There was a sigh of relief from several of the new men who were expecting to live on a Second Lieutenant’s pay; with the addition of flying pay it was possible, generally speaking.
“The planes will start to arrive today. You may look, but don’t touch! They’ll be put into the hands of your mechanics, who will strip them down and if necessary, put them together properly. Trust your mechanics, by the way – you will each have a pair designated for your machine, and a supervising Flight Sergeant to every two or three, depending on how many we’ve got. They tell you whether you can take a plane up on a given day – you never order them. That is an absolute! If I discover – and they will tell their captain, who will pass it on to me – that you have attempted to fly a plane that they have not released, then I will, if you live, ground you and send you to Salonika.”
“Where is Salonika, Tommy?”
“A long way away and very nasty.”
They had the wisdom not to push him to be more specific.
“What do we do for the rest of today, Tommy?”
“Find your way about the hangars; discover who is in your Flight and talk to your captain. At some stage, I shall manage to speak to each one of you, just to find out who you are. Make sure you know everyone else and talk to Noah’s chaps as well. It is likely that the two squadrons will be working together on some patrols. One thing you may wish to talk about is how you will make a score. You will have heard of the knights of the air, challenging and fighting each other in single combat?”
Several nodded enthusiastically.
“Well forget it! That’s so much bullshit! We hide away in clouds or upsun and sneak out and shoot them down and dive away, fast. The ideal kill is of a man who first knows you are there when you’ve put four bullets in his back. I forget my exact score – someone will know, I think it’s about eighteen – but I do know that I was only looking at a man’s face twice. Your job is to be a killer. Flying about out there are several hundreds of Jerries – and their job is to kill you. Get them first, if you want to live.”
The Adjutant’s confidential clerk came in with his list of Flights, gave Tommy the excuse to sit down. He was disturbed from his coffee a few minutes later, three very nervous Second Lieutenants announcing they were his Flight.
“Abbott, sir.”
“Colne.”
“Dickens.”
It seemed that the Adjutant had chosen to be alphabetical.
“Very good. Do you know each other?”
Two had been on the same training field on Salisbury Plain. Colne had trained in Yorkshire. Abbott came from Durham while Colne was a Wiltshireman; no doubt it had seemed logical to a clerk at HQ.
“Right, good to meet you. Are you equipped for flying? Warm pullovers, gloves, scarves, woolly socks, Long Johns?”
None had everything on the list.
“I’ll organise transport into Calais. There are English haberdashers there who can supply everything you need. If you can get hold of silk gloves and scarves, do so. I wear them because they don’t ice up and freeze your fingers or your faces. We’ll do that now. Have you met your servants?”
They had not been assigned yet.
“They will be today, I hope. Drop them five bob and they will look after you. No extras, and they will do their job, and no more. A little bribery will go a long way. What’s that bloody noise?”
They peered through the window.
“Station Warrant Officer, sir. He’s shouting at a corporal, sir.”
“He’s annoying me with his noise. He can find Wilbraham and hold his hand – no use for that racket here.”
Tommy stepped out, saw that the Warrant Officer was shouting at Smivvels.
“You! The red-faced fat man with the hat! What the hell do you think you are doing? Get over here, now!”
Tommy was quite pleased; he could shout loudly if the occasion arose.
The Warrant Officer ordered Smivvels to follow him, screaming at him to double.
“Sir! Station Warrant Officer, sir! This man to Punishment, sir! Idle! Walking on the parade ground, sir, not going round as he should! Five days Field Punishment, sir!”
“Smivvels, here, please.”
Tommy leaned forward, spoke quietly, sent Smivvels away, grinning.
“Smivvels is my servant. He is useful. You are not. Listen, very carefully. You have no authority over any member of my squadron, or of Major Arkwright’s squadron. Do you understand? That includes pilots, mechanics, cooks, servants, drivers and storemen. You will say nothing to them. You will never give them orders. You will not shout at them. Clear?”
“But I am the Station Warrant Officer!”
“You have told me that. You report to the Station Adjutant and have authority over the people belonging to the Station. You will not, ever, try to bully any of the useful people, those who belong to the squadrons.”
Tommy heard the sound of motor vehicles, pointed them out.
“This piece of grass is conveniently placed to be a motor park. That is its function henceforth.”
Two staff cars at the front. A pair of Tenders with space for three others that were off site at that time. A Bedford motor lorry and a pair of very heavy Fodens formed a third line. The grass showed immediate ruts.
“That is the parade ground, sir!”
“No, it isn’t. We don’t have parades here.”
“Colonel Wilbraham…”
“Has been re-assigned. He has been sent away and will never be seen no more. Behave yourself, or I shall send you away too. It is unlikely, but just possible, that I may find a use for you, one day. I doubt it, because you seem utterly useless to the RFC. Is there a Station Fire Brigade?”
“Yes, sir. The Guardroom has an appliance, hand pushed, sir, with a water pump.”
“Good. The guard details will drill with the appliance until each sergeant and platoon is familiar with its use. See to that as a matter of urgency. Have you sandbags and all the additional gear that may be necessary?”
