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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Good morning, sir. Major Stark, Fifty-Two Squadron. Captain Goossens is my second in command.”

  “Morning, Stark! I believe you are finally operational, sir.”

  Colonel Kettle was all business – no interest in reminiscences.

  “As of today, sir. Most of the squadron is flying at the moment, familiarisation with this section of the Front. We are in all ways ready, sir, except that we lack an Intelligence Officer. A gentleman was due to arrive yesterday, but he has not shown.”

  “He will not, Major Stark. His transport was involved in a smash on the road from Calais yesterday morning.”

  “Hear reports of smashes every day now, sir. We really need better roads built.”

  “The Frogs won’t pay for roads, and we ain’t going to build roads for free for them to use after the war. Anyway, his replacement will be here in the morning.”

  “We have an office and accommodation for him, sir.”

  “Good. Not much in love with what I have seen in my offices, Stark. Very limited!”

  “The Labour Battalion built to their own specification, sir. I am afraid that I have not so much as inspected your part of the camp, sir.”

  “None of your business to do so, Stark; my responsibility, not yours. I shall call them back to redo the job. Is that a cinder landing track, Stark?”

  “Experimental, sir. The clay is very heavy and very wet here, sir. The Engineers think we might be able to use this as soon as it stops raining any day. To my mind, we would be better shifting the field to the chalk ridges. Might be another ten miles back, sir, but that’s only a few minutes these days.”

  “General Trenchard was insistent on this location.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They scowled together.

  “Who else is in the Wing, sir?”

  “Two new squadrons to come out in the course of May. Who, I do not know.”

  “What are we to do in the immediate future, sir?”

  “General Trenchard insists that you are to fly as a squadron and to use your best endeavours to destroy or chase away all reconnaissance machines. You are to give thought to balloons, as well. You have had some success with balloons, I believe.”

  “We have none of the Pomeroy rounds here, sir. If we are to go after balloons, then they will be very useful.”

  “I shall do what I can, Stark. For the while, fly as a squadron from tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir. I propose to fly three Flights at a time, sir. That will allow for maintenance work on the buses and will give each pilot one day off in four. They will need that if we are to fly three patrols a day of two and a half hours duration each, sir. General Trenchard was in favour, except that we must have all machines in the air during ground offensives, sir.”

  “Agreed. He told me that he had discussed squadron patrols with you directly, Major Stark. He agreed that all further contact must be made through Wing.”

  Tommy was aware that his direct contacts with the General would find no favour with his immediate superior.

  “Chain of command, sir – you will not see me attempting to go behind your back, sir. My trips to Headquarters have occurred at General Trenchard’s command, sir.”

  “So Baring told me, and his word will do for me, Major Stark.”

  “The word of a gentleman, sir.”

  “Well said!”

  “What will be your habit, sir, for dining and such?”

  “I shall share your mess, Major Stark until the other squadrons join the Wing. It will probably be better then for me to hold more distant – no thought of playing favourites among the squadrons. How big is your dining room, by the way, will it take two squadrons? I expect one more squadron to come to this field, by the way, and the third to be located very close.”

  “The Mess was built big enough for two squadrons, sir. In the expectation that there would be at least a pair on the field.”

  “In that case, Stark, I shall mess in with you as a permanence. Easier for us that way.”

  Tommy agreed – if they had to have a colonel on the field, then it was better that he should be domesticated.

  Colonel Kettle unbent and discussed less immediate matters.

  “I do not know whether we are expected to remain as a three squadron Wing after the big offensive.”

  “No planning, sir – after all, the war is expected to end after a great success on the Somme. The British will push Jerry back and that will lead to the collapse of the attack on the French at Verdun and then to a general advance along the whole Western Front. The cavalry will come into its own, sir, and drive the disorganised foe into the Rhine.”

  Colonel Kettle agreed that to be the expectation.

  “I am told, Stark, that there will then be a massive success on the Russian front, while the Austro-Hungarian Empire will collapse and the Ottomans will sue for peace. All will be over by Christmas.”

