They stared coldly at the funeral pyre, fortunately towards the middle of the field, distant from the suburban housing that came close on three sides. They could see the outlines of two aircraft, rapidly burning down.
“Full tanks, I presume, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Were they waited on at their luncheon?”
“Yes. We have a sort of cook and steward who looks after the manager’s dining room. The white-collar staff eat separately from the shop floor people, of course, and the managers and directors have their own saloon distinct again. I’ll call him down… in fact, he is out here now - which ain’t so surprising, thinking on it. Mallinson! Over here!”
The white-coated steward, an old man thankful for any work, scurried obediently across to them.
“Major Stark has some questions for you.”
“What did the two captains drink with their lunch, Mr Mallinson?”
Hawker’s eyebrows contracted at the casual use of ‘Mr’ for a steward – not at all appropriate, he believed.
“They had two bottles of Watney’s Pale Ale, sir, what was supplied. But they topped up from flasks, sir. I saw them, but it ain’t none of my business what the gentlemen do, sir.”
“Quite right, Mallinson. Off you go!” Hawker dismissed the steward quickly, before he could gossip with the shop floor.
Tommy shrugged; he had warned them, they had no one else to blame.
“Bloody fools! Thank you, Mr Hawker – they would not be told to control their drinking. Now I have to find two more pilots and promote another couple of Flight leaders. Who do you think is up for it, Noah?”
“None of the old boys, Tommy. Either request two experienced men in or promote two of our youngsters. Fred, for sure; he ain’t a brilliant pilot but he’s a thinking man. Who else?”
“Blue. He can do the job. He’s young and he’s short of experience, but he knows how and when to give an order and he can fly at least as well as me.”
“I’ll get on the telephone to Jim, Tommy. He’ll put in for replacements.”
Noah stepped across to the offices while Tommy started to deal with the other arrangements.
“The two planes, Mr Hawker – were they part of the delivery for tomorrow?”
“No. We have sixteen separate aircraft lined up for tomorrow. These were what you might call our development machines, the ones we used for testing out new ideas and modifications.”
“Useful. Mind you, unless things have changed while I wasn’t watching, we only had a total of eleven pilots, so that comes down to nine now. We’ll pick up nine planes tomorrow and arrange for the other seven buses to come across on Thursday, if that suits you, sir.”
Hawker was surveying the makeshift fire-brigade of staff from the hangar. The blue-collar hands had all been chivvied back to work and the dozen or so from the flying side were making a ham-fisted job of putting out the fire and salvaging the human remains.
“First crash on the field in two years, Tommy – and I don’t think any of the new men in have had any training in putting out petrol fires. My fault – I’m supposed to be in charge on this side.”
Tommy shrugged, said that in his experience it was better to let the fire burn itself out.
“Makes everything tidier if all you have to retrieve is bones, Mr Hawker. Half-incinerated corpses are bloody nasty!”
“So they would be, Tommy. You speak from far greater experience than me. Tell me, Tommy, do you think I should take a commission and come on out to France with your boys? I feel a fraud, sat here in safety while I am one of the most experienced fliers in the country – one of the few with more hours than you, I think.”
“Stay just where you are, sir! You are far too valuable testing here. Any little boy straight from school can learn to fly and put his reactions to work on the Western Front – though I wish they were actually taught to fly before they were sent out! Working test pilots are few, and can save the necks of those of us who have to use the new machines. Don’t do anything foolish, sir!”
“Easily said, Tommy. True as well, I know that. Have told myself many times that I am doing far more for the war just here. But I may well get married one day and twenty years from now I can imagine a schoolboy son asking me what I did in the War. ‘Worked nine to five at the Sopwith factory, my boy’ – not the most inspiring of answers!”
“At least you have a strong chance of being around in twenty years from now, sir. Count your blessings, and do the job you are so very good at!”
They stood silently as the flames burned down, wrinkling their noses at the smell. Noah came out of the offices, walked slowly across.
“The sweet scent of the Trenches, Tommy! You can pick up decaying and shell-shattered corpses from a thousand feet, Mr Hawker.”
Hawker looked sick – he had not thought that to be possible. He replied that the newspapers had never mentioned that.
Noah laughed at his naivety – as if the newspapers would mention unpleasant truths!
“Telephoned Jim, Tommy, all in hand. He has five green hands who turned up soon after we left this morning, so we are fairly well off for pilots. He will send Fred and Blue across immediately – by car, to get here in time to have a look at the new machines tonight and fly for an hour at first light.”
“Highly efficient – as I have come to expect from both of you. I must imagine that we should notify Head Office, as well.” Tommy had an increasing suspicion that he was not very good as major in command of a squadron, that Jim and Noah between them were carrying him. Noah’s reply strengthened his belief.
“Done, Tommy. I got through to Henderson’s people. They seemed more worried about the cost and who actually owned the planes than anything else. Apparently, if they belong to Sopwith, he can claim on his insurance, while the Crown bears its own risks – whatever that means.”
