Conversation ended as the photographers took over. No more business was possible until the visitors had left and the newspaper people had quenched their substantial thirsts and fled after them.
“Fall back, Tommy? Why? What conceivable need might we have to retreat?”
“The Belgian gentleman was concerned that there might be an attack on a very narrow front, sir, a penetration of the Lines followed by a push to the North Sea, much as was planned for Passchendaele, but in reverse. He had Intelligence reports, sir.”
Colonel Sarratt was upset at the very concept, called for Nancy.
“There are such reports, sir. They have been discounted at the highest level I believe. I would be inclined to discuss the possibility at Brigade, sir. Now that Boom and Maurice Baring are gone, there is no sympathetic ear at HQ - no chance of holding informed discussion of all that is happening. The only thing one hears at HQ now is the official policy. There will be no great attack in March, or so we are officially told. If there should be, it will fail. There is no need to take any particular precautions, other than those that have been laid down against the possibility of penetration of any part of the Trenches. It has long been recognised that a gas attack might be particularly successful if the wind favoured it; in such a case, the various battalions have orders to fall back into areas of higher ground that are easily isolated and defended. It is regarded as a certainty that no attack can penetrate as much as ten miles, because the clouds of gas must disperse in that distance.”
“Don’t quite understand, Nancy. All of the men have gasmasks, have they not?”
Colonel Sarratt was not of a scientific cast of mind, had not kept up with the advances in poison gases.
“There are things like mustard gas, sir. They need only touch the skin. They do not have to be inhaled.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Is there no limit to their vileness? I hope we do not use such filth!”
“We do not, sir. It has been considered, but the wind is too great a risk for us. Jerry has fewer men, can take the chance of the wind turning in exchange for the probability of making a big killing. From our point of view, the risk is excessive. Consideration has been given to the use of aerial bombs filled with gas, of course, but there is the possibility of a bomber being shot down over our Trenches, or of crashing on take off. One understands that there has been some thought of attempting to contaminate water supplies in Germany, sir, by dropping poisons into reservoirs, but we do not have planes with the range yet. By 1920, that will no longer be the case and we may discover more attention being given to that proposal.”
“I could be ashamed to be an Englishman, Nancy. Back to business! There are no proposals from on high for fields to fall back on, because there is no need for them. Do you believe and trust HQ, Nancy?”
“Of course not, sir. What a ridiculous concept!”
Colonel Sarratt shook his head in disapproval.
“What is the world coming to? I don’t either. Are there unused fields to the rear?”
“The Advanced Training Field, sir?”
Tommy explained their taking advantage of those facilities for a few weeks in June, said he had not heard of the establishment being used again.
“Take a drive down there tomorrow, Nancy. Discover whether it has tenants. If it is empty, then make a road map for the benefit of the hangars people. If we have to evacuate, they will rendezvous there. Inform all of the pilots as well.”
Nancy thought that made sense; if the Advanced Training Field was not available he would seek an alternative.
“Did you specify next month, March, Nancy?”
“That’s the rumour, Tommy. My people have been picking up vague indicators of an attack in March. No absolute statement to that effect – we have been able to get hold of no written orders this time – Jerry is tightening up on his security, at long last.”
“No leave for any of our people in March, sir. Can we perhaps get hold of some extras in the way of petrol and ammunition, and the smaller bombs?”
“I will put in for them, Tommy. You might consider putting your two-seaters to extra use – we may need trained sergeants to sit in vacant cockpits.”
Nancy was forestalled in the morning; orders arrived from HQ relating to the probability of a spring offensive and the chance of ‘local and short-lived advances in Flanders’. General Salmond had identified airfields to the rear and had assigned them to specific squadrons; he had also laid hands upon additional lorries and trailers for the purpose of shifting hangars’ personnel and equipment to them. The lorries would start arriving in the immediate future and ground staff must create plans for their most effective use in moving mechanics and equipment to be operational in the new sites in the shortest possible time.
Colonel Sarratt informed his squadrons of the orders and warned them to be packed and ready to go.
“Best thing would be to send a skeleton crew to your new fields in advance. The existing kitchens should be made ready – they will probably be fairly much derelict and will require work if they are not to poison the lot of you. Your armourers could stockpile much of their reserve munitions there as well. I want the change to make a difference of ten minutes – the time it takes to fly to the new field. Understood, gentlemen?”
Tommy and Drongo said they did, wondering just what was so urgent – it was just another Push, was it not?
“Bound to fizzle out in a few days, sir.”
“No worries,” Drongo contributed. “She’ll be right inside a week, sir.”
“Intelligence says otherwise, gentlemen. This one will be different, they say, though they don’t know how. Jerry has been training up his Stormtroopers over the winter – bloody silly name, if ever there was – the best men from each battalion extracted and put together to lead the attack, quite how is unclear. Add to that – and not to be mentioned – we have very little by way of a Reserve behind the lines. It will not be possible to fill any large gap that develops, for lack of bodies in France. The word is that Lloyd George has refused to send the men across so that Haig cannot waste them in ‘wild attacks’ – but it also means they are not immediately to hand against pressing need. If there is a breakthrough, then there will be very little to stop Jerry reaching the coast.”
