“Very confident – ‘never met the plane he couldn’t fly’, so he said; he may have been mistaken. I need a captain, Adj.”
“In hand, Noah. HQ assures me he will bring a replacement Camel in by the morning. Who called them ‘Camels’, by the way? Bloody stupid name!”
“Too late. It has stuck.”
They sent their pilots to eat and relax for a couple of hours as they came in. All managed to land, though in some cases not entirely confidently.
Tommy’s squadron ate their lunch and sat down with tea or coffee and slowly unknotted the various nervously wracked portions of their individual anatomies; more than one paced rapidly to the latrines.
Tommy stood, smiled benignly.
“That’s the worst over now. You know what you are facing. You understand what you must do. We’ll fly for an hour this afternoon, a run down south west, take a look at the seaside and come back again. Take the buses up to five thousand feet today, ten thou’ tomorrow, and practice all the time. On Thursday, I want to start flying as a squadron in patrol formation, but you should get into the habit of searching the sky from now on. Keep your heads turning, watching in six directions – front and back, left and right, up and down. We’ll load the guns from Thursday, and take a peek at the Trenches at the weekend – they don’t take Saturday and Sunday off. I hope we shall move to our own field next week; we may have the opportunity sooner. We shall be in business as soon as we do.”
The afternoon was successful, but the next morning brought two crashes, both on take offs. One of Noah’s men spun in from one hundred feet; they had watched as he took off with too much left rudder, realised his mistake and over-corrected and was given no second chance. Second Lieutenant Dickens, the other casualty, survived his error, starting his engine, beginning to roll and then turning to give a cheery thumbs-up to his audience. He ground-looped, snapping round to the right, ripping off his wheels and burying the nose deep into the grass; he was held by his lap belt and didn’t hit his head on the metal covering the butts of the guns, was able to scramble out before petrol dripped onto the hot engine.
Tommy greeted Dickens as he ran back to the apron, away from the flaming fuel tank.
“Mr Dickens, you would undoubtedly be disqualified as too stupid to take part in a competition to be the village idiot! Tell your servant to pack your bags. You are finished in this squadron! Go and inform the Adjutant that you need transport, that you are to be gone within half an hour. If I see you after that time I shall personally kick you through the gate, and without opening it first! Go!”
Tommy turned away, spotted the Station Warrant Officer leading his fire appliance to the flames, roared at him to come away.
“The pilot is out! No need to risk your men. Let the plane burn – there is nothing to be salvaged from it now.”
The Station Warrant Officer did not understand – fires were to be extinguished – it said so in the Book, and he always went by the Book.
“Normally, a burning plane will have loaded guns, and the ammunition will sometimes start to explode. We don’t risk lives if the pilot is safe, or obviously dead.”
“Yes, sir. Should be written in King’s Regulations, sir. Beg to request sand, sir, and more bags. Still not enough for the purpose, sir.”
“Speak to the squadron adjutants. You must have sand. Any other requirements?”
“A motor vehicle for the pump, sir. Took three minutes and thirty-eight seconds to run from the guardroom, sir.”
“Don’t know if we can do that. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Fazackerly, sir.”
“Right, Mr Fazackerly. It would make sense to have a motor appliance, but I don’t know if such things exist, or whether we could get one. I shall speak to HQ later this morning. If we can get one, we will. It is a very sensible request.”
“Sir.”
With much shouting and unnecessary orders, the hand appliance was returned to the guardroom, the Warrant Officer strutting self-satisfied, triumphant.
Noah came across in company with Sooty.
“Two planes, one dead pilot, Tommy. Did I see that bloody young fool waving to the crowd before he piled in?”
“You did, Noah.”
“I hope you remembered your manners and waved back!”
Tommy achieved a smile at this stroke of wit, glanced at his watch.
“He has twenty minutes left to get off this field!”
“Over-generous, Tommy! You should have thrown him out the gate and then chucked his trunk after him. Get Maurice to arrange his transfer to an appropriate squadron. Artillery spotting in RE8s, I think; in Macedonia, of course.”
