“There’s no place left for the gentleman, Captain Bowdler. It’s not even ‘kill or be killed’. Not now. It’s just a matter of wipe out the enemy wherever and however you find him. We are the terriers and they are the rats – simple as that, sir. Goodbye!”
Captain Bowdler knew that Tommy had not plotted his downfall; the lone telephone demanded a loud, clear voice and was in easy hearing distance of his office. He decided that he was simply not fit to be a part of this new war. He thought hard as he was driven to the nearest passenger terminus and left the car much depressed. A few minutes later he clutched his chest rather theatrically, in sight of a battalion waiting for transport, and collapsed onto the rails in front of their troop train as it pulled in; ‘heart attack’, a casualty of overwork, poor fellow. His family was able to have his name inscribed on the local war memorial.
The authorities did not think to inform the squadron of Captain Bowdler’s fate – but he was yesterday’s man and they probably would not have remembered his face.
Replacement planes and a pilot arrived and they gave serious thought to the Gotha.
“The Gotha III is big, strong, armed with two machine-guns with almost no blind spots. The rear gunner can fire through the tail, there’s a sort of tunnel for him, so he can cover an attack from below and behind. The forward gunner has almost complete coverage through three-hundred and sixty degrees. More than five hundred rounds to their belts, and reloads as well. According to Intelligence, the Gotha III has its petrol tanks in a bloody great nacelle over the engines, and that might be a point of weakness, if ever we can hit them.”
“Two guns? If four Camels attack simultaneously, well separated above and below and to either side, two must get a clear run, Tommy.”
Hell-For was, as ever, optimistic.
“Hit them with two Flights and the attacks could be made in pairs.”
“Eight buses to one target? More likely to shoot each other down. Far less chance of actually finding them as well. There’s only a few Gothas and they have got a hell of a choice of targets. We’ll be lucky to see one in a week of trying with separate Flights out.”
“Point taken, Hell-For. Henry? What’s your opinion?”
“With Hell-For. Four Flights up, Tommy.”
“Ikey?”
“Four Flights make better sense. One man from the bows, his second below the tail; three and four abreast at the engines. Ought to be able to do some no good to the biggest of bombers that way. And we’ll be two guns to one, ahead and astern.”
“So be it. I’ll have a word with Intelligence at HQ, see if they have any idea about probable targets. If they have, then they will tell us when and where. If not, then we must look at the maps and try to guess what Jerry will want to attack.”
“Make sure to place where Haig’s chateau is, Tommy. We’ll want to keep well clear of that in case some Gotha wants to bomb it.”
“How rude, Ikey! It almost sounds as if you of not want to protect our illustrious leader.”
“Of course not, Tommy. I merely regard it as a waste of time – the man is so thick-skinned that any bomb would bounce off.”
Tommy thought it wiser to bring that conversation to an end.
He used the excuse of noise at the front, spotted his Sergeant James escorting a newcomer to his office, was forced to make his exit.
“Captain Brotherton, sir. Our new Intelligence Officer.”
Sergeant James’ voice was deadpan, utterly without inflexion. Tommy gathered that he had formed an instant dislike to Captain Brotherton. He gave his welcome, salutes and then a handshake, weighing up the figure in front of him.
The Captain was a slim, willowy, languid gentleman, perfectly tailored, immaculately turned-out though he must have been an hour or more bouncing along in a staff car. He had a very high forehead, gentle brown eyes and a pencil-thin moustache, carefully trimmed each morning.
“Good morning, sir. I am to replace your unfortunate late gentleman. I have been shown his final report, sir. Poor chap must have been suffering from great strain. Not quite au fait with the war of today, one suspects.”
“But you are, Captain Brotherton?”
“Oh, quite utterly, sir! I requested a posting to the Western Front, sir, for making my views unpopularly clear in London. I found that I no longer was entirely suited to the company of the gentlefolk there. A great pity, but no doubt the air will be less rancid here. I enjoyed the nickname Nancy there, by the way. No doubt they believed it to be offensive. I find it amusing, as does my wife!”
