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

by Andrew Wareham

  Tommy decided they must still fly their afternoon patrol, despite the morning’s success. They must be seen to be in command of the skies they had emptied. He was called down to the hangars an hour before the planned take off.

  “You need to see this for yourself, sir. We took this off Angus’ plane.”

  ‘This’ was a wooden propeller, the two blades showing scores along the edges as well as two bullet holes clean through.

  “We checked the Vickers’ belt, sir. He fired about fifty rounds, and we think that one in six hit the prop, just two of them clean through the centre of a blade. The interruptor failed completely. But it didn’t blow it off! The blades are still unbroken, sir. Damaged and less efficient, certainly, but not as serious as we expected. I am getting a photographer to come across, sir, and will send the evidence back to the Aircraft Factory. It’s perhaps not the menace we feared, sir.”

  “Have you checked all of the others?”

  “All clear, sir.”

  “So… twelve planes flew and two experienced gun failures. That ain’t very satisfactory. Not blaming you people – it’s a design problem. Roll out two of the spares for this afternoon. Check Angus’ gun, and mine, obviously – try to see what the faults were and report them to Sopwith’s factory. How are the new hangars coming on? I haven’t had time to look them over.”

  The Labour Battalion had taken the sensible course of building the new hangars as close as they could to the old, so that facilities could be shared.

  “The buildings are complete, sir, as you can see. We have set out the workshops like ours. Captain Ross has shifted his machine shop, sir, so that it is now as nearly central as he could get it, available to both squadrons.”

  They flew a blank patrol, no opposition visible, saw a new cluster of balloons and nothing else of interest. Tommy reported to Colonel Kettle that he thought the Germans had no intention of playing for the while.

  “Extra balloons, sir – as if they intended to do all of their observation from them, had given up on planes.”

  “Discourage them, if you can, Major Stark. Have the Pomeroy rounds arrived yet?”

  “No, sir. Held at the QM stores at the Central Air Park, sir. When Jim enquired he was told that they are in short supply and are not being issued to the squadrons so that they will not be wasted. We have got some of the older Buckingham rounds, but the Pomeroys are said to be better for observation balloons – though why, I do not know.”

  “God help us, Stark! Leave it with me. We shall have them within two days. Stay here for the moment, will you? I have Captain Ross coming to see me in a few minutes. He doesn’t know why.” Colonel Kettle held up a pair of major’s crowns in explanation. “Came through this morning, permission to appoint a Wing Engineering Officer, if appropriate.”

  Baldy Ross appeared and was duly amazed and rendered speechless. He did manage to say that he thought it was all down to Tommy, who had made it possible for him to do a proper job of work.

  “That you have done a ‘proper job of work’ is utterly indisputable, Major Ross. You are owed our thanks, that is for certain. Eat a good dinner tonight, sir – you will need a solid base in your stomach.”

  The Pomeroy rounds arrived in the two days Colonel Kettle had specified; the squadron had recovered sufficiently from wetting Baldy Ross’ crowns to be vaguely interested.

  “What do we do with them, Tommy?”

  “Put them in the Vickers and fire them, Angus.”

  “Ah! Not in the Lewises, then!”

  Sarcasm was wasted on Angus, unable to penetrate the layers of sanguine stupidity.

  “No. I don’t know why, but the orders are that they are not right for the Lewis.”

  “I expect it’s science, Tommy.”

  “Wouldn’t know, Angus. Never learned any.”

  “Nor me. The teacher wouldn’t let me into his room again – and it wasn’t my fault! I forgot which way to turn the gas tap thing.”

  “Could happen to anyone, Angus! Not to worry. We shall use the Pomeroy rounds for balloon busting. The Army don’t like them and thinks we should do something about them.”

  Angus knew only that balloons were to be avoided as very dangerous.

  “You tell me what to do, Tommy, and I will see to it.”

  “Good man!”