“He can do what he wishes and wherever he likes, just as long as he don’t come near me again!”
“Good experience for the onlookers, Tommy – each one who makes a mistake provides an object lesson for the rest. They was always used to tell me that at school, that one should learn through experience, and that learning was easier when it was other people who made the mistakes. The Superintendent used to pin the front page of the newspaper onto the notice-board when they had a hanging in the local quod, with a big sign in crayon saying ‘THINK’. They would have a picture of the crowd waiting outside the prison door for the bell to ring and the notice of execution to be published. Don’t know why they went, nothing to see these days, all done behind the high wall.”
“These modern educationalists, Noah – don’t know what they’ll come up with next!”
Sooty stared in horror – he found difficulty with Noah’s background.
Camels took off in a steady stream, occasionally twitching, but increasingly competent. There was a sense of order now, of pilots performing a routine task rather than daringly taking their lives in their hands. They watched with some satisfaction.
An outsider appeared, flying in from the west, and joined the three circling, waiting their turn to land. Five minutes and he made a workmanlike job of landing and taxying across.
“My new captain, I hope, Tommy.”
The short, powerful figure of Poacher Denham heaved himself out of his cockpit and came across to them.
“Arr, well, Noah. Bit short on the old petrol, I reckons. The old wind was a bit cross-wise and made the bus use more nor I reckoned on. Shouldn’t reckon there’s more nor a teacupfull left.”
“Where did you fly in from, Poacher?”
“Croydon, Noah. They says to I, she’s good for two and a half hours, but I reckons they’re pulling my plonker! Hundred and thirty minutes I been up and she’s tedious slight on the old petrol!”
They dipped the tank and found less than a gallon swilling about the bottom.
“Patrols of no more than two hours, gentlemen.”
Noah laid down the law for his squadron and then took Poacher away for a few minutes to remind him of the little chat they had had about accents and dialect, and the necessity of being conventional if he was to keep up his rapid progress through the ranks.
Tommy spoke on the telephone to HQ and asked where they were to be located.
“Back to St Rigobert, Tommy. The squadron cooks will appreciate that, I don’t doubt.”
“I was not aware that you knew of them, Maurice. They are the least fraction unofficial, after all.”
“Tommy, will you grow up? You cannot kick colonels in the balls and then expect to keep your little secrets! Colonel Wilbraham laid an official complaint against you before he left and I have had to call in more than one favour to save your neck. It’s over and done with and he has been sent to Mesopotamia, in a hurry. He is to command a Wing there, or so he has been informed – he is not aware that he will arrive well in advance of his squadrons – probably by a couple of years!”
“That sounds like a promotion, Maurice.”
“It was meant to. The good colonel has a number of very well-placed acquaintances in the milieu of High Society – terribly good family, the Wilbrahams, you know - but fortunately they know nothing of the real world. K
eep your head down for a few weeks, if you can, Tommy!”
“Will do. Thank you. I need a pilot and a plane, and Noah requires the same. Not as bad as we feared, in fact. We can be operational within a week.”
“The field is ready for you and you can go across when you wish. The sooner the better, of course, because Jerry probably knows nothing about you yet. After the debacle with the new Bristol and the delays to the SE5a, they will be little concerned about another new fighter. You are to make them regret their complacency, we trust.”
“If possible, we shall. Can you gee up the supply of ammunition and of petrol, Maurice? Are the anti-aircraft guns still there? If so, have they any gunners? Can we have a motorised fire-appliance, if such things exist?”
“Probably not to the latter. All else will be dealt with today. The Armourer, Lieutenant Moffat, remained there and will have looked after the guns, I should imagine. He is still anomalous in nature, by the way, neither us nor Navy. I shall see to that, one day, when I have nothing better to do. We shall see about a Wing as well, quite possibly by attaching you to an existing structure.”
