“True, that’s exactly what he did. Why did you not put him up for something, sir?”
“Posthumous, would have to be the VC, and that would have named him to the public. I don’t know myself who Sergeant Devon’s parents are, but he don’t exist, never did, can’t be mentioned. Must be in some way related to Royalty, Tommy – but I never said that! One of his parents must have been a bastard of Edward VII’s, so I would guess, or of course, he might be – but you will not say a word of that, or do more than name the man as Devon.”
Tommy knew remarkably little of the wider world, but he did thoroughly understand that one did not name Royalty and survive unscathed, or at all, very possibly.
“I’ll be good, sir. When do we go to London, and how?”
“Staff car to Calais, navy to Dover, not the ordinary steamer. Train to London as normal. You will be met at the station and conveyed to a hotel for the duration of the Court of Inquiry – one to three days. After that, I would imagine that you will be sent home. Orders will be provided, and I suspect you will bring out a new pair of squadrons next month.”
“Trunks and servants, sir?”
“There will be a second staff car – less comfortable, of course!”
They raised their eyes to the heavens - laughing, eventually.
“What of Eighty and Eighty-One, sir?”
“They are to be remade, Tommy. Both with DH4s, bombing in the rear areas, in all probability. I will keep them, together, it is planned, with a third squadron, also DH4.”
“Rupert and Alfie?”
“I want Rupert as a CO. Alfie is too junior to be anything other than a pilot, but I shall want to keep him.”
“Good idea. He’s not that good as a pilot – hasn’t got the feel for the air - but he’s full of guts. He will do very well on DH4s, until he dies. Rupert is quality. Didn’t like him when first I met him; ain’t that sure I do now, but he is one of the very best. Give them both my regards, please, sir.”
Colonel Kettle stood and offered his hand.
“Don’t go doing anything silly, Tommy. No ideas of revenge on Jerry – he’s just doing a job too.”
“So he is. So am I. My job is to kill him, whatever he is. All in the best of good humour, though, sir.”
Colonel Kettle tried to smile.
The cars appeared and they were taken in rare comfort to Calais, experiencing life as staff officers enjoyed it for a couple of hours, arriving in mid-evening, a cool wind blowing off the sea.
The navy was waiting, the familiar ancient whale-back destroyer with an anonymous junior officer in command. The navy churned identical-seeming youths out of its training college at Dartmouth – all seemingly forced into a sausage machine that chewed up individuality and spat out competent, reliable, unadventurous, safe commanding officers.
“Do you wish to join me on the bridge, gentlemen?”
“Please.”
They walked up to the tiny platform, just able to contain two visitors as well as captain and lookouts and helmsman.
They left harbour with a minimum of commands and set off across the Channel, bow rising as the turbine was pushed up to full speed.
“Dover inside ninety minutes, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
They stood and watched the horizon, the cliffs climbing out of the sea.
“I say, Major, is it? Has that aeroplane got three jolly wings?”
They followed the pointing finger, stared interestedly.
“One of yours, sir. Sopwith Triplane, RNAS. Said to be very splitarse.”
“Oh! What precisely does that signify?”
“She will turn, bank, climb and dive quicker than anything in the air. Probably slower in level flight than many, but a very fine fighting machine. Perfect for naval use – no trouble in catching seaplanes because they’re always slowed down by their floats. She would shoot down anything she caught.”
“Very good.”
They had been wearing their flying coats, well buttoned up, the sea air being cold. A rating requested permission to come onto the bridge, whispered to the captain, left again.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I was not told your names?”
“Major Stark.”
“Major Arkwright.”
“A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. Excuse me a minute.”
The naval officer ran down the ladder, returned in two minutes, saying nothing.
They docked quickly in Dover, walked across to the brow to leave the ship, saw a rank of sailors stood at attention, a pair of boatswain’s mates with their whistles ready.
“You first, Noah – it’s for you.”
Smivvels and Broughton were grinning in the background; they had their own ideas of what was proper for their masters, had dropped the word to the sailors.
They were put in another car for the short run to the station – presumably it was felt that airmen had lost the facility of walking.
“This must be how the staff lives, Tommy. Far superior to ordinary mortals.”
They were led to the dining car rather than to their compartment. Noah stopped complaining.
Arriving in London, another car took them to their hotel, the driver informing them that he would pick them up at eight-thirty.
“Softening us up, Tommy. Take us in full of breakfast and feeling relaxed and then hit us with all they’ve got. Can’t trust the little buggers, you know.”
The Court of Inquiry consisted of seven senior officers, chaired by a lieutenant-general and sat at a long table, trying to seem like a committee rather than a court-martial. They were assisted by a pair of army officers from the Adjutant-General’s office; both had been barristers before joining up.
Tommy was led in first, Noah sat down in a waiting room with a pot of coffee and a copy of The Times, all very civilised.
“Major Stark, please take a seat. This is not a court of law and evidence is not taken under oath. You will be asked questions which will be aimed to clarify those actions that led up to the events of the Second of May.”
