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

by Andrew Wareham

  She was pleasantly surprised – she had never really expected Tommy to grow up. Now she thought she might enjoy not having to mother him.

  “Noah, how are you now?”

  Tommy was shocked – Noah was pale, invalidish, weak in himself. He had always been the powerful man who had hauled himself out of the gutter by his own bootstraps; now, he was frail.

  “Better than I was, Tommy and better for being at home. I have to say that I have not enjoyed the last few weeks. Don’t hang about in hospitals, Tommy, it ain’t a good habit. We flying heroes are made of cast-iron, you know – we ain’t expected to feel pain like ordinary mortals. Still, give ‘em their due, they’ve learned how to deal with busted-up legs – plenty of experience. I’m lucky – no bone lost, the legs will still be of equal length and I will walk easily again, within a few months. Then I shall be flying, of course. I shall be back in June, I would imagine.”

  “You could stay in England, Noah. You’ve done your share.”

  “Balls to that, Tommy! Lucy’s father thinks that it will all be over by the end of ‘19 at very latest, possibly before. He’s had word from pals of his in Switzerland that the Austro-Hungarian Empire is feeling the pinch; the Hungarians want independence, and so do the smaller nationalities and the whole show is cracking up there. Add to that, the Turks ain’t happy – seem to think that the Germans are using them and ain’t pulling their weight. The Ottoman Empire is breaking apart underneath them and it seems that Germany made a lot of promises about an army that would take them all the way to India and it hasn’t eventuated. As well as that, there are workers’ parties showing their heads in Germany; the blockade is hurting ordinary people, but they see the fat men profiteering out of the war, and there are strikes happening and worse to come. They hear of the example of Russia and wonder whether Kaiser Bill might not go the way of the Tsar. That being the case, Tommy, yours truly could do with returning to the Front and flying for a while before gracefully accepting promotion to colonel, which would be very useful come peacetime. The new Air Force will have places for men with a war record, Tommy – more than the Army would have. So it’s back to the fray, old boy!”

  “Has the Earl had any word on Boom?”

  “Chief of the Air Staff, I believe, Tommy. A big title for what is likely to be a small job. He’s lost out on the political front, for the while. He’ll be back, no doubt, but the whisper is that he will be returned to England inside a very few weeks.”

  “Pity, in some ways. He’s an honest man – but I can do without this delusion of ‘command of the skies’, Noah.”

  “Me too. Shooting a few of Jerry down today will do me. Tomorrow, we do it again.”

  “It’s fairly much pointless, you know, Noah, this business of fighters hunting each other. We might as well stay home and not waste the petrol, if we are just dogfighting. Killing ground-attack planes makes sense – though it’s bloody near impossible to do; keeping bombers away from their targets is a good idea – though they never hit them in any case. But shooting down fighters? Today we kill three and lose two; tomorrow, we lose three and kill two; what difference does it make to the war?”

  Noah shook his head.

  “Utterly mistaken, dear boy - we have the greater number of planes. We lose thirty in a week – that’s perhaps one per cent of our working strength in France. Jerry loses thirty in a week, that’s more than three per cent of his fighters on all fronts. Attrition, and we have the edge there. We should if anything push harder and further into Hunland, forcing them to come up and lose a few more planes – because they can’t afford it. Boom is right, you know, although for the wrong reasons; we must never stop attacking, because it wears them down proportionately more than us.”

  “Pity! I really hoped you might tell me I was right, Noah. Not to worry – I’m cast-iron and so are you, most of the time. How did you get knocked down, by the way?”

  “Never saw the man who did it, Tommy. I was on the tail of an Albatros, just finished him, flames rising, when I felt a burst and flipped onto me side and disappeared downwards. No idea who he was.”

  Tommy laughed – the old story, they said that nine men out of ten never knew who had hit them.

  “Happens to us all, Noah. You know that Drongo came out to your squadron? Doing well now. So’s Poacher.”

  An hour and Tommy was chased away – he must not tire the patient, said the private nurse who had his care.

  Tommy was good, left Noah’s bedroom on the instant, promising to be back next day. Lucy was downstairs with the baby, dressed in black for her brother, but cheerful.

  “Could be worse, Tommy. He will be better within weeks. He might have died, after all.”

  “Can you persuade him to take a posting in England, Lucy? He’s done his share.”

  “Not a chance, Tommy. He needs to be back with ‘his boys’ – if he is there with his experience, he may be able to keep a few of them alive. We may be able to pull promotion more quickly, that’s all. As a colonel, he won’t be allowed to fly – that’s the orders at the moment.”

  “I don’t think I could handle that, Lucy. Sitting in my office, giving the orders that sent others up while I stayed on the ground? Couldn’t live with that, myself.”

  “Nor could he, Tommy. But he’s going to!”

  Tommy laughed, said he would enjoy calling Noah ‘sir’.

  “You will be promoted as well, Tommy.”