Tommy grinned, he was going to like this man.
“I’ll show you to your office, Nancy. I’m Tommy. First job – Gothas. Have we any knowledge of their potential targets? Intelligence at HQ has access to all sorts of information, but I don’t know who to talk to.”
“Fear not, Tommy! I shall take myself to HQ tomorrow and will discover who to speak to and how to wring them dry. All that they know, will be ours! What else do you require?”
“A Wing might be handy – if we don’t get a colonel soon they will dump the village idiot on us to get him out of the way. They discover a new halfwit every week, so it will be as well to tidy everything quickly. I’ll talk to Noah as well, see what he needs. Come on over to his office – he will want to meet you. Sharing the same facilities, we work together most of the time.”
Noah found the new Intelligence Officer amusing; he discovered that Nancy had known his wife when she had made her come-out in London, was able to share a little of gossip about her first husband.
“I heard that Lucy had married again, to a complete outsider – ‘a flying man, of all things, but with a VC, which at least says one good thing for him, my dear!’ A jolly hunting chap was her first – and never to be found on a line that took him over the harder fences. The word was that he was buried in the field in the Mons ‘business’ – one cannot admit to a cowardly retreat, after all – the body disposed of very quickly for the location of its wounds.”
“Her father said much the same to me, Nancy.”
“The earl? Somewhat unimpressed by his first son-in-law, one gathers. I have heard a rumour that he feels quite the opposite about his daughter’s second choice!”
“An impressive gentleman, Lucy’s father.”
“He is indeed, Noah. Had you heard, by the way, that your wife’s youngest brother was killed last week? Inevitable – he was a brave lad, but not the cleverest, and much inclined to take part in raids and such things.”
“I must write home. Lucy will be upset – not surprised, she had told me of him and of her expectation that he could not survive.”
Nancy nodded, changed the conversation.
“What’s the word on these balloons, Noah?”
“Tommy don’t like balloons, simple as that. Every so often he finds the need to kill them, as a matter of principle. He’s right, of course, they are a menace to the soldiers in the line, and they mostly like to see them go down. Men who’ve been suffering accurate bombardment for days are said to cheer when they see a balloon in flames. So they tell me. They may be right – but you get told a lot of things, these days, Nancy. As much as anything, busting the occasional balloon means that they keep them well defended, with guns that can’t be used elsewhere. Given a few weeks for the gunners to ease off and become less alert, and I shall take my squadron out to pick some off. Not this week, though. Gothas seem to be on the agenda for this week.”
Nancy was puzzled, was not at all sure why they should be.
“Do they do so very much harm, Noah?”
“Nine out of ten bombs miss. Those that hit don’t do very much harm. Thing is though, Nancy, that a Gotha is very big, visible, you might say. One of them coming down will be seen for ten miles in every direction. A lot of very senior men will regard a flaming Gotha as evidence that the RFC is on the job, pulling its weight, looking after the Army – all that sort of bloody nonsense.”
“Ah! I understand! I shall do all I can to discover inf
ormation about them. Leave all in my capable hands. While I am here, Tommy rather cryptically suggested that you need a Wing.”
“Very much, Nancy. Just at the moment, we are inventing our own orders for the squadrons – choosing our own targets and running our own show. Wonderful when we get it right, of course…”
“Say no more, my dear chap! You need a barrier against the wrath of the great Jehovah Boom! A meek lieutenant-colonel would be a blessing and a boon to the human race – or to you and Tommy, at least. I shall see what may be done.”
Nancy supervised the transfer of a vast mound of luggage into his billet, and organised a single room for his personal servant who travelled with him. He then changed into his variation upon working dress and descended on his office. Next morning he borrowed the staff car and left for Headquarters.
“I may well be most of the day, Tommy – there will be any number of old acquaintances to look up in various odd places.”
