“Thinking on it, Tommy, that way, if you miss the factory, which is probable, you’re almost certain to land in the terraces of workers’ housing around it and kill the skilled hands they need to keep the place running. It does actually work – tough luck for their wives and children, perhaps, but it’s all a jolly war, after all!”
Tommy agreed, sick of the whole business.
“The O400 has eight hours range, Barbry. If they give us those, eventually, it would be possible to get to London and back. I’ll bet I could hit the House of Commons – it’s a big building.”
“Tempting, Tommy! Very!”
“Still we can’t spend our time in happy daydreams, Barbry. Horatio is playing with fuses and thinks he may be able to ‘further modify’, that’s his words, not mine, the ones the Navy uses for armour-piercing so as to give us a few seconds of delay. The intention will be to let us drop the big bombs at ground level, almost, and get away, staying very low. He thinks it might work. Failing that, we will have to go in low, climb hard to two thousand feet and drop and try to get away a quarter of a mile before dropping low again. That might not be impossible, but I wouldn’t want to do it four times a day, every day. The fighters are fierce at the moment.”
“This Fokker, Tommy, is it that good? Could we try holding formation so that the four gunners could get a shot together?”
“No. They come in flocks. Circuses, they call them. You might get one or two, but the next dozen would be all over you.”
“Pity. It sounded like a good idea. What are we doing for Flights? All new bodies or spreading them about?”
“I want to try something new, Barbry. We have six new men coming in. Rather than putting one or two to each Flight, I’m going to take three, and you do the same. David and Blue can work up their own existing men then. Being to an extent experienced, they can act as leaders for the whole squadron, maybe thinking up some new ways of doing things. Men who’ve got a few hundred hours in will be able to fly better, obviously, and might work out their own ways of attacking and getting out which we could copy as our lads learned the trade.”
Barbry accepted that it was a possibility; he thought that he would not bother to get too close to his young men – no real need to get to know them well.
“Food’s good, by the way, Barbry. Belgian civilian cooks who know more than boiling and roasting to the consistency of leather.”
“Sounds like foreign muck to me, Tommy – good old English food is what has made us the nation we are!”
“I agree, Barbry. That’s a good argument for the squadron’s cooks.”
Six young Canadians were dropped outside the Mess: bright, keen, enthusiastic, clean-living and wholesome fellows, the finest the Dominion could throw up, soberly glad to have finished training and reached the battlefront, there to play their part in the Great Crusade against the Hun. They wore smart, clean, newly pressed uniforms, ties neatly knotted, collars properly starched; their shoes gleamed with freshly buffed polish. Their trunks were placed tidily on the concrete outside the door, each with a leather valise neatly aligned to its side.
They smiled hopefully at the sergeant who came to greet them, ready to return his salute. He was bareheaded, stared unbelievingly, trotted inside again, to the Adjutant’s office. They heard soft mutterings, saw heads appear at the windows and stare before popping back inside. George limped out, having found a hat so that they could start with a little of formality, just to be kind to the poor souls.
They saluted him, eagerly; he returned the compliment.
“Good morning gentlemen, welcome to the squadron. I am the Adjutant – you may call me ‘Adj’, or Uncle George if you are feeling homesick. I shall call you whatever strikes my fancy at any given moment. Come inside and deal with the formalities and then I shall introduce you to Tommy, who is eagerly awaiting your arrival. We are fortunate here in having a number of spare bodies to act as officers’ servants – old conscripts who are little use for anything else, of course, but they do give you one apiece. They will take your trunks to your rooms. Unusually, and you may be pleased at this, you have a room each. Second Lieutenants rarely attain such luxury. Bring your books in with you, gentlemen.”
The sergeant recorded names and next of kin and numbers from their paybooks, informing them that was all that was necessary.
“Mess fees will take your ordinary pay, sirs, but your flying pay will be all yours. Normally comes in francs, sirs, every month. You can make other arrangements, for allotments to wives, if required. If you need to do such, sirs, come back to me and I will do all of the paperwork for you, but not now, because you need to see your commanders.”
