Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  Some of the documents were of slight importance and needed an actual decision; there were very few of them and Sergeant James put them into a separate tray on his desk, and then waved it in front of his nose every day. None of those pieces of paper were more than two days old – authorisations for leave, demands for promotion of deserving aircraftmen, one request for a court-martial…

  He read the disciplinary first, not at all pleased, calling for the Adjutant.

  “What’s behind this, George?”

  “Not perhaps exactly how I would have expressed it, Tommy!”

  They laughed, embarrassed by the business and much preferring to turn it into a schoolboy joke.

  “Two of the sergeants, skilled young fitters, discovered in the same bunk! Had to be sergeants – they have separate billets, have got the privacy. Formal complaint that they were committing immoral acts had been laid to Sooty, who passed the matter to his senior Flight Sergeant to deal with, expecting it to be done quietly.”

  “Instead, he took a squad and broke the door down at the appropriate time. Why?”

  “God knows why, Tommy! I expect that there is bad feeling somewhere – one of the sergeants offended someone somewhere over a totally separate matter, and they had the chance of getting their own back. So I presume.”

  “What happens if they are court-martialled? Loss of rank? Extra duties? No leave for a year?”

  “They should be so lucky! Glasshouse for them – seven years in the military prison, at a minimum. Might be they would get a life sentence – depends whether they are charged with ‘immoral acts’ or ‘sodomy’ – the second being far more serious a crime in military law. They would serve a lifer in a civilian prison, not a glasshouse, probably be sent to Dartmoor to work in the quarry at hard labour for the next thirty years, until they died.”

  “No. Not for that. Don’t like it – not my idea of what to do on a rainy day - but I’m not destroying a man for that – it ain’t right. Post ‘em, quickly, today if possible. Overseas and separately. Who made the complaint? Find out, if you can, and get him sent as far away as possible, but in a different direction to either of those two.”

  The annoying part of the business was that the squadron lost three skilled men, difficult to replace and reducing efficiency in the hangars.

  “What a load of bloody fuss, Noah!”

  “Waste of time and effort – it’s not as if it stopped them being good mechanics.”

  Tommy agreed; nothing else counted.

  “How’s the score, by the way, Noah?”

  “Thirty-something, so I believe. My Adjutant keeps the records for me. I don’t worry too much, especially this last couple of weeks. What’s the rules on the Dutch border, Tommy?”

  “Don’t cross it, I suppose. Why?”

  “Chased a pair of two-seaters this morning and they went directly into Holland. We stopped short of the border, as close as I could work out. There was a patrol of Dutch scouts who forced the two-seaters down, I think.”

  “Ask Nancy – he knows everything.”

  “Simple, dear boy. The Dutch protect their neutrality, and will shoot down if necessary any planes crossing their borders and refusing to obey their orders to land. They will turn the blind eye to escaped Prisoners-of-War who get to them, unarmed and running; escapees will be landed at Harwich within a couple of days. But any combatant who enters Holland under arms does so at his own peril.”

  Noah and Tommy issued a reminder to their squadrons – under no circumstances to pursue any enemy who chose to fly into Holland. It occurred to both that a pilot who had tired of the war might ‘accidentally’ stray over the border and be forced down and interned; they thought it better to say nothing on that topic.

  Three days sufficed to clear Tommy’s desk – the first time such an event had occurred. Then he was left at a loose end, nothing to do. He wrote a long letter to Monkey, more than his normal stilted information that he was well and missing her. That done, he looked for anything to do.

  He asked for a map of Pilckem Ridge and its environs; the squadron might well be called into action there. The map told him nothing – there was a run of high ground that the Germans occupied and that was to be taken. He knew that already.

  Sopwiths issued a specification for the Camel, together with technical information of value to the mechanics. Tommy took a quick glance and saw that bomb clips could be installed on the undercarriage for four twenty-pound bombs; he wondered if he could cut that bit out, in the end sent the document to the hangars, hoping they might not notice. He didn’t especially want the plane used as a bomber.

  Bored beyond belief, he toured the gun pits, discovered them to be short of ready ammunition and gunners. Wing was responsible for anti-aircraft; he visited Colonel Ponsonby.

  “Gunners, Major Stark?”

  “Yes, sir. We have repeatedly raided German airfields, sir. One day, they will return the compliment. We need full crews to the three-pounders and pairs of men to the Vickers machine-guns. The hangars have their own Lewises and will deal with them. There is a shortage of ammunition and of ready-use facilities, as well.”

  “Well… I don’t really know a lot about guns, Major Stark. My staff officers, the first of them, are due today. I shall give one responsibility for airfield defence.”

  “Very good, sir. Remind your young man that the mechanics in the hangars are not his to command, will you not.”

  “Is that really so, Major Stark?”

  “Very much so, sir. Confidentially, and not really to be spoken of outside this office, sir, the mechanics aren’t much in the way of soldiers. They have spent almost all of their time in their workshops and know their engines and rigging, but have never quite picked up the rest of soldiering. They don’t know how to parade, for example – and we haven’t got the time to teach them! They work anything up to twelve hours every day, more if we have a big raid or come back damaged from a fight on patrol. They deliver our planes into our hands every morning, almost without fail, and have no spare time for anything else. We need twice as many as we have, sir – so we must treat the few we’ve got like gold dust, sir.”