Chapter Three
A Wretched Victory
The mild weather continued through March, unseasonably warm and with frequent fogs, thick and slow to dissipate in the low winds and making flying impossible on most mornings.
They were awakened by the noise of a massive bombardment from the Front, as great as the Somme, they thought. Tommy stood outside with George and Nancy, unable even to decide its exact location, whether it was an attack on a broad front, like the Somme or if, as predicted, just a narrow part of the Line was to be assailed.
“Perfect weather for an attack, Tommy. Nothing to be seen from your trench until they are on top of you. Can’t spot gas as it mixes into the fog. No aircraft flying; balloons useless; defensive artillery blinded until the last few seconds and reduced to firing shots on previously nominated targets.”
Tommy said nothing; Nancy was stating the obvious. All they could do was wait.
The three stood, peering hopelessly into the fog, hoping to see signs of wind swirling it away, or a hot sun burning it off, unlikely as that was towards the end of March in the wet of the Low Countries.
“Did you know that Napoleon left Elba one hundred and three years ago today, Tommy? The Hundred Days campaign started today, culminating in Waterloo, of course, which was fought not so many miles north of here.”
Tommy was not especially interested, except to comment that he would rather have had Wellington in command at that moment.
“It might be argued that Marlborough would have been better, of course, Tommy – he was in some ways a more masterful commander… Not that that is in any way relevant today, as you will undoubtedly point out.”
“I certainly shall, Nancy, as you can appreciate. I am very likely to
do something like that. Far more likely than to discuss some general I have never heard of. Very quiet at the Front now – hardly any shelling to be heard. Does the fog dull noise?”
“Not as a rule. The opposite if anything. If Jerry is advancing, then his artillery will be silent, after a final bombardment with gas shells. They could be moving now. Not a chance of getting a plane up, Tommy?”
“Oh, that would be easy, Nancy. An oil drum flaming to give a line, and it would be simple to take off. Same as night flying. The problem would lie in getting down again. This fog might be solid from here to London or down to the Mediterranean coast. I could get up, but unless the fog broke, that would be the last you saw of me.”
“Not a good idea. It became patchy in mid-afternoon yesterday, Tommy. Will you go then?”
“Only if you promise me that the field will be open when I come back again.”
“Forget it. Bad idea.”
George’s administrative sergeant called from his office.
“Telephone, sir. Urgent!”
George ran, came back within the minute.
“Colonel Sarratt. Major attack soon after dawn, behind gas. The first line is broken in several places and German troops reported in the communications trenches. Details unknown. We are to assume a ‘significant breakthrough’. We are to be ready to withdraw to our rear field.” He stopped for a moment, unwilling to pass on the order. “If the fog lifts, or shows any signs of breaking, he says you must take off, Tommy, with at least two Flights. Bombed up, but concerned to report back on the extent of the advance.”
Tommy was silent for a few seconds, face blank. Then he summoned a smile.
“So be it. Nice knowing you, gentlemen. The letter’s in my desk drawer, George. Make sure Monkey gets it. Send the order to the hangars, please, to prepare my Flight and Shards Potter to go with bombs; immediate readiness. Nancy, can you see if there is any information to hand from other squadrons? Ask Shards to come to my office, please, George.”
Tommy withdrew, sat down, swore, composed himself to speak with his Flight Commander. He had to appear confident, casual, if at all possible; it would be very ill-mannered to display his own doubts and fears as he gave his orders. Pointless to attempt to be reassuring, but worse to seem to offer a death sentence.
“We must fly at the first opportunity, Shards. There is a major breakthrough. The Trenches appear to be penetrated at several points. More important to get back with information than to select a valuable target for the bombs, probably. I shall order the Hangars to send up red flares at thirty second intervals after we have been out for an hour. The fog may be too thick, extend too high, for them to be seen, of course. Do your best to fly out on a line so that you can return on, what’s the word? The opposite bearing.”
“The reciprocal, Tommy.”
“So it is. Anyway, try that. Tell your boys the what and where of it.”
Captain Potter said nothing, accepting that the order had been forced on Tommy.
They stood together in the hangars, waiting in the clammy coolness of the fog, looking up every few seconds, most of the pilots smoking their cigarettes, drawing heavily, burning them down to their lips in seconds it seemed. Towards midday the sun appeared, pale as the moon through the shifting veils of mist. Tommy broke the silence.
“Push them out, Knell.”
There was no protest.
Five minutes saw them started and poised in line abreast, waiting seconds for the oil drum to catch fire, then rolling off to the east – there was no wind to consider.
They broke into clear air at four thousand feet, far higher than Tommy had hoped, but well above the elevation of the highest of local hills. The lines were twenty miles distant from the field. Tommy counted down on his watch. Four minutes to climb, averaging probably sixty miles an hour; that left sixteen miles to travel, speed rising to one hundred and ten, say an average of about ninety, three miles to two minutes. Eleven more minutes to take them over the lines. He looked behind him, saw just one Camel; difficult to keep together in such poor visibility; it was natural to try to keep one’s distance, then more than hard to form up again.