  “Not bloody likely, me dear! They believe – because I have told them often enough - that I can’t read and write sufficiently to be put into an office, and I can always find toes to tread on if need arises. The day after the war ends, then they can find a colonel’s uniform for me, for the month or two that I remain in the service – the RAF it will be by then, of course – that will take some getting used to! I suppose they will have new names for everything. Makes one think – here we are, fighting a war, and there will be committees of senior officers sat down in all seriousness, arguing with each other on what they will call the new ranks. ‘Can’t be generals, not any longer, and the Navy’s pinched admiral, so we must invent a new word, by Jove, haw-haw, old chap’. Weeks of their time sat on their backsides, drinking tea and leaving the fighting to the jolly plebs in France while they deal with important matters. ‘Gold braid, or silver, old chap, and two rows around the hat or three? Got to get it right, you know! Never win the war if the braid ain’t right!’”

  She wanted to contradict him, but knew he was right; she knew some of the people who would sit on those committees, as well.

  “I believe your brother by marriage, Sir Charles Monkton, the MP, is involved – because he has family connections with flying, you know.”

  “Proves my point, Lucy – nothing that fat fool is part of can be of any use to the human race.”

  She had met Monkton, was much inclined to agree.

  “What have you in mind for the peace, Tommy? You implied you would be leaving the RAF.”

  “Depends, Lucy. Monkey will make the final decision – she has had a hard time of it while I have trotted off to play in France. She has sat on her own, waiting for the telegram to come and keeping a family together for me to wander back to when the occasion has arisen. She deserves far more than I shall ever be able to give her. If she decides to stay in England, then so be it. We might turn to building planes – probably in the States; or to building an airline to fly passengers and freight, and that would be in Australia; or to cars and trucks – or oil – there will be thousands of vehicles on the roads after the war. So many possibilities, and I don’t know much about the business side of things; she will have found out all we need, though. She has the right. What of you and Noah?”

  “Staying in for a year or two, then probably into the business world in England. Perhaps even politics – there will be a place for a man with his record – or yours. Possibly into the Middle East – we shall need oil, as you mentioned, and that’s where it will come from. Ten years on the ground there and then in
to the City. Plenty of possibilities.”

  Tommy agreed, pondering the future as he walked back to River Cottage, acknowledging the greetings of his neighbours and absent-mindedly agreeing that yes, it did look like another hard winter to come and no end to it all.

  “After the war, Monkey, when it’s all done and dusted and the reality has started to set in, what do I do then? Business is the obvious thing – I don’t know that I could handle peacetime service – polishing the brass on the radiators and varnishing the propellers and all of the bull that would come in. But, the thing is, would we need the money? We’re worth millions now, and you will make even more, I don’t doubt – so what’s the point of a factory or whatever? But, and importantly, if I sit down in idleness, I shall be well buggered! So… what makes sense?”

  She had no immediate idea – some sort of public service, perhaps…

  “I could speak to my father, Tommy. You wouldn’t want to become an MP, I would imagine – you would not enjoy the company you would be forced to keep. Something in the Empire, perhaps… Bound to be posts in India or in China - not that that’s in the Empire - or in the African colonies… I don’t know…”

  They enjoyed Christmas, the two families dining together and giving ridiculously expensive gifts without thought for the future – for the present was all they could be certain of. On Boxing Day Tommy oversaw the packing of his trunk, Smivvels doing the actual work; the following day he stepped into the local train to Salisbury, giving himself time and to spare to return to duty, because he must not delay the next batch to go out.

  Every man aboard the train and the ferry was quiet – the bulk because they were returning to yet another year of war.

  A few young men were silent only because they had caught the mood and did not wish to stand out as they left for the great adventure they had feared would leave them behind. One of them plucked up his courage as they approached Calais and Tommy left the saloon to watch the ship dock.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but, it is Major Stark, is it not, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “I am to join the squadron, sir. May I travel with you, sir? I was told that I should find transport to the Central Air Park, and that they would forward me to the squadron, when it was convenient to them. It would be far quicker was I to join you, sir, and I expect the squadron needs me.”

  “We need all of our pilots, sir. Have you papers? I must be sure that you are coming to the right place, as I am sure you will appreciate.”

  Identity, travel warrants and a two line order to report to the field, no details of travel given.

  “Second-Lieutenant Davenport? The name is familiar, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. My brother Charles, sir, who is serving in East Africa, sir, attached to the King’s African Rifles, was under your command for a day or two. I am afraid that he put up something of a black, sir…”

  “Ah, yes. So he did. I expect that’s why he was sent to Africa. I trust you have no silly ideas of making up for his disgrace, of removing the blot on the family escutcheon? Your brother made a fool of himself – but that is not your concern, Mr Davenport. I shall not ask your age, sir, nor enquire whether you ran away from your school and managed to fiddle your way into the RFC – because that is none of my business. You are welcome as a pilot; you are, as you said, needed by the squadron. If you kill yourself trying to compensate for your brother, you will leave us short of a man – you will be letting us down, and that is exactly what your brother did. We need men, sir – live men to learn the trade and become useful, working fighter pilots. If you die unnecessarily, Mr Davenport, you will be betraying the squadron and your country – because we have too few good men. Come with me. There should be transport waiting for me. Where is your trunk?”

