There was silence in the room; the old hands were seeing the death of their independence and not liking it.
Fred Petersham stood and gave his name.
“I’ve just brought Century out – One Hundred Squadron – newly formed and with a lot to learn, quickly. I have flown with Tommy and Noah – it’s because of them that I learned enough to stay alive. What’s good enough for them, will do me and my squadron.”
He leaned across to shake hands with Tommy and Noah before sitting down.
An older man, well into his twenties, a ‘greybeard’, stood next.
“Johnny Gisborne, Eighty-Nine, DH4s – been out here since May, when we were lucky enough to change our Strutters for the present planes. I don’t know much about ground attack and big battles, but I do know I’m in very good company and will do as my betters tell me.”
Mickey Flynn followed, apologising for the name.
“Very boring, but it wasn’t my choice. Been on Home Service since forever, making faces at Zeppelins from a great distance, then flying DH2s under Gothas and waving at them from five thousand feet below, shouting ‘come down and fight, squareheads’. All great fun but rather wearing after a year or two. I know very little about anything else at all, but I would quite like to do something useful, just for a change.”
Major Sarratt followed, waving for coffee first.
“We shall endeavour to make all of you feel wanted, gentlemen. HQ has sent me our instructions for the three weeks leading up to the Big Push – not that they have said that there is to be such a thing, but we all know of it. We are, as a Wing, to bomb railway junctions in the rear of the battlefield, from a height – not low-level work. The aim is to encourage the Hun to place anti-aircraft batteries around them, rather than closer to the site of the battle to come. The DH4s will be escorted by a single squadron of Camels each. You will be given targets and will take off at a given time and fly over the field of your Camel escort, who will just have taken off and will form up on you. The DH4s have a greater range than the Camels and thus can take the air first. That will account for four squadrons, twice daily.”
That seemed very sensible, they thought.
“The remaining squadron of Camels is to maintain ordinary patrols for the first week, over the Belgian sectors where you have had some success. I know that there is little for you to do there now, but you must seem busy and distant from Ypres. In the second and third weeks, you will concentrate on balloons.”
They scowled in unison.
“The Camels, then, will fly escort two days out of three. On the third day, they will hunt the Drachen, but in a slightly different fashion to the past. One Camel, one balloon – not Flight or whole squadron attacks. This policy has been laid down by HQ, I would add. They believe that the balloon crews have become complacent, thinking that they will only be attacked by groups of planes. If they can be persuaded that every plane wearing our roundels is a menace then they may start to wind down the balloons at the very sound of an engine, and that in itself will disrupt their observation.”
They did not jump up and down, cheering merrily, as Colonel Sarratt had hoped they might. He had been given to understand in London that this was the normal reaction of the RFC to any challenge.
“I propose to modify the instruction very slightly, gentlemen. The squadrons will go out in two halves – two Flights at high and covering the balloon busters from interference as they attack. I am assured that will prove more popular.”
Tommy grinned and said that he had suggested it would be less unpopular.
“There is much to be said for being able to concentrate on the balloons alone, sir. Having back-up on high to get rid of German fighters will be a source of confidence.”
“How do you propose to make the attacks, Tommy?” Fred Petersham was anxious for the advice, to pass to his own green squadron.
“Undecided, Fred. I will probably choose to attack from above, as steep a dive as possible out of the sun. Depends on their height, of course – the ones I have seen have been at three to four thousand and even with a Camel’s climb of a thousand feet a minute, that still leaves you close to the groundfire for too long if you attempt to hedge-hop. Drachens are a big target, so it will be possible to open fire at two hundred yards. Ideally, I might make a first pass and then come under the balloon in an inverse Immelmann and try for the observers as they jump.”
Noah nodded approvingly, said that he would give that a try. Fred thought that he would have to give the Immelmann some practice, both ways.
“When you dive, Tommy, straight or curving to the right?”
“Bring her in on the very edge of a right-hand spin, probably. Make it difficult for the gunners to lead you.”
“I’ll get my boys to learn that – follow-my-leader, I think, they can chase my tail. Hopefully, fewer will die that way.”
Colonel Sarratt had been listening open-mouthed.
“Gentlemen, what is this I hear? ‘Try for the observers as they jump’?”
Tommy tried not to assume a very patient, condescending voice. He almost succeeded.
“Drachens can be made in a few weeks in a factory. Hydrogen is produced very easily. Artillery observers are educated and skilled men who take many months to train, sir. They are rare beasts, and not easily replaced. Untrained men will not be able to interpret all they see. Killing the observers is in many ways more important than flaming the balloon.”
“But…”
“It is not a civilised war, sir. Rats in a cage, snapping at each other, sir, is a closer approximation. Kill, kill and kill again, sir, that is all this war has become. Courtesy of the Indian Empire, we outnumber the Germans by four to three now – we have one third more of fighting men. We are said to be dying at the rate of five to four, sir; that means that the Germans are not killing enough to win. If they fight to their last men, we shall still have about one twelfth of ours left alive – we shall be the winners. That is what this war is now, sir. It is simply a matter of killing.”
“That is not how it is seen in England, Major Stark.”
