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

by Andrew Wareham

  The feeling was much in favour. They wanted the chance to make a score. They cheered and made many a mispronunciation of the word ‘Fokker’, a gift to the schoolboy sense of humour.

  The Flight commanders joined Tommy to tidy up the details.

  “Who does what, Tommy?”

  “My Flight are decoys today, Ducky. This rain is stopping and we should get up after lunch. Yours are over on the German side and Blue is high on ours. Fred, your Flight has the day off today. Rotate tomorrow. Put a list up on the wall for who does what – keep it fair and open. Print it in big letters so Angus can read it.”

  Fred shook his head.

  “No need, Tommy. I shall explain it to him; three or four times.”

  Tommy led his Flight into the German anti-aircraft fire, varying their height and speed and direction by tiny increments, sufficient to put the range-finders off so that they would only be hit by a badly-fused shell. It struck him as amusing that the better the German gunners were, the less their chances of making a hit.

  The black smoke of the shells bloomed in the air, but never within two hundred feet of the Flight. Tommy made a note on the pad he kept in the cockpit – ‘box barrage more effective’. He would discuss Archie with Colonel Kettle and suggest that he should tell the British gunners to give up on aiming and instead fire a barrage that would effectively make a section of the air uninhabitable.

  He felt a sharp prod in the back, looked round to Flight-Sergeant Balcombe who was waving his bamboo cane at him and then pointing across the lines. He picked out six shapes, biplanes, slightly higher and diving in towards the Flight.

  Half a mile distant, a little more than twenty seconds away. Tommy waved and punched the air, the signal to break formation on his lead. Frank, John and David waved back, hopefully confirming that they remembered what to do.

  Tommy decided they were six single-seater Fokkers, DI, he thought; with no observer, they could have no rear Parabellum gun, would be limited to the front-firing synchronised Spandau. They were diving, so the answer was to climb, Frank and David to the left, Tommy and John to the right, as rehearsed, following with a bank and dive onto them. Turning should allow the observers a first shot as well, essentially as a distraction, so that the German pilots would not look about them.

  All went to plan initially, the Fokkers firing into empty air as the Strutters heaved themselves to the side and up. The Four Lewises responded to the Spandau fire, with no visible results. The Fokkers began to pull out of their dives and climb again, more slowly than the Strutters who opened a gap of a quarter of a mile, the two pairs of the Flight closing together again.

  Blue’s Flight came in from the west, the four in line abreast and firing at Blue’s signal. The leading two Fokkers showed hit immediately, one falling into a spin and the other diving away trailing smoke, steeper and steeper as the pilot lost control. Two of the four gave up their attack and climbed off into the east, into Ducky’s hands; they were in flames before they were aware of an attack. The survivors dived hard, perhaps knowing that they out-performed the Sopwith in the dive. Two had escaped the ambush, going home to tell the tale perhaps.

  The three Flights joined together and climbed to ten thousand feet to stooge around for another hour, basically to announce that they were masters of this section of the sky.

  They landed cheering and running to slap each other’s backs – four for no loss in a single patrol was unheard of.

  “Killed four, Boffin – four halves to the attacking Flights.”

  “Poor fellows, Tommy! I know that it is war, but one must ask oneself whether it is right that one should make such a celebratory song and dance of the destruction of four young men, especially so on the Lord’s Day.”

  Tommy was outraged – their efforts were being denigrated by a back-stabbing stay-at-home preacher!

  “Balls, Boffin! If you don’t like it, go and turn your collar back to front. Don’t bloody well moralise at me!”

  Jim appeared before dinner, announced that Boffin was seriously upset and felt that he should be posted away – he was not suitable for the squadron. He could no longer work, knowing Major Stark’s opinion of him.

  “I agree. Speak to Wing, Jim. Pot must have seen that all is not well with the poor lad.”

  “Two Intelligence Officers thrown out in the space of less than two months, Tommy. Questions may be asked.”