  “I am sure it will be, sir. It merely remains to be determined of which year. The Blockade, I am told, will have starved Germany by 1919, and I am sure the war will end then.”

  “All depends, Stark. If the German submarines are any more successful, then Britain will starve by 1918!”

  “What a fine war it really is, sir!”

  “Unprecedented, but only in some ways, Stark. Have you ever read of the thirty Years War, in the Germanies, as they then were, in the early Seventeenth Century? No actual count taken, of course, but it’s a good bet that one half of the population died. And how many the British killed in France in the Hundred Years War can only be guessed. Butchery of the civilian population ain’t that new, but it has rarely been a deliberate aim of policy in the past – normally what you might call a side-effect!”

  “Perhaps I should read some history, sir.”

  “Why? It won’t help you fight this war. Is your squadron up to scratch, Stark? Any men you wish to dump?”

  “None, sir. Most of the bad eggs have been removed or have killed themselves in accidents. So far, we have had very few crashes, sir – due mostly to a damned good set of men in the hangars. If you can do something for Baldy Ross, sir, then I would be very pleased. He is a captain, which makes it difficult.”

  “Might be able to create a Wing Engineering Officer at the rank of major – worth trying. If I can get the post on the establishment, then it can go to him. As a major he is then eligible for the DSO, of course. We shall see. What’s this about your medical chap, by the way, Stark?”

  Tommy thought hard; he could not remember anything about him.

  “Oh, I’ve got it, sir. Quack was a medical student – several of our squadron medical men are, or were. I have a feeling that a number of them in one of the doctors’ universities, or wherever it is they learn the trade, got together and all volunteered for the RFC; drunk, I expect. They persuaded themselves that the war would be over before they had qualified, or so I believe. Anyway, sir, our Quack has been with us for some months, and he has decided that he wants to, in his own words, ‘become more a part of the squadron’. He has an ambition to become an observer. I suspect he then hopes to get into the pilot’s seat – and if an observer is any good, I will always see to that.”

  Kettle raised an eyebrow at the casual assumption that sergeants might be commissioned at the whim of their squadron commanding officer. He might, he suspected, be forced to support that policy, for wishing to avoid a fight with Stark, who had too many friends, as well as a well-earned reputation in the RFC.

  Tommy continued his analysis of the medical question.

  “I have passed the word that it is quite impossible for Quack to become a flying man, unless he can organise for a more qualified chap to take his place. I don’t know what he has done – he might have some strings to pull. I hope so, we could use a doctor – he could work for the whole Wing, sir.”

  Colonel Kettle agreed; a doctor might save a few lives, would certainly be of general use.

  “I have a communication from HQ, waiting on my desk, to state
that it is formal policy that no squadron shall have a doctor attached. The note also states that no policy has been formulated at Wing level. No medical orderly shall be permitted to fly, except where written permission has been granted for him to permanently change his status; this may be done at Wing.”

  “Very good, sir. Obviously the case that Baring has no objections – he is aware of the problem with Quack, I asked his advice. This does not smack of a pronouncement from on high – General Trenchard tends to be less subtle. When does the doctor arrive? Do we need to build a better-equipped sick bay, sir?”

  “I don’t know! Wait till it happens, man!”

  Colonel Kettle had no great love for behind the scenes string-pulling; he thought it to be dishonourable, and quite possibly harmful to the war effort.

  Tommy wandered off and found Quack with his feet up on the table in his sick bay.

  “No trade today, Quack?”

  “No, Tommy. Depressingly healthy bunch in this squadron. There’s a cold going the rounds, and there’s nothing I can do for that. Otherwise, the only trade I’ve had today is a Private First Class driver with the pox. Occupational hazard with the drivers, Tommy – they get off the field every day and pass all of the brothels on the roads. Apparently, there are quite a few knocking-shops on the highway from Calais, Tommy, and many of them very cheap – must be if a man on driver’s pay can afford them. Can’t treat that here so I’ve sent him off to Rose Cottage.”

  “Rose Cottage?”

  “Pox clinic – it seems that the Army always gives them that nickname.”