None had a wife; they gave the impression that they had not considered such a possibility even. The sergeant glanced at their names and guessed their ages, which were not required on his forms. He doubted any had reached twenty; he looked them over, thought it quite likely that none would. He took them back into the Adjutant’s office.
“The squadron leader wishes to greet you, gentlemen. Hats on this once. I will take you into the Mess afterwards and you will get some idea of how we dress when not flying. We are less formal, when possible.”
Tommy felt old when he saw them, lined up by height and saluting crisply; he knew he had never looked like that, but he had been much older than them at their age.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I am Tommy Stark and am pleased to welcome you to the squadron. We are flying DH4s, two-seaters, as I expect you know.”
He saw faint surprise on the disciplined faces.
“You did not know?”
“Permission to speak, sir?”
“Do what? Oh, yes, certainly – we don’t generally ask before opening our mouths, you know. Yes, by all means.”
“Lieutenant McLean, sir. We were told the squadron had Camels, sir.”
“It had, yes, but we were reorganised a few days ago. It took us by surprise, as well. No great worry, of course, DH4s are easier planes to fly. There is a rumour that we will be re-equipped with the DH9a, when it appears – that is supposed to be a better plane for the job, but it may be mythical, of course – a lot of these new planes never quite get round to coming out to the Front.”
“That does mean we won’t get a chance to make a score, sir. I think we all hoped to climb into the sky with the true heroes, sir. We were all glad to come out to your squadron, sir.”
“You wouldn’t make a score in a Camel anyway, Mac. Outdated, not much hope except a whole Flight manages to corner one of the new Jerries. You might pick up a quarter, once a week. The days of scores are over, I think, for the British, at least.”
“Well, sir, we shall do our duty, I don’t doubt.”
“Of course you will. That’s why you are here. Forget the ‘sir’, by the way. Names only in the squadron unless there are outsiders hanging about. Business! Three of you are coming to me, as my Flight; the others will go to Barbry Allen. We will be going out on patrol within the week, so you must learn fast. George, have you allocated the Flights yet?”
“All done, Tommy. Mr McLean and the two gentlemen to his left are yours.”
“Well done! If you three will remain here, we will get to know each other. Is Barbry out of bed yet, George?”
“He is, Tommy, I saw him at breakfast. Probably sober still.”
“Remarkable. Take his people to him, will you.”
The door closed behind the unbelieving young men and Tommy turned to his three.
“Small office, this one, but there’s a chair each. Sit down. Mr McLean, I know you, but what’s your name?”
As Tommy had intended, he looked blank for a couple of seconds before saying that his first name was Iain.
“And you?”
The fair-haired man next to Mclean, very soft-spoken, was also Scots in origin.
“Alistair Farquhar, Tommy.”
He was red-faced, probably as a result of wind and sun in the cockpit.
“Don’t forget your whale-grease, Al. You can pick up bad sun
burn flying four or five times a day. It can get painful. Welcome to the Flight.”
Tommy turned his attention to the third pilot, dark, nervous-seeming, very thin, short, could have been a Welshman; he doubted he weighed a hundred pounds, wondered how he had passed the medical examination.
“Abednego Smith, Tommy, from Medicine Hat.”
“Are you really? You must tell me about it, one day, Abe. Let’s take a walk down to the hangars now. Look at the buses, and talk about them a bit. This afternoon we shall sit in the cockpits, flying if possible. Have you all got full gear with you? You’re Canadians, and I am told that can be a cold country, so you will have warm clothing, I imagine?”
They had, in quantities.
They walked to the hangars, after Tommy had dissuaded them from marching, explaining that it was not the thing to do on a working squadron; they were anxious to fit in, obeyed immediately.
“Knell, three new men in my Flight – Mac, Al and Abe. Have we planes for them?”
