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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Us and Them, Tommy. Those of us who have gone to France will always be different to, separate from, those who stayed at Home, whatever their reason.”

  “The Mark of Cain upon the forehead, David?”

  “Ours or theirs, Tommy?”

  The week passed, rapidly as leave always did, and they packed for the return to Amesbury and the passage to France.

  “We shall be on active service, David. Holster to your belt, loaded revolver from the moment we fly out. Not very useful these days, but serves as a reminder.”

  Monkey joined them at breakfast, reading a letter from the first post.

  “From Mrs Arkwright, Tommy. Some of it I shall read to you – much is not your business, sir!”

  Tommy acquiesced – he had no wish to be embarrassed.

  “All very happy… Noah very busy. He has two Flight Commanders, one newly promoted, the other with a year in the role.”

  “Hmph! Not so good.”

  “Why, Tommy?”

  “A year in and changing squadrons – why has he not been given his own squadron? What’s wrong with him?”

  She read further.

  “Oh! Poor fellow! Mumps, Tommy, as an adult – a most unpleasant ailment for the grown man. Three months and more of illness. And the results, the sequelae, as the doctors say, commonly so unfortunate.”

  “Explains why he was not promoted. Will be as soon as he is back in harness, no doubt. What sequelae?”

  “Commonly sterility, Tommy!”

  “What?”

  “Well, it seems that the Mumps cause all of the glands to swell, and some often do not recover their full function.”

  Both men winced and crossed their legs reflexively.

  “Poor chap indeed. I hope the rest of the squadron do not hear of it – I would hate to know his nickname!”

  The pilots trickled back to Amesbury, none late, but it was interesting to see who arrived at the last possible minute.

  Tommy made a quiet note that Jeremy and Christopher came through the gate just before the deadline of ten pm, both smelling strongly of liquor; he suspected that neither had ever expected to leave England – they had thought that theirs would become a training or Home Defence squadron. Both had performed well in their raids, flying two and three times a week, but he wondered how they would tolerate the unending stress of repeated patrols on a daily basis. He was concerned more for their observers, liable to become victims of their inability to cope.

  “Keep a very close eye to them, Ducky. If needs be, I shall ground the pair as medically unfit. A pity that Quack is not a fully qualified Doctor who could sign a certificate stating them to be ill.”

  “Has he spoken to you yet, Tommy? Quack wants to fly as an observer, ‘to become a real part of the squadron’, he said.”

  “No. Not a hope… unless he can wangle a replacement for himself, with more in the way of formal qualifications. It would be useful to have a doctor as such. If he knew a man recently graduated, or whatever they do, and wanting to join up – it might be possible to work a flanker and get him sent out to us – by avoiding the official channels, and pulling the odd string or two. Jim has influence among the civilians, and my wife’s father and uncle know some of the right people…”

  They said no more that night, but the message was passed and Quack knew what he had to do.

  Breakfast brought a briefing from Tommy, officers of the whole squadron assembled.

  “We are to fly out to the Central Air Park this morning, as you know. All trunks will be collected by your servants and will be sent out under their direct escort. Jim has arranged for a pair of trucks to take them to Andover Railway Station and then to Winchester and down to Southampton where they will be placed on one of the transports in the daily convoy. Where they land in France will depend on the Navy’s sense of humour, of course, but the Station Warrant Officer is sending one of his sergeants with them, and he will make contact with us and escort the whole to us with a minimum of delay.”

  There was a grunt of satisfaction. The older hands had memories of wearing the same pair of underpants for a fortnight when their clothing had failed to catch up with them.

  “We are on active service, of course, so you must carry your sidearms, loaded, at all times when in working dress. I shall, however, take a dim view of any of you who wear them into the Mess of an evening – we are not in cowboy country!”

  There were persistent rumours of pilots fighting duels when the liquor was in; the truth of the matter was not known, but COs had been officially instructed to ensure that such an event might never happen in their own squadrons.

  “We shall be two nights at the Air Park. Mess dress in the evenings, gentlemen, if the trunks arrive, which they will not. Do, please, show tolerance for the lesser breeds you will discover there! There will be so-called RFC officers there who have never flown, but who will tell you how to! Treat them with care and kindness, gentlemen! Do not kick them, no matter how much they infuriate you! I would say that for some strange reason I and my squadron may be regarded with some distaste at Amiens – ignore this! Do not enquire why, and certainly do not follow my occasionally erratic example.”

  The assembled pilots were openly grinning. Tommy was sure he had said sufficient to guarantee at least one drunken riot and thought that two might be excessive. He said no more.

  “Our ground people will, as always, be taken directly to our field and will have everything ready for us when we land. Captain Ross has all in hand, he tells me.”

  The bald head nodded reassuringly.

  “You can be flying again in three days from now, sir.”

  “There you are, gentlemen, you have been warned! We shall fly the normal route today, landing at Dover to refuel, which is not essential, but gives us at least an hour in hand if we have to footle around looking for an alternative field because of weather. If in doubt, land at the nearest available field, as always, and send a message in. Do not hesitate to put down if you do not like the feel of the bus, but please do not succumb to the urge to play cricket.”