“No, sir. We used to have, but things got used for other purposes, being as how there was no planes, sir.”
“There will be planes, today. They will not be easy to fly and I expect there will be crashes. Make sure your people are ready.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The Warrant Officer scuttled off, possessed of a purpose and function again.
Tommy found the new Adjutant, a penguin and long known to him – his face, at least; he had forgotten his name.
“I crashed out of Three Squadron, first patrol of the war, damned near, Tommy. George Richardson. Broke both legs, you may recall.”
“Put a Tabloid’s wheel into a rabbit hole, did you not, George?”
“That’s it. In and out of hospital for six months until they did a major operation and repaired the legs a second time. Put a foot on back-to-front first time round, something like that. Been back in business for a year now, but not flying.”
“Bad luck, old fellow! I need transport for the pilots into Calais – they will want to buy the right clothing for flying. Have we got any francs in the office?”
“None – no need for cash, as a rule.”
“We have to pay the cooks, somehow – fiddle the Funds for it. Can you go with them this afternoon? Change some pounds in a bank and issue them an advance of a tenner in francs?”
“Can do. I’ll need to write my own cheque and do it that way, rather than try to use Squadron Funds.”
Tommy saw no problem there. George had been a regular before the war, must have a private income, probably very substantial as he had flown for pleasure.
“Set up an account for the Mess, while you’re there. I’ll give you my cheque to open it.”
Tommy found his chequebook, made one hundred pounds payable to the Mess.
“Some of the boys will die before they have time to settle their account at the end of the month. This will cover them.”
It was not unusual practice, where the CO had the mo
ney.
The first of the Sopwiths came in, landing impressively in a swooping dive from a thousand feet.
“Ferry pilots! Never get near the sharp end, so they have to show off where they can!”
George was displeased, perhaps envious of those who still could fly.
“Useful, George. It shows the boys that the plane can be flown. Now all they have to do is learn how.”
The ferry pilot left the machine at the hangars, brought the papers up to the office.
“Afternoon, squire! One Sopwith Camel for Ninety-Six Squadron!”
“Camel?”
“That’s what they’re calling it in England, sir.”
The pilot was a lieutenant who had digested the ribbons and major’s crowns and thought he might perhaps be a fraction more cautious.
“Why? I mean, the Pup made some sense, but why ‘Camel’?”
“If you look at the guns, sir, over the engine, they’ve got a sheet-metal cowling over them that’s humped a bit. So, it’s a Camel.”
“Daft, if you ask me. The boys will love it. What are you doing for transport?”
“A lift to Calais would be handy, sir.”
“Will do. See to it, George. First four get the staff car, after that, there’s no choice – it’s Tenders.”
The Camels came in at five minute intervals over three hours, all landing successfully, though a couple of engines sounded rough. Tommy visited the hangars as they were pushed inside and the mechanics clustered round the first pair.
“Captain Black?”
He had been told the name, but the oily, grease-stained figures in overalls or dungarees seemed identical.
“Here, sir. Sooty, sir.”
It took a few seconds to realise that to be his nickname.
“Couple of those engines sounded a bit poorly, Sooty?”
“They won’t by the morning, Tommy. We’re stripping down the first two, looking to see what’s different. Oil feed to a cylinder, I thought, listening to the bad ones. Might be we need to modify the system, could be a bit of dirt from the factory. We’ll see.”
“Good. I want to train the boys up as soon as possible, Sooty, but that don’t mean I want to cut corners. Who’s the Armourer?”
“Got a lieutenant, Tommy. Unusual sort of chap. You’ll want to make your own mind up about him. Over in the corner, he’s made himself a shop there. No facilities when he got here.”
The fact that he had set himself up said something good of him, Tommy thought, walking across.
“Lieutenant Moffat, sir!”
“Call me, Tommy - we don’t stick by many rules here.”
“Sorry, naval habits stick. I was submarines, but lost it after a bad patrol. Couldn’t face the boats any longer. They threw me out of the navy, but let me join the RFC to use the gunnery I’d learned. Happens all the time in the boats. They say that more than one in ten break like I did.”
“Never been in a submarine. Not even got close to one, but it ain’t my idea of fun, going under the bloody sea! What have you got by way of stores and equipment?”
“Not much! These Vickers on the new planes, what sort are they, Tommy?”
“Good question. Why?”
“It’s a matter of the belts, whether they are the old fabric or the new steel disintegrating link type. In theory, any gun can use either sort, but it don’t seem to work that way in practice. No matter, I can work round it. Problem I can’t avoid is that I have thirty-two thousand rounds of ball and nothing else. That’s not sufficient to load three belts for each gun.”
“We won’t be flying patrols from this field, so it don’t matter yet. As soon as we get to our home it will be important. We might be operational at the end of next week. I’ll start bending ears now – it can take a fortnight to wake the buggers up at HQ. How about tools and men?”
“One sergeant and two air mechanics first class; one of them ain’t fit to shovel, and I want him out, if possible.”
