by John Harris
‘Bit like walking down Piccadilly with no clothes on,’ Boumphrey observed. ‘Everybody’s interested.’
He took another look through the window and started a gentle turn to the right. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here we go. Now to see if the bombs will come unstuck when I pull the string. It’s a good job they’re unprimed. I should hate to drop one on the air vice-marshal’s office.’
A deep dry ditch ran along the far end of the landing field and Boumphrey indicated it. ‘How about that?’ he said. ‘I’ll pop ’em in between the trees there and the pile of mud they took out last time they did the spring clean.’
Jenno said nothing. Boumphrey seemed to be managing very well. He turned over the hangars and, flying south along the ditch, pressed the tit of the bomb release. As they pulled up in a climbing turn, through the Plexiglass Jenno saw three puffs of dust in the ditch and one on the bank.
‘That was a pretty good try, Ratter,’ he said.
‘Luck,’ Boumphrey shrugged. ‘Well, at least the bombs drop. Let’s try the other four.’
They came round again and this time Boumphrey dropped two of the bombs in the ditch.
‘At nought feet, mind.’ Boumphrey sounded self-deprecatory. ‘Might be different a bit higher up – and with chaps shooting at me.’
A lorry was speeding across the airfield as they turned for their final approach over the escarpment, Jenno holding his breath as Boumphrey skimmed the edge so low he could see Irazhi soldiers lighting fires.
As the engineering officer had warned, the stability of the aircraft on the final approach wasn’t all it was intended to be but it also wasn’t as bad as they’d expected and, since they were up and had to get down, it was something they were going to have to cope with.
‘Watch the port wing,’ Jenno said quietly. ‘If you’re not careful it’ll drop and you’ll be in a spin.’
‘Bit touchy on the controls,’ Boumphrey admitted. ‘But nothing that can’t be handled.’
The dog awake and checking the landing, the propeller wind-milling, the machine making a whirring noise in the silence, they skated over the perimeter fence and a second or two later the wheels were rumbling along the ground. As they turned at the far end, the lorry they’d seen racing across the field appeared alongside and a flight sergeant stuck his hand out, his thumb up, his face covered in smiles.
‘Five out of eight, sir,’ he yelled. ‘And three near misses.’
Boumphrey smiled. ‘Wizard,’ he said. ‘Ten for effort at least.’
Twelve
The air vice-marshal was just considering the contents of the note delivered by the Irazhi colonel when the telephone rang.
The note informed him that the Irazhi army had occupied the Kubish ridge to the south and east of the airfield for the purposes of manoeuvres and requested that all flying should stop.
As the telephone shrilled, the air vice-marshal picked it up, reaching out one hand without looking. It was the group captain.
‘We’ve just flown an Oxford loaded with eight 20-pound practice bombs,’ he said. ‘And dropped them onto a chosen target at the end of the airfield. That gives us twenty-seven more aircraft, sir, a total of seventy-three instead of the forty-six we had with the new arrivals.’
‘Thank you,’ the air vice-marshal said. ‘I’m glad to hear it, because we’ve just learned officially that the Irazhi army’s occupied Dhubban village and the plateau overlooking the airfield and that all flying is to cease forthwith. I shall be able to refuse with greater confidence.’
As the reply was sent off in the AM’s car, carried by a squadron leader, accompanied for the look of the thing by a flight lieutenant and a flight sergeant carrying a white flag, another of the interminable discussions began, this time in the office behind the main hangar which had become the operations room.
‘Though they’ve collared the pumping station for the sewage system,’ the Works and Bricks representative announced, ‘the clots don’t seem to have had the wits to switch off the pumps.’
‘And a damn good job, too,’ Vizard remarked. ‘With 10,000 people dependent on them.’
With this information and Boumphrey’s successful experiment, they could now reconsider their position.
‘Leaving out the troop carriers which are not only slow but practically prehistoric,’ Fogarty said, ‘we can now conceive five squadrons in the event we shall need them.’
