Over successive days there came reports that Berlin, Vienna and Paris had begun to call up reservists and to order troops to readiness. The British fleet had been performing manoeuvres in the Channel and had been ordered not to disperse as was expected, all of its ships, including those old vessels that had been put into retirement, almost ready to be scrapped, to place themselves on an active service footing.
Squire was certain now that it would be war.
“Next stage is to call up the reservists, Tommy. Every sailor and soldier who completes his enlistment and returns to civilian life is placed on the reserve list for up to eight years and must return to service on demand. George has sent a letter to say that the Territorials are all in camp and that he will probably be unable to attend Lavinia’s wedding. We are looking at two weeks or less. Better you should not go far from the house, I think.”
Headlines in the Telegraph one morning said that Servia had accepted the Austrian ultimatum; the next day it was reported that Austria had rejected the Servian submission and had presented an even more severe set of terms. The Kaiser was said to have been behind the Austrian action, insistent that there must be war to punish the murderers of royalty.
Britain demanded assurances from Germany that Belgian neutrality would be respected while France announced that if Russia was drawn into war in support of Servia then she would respect her treaty obligations.
Lavinia’s wedding took place on the First of August, much to her relief – she had become almost convinced that the outbreak of war would force a postponement of the date. The families celebrated and almost all of those invited were able to attend. Her Uncle James was absent and his own new bride was unwilling to travel without him, which was not unreasonable. George could not get away from his battalion and Tommy had arranged that the garden boy would immediately bring him any telegram that arrived, interrupting the church service even, if necessary.
Monkey stood at his side throughout the reception, beautiful, he thought, in her bridesmaid’s dress; he accepted that he was biased and that her sister was the more handsome of the two, at least to the ordinary observer.
“Good luck to Mrs Monkton, my love!”
Monkey raised an eyebrow in surprise – he was normally very careful not to utter endearments in public, such being unconventional behaviour.
“Why should she need ‘luck’, Tommy? Her husband is not about to be called to war.”
“That may be why she is unlucky. He will take care, I am sure, to look after his own skin. If it should be a long war then he will be found to be much too important to take part in it. A seat in the House of Commons, I suspect, will soon come his way!”
“Half a man, Tommy?”
“Who am I to say that? If I am promoted captain, will you be willing to enter into an early marriage?”
“Of course. I will be pleased to, Tommy.”
“So be it. Sounds very business-like, does it not? It means much to me, more than I know how to say. We will not have a wedding like this, I am afraid – no great reception for the whole of the County, but it will still be everything I want; I am just sorry that you will not have a day such as your sister is having as centre of her universe. The word will go out very soon now, I expect the telegram at any time. Did you ever finish the self-portrait I begged of you, Monkey?”
“I could not be satisfied with my attempts, Tommy. I have had a photograph taken instead. It is framed and is ready for you. I had meant to give it you as you left. As for a ‘white wedding’ – in your words, which of course I have never heard – to hell with it! I will wed you as soon as your war permits – and my parents will allow, of course!”
“Your photograph will go with me, in pride of place in my billet, wherever it may be. I will be away for some considerable time, I believe – certainly months rather than weeks - so I will be more than glad of the keepsake. I will write a letter at least every week – but do not be surprised if the postal services fail to deliver. I will put a number on each, so you will know if one, or more, is lost. Do not go into a panic if there are weeks in which you hear nothing.”
“A panic?”
“Do not imagine that I am wounded or dead!”
“I imagine that every day that you fly, Tommy! Why should that change?”
Unanswerable – but he could not stop flying, particularly now.
France and Germany declared war and the British government demanded guarantees of Belgian neutrality and was ignored.
The telegram arrived; report to Farnborough at soonest with service kit only.
Squire called the car while Abbot the butler supervised the transport downstairs of Tommy’s uniforms, ready packed, and his gunbag, while he changed quickly into working dress. Tommy came out to the car carrying his flying coat, helmet and goggles.
“May be flying today. Probably will be.”
He ventured a quick hug and peck on Monkey’s cheek, a lapse from decorum that her mother found just tolerable in the circumstance, and stepped into the back seat, waving briefly as the chauffeur accelerated away, glad of the opportunity to drive at any speed, Squire being sedate in his habits on the road.
Major Becke was at the field, quickly surveying each arrival and divesting them of excessive luggage; he had a collection of tennis rackets and cricket bats to his side, and a single pair of skis.
“What’s in the bag, Tommy?”
Tommy wordlessly undid the strap, let the top sag open.
“Ah! Essential officer’s equipment. What in hell is that thing, an elephant gun?”
“Yes.”
“Very good! You are to fly an RE5 to Dover, Lieutenant Stark. No observer – almost all have gone already, sergeants not having received more than one week of leave – and I shall retain two for gentlemen who have a greater need of navigation. Your bags to the front cockpit, together with a selection of tools and spares that Mr Knight will put aboard. At Dover you will discover a field quite close to the cliffs – you will recognise those, they are white – and you will land there and report to the CO of Three Squadron, which will be your new home. You will undoubtedly be able to see the airfield from some distance; I am informed that there are a number of drainage ditches around it, which were identified by warning flags, all of which were destroyed by yesterday’s winds.”