Knell raised a long-suffering eyebrow but accepted that Tommy was trying to make them at home. He took them across to four at one end of the hangar and began his little speech for new men.
“When possible, you will fly the same plane. It will be your personal machine. If you break it, you will be given a spare until it is repaired. You will wish to have your own personal little picture painted on. Tommy, you will see, has a sword on his – though I believe it was the Colonel’s choice for him.”
“It was, Knell. Colonel Sarratt wanted blood dripping from the point, but that was too much of a good thing for my taste. You three will talk to your mechanics and they will paint it on for you. Abe, you will have a hat with a medicine bottle, no doubt.”
Knell returned to his little speech.
“You will have your personal pair of mechanics, gentlemen, who will always attend to your plane – or to the spare, if needed. Please remember that they are the boss! If they say that the plane does not fly, then that is the end of the matter. It is a court-martial offence to attempt to fly a plane that has not been released to you. The Armourer, Horatio, will be responsible for your guns and bombs; he will tell you what you are loaded with. Please note that you do not tell him. Tommy will give the orders for the Flight; we will carry them out; you will fly with the result, gentlemen. When you become Flight Commanders, you can argue; when you command a squadron, you will order; just at the moment – do what you are told with what you are given.”
It was easier, Knell thought, to set out his stall at the very beginning; they would argue, inevitably, but they could start out obedient.
“Excuse me, sir…”
“Knell, we use names here. Death, I would add, not Eskimo.”
“What?”
“Knell with a ‘K’, forget the other bit.”
“Right, yes. Ah… we were told in training that pilots are the superiors on a field, sir. ‘Everything revolves around the needs of the pilot’, that was what the instructor said, Knell.”
“The only time anything revolves around a pilot is when he is falling-down drunk, Abe, is it?”
“Yes, Knell. You think he was wrong? He had just come back from France, sent across to Canada after two years at the Front.”
“He was taking the piss, Abe – filling you with bullshit so that you would make a fool of yourself on your first day. So far, he’s succeeding.”
Abe subsided into offended silence; he was not used to being the butt of jokes; he seemed not to approve of the very concept of humour.
Tommy judged it time to take over.
“The DH4, gentlemen, a purpose-built bombing machine. You will see that it carries a gun for the pilot, and a pair of Lewises for your gunner. Your gunner will use them when you attack targets at low-level, which is virtually all we shall do. There is a Drift Sight fitted, but you can ignore it – we won’t be using it in the immediate future. The DH4 is a good machine to drive – it has fewer vices than many. You will do your best to remain with your Flight, and obey my instructions. Drop your bombs when I do. Don’t worry if you can’t see the target – it takes time to train the eyes to pick up what is on the ground and moving fast. Keep your eyes open at all times – watch for every move I make, at first, then after a week or two, anticipate – work out what I am going to do next. Do not expect to be perfect from the very beginning – I was, of course, but I am exceptional.”
Tommy scanned their faces, watched as they assimilated what he had just said and started to show outrage.
“That, by the way, is what we call a line-shoot. If I said that in the bar at night I would be lucky not to be debagged for it.”
They could not approve.
“Ah, Tommy… The bar… is it compulsory?”
“No, Mac, but you will cause offence to the other members of the squadron if you don’t join in. You can drink water if you prefer – your choice and they will say nothing – but you really should be present, with your colleagues in the air. We are far less formal than your training squadrons may have been. You may have noticed that the RFC became the RAF today – I have no doubt there will be a really jolly parade back at your training ground. Here – nothing. George will dish out the new badges at dinner, and your servants will be given the new buttons to sew on, and that will be it. They are thinking of new names for the ranks, but they haven’t brought them in yet. When they do, we shall all play the game and do as we are told when we remember to. We have better things to do.”
They nodded, stunned.