Hawker had the answer.
“You can’t take out insurance on any property belonging to the government, Captain Arkwright. Particularly in time of war, when you chaps in uniform are so careless with the King’s goods and chattels.”
“What’s the difference between a ‘good’ and a ‘chattel’?”
“No good asking me,” Hawker replied. “I’m an Australian and we don’t have either Down Under.”
An ambulance appeared, fifty minutes after the crash.
“They said you had had an accident here, sir?”
Hawker took over.
“Yes, but no trade for you lads, I am afraid. Can you give me the name of an undertaker?”
They could and drove off again.
“That will give them ten bob in commission, Tommy. Steering a stiff to their own fellow is worth the week’s beer money to the ambulance men.”
“Honestly?”
“They’re paid almost nothing for doing that job, Tommy. They need to make up with the odd tip or two.”
Fred and Blue arrived, unofficially aware of their promotions, unsure whether they were temporary.
“Permanent as Flight Commanders, both of you. For rank, you must be made acting-captains, brevets, that is. For getting those made full, that may be another matter. There’s such a mess with commissions at the moment that we don’t know who’s what. Last I heard, Boom Trenchard was only substantive as a major and I think Henderson is a half-colonel still. Rumour is that the Treasury wants to bring in a measure to pay widow’s pensions at the substantive rank and is forbidding full promotions.”
“Sounds typical, sir. Uncle Jim said that we are due to take these crates out to France, not remain in Home Defence.”
“So I understand, Fred. Is your father out in France yet?”
“He’s been put across to a New Army Division, sir, will be going with them in the next month or two. They decided to give the New Army a stiffening of older senior men, sir, to bring them into the ways of the old regulars. Father is not sure it is a good idea – he says that the different sort of men who have joined for war service should be officered in a way
that they can accept more easily. The other generals mostly don’t agree with him, sir.”
Blue had not realised that Petersham senior was a general, wondered if he might have been rather tactless in many of his comments about the breed.
“Heard from my Old Man recently, sir. He’s been put in command of a Militia battalion, for having volunteered in the Boer War and having experience, even if it’s out of date. From what he says, he’s likely to be off to the Canal Zone fairly soon, and then on to wherever they dump him.”
“Salonika probably – that’s a cock-up, Blue, so they’ll want fighting troops there.”
“Like the Dardanelles, Tommy? The English will fight to the last dead Australian?”
“As a senior officer, I can make no comment on that, Blue, but I find it hard to disagree. Come and have a look at this One and a Half Strutter – it’s got some good points!”
Blue outflew Fred in the morning and agreed that the crate had its strengths, as well as too many weaknesses.
“I wish they’d make their bloody minds up, Tommy! Either a fighter, or a bomber, but not both. Observer can’t act as navigator unless we can install a speaking tube between the cockpits, so we can’t take them any distance behind the lines. Can we put a speaking tube in?”
Mr Sopwith said that they had tried, but hadn’t been able to fix one in a straight line, and curved tubes seemed not to work.
“Fortunate that your next offering is a single-seater, sir.”
“Thank you, Tommy. Your vote of confidence is much appreciated.”
The pilots arrived, the two of the original squadron silent and withdrawn – perhaps demoralised by the whittling down of their elitist group; one more had fallen sick with earache, had not joined them at Sopwiths, probably never would. The new five were still in the throes of first delight at being posted to a crack squadron – they still believed the newspapers – led by two of the most decorated officers of the RFC. Barbry and Frank were naturally quiet, simply watched and thought and asked Tommy and Noah the obvious questions.
“What happened to the Flight Commanders, sir?”
“Misjudged starboard turns in a rotary, Frank. Judgement possibly impaired by hip flasks.”
“Both were hitting it again, Tommy. I thought they were just having a wake-up at breakfast, but it looks like luncheon as well. Still, it will have helped the cremation process, the flames will have burned that bit hotter!”
“True indeed – whisper the word very quietly in the young lads’ ears – the wages of boozing come very warm indeed! Noah will reorganise the Flights. As soon as we reach sixteen again, I will take over one flight as my own. You will be number twos, obviously. Jeremy and Christopher will have to take the other deputy places. What are the new lads like? Any with experience?”
“One Kiwi who has flown a good few hours. A South African who claims three hundred, and is telling the truth from the looks of him – wind-burn on the cheeks and goggles marks round the eyes. Three jolly good chaps from school – the same school, all staying together, being pals, and some dear papa able to pull strings so they were posted to the same squadron.”
Barbry sounded less than wholly enthusiastic.
“Split ‘em up, Noah.”
“Blue, Red and Green, sir. Noted and will be done. I’ve borrowed a pen and a piece of paper and will rough out the Flights now, sir. Take five minutes to write out, as soon as I know the new chaps’ names.”
Keith, from New Zealand; Piet, the South African; Nigel, Roger and Charles, all from Rugby School.
“I say, sir, will you tell us just how you won the VC, sir? We were so bally excited when we knew we were coming to your squadron!”
