The Thirty Days War

by John Harris

  There were a few catcalls and remarks as they settled into their seats for the briefing, but not many because none of them had any idea of what they were facing. The group captain appeared on the platform in front of the screen. At the table with him were the chief flying instructor and Flying Officer Osanna, who was handling Intelligence. In England they had meteorologists and other experts to tell them what to expect. Kubaiyah was different.

  The group captain held up his hand and the catcalls died away abruptly.

  ‘Normally,’ the group captain said, ‘at this stage of a briefing in England, the senior officer drags back a curtain showing the Continent, and all is revealed, with routes and targets marked for everybody to see. All very dramatic. Here, we don’t have that because we’re not going very far.’

  He spoke about the need for courage and self-sacrifice and the need to keep the flag flying. He didn’t believe his own rhetoric any more than the people listening to him did, but it was a simplistic form of address and they all knew what he meant. If Kubaiyah fell to the enemy, the whole Middle East could fall and, with it India, and eventually the United Kingdom.

  As he sat down, Fogarty rose and the screen above the men at the table became bright with a map of the edge of the airfield and the escarpment. Someone had photographed a large-scale map and blown it up and Photography had made a slide of it.

  ‘It’s all there,’ Fogarty said. ‘Mark it on your own maps, those of you who have them. Gun positions are marked in red, and lorry parks in green. Your orders are very simple. You are to drive the Irazhis beyond artillery range – in other words, off the escarpment. Targets: Guns, armoured fighting vehicles, by which I mean tanks if there are any, armoured cars, transport columns, and troops. There’ll be plenty to go for and I don’t have to tell you that guns are the most important. There are plenty for everybody and I don’t think you’ll have difficulty seeing them, because they’ll all be pointing at you. The Wellingtons from Basra will start the ball rolling, followed by the Harts, the Audaxes and the Gordons, with the Oxfords picking up the bits.’

  There was some comment about numbers and a lot of scribbling as the positions were marked off on maps.

  ‘Details,’ Fogarty continued. ‘The escarpment is one hundred feet high at its southern end and around one hundred and fifty feet towards Dhubban village. However, I don’t have to tell you that, because you know it already and won’t need to be advised not to fly below that height.’

  There was a murmur of laughter and Fogarty went on. ‘Weather: This is normally a meteorologist’s job but we’ve been able to dispense with him here because it’s not likely to change. Wind: West to east and as usual full of sand. Temperature: Too high. Skies: Cloudless. You needn’t take the weather too much into your calculations. I suspect,’ he added, ‘that calculations won’t enter into the thing overmuch at all, in fact. It’s going to be a case of getting in close and doing as much damage as you can.’

  There was a murmur of approval and Fogarty continued bluntly. ‘We’ve heard nothing further from the Irazhis so we can assume that they haven’t moved and don’t intend to. They hadn’t at last light, so anything you see will be a legitimate target and you needn’t worry that you’ll be bombing civilians because there aren’t any up there. Every aircraft that can get off the ground is to be in the air by daylight and you will bomb as soon as you can see your targets. Try not to be in too much of a rush and all bomb the first target you see. We have a limited number of aircraft and a limited number of bombs, so, if someone else’s hammering something, leave it to him and go for something else. Our chance of success depends about 25 per cent on matériel and 75 per cent on a confident spirit. In fact, it’s going to be a case of colossal cheek and unflagging labour, and it’s going to mean intensive flying, doubtless for several days, to reduce the odds against us. We have to smash their firepower before they can smash ours.’

  ‘Or before they hit the water tower,’ someone at the back called out.

  Someone flourished a couple of Irazhi notes. ‘Two fils on them hitting that first.’

  There was a laugh but they all knew that the unseen speakers had hit the nail on the head. As Prudence Wood-Withnell had noticed, although every bath and every vessel on the station had been filled, if the water tower was hit that was that and it would be only a matter of time before the station fell.

