by John Harris
‘Wasn’t it before?’ Boumphrey whispered.
‘The Mufti’s also put his spoke in and declared that all Muslims – and that means the whole of Irazh – are involved, not just the army. The Christians, the British, everyone, is to be kicked out of the country and, to restore the situation, Ghaffer’s organised a column of motorised infantry and artillery which is due to head at once for Kubaiyah.’
The news flew round the camp as the briefing ended.
‘What does it mean, Ratter?’ Prudence asked as she met him leaving the cinema.
‘It means we’ve got to do better, old thing,’ he said. ‘Push the old boat out one more time. They get all their muezzins and mullahs or whatever they’re called – sportin’ parson types, I suppose you’d call ’em in England – and they stir everybody up to knock on the head everybody who doesn’t think like they do. It could be nasty.’ He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Got to go now. Bit of a hurry.’
She stared after him, her eyes anxious. Somehow the movement of men towards the hangars reminded her of what she’d read of the British soldiers leaving the Duchess of Richmond’s ball in Brussels to head for the field of Waterloo, many of them to meet their death there. She watched the long figure of Boumphrey disappearing and found tears pricking at her eyes.
There was more news as the crews gathered in the crew room, and the air vice-marshal didn’t pull any punches.
‘Ghaffer’s got the promise of more aircraft from the Germans,’ he announced. ‘The ambassador’s just informed us. And two of Ghaffer’s Golden Triangle are trying to recruit the tribesmen. If they’re involved there’ll be no end to the fighting. The ambassador’s also been told by Ghaffer’s representative that there’ll be no mercy unless we all pack up and leave at once. We don’t intend anything of the sort, of course, but it does mean that we’ve got to break up his attempt to restore the situation here or it’ll be too late. Messerschmitt 109s and 110s are assembling to fly to Syria. From Syria they’ll fly here and you all know what a couple of squadrons of Messerschmitts could do to what we’ve got.’
They did indeed. A few 109s could wipe the floor with the remains of their pathetic force without losing their breath.
‘The Gladiators have spotted Ghaffer’s column,’ the AVM continued. ‘It’s left Mandadad and is near Fullajah. We have to stop it before it gets any further. Every man and every machine which can get into the air will take part. Shaibah is sending machines to attack the airfields to keep the Irazhi air force down.’
The chief flying instructor was to lead the attack and, to make sure nothing went wrong, he once more had as his observer Flight Sergeant Waldo, the man with eyes like a hawk and a reputation as an expert. The newly arrived Gladiators, Blenheims and Battles were put into the battle order but because their pilots were ferry crews and not operational – four of them were even civilians – the old hands who knew the conditions were given their machines, to give the striking force some punch for its first blows against Ghaffer’s column. Those ferry pilots who were in the RAF were given places in the follow-up machines and three of the civilians who volunteered were crewed with hurriedly briefed pupils who were to drop the bombs, and told to go in after the first strike and release their loads from a safe height.
As one of the few remaining regulars who had been trained under the exacting stands of the pre-war RAF, Boumphrey found he had been allotted one of the Battles and was given half an hour to familiarise himself with its controls and habits. It was a big machine, all metal and very different from the Harts, Audaxes and Oxfords he’d been flying and was able to absorb an enormous amount of punishment. Turning it was like trying to get a heavy lorry round a corner but it carried twice the bomb load of an Audax or a Hart. Though they had been lost in dozens to German 109s in France, here it was a different matter.
The machines began to head for the gate as soon as they had been briefed, first the Battles, then the Audaxes, then the Harts, finally the Gordons, the remaining Oxfords, the Blenheims, and the Gladiators. They were still inching forward, when one of the ground crew began pointing frantically and, though Boumphrey couldn’t hear him over the sound of the engine, it appeared that the air-raid warning had gone. The education officer on the roof of AHQ had seen approaching aircraft and rung his bell. The telephone had gone in the Operations Room and suddenly everyone was in a panic to get the aircraft off the ground before the enemy arrived.