  Jeremy Fowles flushed scarlet, said nothing. Several of the younger men wondered why; no doubt some would even ask him.

  “Spare observers will accompany the mechanics, I regret to say. I had hoped they might be given more comfortable travel. As a last point, gentlemen, you will fly with guns loaded. There is little expectation of seeing anything en route, but we are on active service, as I have already mentioned. Flying in one hour, gentlemen.”

  They took off sixteen strong, engines firing reliably, and the weather encouraging, arrived at the Central Air Park in mid-afternoon.

  The squadron was made almost welcome, pilots and observers ushered to their transient messes, Tommy and Ducky called to the offices and received a briefing from a senior officer.

  “Your field will be at St Michel, within fifteen miles of the Somme and the expected battlefields, Major Stark. There will be other fields in the immediate vicinity and you must brief your pilots accordingly. There will be a mixture of machines flying from these fields and you must be alert to them. Supplies will be centralised, of course, and your adjutant will be made aware of procedures. You are fortunate, Major Stark, that your colonel will be based at your field, which will make the assignment of targets and patrols very easy.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is very fortunate. I have always wanted a colonel breathing down my neck. The squadron has no Intelligence Officer at the moment, sir; has provision been made, do you know?”

  “Captain Trotter is to arrive tomorrow, Major Stark. He has no experience in the field, but has spent the months since the war started working in London and now wishes to expand his experience. There is a squadron of BE2cs sharing your field and Captain Trotter will be assisting with the first analysis of their photographs, which will be of great advantage to you no doubt.”

  Tommy could see that it might be. He made no comment.

  “You are required to report to General Trenchard in the
morning, Major Stark. There will be transport at nine o’clock.”

  That was his day lost; he had intended to make up on his sleep, his last nights with Monkey having been wakeful, now must fight to keep his eyes open in the company of Headquarters Staff.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  General Trenchard had no particular reason for calling Tommy to his presence, had merely wanted to see him, in a friendly sort of fashion.

  “Squadron up… to scratch… Stark?”

  “The men are, sir.”

  “What’s wrong… with the… plane?”

  “Too small a load to be a sensible bombardment machine, sir. Too stiff and stable to be a pursuiter. Neither one thing nor the other. Add to that, the observer is too far distant from the pilot to speak to him in flight. Good for trench attack – ‘strafing’, they call it in London, for some reason, by the way, sir – with a load of small bombs. Not a lot of use for anything else, though it might be possible to fly two or even three Flights together and go out hunting Jerry, simply outnumber him in the air.”

  “The Hun… still flies in… fours… six at… most, Stark.”

  “If we were to send out whole squadrons together, sir – those of us with just the one sort of bus, we could do some good, sir.”

  “Try it… Stark. I shall… talk to… Colonel Kettle. Baring!”

  “I will make the arrangements, sir.”

  Maurice Baring was his normal urbane self, and as efficient as ever. Tommy occasionally wondered whether he put the words into Trenchard’s mouth, but decided that he was far too much the gentleman to do such a thing, although more than capable.

  “Arkwright… well, Stark?”

  “Recently married, sir – and happily so. The little I have heard suggests he is bringing his squadron on well. Not a lot of point, of course, to trying DH2s against Zeppelins, sir.”

  “None… I want him… out here. Hope to… get him… before the… end of… June.”

  “Ready for the Big Push, sir? Useful to have him here, sir. Any chance of having him on the same field as me, sir? Get rid of the BE2cs, sir, and have Noah as fighters covering above us when we were attacking down low.”

  “I know… nothing of… a Big… Push, Stark!”

  “Oh, my mistake, sir! It is just that it is commonly talked about in England, for the Somme, on the First of July, sir.”

  “God help… us, Stark! Don’t matter… even if… they do know. So great a… bombardment… cannot fail!”

  “We must hope so, sir.”

  Ducky had been entertained by the headquarters intelligence people, who had given him the benefit of their knowledge of the German air force on the front.

  “They have new planes, Tommy, some of which are better than ours – Halberstadts and Albatros, which are good, and Fokkers, monoplanes and biplanes, neither much use, and some sort of pokey two-seater – a DFW, or DFV, they seemed unsure which. But there ain’t many of them, especially of the Albatros, which is known to be there but well hidden. The roving Moranes and Nieuports are not finding them such easy targets now – although they are building up scores still. Joe, the Yank, has fifteen to his name and that is just the ones that have been confirmed; got his MC, of course, and due for a Bar. Problem is, he has to be a Canadian officially, as far as we are concerned. The French have no worry that way, they have a squadron of Americans, but the War Office don’t hold with employing neutrals in the British Army – though there are a good few of them!”

  “The French have a Foreign Legion, of course, Ducky.”

  “Very strange!”

  They returned to the Air Park, hardly enlightened by their contact with the brass.

  Captain Trotter was waiting for Tommy.

  “Intelligence Officer, sir. I shall require an office and a sergeant and two bright, literate enlisted men, sir. I have it in mind to set up a proper organisation that will be a model for the RFC, sir.”