“Talk to George and Sooty. Between them, they’ll dump the idiot and replace him. Don’t bother with paperwork – creates too much fuss if you go by the book. Have you had any problems with the station people?”
“The Warrant Officer keeps coming in and shouting at people to keep clean and not be idle.”
“Tell him to sod off if he does it again. The hangars are out of bounds to him.”
“My pleasure, Tommy!”
Bursting Balloons
Chapter Six
The dying started two days later.
It rained the day after the Camels were delivered and Tommy and Noah gave their people the day off – the pilots, that was. The mechanics, who had been busy all night, worked the whole day and were glad, so they said, of the opportunity to give the planes a final overhaul.
Next morning the sun shone on a bright June day. Tommy gathered his pilots in the anteroom and delivered a little speech he had worked out with Noah.
“The Camel is not a dangerous aircraft, except to the extent that every plane is. It is designed to take men and guns into the air, where they don’t naturally belong. Any contrivance that defies gravity must be, to an extent, dangerous. Every plane has its quirks that must be mastered. The Camel has a few more quirks than most…”
He hoped he sounded serious, but much suspected he was merely pompous, old and grave before his time.
He took them out to watch him perform.
He started by directing their attention to the rudder, which he was holding well to the left, before he called to the mechanic to swing the propeller. Then he pottered slowly along, taxying with the engine revving as low as he could get, holding the blip switch down as much as he could without flooding the engine, slowly opening up and letting them watch the plane try to veer to the right. He taxyed it round in a slow circle and brought it back to the hangar and switched off. He stepped out of the cockpit.
“What comes next, gentlemen?”
“Fly it, Tommy,” they chorused.
“Not that one! Why?”
Abbott, who seemed a bright young lad, spoke up.
“You’ve been blipping the engine hard for nearly ten minutes, Tommy. There will be unburned petrol in the cylinders and the engine will probably cut out. Drain it and get the mechanics to check it is clean before flying it. Far too great a risk to take off immediately in that machine.”
“Well said, that man! Exactly. So, I shall shift to another plane for my next trick, which is to take off, perform a circuit each way and land.”
The mechanic heaved the propeller, the engine cut in and Tommy taxyed, turned into the wind and took off, thirty yards distant from his audience. He held the Camel rigidly to its line, using the rudder only at first and then banking very slightly at one hundred feet. He climbed hard to one thousand and made a left-hand circuit of the field before turning a half circle and repeating to the right. He lined up into the wind and brought the plane down, again using left rudder and easing her into a gentle landing and taxying back to the apron. As he landed, Noah took off, making his own demonstration.
“Hell-For, Henry, Ikey, you will perform for the benefit of your eagerly watching Flights.”
The three had consulted with Tommy first, had agreed the morning’s schedule. Captain Fredericks carried the nickname of Henry, ‘because it wasn’t Fred’. Captain Goldmark suffered from ‘Ikey’ due to the belief that his surname sounded Jewish - Ikey being a colloquial and somewhat derogatory abbreviation of the name, Isaac. However, the Adjutant had tactfully checked that he was a Gentile before permitting the nickname to stand in the squadron.
They took off at ten second intervals, wavering and then heaving the control lever harder to port, all experienced fliers who would act first and think later. They circled and came down more smoothly than they had taken off.
“She’s a cow of a machine, but only for the first and last minutes of a flight,” was Hell-For’s verdict.
“You have all been taught to treat your plane with care, everything gentle
and smooth. Well this one’s different. You are the boss and you make sure she does what you want, or she’ll do what she wants, which is to kill you,” said Henry.
Ikey simply agreed with both.
Noah sent his Flight Commanders up and Tommy’s squadron watched them take off, circle and come down, in one case with two bounces and a distinct wobble; they grinned, superiority confirmed.
Tommy and Noah had agreed that they would then alternate, Flight and Flight, getting their people up at least twice in the morning.
Tommy led Abbott and Colne and Dickens up, listening for the sound of a crash, but the three managed their take off. Twice round the field and then into a landing, well to the side, away from the hangars. They made it and he took them straight up again and away from the field to the Channel coast and half an hour of flight; he came back to the field, spotted a burned-out wreck on the landing side and took them down twenty yards clear.
They taxyed back to the hangars and he switched off.
“Who was it?”
Sooty was watching in company with both adjutants, available against immediate need.
“One of Noah’s Flight Commanders,” Sooty replied. “He lost it coming down at about fifty feet, just turned his nose straight in to the right. The rest have all made one landing and two take offs now. One of Ikey’s boys, his number three, was shaky.”
“That’s Noah coming in now.”
They watched as he made a perfect touch-down, followed by his Flight, all doing their best to imitate him, holding rudders to the exact same angle, with some success.
“As I have often said, that man is a far better pilot than me. I fly by, what do they call it now, ‘the seat of my pants’ – must be an Americanism, terribly vulgar! Instinct and feeling. He is a craftsman; his every move comes from his brain, thought through and analysed and improved for next time. Harry Hawker says the same – he thinks Noah is one of the best he has ever seen.”
Noah joined them and mildly commented that he had not been impressed by the dead gentleman.
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 13