“No. We know that. A lot of things are seen differently in England. My wife tells me that the delusion is known as ‘rose-tinted spectacles’.”
Colonel Sarratt discovered that he was facing a hostilely silent room; he debated ordering them to obey his command that men using parachutes were never to be shot at. Then he decided that they would not so much as listen to him. It was just possible, as well, that he might be wrong.
“Do what you must, gentlemen. I suspect I am out of touch with this war. Working in London, it may be that I have never been in touch with it. I have been forbidden to go out on raids – all Wing colonels have had that order. Therefore, I cannot go out to discover the realities for myself. Do try to retain some vestige of humanity, though – you may need it after the war.”
Fred Petersham laughed.
“There will never be an end to the war, sir. Not for us. It will outlast all of us.”
There was a mutter of agreement – ‘after the war’ was imaginary.
Colonel Sarratt called the meeting to adjourn for an hour – they would wish to discuss matters of supplies and spares and replacements later, he said.
They clustered together, each squadron major with his adjutant at his shoulder, talking of mutual acquaintances, mostly.
“How’s your family, Fred?”
“My sister, Meg, is well, Tommy, sends her regards. She’s soon to be wed to a captain in the Rifles who she met in a local hospital. Poor fellow’s one-armed now, but otherwise fit enough. Out of the Army, of course, working as a solicitor again – he qualified some time before he joined up. My eldest brother, George, is out here, somewhere - King's Own Yorkshires, naturally. The naval brother you never met, and you won’t now. He was transferred to the battlecruiser squadron in time for Jutland. Little sister is training as a volunteer nurse. My father is out here, still with his division – they’ll be busy in a few weeks. How’s Monkey?”
“Busy! Two children now, and looking after the family fortunes while I am amusing myself out here. My reprobate half-brother died and his money came my way – which means I don’t have to worry about Monkey and the children now – they will not be poor if it happens.”
“Better single, in some ways, Tommy. Noah, how are you?”
“Happily wed, Fred – you really should try matrimony, even in wartime!”
“If I can run into an earl’s offspring, I might well, Noah. Congratulations! There is a daughter, I believe?”
“There is, Fred – a pretty little girl, though I may be biased!”
“I would be too, I suspect, Noah. Pretty bit of ironmongery on the chest as well, Noah! Adds a touch of class to this vulgar assembly.”
There was a series of deprecating coughs from all of those in hearing range, most of whom carried at least one piece of ribbon. One of the few conspicuously blank chests belonged to Colonel Sarratt, possibly to his chagrin. He expected he would be given a DSO if his Wing showed well, but he felt it would be rather much of the second-class – given for other men’s efforts; he had missed his opportunities to fight, thankfully at the time, now was inclined to regret his inaction – he was a lesser man in this company, he believed.
They sat again and talked of quartermasters and such, the old hands with some reticence, the new – and ignorant - more openly. Those who knew felt it might be wiser not to introduce Colonel Sarratt to the networks of fiddling and back-scratching that actually ran the war out on the front line – he might think it amounted to corruption.
Colonel Sarratt summed up, repeated the details of the systems that he wanted to see in place and finally asked what they thought he should concentrate on.
“Immediate replacements of lost machines and men, sir. Aircraft, most importantly. It may be the case that we will be able to find pilots ourselves, from qualified men who are working as sergeant-mechanics at the moment. Many of the men are in love with flying and have taken the opportunity to sit in the pilot’s seat themselves. They commonly make the best of pilots. The two-seater squadrons will often find their observers to make excellent pilots as well.”
“I don’t entirely understand, Major Stark… how can sergeants have learned to fly?”
“We keep old two-seaters here, sir, and teach them. Experience has shown that we may sometimes have to wait weeks for replacements – it is better for the squadron to have men to hand.”
Colonel Sarratt was puzzled and fell neatly into the trap laid for him.
“But, how can they become officers? Sergeants are hardly the stuff lieutenants are made from!”
He was not an unintelligent man, merely sheltered; he saw from the expressions in front of him that he had erred.
“Thank you, Major Stark! Tell me!”
“I will tell you, rather than Tommy, if I may, sir,” Noah tried to smile, to show light-hearted, not to have taken offence.
“You, Major Arkwright?”
“Tommy made me up from sergeant in ’14, sir. Foundling from an Industrial School, sir.”
“Who else?”
“Poacher, sir, from my squadron. I know of six others who have made the jump, sir. Some very good pilots, some no more than average.”
Fred Petersham raised a hand.
“Two of mine, sir. I sought them out, knowing it was a way to pick up the best.”
“But… horse-riding and hunting and sports? The very things they select for at flying school are certain to be missing.”
“Makes you think, don’t it, sir?” Tommy tried to be flippant, to let the poor man down as lightly as possible.
“Then how should we select our pilots, Major Stark?”
“I said to Colonel Sykes, as he then was, that we should have flying cadet schools in every town in the whole of Great Britain, doors open wide to every boy from fourteen up. Let them select themselves, sir. A few would die; many more would find they were not the stuff that pilots are made of; tens of thousands would show willing and able to serve their country in time of need. Like the Boy Scouts in a way, sir. The most unlikely of lads do well there, or so I am told.”