  “Jolly good show! If there is an office, you will get one. I am afraid we have no establishment of spare bodies for your employment, and men who can actually read and write are rare in the RFC. Uncle Jim might have a spare typewriter. Failing that, he can supply several bottles of ink.”

  “But, sir, I have been sent from London specifically for this purpose.”

  “Excellent! I am glad to hear that! Just get London to send out an office and three educated men and all of their equipment and there will be no problem at all. I shall be very pleased to offer all of the assistance within my powers. Now bugger off and bother someone else.”

  “I much regret, sir, that I shall have to refer your lack of cooperation to higher authority.”

  “You have my permission to do so, but I am sure you would not for a moment have considered going behind my back, and General Trenchard’s, to speak to London other than through channels. I recommend you to contact Maurice Baring first – he is a remarkable man and may well save you from any number of foolish errors.”

  Captain Trotter knew of Baring, who had had Intelligence experience himself, and was quite certain he would be supported there.

  “May I have your permission, sir, to go to Headquarters?”

  “Of course. There will probably be any number of vehicles available to take a lift on. Jim!”

  The Adjutant wandered across from the other side of the Transient Officers Mess, glass in hand and a smile on his face; it was holiday still.

  “Tommy, what can I do for you this fine day?”

  “Captain Trotter is aggrieved and wishes to take his complaints to HQ. Find him transport, will you?”

  “But of course, I am quite sure I saw a rusty old bicycle at the back of the kitchens! Come along now, Captain Trotter!”

  Jim came back a few minutes later.

  “Stuck him in the back of a tender that was going out, Tommy. Won’t see him again for a while. Shall I see if we can get rid of him?”

  “I think so, Jim. Not the sort we want hanging around our field.”

  “That’s just what I thought, Tommy. The tender was going to Calais, by the way. He can probably find a vehicle there to take him to HQ – busy sort of place, bound to be something! I know a chap in the Redcaps there – I could give him the wink to pick him up as a deserter and put him in the cells overnight?”

  “Better not, Jim. It might be regarded poorly by his people in London.”

  “No sense of humour, those Londoners – comes from spending too much time cooped up in offices in a big city. A bit of fresh air in a cockpit in France would do them no end of good!”

  “Obviously true, Jim. Time for a drink? Let’s get the boys to the bar. First one’s on me!”

  It was a noisy night, but pilots were habitually high-spirited, all had to agree, and they flew out early next morning before the official enquiries could start, and new windows were cheap enough anyway.

  The new field was not a particularly welcoming sight.

  It was muddy; Tommy saw a few wooden offices and lines of tents where the squadron slept; there was a single tree at the end of the three hundred yards long field, with a BE2c crashed and left in the upper branches.

  The Strutters landed and the pilots found the mess tent and moaned.

  Jim turned up an hour later, limped out of the tender and stared, appalled.

  “This won’t do, Tommy!”

  “Engineers here, chop, chop, Jim!”

  “Within the week, Tommy! Now, who do I talk to… We have got a bloody telephone, I assume?”

  Captain Ross walked across from his hangars, shaking his head.

  “Not good enough, sir. No hard bases – no place to set up any of the machines – lathes, grinders, drills, milling machines, all need a firm, level footing – I can’t set them up in mud!”

  “Excellent, Captain Ross. I shall speak to Baring immediately, inform him that the squadron is not operational, and cannot be until we have the most basic facilities. Where’s the Armourer?”

  “Flight-Sergeant Burke is not here, sir. He left
with the trucks that had brought the bombs and three-o-three rounds, sir, refusing to take delivery and needing to report why to a senior officer in his trade.”

  “Good. I can trust his judgement, I know. What about this mob of BE2cs? How are they getting by here?”

  “No idea, sir – I cannot discover any sign of them in the hangars. I suspect they have tip-toed away, sir, and are sharing a field a few miles up the road. No telephones, sir, I looked. They will have taken them with them to keep their numbers live.”

  “Sod this for a game of skittles! Jim, get in the observer’s seat. We are off to HQ!”

  “No field? No facilities? No tele… phone? Cannot fly? What the… Hell?”

  “Yes, sir. No bomb dump, sir. No dry facilities for the stores or the machine-gun ammunition, sir.”

  “I’ll have… someone’s guts… for garters… Stark!”

  Boom was at full volume; Tommy took a pace backwards.

  “Not yours… man!”

  Tommy breathed a sigh of relief – he had been the nearest target.

  Maurice Baring stepped forward, deciding that the voice of reason might be listened to.

  “I shall discover the whereabouts of the BE2cs’ Wing, sir, and instruct their colonel to report to this office at soonest. He must know where they are. If he does not, then he has been most remiss in his inspections. We want Major Stark at the particular location, and Wing is to be based there as well, so we should not move the squadron. That means the most immediate response from the Engineers, sir. With your permission, I shall submit urgent requests at general officer level. Essential for the progress of the impending offensive, sir.”

  “Do it… Baring. Thank you.”

  “Sir.”

  “Anything… else, Stark?”

  “The new Intelligence Officer, sir. Definitely misnamed!”

  “Ha! Good… line… Stark!”