Bursting Balloons (Innocents At War Series, Book 5)

by Andrew Wareham

  The four at the rear displayed belated common sense and turned for home, found Forrester and Walker, each anxious to make his kills and pushing close before firing.

  One observer took to his parachute; they watched him fall gently to the ground, circling him at a distance and observed Belgian troops surround him as he landed – obviously uninjured.

  They returned to St Rigobert, thoroughly satisfied with their morning’s sport.

  “Eight two-seaters on a bombing raid, Nancy. Worth talking to your people, I think, they were on a specific target and tried to bomb even when we hit them. So anxious to complete their raid, they hardly defended themselves. Two apiece, you may gather. There was a survivor, took to his parachute. Will the Belgians put him through the wringer?”

  Nancy took to the telephone, informed Intelligence at HQ and begged them to speak to the Belgians.

  “Might have to hurry, Tommy. It’s not unknown for prisoners in Belgian hands to attempt to escape from their captors; the Belgians are more than a little bitter still and very many of their soldiers have homes in towns in German hands.”

  Tommy was called away from the bar in mid-evening, the squadron celebration winding up to full pitch, a table having just disappeared through a window.

  “What’s up, Nancy?”

  “The target was Dunkirk, Tommy. Specifically, the troopships in the harbour there, waiting to make the landing up the coast. The two-seaters were to make a ‘Stark raid’, at fifty feet – that is a quote, by the way. Survivors were guaranteed promotion and an Iron Cross and a fortnight of leave in Germany. The leave, apparently, was the greater incentive – the Germans do not send their people home even as much as we do. It would seem that the Navy is much pleased with you, and displeased with the RNAS, which wasn’t there to do the job itself.”

  “Why wasn’t the RNAS giving them cover, Nancy?”

  “Because they have been ordered to deal with the German seaplanes which have been attempting to interfere with the drifters on the anti-submarine barrage in the Straits of Dover, and they have not yet worked out how to be in two places fifty miles distant from each other at one and the same moment.”

  “Very slack – they should have torn themselves in half. We would have, just to please our lords and masters.”

  “I appreciate that, Tommy. The Admiralty will be talking to Boom, which will make a change: they normally swear at him. Much virtue for all of you.”

  The day of the Big Push dawned; the squadron was ruthlessly hauled out of hungover beds for four in the morning, staggered into the mess, most trying to open their eyes, some not bothering. They peered out of the windows.

  “It’s pissing down!”

  Most of the pilots sighed in relief and sat down to drink tea, apart from those who about-turned and sought their beds again.

  Tommy enquired when the rain had started.

  “Two o’clock, sir, so the gate guards said.”

  The Mess Sergeant knew all things, hoped to be employed as butler to one of the gentlemen when the current vulgar conflict came to an end.

  “What state is the field in?”

  “Unusable, sir. Already too wet for take off.”

  Tommy spotted Smivvels in the ante-room, hanging a set of waterproofs on the pegs by the door, silent commentary on the prospects of flying.

  “George, inform Wing that we are grounded. I don’t suppose that it’s simply a local cloudburst, but enquire.”

  Tommy called the Flight Commanders to him, informed them that they would be flying within two hours of the rain stopping, taking off just as soon as the field permitted.

  They sat and waited, listening to the barrage swelling as the troops went over the top and marched slowly through the deepening mud to their first objectives, which they mostly took. They imagined the infantry making the climb up Pilckem Ridge, and then down onto the clay lands below. There had been half an inch of rain already, they estimated, onto rich but very heavy farming land.

  The maps showed a complex drainage system, every local farmer paying his tax for the mutual upkeep of the ditches and drains and streams and canals that kept the land workable, in peacetime. Three years of shelling and military occupation had already disrupted the network; the rolling barrage completed the process and the rainwater found nowhere to go.

  The rain eased in late afternoon and airfields with a cinder runway were able to fly; St Rigobert was all grass and nothing moved.