  “He ain’t fit for duty with the RFC, Jim. He’s too sober, too respectable for us. He’s a gentleman, no less but nothing more. Most of us are gentlemen, Jim, but that’s only part of what we are; it’s all of what he is.”

  “His father is a preacher of some sort, a Methodist or some such.”

  “Thank you for correcting me, Jim. Obviously, he cannot be a gentleman with such parentage. If we can’t get rid of him, then we must do something about him.”

  “What?”

  “Damned if I know… let’s speak to Quacker.”

  “From a medical point of view, gentlemen, I have to say that Boffin’s case is hopeless – he is incurably staid and sober. Worse than that, he is an upstanding young man of great virtue – a potential pillar of the community. He will proceed from the RFC to a life filled with good works and service to his fellow man. He is, in fact, exactly the sort of chap who built the Empire – and we certainly need no more of them! The only solution I could imagine is to get him drunk and let him loose in a brothel – but my conscience could not tolerate him catching a pox and then shooting himself, both of which he might very well do. Can he be promoted?”

  Tommy and Jim considered that suggestion.

  “Has he any skills that would be better used at HQ than here in the squadron, Jim?”

  “Not to my knowledge, Tommy. In fact, I don’t know that he has any skills at all.”

  “Sounds like an ideal staff officer. Is he any sort of preacher himself? You said his father is some sort of Bush-Baptist – has he worked that trade? Last time we buried a Methodist we had to say he was C of E to get him put underground officially. If we made the point to Pot that he is qualified in the planting line, we might manage to get him farmed off into the trade. God knows, they are busy enough down at the graveyards!”

  Jim was hopeful – it might work.

  Colonel Kettle was very much in favour of having an official padre for the Nonconformists – it would be tidier, would make for neater files if the dead were shown to have been put away in correct fashion.

  “Last thing we want after the war is to discover that fifty thousand stiffs were buried according to the wrong ritual. It would take forever to heave them out again and have them reinterred with a firing party and saluting officers and all of that rigmarole; the RFC would be doing nothing else for the next ten years. I shall speak to Boffin myself.”

  Colonel Kettle showed triumphant within the day.

  “Sent him off to London, Major Stark. He must get some sort of certificate, it would seem, to serve in place of ordination. He will be back in days, fully fledged in his new persona, and will become a chaplain. He was qualified and said that he would have taken the final steps already in peacetime, but felt he had an obligation to go to war. Strange, ain’t it, Stark – the man is upright, virtuous, thinks the right way and tries to do the right thing, always does his very best - and I can’t stand the little sod!”

  “Same here, sir. I am sure he is a far better man than I, but I am very pleased to hear that he will much better somewhere else. Now, sir, I find that my squadron needs an Intelligence Officer. I thought of shifting Angus to the job, but he is perhaps more suited to be a pilot.”

  “I am tempted to give it to him, Major Stark, just to see what would happen. My own sense of duty is too strong, I fear – I cannot. I’ll try to find a suitable replacement.”

  “Necessary, I think, sir. Turning to important matters, we shall go hunting across the German front line again. Yesterday’s little excursion was highly profitable, after all, and I want Fred’s Flight to blood themselves a
s well. Remarkable just how much good it does them to start picking up a score. What’s the word on bombardment, sir?”

  “Not yet. The feeling is that Jerry will be much demoralised if you suddenly start your low-level attacks just as he is being pushed back by the big offensive. Strafe the trenches now and he will become used to you, and will soon realise that his machine-guns can put you down. Until the last day of June, you must concentrate solely on slapping down his planes. The word we have is that we outnumber Jerry three to one in this sector – most of his machines are busy over Verdun. By the way, have you any Irish pilots in the squadron? If so, you are to satisfy yourself that they are loyal, I quote, bearing in mind this nonsense in Dublin over Easter.”

  “I don’t know, for certain, sir. But I don’t think I need doubt any of my lads. Mind you, if General Haig happened to drive by, I would not put it past several of them to take a shot at his car – but that’s nothing to do with Ireland, it’s simple common sense.”