  Tommy brought the conversation to an end; he found it very tiring, talking with Angus. He sat to think and then called the Flight Commanders to him.

  “Full squadron attack, four Flights. Two to come in at zero feet, from the east and the north, shooting up the ground, keeping the guns busy. The others to come from south and west and going for the balloons. Five seconds between the Flights, line abreast, single passes – don’t come back for more.”

  They nodded, thoughtfully.

  “Bombs, Tommy?”

  “No, we need the extra speed and don’t want to be flying into each other’s bursts.”

  “All loaded with Pomeroy, Tommy? Including the ground attack?”

  “Why not? They will make a hole in the gas cylinders, with a bit of luck.”

  “What about the Hague Convention, Tommy? Explosive rounds are rather poorly regarded, are they not?”

  “Good question, Ducky. As I remember, it forbids the use of poison gas. Not really relevant in this war.”

  No more was said about Conventions; they were obviously meant for politicians and judges and that sort of earnestly irrelevant types.

  The mode of attack decided, it remained only to allocate the Flights.

  “Myself and Blue to the low-level beat up of the guns. Fred and Ducky on top. Your decision on exactly how you are to come in Ducky. We fly out together, split up on our side of the Trenches. Blue will go east and I’ll take the north – well clear of the balloons until we make the run in. Blue will hit first and I’ll watch and bring my people in behind him. You and Fred should hit within the second of my attack, Ducky.”

  “When?”

  “Now. We fly in ten minutes. No sense sitting and sweating over it.”

  The Armourer was waiting outside the CO’s office.

  “Vickers are all loaded with Pomeroy, sir. All thoroughly examined, sir. The rounds are all good and the guns should fire. I have filled the pans of the Lewises with Buckingham, sir. They work perfectly well in the Lewis. I tested them last night at the back of the hangars, sir, against the spoil the Engineers dug up and put in heaps, sir. Should be no problem at all, sir.”

  “Well done, Flight-Sergeant Burke! Initiative – I like to see it.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I suggest, sir, that I could do my job better if I had some idea of what conditions are like when the guns are actually fired, sir?”

  “No. You are too valuable to go out playing. You know how a machine-gun fires, and it ain’t any different at a thousand feet to on the ground. If we run out of observers, you can fly. Not until. And, I want you to train up as many gunners as you can – every private soldier who looks as if he has two brain cells to rub together should be given the chance. I’m not worried about the observing side, but we may need replacement gunners in a hurry. I know you have worked on the guns on the spare buses. We shall have more planes coming in any day, to give us a reserve; make sure they can fly immediately.”

  The Armourer saluted and wandered off to the hangars, informing the mechanics that Tommy expected to be using the spare crates in the immediate future.

  “We ought to run a sweepstake. Tanner apiece into the kitty and draw a pilot’s name each, like it was the Derby. First one down wins the pot.”

  The mechanics all shouted that it was a disgusting idea, unthinkable. Then they put their hands in their pockets for their sixpences.

  “Just spray the ground, Flight-Sergeant Balcombe. I don’t think there’ll be a lot of chance of aiming. Get off every round you can.”

  “I’ll do what us can, zur. Just you keep the old gal flying, zur.”

  Tommy grinned and led the squadron to the planes, allowing two minutes for i
ndividual rituals, glancing quickly around to see who was becoming increasingly fervent in the good luck charms, who was close to obsessive. He noticed that David had no little habits at all; others kicked a tyre or patted a wing or stamped on the turf as a sign that they would be back, but David just walked briskly to his plane and stepped into the cockpit. It was a little worrying – either he was supremely confident and he believed he had no need for luck, or he had become fatalistic. Fatalists knew there was nothing they could do to alter the course of events – they would die or they would not, they believed; few of them lasted many weeks after they had adopted the belief.

  There was nothing he could say or do; the inside of a man’s head was his own territory and no superior officer had the right to trespass there.

