Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  Tommy apologised – Jim’s words were obviously true.

  “Are they still building up the artillery parks behind the Somme, Jim?”

  “Top secret, dear boy! The New Army will not be available for another three months. By the time they arrive, there should be three weeks of shells to hand for the initial bombardment and the follow-up tasks. Half of France is already aware of the preparations; I must imagine that the German High Command is equally well informed.”

  Brigadier Trenchard came to a conclusion that very afternoon, remarkably quickly, they felt. The RE7 was to become the sole preserve of Twenty Squadron and Tommy’s band of brothers was to betake itself to Salisbury Plain, again, there to very quickly work up a new machine and take it to a field yet to be specified in Essex or Suffolk. They would then play a leading role in ending the menace of the Zeppelin.

  “Bloody Zeppelins! A waste of time and energy. Flying at night as well – which is a waste of pilots!”

  “Home Defence, Tommy. Six months, at least out of France. Time for me to get married, Tommy.”

  Noah, having made the leap in his mind, was now very much in favour of matrimony; he wanted a place of his own, a house in England where he belonged.

  The written orders came through and they made a last flight in the RE7s, a matter of fifteen miles to the field occupied by Twenty. Under normal circumstances they would have beaten up the field, making at least one run across it at very low level; Tommy gave the idea some thought and then decided that the RE7 had not yet tried to kill him and he was not about to encourage it to change its mind. He led the squadron into a sedate circuit and then landed very quietly and politely, leading them into a row by the hangars.

  He saluted the CO and informed him that the planes were all his and he was very welcome to them.

  “You are too kind, Major Stark. There is nothing I want more than another eleven RE7s! We are losing an average of one a week, so you have very kindly kept us in the air for another three months!”

  “Sorry! It wasn’t my idea.”

  “You are forgiven, old boy! We can none of us account for the vagaries of our commanders. Did I hear, by the way, that you actually hit something a couple of days ago? And that you had been aiming at it? And then shot down a pair of Halberstadts? If you ain’t careful, you’ll make them think the bloody plane’s useful and they’ll build some more!”

  “Yes, strange, ain’t it? Bombing at low speed into a strong wind – it might have the effect of making the bombs fall straight, even from five thousand feet. As for the Halberstadts – schoolboys who presented themselves to us from above. They had every opportunity to attack from the blind but they chose to climb and dive. Bad practise! Still, they won’t do it again.”

  “Every cloud indeed has a silver lining, Major Stark. Do you know what you are getting next?”

  “No idea, but the observers are going home with us, so it must be a two-seater. Something new, it was implied.”

  “Last I heard there were more than thirty manufacturers presenting prototypes to the War Office. All of them reckoning theirs is the bee’s knees.”

  Tommy raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Sorry. Spent some time in the States!”

  “So did I, but I was far too young to pick up such vulgarities. What are we supposed to do now, by the way? Have you been told?”

  Major Malcolm waved a hand at a line of transport at his gate.

  “Four staff cars, dear boy, comfortable Armstrong-Siddeleys at that! Yourself and the redoubtable Captain Arkwright to the first; three each of your pilots to the remainder. Three Crossley Tenders for the observers – they are all non-commissions, are they not?”

  Tommy agreed that they were, shaking his head irritatedly.

  “I agree, Major Stark. They die the same way as us, but Heaven forbid that they place their backsides on soft seats!”

  Tommy turned and waved Noah across, was taken by surprise as Major Malcolm stiffened into the salute. Noah returned the courtesy, having brought his hat with him for the journey back to England.

  “Sorry, I forgot – comes with living in the same Mess with him.”

  Irrespective of rank, the holder of the VC was saluted first, only ever returning the compliment.

  “Pleasure to meet the gentleman, Major Stark – we have only a few of his sort, and not many earned quite so well! One of the very best, sir!”