  It was an alien concept to Colonel Ponsonby – one did not need Other Ranks, they were simply there to be used.

  “I see… What if we were find a proper sergeant-major – a Station Warrant Officer, Major Stark? He could parade them after they had finished in the hangars, perhaps.”

  “Tried it, sir. Didn’t work. Too little time, sir. We ended up with mechanics who were too tired to work properly on the planes.”

  “Well! I do not know what to say, haw-haw. Must have the planes working, that’s for sure! General Trenchard sent another message, by the way. The Belgians, I think it is, some sort of wogs anyway, very pleased with the squadrons. For some reason, he thinks that to be important, haw-haw. Can’t understand it – any wog who dared to comment on how we did our duty in the Regiment would soon have had his backside kicked for his cheek!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for telling me that, sir.”

  Tommy took a deep breath, moved to the next point on his agenda.

  “Have you any orders regarding our next patrols, sir? Should we remain in the Belgian sector or are we due to work to the south, towards Ypres?”

  “Nothing from HQ, Major Stark, so that must mean no change. Why would we wish to go south, when we are doing so very well where we are?”

  “The next Big Push, sir. It is expected to be around the area of Ypres, towards the end of July, so I am told.”

  “Why then, Major Stark?”

  “It seems that the weather has been good for the last three years at the end of July, sir. Dry time of the year, it seems.”

  “Makes sense – as long as the ground does not get too hard for the horses. Bad for the hoof, haw-haw, galloping over baked ground. I remember back in India, in ’92, we had to charge a bunch of hairies – the ones with beards, up on the Frontier, you know, right on the edge of the Hindu Kush – played hell
with the chargers. Didn’t do them much good, either – damn fools, showing themselves out in the open like that. Another lot following a Mad Mullah, or some such, haw-haw. Thought our bullets would turn to water, so they said. The lances spiked ‘em pretty well, though, haw-haw. Got one with me sabre – officers don’t carry lances, you know – picked ‘im up with the point and threw him off twenty feet further down the field! Good day’s sport, haw-haw!”

  Tommy was overcome by the flow of reminiscence, recovered to suggest that the cavalry would have no part to play in the attack.

  “Ypres, sir – hills and rivers and right on the edge of the industrial areas – coal mines and ironworks and such. No cavalry country.”

  “Then Haig’s a damn fool to be attacking there, haw-haw! How does the man expect to win a battle if the cavalry can’t charge?”

  “I really don’t know, sir. But then, I have never spoken to the gentleman.”

  “I did, back in 1912. I was on his staff for the summer exercises on Salisbury Plain. He wanted to use the Regiment for scouting, but I told him right and tight that was none of our business. Damn scouting and vedettes and pickets and things – not our way of fighting a war – we were there to charge, and nothing else. That was after I left the Lancers, you know, manged to get a transfer into the Regiment after me uncle died and left me his money, haw-haw.”

  “I see. What did Haig say, sir?”

  “Threw me off his staff. So I went back to the Regiment, which was on the other side in the battle game. I Told me colonel Haig’s plans and we thrashed the bejasus out of the old bugger, haw-haw. He complained to the umpires, said it was unfair, haw-haw, but he still lost!”

  “Yes, sir. Belgium, sir, and the gunners, sir. Will it be possible to have some sent to us from the Artillery to help train our people?”

  “Artillery? Don’t know anyone in the Gunners – not the sort we used to speak to in the Regiment, haw-haw!”

  Tommy was content; he had not received an order not to speak to the Artillery. Nancy would know a Gunner, probably; if not, he would know someone who did.

  The area to the north began to dry up – they had killed off the obsolete aircraft and the new had yet to arrive. They noticed an increase in the number of balloons behind the German lines.

  “Second-rate, in many ways, Tommy.”

  Nancy was dismissive of the Drachen.

  “Useful for artillery spotting, but not much good for intelligence. An aeroplane can take photographs, allow the boffins to analyse exactly what is going on. Balloons can only report what they have seen through telescopes. Aerial photography is far more valuable. They are expensive, as well, the tethered balloons. Cost more than a plane and difficult to defend – as you know. Reducing Jerry to using balloons is a victory in itself.”

  “Good. I intend to leave them alone for a week or two, Nancy. They’ll be waiting for us to attack them just now. Let the edge go off. Now then – what do you know about guns?”

  “They go bang?”

  “These three-pound quickfirers we’ve been given – how do we use them properly?”

  “Good question. Leave it with me. How important is it?”

  “We have been making a rather thorough nuisance of ourselves just of late…”

  “Retaliation seems likely, you think?”

  “A certainty – I am amazed it hasn’t happened yet.”

  A Captain of the Royal Garrison Artillery turned up just two days later, informing them that he was tasked to discover what they had in the way of guns and explain what to do with them. They showed him the three-pounders, sat behind earth banks on ramps that pointed their barrels upwards at about twenty degrees.