“It ain’t my squadron – it’s Tommy’s squadron. As for telling you the story, we don’t hold with line-shooting in this squadron. It is simply not done! I’m Noah, by the way, unless I address you by rank and name. If there is brass about, then we pretend we are soldiers; we don’t otherwise. You need to equip yourselves with silk scarfs, gloves and warm Long Johns. The One and a Half Strutter has a ceiling of fifteen thousand feet, and that will be below freezing point.”
That prospect excited them, too.
Noah brought all five together.
“Have you flown rotaries? The last we heard was that you were to be trained on them before coming to the squadrons.”
They had all had at least four hours on Avros and knew that they must exercise great care when turning to starboard.
“That is something, at least. You see the black patch in the centre of the field? Where the men are clearing up?”
“Is that where the Flight Commanders went in, Noah?”
“Just there, Piet. Templeton went into a spin at five hundred feet and hit Ferrier who was climbing beneath him. Both were in banks to starboard.”
“Like you English say, point taken, baas.”
The schoolboys were suddenly aware that Piet was a Boer, the enemy of all of their juvenile adventure stories; they found this somewhat disconcerting, but nothing could quench their spirits.
“I say, Noah, can we all three be in the same Flight?”
“No. Roger, isn’t it? We must have an experienced number two to each Flight and no more than one completely green pilot. Piet and Keith have both got hours in from before they joined the RFC, so I’m putting them together. They have plenty to learn, but they know how to fly. They will be with Fred and Frank. You three must go separately until you have more hours in your logbooks. One to me, one to Tommy, one to Blue; listen and obey for the first week or two. After that, you can start thinking for yourself. Watch Tommy – he has more hours in than any other pilot in the RFC, except maybe for Lanoe Hawker and Louis Strange. He has more than two thousand and he has flown planes you haven’t even heard of – that’s because they were experimental models that were scrapped at his say so. Watch him and learn. I still do, and I’m at three hundred hours now.”
“But, we are qualified pilots, you know, we have our wings!”
“And you have much to learn still. The RFC has lost far more men to accidents than to the Fokkers and Halberstadts and Archie – and every one of those men had his wings. When I was very green, back in October ’14, soon after I was made up from sergeant, Tommy said to me that every time he took off, he said to himself, ‘you’re dead, Tommy’, and then he worked hard to prove himself a liar. I have remembered those words, and I say them to myself as well. I am not dead because every time I fly I make an effort to learn something more.”
They made no reply, appalled to discover that their hero had feet of clay, Other Ranks’ clay.
Tommy had been listening in the background, now entered the conversation.
“Noah is one of the very best of our pilots because of that attitude. He ain’t a natural, not like me, he is a pilot who has painstakingly learned his trade, and, believe you me, flying is a trade that must be carefully mastered! Several of our best fliers have come up from sergeant, and I expect many more to do so, because they have, generally speaking, learned about the air and aircraft – they have worked at their skills. You can see the ribbons on Noah’s breast, and you know he did not get them by accident – follow his example and you may end up equally decorated. I hope you will – you have all taken the first step towards success.”
“But, Tommy, we were told at the training field that all of our best pilots were gentlemen!”
“Perfectly true, dear boy. Noah is a gentleman of the finest kind – one of the very best of the breed!”
They were left silent – they could not regard a VC with other than hero-worship, but a sergeant was a member of the wrong part of humanity. They could not reconcile two opposed certainties of existence.
“Now then – we are to fly back to Amesbury today, and I want you to familiarise yourself with the machines first. Noah and Fred and Blue will lead you into the air in a few minutes and will take you through an hour of follow-my-leader. You will keep formation and perform every evolution precisely as
your leader does. He will ensure that you know your way round the plane sufficiently to make the cross-country flight. I shall inspect you from the air. If I am not satisfied, then you will go back to Amesbury by train, if I permit you to return at all. Understood?”
Blue very quietly assured Nigel that Tommy meant exactly what he had said.
“If you do not meet his standards, then he will ground you - and you may never fly again, cobber! He don’t care about who you are, or what your family is – he can be ruthless, if he sees the need. He has broken more than one man already, to my knowledge. Don’t imagine that he won’t break you, if he must. He won’t want to – we need pilots. But they must be pilots who meet his standards in the air, and he don’t give a damn about anything else. I don’t think he knows anything else, in fact. He’s the best bloke I could hope to fly with – but he can be a complete half-wit on the ground!”
“But, does he really mean that we must simply do as we are told, like sheep?”
“Yes. Say ‘baa’ if you want, but if you make a cock of it, you’re out. When you know the machine, then you can be let loose on your own.”
“Oh! I must have a word with Charles – he is the daring one, you know, who takes the lead in all our japes and little adventures!”
Nigel ran and spoke earnestly to his friend, came back shoulders slumped.
“I do not think I persuaded him, Blue.”
“Then wave him farewell, Nigel!”
Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4) Page 4