  They took off sixteen strong, none of the engines misbehaving. The mechanics had had more than twelve hours to work on their machines and would expect nothing to go wrong. When they came to three and four patrols a day, then there would be engine failures – that was unavoidable – but there should be very few problems in everyday usage.

  The squadron crossed the British lines, not a single gun firing at them; a year previously and they would have been targeted by every gunner in the line, but they had finally discovered which was which in the air.

  Tommy led his Flight slightly to the west and then north at four thousand feet, out of the way of the machine-guns. He quickly lost sight of Blue but was confident that he would be where he should be at the correct time, unless he was jumped by a German Flight, in which case he would amuse himself as he must.

  The balloons were up and distant some three miles to the east. He must proceed for another two and a half minutes, precisely, then turn through some one hundred and twenty degrees to bring himself on a direct line to the target. Blue would have flown for one hundred and forty-eight seconds by his expensive watch – the gift of his rich father – and would arrive on the scene four seconds before Tommy, who would make his attack almost before the Germans on the ground had had time to draw breath.

  It was all very well to make so precise a plan, Tommy thought, but if his airspeed indicator was a tiny fraction off, or if turbulence bounced one set of planes so much as to slow them just a little, they might arrive together. It would be embarrassing to indulge in a mid-air collision over the target; Jerry might wet himself laughing.

  He turned to course, looking around to see that the other three were with him and led them down to less than forty feet; any lower would put him at risk of hitting wireless aerials. The four planes crossed a rear stables area, artillery or wagon horses, the roar of engines leaving a chaos of panicking animals behind them. An unexpected bonus, Tommy supposed, though he could not like taking the beasts to war. The balloons were in sight, located at the top of a low rise, a ridge between two of the small rivers so common in Flanders. He adjusted course a couple of degrees, he was slightly off line, hoped that the second or two involved would not bring Blue upon him.

  A first machine-gun fired from one of the outlying nests, a quarter of a mile from the site; hopelessly wide but giving three or four seconds of warning to the guns directly around the balloons.

  The ground was a shambles already, dead men sprawled in the mud, two guns with barrels askew, stretcher-parties emerging, tendrils of smoke showing in half a dozen places. Tommy located the winches of the four balloons and pointed towards them, opening fire while still two hundred yards distant, hoping to empty a full belt. A few of the gunners were alert, machine-guns turning towards the Flight, commencing fire.

  The Vickers was firing with the stutter that showed the interruptor was working. He spotted a line of fire marching towards a winch party, the Pomeroy rounds visible as they hit; he twitched his nose a fraction, brought the gun precisely to bear, saw the winch itself breaking up. He felt machine-gun rounds thud into the fuselage, the whole plane shaking. He heard the crunch as a Sopwith hit the ground, skidding across, bursting into flames and slamming into the gas-generation plant; he could not see who it was. A balloon cable to his front, narrowly avoided, a few seconds more at ground level, easing onto a machine-gun nest to his front, firing his last few rounds.

  The Lewis was silent, but he had no time to look behind him.

  He crossed the last machine-guns and then pulled into his climb, full power and adjusting the petrol-air mix to get every last ounce from the engine. Bolton would not like that – running so hot that something in the cylinders or camshaft might burn out, so he said.

  He glanced around, saw Frank a few yards behind; no sign of David or John.

  Six minutes to four thousand feet and then levelling off, waving to Frank and pointing homewards. They were well over the lines already, in safe territory, and he returned the mix to his favoured normal position for the plane – every engine was slightly different, had its own optimum setting – and turned for home.

  Still only Frank. He twisted fully round in his seat, took a look at the damage to the plane, saw that Balcombe was hunched over in his damaged cockpit, covered in blood, unmoving. Nothing to be done until he was on the ground.

  He came into his approach, fired a red flare. There were planes down before him, rescuers working on three of them. He saw another red out of the corner of his eye, another damaged plane coming in. He landed and taxyed across to the hangars, stepped almost reluctantly out of the cockpit. He did not really want to know the details.

