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

by Andrew Wareham

  “A broom handle, Tommy?”

  “A bamboo stick, in fact, Mac. The cockpits are too far apart for you to be certain of hearing the gunner, particularly when you are wearing a flying helmet. He may poke you to draw your attention. Listen out for his yell, and do what he tells you. Irrespective of any other consideration, if he shouts, you obey.”

  “But, he’s a sergeant, Tommy!”

  “Not in the air. In the air, he’s half of the crew, and he can see places you cannot. Do as he says. Into the cockpits now, gentlemen.”

  Tommy was certain he had said the same words a hundred times before; and they still didn’t believe him. He nodded to the mechanic, waved his thanks as he caught the engine and then signalled for the chocks and rolled out onto the field, throttle held low and looking about him for other aircraft. They were due four more spares in the immediate future; they could fly in at any time, and the other Flights were all practicing their formations and low-level work, and Drongo’s Camels were still using the field – it would be surprising if they did not see other planes. The new lads must know to give precedence to planes landing – that was basic procedure. He still looked about him anxiously.

  The three were following him, nervous at being so close. The training fields liked to keep a couple of hundred yards between their cadets – he could not blame them for that. They came into line and he opened his throttle and began to roll forwards. One day, the makers would fit brakes to the wheels so that it would be possible to open the throttle to full and then allow the plane to start away; it would give far more control. He would mention it to Sopwith and de Havilland when next he met them.

  Into the wind, to the southwest, the opposite direction to the fighting, which was useful for once – he wanted to bring these young men nowhere near the sharp end today.

  Abe, from Medicine Hat, was a fraction higher and ahead – possibly because he was so light. He had spotted that he was out of line, was falling back – that was good, he was alert. The other two were in position.

  Tommy continued to climb, the full thousand feet a minute the DH4 was capable of, five minutes to the height he had chosen. High cloud today, he could have gone to ten, but there was no gain for this exercise. He raised an arm and banked to port, throttling back so that they could maintain a line, if they were awake to the need to increase their speed to hold position.

  Very good – they had been well trained, understood and could perform the basics. They might be starchy, but they were competent stuffed dummies.

  He brought them in after an hour, satisfied with them. He led them to the Mess and sat them down with tea or coffee – he had noticed that Canadians drank tea far more than Americans.

  “Wash up, gentlemen! A discussion of how you did and what you saw and your opinions on the afternoon. Me first.”

  They settled themselves grimly, waiting to be hauled over the coals.

  “Mac – nothing to say. You are competent and will become very good. Al, the same. Abe, you are a skinny sort of chap, so you will have to bear in mind that you are likely to run ahead of the rest of us. All three of you have been well-trained and have learned the lessons you have been given. You have a far better chance of staying alive than most of the new pilots I have received in the last three years. As a result, tomorrow morning, I shall take you out low-flying, and in the afternoon, you will experience carrying bombs, which we shall drop in the sea. The day after, it’s operations for the Flight. Now, questions?”

  “Firing our guns, Tommy. Can we do that as well?”

  “Always when you drop, Mac. As you line up on your target, you open up with your Vickers and your gunner will go for anything he can see. The aim is to keep their heads down. If you are attacking a battalion of Jerry infantry, you don’t want five hundred rifles firing at you, or these new light machine-guns they carry now. So you rattle off a belt at them and get them hopping for cover.”

  Mac nodded.

  “How low is low, Tommy?”

  “One of Drongo’s Camels came back with blood on a wheel last week, Mac. He hit the head of an infantryman. Unless the bloke was unusually tall, that meant about six foot above the ground. I normally aim for fifty feet, but, if the occasion arises, then as low as makes sense. Do not sneeze at that height, by the way; the slightest twitch on the controls and you’ll be eating mud!”

  “Fifty feet – they recommended that for trench strafing – it’s called ‘the Stark Attack’, in the classrooms. They did not say why – I expect it’s a German word, like that ‘Sturm und Drang’ and suchlike.”

  Abe prodded Mac, whispered something.

  “I know his name, Abe… Oh! Is that it? Really? I never would have guessed!”

  “I am flattered, gentlemen. Herr Immelmann has his turn; I have the fifty-foot attack, it would seem.”

