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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Beg pardon, sir.”

  The interruption came from the sergeant at the desk, the very man who had greeted Tommy on joining, two years before. Tommy and Noah turned to him with every expectation of an immediate answer to their question.

  “Amesbury, sir. Half-way from here to Andover. New field, sir. Ground staff only got there last week. Squadron mechanics reached there on Friday, sir. All accommodation ready, sir. Permanent hangars as well, not canvas. Flying personnel to collect all aeroplanes on Wednesday, sir. From Sopwith’s, sir. The field has just two tenders and one staff car at the moment, sir. Additional transport to arrive today and later in the week. I can arrange, sir, with the Adjutant’s permission, for our cars and tenders to be sent to the railway station at Andover, sir.”

  Tommy immediately begged permission of the Adjutant, instantly granted because that officer was not going to fall foul of his sergeant.

  “Sopwith’s field, you say, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. A new model, as yet unnamed. It carries a synchronised Vickers for the pilot, sir, and a Lewis for the observer and is believed to be capable of taking control of the air over the Somme, sir, when the need arises. One is given to understand, sir, that there has been a mention of retaining the new aircraft for Home Defence, but this is a ruse, or ploy, to confuse the German High Command.”

  “Very crafty! Pity – I was looking forward to six months in England.”

  “No, sir. Captain Arkwright may well be retained at Home, sir, for not wishing to lose a VC, sir, for morale purposes. He will be given his own squadron fairly soon, sir, but I do not know what he is to fly. You are due for service over the battlefield, sir. I am told, as well, sir, that the new machine can carry a certain bomb load – which makes your services indispensable in the eyes of General Henderson and Brigadier Trenchard, sir. An acquaintance of mine was speaking to me on the telephone from Headquarters, sir, only on Saturday, and mentioned that your last raid had been surprisingly effective, which of course has further bolstered your reputation.”

  “To my knowledge, two bombs struck home, Sergeant.”

  “Twice as effective as most raids, sir!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I suspect we should get onto the road to Amesbury, should we not?”

  “Still driving the Lanchester, I see, sir. Thirty minutes, sir. The roads have been made up for military traffic and all are of two lanes so that traffic can flow in either direction. Some of them have been paved with tarmacadam, sir.”

  They took their leave, wondering whether they might be able to suborn the sergeant, to persuade him to transfer to their own squadron. A promotion to Warrant Officer might be tempting.

  The new field was surprisingly comfortable; messes had been built from brick and local stone and were both warm and waterproof, and the hangars were also permanent constructions with well-equipped machine shops. The mechanics who had arrived over the weekend were busily setting their work places into the order they desired.

  “Not quite new, Tommy. In fact, I would say these buildings were a couple of years old.”

  Tommy and Noah made their way across to the offices, again, both large and sturdy, and equipped with fireplaces. The Adjutant was there already.

  “Surprisingly high-quality accommodation, Jim?”

  “Amesbury, Tommy – does it ring a bell?”

  “Should it?”

  “Perhaps not.” Jim was philosophical; he knew Tommy of old and explained in detail. “This was to be a base for the Artillery, the RHA. Ideal countryside for batteries of field-guns to tear about, to drop their tails, to fire a quick barrage with their thirteen-pounders and limber-up again and disappear over the next hill.”

  “Well… that is what they do on Salisbury Plain, Jim. The RHA are said to be very good at the trade.”

  “But not on top of the stone circles at Amesbury, Tommy. As old as Stonehenge, if not quite as imposing. Not even the army would subject them to artillery fire!”

  “Ah, I see! Some daft bugger had the base built here, then the human beings discovered what was happening and kicked the soldiers’ backsides out of it?”

  “Exactly. Then they built a landing field on the side distant from the stones, added hangars and gave the camp to us.”

  “Right. Add to Standing Orders, Jim – ‘no aircraft to crash or otherwise impinge upon the stone circles’.”

  The Adjutant thought this to be an entirely reasonable rule; he would ensure that every pilot was made aware of it.

  “I am told we are to report to Sopwith at Kingston-upon-Thames on Wednesday, Jim, to collect our buses.”