  Noah blushed, still not used to the reaction of others to the scarlet patch on his breast. All VCs were earned at the risk of a man’s life, but it was accepted that in some cases the hero was cornered and had no choice other than fight or surrender; the ‘good’ VC deliberately opted to go into danger in the first instance.

  “We have transport, Noah. Ten minutes for the convenience of the gentry and then we must mount up and take ourselves off to Calais – or so I hope. Is that our destination, do you know, Major?”

  Major Malcolm did not know; he had not asked the drivers.

  The drivers had been told to go by the shortest route to Calais and to drop their passengers at the office of the RFC at the docks.

  “Didn’t know we had one, driver.”

  “Issue of travel documents, sir. Not to be done by squadrons no more, sir. Squadron informs the office of the names and numbers, sir, and the office gives out the papers, sir. Not to be repeated, sir, and I never said it, but some of the squadrons ‘ave got spare typewriters what they don’t keep their eye on proper-like. One case they found out about, the Adjutant issued travel docs for four men, and another two got typed up as well; stamped and signed as well, and just ‘ow that’s done is being looked at, sir.”

  “Very crafty, some of the men, driver. Must be winked at by the squadron – men can’t just disappear for a fortnight unnoticed, surely.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “Very wise. Thinking on it, I don’t want to know, either!”

  They drove, in comfort, or at least, the roads being battered and potholed, in less discomfort than the observers experienced.

  The office was expecting them, counted the numbers and checked the names and gave them their documents, all done under the silent, staring supervision of a scowling warrant officer. Tommy noticed that the man’s gaze almost never left him; he wondered why. Noah had an answer.

  “That was the useless object that was thrown out of Three Squadron, Paine, I think. Do you remember, Tommy?”

  “Nope! I had no occasion to memorise his horrible face, or his name! I expect he still don’t like me. Do you think I should offer him two fingers?”

  “Better not. People might think you were being deliberately insulting to him.”

  “Beneath an officer’s dignity, do you think, Noah?”

  “Without question, Tommy.”

  “Pity. How about if I just offer one finger? Can’t be anywhere near so offensive.”

  “No. The ship is over there, they told me.”

  Noah pointed and urged his commanding officer out of the way of trouble.

  “You’re becoming respectable in your old age, Noah!”

  “It happens to all of us, Tommy. If you ever grow up, it will happen to you.”

  “Not me, brother – I am the gilded youth, you see. If I grow up then the golden veneer will wear off, and then where will I be?”

  “How did you hear of the jeunesse doree, Tommy? It sounds as if you’ve been reading books!”

  “Nothing so unlikely, dear boy. Merely paying attention when my lady wife speaks.”

  “A habit I must cultivate, I think.”

  They wandered aboard the ferry, were instantly barred from the biggest of the saloons by a wise chief steward.

  “Full of Generals, sir, and their staffs, going to London for some sort of conference. Better put you RFC officers into the Smoker, sir. Saves any trouble that way, sir. Three stewards, sir, just to look after you on the crossing, sir.”

  Alcohol and food appeared, both in quantity and gratis.

  “No n
eed to worry about a Mess Bill, sir. The Generals can pay for it – they won’t notice that we’ve padded their accounts. Too bloody dim to count them up, most of ‘em, sir. From the Cavalry, they are, the Reserves, working out where they are to be located when the push goes in on the Somme, sir. They held the Reserves too far back at Loos, so they’ve got to make sure they’re in the right place this time. Not that they’re goin’ to be needed, sir. The Hun knows all about the Somme – there ain’t goin’ to be no breakthroughs there. You talk to any of the Frogs, sir. They all know where the Big Push will be, so the word will ‘ave got to Switzerland and then into Germany; bound to ‘ave, ain’t it.”

  “The soldiers will be butchered.”

  “They will be anyway, sir. If the Generals don’t kill ‘em there, they’ll do for them someplace else.”