“Sir.”
He was taken through the meeting with General Peabody-Smirk, was asked who was present.
“Colonel Kettle, the Officer in Command of the Wing; Major Arkwright and myself of the RFC. The General, two colonels whose names I did not catch; two captains and four lieutenants, one of whom I later found to be the General’s son.”
“Eight staff officers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Colonel Kettle has given his statement, which we have to hand. He said that the RFC agreed to attempt the attack requested by the Army. Did you give an opinion on the attack, Major Stark?”
“No, sir.”
“But you did contribute to the discussion?”
“Yes, sir. I asked for a number of details relating to the height of Hill 37 and its topography and the German presence.”
“Did you comment on the wisdom of making the attack?”
“No, sir. It is not my habit to comment on my orders. I wished to know those details that would assist me to carry out my orders.”
The officers of the Board nodded their approval; whatever might be said of the RFC, this young man knew how to behave.
“Thank you, Major Stark. Members of the Board may wish to ask you other questions.”
The Lieutenant-General spoke up.
“Major Stark, we are told that you are one of the most experienced bombardment pilots of the RFC. Did you believe the attack to be feasible?”
“Yes, sir. Given surprise, it would have been very effective.”
“You were confident, then?”
“As much as one ever can be in the air, sir. I had every expectation of success.”
“What did you do when it became clear that the attack could not succeed?”
Tommy allowed himself to look just a little surprised.
“I attacked, sir. I dropped my bombs, as did two others of my squadron who survived in the air to do so. Intelligence reports sta
te that we were lucky enough to do some little damage.”
The Board showed its approval again – the young man had done, and said, exactly the right thing.
“We have seen those reports, Major Stark. I am amazed by the extent of your achievement. You were shot down and managed to escape on foot. Was that a matter of luck as well?”
“Good fortune, sir, and the remarkable actions of my observer who had two bullets in his belly and others in his legs. He knew he was dying, told me, if you will excuse the phrase, to bugger off, and remained at his Lewis Guns, sir, until a hand grenade was thrown into his cockpit.”
There was a mutter of approval; that was the way to go.
“You must be very proud of him, Major Stark. You crawled through the mud and under the wire, found a hidden track made by a sniper and, still crawling, killed him and then crossed no-man’s-land and penetrated the British wire.”
“The men in the line saw me coming and put up smoke and pointed me through their wire, sir.”
“Remarkable, sir! We have all seen the Trenches, of course, and can respect your achievement. We must also admire your observer.”
There was a muted chorus of ‘hear-hear’ from the Board, embarrassed at such a display of emotion.
They excused him, led him out of the room and called for Noah.
Tommy heard the chairs scrape back as they stood to exchange salutes.
“Coffee, sir?”
“Please.”
The waiter was a lieutenant; evidently secrecy was being maintained, no lesser bodies permitted.
Ten minutes and Noah reappeared.
“What was that about, Tommy?”
“Christ knows, but they weren’t trying to establish what happened – there’s something behind it all.”
They were led away and sat down to wait in the Headquarters Mess.
An hour and one of the barristers appeared.
“Court of Inquiry has risen, gentlemen. It has issued a formal commendation to the RFC and to you both. Blame has been firmly placed on the Army and a negligent approach to security. Lieutenant Peabody-Smirk has been slated as the probable source of the leak that led to the compromise of the operation. He will be posted out of his current battalion and sent to India, to garrison duty in a very unpleasant location where he will be forgotten. He is a regular soldier, not a wartime creation, poor chap; I doubt he will see England for another decade, and still a lieutenant and with a poor war record!”
They shrugged – it would make no difference to the dead of their squadrons.
“I am informed that both of your commissions are to be made regular and permanent in the RFC, gentlemen, with appropriate seniority.”
Tommy was a regular already, he understood, but in the Hampshires, a regiment that had never seen him. He knew that Noah had a wartime commission. It would make a difference to their peacetime prospects
“General Henderson will discuss your next employment with you. Major Arkwright, there is a bar to your DSO. Major Stark, the King of Belgium has been pleased to award you an augmentation to the award of the Legion D’Honneur you already wear. I am not entirely certain what that means, by the way, but there is another piece of ribbon to put up, if there is space on your chest.”
Noah started quietly singing.
“My brother, Sylveste,
With the row of forty medals,
On his chest…
The bigger the man,
The bigger the chest,
Big man, Sylveste.”
Tommy groaned.
“The music halls have much to answer for, Noah!”
“Fine entertainment for a growing boy, Tommy!”
The barrister smiled, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
“They told me you were crazy. I didn’t believe them. I do now. Good luck, gentlemen. I am honoured, and perhaps humbled, to have met you. General Henderson will see you after luncheon, and I understand that transport home will be arranged for you. Your servants have already been sent off. Goodbye.”
General Henderson was in gloomy mood.