  “God help us – if you are ever heard saying something like that, you will be broken, Stark. And so might I be for listening to you! Labour Battalion will be here tomorrow, extra hangars and barracks and officers’ accommodation. Our second squadron flies in at the end of the week and number three will be put up six or seven miles down the road. Both fly DH2s, you will be glad to hear. See if you can think out a sensible way of using two squadrons together, Stark. You know Major Arkwright well, I am aware, so you should be able to work with each other. Close friends, and all that!”

  “Bloody newspapers! We will never live that down. Makes us sound like Oscar Wilde and Bosie!”

  “How did you come to hear of them, Stark? Have you started reading in your old age?”

  “Monkey – my wife – put the ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol’ in front of my nose when I was at a loose end earlier in the year. I read it – take a braver man than me to disobey her orders! Found it easy going, too, and enjoyable – simple and strong. Made me think. I asked her why he ended up inside, and she, somewhat reluctantly, explained that he had been an unusually naughty man. My father-in-law, Lord Moncur, filled in the details.”

  Colonel Kettle stared at Tommy, little short of awe in his face. He had known Tommy at Brooklands, was amazed at the depths of sophistication he now displayed.

  “Good God, Tommy! You haven’t decided to grow up, have you?”

  “Comes to us all in the end, Rob – unwillingly, of course.”

  “I am amazed, and deeply impressed. Keep an eye out over the Trenches, Tommy. Jerry will not be pleased at having been ambushed and might try to turn the tables.”

  “If he is aware that it was an ambush, then I would agree. If he thinks that it was just bad luck, maybe not. They obey orders, so I’m told, Rob. If they are to form larger units in July, then they may not think it to be right to do so now. I shall talk to Ducky and Blue and Fred. Ducky’s due for promotion, in my opinion, Rob. Bear him in mind in the next weeks? We shall lose men hitting the trenches.”

  “Perhaps you, Tommy?”

  “He who lives a charmed life cannot expect to live it for ever, Rob.”

  “Think that way and you will certainly die, Tommy! You will live to get grey hairs – and that is an order!”

  They saw nothing for two days and varied their patrols to the extremes of their sector, were well to the north of their patch when they next attracted attention. Fred was playing with Archie, Tommy at eleven thousand feet to the east, immediately under a layer of thin cloud and hoping to be unobserved. Ducky was at home and Blue had the Flight in the west, visible at eight thousand feet and due to act as beaters to scare Jerry under Tommy’s guns.

  John had rarely good eyesight, signalled Tommy as he spotted specks to the north east, diving in on Fred from eight thousand feet. The Flight banked at Tommy’s signal, taking a wide circle round to the north of the attackers and starting to lose height, very slowly.

  The six Germans were monoplanes, old Fokkers stationed well clear of the busy fighting zones and presumably anxious for action.

  Tommy was unconvinced, stared south and west, where he would have positioned another Flight if he had been a German with ambush in mind. He saw nothing. The alternative was a section of the new Albatros fighters, capable of high altitudes, hidden above him in the clouds, peeping into daylight occasionally. Nothing at all. If there was an ambush, it was going to fail.

  Tommy led his Flight in its dive as the Fokkers fell upon Fred, who had climbed and was now leading all three of his pilots into a hard bank to starboard, out-turning the old monoplanes.

  Blue appeared in the west, in line abreast and at much the same height as the Fokkers; he had a speed advantage and was closing rapidly.

  One of the monoplanes was showing smoke, burst into flames as the petrol tank blew. Tommy thought it had probably been caught by the observers of Fred’s Flight, able to put it into a crossfire.

  The remaining five turned for home, climbing as they spotted Blue’s Flight coming in, instinctively seeking height, the reaction of any pilot who had not been briefed on the Strutter’s poor diving capability.