There was one squadron of Audaxes, each carrying eight 20-pound bombs; one of Audaxes carrying two 250-pounders; one of Harts; twenty-seven Oxfords now fitted to carry eight 20-pounders; and one flight of Gladiator fighters. Unfortunately, not one of the flights had a sufficient number of pilots and there was an even greater shortage of observers and gunners. For the Gordons there were no pilots at all.
‘Though I expect we could raise one or two more at a pinch,’ Fogarty said. ‘There are also the Blenheims, one still unserviceable until spare parts can be flown in, and the Rapide. The Blenheims could be flown by any of the old hands and the Rapide could be flown if necessary by a man with no hands.’
Vizard said nothing and Fogarty continued. ‘That uses up every man on the station who can fly, whether he’s experienced in operations or not, and every bomb rack and every front gun. For bomb-aimers and rear gunners we shall have to use pupils and anyone else who’s willing to have a go.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not exactly a formidable force, is it?’
The second Irazhi attempt to stop flying took place later in the morning. The Irazhi colonel was as polite as before but his note was more peremptory this time.
‘No aircraft or armoured cars are to leave the compound,’ the note stated. ‘Otherwise artillery will be obliged to fire on them – if necessarily heavily. Irazhi troops are digging trenches and installing anti-aircraft guns, and armoured cars will be patrolling towards the airfield.’
The air vice-marshal read the note carefully, studied it and digested it, and wrote his reply in exactly the same terms ass before, with the suggestion that the Irazhi manoeuvres take place elsewhere. He could not agree with the demand and it was refused.
He had decided that he must strike first. A British colonel was on the way to command the ground forces but they still possessed no artillery. However, he had Audaxes and Harts, both of which had been developed with a view to using them as dive bombers after it had been discovered in the twenties that an aircraft could hit a target more often by diving low on to it at an angle of forty-five degrees. The technique had been discovered by the Americans and developed to perfection in Poland and France by the Germans, and while Harts and Audaxes were hardly Stukas they had been built for the job and now looked like having to do it.
The AVM lit his pipe and sucked at it for a while. He still wasn’t certain of the Assyrian levies on whom the defence was largely based and, if the Irazhis put in their attack after dark, they would be helpless because they couldn’t mount any kind of air defence after daylight had gone.
He decided to temporise for as long as possible and to obtain via the embassy some general diplomatic advice from the Foreign Office on what line to follow. It was obvious the Irazhi commander wasn’t going to rush things. Perhaps he was in doubt about what retaliation he might expect and how much he could trust his peasant soldiers. Perhaps, even, he was one of the Sandhurst-trained officers in the Irazhi army and had no wish to go to war against his mentors. The AVM had already been in touch with Cairo and he had been told to retaliate if the Irazhis opened fire, but if the Irazhis opened fire first he could well lose his only weapon, his aircraft, before they had had time to do anything for their own protection.
He looked at Flying Officer Osanna. ‘Would you say it was permitted to punch in the nose a man who’s holding a club to your head, Osanna?’ he asked.
Osanna smiled. ‘In my view, sir, it is, but I’m only Intelligence and that would seem to be a decision for a diplomat. Perhaps we should ask the ambassador.’
The AVM called for the signals officer and told
him to get in contact with the embassy. ‘I want authorisation to take what measures I consider necessary,’ he said. ‘And at once.’
Communications with the embassy had been restored and the ambassador didn’t hesitate. His view was that it was permissible to throw the first punch if you felt threatened.
‘Twice blessed, sir,’ Osanna said, ‘is he whose cause is just. Thrice blest he who gets his blow in fust.’
The Valentias returned towards the end of the day. As they taxied towards the hangars and rolled to a stop, the doors opened and men began to pour out, heavily loaded infantrymen in shorts and topees and carrying rifles. Someone raised a cheer and the native workers clapped politely. As the soldiers began to line up, the air vice-marshal’s car arrived and swung round to a stop as a man wearing the crown and star of a lieutenant colonel stepped out.