Tommy waved him farewell before sending the squadron out in Flights with the instruction to make a nuisance of themselves wherever they could. He arranged with Noah for his lieutenant to act as Intelligence Officer to both squadrons for the day, then set out himself to examine the south of their sector, over Ypres, an area he had not inspected for some considerable time.
The lines were much as he remembered, the Germans holding higher ground and a marked defensive advantage. Peterson waved to him and pointed to the British lines to the west.
Heavy and medium guns were being emplaced to the rear; new dumps of shells could be seen close behind them. All the preparations for yet another great barrage. All of the signs of another Big Push in a few weeks.
“God help the Poor Bloody Infantry!”
The expression had appeared from nowhere and had swept through the Western Front – no other term could be used.
Peterson waved again, pointed to three separate locations. There were squadrons of FEs and DH2s sweeping along the whole front line, chasing away all two-seaters. The Camels were not needed and Tommy turned north, away from the site of the next disaster.
Nancy drove back in late afternoon, followed by a Crossley Tender which he directed to the back of the Officers Mess where a number of cartons and crates were unloaded.
“Some of the necessities of existence, Tommy. An outstanding dinner last night, lessened perhaps by the rather pedestrian wines that accompanied it. I have taken the liberty as well of providing the cooks with a little of pates, and some hams, and a few cheeses. General Haig is said to have no palate at all, so he will not miss the odd delivery to his kitchens. One understands that he was once told that the Duke of Wellington habitually ate ill-cooked mutton, and hopes that by imitating his diet, he may inherit his genius. I fear he may be mistaken.”
Tommy blinked – he had no affection for General Haig, but was still unsure that he should even at second-hand, loot Haig’s kitchens.
“Fear not, dear boy! It will be blamed upon the Frogs – the goods travel in part on their railways.”
Tommy relaxed – everything could be blamed on the Frogs; there was a general and increasing feeling in the Army that Britain had allied itself to the wrong side in this war. The Frogs themselves seemed to agree with that concept, were increasingly unwelcoming to the British troops and casually broke every agreement they made for the supply of foodstuffs and petrol and aircraft engines, to Tommy’s knowledge. No doubt there were other agreements he knew nothing of which they had also broken.
“Colonel Ponsonby will arrive tomorrow morning bright and early, Tommy. He is a cavalry dug-out, distinguished for the possession of three brain cells, no two of which function simultaneously. He is unable to read and writes very slowly, but he is very good at saying ‘haw-haw’. He wishes very much to contribute to the noble crusade against the Hun, and will probably say so frequently. Boom detests him and wants nothing more than to get him out of his sight – he was thankful indeed when I spotted Ponsonby looking for his horse and volunteered to take him away and put him into a comfortable office far distant from HQ. You will see him at dinner and for a brief meeting each morning when he will give his orders for the day, which you will then ignore. He will otherwise be silent and invisible, apart from his daily inspections, which he will conduct with great good humour. I have already informed him that the hangars are dangerous places and he should view them from a safe distance, and that he must never interfere with the mechanics there. The alternative was a more active and younger man, who would actually wish to do things.”
“Good work, Nancy. We need a Wing, and a harmless idiot is just the right sort. Look after him, if you can.”
“With pleasure. Maurice Baring was grateful, by the way, he has been trying to dump Ponsonby for a week now, but had been afraid that you might take him for an aeroplane ride and throw him out at ten thousand feet.”
“Foolish of him, Nancy! He must know I would never do that – we fly single-seaters.”
“Of course! Gothas, now. There is a general agreement that bashing one would be an excellent idea, but they are wholly unpredictable – they display no pattern at all in their raids. Boom thinks that you should send no more than one Flight a day out on a Gotha hunt, Noah the same. You are to leave balloons alone for a few weeks, but should ready for a concerted assault upon them in mid-July.”
“When does the Big Push at Ypres start, Nancy?”
“I do not know. There is to be no such thing. It is highly secret. The first attack on Pilckem Ridge commences at dawn on the 31st July.”
“As secret as ever. Has the German High Command given their opinion on the date yet?”