  ‘Dive and zoom’, Tommy decided, picking out a Fokker with a small streamer on its tailplane, possibly the sign of a commanding officer. The monoplane grew closer, still climbing and trying to haul his nose onto line for a shot, but far too late and less able to manoeuvre than the biplane. Eighty yards and the engine and cockpit clearly in sight; Tommy pressed the trigger and the Vickers fired a dozen rounds before jamming.

  He heaved the control lever to port, gave Balcombe a shot from a bare thirty feet as the planes crossed.

  The observer filled the Fokker’s cockpit with Lewis rounds, hitting the pilot repeatedly. Tommy banked to starboard, trying to run parallel to a second target, saw his intended Fokker burst into flame as John ripped its petrol tank apart, his Vickers behaving itself. He spotted another Fokker flipping onto its back and falling out of control, engine stopped and wing buckling.

  Three, plus one for Fred, very reasonable, but he had hoped for all six, being old Fokkers.

  He watched as the remaining pair made a dive for home and found Blue waiting for them. They fell to converging streams of fire from Vickers and Lewises alike.

  Tommy signalled for home, led his twelve back to the field, very satisfied with the morning’s work.

  He got down, shouted for the Armourer.

  “Gun’s jammed, Flight!”

  “Can see it is, sir. Pin snapped on that long con-rod from the engine. Bloody lucky it didn’t stop the bloody engine as well, sir. Need to strip the lot down and see how much damage it did.”

  Flight-Sergeant Bolton, senior mechanic and hence in charge of the Major’s plane, was clucking like an old hen as he shook his head.

  “Change the engine, sir, and put this one on the bench. Bound to have thrown something off line, sir. Might be everything! Lucky to bring her home this time, Master Tommy, sir!”

  He apologised for forgetting – old habits could resurge in times of stress, he said.

  “So they can. Where’s the Intelligence Officer? He was due to get here this morning.”

  “He’ll be limping across, sir. Bit short in the leg department, these days, sir.”

  “Ah yes, I remember that the Colonel was hoping to get a penguin. He can keep Jim company. What’s his name, Flight?”

  “Don’t know, sir. He’s a captain, sir. Had some experience.”

  Tommy ambled off, spotted a group of pilots, presumed they were barraging the Intelligence Officer with reports, shouting all at once, no doubt.

  “Shut up, you horrible mob! Let the poor man think!”

  “He can’t, sir. He’s an Intelligence Officer!”

  “Good point, Blue, but give the poor chap a chance.”

  The Intelligence Officer was leaning on a walking stick, a clipboard resting on a bench beside him. He saluted Tommy, on the grounds that it was their first meeting and that everyone should salute the CO once.

 
“Mockford, sir. Hampshires, sir. Flew with Five Squadron for a year after transferring in July ’14. I came in a few days after you left us, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Bent a BE, sir – rather enthusiastically. Slight technical error on take off. Engine stopped but the plane didn’t. Found the boundary fence. Like a cheese grater – bits of plane scattered everywhere. Engine and petrol tank stayed in the field, I ended up on the other side, which was, all in all, the better place to be – not so hot. Left a foot behind, which was generally agreed to be careless. As I didn’t bleed to death – though I tried hard – I was patched up and told to bugger off home as no longer fit for service. Got bored, so I learned to read and write and persuaded them that I could be an Intelligence Officer.”

  “Easy enough done, Captain Mockford. Provided you ain’t inclined to be a preacher, that is. You ain’t, are you?”

  “Only in Leap Years, sir. And I’ve stopped jumping.”

  That seemed a very sensible answer.

  “What did they call you, by the way?”

  “Bridge.”

  “Bridge?”

  “It’s not the same as a real ford, you see.”

  They didn’t, but would never come between a man and his nickname.

  “Claiming six between us, Bridge. One to my observer, Flight-Sergeant Balcombe, after the Vickers jammed. One to John, as well. Two each to the other Flights. Fokker monoplanes, which ought to be out of it by now. No better than butchery letting them fly these days. Ten down in the space of half a week – not at all bad, to my mind!”