  Fogarty was talking again. ‘Details: Aircraft will be refuelled, loaded and started up behind the hangars where they’re out of sight. As soon as they’re ready they will taxi round the corner, through the gate, and on to the runway. You’ll be taking off under the enemy’s nose, so don’t waste time. The first take-off will be the most difficult because you’ll be stepping on each other’s heels to be up before daylight. As you return, you will taxi back behind the hangars where the ground crews will be waiting. Try not to hit each other. There’ll be a man at the gate to warn you, so don’t ignore his instructions. If you have any wounded or are in trouble, fire a red Very as you come in and you’ll be helped. That’s about it. I suggest now that you try to get some sleep. Reveille will be at 0245 hours. Assembly at your aircraft at 0315 hours.’

  As Fogarty turned away, they rose. It hadn’t been a briefing such as was being given these days in England to bomber crews or the pilots of intruding fighters; it wasn’t even the sort of briefing some of those who had experienced action at the beginning of the war had been given. But its point was clear and it was sufficient and faces were set and thoughtful.

  Part Two

  One

  The first machine moved off at 0430 hours. It was one of the Oxfords and it moved slowly round from the hangars to the gate that led to the airfield.

  There had been a constant sound through the night of revving engines as machines were tested and checked. The noise was partly deliberate. Petrol wasn’t a problem and ever since the previous noon engines had kept starting and stopping to keep the Irazhi commanders on the escarpment guessing. Since engines had been roaring on and off throughout the afternoon, evening and night, it was hoped the noise in the early hours of the morning would not raise any alarm.

  It was just possible to see the gates as the pilot of the Oxford turned and taxied onto the airfield. He moved slowly across to the south western corner, closely followed by another Oxford and another and another. Aircraft were also moving on the polo field as the Harts and Audaxes headed for the perimeter to make the most of their run, the motors revving in short bursts as the pilots, watching either side of their uptilted noses, zigzagged into place. The machines were painted in a variety of colours, from the green and brown of normal ground camouflage, through the sandy ochre of desert war paint, to the yellow of trainers. A strong breeze had got up.

  This was going to be the tricky bit, Boumphrey decided. The aircraft were at their most vulnerable as they jockeyed for position, one behind the other, ready for the take-off. If the batteries on the escarpment chose to fire while they were all crowded together at the end of the runway and were lucky enough to drop their shells through the darkness into their midst they could destroy the only weapon they possessed in the first minutes. There was no flare path, so they were going to be taking off by instruments alone. All the leading planes were in the hands of experienced pilots. Those pupils who had been selected to fly would be taking off later when it was growing light.

  The first faint suggestion of daylight was colouring the landscape as the last engines of the first wave of aircraft fired. By now the peace of the early morning was completely shattered. Blue tongues of exhaust flames were visible in the grey light, smoke curled up and there was a tang of high octane fuel. As the propellers turned the air became murky with rising dust as pilots checked cylinder head and oil temperatures, opening the throttles so that their aircraft bounced against the chocks.

  The constant pounding roar as engine after engine crackled and rumbled in violent metallic life filled the heavens, and more and more machines surged forward to the edges of the airfield an
d the polo ground. A car containing Fogarty roared across to the first machine in the line. Fogarty climbed out and clambered on to the wing of the Audax to speak to the pilot.

  ‘Whenever you like,’ he said. ‘The Wellingtons have indicated that they’ll be overhead and in position to start at 0500 hours. Bombing will start as soon as they go in. You and the Harts will go in after them, followed by the Gordons and the Oxfords.’

  As the car drew away, the pilot of the Audax lifted his hand and, as the chocks were removed, he opened the throttle and the machine began to move. As it raced forward, the tail lifted to a flying attitude and it gathered speed, continuing low above the ground until it had built up speed to climb. It was out of sight now from the watchers and the pilot was flying by instruments, lifting into the dark sky. He was followed almost immediately by another and then another.

  With the rising sun behind them, they were taking off away from the escarpment into the darkness and were hard to see, but as the light increased it was possible to pick out the dwindling specks against the lightening sky. They were a queer assortment, arranged in four squadrons, three of them bombers, one of fighters. Fortunately no one collided.