“We do not have such schools, so I presume Colonel Sykes was not impressed.”
“He was not, sir. But, sir, he did not approve of me in any case. He repeatedly tried to discover how old I was, and did not like the answer that I could not entirely hide. He seemed to think that if I had picked up a Licence in 1910, then I should have been at least twenty-two at the time of the concentration camp in summer ’14.”
“So you should. What was wrong with that?”
“I shall be twenty-one in December, sir. Would you like an invitation to my birthday party?”
Colonel Sarratt’s reply was drowned by cries of ‘yes, please’ all around the table.
It had been a very successful conference, they thought, as they celebrated in the Mess.
“Who gets first go at the balloons, Tommy?”
“Straws, shortest first.”
Three straws were placed in the barman’s hand and they ceremoniously donned blindfolds before taking their pick. Tommy demanded first go and ended up with the longest straw, displaying it and then crumpling it before the others could see the nick in the top. By the third day the gunners defending the balloons should be ready for attacks by lone Camels; Fred with his green pilots would not do as well as either of the more experienced squadrons.
Noah drew first go and spent much of the evening explaining to Fred exactly what he would do and how Fred should vary from his pattern, which the gunners would have observed.
They bombarded the rear, and quite often hit it – whether they actually struck any railway lines was a different matter. The DH4s lost four planes between them, two to Archie, who was becoming far more accurate, and the others to an attack by a group of unknown, new, very fast fighters, who came swooping down from height and then showed unable to manoeuvre their way back up again. Noah was working the escort and led the retaliation, finding the tails of the unknowns and cutting inside them as they tried to return to attack the DH4s again. They fought briefly before the survivors dived away, completely uncatchable.
“They might have been Pfalzs,” Noah reported. “Very fast, but frail. A quick squirt down the middle and the wings folded up and down they went. We chopped six from eight.”
It was not an important encounter in itself, but it showed that the new aircraft were starting to arrive.
Sunday came and Colonel Sarratt called Tommy and Noah to his office.
“The weather forecast is for heavy cloud as low as six thousand feet, but no rain tomorrow. Should we start balloon attacks in such conditions?”
“Ideal, sir. Hide in the clouds until almost the last minute. Have you locations for the balloons, or must we spot them first?”
“HQ has arranged to spot them and will send our targets to us each day.”
“Easier than having to run a reconnaissance flight first, sir.”
“A point occurs to me, Major Stark – it must apply to you as well, Major Arkwright. What will you do if you meet up with a Hun in the air? You cannot fight him, after all.”
“Beg pardon?”
Noah looked blank; Tommy shrugged.
“You will be loaded with explosive ammunition, gentlemen! You may fire that at balloons, or at specific ground targets such as warehouses, I must imagine. But you may not shoot at soldiers with explosive rounds, the Conventions are abundantly clear on that.”
“Sir, we always load with Brock. We never venture to use other rounds, apart from one in ten of tracer, so that we may take advantage of any balloon we may come across. There is this new hybrid stuff that is coming out to us now, which is in some ways similar; we have tried that, and I do not doubt will use it exclusively, when we finally get a full supply of it. As for Conventions, sir – leave them to the newspapers, that is all they are fit for.”
Colonel Sarratt could hardly believe his ears; he said so, repeatedly.
“I have mentioned before, sir, that this is a war of killing, and nothing else. We cannot march and manoeuvre; stratagems belong to other times and places; we are head to head, toe to toe, two prizefighters in a ring and with no place to go. So, sir, we kill, and many of us die. Dirtily. We use unlawful poison gas; we drop bombs at random; we fire explosive bullets. There is no choice, sir.”
Tommy found himself becoming quite angry – it was all so bloody obvious, to him. Decency was dead; humanity was irrelevant; killing was all that was left.
“I say, Stark, old chap! No need to become heated, you know! I have to admit to being ignorant of so many things that are a commonplace to you, but I have to learn somewhere, you know.”
Noah decided to bring the discussion and the meeting to a close.
“I think Tommy means, sir, that the Conventions were framed in the days of peace, when a war such as this was unimaginable. They no longer make sense, sir. I doubt, myself, that they ever did. We must use the weapons that will keep us alive, for a few more days - perhaps with good fortune, until the war is over – though that is unlikely. We use explosive bullets, because we can’t get hold of anything more powerful, sir.”
“Good God! Tell me, under the rose, never to be repeated outside this room, do you think the generals are aware of this?”
Tommy had calmed, was irritated now with himself, for permitting his anger to show, and for being angry; then he started to laugh.
“Sorry, sir. I was annoyed with myself for becoming annoyed – which, you must admit, is very annoying!”
Colonel Sarratt could vaguely understand that to be amusing.
“As for generals, sir? Trenchard knows, and don’t care while it’s efficient. General Henderson probably strongly suspects, but takes care not to find out. Butcher Haig knows nothing and cares less.”
“General Haig is revered by many in England as the greatest general since the Iron Duke, Major Stark. Do be careful when making such comments!”
“Most people out here will compare him with Cardigan, sir – coming down in Cardigan’s favour, I might add!”
Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5) Page 24