A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Noah waved frantically at him, showing a thumbs down and pointing underneath.

  He presumed that some, but not all, of the flechettes had hung up somehow. He made a sharp bank to starboard and then a diving turn to port followed by a fast zoom, in the hope that he might dislodge anything dangling. There was another jolt and the Bristol jumped a few feet, as if more weight had fallen away. He looked around for Noah, gave another hopeful thumbs up, received the same negative and watched as Noah pulled a glove off and held up a clenched fist, then opened to show three fingers.

  He raised his own hand, showed three fingers and received a nod.

  Three left, well stuck, and less than an hour’s fuel remaining, the long climb expensive in petrol. He waved to the Flight and made the downward signal for home.

  Tommy flexed his shoulders and tried to loosen his muscles; this was to be the sweetest landing he had ever made, there could not be the slightest tremor when it was time to touch down.

  The fuel indicator was imprecise, accurate to at most a quarter of a gallon, so he dared not circle the field until it showed almost dry. He waved the other three in and then took a wider line and half-rolled and banked hard over the waste ground on the east, hopefully. Nothing happened and he lined up into the wind for his approach. In his mind, Tommy was going over what he had to do to achieve the perfect landing – the descent began.

  Speed down and down until he was within two miles an hour of stalling; if the wind varied to a sudden calm he would be dead, nose straight in. Angle of approach precisely right, not a fraction of a degree high or low; picking out the flattest section of turf on the field, distant from the hangars just in case anything did go bang. Gently, gently, becoming part of the plane, feeling every tiny movement, holding level, wheels just brushing the grass, inching down to the hard earth, hitting the blip switch, slower and slower, listening for the rumble of the wheels, the plane down and coming to a halt. Engine off. Seat belt undone and up and over the side of the cockpit and running. Twenty yards, slow and turn, look for the first time at three flechettes tangled with each other and jammed between the undercarriage and the wooden floor of the cockpit, slowly sagging now that there was no slipstream to push them upwards.

  “That was a close one, Tommy!”

  “So it was Noah. You can take your flechettes and stuff them, one after another, right up your hairy…”

  Major Case hurriedly interrupted Tommy’s speech.

  “Quite, Tommy! Are we to gather that you do not wish to experiment further with the new device?”

  “Never no more, sir!”

  The Commanding Officer searched for something positive to say.

  “That was a marvellous landing, Tommy! Finest I ever saw!”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s amazing what terror can do for you!”

  Noah spoke up, very quietly.

  “We lost sight of the ones that did drop, Tommy – they were too small to follow. But we didn’t see any balloons explode.”

  “They might work at a hundred feet distant, Noah. But we can just as well use ordinary incendiaries if that is the case. Not for me, Noah.”

  There was a loud popping noise behind them and they turned to see the Armourer stood beside the tangle of flechettes and casually unscrewing the detonators and then tossing them away to explode in the grass. He turned away, job done.

  “Everything clear, gentlemen! You can take the plane to the hangar now. I’ll think out how to do it better, next time.”

  Major Case stood in front of Tommy, held his raised fists and hurriedly assured the Armourer there would not be a next time.

  “Stand down for the rest of the day, Tommy. I’m sure you won’t want to fly again today.”

  Intelligence reported the results of their raid later in the week; the flechettes had remained in their groups of ten, except for the ones that had become tangled on release. One group had fortuitously landed on an anti-aircraft gun site and had killed one gunner and exploded their ready-use ammunition; a second had missed everything, landing in mud just a few yards from a command blockhouse; the third had hit in a main communications trench, causing no casualties but severing some telephone cables. Individual darts had landed over a wide expanse of the third line, scaring any number of rear area troops. The German assessment, which Intelligence had read, how they would not say, had concluded that this was the highly successful test of a potentially destructive new weapon. Intelligence noted that none of the flechettes had landed within half of a mile of the balloons and there was no suspicion that they had been targeted.

  “The Bristols are to have their big service, Tommy, engines stripped and all rigging reset. Take the better part of a week, short-handed as the hangars are. We need more men, but it’s difficult to find mechanics at the moment. Most of the sergeants are married men – being better-paid as technical chaps – and pull every string they can to stay in England.”

  Tommy suddenly remembered the sergeant at Swingate Down.

  “Give me a few minutes, sir. I had a man at Dover asking if I could arrange to get him sent out. Been six months there and was bored rigid. I had him write his particulars down, but in the fuss of changing squadrons I never did anything about it. I know where the bit of paper will be.”

  Surprisingly, the paper was exactly where he remembered, tucked away into the back of his wallet, and the writing was still legible.

  “Sergeant Harmon, reporting to Lieutenant Maxson at Swingate Down field, sir. Technical and using none of his skills – refuelling could be done by any airman.”

  The Adjutant thought he knew Lieutenant Maxson.

  “Dug-out, is he? Returned to service in a lower rank? If he’s the man I think he is, then he was my captain when I joined the regiment. I’ll send a request direct to him, with a covering note.”

  Sergeant Harmon reported for duty four days later.

