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

by Andrew Wareham

  There were advantages to being known, and liked, Tommy thought.

  “George? What can we do for the Chinks this time? Poor little sods, paid almost nothing and half a world away from home – we ought to do something.”

  “Not easy, Tommy. The Quartermasters are better organised these days; not so simple to work a fiddle now. Bloody policemen, as well, watching the stores and the requisitions that go in.”

  “Then we’ll go from the other direction, George. Can you pick up food on the Frog black market?”

  “We do every week for the Mess, Tommy. So do the sergeants, I know. Against cash, even if not a great deal.”

  “Go into Calais, to my bank, will you, George. Pick up what you need – I’ll write you a blank cheque, you fill in the amount – and get them the makings of a couple of good meals and some bottles of beer. They get fed bully beef and rice, unbroken, I expect. Get tins of ham and stuff like that, and have our kitchens boil up some greens or whatever – you know more about that than me. Give ‘em a good feed – they ain’t much more than slaves, in my mind, and I don’t like it!”

  Initially, George did not particularly care what happened to a bunch of foreigners – they weren’t English, so they didn’t quite count as human beings – but, if Tommy was feeling tender-hearted, he doubted it would do them much harm. He put the instructions into effect, bought eggs as well, and spaghetti, thinking that was foreign food so they would like it, and provided them with their feast. They seemed to enjoy it, spending half of their Sunday afternoon leisure cooking and the rest eating and supping their beer. They could be heard yelling and singing - obviously having a good time. George now felt quite pleased with himself for having had a part in the business.

  The new planes arrived over the weekend, a score of DH4s, as they had expected; none of them were new, having been collected from training and Home Service squadrons to meet the demands of the Front.

  “Knell, do you need more bodies in the hangars?”

  “Always, Tommy. I’ll need spares from Airco, if they have any. They spent most of the past eighteen months building bloody useless DH9s and probably have closed the production of DH4s – but they should be making some spares. Depends on the engines in these things, of course. If there have been unauthorised modifications, then we’re well buggered – some of the better engineers put their own improvements into the planes. That’s all very well, until they’re sent elsewhere and the blokes there know nothing about them.”

  “Check them over, Knell. Shout for all you need and we’ll see what can be done. Will there be papers with the planes, saying where they came from?”

  “Good idea, Tommy!”

  “Don’t sound so bloody surprised, Knell! I thought every plane had a little logbook with it, saying how many hours it had done and what the last overhaul was and when?”

  “They should have, Tommy – but they can get lost when planes change squadrons. They shouldn’t, but lots of things happen that ought not to. If I can, I’ll organise raids on their last homes and pick up all the spares they’ve got. They might have special tools as well, that they’ve made up specifically for the type of plane. I may have to fly to England in a hurry, Tommy…”

  “Have any of your mechanics got hours in?”

  “Two, that I know of, more than thirty now. In the Gunbuses we keep tucked away in the corner, Tommy.”

  “Gunbuses can’t carry much. Use the first DH4 you get ready, bring back what you need in the bomb racks. Your mechanic to fly and you in the observer’s seat. No guns, to save weight. Fly as and when you need to.”

  “Will do, Tommy. Testing the new planes, of course – they have to be thoroughly checked over before I will release them to you.”

  “They’re getting old, but at least they ain’t these bloody pushers the Frogs are still using, Knell.”

  “Bloody Voisins, Tommy. Night only, and even then I don’t envy the poor buggers in them. I hear the Americans wouldn’t take them. They got SPADS, I know, and Nieuports and Breguets, and Salmsons, I think. You know they took over the Lafayette Escadrille from the Frogs?”

  “Makes sense, taking the American pilots back to their own country’s forces. Are any of the Yanks flying with the RFC going back, do you know?”

  Knell did not know; out of casual interest, Tommy asked Nancy, who probably would know, he thought.

  “Only a few, Tommy. Most of them are at home here now. They took all of the Lafayette boys except one, by the way, Tommy.”