‘Ballantine,’ he said. ‘GSO1 to the C-in-C at Basra. I’ve come to look after the ground defence.’
‘Glad to see you,’ the AVM said. ‘It looks very much as though we’re going to need you. I think the Irazhis mean business. We’ve just learned that they’ve not only occupied the heights over there but Howeidi, a few miles upriver from us, as well. With Dhubban and Fullajah to the east also occupied, it looks very much as though we’re cut off.’
Almost as the first two Valentias discharged their cargoes, the next two arrived. Somebody somewhere had pulled their fingers out and had organised the thing, and at Kubaiyah the AVM’s staff were responding in the same way. As soon as the aircraft were seen approaching, vehicles left headquarters for the airfield and were alongside even as the machines drew to a stop. There wasn’t even the need to switch off the engines and the machines were away again almost immediately. The AVM had no intention of having the Irazhis opening fire and catching them at their most vulnerable on the ground while surrounded by women and children.
Ballantine brought news that the solitary bomber squadron stationed at Shaibah was to be reinforced by ten Wellingtons, two-engined heavies from the Middle East, on which the AVM could draw if necessary. It was heartening news, as also was the information that the polo field/golf course airstrip was now ready for use, that the gun positions were finished and the trench digging was progressing favourably.
As the Valentias came and went, the numbers of civilians, both white and Asian, began to dwindle. But there was still a great number of them and the AVM called in the catering officer. ‘We shall have to start thinking of supplies,’ he said. ‘What can you suggest?’
The catering officer had already given it some thought.
‘Normally, sir,’ he said, ‘the Asian families live almost entirely on mutton and we’ve been requiring as many as a hundred and fifty sheep a day. However, I’ve had a word with their leaders and I know they’ll waive their scruples if necessary and be prepared to eat tinned beef. So there’ll be no starving. However, it’s going to require a lot of tins and I suggest that someone – me, for instance, since I know more about it than anyone and can also urge the necessity for speed – should fly off with one of the Valentias and arrange to purchase food at the coast, which I can bring back tomorrow.’
The AVM frowned. ‘There might not be a tomorrow if they start firing on us,’ he pointed out.
Despite the AVM’s defiant message, there had still been no move from the Irazhis on the escarpment and the Valentias were still coming in and taking off – bringing in supplies, weapons, ammunition and bombs and taking away the women and children. They also, to the AVM’s delight, brought an artificer from the Royal Artillery, a stumpy leather-faced sergeant called Porlock who immediately set about examining the two howitzers in front of the headquarters building.
‘Around thirty-two coats of paint on ’em,’ he announced in disgust. ‘You buggers believe in keeping things pretty, don’t you?’
The two guns were unshackled from their concrete plinths, hitched to a tractor and towed round to Workshops where a space had been cleared for the sergeant and a small army of native labourers who were to work with him. He peered at the breeches lying on a bench, sniffed at them, ran his hand over them, and pronounced his opinion.
‘Looked after these a bit better than the pieces themselves,’ he announced. ‘Nice and shiny. Clean, bright and lightly oiled. A bit pitted here and there, but at least you ’aven’t painted the buggers.’
During the afternoon, a message was received from the Foreign Office in London via the embassy in Mandadad, saying the position must be restored at all costs and the Irazhis moved from their threatening stance. The AVM didn’t require instructions to realise how the minds in London were working. With the whole of the Middle East in the balance, with Greece and the Balkans on the point of falling and Crete threatened, with Rommel running riot in North Africa and Vichy more than willing to allow Luftwaffe machines to pass through their territory in Syria to help the Irazhis, the best defence was attack while the Germans were tied up with their plans for Crete. He sat at his desk, his fingers tapping its surface, his mind working swiftly. Then he called in Osanna and his signals officer and arranged for a new message to be sent under a white flag to the Irazhi commander on the escarpment.
‘Inform him that his people must be gone by 0500 hours tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If they’re still there then, we shall take steps to make them go.’