“The Kaiser is believed to have approved; he will bring his summer holiday forward so that he will not miss the opening day.”
“Another sixty thousand in the first hour?”
“General Haig is expected to attempt to break his own record – he is a sporting chap, after all. I shall put my money on eighty thousand in the Headquarters sweepstake.”
“What are we to do the meanwhile?”
“Go north, at least two Flights from each squadron every dry day to patrol up to the edge of the Belgian sector. You are at liberty to pursue out of our own area. The Belgians will, one gathers, be rather pleased to see assistance in the air. They are to have Camels of their own soon and will take back their own defence when they are active, but that will not be for a few weeks.”
“Very good, Nancy! What did we do without you?”
“I cannot imagine, my dear chap!”
The Belgians had been making do with the aircraft of 1915 as much as anything for lack of money to buy anything better, and had lost almost all of them. The Germans had not even bothered to post the new hunter Jastas there, for lack of worthwhile targets, and they had left their reconnaissance in the hands of the remaining obsolescent Halberstadts. The two squadrons enjoyed a week of butchery.
On their first morning Tommy and Noah had sent the squadrons out in their separate Flights. They found a swarm of Halberstadts variously photographing the rear and spotting for the artillery. The Halberstadts were armed with a single Parabellum in the hands of the observer, capable of firing to the rear and to either side, wholly open from the front. Tommy set one on fire and watched as Perkins downed three in five minutes, diving insanely close and firing brief bursts into the engine and cockpit. Colne and Peterson took one apiece, the first lone success for each; they had a collection of halves and quarters, were delighted to have their very own two-seater to add to their score.
Captain Brotherton listened to their reports, raised an eyebrow to Tommy as Perkins claimed three.
“Confirmed, Nancy. I saw all three. Lieutenant Perkins was nearer than me so I sat on his tail as he made a very tidy job of them. I also saw the other two, can confirm them as destroyed. A very successful morning’s work, I think. We must go back there tomorrow. No great point to it this afternoon – they won’t get their replacements in before the morning.”
The other three Fl
ights came in and made their claims. Noah’s people were equally cock-a-hoop, had made a great killing.
“Fun while it lasted, Noah?”
“Just that, Tommy. I suspect we have done some Wing Colonel, or whatever Jerry calls them, a great favour by getting rid of the junk he had been forced to fly. He’ll be raising Cain just now and demanding useful planes. He’ll probably get them, too. Back to work tomorrow.”
Colonel Ponsonby was unable to perceive the subtleties of the situation. He was, literally, bouncing up and down with glee, running between the Flights as they landed and demanding to know their scores.
Duty bound, Tommy and Noah entered the old gentleman’s offices to hand over their reports.
“Haw-haw-haw!”
Three ‘haws’ rather than the normal two – extreme delight!
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “A remarkably successful morning. It is, of course, unlikely to be repeated. We discovered that the enemy was using old, outdated aircraft in a section of the Line that was seen as a backwater. I cannot believe that they will repeat that mistake. If they have any of the old planes left, they will send them to the Russian or Austro-Hungarian Fronts.”
Noah solemnly agreed.
“Good while it lasted, sir. Excellent way of blooding the young pilots.”
The fox hunting expression penetrated the slow old brain; he knew all about ‘blooding’.
“Hah! Haw-haw! Very good! Needs to be done, you know, I remember with the Quorn in ’97, you know, four youngsters in one morning! Jolly good day’s sport!”
Neither knew what a ‘Quorn’ was; both had more sense than to ask.
“Been meanin’ to say, you know, Stark. And you, Arkwright, old chap. Rather a lot, if you know what I mean, of young boys in the squadrons! Not so many of the older hands, to give a bit of experience, you might say. I don’t know how it is, but you seem to have young faces, too, for majors?”
“Very few old hands in the RFC, Colonel. Especially at the Front. It’s a young man’s game, flying, and many of the boys die before they have time to grow old. I shall be twenty-one in December, sir, assuming…”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 17