  Tommy ate half a dozen ham sandwiches and took a single gin and bitters, more to show the other pilots that they were out of the line than for enjoyment. He watched out of the corner of his eye as some of the old hands knocked back five or six doubles in the two hours at sea.

  “How do they drink that stuff neat, Noah?”

  “Cast iron gullets, Tommy. All the nerve endings burned out by repeated exposure to pure alcohol.”

  “What day of the week is it, Noah?”

  “Damned good question, Tommy. Today?”

  “Good answer and probably correct. A tad unspecific, however! Steward?”

  “Thursday, sir.”

  “Is it really? I thought yesterday was Monday.”

  Noah shook his head definitively. “No, we bombed the reserves on Tuesday.”

  “In that case, you must be right. It is Thursday!”

  Tommy stood and beamed at his officers, the white cliffs of Dover behind his shoulder as the ferry manoeuvred to its berth.

  “Gentlemen! Report to Andover Railway Station for nine o’clock Monday morning.”

  The officers applauded, or nodded owlishly, depending on how much neat alcohol they had managed to force down.

  The observers paraded on the quay, waiting for orders. Tommy delayed while he inspected Balcombe’s travel warrant. The officers could afford to pay their own tickets on the unexpected leave; few of the sergeants would be able to do so.

  “Warrant says to Andover Railway Station, Flight. ‘By way of Dover and other stations’.”

  “Yes, zur. If so be Waterloo’s full of hospital trains, zur, then we might ‘ave to go be way of Victoria, or Charing Cross, or London Bridge.”

  “Or by way of Bristol?”

  “The ticket inspectors ain’t going to argue, zur. They knows as ‘ow sometimes orders get changed and there ain’t no time to write up a new warrant.”

  “Pass the word, on the quiet. All observers to report on Monday morning. There will be tenders at Andover.”

  The parade dispersed, silently, drawing no attention from the Military Police on the quayside.

  Tommy telephoned River Cottage, in case Monkey was staying with her parents. She was home, all was well, and delighted to hear of the probability of months on Home Defence.

  “I shall tell Mrs Wyndham, Tommy.”

  “Do. I believe that Noah will wish her to set a date.”

  “That can be done, I have no doubt. I will see you in a few hours, Tommy – the trains are so unreliable now, there’s no way of telling how long the journey will take.”

  There was no timetable out of Dover – trains departed as was convenient, the main concern being to clear the platforms rather than have them wait for a specific time.

  Tommy and Noah asked a passing porter which train was likely to leave first and were led to the rear of a line of first-class cars, a train that had no third-class at all.

  “Full of bloody generals, sir. Bound to be sent off first.”

  Non-stop to Waterloo East station, express service. They spoke to another porter there.

  “Going to Salisbury, sir? Best use Waterloo Mainline station, sir. Paddington’s busy these days, taking sailors down to Plymouth and soldiers to the Plain. There’ll be seats out of Waterloo still.”

  They waited an hour for a local at Salisbury, in company with a strong battalion of Canadian infantry, a full thousand of young soldiers en route from their convoy at Southampton and due to go into barracks on Salisbury Plain for final training before being sent out to France. The men were noisy and excited, glad to be almost there, to have got to Europe before the business was over.

  “Poor bastards, Tommy! Cruel, ain’t it? Glad Frank ain’t with us – he might want to put the deluded little fellows right.”

  “Leave them their illusions, Noah. They can at least enjoy themselves while they’re waiting. They will learn the hard way.”

  “What’s new, Monkey?”

  “Mr Monkton has been made baronet, Tommy. My sister is now Lady Monkton, and much up in the world as a result!”

  “What has your father to say about it, love?”

  “Very little, or not where he can be heard!”

  “Anything from the deplorable Mr Joseph Stark?”

  “Nothing. He is presumed to be in the Western States of America, furiously purchasing cattle for transport to England and, no doubt, even more furiously enriching himself.”

