy! Leave! All married men to receive twenty days commencing on the eighth of December, together with the unwed to make up one half of the complement; the remaining single men to get New Year at home, going out on the twenty-ninth. This to include all pilots, without exception.”

  “Canadians, South Africans and Australians as well, sir?”

  “Definitely so, Tommy. They can’t get home, but they can reach London or Paris. They must take a break from the airfields.”

  “Makes sense, sir. I shall be glad to see home again. Advantage of living in the south of England – less than a day’s travelling. Difficult for the Scots or Irish – they could lose three days each way.”

  “The Irish might be better advised to stay in London, Tommy. Word is that there is substantial unrest in the southern counties, and some in Ulster as well. Messy. Better not to get involved, if they can avoid it. Pass the word to your single men, on the quiet, Tommy.”

  Tommy was vaguely aware that there was some sort of political upset in Ireland, but as far as he was concerned all politicians were rogues, whatever and whoever they claimed to represent. He was not interested in so-called Men of the People, or in any of their noble causes; he firmly believed that behind every great political hero was a fat bank account – to hell with them all!

  They flew occasionally in their last few days, engaged in dogfights almost every time they went up and killed a few of the enemy, lost a few of their own, and achieved very little.

  “Fighting for fighting’s sake, Nancy. Pilots killing pilots – and gaining, or losing, what?”

  “Control of the air, Tommy?”

  “It’s a different bit of air every day, Nancy. We ain’t getting bombers through to win the war, or ground-attack to empty the enemy’s trenches. No great point to it, that I can see. A few of us build scores – on both sides; a few die, again on both sides. But that’s about all. Playing games for the newspapers, mostly, and, of course, keeping up the jolly offensive spirit.”

  “Not to worry, Tommy. We’re going home in a couple of days, and the forecast says fog and rain – the one in the morning, the other in the afternoon – so tuck your woolly socks away and be ready to get out of the place.”

  Senior officers were granted use of the squadron staff car; lesser bodies were transported to the narrow-gauge line a mile down the lane, to rattle and bounce in the open carriages, but the privileged drove in chauffeured ease to Calais, their servants and baggage in a tender following behind.

  Tommy and Nancy took the most comfortable seats as a matter of course, the adjutant, George Richardson, next to the driver.

  They reached the quay and the waiting redcaps, Military Police, stolidly bored and uncaring, knowing that they had the authority to arrest or delay any officer of any rank if his papers were wrong. They had no great love for the RFC, whose officers in their experience tended either to be drunk or inherently contemptuous of discipline, but they showed no hostility. They simply blocked the approach to the ships’ gangways, polite but implacable.

  “Papers please, sir.”

  The three had their documents to hand – Identity and Travel Warrants all correct – passed through in seconds. Behind them they saw a Staff Colonel stamping his way forwards; they heard his bellows of outrage as he explained that he was in a hurry, had to reach a conference in London, no time to collect warrants and things, and was nonetheless escorted away by a pair of private soldiers to explain himself to the authorities.

  “There is justice on Earth, after all, Nancy. Where do we go?”

  “Field officers to the old First Class Saloon, Tommy; George and myself in your train. This way…”

  Nancy had travelled many times from London to Paris on this ferry in days of peace.

  A steward spotted the Wings and guided the three to a table in a discreet corner, well clear of a pair of generals and their flunkeys at the front.

  “Sandwiches, sir – I can get a selection for you. Bass or whisky, sir?”

  “Draught Bass?”

  “Yes, sir. The real stuff, sir. Three pints, sir?”

  They relaxed, in holiday mood, watched as the ship filled and the gangways were lifted away.

  “No destroyer escort, Nancy?”

  “Not any more, Tommy. The Barrage across the Straits is highly effective now. Nets; minefields; drifters – small fishing boats – with hydrophones, basically simple hearing devices dangling in the sea; in combination they have almost stopped submarine transit through the Channel. A submarine trying to attack the Channel boats has to go north about Scotland and enter the Channel by way of Land’s End – which is a long haul with a chance of being detected all the way, and particularly in the Western Approaches where they have blimps on patrol as well.”

  “Airships?”

  “Little ones, two-man crew sat in the fuselage of an old BE2 with a balloon over the top. They carry a few bombs and a Lewis Gun and potter along all day at forty or fifty miles an hour – watching for U-Boats and with a wireless to call up the destroyers if they find one. Very effective! I am told that no convoy escorted by a blimp has ever lost a ship. They can only work coastal waters, of course, but they are keeping them very nearly clear of submarines.”

  “Something’s going right anyway. Makes a change, Nancy. Damned good beer this. Funny, I like the French stuff right up until I drink an English pint, and Bass is one of the best in any case. One will be enough, though. I’m not going home smelling of booze!”