“Now then. Lunchtime. We eat breakfast and lunch informally in working dress when possible. If we are grounded by rain then the luncheon is taken together. Dinner is slightly more organised – Mess dress, unless you have just landed – and we take it as a squadron. No excessive formality, except on rare occasions when there is brass hanging around. Piece of advice, gentlemen – even when you are feeling absolutely knackered, or sick because your best pal has just been fried alive in the cockpit under your nose, or you have brought your gunner back screaming with a round through his belly, come into dinner and eat your meal. You will not feel any better for it, but you will be fit to fly next morning. You’ll be good for nothing if you starve yourself. Let’s go and eat.”
They accompanied him silently, well shocked, he hoped.
The food thawed them out.
“This is the best I have eaten since I left home, Tommy. I had come to think there was no such thing as good food outside Medicine Hat.”
“Wait for dinner, Abe. Normally that’s the best meal of the day.”
“How?”
“Belgian civilians, brought into the kitchens for having no way to earn a living elsewhere. It ain’t entirely lawful, but it is bloody good food.”
“I’m persuaded, Tommy.”
“Good. Drink a cup of tea or coffee, then get into flying gear. I want you down at the hangars for one-thirty; a briefing on the cockpit and how she behaves, then I shall take you up. You will meet your gunners too. They are sergeants, but you will be well-advised to treat them as partners. Talk to them. I must spend a few minutes in my office. I will see you on time at the hangars.”
Tommy had nothing important waiting on his desk, but he felt the three would need to talk to each other without him present. He waved Barbry across and left the Mess in his company.
“Stuffed-shirt primitives, Barbry? Cowboys?”
“Sheep-shaggers more like, Tommy! I’m taking them up this afternoon – God knows what they’ll be like.”
“No more than an hour, Barbry. You take yours due south, I’ll go more to the west, to the seaside. Start low-level tomorrow?”
“Makes sense, Tommy. Along the stretches of beach Dunkirk way?”
“As good a place as any, Barbry. Don’t play with staff cars, by the way – we have squadron markings on our planes, and there are nasty-minded policemen who will remember that I laughed at them last time. We are to be good, for the while, Barbry, until the strain gets too great.”
Serg
eant Ormerod was waiting at the hangar, three others with him, staring unimpressed at their new lords and masters of the air.
The new pilots stared in horror as the sergeants greeted Tommy, saying ‘Good Afternoon’ and not saluting. They could not salute, they accepted, for wearing leather flying helmets with no badge to touch, but they did think the sergeants should have brought proper hats with them for the purpose. What was the point to being an officer if lesser mortals did not salute one?
“Have you flown a DH4 in training?”
All had, it was a standard training plane, they said, though with the older engines rather than the newer Rolls Royce Eagle. They seemed quite smug to know so much.
“Good. We shall not carry bombs today. Have you dropped bombs?”
They had not.
“The sole important thing to remember is not to fly into the bomb blasts of the man in front – which means, never fly nose to tail when bombing. Stagger in an echelon, or, even better, line abreast. It is my habit now to keep to the left-hand side of the line and turn away to port. Why?”
“To avoid collisions, Tommy?”
“Just that, Al. We shall be very low, so you must not lose height on the turn. Follow my example and try to keep the distance between us constant. You know your way around the cockpits, so let us make ready. Line abreast to take off, distance of twenty feet. It has been dry for two days, so we take off on the grass. If we must use the clinker strip, then line astern and form up abreast when we reach one thousand feet on our way out; then I will lead you to the height I fancy. Today, I will climb to five thousand before banking gently to port and to the coast. After a while, I shall lead you back again. Barbry will also be in the air, so keep a lookout for him. There will be other traffic – possibly coming across from Dover. Eyes open! Your guns are loaded – you will never take off from this field with empty guns. If you think you see Jerry, raise your left arm and when I acknowledge you, point.”
“What then, Tommy?”
“Follow me. Do not leave formation today. Finally, observe your gunner’s cockpit. What do you see inside?”
A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series, Book 6) Page 12