  “More power to his elbow! Let us hope that he makes so much money there that he will never be able to tear himself away.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  Elisabeth Jane was asleep, and Tommy had not been allowed to risk waking her, must wait his time to pick her up.

  “What are you to do, Tommy?”

  “Work up a new bus – what sort it is, as yet unspecified to me. Two-seater, logically, as the observers have been sent with us. No doubt, we shall discover on Monday morning. Then, off to some field in East Anglia to hunt Zeppelins – not much sport, I suspect, because it takes two to play and the Zeppelins will choose to run away long before we can get close to them.”

  “A waste of time, you say, Tommy?”

  “Just that. There are very few of them; they raid only occasionally; the total of harm they have done this country amounts to about five minute’s worth of action in the Trenches on a slow night. An exercise in applied futility – but that describes almost everything we are doing at the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “We are marking time, no more. According to the generals, the New Army is to win the war in very short order. They will be there in May, will spend a month familiarising themselves and will then steamroller their way through the Trenches and march into Germany, all in quick time. Our sole function this past month and more has been to soften up the reserves, not to assist in the victory – that is inevitable – but to cut the waste of time and lives that they might produce. As far as the brass is concerned, the war is over – there just remains the little matter of winning it, but that is a mere technicality – the preparation has made the victory utterly certain.”

  It was obvious to Monkey that Tommy did not agree – and she was quite sure that he must be right – no mere general could know better than her Tommy. For an intelligent girl, she still retained many of the illusions of an Edwardian upbringing.

  “Why will it fail, Tommy?”

  “The generals believe that a huge bombardment will destroy the wire and flatten the German lines. But it won’t. Even from the air, from high up, we can see that Jerry has built concrete dugouts and pillboxes to protect their men. Add to that, shell bursts don’t destroy barbed wire – even when they land squarely they just cut it for a few yards, and blow the remains into even bigger tangles to either side. No shell is big enough to make a cut from front to back, all the way through the wire apron. It would take tens of thousands of shells landing exactly next to each other, tidy as a chessboard, to destroy the wire – and then they would just leave a great big crater to wade through. The machine-guns will sit safely in their little forts and be brought out when the shelling stops, and then, God help the New Army.”

  “Then… it is impossible to make a
breakthrough, you say, Tommy?”

  “Not quite. It might be possible to send out a huge set of raiding parties in the night, to cut paths through the wire, and then run the men through before dawn to take the front line. With that done, then a barrage into the rear areas while the bulk of the troops advance and take off from the old German front line. That would work, once at least. Make a big enough advance and it would become possible to force Jerry to retreat, create a salient and push sideways as well as directly forwards.”

  “Then why don’t they do it, Tommy?”

  “Because the generals won’t trust the ordinary soldiers. They say that the lower classes must obey orders, must be forced to fight, must be kept under strict discipline at all times. The generals believe that the ordinary soldiers must march slowly together, shoulder to shoulder in daylight, in sight of an officer at every moment, because they will run away otherwise. Courage, patriotism, duty – all of these are alien concepts to the lower orders of society, don’t you know! Men like Haig hate the working classes far more than the Germans, so it seems!”

  “God help England, Tommy! Will you become a politician after the war? Will you try to change things?”

  “No – nothing can be changed in this country, Monkey. That is its strength, how it gained an Empire; it is its weakness, the reason why it will lose everything it has won, in our lifetimes, I will bet you! Better far to go to America, or Australia, where there is hope. I would like Elisabeth Jane to grow up away from the poison that is England.”

  She was shocked – not by the concept so much, as by Tommy becoming aware of it. The war had opened his eyes, it would seem. She would borrow books from the library and buy some as well, to discover which parts of Australia or America would be best for a flying man and his family.

  Tommy and Noah drove into the Central Flying School early on Monday morning, looking about hopefully for someone to tell them where they were to be located. The Commandant did not know, but offered them breakfast. The Adjutant thought he might be able to find out, but not before ten o’clock, not on a Monday morning.