“Ah! How many, sir?”
“All of the flags blew down, leaving eight unmarked ditches which between them have collected seven of aeroplanes, so far, Lieutenant Stark, mostly Bleriots and Farmans, I am told, but including at least one BE2. If you land between the wrecks you should be quite safe.”
“When do we go to France, sir?”
“At the current rate of progress, Mr Stark, probably in 1916! I shall be pleasantly surprised if we manage to assemble a whole squadron at Dover in the next week! There has already been a fatal crash at Netheravon; I shall be amazed if that is the sole instance. Two Squadron is on its way from Montrose, not, on this occasion, delaying for its motor vehicles, and they already have three aircraft down in various farmers’ fields across the country.”
Tommy had no comment, asked if he should find the adjutant to locate the machine he was to fly.
“No, don’t disturb him whatever you do! He is trying to make sense of the movement orders, to provide billets and rationing for the men being posted into the field and travel warrants for those already here who are being sent elsewhere. Add to that, he must make arrangements for airfield security – we now have a dozen of private soldiers and a sergeant who must be placed at the main gate.”
“But, we haven’t got a gate, sir. The roadway is open.”
“Exactly, Mr Stark!”
“Who is in charge on the flying side, sir?”
“Mr Knight, at the moment, but there is an officer on his way who will act as assistant to the adjutant while we develop an administration. We have a number of reservists posted to us to make up our numbers, all of whom will need to be set to work, somewhere…”
“I will f
ind Mr Knight, sir.”
“Do that, Tommy. Get the machine to Dover as quickly as you can. Now, who’s this arriving?”
Tommy turned back to Squire’s car and waved the driver off, half a crown in his hand. He nodded to the private soldier supplied by Major Becke to pick up his uniform case, threw his flying coat over one shoulder and gunbag to the other.
“Hangars, first. There should be an RE5 ready for me and I will show you how to load into the front cockpit. Got to be done properly, you know.”
“Sir!” The private gave no other acknowledgement, fell in two paces to Tommy’s rear as he set off.
“That officer!”
The full-throated bellow came from thirty yards away, a short, fat little chap in warrant officer’s uniform, grey-haired and red-cheeked and strutting towards him.
Tommy raised an eyebrow, continued walking.
“I addressed you, sir!”
“Did you? I thought you shouted in an ill-mannered and bad-tempered fashion! Who are you?”
“I am the Station Warrant Officer, sir!”
“Are you? Well, I am a pilot and I am not here to be shouted at by some jumped-up, dug-out reservist! Bugger off and find a private soldier to bully! I expect you are good at that.”
“Officers do not carry bags, sir!”
“Don’t they? Well then, you can carry it for me, if you want? No? Then get out of my bloody way. I am supposed to find an aeroplane to fly to Dover. Do you know which machine I am to fly? No? Well, you are bloody useless then, aren’t you!”
Tommy wandered off, regretting that he did not have a hand free to shove into his pocket. He spotted Mr Knight over by the nearer hangar, angled towards him.
“Good morning, Mr Knight. Busy day today! Which is my machine?”
“RE5, sir, the last one remaining here. All prepared, sir. Ready to take off immediately, in fact. Be a good idea to do so, sir, before the Station Warrant Officer finds Major Becke.”
“Nasty little sod, isn’t he!”
“Yes, sir. You do have a private soldier, sir, listening to all we are saying.”
“I expect he thinks the same. Let me just put this coat on, and I am with you.”
They stowed Tommy’s case and bag in the front cockpit, wedging them between a toolbox and a number of smaller cardboard containers, some of which seemed to be bottle-shaped.
“Urgent supplies, sir. They will be picked up by the sergeant mechanic, sir.”
“Of course, Mr Knight. How’s the wind? Can you put a man to the propeller?”
“Do it myself, sir. Taxy out slowly, sir, and warm her up for a few seconds before you take off. The engine was running only half an hour ago, sir, won’t be cold yet. Better not to delay here, sir.”
Half a minute of listening to the engine and then Tommy saw Major Becke waving to him; he waved back politely and opened the throttle to full, quite unable to hear anything being shouted.
Down the turf, the tail rising, holding the machine on the ground for a little longer than it wanted then a slow climb, listening to the engine and picking up the feel of the aeroplane, holding her straight until he was satisfied and then a slow bank to the east and a little south until he had the Thames in sight across to his left. Dover was on the coast, a major port located where the French coast was at its closest; he had never been there but it could not be difficult to locate while the sun was shining and visibility was good. Two thousand feet should be sufficient for the short flight, perhaps ninety minutes at seventy, and would give him a good search area, quite enough to pick up the town.
Tommy suspected that the main worry would be other flights coming in; there might be machines in the air from Gosport or from the north where Two Squadron was probably still making its way cross-country. It would be annoying to be involved in a collision over the landing field; it would quite spoil his war.