  His dog – disgusted at being left behind – clutched by Ghadbhbhan, Boumphrey was well to the rear of the line, leading the second string of Oxfords. Still dazzling in its yellow paint, the Oxford had been considered in England the ideal vehicle for visiting friends on other stations, and it was difficult to accept that here it had become a frontline machine. One of the flight mechanics appeared, eyeing it sullenly over the starting handle he was clutching. The handle had to be inserted through the inboard engine cowling and not only did the effort of grinding it round and round until the revolving cylinders fired produce an unwanted amount of perspiration, but to most people it also seemed a highly dangerous pastime because it meant taking up a squatting position by the leading edge of the wing. When the starter dogs automatically disengaged, if you didn’t watch what you were doing there was a nasty tendency to pitch forward into the whirling propeller. Ground crews always had a habit of disappearing when the call came to start an Oxford.

  The engine crackled to life and the puce-faced mechanic thankfully disappeared, streaming sweat. Roaring down the field after the other machines, Boumphrey climbed to get as much height as he could so he could see what was going on below him. As he felt the excitement quicken inside him, he felt elated as never since his first operations in 1939 against the Germans. His hands were busy, checking and rechecking, his practised eyes on the temperatures, the oil pressure gauges, the artificial horizon, the air speed indicator. As he did so, his thoughts were busy. The Oxford was not everybody’s favourite machine because, in addition to its built-in instability and the fact that it burned only too easily, it was difficult to get out of in an emergency. The roof exit was not directly above the pilot and was difficult to release, and it was something he’d always had trouble with. Because of the problems it raised, it left only the door down the fuselage, which was difficult to reach while wearing a seat parachute. The main spar, covered with plywood, went through the centre of the fuselage and had to be scrambled over to reach the door, and on the only occasion when he’d practised getting out in calm weather, before he’d even reached the door the port wing had gone over, the nose had dropped and he’d had to scramble hastily to his seat to right the machine before it fell into a spin.

  As they climbed, Boumphrey’s eyes searched the sky both ahead and behind and after a while he spotted a line of dots over his shoulder and slightly above. He recognised them at once as Wellingtons and wondered how long it would take Darling to see them. It didn’t take as long as he expected and Darling thumped Boumphrey’s shoulder and pointed.

  ‘Use the intercom, old son,’ Boumphrey said calmly, showing no annoyance.

  Darling yelled into his microphone and as Boumphrey shook his head he began to yell louder, his words quite unheard above the roar of the engines. He was still yelling as Boumphrey tapped his earphones to indicate he should switch the microphone on, and then his words almost deafened Boumphrey.

  Boumphrey’s hand went to his own mike. ‘Steady on, Darling,’ he said, his voice unruffled. ‘I can hear. No need to shout. Let’s start again, shall we, and take it calmly. You’ve got something to report?’

  There was a second’s pause then Darling’s voice came. ‘The Wimpeys, sir.’ He pointed vaguely.

  Boumphrey nodded amiably, a note of academic interest seeping into his voice. ‘There’s a right and a wrong way to do it, old son. Let’s do it the right way, shall we? Makes things easier. Try again.’

  ‘Over on the right. Up a bit.’

  Boumphrey glanced at the Wellingtons. They were still a long way away and there was plenty of time for a little instruction. Might as well get it right, he thought. It could save a lot of trouble if the fun came thick and fast.