  The clouds were still heavy at dawn but the rain was holding off. They flew, despite doubts whether they would be able to land again. Wing ordered them up, told them to head to the coast if needs be after completion of their patrol – it seemed that the rain was heavier inland and that they would probably be able to get down on the RNAS fields even if their own was closed.

  Tommy led two Flights on the first patrol; hoping to discover the extent of the breakthrough and to make some sort of plan for the day’s activities. He knew the location of the Red and Black lines, the expected extent of the first days’ advances, but found that the situation on the ground was far less tidy than the planners had expected, or, possibly, hoped for.

  In places the advancing troops had exceeded their orders, had extended their advance beyond the expected limits. Mostly, units of khaki could be seen well short of their objectives and in a few places they had failed to advance at all, the wire uncut to their front and German blockhouses untouched.

  He spotted a battery of field-guns pounding the advance and led the Flights into an attack on them, dropping his bombs and then returning at low-level to machine-gun the surviving gunners. The raid was successful; they saw the infantry swarming forward as they flew off – but there were dozens of other, similar strongpoints that needed the same treatment, and the rain was already spotting again. They landed at St Rigobert, the field marginally usable, the pilots sufficiently experienced by now to make the ground and hold a line on it.

  “Too bloody tight for my liking, Knell. No flying until the ground’s firmed up again. Don’t roll any more planes out until I give the word.”

  Nancy raised an eyebrow, mutely pulled out his notebook and pencil.

  “Advance is successful in a few places. I’ve tried to put them on a map. Some of the others may have seen better than me. The main story is mud, Nancy – the men on the ground must be up to their knees in it. No prospect of breaking out of the rear of the German lines; none at all. The cavalry can get off their horses – they ain’t going to be needed this time.”

  They drank coffee and tea and at rare intervals in the following three days, they flew and attacked anything they could pick out on the ground. The raids were random, uncoordinated, and probably futile. They killed a number of Germans and destroyed a few guns and the occasional blockhouse, but they could not clear a way for the ground troops. They took chances and lost planes, sometimes to sudden storms, occasionally to ground fire, once to attack from German fighters.

  Mostly, the air was clear, the rain seemingly heavier over the German airfields and keeping them grounded.

  The two blank commissions were put to use and a pair of ex-sergeants joined the Mess, keen and anxious to fly and justify their presence – but they had to learn the first lesson, patience.

  Dawn on the fifth day of the battle showed clear and the squadrons flew together, all with their eighty pounds of bombs in the clips and under instructions to bomb quickly and not to use up ammunition on ground targets.

  Briefing had been short and simple.

  “Noah’s mob will drop as quickly as possible, all on the one objective, and then get up to eight thousand feet to provide top cover for us. We shall attack by Flights, hopefully on organised targets – obvious strongpoints, if we can pick them out in the mud. We shall then climb to no more than two thousand feet and, still in Flights, go swanning about looking for ground attack aircraft. Jerry works at about one-fifty feet, by the way. His planes are armoured about the cockpit and engine, mainly against ground fire, so we hit them from
above and behind – and very close. Some of them are said to be all-metal, but it’s unclear whether or not they are in service yet. Go for the cockpit, from above. You may have to hit them from in front – they must be able to see forward, can’t have armour over the windscreen, if they have one. Keep together. Return home immediately if you get separated. Do not pursue into Hunland. Try to note anything you see on your maps.”

  The ground attack aircraft were there, and busy. The squadron caught a few and found them strongly built and armoured, a single fight using up almost all of their ammunition as the armoured planes absorbed punishment. Tommy came back swearing for having chased one plane nearly five miles behind the lines, sat on its tail and poured burst after burst into its fuselage and achieved nothing. In the end, he had shot it down, but only because there was a hill which forced the ground-attack machine to climb a little, opening the cockpit to Tommy’s aim.

  “The bloody things are very nearly as fast as we are, Nancy, and armoured like a brick-built outhouse! I got him when I was able to take a shot into the cockpit and used up damn near every round I had.”