He dropped down into the blankness, like diving head first into a snowbank, fifteen seconds before his estimated time to reach the lines, thumbing the switch to reduce speed in a shallow dive. He spotted the ground through swirling sheets of fog, perhaps one hundred feet below him, pulled up into level flight and looked around, decided he was in the rear areas of the British trenches – the British tended towards right angles in their trench digging, the German lines were more at diagonals. There was a sudden flare of fire behind him; he had heard that they were using flame-throwers in the trenches now, but suspected that his lone follower had found the ground too late.
The landscape was empty until he reached the third line of trenches when he picked out a clump of khaki bodies huddled around a Vickers. The advancing Germans had killed them and moved on. The attack had passed this point, was now somewhere to the west. He turned hard, trying to make an exact reversal of his course, hoping that there was no other Camel close to hand; there might have been another following the flamer. As far as he could recall, this was a flat area, he was not heading into hills or forest, or should not be. He felt his gut knot.
A minute, a mile and more even at his lowest speed, and he saw movement on the ground, field-grey greatcoats coming towards him through the mist, half-seen, carrying stretchers. Not a retreat; aid parties bringing out the wounded. That meant they were well to the rear of the immediate battleground. He flew over them, trying to follow the line they had come along. Thirty seconds and he came to fighting, a pair of Vickers set up behind sandbags on a tiny rise and holding against a skirmishing line of German soldiers carrying light machine-guns as personal weapons. He banked hard, came in along their line, firing his guns, releasing his bombs when he was sure he would not hit the khaki figures. He turned again, as tightly as possible, guessed his course and headed, hopefully into the west. Five more futile minutes, trying to see what was happening and discovering nothing and he climbed out of the fog, not so high now, trying to estimate how far he had travelled, and in what direction.
‘Five miles behind the third line, maybe. Then ten or eleven minutes at most might bring me within sight of the field, if I could see any bloody thing at all!’
The sun gave him an indication of the west, that he was travelling within twenty or thirty degrees of the right track. All he could see below was a blank, white field, just like flying over snow or thick cloud, the top swirling just a little. He flew on and looked hopefully for flares, belching sourly, his stomach roiling. He had flown too far, he was sure, and he turned north, then five minutes east, then south and west to complete a square. He saw nothing and shifted a mile or so before repeating the search.
On his third attempt he spotted a patch where the fog was thicker, blacker nearly a mile distant – smoke perhaps. Another sooty puff, as if some clever hand was tipping used engine oil onto a petrol blaze. He turned towards the scene and a red flare came through the fog, not quite reaching into clear air, falling away beneath him, visible now he was so close. He circled, losing height very slowly, dropping down in the direction of the field, hoping that he would not find the towers of the silos – that would be the blackest of humour, to find home and be killed by it. He took a last look around, saw no other plane of the eight which had taken off.
‘Lucky Stark, again.’
He eased downwards, watched another flare arc upwards, responded with a green, not wishing to be mistaken for an Albatros in the half light.
At one hundred and fifty feet he broke into clear air, discovered he was flying with one wing low – he had been convinced he was perfectly level and straight – had just time enough to correct and bring himself to ground safely. He taxyed across to the hangars, switched off, climbed down from the cockpit and then spewed acid bile on the concrete apron.
A hand passed him a mug of water; he rinsed his mouth
and apologised for making such a mess. An aircraftman was already pulling a hose across.
“Forget it, Tommy. What did you see? You’ve dropped your bombs.”
He made the briefest of reports, said that he had been half an hour at least trying to find the field.
“Two miles west of the third line and still moving? The better part of an hour ago? I’ll get on the telephone now.”
Nancy ran.
“Have any of the others come in?”
A silent headshake.
“No word?”
“Nothing.”
“I saw one explosion behind me when I found the ground. I thought that was one of the lads.”
“We’ll keep the fire burning, Tommy, until the two and a half hour mark.”
“Do that, Knell. The black smoke was a good idea – it showed up through the fog. Can you fit spirit levels in the cockpits? I thought I was on an even keel until I came out into the clear air.”
“If I can get them, I shall, Tommy. None in my stores at the moment.”
Tommy walked slowly back to his office; he was shivering, he found, and it was not that cold… strain, he decided. He went into the Mess instead and called for coffee, found he could not drink it, his stomach rebelled at the first sniff. He took the cup with him to the office; no need for the waiters to see the state he was in. He sat and shook and waited for the effects of the hour’s strain to wear off; his belly was on fire. After several minutes he was in control again; he drank his coffee, now cold, and swore as his gut protested. Another couple of minutes to be sure he would not vomit again and he left the room, went in search of the Adjutant.
“Anything, George?”
“Not a word, Tommy. Disappeared. Found the snark.”
To George’s surprise, Tommy’s nurse had read Lewis Carroll to him.
“Never to be seen no more; for the snark was a boojum, you see… A bit more than half an hour left in their tanks – we may hear of forced landings… they would be able to turn generally west.”
A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6) Page 6