As Osanna and the signals officer went about their business, the AVM called in his chief staff officer and arranged to call another conference. The departmental officers gathered quickly, all of them sober and thoughtful, and the AVM put the position to them quickly.
‘We have permission to do what we think necessary to protect ourselves,’ he pointed out. ‘We have even been told that if we have to strike, we must strike hard. I gather Churchill himself is right behind us. The question is “When?” and still of course, “What with?”’
The figures were trotted out again and the AVM listened in silence. All the Oxfords were being fitted with Boumphrey’s amateur bomb rack which, now that it had been proved successful, carried the august approval of the engineering officer, and to the extra machines now available they could also add the ten new Wellingtons in Shaibah, which could be called upon if necessary.
‘They will be necessary,’ the AVM said. ‘What about the Irazhis?’
‘Crews doing their S-turns over the escarpment report an additional twenty-seven guns,’ Fogarty reported. ‘Together with more vehicles and more men. It would be fatal to allow them to get in the first blow.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ the AVM said sharply. ‘However, it’s too late to do anything today because when we start we must make it as heavy a blow as we can and I want the bombing attack to go on the whole day from dawn until darkness. I want every available aircraft in the air by first light ready to bomb as soon as the crews can see their targets. I’ve warned Shaibah not to send in any more Valentias for the moment. We don’t want them getting mixed up with our machines. Ground crews and those pupils not in the air will remain in the trenches.’
‘That’ll leave nobody to move the aircraft, sir,’ Fogarty pointed out.
‘That can’t be helped. The air crews and ground crews must do it. I want nobody about except the air crews, ground crews, armourers and refuellers. At last light tonight we’ll send up a machine on a provocative flight to see how the Irazhis react. All civilians must remain out of sight.’ He glanced at Colonel Ballantine. ‘You have your men deployed, Colonel?’
‘I have.’ Ballantine was a short brisk man not unlike Sergeant Porlock, the Royal Artillery artificer, and, like the sergeant, clearly didn’t think much of the casual ways of the junior service.
‘You’ll have the support of the levies.’ The AVM glanced at Verity, the commander of the levies. ‘What about them? Can you trust them?’
‘We have to, sir, don’t we?’ Verity said.
The station armaments officer spoke. ‘We have plenty of ammunition, sir, and we’ve had every spare man belting ammunition since the crisis started. I’ve als
o had a word with Sergeant Porlock. He claims he can make the two howitzers usable, but not immediately.’
‘Ask him to move as fast as possible.’ The AVM looked at Jenno. ‘Armoured cars: These will be kept out of sight where possible but the perimeter must be patrolled constantly.’
‘I’ll see to that, sir.’
The AVM cleared his throat. ‘Not you, Jenno. You’re a pilot and you and your second in command are going to be needed.’
Jenno looked startled, then his expression changed. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir.’
The AVM looked at Boumphrey who sat up straight. As the junior officer at the conference, only there on sufferance as the nominal leader of the suddenly important Mounted Legion, he was always on his best behaviour.
‘How about your people, Boumphrey? Are they ready in every way?’
‘In every way, sir. Camped under the trees round the polo ground.’
‘They know what to do?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you trust them?’
‘Absolutely, sir. They’ll fight anything. Even their own side.’
‘What about your second in command?’
‘Ghadbhbhan’s entirely trustworthy.’
‘Then they’re going to have to do it without you, Boumphrey. You’re a pilot, too.’
Thirteen
The evening came in a satin sunset of oyster and duck egg blue, against which could be seen a long skein of flighting ibis heading for the marshes further south. Slowly the sky turned yellow then salmon pink, one grey streak of cloud cutting across it like a sword stroke. The wind had dropped to nothing.
His dog at his heels, Boumphrey stood on the airfield as the last of the parked aeroplanes were pushed through the gate into the compound and out of sight behind the hangars. The take-off area stood empty except for the solitary Audax which was to make the reconnaissance flight over the escarpment the AVM had ordered. It was to be flown by Fogarty and Flight Sergeant Waldo, who was one of the most experienced observers at Kubaiyah.