  Davenport pointed to a pile of luggage on the deck, and a dozen of disconsolate lieutenants leaning on the rail to the side, huddled in their greatcoats against the bitter cold.

  “They put them there, sir, and told us to stand out of the way. The sailors were not very polite to us, sir. They said that only captains and upwards could go inside the saloons, and it was only two hours, so we didn’t need feeding and we were too young to drink.”

  “I will speak to my man as soon as we get ashore. He will organise your trunk and mine, never fear. It will take more than an awkward seaman or two to discomfit him.”

  Chapter Two

  A Wretched Victory

  Tommy looked about with satisfaction as they drove to the field; the weather was as cold in Flanders as it had been in England, and there was a thin covering of snow. The chances were that they would not be flying. There was heavy cloud cover, the probability of more snow, a strong wind as well. He was suddenly saddened – even a year before he might have been irritated that he could not get into the air – now he was almost relieved that he did not have to.

  “Not much prospect of getting off the ground in this, Mr Davenport. I did not ask, but what was your training? How many hours have you?”

  The young, thin lieutenant was still shivering, the staff car having only a very limited heater; he had left his gloves and scarf in his trunk, taking pains to appear in public in his proper uniform. Tommy, who had wrapped up very thoroughly, had little sympathy – the boy would know better next time.

  “I went solo in six, sir, and then was given another four hours on a dual control Avro, sir, and then a solo flight. All of the new men who expect to go to single-seaters are being trained on a rotary, sir; they cannot be posted until they have their hours.”

  “Wonders will never cease – they have listened to us!”

  “It’s a new policy, sir. I completed my training two weeks ago and they sent me to another field in England, sir, near Winchester, and I was to have spent time every day learning the Camel, sir. It snowed and was cold and I only got ten hours in the two weeks, sir, but I learned all I could.”

  “So, you have twenty hours and can at least fly a Camel – to the extent of taking off and landing. That is a massive improvement on the past, Mr Davenport. We have had many and many a pilot who had a bare ten hours in total, and none in a Camel. You may well be replacing one of those gentlemen. Learn all you can; listen to the instructions you are given; do not believe anything you have read in the newspapers. Particularly, do not expect Jerry to run away or to show the yellow flag – the typical German pilot is better trained than you and equally as brave, and is flying a plane that is at least as good, perhaps better. We kill them by sneaking up behind them if possible, or by ganging up on them. Do not go off on your own – always keep with your Flight. Your main job is always to watch the tail of your leader. Someone else will have the job of watching for you, and you must keep an eye out behind as well. The old days of the lone hunter are over – we work as a squadron now. You will make your own kills, no doubt, but they are now less important than the performance of the whole team. Have you warm clothing in your trunk?”

  Davenport was taken by surprise, had not expected to be asked if he had his winter woollies with him.

  “Ah, yes, sir, to an extent.”

  “First non-flying day, we will send you back to Calais. There are English shops here where you can buy necessary clothing. Have you cash with you? It can be difficult to draw on your bank here; the Adjutant will arrange to advance you francs against your pay if necessary.”

  Tommy much suspected that Mr Davenport had no income from home, having probably run away from school to join the RFC. Keen volunteers could get by with the simplest of forgeries of personal documents, the shortage of ‘suitable’ bodies being what it was. A proper accent and the claim to have ridden one’s pony since boyhood would allow any young man through, provided he might reasonably be mistaken for eighteen.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. That would be very convenient.”

  Tommy handed the boy to George, who had returned the previous evening, and was asked what was happening.

  “Not much, Tommy. They tell me it came in bitter cold the week after we
went off and the grass has been covered with snow and ice since. A couple of part thaws followed by hard overnight frosts has left the squadron completely unable to get up in the air for the past fortnight. Lost one of the lieutenants playing snowballs, would you believe! He tripped and fell heavily, broke his arm when he hit the hard ground. Back in England now – a Blighty one, bone sticking through the flesh. That’s who the young gentleman is for. What is your name, Mr Davenport, your Christian name, that is?”

  “Marmaduke, sir.”

  “Not ‘sir’, adjutants ain’t that posh! ‘Adj’ does for me. Marmaduke – I wonder what they’ll make of that?”

  “I was Duke at school, Adj.”

  “Not a chance – far too high-up in the world for a mere lieutenant! Baron if you’re lucky!”

  The pilots agreed and reduced him to baronet, which became Bart and by day’s end was Black – many of them having read the tales of Black Bart, the Western stagecoach robber.

  Mr Davenport was flattered to have any nickname at all – it was a mark of acceptance, and he had been worried that he might have been nothing more than a juvenile outsider, not realising that every man was instantly part of the squadron – unless he refused to fit in – and was equally immediately forgotten. They weren’t flying for the while and so remembered his name – he would be about for a week at least and they would be drinking with him for that long and would have to speak to him. It was inconvenient – they did not like getting to know green hands – it was wearing on the emotions when they died.