The enemy machines were identified at once as Blenheims. For a moment it was thought they were reinforcements then they saw the Irazhi colours on the wings and tails. Trying to swing the heavy Battle away from the line of moving aircraft, Boumphrey saw the bombs fall away as they screamed overhead and, horrified, he saw Fogarty’s Battle lift from the ground and flop sideways, its starboard wing wrecked and on fire. Men ran forward and he saw Fogarty struggle from his cockpit. The air gunner dropped on to the port wing and began to run, then the fire engine arrived and began to smother the flames with foam. As the ambulance appeared with the medical officer, the technical warrant officer ran forward and jumped on the wing to warn Boumphrey that the proposed attack on the Irazhi convoy had been temporarily halted.
‘Chief Flying Instructor’s orders, sir,’ he yelled.
With the wrecked Battle jamming the exit, the attack had thrown the British sortie into confusion and had cost a Battle, an Oxford, a Gladiator and an Audax, together with seven men killed and eight wounded.
As the ambulances roared up, men were running forward with foam appliances to burning aircraft and the whole assembly area was covered with a black pall of oil smoke. Eventually, Fogarty appeared. He was limping, his face pale, blood still running down his cheek from a head wound. He scrambled awkwardly on to the wing root of Boumphrey’s Battle and yelled at him.
‘Who’ve you got as bomb-aimer, Ratter?’ he yelled.
‘Darling, sir. AC2 observer under training.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘First-rate, sir.’
‘Right, then, get cracking. Take over as leader. For today, Darling’s a sergeant and a fully qualified observer. They killed Waldo so he’s got to do the job for him.’
As Fogarty dropped from the wing, a tractor appeared, trailing heavy chains which were attached to the smoking Battle and, as it was dragged out of the way, the Gladiators and Blenheims got away in a rush to join aircraft already on their way from Shaibah to attack the Irazhi airfields. Because of the Irazhis’ attack, the Shaibah machines would have been and gone by the time the Kubaiyah contingent arrived, but there wasn’t time to change plans.
As the remaining aircraft moved into position, no longer worried by the guns on the plateau, Boumphrey spoke into the intercom.
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘this is your chance. It’s a long straight road to Mandadad and I’m going to fly low along it. As soon as you see the first vehicles in your sight, let half your bombs go. I’ll give you a yell when the other end of the column’s coming up. Your remaining bombs should take care of that. OK?’
Darling’s voice was brisk and confident. ‘Bang on, sir.’
They discovered the relieving column halted near Fullajah where it had run into the column of men bolting from the plateau after their defeat. In their panic, the vehicles of the retreating column were all over the road, so that the column advancing from Mandadad had been brought to a complete halt just beyond the river, unable to disperse because of the flooded ground on either side of the road. The aircraft fell on them like avenging eagles.
A storm of anti-aircraft fire rose but the Irazhi conscripts were only half-trained and a lot of it came nowhere near them. Boumphrey made no attempt to climb away from it.
‘Column coming up – now!’ he yelled and Darling pressed the tit and saw the bombs fall away. They couldn’t fail to hit the vehicles at the front of the column.
‘End of column coming up,’ Boumphrey yelled. ‘Stand by to let go…now!’
Darling pressed the tit again without thinking, r
elying entirely on Boumphrey’s judgement. The big machine lifted, trudging upwards like a bus with wings and, as they clawed for height, Boumphrey levelled off into a slow right-hand turn. Lorries at the head of the column had been hit and, as the smoke drifted away on the breeze, he could see two of them blazing furiously. There was another column of smoke at the rear of the advancing column and as it cleared he saw a burning lorry on its side, cutting off the retreat.
‘Darling,’ he announced, ‘that deserves a gong.’
With the road blocked at either end, there was no chance for the Irazhis to save much. As the following aircraft came down and more and more vehicles went up in flames, the anti-aircraft gunners fled and the last machines swept over the destruction almost unharassed by ground fire.
Returning to Kubaiyah, Boumphrey put the machine down heavily. It bounced badly and he grinned sheepishly as he scrambled out. ‘An arrival not a landing,’ he said.