  ‘Got ’em,’ he said calmly, pretending to see them for the first time. ‘But there’s a proper way to deliver your message. First of all, you say who you are. I know, of course, because there’s only you and me. But if you go from here to a Wellington like those chaps over there, you’ll find there are five other chaps in the crew and the pilot will want to know which one you are. So, first of all, you say “Observer to captain”, “Gunner to captain”, “Co-pilot to skipper”. Whatever happens to have been decided. Then he knows who you are and what part of the aircraft you occupy and in what direction you’re looking. That immediately tells him roughly where to look, so he’s ready for your next line. Which will be “port” or “starboard” or “red” or “green” – whichever you use. If it’s off the starboard bow, it’s “green bow” or the number of degrees. If it’s off the other bow, it’ll be red. If they’re behind where those chaps are, it’s “red quarter”. That makes it spot-on, see? Then instead of saying “up a bit”, you say “high” or “low” and, finding the rough position, the pilot then lifts or lowers his eyes until he sees ’em. Amazin’ how important it is when the other chaps are enemies and you need to spot ’em quickly. Let’s have another go, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Don’t get excited and certainly don’t panic. Just report it calmly – and, if your mike’s working, without shouting. Right?’

  He heard Darling swallow then his voice came quite calmly. ‘Observer to skipper. Aircraft bearing red quarter high. I – I think they’re Wellingtons.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Boumphrey said and, turning his head, gave the nervous Darling a beaming encouraging smile. Darling would willingly have died for him.

  ‘You’re quite right,’ Boumphrey went on. ‘They are the Wimpeys and I’m going to turn behind them and watch them go in, then we’ll let the Audaxes and the other gentry go down, then we’ll sail across after ’em and drop our lot.’

  In the scramble to take off, the flights had got themselves all over the sky and the different machines were now jockeying to get into position for their run in.

  The Wellingtons, big, two-engined, geodetic-airframed machines, their round Hercules engines thundering, came in one behind the other in immaculate formation. They were at 2000 feet, moving very precisely, and Boumphrey saw their bomb doors open. Then they all dropped their bombs at once with a great air of pomposity.

  ‘Daredevils,’ he said and Darling grinned.

  As the big bombers sailed over the plateau, tracer went down from the front and rear turrets and almost immediately they saw it start to come up in return. The Wellingtons seemed to be swallowing it.

  The flashes as the bombs exploded were quite visible. Boumphrey glanced at the watch on his bare brown wrist. ‘Oh-five hundred hours exactly,’ he said.

  Down on the ground, the men watching from the control tower could see the machines manoeuvring like dark birds along the edge of the escarpment. The larger shapes of the Wellingtons were beginning to move away now and the second wave of aircraft, Audaxes and Harts, began to drop down.

 
As they watched the smoke rising they heard the first shell coming. It screamed towards them, sounding like an express train, and exploded on the edge of the airfield. The officers ducked instinctively. The accounts officer, a precise man used to exactness, glanced at his watch. ‘Oh-five hundred and fifty-five seconds,’ he said. ‘It didn’t take them long to hoist in the idea and get cracking.’

  The shells were beginning to fall faster now and a lorry moving from the hangars towards the polo ground disappeared in a flash and a puff of smoke and dust. From the control tower, they saw the bonnet cover, a wheel and what might have been a man flung out of the centre of it; then, as the dust settled and the smoke lifted, they saw only smouldering wreckage and a man with his clothes on fire running wildly, his mouth open, screaming. Another man appeared from the trees, knocked him over and rolled him in the dust. The flames disappeared and they saw the wretched man squirming on the ground, his clothes smoking. Within a minute an ambulance had roared up and the crew were lifting him through the open rear doors.

  The next salvo of shells dropped nearer to the control tower and a group of men moving towards one of the aircraft began to run, their khaki stockings falling round their ankles as they scuttled for shelter. From one of the trenches a head popped up and they heard the iron voice of the station warrant officer. ‘That man! Pull up your stockings and don’t run so slovenly!’ Then a machine gun opened up from the plateau and, as a line of spurts of dust ran along the ground, the head disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared.

  Sitting up above the fight, watching what was happening, Boumphrey manoeuvred himself for his run in. The plateau was like an ants’ nest now with men running in all directions. Lorries had started up and were lurching jerkily away. He could see the flashes of guns and the dark puffballs of smoke as the shells exploded. Then, as an Audax went rocketing past them at a crazy angle that almost gave him heart failure and left the Oxford bucketing in its slipstream, his full attention was occupied by the controls.