  “’Buses’, Tommy?”

  “It’s the new word, Jim. ‘Plane’ is terribly old hat, you know!”

  “I must remember that. Major Commanding and three Flight Captains to report on Tuesday, to familiarise themselves and be able to brief their pilots on Wednesday.”

  “By train – warrants and the best route, Jim.”

  “Will do.”

  “What’s this about the last raid being successful, Jim?”

  “Report came through at the end of the week, Tommy. There’s a copy on your desk. In summary, Intelligence reports that no fewer than eight of the hundred-pounders impacted on buildings. One hangar was destroyed on the neighbouring airfield, burning out four Halberstadts and the better part of twenty mechanics; the planes will be more easily replaced, of course. On the actual target, two warehouses reduced to ashes, with rations and uniform clothing for a large number of men. Also hit was the storage for small arms ammunition for a brigade, rifles and machine-guns both; the better part of half a million rounds in a Brock’s Benefit – the fireworks display went on for two days, they said. One cookhouse and mess hall took damage from blast and was then set afire by a cluster of incendiaries; there was a substantial number of men taking breakfast inside, cut about by the windows blowing in and then deep fried. Highly effective. The Frogs are reported to be much impressed and to be considering similar raids. They have the planes for that sort of work, of course.”

  “Very good. Pleasant to know that our efforts are worthwhile occasionally.”

  They reached the Sopwith factory on Tuesday morning and had the new aircraft unveiled, Mr Sopwith doing the honours in person.

  “The Sopwith Land Clerget Tractor, Tommy! One hundred and thirty hp; speed of one hundred mph; ceiling of fifteen thousand feet, perhaps a little more; range of three hundred and fifty miles; climb of up to seven hundred feet a minute, depending. You will note the strutting. Like all of my planes, Tommy, small and light, but she will carry one hundred and thirty pounds of bombs.”

  Tommy was impressed; the new plane was perhaps two thirds of the size of the RE7, a wingspan of only thirty-three and a bit feet, compared to the fifty-seven of the RE7; a smaller target and liable to be nippier as well.

  The struts were especially impressive – a new ‘W’ form, two shorter over the fuselage and the others extending diagonally outwards.

  “One might say that we have one and a half struts on each side, Tommy. You will want to fly her. Test pilot, Mr Hawker has much that is good to say of the machine.”

  Even Tommy was able to work out that ‘much’ was not the same as ‘all’. He started to think.

  One hundred and thirty pounds of bombs was not a lot - not worth a long, risky journey deep behind the lines. Two guns, particularly desirable; a synchronised Vickers firing through the propeller - much to be said for that, provided the gear was reliable, and a Lewis for the observer was obviously useful, as an extra.

  “What sort of synchronisation gear do you use, sir? Same as the Germans?”

  “I doubt it, Tommy. We haven’t caught a German yet so as to examine it. No, we are using the Vickers-Challenger gear – not perfect, I must admit, but quite effective.”

  Mr Sopwith waved at the gun, which had, Tommy saw, a long and awkwardly angled external pusher rod connected from some part of the engine.

  “Does it work at height, when it’s co
ld, sir?”

  “There are occasional problems, Tommy… We are working on them, of course. In fact, we are well-advanced with our own design. Mr Kauper, our technical man, is busy sixteen hours a day and hopes to perfect his system within the month.”

  Tommy nodded to Noah to take up the burden of conversation, eased his way back through the group and cornered Mr Hawker.

  “How does she handle, sir?”

  “Not perhaps the most agile machine yet produced, Tommy. The thing is, she is both a fighter and a bomber, not one or the other. We have got a single-seater in mind that will be much more to your taste. It will be ready for September. With patience, I am sure you will be able to make the best of the One and a Half Strutter, Tommy.”

  There was no choice – he had to do what he could with yet another half-good machine.

  “May I take a flight, sir?”

  “Of course, Tommy. We have machines set up for you. I have had sandbags put in the observer’s cockpit. Bit of a problem there, the two being separated a bit. You can’t really talk to the observer in the air.”