Together, he and Darling went round the machine with the technical warrant officer checking for damage. There were a few holes but nothing serious.
‘Ought to have those patched, sir,’ the warrant officer said.
‘Not at the moment, Mr Farrar,’ Boumphrey said. ‘This is the end of the siege and it’s got to stay that way. Like the beginning, it’s a flat-out effort. Fill her up and we’ll be off again.’
The aircraft swept down on the halted columns again and again. Returning to rearm and refuel, they kept it up for two solid hours, not a man nor an aircraft wasting a moment. Audaxes, Harts, Gordons, Gladiators and Battles fell out of the sky, with the Oxfords and even the Rapide, dragged out of the shelter of the hangar and pushed into the air, sailing sedately overhead to drop bombs from a mere five hundred feet and leave the road a strip of flame two hundred and fifty yards long.
A few brave men attempted to fire back but it was ineffective and they could see them abandoning their lorries and splashing into the water to escape the horror. Ammunition wagons, cars, lorries, light tanks, guns, lay everywhere across the road, burning and exploding and filling the air with black smoke.
When they finally landed they were well aware that the Irazhi attempt to restore the situation had ended in a disaster. As they climbed from their machines, their hands unsteady, their brains numb with the roar of engines, Boumphrey laid a hand on Darling’s shoulder and beamed at him in that gentle but devastating way that made him feel he would willingly lay down and let him walk up his chest.
‘Darling, old son,’ he said, ‘that was absolutely splendid. If I have my way – and I suspect it won’t need much pressure – the Chief Flying Instructor’s going to waive the rest of your training.’
They were still celebrating when the AVM called Group Captain Vizard to his office. His face was grim as he skated a message form across the desk.
‘The relief force from Palestine’s made contact,’ he said.
‘When do they arrive?’
‘They don’t. They made good progress at first but now they’re stuck and screaming for help.’
‘What sort of help?’ Vizard asked. ‘Aeroplanes?’
‘Aircraft can’t help much this time. They’re stuck in the sand and running out of food and water. And we need them here. Ghaffer isn’t finished yet and if he learns they’re held up he’ll probably have another go. We’ve got to put paid to him for good and all and the only way is to go for Mandadad. For that we need Lindley’s column. Can we bring them in? They need a guide.’
Vizard frowned. ‘There’s only one man who could do it,’ he said. ‘Young Boumphrey.’
The AVM looked up. ‘Seems a bright boy. Lot of initiative.’
Vizard protested. ‘I think we’re asking too much of him,’ he said. ‘He’s been flying non-stop since it started. He liquidated the battery at Bisha and led the attack against Ghaffer’s column. He’s had too many narrow escapes.’
‘Is there anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Bit of an explorer, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a lot of things,’ Vizard said. ‘I don’t think we really appreciated until now just what he was.’
‘Knows the country round here like the back of his hand, doesn’t he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Would he do it?’
‘Of course he would.’
The AVM knew what Vizard was thinking because he himself had been flying out-of-date machines on the Western Front in 1917 when a pilot’s life span was reckoned in days rather than weeks, and he was well aware that it was always the brave and the willing who were pushed too far. But now he had bigger issues to deal with and they had taught him what responsibilities his superior officers must have carried when he was still a fledgling fighter pilot bitter at the death of his friends. A single life couldn’t be weighed against a whole campaign, the outcome of a war. He sighed and gestured.
‘It’ll have to be Boumphrey then, won’t it?’ he said.
The aircrews were still talking excitedly and describing aeroplane movements with their hands when a message came through that Jenno and Boumphrey were wanted at AHQ. Vizard was still there, with Osanna and the AVM.
‘You chaps feeling all right?’ Vizard asked.
‘Yes, sir.’ Jenno answered for both of them.
‘Tired?’
‘Of course, sir. A little. But that doesn’t mean that if something needs doing we couldn’t go up again.’