Tommy stood after dinner, choosing the time when the pilots felt at peace with the world, their bellies full of good food and far better than average wines, which a few noticed.
“We shall transfer to our field at St Rigobert tomorrow. Ugly place, but very comfortable, good billets, warm for the winter. The cooks come from the village there. We shall spend a little more time on routine, until we are all able to fly Camels in our sleep, and then devote a couple of days to throwing them about and trying to get on each other’s tails. After that, we shall be open for trade. Noah is telling his people the same, and we are going to have a grand opening ball to announce our presence on the social scene. If it can possibly be arranged, it will be von Richthofen’s ball!”
They cheered – it was exactly their sort of humour; most of them had played rugby.
They threw a squadron bash on the strength of the news, challenged Noah and his men to outdo them in drinking and various games of rugby with wastepaper bins, tug of war with the Training School Adjutant, and jousting on piggy-back. The morning saw any number of bruises and black eyes, but no actual broken bones, though the Adjutant was very sore and promised to buy the Mess a rope to use next time.
Moving fields was very easy, the pilots thought. They waved goodbye and flew away and landed a few minutes later and waited for the mechanics to come out and take their planes from them. The organisation took place in the background; they were not aware of it, provided their tea and coffee and biscuits were supplied on time.
“Spoiled brats, one might say, Tommy.”
“As it should be, Noah – a week from now and at least one of them will be toasted as brown as this Bourbon biscuit I am eating. While they risk that, they can be as brattish as they like. What about your lot? Anyone there who will make a score?”
“Only Poacher. The rest will scrape a few together, and that will be good enough – if sixteen of them pick up three or four kills in halves and quarters then the overall effect will be all that we need. Poacher will make as many as all the rest put together, probably, if he lives. They’ll do the job we need, Tommy.”
“Same with mine. Hell-For might put a few down, but the odds are he won’t see Christmas – a little bit too much of the devil-may-care, that lad.”
The ‘lad’ was older than Tommy, but only in years.
A captain appeared, dropped with his trunk by a staff car that fled the contamination of an operational field, back to the quiet of the Central Air Park. The officer made his way towards the Mess, spotted the pair of majors and reported.
“Intelligence Officer, gentlemen. Captain Bowdler.”
“Bowdler? Heard the name before, haven’t I?” Noah asked.
“My great-grandfather, sir, lent his name to the English language. I can assure you that I do not share his enthusiasms.”
“Quite right too! Very bad for a young man, enthusiasms. I’m Stark, by the way. That is Major Arkwright. Are you for both squadrons?”
“No, sir. Yours only. There is a lieutenant as well, but he got drunk at Amiens and I left him there. He will, no doubt, appear in his own good time. It was his birthday, I believe.”
Noah relaxed – a man was entitled to get drunk on his birthday.
“Inspection time, Noah. Let us be seen to peer seriously at the field and its environs, and make sure that Pot didn’t pinch the anti-aircraft guns when he left.”
They stalked round the perimeter of the field, hands clasped behind their backs, serious expressions assembled on their faces.
“Three-pounders are all here, Noah. Are they any use?”
“Can’t be. The Navy has given them to us – if they were any good, they’d have kept them.”
“Good point. Shall we speak to Lieutenant Moffat? He’s ex-Navy.”
They marched to the armoury, found the officer in question.
“Three-pounders, Tommy? Quick-firing guns, might well knock out twelve rounds in a minute with a good team. They need three men, ideally – loader and layer and ammunition handler. They’re fixed-charge guns, shell and propellant all in one, like a big rifle bullet; makes them quicker. Thinking on it, you might need a fourth man, a fuse-setter with these guns, assuming they are air-burst shells. Let me see…”
The Armourer pulled a three-pound shell out of a box on the racks, glanced at the fuse.
“Needs to be set, which means the layer must shout to the setter, to tell him what to use. They’ll need a hell of a lot of drill.”
“All yours, Mr Moffat. Will machine-guns make more sense?”