  “How sweet! I hear rumours of a doctor coming in this direction?”

  “If nothing gets in the way, Tommy, then I shall be requesting to transfer to General Duties, and then into flying as an observer, in the next couple of days.”

  Quack looked anxious, worried that he might still be refused.

  “If you want to fight that badly, Quack, then I will recommend to Wing that your application be accepted. I think you are unwise, I must say, but I will not stand in your way. Do you want to become a pilot, eventually?”

  Quack nodded.

  “Again, I shall not prevent you, Quack. But you know the chances – pilots die young, too often. You are intelligent as well – you must be bright to be a medical student – and most pilots are better at doing than thinking. You must have noticed that chaps like me commonly read with our fingers!”

  “Now that’s an exaggeration, Tommy! Angus is the only one I’ve seen reading Comic Cuts with his finger on the words!”

  The illustrated weekly for boys was quite popular in the Mess.

  “How many have you seen reading anything harder than Comic Cuts!”

  “Well… one or two. There are novels in the anteroom, so I am told.”

  “Most of them still have uncut pages! The only ones that are read are the French ones with the yellow covers. And they only look at the pictures in those!”

  “Even so, Tommy – I want to be part of it.”

  “If you can do it – and not every man can fly, however much he wants to – then I will back you, Quack.”

  “Thank you. I shall still become a doctor eventually, Tommy, after the war, but I cannot stay here, almost at the Front, almost a doctor, almost a man… I don’t know that flying will make me a better doctor, but it will leave me more satisfied in my existence.”

  “Provided you live, Quack.”

  “Not very easy to know that I shall certainly eat my dinner tonight, possibly at a half-empty table; that whatever happens to the squadron, it ain’t going to happen to me. I know that more than one – a lot more – of the mechanics feel the same way. I know that you cannot fly without us in the background, but that still don’t make me feel any less of a fraud, Tommy.”

  The conversation was leading Tommy into unfamiliar territory, but he was obliged, he believed, to offer advice as well as give orders.

  “You are doing a useful job, Quack. Not like me – I know nothing else, haven’t got a skill as such – all I know is playing in planes. Come the end of the war, I shall try to find something else to do in the air, until eventually Gravity gets me. It gets every pilot in the end. I can see myself at the age of seventy, hobbling up into my seat and arthritically taking off and discovering that I finally can’t do it any more. I won’t have a passenger with me, that’s for sure. You can do better than that.”

  “I will, Tommy – but I shall fly first.”

  “If you are determined, then so you will. Do you know the chap who is coming in your place?”

  “My brother. He qualified four years ago and took a job on the liners – ship’s doctor, passing pills to the hypochondriac wealthy. Money’s not bad, and there’s always a widow or two wanting to be comforted in her lonely cabin. He was on the run to Australia – four months out of England at a time. His ship has been taken over as a trooper and he was looking for a place. My father knows one or two people and was able to get him appointed to the RFC, but not actually a part of the Corps. I have an uncle as well who knows Asquith, you see.”

  Tommy had heard of Asquith, knew him to be the Prime Minister.

  “When does he get here?”

  “He is on his way now. Delayed slightly by his baggage, which contains an amount of medical material which we have not got here. He sent a message from Calais this morning that he is having to get hold of a truck. He will – he can work his way through any situation. You will like him, Tommy – unless you hate his guts; no middle ground with my brother!”

  “Excuse me, Mum.”

  “Yes, Mary?”

  Monkey wondered what it would be this time – Mary was still no more than thirteen, was unsure of all that she should do and found Mrs Rudge intimidating. The girl regularly asked questions about the housework, few of which Monkey could answer.

  “My friend Annie, Mum. She started at the shell factory last month, Mum, but she don’t like it. She’s cleverer nor me, Mum, and she says she ain’t ‘appy there. She don’t get paid much, for not being old enough, and all she does is splash a ‘osepipe with steam to clean up a bit, but she ain’t got time to do everything proper. My muvver ain’t going to get well, Mum, and Mrs Rudge says what we needs a maid in ‘er place.”