  Another deeply unimpressive feature. How was the observer to act as navigator if he could not talk to the pilot?

  Tommy did up his belt, signalled the mechanic to start the ready-warmed rotary, taxyed directly out onto the familiar field.

  The plane climbed as Sopwith as had claimed; his seven hundred feet a minute was immediately available. She was, however, less than amenable to a steep dive, the wings definitely unhappy. When it came to a sharp turn, she simply would not, coming round in her own good time. He could not chase a Halberstadt around in circles, that was for sure. The policy would have to be to make use of the height, dive slowly out of cloud cover, or from the direction of the sun, make a single firing pass and then continue in the dive before using her one great advantage of the climb to shoot up into the belly. It might work. It was better than an RE7, but, that was to say very little in itself.

  The Strutter might lend itself to low-level attacks, he thought, the fast rate of climb allowing the pilot to get out of trouble quickly. The observer could do a lot of good with his Lewis, perhaps.

  He forced the plane to its limits; they were not especially exciting.

  He landed and handed over to Noah, deliberately making no comment so as not to suggest ideas to him.

  “Silence, Tommy?”

  “I have a few ideas, Noah. I’ll compare them to yours when you come down.”

  There were two other planes warmed up and Tommy suggested to Captains Ferrier and Templeton that they might like to try their hands. He was satisfied that they would be able to cope, though reminding them of the vagaries of the rotary engine.

  “Flew an Avro a few times, sir, in ’14,” Templeton responded.

  “I had a Parasol for four months, sir. I shan’t make a turn to starboard with less than five hundred feet under me.”

  Ferrier was as blasé as ever; Tommy thought of suggesting a thousand feet, then decided the man was a grown-up now, did not need his hand held.

  The three took off, proceeded to separate and find themselves air space and then discovered just what the new plane could do.

  Noah landed after an hour, shaking his head.

  “I don’t like the way she dives, sir. Not at all. I do like the rate of climb, however. She turns and banks like a pregnant cow in a thunderstorm, making very similar noises the while. I suspect she might be handy for beating up trenches, sir, able to climb out of trouble very quickly. For the rest? A slow dive and a fast zoom will be best. Never hang around to fight, sir. Attack, kill one man, disappear.”

  Tommy agreed, turning to Mr Sopwith.

  “My thoughts entirely, sir. Including trench work. Mr Hawker says you have a single-seater version in mind, sir?”

  “September, Tommy. Far lighter again and with less of a problem with the wing loading. It will be purely a fighter, Tommy – a new concept for us.”

  “Not before time, sir. This one will do for the while. I am fairly sure that we will be able to work out tactics to bash anything Jerry may offer.”

  “Where do these words come from, Tommy? Last month, it was all the Hun. This week it is Jerry. ‘Machine’ became ‘plane’, plane is transformed into ‘bus’ and I heard a man talking of ‘crates’ only yesterday.”

  “Crates? That’s a new one, sir. I’ll wait a few days, see if it catches on. Personally, I blame the newspapers, or failing that, Lloyd George – he can be blamed for anything, after all.”

  “Excellent! I knew you would have an answer. Will you come into the factory for a couple of hours? The men, and the girls, will love to see you both.”

  “Of course, sir. Pleased to be of use. When the other two come down, feed them and give them alcohol and then point them to a comfortable armchair for a nap, would you?”

  “All arranged, dear boy – I am used to dealing with pilots.”

  They walked through the factory, past the rows of planes at different levels of the construction process, ranging from bare wooden skeletons being built by time-served carpenters to the final dope and painting shops where unskilled young women finished the canvas skins. More than half of the employees were women, and few of the men were under the age of fifty.

  “I have had my work cut out to retain my skilled mechanical engineers, Tommy. I have had to fight the Army on a case by case basis. I have managed to secure the release of fewer than a dozen skilled men who were wasting themselves in France. I am trying to train the women to do skilled work, but the Unions won’t cooperate, for fear that they will take the men’s jobs after the war.”

  Tommy vaguely thought that was unfortunate.