  “Wouldn’t he leave the French?”

  “They wouldn’t have him – he’s a black man. The Americans wouldn’t have him flying one of their planes!”

  “That’s poor behaviour, Nancy. Never known of a black man flying before, mind you, but if he can do it, why not? I know there’s some Indian pilots, but they haven’t let them come to France, and I heard there was a Samoan who came across with some New Zealanders and is flying now. If a man’s willing to get killed, why stop him?”

  “Maybe, Tommy. Don’t know, myself, but I’m not a pilot, no reason I should know very much about flying. I thought it was funny, though – you hear all this bullshit about ‘The Land of the Free’, it’s good to know they’re just as bad as we are!”

  “Fair point, Nancy. Do you know anything about our targets? What do they want us to do?”

  “Tommy, you really must clear yourself of this naivety! They have decided they want more bombers, for the purpose of bombing things. When they have the actual bombers, then they will decide what things they want them to bomb!”

  “Is that what you call planning, Nancy?”

  “No, Tommy. It’s what they call planning.”

  The Camels, and their pilots, drifted away and the squadron took its new form. The DH4s were released from the hangars over a period of days, two of them held for a full week, Knell swearing that they could not possibly have been flown in, considering their condition, they must have walked while everyone’s back was turned.

  The observers were sorted out and assigned to their pilots; in the nature of things, Sergeant Ormerod came to Tommy, being senior man.

  “Will you be taking lessons on a Gunbus, Sergeant Ormerod?”

  “No, sir. It’s that sort of behaviour that led me here, sir. I was a cadet, sir, left a protected job as junior manager in my father’s factory, sir, to join the RFC. I was failed, sir – just couldn’t get the hang of flying. After my third crash they threw me out, and that left me as a private soldier, sir. That’s what happens to cadets who fail and don’t die in the process.”

  “And you’ve made it up to sergeant since – which is quick promotion.”

  “Not really, sir. I had a school certificate in Mathematics, which they demanded for the bomb-aiming course. Passing the course brought three stripes, automatically, sir. Six months, sir, from cadet officer to private soldier to sergeant. Don’t know what I’ll be by Christmas.”

  “What was wrong with your flying, Sergeant Ormerod?”

  “I suppose you might call it balance, sir. I couldn’t seem to bring the wings level, except by looking at them, and when I was looking left, the right ones dropped down, and when I turned to them, to bring them stable, it was the chance for the left to play up. It made it difficult to do much else, sir.”

  Tommy was fascinated – he had met with the problem of stability, but only at night or, recently, in fog. He did not see how there could be a problem in broad daylight. He could accept that a pilot with such a handicap was not suited for the job.

  “Ah, well, at least you’re in the air now, even if at second-hand. Will you leave the service when the war ends?”

  “Maybe, sir. My father wasn’t pleased when I left the factory. He gave the job to my younger brother, who was just coming up to conscription age and glad to take it. Told me not to come back, if I was so ungrateful. My elder brother said the same – thought I was a damned fool to go to the war if I could possibly avoid it. So, one thing led to another, and we had words about the m
atter, and I ended up telling them they had yellow streaks a yard wide, and going back ain’t really an option, sir. I still write to my mother, and she will be proud, at least.”

  “So, nothing to go back to, Sergeant Ormerod. There will be a need for good men in the new RAF, and the chance of a commission, I would expect. We’ll see to that later. Now, guns are the thing. You won’t be aiming bombs for a few weeks, because it will be low level work. You’re happier with the Lewises now?”

  “They’re not very difficult to learn, sir. What exactly am I to do with them?”

  “Shoot the hell out of anything you see on the ground. Do not in the process aim so far forward that you remove the wings or my head; do not turn so far back that you blow off the tailplane. If you change your point of aim from port to starboard, cease fire until you are clear of the plane itself; the same, obviously, for the other way round. If you ever feel particularly fierce, you may carry a box of grenades with you, though I have often thought that to be a rather flashy thing to do – some types find it amusing. Carry the service revolver that will be issued. If we have to walk home, it will be handy – or it was when I was in that position. Finally, keep your eyes open – you never know, you might see something useful.”