  The Adjutant was rather proud of himself – he had been of use to the operational side of the squadron, had managed to be more than a paper-pusher. He accepted that with his injured knee he was lucky to remain in France, but he had been a proud soldier and now saw himself as no more than a glorified clerk, and that was bitter to live with.

  Operations continued with the Parasols, nothing seen, no action. The French were far busier, it seemed, and had brought their deflectors into use. They had Hotchkiss machine-guns firing through the propeller, hitting the wedges with one round in every six, so they said, and so far quite successfully. They lost Garros, who had been their most successful pursuit pilot, and were not quite sure how he had gone down, though the Germans were claiming him as a success, but they had Pegoud who was doing at least as well.

  Colonel Trenchard appeared at Droncourt one late April morning, suggesting, strongly, that they should try the new system of wedges fitted to the propellers.

  “If the… French… can do… it. We can!”

  Several of the pilots had not heard him speak before; they were fascinated to discover the stories to be true.

  Tommy was thought to be one of Trenchard’s favourites, was deputed to reply.

  “I’m not at all sure the French can do it, sir. The experiments in England made it clear that the bullets are as likely to ricochet back as forward, sir, and that a proportion must hit the engine, or, less commonly, the pilot. I think that it is very probable that Garros shot himself down, sir. In my opinion, sir, we should wait until we have a successful interruptor gear, or until the new pushers come out. Airco’s DH2 should be in the air very soon, sir. De Havilland told me that he hoped to have a prototype out here by mid-summer.”

  “Engines… Stark! Still too… few. You know… flying, Stark. Better than most. Keep the … Hun down. Right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  Trenchard inspected the field, stared silently at the hangars and the planes in them, grunted his approval and left.

  “Bloody hell, mate! Is he real?”

  “The only one of his kind, Drongo, for which, let us be thankful!”r />
  “Don’t he know how to talk?”

  “One lung – got shot to bits in Africa, years back. But he never said much beforehand.”

  “Bloody hell – you Poms know how to pick ‘em!”

  “He’s got a lot going for him, in some ways, Drongo. Mind you, he’s a weird bastard! Can’t fly either, despite the wings on his chest. If you see him in the air, then keep well clear.”

  “Like I said, Tommy!”

  “Don’t you have them in Australia? Might be worth going there.”

  “We got ‘em, and more than enough, too, mate! You won’t see many of ‘em over here though, they make a lot of noise but they don’t get close to the action. Stuck in politics, most of ‘em.”

  “Same in England, Drongo. I know one of them, married to my wife’s sister. He ain’t fit to shovel, Drongo. In the right place, in the House of Commons.”

  Later in the week Wing telephoned with the warning that there was a ‘fact-finding’ group of MPs hanging about in the area; they might well visit Droncourt, had in fact specifically stated their intention to do so. Major Case asked for their names.

  “Tommy! Does the name Monkton ring any bells?”

  “MP?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Married to my wife’s sister. Managed to become an MP because it was safer than joining the Forces. Not that he could have joined the RFC – you’d never fit him into a cockpit, or find an engine powerful enough to get him off the ground.”

  “I say, old chap, would it be fair to say that you do not like the gentleman?”

  “More than fair, sir. Wait till you meet him; you’ll feel the same.”

  Two Rolls-Royces turned up at the field early next afternoon; the occupants had better things to do with their mornings than spend them travelling around the Front.

  Tommy had just landed after another barren patrol – nothing seen, nothing achieved other than to cause the Hun to waste anti-aircraft shells.

  “You know Drongo, they say that only one shell in ten thousand comes close enough to do any damage. How many thousands do you reckon we’ve seen this last three months?”

  “Might be better to break the sequence, Tommy. How about trying for a balloon again? Talking of which, what is that waddling about over there by the Mess?”

  “God spare the mark! I believe that to be my esteemed brother-by-marriage, Mr Monkton, MP. Does he not look like an important man, Drongo?”

  “Looks like a dick, to me, Tommy.”

  “Well, that as well, I suppose. The two words mean pretty much the same, after all.”

  An hour of effusion, and posing for the photographer who seemed to be the most important figure in the group, judging by the peremptory nature of his orders. One of the MPs, a quiet, almost self-effacing gentleman enquired of Tommy whether he was actually married to Monkton’s sister.

  “No, sir. I am wed to his wife’s sister, Lord Moncur’s younger daughter. The elder girl chose him for some reason – well, I suppose for several hundreds of thousands of reasons, when you consider the matter dispassionately.”

  “That explains much, Major Stark. Are you related to the Stark of the beef and jam factory?”

  “Half-brother, or so it is claimed. We have never actually spoken to each other. I heard that he had sold the factory, but know nothing other than a newspaper report.”

  “You should enquire of Lord Moncur, Major Stark. Your brother has been appointed to a Procurement Commission and is now en route to the Western States of the USA to purchase tens of thousands of cattle on the hoof for our hungry workers and soldiers to eat next winter. One has no doubt that he will make a great success of his duties, and probably do his own fortune some good.”

  “That sounds rather odious, sir.”