  “Immelmann is dead, is he not, Tommy?”

  “I had noticed, Mac.”

  “Oh! Is Noah Arkwright, the VC, to return to the Front, Tommy? They named him in the classrooms, several times, and mentioned you as his partner.”

  “He is recovering quickly. Barbry saw him at his home last week. He thinks he will be back in June.”

  “Oh, that will be just fine – the pair of you back together again where we can watch.”

  “Bloody Hell! Enough for today. Get your rooms sorted out, discover your servants and thank them for their efforts, and drop them a couple of bob in their hands. Next week, a packet of cigarettes or a bottle of something. It is not lawful, but a servant who likes you – and they like any man who is open-handed – will make your life far more comfortable. I will see you at dinner, gentlemen.”

  “One last thing, Tommy.”

  He sat down again.

  “Grace, Tommy. They told us in Croydon before they sent us out that it was not normal to say a Grace before meals in the RFC.”

  “It is not, nor in the RAF. No Church Parades, either. What you do in your spare time is up to you. But not in public. The boys are not of a religious frame of mind; public praying’s not done in England, except by cranks and vicars.”

  It was different in Canada, it seemed. Tommy refrained from pointing out that they were not in Canada.

  They sat down again next morning, after low-flying.

  “Tell me, Mac, what did you notice about the ground?”

  “Ah… it’s not flat, Tommy?”

  “Exactly so! So fifty feet means what?”

  “Fifty feet above ground level, Tommy?”

  “Got it in one! Give the man a coconut!”

  “Why a coconut?”

  “Good question – blame it on Noah’s influence, he was forever teaching me the cries of the music-hall.”

  They had already learned not to question the ridiculous.

  “This afternoon, gentlemen; Horatio thinks we should not drop bombs in the sea. They can bounce, it would seem, which might be annoying. So, we shall simply practice taking off and landing with sandbags in the bomb carriers.”

  They took off soon after dawn next day, loaded with twenty-pound bombs, hunting for a battery of field-guns reported by Drongo’s last patrol of the evening. The directions had been vague, and it was reasonable to assume that they would have shifted during the night, knowing that they had been seen.

  Tommy kept to his old habit and made for St Rigobert, to familiar territory, which made life easier when finding the way back home. The field was still untouched, but the nearest German unit was barely a mile distant. Small arms fire rose behind them as they passed over a bivouac, men sat around fires with their breakfast scattering in a starburst.

  ‘Given those buggers indigestion, Tommy thought, working his way along the narrow river valley that led northeast towards the old front lines. He swept around a bend, the other three holding position, spotted a tented camp to his front. That would do. He raised his arm and jerked downwards, lined up on the centre and released. The three boys followed his example, each perhaps a second later, achieving a broad spread. They turned
hard to port and got out, machine-gun fire missing wildly behind them. Tommy led them across a low hillside, holding as low as he could; he heard the Lewis Guns chattering behind him, could not see a target, kept on his line. Mac raised an arm, pointed up.

  Four triplanes, working in from the right, dropping low; Tommy lost another twenty feet, turned a little to port, then back to starboard in a lazy ‘S’, just sufficient to throw them off line, to force them to change their approach. Abe and Al’s gunners opened fire, trying to lead the triplanes, inexperienced in aerial shooting, missing but throwing them off their chosen approach again. The triplanes had hardly any advantage of speed, were being forced into a stern chase, losing their angle. They gave up, climbed away rather than venture out of their own territory.

  Tommy took them home, led the three to Nancy.

  “Bombed an encampment, set up with tents, fairly permanent. Couldn’t see any red crosses, don’t think it was a dressing station. Don’t know what else it might have been - quartermaster’s, maybe?”

  They established a position for the camp. Mac thought he had seen a line of drays, with heavy horses. Abe was certain that there had been another explosion after his bombs had landed.

  “Stores including some of munitions, probably. We’ll see what the gunners say.”

  Nancy had trained a sergeant to take the reports from the gunners, thinking that they would be less free in their comments to an officer.

  “Chased by triplanes afterwards, Nancy. No harm done on either side. They would not venture onto our side of the fighting area. Only the ground-attack jobs permitted to adventure, it would seem.”