When Empires Collide
Chapter Eight
The camp on the clifftops was an interesting shambles.
The modern aircraft had almost all landed safely and had been taxyed to a safe location close to the marquee that served as a workshop. Once there, they had been tethered to iron stakes driven deep into the chalk, roped down securely against the winds driving in off the Channel, and their engines had been covered with tarpaulins against the salt-laden air. The mechanics thought they might survive the experience.
The older machines, the two-seater and the eighty horsepower single-seater Bleriots particularly, were present in some numbers and were being sheltered as best as was possible. Many of them were scattered in fields across the whole of Southern England, none of their pilots reported as dead, to the amaze of all. A few Farmans had made the trip, to the disappointment of those who had hoped they might have succumbed en route.
The ditches around the field were decorated with broken aeroplanes, those regarded as unsalvageable simply left where they had ended up. It was quite entertaining to inspect the wrecks and try to work out just how they had reached where they were; Tommy thought that at least one pilot must have been thankful for the ditch, because he had been on a bee-line for the cliff edge.
Tommy surveyed the field and decided that there was in fact some order in the chaos; there was an aircraft park and a fuel dump tucked away in a corner, but there were too many machines in too small a location. He looked for a senior sergeant, or a warrant officer, passed over a pair of greyhairs, evident reservists called back to the colours and placed into a Corps they knew nothing of, spotted a bright-seeming younger man.
“Excuse me, sergeant. I have just landed and I need to report to the CO of Three Squadron. Do you know where I could find him?”
“Sergeant Walker, sir, Three Squadron. The smaller, brownish tent over to the left, sir, by the road, the one with the two Crossleys parked by its side. That is his HQ, sir.”
“Good. Thank you. There are supplies in the front cockpit of my RE5, sergeant, sent by the Engineering Warrant Officer at Farnborough, Mr Knight of Six Squadron. Can you arrange for them to get to their proper place?”
“Certainly, sir. I know what they are and who they are for, sir. We have been looking out for them. Do you need an aircraftman for your bags, sir?”
“It would better, I think. I trod on the toes of some prick of a dug-out warrant officer at Farnborough for carrying my own bag – wiser not to do the same here.”
“Yes, sir. We have one here, sir – knows nothing and proves it every time he opens his mouth!”
They grinned, Corps professionals in alliance against the old Army.
“Is Major Brooke-Popham still CO, Sergeant Walker? There seem to have been a large number of changes in the last few days.”
“Gone, sir, with Brigadier-General Henderson’s people in France, sir. Major Salmond has the squadron, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Walker. Are we billeted here, do you know?”
“Temporary accommodation, sir – a pair of boarding-houses, hotels they call themselves, sir, on the edge of town.”
“To be expected. Tell your man to bring my bags to the squadron tent, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Walker saluted, suddenly formal, and marched off. Tommy turned and spotted the Warrant Officer he had previously avoided, glowering a few feet away.
“Sah!” The Warrant Officer screamed and saluted, very precisely.
Tommy nodded, knowing that it was incorrect to return a salute in his flying helmet, which had no badge.
“A word to the wise, if you don’t mind. You are obviously new to the RFC or you would know that pilots’ ears often hurt when they have just landed; a result of the changes of height, it is thought. Shouting at them is quite painful. Please do not repeat the error! I am afraid I do not know your name.”
“Warrant Officer First Class Paine, sir!”
That at least was delivered in a speaking voice.
“Lieutenant Stark, now of Three Squadron, Mr Paine. I am about to report to Major Salmond, or the adjutan
t, whichever may be to hand. Sergeant Walker has arranged for an aircraftman to bring my bags across to the tent. I shall tell you if I require your further assistance, Mr Paine. Thank you.”
Paine was furious to be dismissed out of hand, as if he were no more than a private soldier, but could utter no protest in public.
Tommy ambled quietly across to the squadron tent, twelve feet on a side and ancient, bulging at the seams with tables and paperwork, two clerks and the Squadron Commander. He stood to attention, waited to be acknowledged by the busy major behind a desk, borrowed from a local schoolroom by its appearance.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Lieutenant Stark, sir. Posted from Six Squadron and just flown in, sir, in the RE5.”
“Saw you come in. Good, tidy landing! I’m Major Salmond, took over from Brooke-Popham yesterday. You are the man who showed well in the concentration camp, I believe. Been flying since you were a boy, they said – not that you look especially old now!”
“I have held a licence for more than four years, sir, so I am twenty-two years of age.”
“Quite right, too! Did I see you in converse with Mr Paine just now?”
“The well-named warrant officer, sir? Yes, sir.”
“Try not to tread on his toes, Mr Stark. When we cross the Channel we shall find his expertise essential in setting up our first airfield. It will be desirable therefore that he shall fly in with us rather than be delayed on ferries.”
Tommy agreed gravely that such a man was obviously very necessary to their well-being.
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