  The trains were even more packed than Tommy remembered, standing even in the First Class on the run from Dover up to London, but at least the train was an express, not stopping.

  Nancy was met by his wife at Waterloo, waved his farewells as she led him off to a Rolls Royce.

  “He told me there was money in hi
s family, George.”

  “A lot, Tommy. That is one handsome lady he is married to, as well. I shall be away, Tommy. Euston Station and the North for me – I shall be staying with my parents outside Chester.”

  Tommy said nothing, remembering that George had had a fiancée who had left him, disapproving of his disfiguring wounds.

  Tommy was left with Smivvels, waiting with his trunk.

  “Which station, Smivvels?”

  “Station-master at Dover said it was best to use Waterloo mainline still, sir, for Salisbury. Train departs in thirty minutes, sir.”

  Life was so much easier with a man to organise it, Tommy thought; left on his own he would have probably ended up at the wrong station and have spent hours more than he needed on the journey. If there was an ‘after the war’, then he might well invite Smivvels to continue with him; he was, in fact, morally obliged to, considering the matter.

  “Let’s go, Smivvels.”

  The country was greyer, Tommy thought, depressed in this fourth year of war. It seemed peculiar as well, some of the population obviously thriving, showing all the signs of prosperity, while others waiting at the stations displayed threadbare winter coats with their black mourning bands. The Salisbury train was half-empty in mid-morning and he kept a corner seat, travelled in reasonable comfort. The local to Wilton was slower than before, chugging along on a poorly maintained track, rocking at fifteen miles an hour; lack of money and manpower both, he presumed.

  There was a woman – a female – inspecting tickets at the station! Unheard of. Tommy offered his warrant and she glanced quickly and efficiently at it and checked that it was in date before allowing him through; somewhat officious, he felt – a Major was hardly likely to be cheating on his fare. Smivvels put his trunk onto a trolley and followed him out of the station and down the road, saying nothing at all.

  River Cottage was noisy, alive with children, and warm, wood fires burning front and back.

  Monkey greeted him at the door, kissing him quickly and then leading him into the big drawing room where his daughter was running around his crawling son.

  “Your Father is here,” she announced.

  “Dada?”

  “Yes, Elisabeth Jane.”

  “Good. Hello.”

  A different home, he realised, even better.

  “Which is her name, by the way, Monkey? Elisabeth or Jane?”

  “We seem to prefer Jane, Tommy – it does not matter too much.”

  “Have you seen Noah?”

  “Most days. They released him from hospital – a private hospital, of course, with the best of surgical care – a little more than two weeks ago. He expects to graduate to crutches any day now. Lady Lucy rather fears that he will make a full recovery by late spring. She had half-hoped that he would limp for a year and possibly never fly a fighter plane again, but she now thinks he will be able to return to France.”

  “A pity. He has done his share, and more.”

  “There are those who would say he has done less than you, Tommy.”

  “The few of us who are left must carry on while we can. No choice in the matter. Now especially, I must suppose. There will be a big German attack in spring and we must do our part then to throw them back; we can’t simply leave that to the green boys. How is Lucy, by the way? I heard she lost a brother.”

  “One dead; the second wounded two weeks later. He won’t go back to France of a certainty. Bullets in the chest leaving him with only the one lung functioning.”

  “Bad luck for the poor chap. Boom has survived in that condition, of course, but he is rather unusual. At least the lad’s out of it, still has a life to live. What of her sister?”

  “Not so bad as it might have been – a touch of gas rather than consumption. She will do better for spending her winters in a warm climate, I suspect, but she will survive, even if in the South of France. Too many people with weakened lungs die young, as you know.”

  “I do, but she has done her part. What of you, my lady fair? No maid to open the door?”

  “Not to be found, Tommy. The factories, where they exist, offer more money. The military camps employ cooks and tea girls and cleaners for their office blocks. The Pay Corps has grown with the Army, and they even employ girls in their offices. The Army doesn’t pay a lot, but there are lots of bold soldiers to make the life attractive! I have been able to keep Mrs Rudge and Cook and a nursery maid, and Nurse herself, and for the rest, well, I have managed to learn to do some of the necessary work myself. When the war ends and the men come back, things will be different, I do not doubt, Tommy.”

  “What do the women do? Catch the train to work?”

  “Most of them walk, Tommy. We have a new hospital in Wilton, one that has taken on any number of the women and girls. It is for men who will perhaps never go home again, but who will not die for a few years either. It has a large number of beds.”

  “That is not surprising, I must imagine there are many of them. Fewer coming out of Passchendaele, I suspect.”

  “I have heard that. Why?”

  “Mud. Liquid and as vicious as quicksand and sometimes twelve feet deep. The soldier who falls wounded there is truly lost.”