  “It is, I think, Major Stark. Hence my recommendation that you contact Lord Moncur to take such steps as are possible to distance yourself from your brother. Was you, as an example, to modify your name, so that you became Moncur-Stark, then the relationship might not be so obvious.”

  “It is so necessary that I should do so, you think, sir? I am sorry, I did not catch your name.”

  “Oh, I am one of the Salisburys; very minor, I would add. I believe you came into contact with a cousin of mine, just a few months ago?”

  “Briefly, yes, sir. He was found to be unfit for our service – not for any discreditable reason, I must say, but for a lack of understanding of what is demanded of an airman.”

  “He won the Victoria Cross at Neuve Chapelle – posthumous, I fear. I spoke with him just the once after the RFC returned him to his regiment. He seemed to believe that you were a callous butcher, bereft of honour and with no concept of the code of the gentleman.”

  “Why, yes, that seems to sum up a good pilot quite well, sir. I have shot down two German planes so far, sir – in each case by getting behind them and shooting effectively from ambush. It works. Your cousin thought it was not the correct thing to do.”

  The MP smiled and shook his head.

  “More power to your elbow, Major Stark! We have a war to be won, and victory will come sooner if the RFC is able to mount reconnaissance patrols and prevent the enemy from doing the same. You are very right in your actions. Where do you live in England, by the way, Major Stark?”

  “In Wilton, not so far from Salisbury, sir.”

  “My own constituency, in fact! I do not doubt that we shall meet again, Major Stark!”

  The photographer broke up their conversation, demanding shots against the planes in the westering sun – the shadows, it seemed, were particularly striking.

  “Salisbury seemed to take a shine to you, Tommy? Going into politics?”

  “He is my constituency MP, sir.”

  A useful answer that made their conversation entirely natural.

  Tommy sat down to his letter-writing that evening, telling Lord Moncur exactly what the MP had proposed, and asking what was so discreditable that he needed to distance himself from it.

  The Adjutant, who censored all letters written by the officers, raised an eyebrow at the letter’s contents but kept all to himself, as he was bound by duty and honour to do.

  Major Case called the three Flight Commanders to conference in his office, door firmly closed on all eavesdroppers.

  “What can we do to keep Trenchard happy, gentlemen?”

  “Shoot Henderson and Sykes, sir?”

  “Possibly less drastic than that, Michael.”

  George stirred in his chair, gave one of his increasingly common gloomy pronouncements.

  “Shoot a lot of Germans, sir? That seems to be the sole purpose of this war. Kill, kill and kill! We should destroy every one of their pilots.”

  “Good idea, George. Unfortunately, we have to catch them first, and they won’t come to us.”

  Tommy thought the solution to be obvious.

  “Then we must go to them, sir. Where are they to be found at this time of year?”

  Major Case restrained his temper; if his fliers ever grew up then they would think twice about flying at all – it was not an occupation for mature, rational men.

  “I do not know, Tommy. They do not migrate like game-birds. How do we find out?”

  “Ask Uncle, sir. He gets these reports from Wing which quote Intelligence, telling us what the Germans have written in their reports. Perhaps they could tell us where they hang out.”

  “You know, Tommy, that’s not a bad idea. Intelligence seem to know a hell of a lot about what is going on over the trenches in Hunland.”

  The Adjutant joined them, nodding his understanding of their questions.

  “The word is that the Huns are developing all sorts of horrendous surprises for us and are waiting for them to be ready. They are practising behind the trench lines, teaching their young men how to fly to war.”

  “Where, Uncle?”

  Uncle called them together again a few days later.

  “Barely ten miles to the east of the trenches, the nearest air
field to us, so Intelligence have told me, not so far from Roulers. Incidentally, they get their information from Belgian civilians, mostly – men and women who risk their necks to discover what is going on and then send pigeons across the lines or letters to contacts in Holland or Denmark or Switzerland. That’s why Intelligence is wary of giving us information – they don’t want the Hun to conclude that we know too much of what they are doing and perhaps start investigating the Belgians.”

  “Makes sense. Brave people to do that,” Major Case commented.

  “Angry people, sir. The Germans sacked a dozen and more towns in their advance. Some very unsavoury things happened to the civilians there, and they are not in the way of forgiving them for it. A lot of bloody nonsense in the newspapers, of course – Huns bayonetting Belgian babies and that sort of thing – but there was some unpleasant stuff. The Belgians want their revenge, and I cannot blame them, myself. They take risks to get the word to us.”

  “Then we should use that word, Uncle. What have they got at this airfield?”

  “Mostly Taubes, and the poor fellows who still fly them, and a few of the Fokker monoplanes and one or two biplanes, mostly Aviatiks. Old stuff, mostly, and young pilots in their final training for the most part. According to the information, they have a rigid schedule – take off ten minutes after dawn to perform circuits of the field and practice landings for an hour. Then they take breakfast and fly again, more likely to be cross-country flights of fifty or sixty miles to the east and back again. Afternoons is training on the ground – including running and exercises to keep them fit. Might do our lads some good, that, sir. The only thing they ever exercise is their elbow lifting pints at the bar.”