  “Al, did you pick out anything?”

  “Two small chimneys. A cookhouse, maybe?”

  “Permanently staffed, in that case. Worth knowing, Tommy.”

  “So it is. Six o’clock patrol should have gone out, who’s next?”

  For convenience, they were sending out one Flight an hour, with the effect that two of the Flights would go out four times in the day, the others just three. It gave a chance of a lie-in every second day.

  “David next.”

  Tommy showed David the location of the camp, suggested he should pass it by and come in from the north, in case they were waiting with their guns trained south.

  “Load with hundred-pounders, David, just to see if anything interesting happens.”

  David took off and the gunners’ reports came in; Nancy brought them to Tommy’s office.

  “Field ambulance spotted under a canvas shelter, and some stretchers stacked outside a tent. Part at least of the encampment is a first field dressing station, Tommy.”

  “No Red Crosses, Nancy…”

  “Means no protection, Tommy. Temporary job, put up in a hurry, I expect. Bad luck.”

  “Nothing to be done about it, Nancy. David will do a thorough job, you can bet. They had machine-guns there – hospitals are supposed to be undefended.”

  “True – I suspect we will find that part of an existing structure has been taken over by doctors in a hurry.”

  “They’re likely to get a lot slower within a few minutes, Nancy, just as soon as David’s Flight puts a dozen hundred-pounders down on top of them.”

  “Ah, well… Two reports, I think, Tommy. One, accurate, for Colonel Sarratt, so that he knows what lies he must tell; the other for Brigade, specifying the nature of the forward stores depot that we flattened.”

  “I’ll drop mine across your desk before I send it in, Nancy.”

  David reported a most successful raid; at least ten of their bombs had exploded in the tents and two had hit a line of closed wagons waiting to go back to the east. Tommy made no mention of ambulances – it would only upset him.

  He took his three out for their second patrol before lunch, twenty-pounders again, looking for infantry and finding a battery on the march down an unmade secondary road. He brought the boys in from the front of the column, Vickers beating out their tattoo and dropping the bombs as the horses began to bolt. He risked a second run, for the benefit of the Lewises. Trained gun-horses were scarce and the chance to kill them could not be refused.

  “Battery of six guns, Nancy, heavy artillery rather than field guns, I think. Caissons with them. Don’t know what, for certain.”

  “Ah, I do, Nancy. We were given recognition training, in the classroom. Ten point five cm howitzer, 98/09 – the short range gun. Thirty-five pound shell.”

  “Thank you, Mac. Short range, so they were moving forward, Nancy. We killed most of their horses and blew up at least two ammunition caissons. I think I saw a direct hit on one gun.”

  Abe thought they had hit two guns and saw one other roll onto its side as its horses ran wild.

  “The Lewises knocked down quite a few of the gunners, too. We must have killed fifty of those poor horses.”

  “Horses suffer in war, Abe. But a trained artillery horse is hard to replace. That battery may be out of action for a week, and that means a thousand or more shells not fired at our soldiers.”

  “Pont taken, Nancy – but I still don’t have to like it.”

  “There’d be something wrong inside your head if you did like it, man!”

  Abe looked faintly cheered at that thought.

  Tommy sent them to eat, joined them after a couple of minutes delay.

  “Bloody paperwork! I had to spend a minute filling my wastepaper bin.”

  “Should you not answer it, Tommy?”

  “Not bloody likely, Al. If I answer it the clerks will think I’m taking them seriously and send some more. If it is important, George will deal with it and tell me what he’s done. Good grub today – I like veal!”

  “This is chicken, Tommy.”

  “So it is – I thought it was a bit unusual for veal.”

  They ate the remainder of the meal in silence, convinced that the old man’s mind was going – too many years under strain.

  “No sense of humour, these Canadians, George!”

  “A different sense of humour, perhaps, Tommy. Mind you, I don’t find most of your jokes funny. Where next?”

  “Short one – twenty pounders and incendiaries to the line just outside St Rigobert. They’re pushing close to the field, probably in that patch of woodland half a mile east by now. The other three Flights can follow with the same load and then we’ll come back later loaded with the three hundredweight bombs and incendiaries. If they are in those trees, then we’ll blow them to bits and burn what remains, George.”