  It all seemed rather simple to Sergeant Ormerod.

  “What will we be bombing, sir?”

  “For the next few weeks? Germans, Sergeant. Until this bloody offensive of theirs is halted, nothing else will count. Eventually, I would expect us to attack airfields and railway lines – easily damaged, if one can hit them.”

  “Easily repaired as well, sir.”

  “True, but only if they’ve got the men and the material to hand. Jerry is supposed to be in slow collapse, due to the effects of the blockade. Attrition, they call it.”

  Chapter Five

  A Wretched Victory

  Tommy had kept eight of his original squadron, including David and Blue as Flight Commanders; he required seven more bodies, including at least one captain; there had been mention of a captain for each Flight, the squadron commander being a spare hand rather than flying regularly. He spoke to Colonel Sarratt, for the first time in more than a week.

  “Do you know what this is all about, sir? Funny time to be reorganising a squadron and pulling pilots out of flying.”

  Colonel Sarratt attempted a contemptuous sneer – he wasn’t very good at facial expressions but felt he should show willing.

  “Politics, Tommy, nothing unusual. The RAF comes into existence tomorrow, and the first attempt to cripple it has come already. This argument is about strategic bombing – which cannot be achieved for lack of aircraft, as you know. But, the creation of a strategic bombing force has been put in hand, and you will be part of it. Boom has been sidelined, and is having a temper tantrum at the moment, but he will come back, and the word is that he will be given this new Bombing Force, separately from the main channels of command of the RAF and to an extent under Haig’s control. It will all come right in the end, no doubt, but God alone knows how! At the moment, you must bring your new planes into commission as soon as you can. You will get six Canadians this afternoon, and a Captain Barbry Allen, who apparently is known to you. Allen is yours as a result of some string-pulling, probably by Maurice Baring, who knows you both and is Boom’s man but suffers from honour and honesty – which is a handicap for any senior man in this war.”

  Tommy realised that Colonel Sarratt also possessed those qualities, to a degree, and was suffering as he attempted to be loyal to men who did not understand the concept. His own reaction, he thought, would have been to seek out the nearest schemer and kick him in the balls, if he could find them. He, of course, was not a career officer. He listened silently as Colonel Sarratt continued his explanation.

  “Now, pay attention, Tommy – ears pinned back and all that, because this is complicated. You are no longer part of my Wing, because you will be part of the new force. But, and this is the hard bit, the new force that you are part of does not exist, so you will be attached to me for administrative purposes. Clear?”

  “So… What changes, sir? In the way of running the squadron?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s all the same?”

  “Apart from being entirely different, it is wholly identical.”

  “Oh, good. I am so glad to be told that. I need one hundred-pound bombs as well as the three hundredweight jobs, sir. I want an additional quarter of a million rounds of three-o-three ammunition, hybrid, if possible, to build up a working surplus. I would like to have four more DH4s, because I think we shall be doing a great deal of low-level work, which means picking up ground fire. If we are to go out four or five times a day, then we need extra spare aircraft. Knell will require more air-mechanics, at least eight of first and second-class, and another sergeant would be handy. I would like to train up another four gunners, at least, which means I must promote four men to sergeant.”

  Tommy thought there was a good chance that Colonel Sarratt would be so anxious to make peace, to re-establish a friendly relationship, that he would give him anything he asked for on this occasion. Colonel Sarratt recognised what he was doing, and acquiesced – he could not afford to fight Tommy, knowing that his other squadron commanders would all take Tommy’s side.

  “I will do what I can, Tommy. It might not be possible to get everything. They have changed the weights of the bombs recently – I think they are sending out one hundredweight bombs and two hundred and fifty pounders, but I shall enquire. This field is looking better, Tommy. Permanent quarters for all pilots, I see.”