“We must talk with the Army, Stark, if we are to do our job properly. Yet you have just experienced what can happen when we do! Nothing to be done about it. Generals have an almost complete freedom to appoint their own staff – have had it since they were first invented, so it can’t be changed for no better reason than that it makes sense! General Peabody-Smirk has been sent to Salonika – which is a pity, in some ways, because he is one of the better of our commanders, for what that’s worth.”
“Could the plans be discussed in England, sir? It is possible that there are fewer spies here.”
“The Swiss Embassy is full of them, and the Dutch. Both countries have as much support at home for Germany as they do for England. Then there are the various other neutrals, who have a degree of freedom in the nature of things. The best we can say is that information takes longer to travel from London than from Paris. No, it wouldn’t make a lot of difference, Stark.”
“There was nearly a week of delay between making the plan and carrying it out, sir. Perhaps it might be possible to hold preliminary discussions at field officer level and then complete the remainder of the business inside twenty-four hours.”
“Worth a try – but impossible for anything involving more than a single battalion. Too many orders to be made out, too much coordination to be achieved. We can make the attempt. Now then, business! You will both remain in England for three days before going out to the training field outside Calais.”
“I didn’t know there was one, sir.”
Noah looked equally blank.
“The intention was that pilots should learn about the conditions in France before going out to their squadrons with a few more hours under their belts. Regrettably, it was impossible either to staff it or to allow trainees the extra time. There is a CO there, and a ground staff, and your people from Eighty and Eighty-One – the mechanics and such, but not their senior officer – have been sent across and you will pick up your aircraft there. They will be ferried across from the factories over the next few days; so many new planes have been ordered that they are being made by contractors as well. Pilots will be posted in – most will be very green, of course – and you will work up your squadrons before returning to the Front.”
They wondered what and why – the SE5a squadrons had received this treatment, but only because their guns had not worked and they had been delayed while they were fixed.
“What are the planes, sir? I heard there was a new Bristol, sir.”
Noah had also heard a whisper that it had been a disaster.
“There is. The Board of Inquiry is sitting upon it now. You will not be flying Bristols. You will have the new Sopwith – I believe you have both flown an early model, in fact.”
They had and prepared to make their voices heard.
“I know! I am aware of the nature of the new aircraft, but it will, in the hands of competent fliers, be one of the best machines in the air. Your job will be to deliver two squadrons of pilots who can fly the bloody thing!”
“Send me two dozen pilots, sir, and I will do so, exactly as was the case with the Bristol Bullet, if you remember, sir.”
“I will hold you to that, Stark. We must have these planes in the air, and before the next Big Push. We must take back control of the air for a few months, sufficient to protect our soldiers from ground attack by the Germans; they have learned the value of bombing and machine-gunning the advancing soldiers, and are said to be developing planes specifically for the purpose.”
“Will we do so, sir?”
“Too few engineers, Stark. The skilled men we have are busy designing four-engine bombers. We literally do not have the people and facilities to design anything else. The Germans, apparently, had technical schools and colleges which produced trained engineers. We don’t have them, nor are there plans to introduce them ever, despite many requests from us. Better to leave it to the keen amateurs, you know – they are the people w
ho made Old England great!”
“Hopeless, sir. If we win this war, we will still be left behind when it comes to the Peace. This country is dead!”
“Pity is that it’s taken a war to notice the fact, Stark. Go home, for a few days at least.”
Monkey was delighted to see him, the children, Tom and Jane, seemed pleased as well, though both were far too young to know and remember him.
Lord Moncur had heard whispers of disaster striking the RFC, wanted to know more. Tommy explained what he could. Moncur was resigned.
“Good planes, inadequate pilots, amateurs running the Army? Nothing changes as far as that last is concerned! Lloyd George is in a running fight with General Haig, and lacks the support to break him. The Conservative Party, to an extent in the Commons, wholly in the Lords, supports Haig for being the ‘right sort’. The Liberal Party don’t all of them like Lloyd George. The newspapers hate Lloyd George – or their owners do, at least. The ordinary people don’t count – but they never have!”
Tommy was not surprised – the war was far more about politics than killing Germans.
“I intend more than ever to get out of this country when the fighting stops, sir. It’s the States or Australia for me. Will you invest my money for me to make it easier to start up overseas as soon as I can? I think oil will be important, as well. We have had petrol shortages looming two or three times – we must be using the stuff by the tens of thousands of gallons. Buy into the big producers, I suspect, sir.”
“Good idea, Tommy. I will do just that. Put some of my own money in as well. So many serving men have driven motor-cars and lorries that I am sure the private demand for petrol will increase after the war. Road-building as well – what’s that stuff they put down, the black sticky stuff?”
“Tarmacadam, sir. I expect they’ll need a lot of that.”
“Can’t have dirt roads for motor vehicles – I shall make that point quietly but strongly. Have you heard of the Russians, by the way, you carrying one of their decorations?”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 11