  He drank his cup of coffee, talked with the other pilots, and waited for the mechanics to release his plane.

  “Major Stark, sir?”

  There was a mechanic outside the door.

  “Yes, Flight-Sergeant?”

  “Your machine, sir. Grounded, sir. You took ground fire, sir, damage to the undercarriage and to the tailplane. Need to replace parts, sir. Not less than six hours, sir, could be more. Depends what I find when I get inside, sir.”

  “Wheel out a spare then.”

  “Can’t, sir. Only had four spares for the two squadrons, sir, and they have gone out already. Three of Major Arkwright’s people came back after mixing it with a bunch of Albatroses, sir. Shot to bits, they was. As well, sir, Mr Goldmark came in with his engine coughing, sir, and we grounded him on the spot. Nothing left for you, sir.”

  The law of the station was inexorable – ‘first come, first served’ when it was spare planes. Prior to introducing the rule, the arguments and claims of seniority had become intolerable.

  “A day off will do me good, Flight-Sergeant. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Letters to write, sir. Next-of-kin, sir. All three to parents, using numbers three and four, sir.”

  Letters of condolence had to be in the handwriting of the squadron major – he could not use typed forms. Equally, he was so poor a letter-writer that George had produced six templates for him to copy, filling in the correct names and personal details.

  “Smithers? He’s one of Ikey’s boys, isn’t he? Red-haired fellow. When did he die?”

  “Last Thursday, Tommy! You remember the one whose wheels fell off when he landed? Went straight in, nose first, tail flipped over and petrol tank blew with him upside-down and stuck?”

  “Oh, yes. Screamed for two minutes unbroken as the fire took his legs first. Couldn’t get to him. We need that motorised fire engine, George.”

  “I’ve put in for one, again, Tommy. They’ve got them in London, I know.”

  “Too late for him, anyway. Gives a personal touch, though ‘always made his voice heard in the squadron’.”

  Nancy came into the office, running.

  “Oi, Tommy! You need to see this!”

  He handed across a report from Intelligence at HQ.

  ‘HM the King of the Belgians made a personal inspection of invasion fleet at Dunkirk on July 30th. Strongly believed on the basis of information received that the air raid shot down ten miles east of Dunkirk on that date was aimed specifically at HM. Delivery of Camels to Belgian Air Forces to be expedited as a response. Forwarded to squadron for information.’

  “My word, Nancy, if that don’t make us blue-eyed boys, nothing will.”

  It was cloudy next day, the cloud base low, but it did not actually rain. The squadrons flew every daylight hour, Flights going out the instant they were petrolled up and reammunitioned.

  Noah flew high cover, but at no more than four thousand feet, spent half an hour in almost unbroken contact with a large Jasta, painted in every colour and pushing their attacks with no concern for their own safety. Both sides lost planes, both sides had pilots who racked up individual scores. In late afternoon Noah landed and went in search of Tommy, found him drinking tea, having landed twenty minutes earlier.

  “How many have you got, Tommy?”

  “Two Flights, Noah. Lost Ikey and Henry and reorganised into a pair of sixes. Ready to go in ten minutes.”

  “Wait another twenty, will you? I want to hit those bloody multi-coloured Albatroses. If we go in, three Flights abreast, we should do them a bit of no good.”

  “You’re on. Do you know who it is? Richthofen?”

  “No. He’s all red. This lot are every colour under the sun, motley – like a fool’s coat.”

  “Right. Climb to cloud base and dive in?”

  “If they’re there. I think there might be two or three lots of them, alternating cover over their trench strafers, same as we were trying. How did you lose Ikey and Henry?”

  “Ground fire. We hit a strongpoint that was holding up the brown jobs. Must have been a base of some sort originally, full of bloody guns. They dived in and never straightened out. Both of them hit smack into the guns that put them down. Went to Hell in company, at least.”

  They flew and found the Jastas exactly where they had been, still in a massive fight over the ground battle. Presumably some planes had left, others had joined in. Fred Petersham’s squadron was there as well as half of Noah’s.