  “If they once get established there, rolling ground and tree cover, they’ll be hard to move, Tommy. Best to keep ‘em out if possible.”

  “Better far, if it can be done. Contact Wing and ask for targets for tomorrow, George. We’re flapping about in circles again – be better for an overall strategy.”

  “Jerry’s made nearly thirty miles, Tommy. There hasn’t been time to work out what best to do. He’s slowing though. He must call a halt to regroup soon, then make another push for Ypres and Hazebrouck, I would imagine. They must order you to make a try to hit his lines of communication, or so I would expect, Tommy.”

  The woodland was full of German troops, and of machine-guns firing a barrage rather than trying to aim, and far more effective as a result.

  Tommy led the three in, on a direct line, guns firing hopefully and a mass of fire coming back; he dropped as he reached the edge of the timber and turned as hard as he dared at that height, fleeing at ten feet, Sergeant Ormerod firing behind him. He saw one of the boys going down as he opened the throttle to its fullest, heading due west.

  A mile and he slowed, looked about him, saw Mac and Abe in their places. He climbed a few feet, gingerly, the controls felt soggy now that he had time to pay attention to them. He glanced behind him, shouted.

  “All well, Ormerod?”

  “I am, sir. Number Two’s a bit chewed up, port wing. Number Three’s taken damage as well.”

  They were flying – everything else was secondary to that.

&nbs
p; Fifteen minutes brought them to the field; he sent up a red flare as a precaution – there was a good chance the boys might crash on landing.

  “George, one pilot and gunner and DH4 to be replaced. Heavy machine-gun fire. Three for repairs, we’ll need the spare planes this afternoon. Nancy, we found them in the very edge of the woods, more than one battalion’s worth of machine-guns letting rip. Best we throw everything we can into those woods for what’s left of today and go back there tomorrow morning. Any chance of artillery overnight?”

  “Probably not. I’ll pass word, however. Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No. Just another day at the office.”

  “Right. Mac, what did you see?”

  “Mortars and medium artillery, Nancy. At least one gun in an emplacement. Digging in, I would say, not going any further west.”

  “Well spotted. That will cross Haig’s desk in the morning. Abe?”

  “I thought that some of the machine-guns were dug into pits and set up as high angle, Nancy.”

  “Which confirms Mac’s observations. Well done the pair of you.”

  “Thanks. What about Al?”

  “He’s dead, Mac. Nothing I can do for him.”

  Abe seemed to think that Nancy had failed to understand the question.

  “But what about a service or something?”

  “He’s dead. He don’t belong to this squadron any more. He’s gone, Abe. We work for the live pilots here. By tomorrow we’ll have forgotten his name. His servant will be packing his trunk now and clearing his room for the replacement who will be there by midday. Dead is dead, Abe, and gone.”

  “But… What about the letters home? Can we not show a photograph of the squadron saluting his sacrifice?”

  “No. That’s not the way we do it, Abe. Dead is dead is forgotten. The squadron is a place for good pilots – he’s dead, so he can’t have been good enough. Have a beer and be thankful you made it through today.”

  “But…”

  George had been listening behind them, expecting to have to explain the facts of life to the young colonial gentlemen.

  “But nothing, Abe. That’s the way of the air. Tommy, as an example, is an orphan. The story was that he argued with his father on who should fly their new plane in ’13 – you know he’s one of the oldest hands in the game in England? His father put his foot down – he had built the plane, he would fly it. I’ve always suspected he had some doubts about it and would not let his young son take the risk – the two were very close. Tommy watched his father take off and lose control and stall in and go up in flames. Tommy was flying again within days, never said a word. Sopwith was there and told me that Tommy almost broke down, but got over it within seconds; that’s what pilots do, Abe. If you fly, then you die; if you don’t die, you’re better than those who do – so forget them, and go up when your name is called, no doubts, no fears, you are going to live forever, or at least until you land again. Have a beer tonight, say hello to the new man tomorrow – you’re an old hand now, there’s going to be at least one chap junior to you.”