The AVM interrupted. ‘Something does need doing,’ he said. ‘But not in the air. Not this time. Brigadier Lindley’s relieving column from Transjordan’s stuck.’
‘You know that part of the desert, don’t you, Boumphrey?’ Vizard asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Explored it?’
‘Often, sir.’
‘How? Lorry or horseback?’
‘Both, sir.’
‘This time it’s got to be in lorries,’ the AVM said. ‘Because it’s got to be done quickly. German and Italian aircraft have found them and they’re being bombed. They’re also short of water and growing short of rations, and they’re losing lorries not only to the bombing but to the sand. They have to get here because we’ve got to consolidate our success by moving on as fast as possible. The Germans are expected to attack Crete at any moment and there’s to be an attack in North Africa to try to force the Germans back. The C-in-C’s demanding a final clearing up here and we need Lindley’s column. Can your people bring them in, with Jenno to look after your flanks?’
Ten
Things seemed to be growing complicated, despite the successes.
The relief column appeared to have come to a full stop about forty miles west of the camp. From what they could make out, they had followed the trans-desert road that ran from Palestine to Mandadad past the fort at Hatbah where the Engineers had been shot up. To avoid Howeidi, where there was still an intact Irazhi brigade, they had turned south but, because of the floods caused by the Irazhis breaking the bund of the river, they had not been able to follow a route close to the road and had moved into the Karymat Heights, a line of low sandy hills that ran north and south for a matter of twenty miles. There they had stuck and had even been forced to turn back on their tracks. They were now seeking a way round.
Jenno’s column headed out of the camp for the south end of Lake Kubaiyah. The armoured cars led the way, followed by Boumphrey, with his dog beside him, his solitary armoured car leading the lorries containing the Mounted Legion. The Belles were excited, their eyes shining with eagerness.
By the lake they passed the headquarters of the RAF Sailing Club. The jetty was still there but the boats had all been sunk at their moorings, only their masts visible. There was an Imperial Airways resthouse nearby where before the war passengers from flying boats on their way to India had been brought ashore to stay the night. Now there were no flying boats and the marine section huts had been set on fire. A refueller, a seaplane tender and two dinghies had been run ashore and lay on their sides, the refueller’s pumps wrecked. The grou
nd about was strewn with paper and on the steps of the resthouse was a woman’s green silk shoe. A Bedou woman with a child watched them pass with smouldering eyes, stately and beautiful and silent.
As the column circled the southernmost extremity of the lake, a Gladiator appeared overhead, turned and came back low. A small object that was seen to fall from it struck the ground just ahead with a puff of dust. It was one of the metal tubes with streamers attached by which messages were dropped.
As the men ran towards it, Jenno’s car drew up alongside Boumphrey’s. ‘Trust us to do it the hard way,’ he observed. ‘There’s something about all this that reminds me of the Boys’ Own Paper. British outpost, women and children defended by a gallant handful of British troops and their native allies.’
Boumphrey smiled. ‘And, in the best tradition, a column’s on its way to rescue ’em.’
‘While we’re on the way to rescue the rescue column.’
Boumphrey laughed. ‘It’ll come out all right in the end. They’ll arrive in the nick of time, save the beleaguered British ambassador and all the women and children, overthrow the rebels and restore the rightful ruler.’
‘Pro-British, of course.’
‘But of course. Straight out of a Victorian picture book.’
When the message tube was brought to them, Jenno opened it. ‘Fawzi waiting you in sandhills. Two armoured cars and several lorries. Machine guns seen.’
He showed it to Boumphrey. ‘Complicates things a bit,’ he said.
Boumphrey frowned. ‘I thought we were supposed to be fighting the Irazhi,’ he said. ‘Not some tinpot sheikh who likes to stir up trouble.’
‘Fawzi’s not so tinpot,’ Jenno pointed out crisply. ‘He’s a superlative ruffian and has boundless support among the A’Klab tribe. He’s sold himself to the Turks, the British, the Arabs and the French in turn.’
Boumphrey smiled. ‘Not at bargain prices either.’