  “Captain Marks and his performing Chinks, sir. They are finishing off a pair of clinker strips now. Damned good workers, those Chinamen, sir. They deserve a reward of some sort, poor buggers – we don’t exactly treat them kindly, sir.”

  “Well, they are Chinks, you know, Tommy. Millions more where they come from! I’ll see what can be fiddled from the Quartermasters, Tommy – might be able to get their rations issued from the Engineers’ Stores and from ours at the same time – get them double, for a day or two. If anyone complains at a later date when they work out what happened, we just say it was a cock-up and the officers responsible were killed in the Big Push.”

  Peace was made, for the while – they had too much to do to fight each other.

  “Captain Allen, Tommy. Newly appointed to the squadron.”

  “Come in, Barbry, welcome to the madhouse! More than welcome – good to see a familiar face. Where have you been?”

  “Training, Tommy – where else. Can you not see the grey hairs? I visited Wilton last week to see Noah, having heard that was where he was now. He put the word up the line that you needed me, and he has got strings to pull now, it would seem. Took one day for everything to be arranged and for me to be sent on four days of leave, to the delight of my parents who could hardly believe their boy had three stars on his shoulder, as well as wings and a medal ribbon! My father wanted to show me off down at the pub and mum was only sorry I couldn’t remain until Sunday, so they could see me at chapel. I don’t know how I go back after the war, Tommy – fish out of water hardly describes how I felt.”

  Tommy said nothing but wondered just how much of a favour he had done Barbry when he had arranged his commission.

  “I have heard the same from so many of the lads, Barbry. I don’t know the answer. This war has left a lot of people with no place to go. How was Noah?”

  “Off crutches and onto a single walking stick, Tommy. His wife seemed half pleased, half frightened that he is recovering so fast, poor lady! I can understand why. He says he will be back in June. I believe him. I dropped into your home while I was in Wilton, and have a letter and a tin of toffees with chocolate centres which she was keeping to send out to you.”

  “She’s well?”

  “Fit as a fiddle, Tommy, both the children, too.”

  “That’s one relief. Thanks for seeing her, Barbry. It must be lonely as hell for her, not knowing what’s happening
but certain that the newspapers are not telling the truth. Still, there’s not many more years left in this war, with luck. The blockade must end it, unless Jerry gets hold of the Russian mines and wheat fields.”

  “No country is going to get hold of them, Tommy. The civil war in Russia is blowing up so hard that it will never end and there will be no people left to work mines or fields. They’re killing civilians now, deliberately rather than by mistake. The whole of Eastern Europe is getting set to depopulate itself, apparently – or so Noah’s wife’s father told him.”

  “He will have the knowledge of what is happening. Knows a lot of people, Lord Holt. What you might call good in a bad sort of way, I suppose. Poor sods!”

  They shook their heads over the plight of the millions caught up in vicious civil wars, then forgot them, being able to do nothing for or about them.

  “I want you to work up a Flight, Barbry. Canucks, I expect. Far better trained than our lads, for having as many as a hundred hours under their belts, though in what machines, I don’t know. We shall be flying low, always. No bloody choice – we can’t live with the Fokkers, but they can’t dive down on us at ground level. I shall have to talk fuses with Horatio – the Armourer – because they have given us those bloody great three hundredweight jobbies as well as the more normal stuff, but I hear they are the last of that sort, maybe.”

  “They’ve got a one thousand pounder now, Tommy, for dropping from the O400.”

  “Makes sense, when you consider it, Barbry. If they are to try to bomb factories at night, when they can’t see them, with bomb sights that only work to a quarter of a mile, more or less, then big bombs with a greater blast is the way to go. They can generally hit the same town as the factory is in, so if they use big bombs and lots of them, then there is a chance of getting near the target. Not a very good chance, but better than none.”

  Barbry was much impressed by this logic.