  Noah had been a factory hand for two years as a boy and, silently, thought the Unions were right – no employer could ever be trusted, after all. Women would work for lower wages and would stab the working man in the back.

  Men and women alike were delighted that they had condescended to come to their factory, to watch them at their work. There were photographs of the RFC on the wall in the smoking canteen – it being far too dangerous to smoke in the presence of paints – and almost all recognised the pair, the few who did not being rapidly informed of their identity.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but will you be flying our planes to war, sir?”

  Tommy answered the foreman – identifiable by his bowler hat – a man sufficiently senior to address them.

  “We shall be flying the first sixteen out tomorrow, sir. I hope that we will spend just a fortnight or so working out the best tactics for a new machine, and then the squadron will go back to France.”

  “In time to bash them bloody Jerries when the big push comes in June, sir. Won’t we be proud to know it’s our planes helping to do for them, sir!”

  There was a cheer of agreement from all who heard.

  Mr Sopwith shook his head, said he had heard that it had been put back to the First of July, why he did not know.

  “Ask the German General Staff, sir. No doubt they know every other detail of the battle order.”

  They made their way to the secret section at the rear where the guns and the synchronisation gear were installed. There were just four mechanics busy there – they had no other men sufficiently skilled for the task. One of the mechanics looked up as they came through the closed doors.

  “Finished all sixteen, Mr Sopwith. All tested out. The biggest problem now is with the quality of the rounds, sir. Best thing will be to tell the RFC armourers to check them all by weight.”

  “That will be far too slow, surely, Biggs.”

  “No, sir. Weigh ‘em up a dozen at a time. If they are right, no problems, move onto the next dozen. If they are under or over then split them into two sixes and weigh again. That way you can cut the number of times you use the scales down to about a quarter of doing them one by one, sir.”

  “Clever, Biggs!”

  “That’s why you pay me extra, sir. Talking of which, sir, prices have gone up in the shops again… Food especial
ly, sir. Price of a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon has gone through the bloody roof, sir.”

  “I can’t put your wages up every week, Biggs!”

  “Prices go up every week, sir.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Biggs. If I can squeeze the War Office for more, then I will put all of the price rise into your wages, man. What are you on, four pounds a week, now?”

  “Yes, sir, and it buys as much as three pound ten shillings did before Christmas, sir. And with the hours we are putting in, sir, it ain’t quite a shilling an hour, for you know we’re working six to six, seven days a week.”

  “If I could find the men, I would do something about that, Biggs.”

  “I know, sir. Only thing for it is to get women who can count enough to be taught to use a micrometer screw gauge, sir, and train ‘em up, part-skilled, to do just one or two jobs. We ain’t got time to put them through a seven-year apprenticeship, but I could teach a bright woman or boy to use a milling machine to turn out the same piece right every time. Wouldn’t take a week, neither, sir.”

  “I’ll talk to the managers, Biggs. If we can get volunteers, then we could have them on three fifty-six hour shifts a week and have the factory working full time.”

  Biggs nodded his satisfaction; he wanted to do his bit, he said, but the shifts were wearing him down, for he was not as young as he used to be.

  Tommy was upset – he had never thought about the sacrifices that men like Biggs were making to keep him in the air. He felt that he should at least have been aware of what was happening in England.

  Dark Days Of Summer

  Chapter Two

  The sudden crunch and whoomph of a petrol explosion brought them out of the factory building, men and women from the shop floor running, Tommy and Noah walking resignedly, slowly behind.

  “Who was it, Mr Hawker?”

  “Both of them, Tommy! They decided to give the planes another go – and I allowed it. They had had no more than two bottles of pale ale with their luncheon, because I thought they would wish to give them a second test. They evidently decided to try to shoot each other down, a mock combat; they chased each other from five thousand feet, throwing the planes about more than I thought was possible. Then the one of them dived down low over the field, below one hundred feet, and went to pull up in a hard zoom, banking to the right at the same time, trying for what would have been a belly shot, I must imagine; good flying, I thought, really showing what the plane could do. But the other tried to out-bank him, snatched far too hard to starboard, and went into a spin and they collided at five hundred feet.”