  “Would Annie like to work here, Mary?”

  “She really wants to get out of that place, Mum. She don’t like it. Frightens ‘er, so it do.”

  “I will speak to Mrs Rudge now, Mary.”

  Monkey made her way to the kitchen, found Mrs Rudge trying to cook and do the laundry, evidence that she was short-handed.

  “That Annie, Ma’am? I knows that one, too clever for her own good. Ought to have gone to the big school, but it’s no good trying to tell her parents that, ma’am! They can barely read or write and aren’t going to see a girl wasting her time with books, like she was gentry! They got her out of the classroom as soon as they could. We need a maid, full time, and we could get her to live in; she’d do better with us, ma’am, as long as you didn’t mind her pinching a look at your books.”

  “Bring the poor girl in, Mrs Rudge. How old is she?”

  “About the same as Mary, ma’am. But Mary can’t come full time, for having to look after the little ones at home, what her mother can’t do no more. Not many years left in Mrs Kinver, ma’am. She ain’t forty, but she’s had a baby a year since she was seventeen, and only four of them lived, poor soul, and she’s just plain worn out, what with the husband dying and her father not able to look out for himself no more.”

  Monkey was horrified, mostly at herself for never having known. Mary’s mother had worked half days at River Cottage for six months, less and less effectively; it had been obvious that she was ill, but Monkey had never known what was wrong with her.

  “Does she need money for the doctor, Mrs Rudge?”

  “Too late for that, ma’am. She just needs peace and quiet now, ma’am.”

  “Tell Mary that she will be paid even if she cannot come in for Mrs Kinver being t
oo ill.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get the word to Annie to be here as soon as she can.”

  Annie transpired to be a tiny waif, no more than five feet tall and skin and bone; she was almost overwhelmed to have simultaneously escaped from the shell-filling factory and from her parents.

  “Yes, ma’am. No followers, ma’am, not while I’m living in, ma’am. Not that I’ve got a follower at all, ma’am.”

  Monkey was not surprised at that – the girl was far too young to be thinking of a man-friend.

  “If you want to read any of my books, tell me. You can borrow them, but put them back in their proper places on the shelves!”

  “What… any of them, ma’am?”

  “Any and all. Have you a library ticket?”

  “No, ma’am, my dad said I didn’t need be wasting me time reading, ma’am.”

  “I shall get you one, and you will have time off each week when the library is open to go and borrow books.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be good, ma’am.”

  “So you should be, at your age! Now then, what frightened you at the shell-filling factory?”

  “It’s going to go bang, ma’am. They don’t care, ma’am, not about doing things proper. They makes the girls to run, ma’am, and that means they spill little bits of the hot stuff, and it dries on the floor, and the girls with the steam hoses don’t get time to get it all up. There’s places in the dark corners where the stuff’s lying two inches thick, ma’am. All it needs is a hot spark, ma’am, or something heavy to drop.”

  “Are you sure? I thought there had to be a fuse to make it explode.”

  “No, ma’am, I asked the man what was telling us how to clean in the mixing room, ma’am. The stuff comes in as dry chemicals, ma’am, and it gets mixed together, hot and wet, so much of one sort and exactly the right weight of the others, and then it gets sent through the hot pipes and they pours the right amount into the shells, depending on their size, and it dries out and when it’s dry it can go bang. It can’t go when it’s wet, except there’s a really hot explosion first. But, ma’am, to make it go off, there’s what the man called the exploder bag, what gets tucked in the top after the shell’s filled. The man said, the fuse goes off when it’s hit, but it ain’t hot enough to make the whole shell go, so they got a special stuff in the exploder bag what blows really hot when the fuse sparks it, and that sets the shell off. But, ma’am, if the stuff in the shell gets spilled, so that it dries thin on the floor, then it can sweat, and that puts drops of the really dangerous stuff on the top – he said it was ‘jelly’ - and that blows real easy, and will set everything else off. That was why he said we had to be so careful to get all the spills with the steam hoses and clean everything up, ma’am. But they ain’t doing it.”