“I would rely on them, Tommy. These three-pounders are only good for low-flying planes, and they move so quickly, they can’t be aimed at. Best they fire barrages, so as not to need to aim at all. Won’t need a fuse-setter, either, as they can all be kept the same in a barrage. I shall organise them. Who are the gunners?”
“Good question. You’ll need to organise them, too, as soon as you’ve found them. Was I you, I would put the best gunners on stand-to before dawn by a quarter of an hour and hold position for two hours. One hour in the evening. The rest of their working day can be spent training up the odd bodies wandering about the place. Every man who is not a mechanic or cook or pilot to be able to jump to the nearest gun or Vickers and be useful in case of attack.”
“Good. Will do, Tommy. One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you about, Tommy. We have a hell of a lot of Brock rounds in store. Are you intending to go balloon hunting?”
Noah interrupted, before Tommy could reply; he tried to be tactful.
“We must be ready to attack balloons at all times.”
“Very much so,” Tommy added.
“But you can’t change belts in the air.”
“Exactly so, dear boy! Load all guns with Brock only,” Noah responded.
“But… the Geneva Convention, you know, says that explosive rounds must not be fired at soldiers from small-bore weapons.”
“Mr Geneva can take his Convention and shove it where the sun shineth not!”
“It’s a place, not a person.”
“Then make use of the municipal sewerage system!”
“But… it’s unlawful!”
“Then be very sure your records show the rounds were only loaded for use against balloons.”
“But…”
“If you don’t like it, you may ask for a new appointment.”
With his background, Lieutenant Moffat knew that any other appointment would be well away from the firing line, probably as overseer of a sanitary squad.
“I shall load the belts, gentlemen. What about the Vickers around the field?”
“Ball only, we haven’t got Brock to waste on the offchance of a raid.”
“Yes, sir. We have a dozen Lewis Guns in the stores. Do you know why?”
“Last bloke probably pinched ‘em and couldn’t account for them officially when he made up the handover form
s for the armoury, so he left them for you to find and do something with.”
“We didn’t do things that way in the Navy.”
“Very difficult to shoot Lewises from submarines, I expect. Check they work – he might have left his outstanding repairs undone. If they are good, then load up all the pans you’ve got and put the guns three to each hangar. If a raid comes in, the mechanics will like to have something to shoot back with.”
“We need more by way of small arms rounds and spares for the Vickers, Tommy.”
“Shove a requisition across to George. He’ll action it. Ask for twice as much as you need of everything, due to expenditure in training.”
“I know that, Tommy. That’s no different in the Navy.”
“Good. What about three-inch anti-aircraft guns? Would they be of use to us?”
Lieutenant Moffat was at home with that sort of question, could give a definitive answer.
“No. We want guns for use against low-level raids. The three-inchers are for high stuff. Unless the Germans have invented a good bombing sight, we are not interested in them.”
He sounded very convincing, but Tommy was struck by sudden doubt.
“These new Gotha bombers release their load from height, don’t they, Noah.”
“Yes, but it’s unlike Jerry to invent a high-flying bombardment machine without a useful sight…”
“Better see if we can pick up something bigger, just in case. What’s the biggest by way of anti-aircraft, Lieutenant Moffat?”
“High-angle? The three-inch. I suppose that in theory, you could put anything into a high-angle mounting, but it hasn’t been done yet, except by the Frogs, perhaps. If you can get three-inchers, and gunners, then we could mount them here – but I think it would be better to keep them at the bigger barracks and camps.”
They nodded agreement and wandered off.
“Bloody nuisance, him being a sailor. Got to be polite to the Navy. Don’t fit in with us at all. Has he said anything about submarines to you, Tommy?”
“Lost his nerve, he said. Underwater with depth bombs being thrown at his boat for hours, couldn’t fancy going down again. Don’t blame him! You can’t call that LMF. Nothing wrong with the chap when he’s on top. Shan’t ask him to fly, though - but I’ll bet he’ll be out on his guns if we ever get raided.”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 14