  “Hotchkiss, quickfirers; naval type. Bloody useless. The fuse can’t be set for less than six hundred feet, and eight hundred is more reliable. The ground-attack Halberstadts typically attack at one fifty to two hundred feet. Waste of time and effort. Best thing to do with these is give them away. Coastal Defence would take them happily – they have far too few guns along the coast to the north of Calais. Replace them with one-pound pom-poms, Maxims, which can be laid hold of with a little of ingenuity. Percussion fused, firing at up to sixty degrees. Highly effective!”

  Tommy and Noah and Lieutenant Moffat stood together with Nancy, nodding reluctantly. They liked the three-pounders – they were handsome guns with their long, slender barrels; they looked as if they should be deadly. Moffat knew they were outdated at sea, but he really thought they were much too good to be thrown away; he had grown up with them.

  Noah outvoted them.

  “Don’t keep a dog and bark, Tommy. We asked for an expert – we have one.”

  Nancy agreed with Noah’s summation; Tommy capitulated.

  “So be it. Take them away, sir.”

  Lorries appeared and moved in and out of the field for a day and a night, towing the guns and loading up their ammunition and replacing them with the pom-poms, which were ugly, stubby little beasts, not at all attractive to the eye.

  “Far and away a better gun for your purpose, sir. Six of them and I am leaving you a sergeant and five bombardiers, one to each pom-pom, who will train your gunners.”

  Tommy started to say that they had no designated gunners, in the sense of men who had no other duty. Nancy nudged him and pointed to a group of two dozen or so of soldiers, all in army khaki.

  “The gunners, sir. Posted in as of yesterday at Colonel Ponsonby’s command.”

  “Very good, Captain Brotherton.”

  Tommy wondered what Nancy had fiddled and how; none of his business.

  Colonel Ponsonby’s staff captain, a refugee from Mayfair with a yard-long name, was introduced as being in command of airfield defences. Tommy decided this meant he was surplus to requirements and quietly left for the hangars.

  “Sooty? I am no longer grounded, I think. I must go to the doctor at HQ and get a formal all clear, but I expect to be flying in the morning.”

  “Your plane is ready, Tommy. I’ll just get the release from George, confirming you’re fit again, and you’ll be ready to go. Colonel’s orders, sir. Given in person, sir. Said he knew he was an old fool, but he wasn’t having you flying before you were properly fit.”

  Tommy hated people who did things for his own good.

  He demanded the staff car and was driven to HQ, searched out the doctor.

  “You can fly, Major Stark. You should not, however. You are fatigued, sir, even if you do not know it. I strongly recommend you to fly no more than one half of your squadron’s patrols. I shall, in fact, be informing the General that this should be made policy for all of our senior pilots.”

  Tommy was indignant. Who was a mere doctor to tell him whether he was capable of flying?

  “Yes, I know – ‘wingless wonders’ who know nothing about the air, Major Stark. But I have a degree of understanding of human beings, and you are in need of rest. Two weeks have left you irritable. You need another month at least; so do we all. Try not to kill yourself – you might be useful after the war. Keep an eye on your left hand, by the way – you lost a finger from it and now have taken a wound in the forearm – you might discover that you start to get problems with it. Come directly to me if you do; if you let it worsen, you may lose the use of the hand. While you are here, you sent a pilot named – let me see, I have his papers here – Abbott, that’s it, for assessment, a few weeks ago. Your referral stated that you could not be certain whether he was in a funk or so over-cautious that he was not fit to fly.”

  “Those weren’t my words, I’m sure, Doctor.”

  “No, but your clerk or someone similar, translated your words into appropriate terms for me.”

  “Probably.” Tommy began to chuckle, realising that Sergeant James would have expressed his exasperated commands in far more delicate prose than he was capable of.

  “My sergeant does tend to look after the written side of things, Doctor.”

  “Probably fortunately, Major Stark. I spent a little of my time with
this Second Lieutenant Abbott, managed to get him to talk – all he would say at first was ‘yes’ and ‘no’. He was quite genuinely indignant, in the end. He said that you seemed to expect him ‘to risk his life’, of all outlandish things! He was not about to do that, he assured me, a ridiculous notion!”

  “But… Flying is dangerous by its very nature. What did he think he was to do?”

  “I said that, but he pointed out that a ‘sensible chap’ could fly in some safety, and then would have all the advantages of being seen to be a brave sort of fellow, without taking any great risk at all. In time of war a man was always in danger, and he had been too young to get into a safe civilian occupation and his parents would have been upset if he had turned ‘conshie’. His father was worth ‘a good few quid’, you know, and he would not wish to risk him leaving it to a dog’s home. No word of a lie, Major Stark – all calmly thought out and I think he expected applause for being so clever. Never heard the like in my life. Then he said that he had thought of applying to medical school, but he had never been a scientific sort of chap, so he couldn’t take my way out; I came close to throwing away my stethoscope and applying for flying training!”

  “I should have sent him to court-martial, Doctor. I simply could not believe that he was no more than a cold-blooded coward – I’ve never come across his sort, didn’t know they existed, thought I was getting it wrong and didn’t want to risk him being shot for nothing.”