  “Good God!”

  “That I am inclined to doubt, these days. Not to worry – two weeks, and Christmas, before I must go back, and then a hard winter with any luck, and very little flying till spring. How is your father?”

  “Well, but very busy. We see little of him, but I speak to him on the telephone two or three times a week. Mostly about money. You will wish to know what I am doing with your money, Tommy.”

  She seemed somewhat anxious, as if he might deplore her presumption.

  “Not really, love. It is our money, yours and mine and the children’s, and in any case, I know little of, what do they call it, High Finance?”

  “That is one name for it, Tommy.”

  “I have learned one thing as a squadron commander, Monkey – and that is not to try to do other people’s work. I have an Adjutant, and he does his part; there is an Intelligence Officer – Nancy, you will like him when you meet him – I doubt we will lose contact after the war. There is an Engineering Officer in the hangars, and I understand almost nothing of all he does. I do not interfere with them, and they do not tell me how to fly. In the same way – I know nothing of how to put our money to work, and I do not intend to judge what you are doing, not on the basis of complete ignorance.”

  “But… Is it a woman’s place, to be in charge of the family money?”

  “Who knows? I do not. After the war, you must tell me how we can arrange things. I may want to run an aircraft company – but, in that case, I shall have to bear Mr Sopwith’s example in mind. He is a wonderful man on the design and ideas side, but I have been told repeatedly that he is having money trouble. He builds for the government on what they call ‘cost-plus’ – he tells them what he has spent, and they pay him that and add on a profit. When they audit the books, after the war, he may have some explaining to do. And I much doubt that he will know how to do it!”

  “There are war profiteers, Tommy, and the beginnings of public complaint about them. But, it will be the familiar story – those who are truly corrupt will be the best at covering their tracks. The more they have stolen, the less you will hear of them. Now that the newspaper proprietors are joining the government there will be even more opportunities for the cover-up of thieves and fraudsters. Matters are not helped by the existence of Mr Lloyd George at Number Ten; he continues simultaneously to be a crusader for the ordinary man and an unregenerate bribe-taker, and giver. He truly is what the alienists refer to as a ‘split personality’ – it is as if there are two separate people inside that one head, one a self-abnegatory saint and the other a gutter criminal, and not taking turns like Jekyll and Hyde, both are present at any given moment, and presumably aware of each other’s existence. A remarkable man – fascinating as a scientific exhibit, less desirable as a Prime Minister.”

&nbs
p; Tommy was not especially surprised – the man had chosen to be a politician, after all.

  “I trust we are not to be found in the ranks of the war profiteers, Monkey.”

  “Not as such, no, but we are making a very substantial profit from the conditions that the war has created. We have large investments in the United States, and they are not paying tax to the Inland Revenue in England – but they are wholly above board in America. You will be pleased to hear that we are involved in the design and production of aircraft in America. Twin-engined and designed to carry five or six passengers across the expanse of the American continent, it being felt that there will be a demand for travel so much faster than the railway train. If the war continues for another two years, they will appear on the Western Front, carrying bombs. We are also, and more importantly, involved in the automobile industry in the States – primarily in the production of motor trucks, mostly for the agricultural market. Trucks to carry a ton or two of produce from farm to markets and shops in town, the designers’ first ambition; we are already seeing a profit there, it being far quicker to get a truck on the road than a plane in the air.”

  Tommy found himself losing interest in the matter of money-making. While they had sufficient, he was not concerned.

  “What are your plans for the peace, Monkey? Are we to stay in England or venture overseas?”

  “Is that not your decision, Tommy?”

  He shrugged, said that most men would think it so.

  “I can’t seem to be the old paterfamilias, Monkey. My father would simply have announced what he was doing next and would have expected that his wife would have instantly packed her bags and trotted along behind, obediently. It was how he lived, and how every man of his station behaved. Times have changed. Women will have the vote after the war, and the country will not be the same. I won’t be the same. I’m lucky, to be wed and settled already. Many of my boys, some of them older than me, will never manage to fit into peacetime; they will race cars and horses and motor boats; they will wander the wild parts of the world, gold-prospecting and hunting and such; they will go as mercenaries to the mad countries, China and South America and wherever. Most will die young. They will find when they come back that the sheltered young misses they grew up with have become nurses or factory workers or office girls or agricultural hands – they won’t be the same either. Everything will be different, or so it will seem, and they won’t understand or fit in, so many of them will run away, one way or another. I think Queen Victoria may finally have died, Monkey. So, at the end of that long digression – no, I don’t propose to give you orders. You must form your opinions over the last years of the war and decide what you want to do. Then we can argue – because I doubt I will have the same ideas and there will have to be some way of coming together.”