  Tommy estimated eighty planes mixing it in a diving, banking, rolling free-for-all. He spotted a streamer passing his front, a commanding officer of some rank, attached himself to his tail and fired a quick burst. He was flying one of the uncommon Pfalzs, fell to bits in mid-air. Tommy had heard that the Pfalzs had been withdrawn from the Western front, presumed that everything still available had been sent into the fight. It made a good start to the afternoon’s business. He climbed, taking snapshots at three different Albatroses as they crossed him; he missed them all and levelled off just below the cloud base, surveying the mass before banking hard to the right and diving onto a bright scarlet tail; what it was, he did not know, but no RFC plane was that colour. He came out of his dive firing, a double stream walking along the fuselage and into the cockpit and an immediate fall into a spin. He banked hard to starboard, not looking behind him for not wanting to lose time – he had been at least ten seconds in a straight line – far too long in a brawl of this nature. A twin stream of tracer passed through the space he had just occupied and he dived hard, still turning to starboard, then climbing hopefully – he might have got behind the unknown. Nothing there and he looked about him, breathing again.

  There was a lime-green Albatros, limping away from the fight, a thousand or so feet below him. He banked and came onto the brightly coloured tail. The pilot spotted him, turned in his seat, put both hands up in surrender.

  “Tough luck, sunshine!”

  Tommy squeezed the triggers, blew the man to bits; even a year before, he might have tried to shepherd him behind the British lines, but those days were gone.

  The fight had moved on and he was on his own and low on ammunition. He turned for home, reaching St Rigobert after an hour in the air.

  “Three, Nancy.”

  He gave the details, hoping they might have been spotted by other pilots so that they could be confirmed.

  “How many have we lost?”

  “Forrester’s gone; Walker came in with a bullet across his face. Cut his right cheek up, showing his teeth. Blighty one. I don’t know for Noah’s people, think they may have a problem.”

  The casual voice was too good.

  “Noah?”

  “Seen going down. Not on fire.”

  “Maybe, then.”

  “Maybe.”

  They waited while the surviving planes were turned round, took the air again and returned hopefully to the f
ight – finding nothing there. Presumably the ground-attack planes had shut up shop for the day and their cover had stayed home as well. Tommy led his Flights over the confused battleground, looking for an obvious target, worried that he might hit the wrong side, or strafe a column of prisoners being led back to captivity. Either was easily possible in the prevailing mass of mud and confusion.

  He spotted a nest of machine-guns, five or six holding a rise in the ground, firing west and looking very Hun-like. He signalled to the nearest Camel, pointing down, saw the pilot look and then wave confirmation. He could not place who it was, but the Flights had become mixed-up during the day, pilots simply forming up on any senior man they recognised. There were only two now, he reflected.

  He dived, taking a careful aim, the sky clear and seeing no high-angle guns below him. A quick glance showed six or seven planes behind him; they had no bombs so did not need line abreast. Men were scattering from the machine-guns – morale low, he thought, running to save their skins – they would not have done that a year before. He opened fire, trying to hit the guns – the gunners would do very little without their weapons.

  Tommy pulled out and saw mud-covered figures plodding up the slope to the strongpoint; it was probably a charge, he suspected, men moving as fast as they could through the worsening quagmire. They took the rise and settled in, facing east and emplacing a Vickers and three or four Lewis Guns, confirmation that he had attacked the right side. He led his planes home, none lost on this outing.

  “What’s the time?”

  “Too late to go out again, sir. By the time we’ve got you ready there won’t be half an hour of daylight left, sir. Cloud’s thick and the light’s getting worse already.”

  “Thanks. Take them inside. Knell! How many for the morning?”

  “No idea yet, Tommy. If this lot are in reasonable condition, then I’ll have more planes than you’ve got pilots.”

  Tommy made his brief report to Nancy, made his way inside to dinner – the cooks providing meals on demand rather than at a set time – and found he could hardly eat. A few mouthfuls and he was done, more like to throw up than digest.