  Jim walked slowly across, Bridge beside him.

  “What’s the score, Jim?”

  “Thirteenth plane has just landed, Tommy. Nothing else in sight. Ducky hasn’t come back, or Nigel, or John. Terence is shot up – don’t know how he got back at all. Quacker says he might not die. Your Balcombe is gone, I see; face covered on his stretcher. Three other observers with bits missing. Two balloons definitely flamed. Seven planes with holes in them but live pilots and observers.”

  “Bloody balloons!”

  Colonel Kettle arrived, agreed with the comment.

  “Had a telephone call this minute, Tommy, from our Artillery people, in our balloons. Two Drachen destroyed for certain. Two others pulled down. They think that there’s a big fire, as if a gas generator was going up and most of the site with it. They called it a success.”

  “How pleasing.”

  “General Trenchard will regard it as a success, too. He will probably order other squadrons to repeat your attack. There’s an argument for using a single plane against balloons. Apparently it was done a few months ago with some success.”

  “By me, sir. Almost the first time I flew a mid-wing Morane with wedges on the prop. Jerry thought I was a Fokker and waved sweetly as I approached. With a very fast and small fighter with two guns, then maybe. Not in the Strutter, sir.”

  “I will send the message up the line. General Trenchard is very good at remembering the good bits – he forgets anything that don’t fit his ideas. You need five new men, Tommy, not having replaced your Christopher yet.”

  “Four at least of observers as well, sir. We have a number of private soldiers already trained up on the Lewis; they can be promoted. Quack will get his chance now.”

  Colonel Kettle did not like the idea, knew as well that he must not interfere – it was a squadron matter.

  “So be it, Stark. Major Arkwright is due in tomorrow, I am informed.”

  “Good! That will give an excuse for a welcoming bash – we need a party, sir, after this lot!”

  “Tasteless, but that is the RFC. I shall speak with London immediately, Stark. You may, with a little of luck, get your pilots tomorrow. Some of the BE2 squadrons will have bodies en route to them who can be diverted, provided I can persuade General Henderson’s people of the need. I shall use your name, frequently. Your doctor, by the way, has been commissioned in the Royal Army Medical Corps, on detachment to the RFC. His Military Cross is to be Gazetted within days. Don’t tell him yet – I don’t have an exact date.”

  “I am glad to hear that, sir. He is an unusual man and
deserves recognition, preferably while he is still alive – I think these posthumous medals are more than a little foolish, not that we’re allowed to with the MC.”

  Colonel Kettle was inclined to agree.

  “He’s not the sort to make old bones, Tommy. That’s a man who takes risks for the intentional fun of it. Not like you – it’s only afterwards that you become aware that you had put your neck on the line again. Quacker is one who will seek out danger for the thrill of it. Bloody daft, if you ask me!”

  Tommy had not considered that possibility. Danger was an enemy that sometimes crept up on him, almost always wholly unawares; the very thought of actively pursuing peril was alien to him.

  “Man needs a good wife, Rob! I’ve had my lady at my side since I was a boy, thinking on it. Always there, to talk to and to listen to as well. Strange, ain’t it, that I didn’t work out for years just how important she was to me – I suppose I simply knew it without thinking at all. Typical enough – thinking’s never been my style!”

  Colonel Kettle found himself envious; his wife of ten years was, he knew, carelessly, casually, unfaithful to him. She said he was boring. They had a son, certainly his from the early days of their match, and he was unwilling to seek a divorce and stigmatise the boy; she did not care whether he chose to end the marriage or not, having her own income and no desire to wed elsewhere. He rarely went home.

  Bridge came limping across, demanding Tommy’s report to add to the others.

  “Ducky was hit by a shell – probably the first one fired – blew up in the air. Nigel lost control – hit by machine-gun fire, Fred thought, and rammed a balloon; big bang! John dropped too low, clipped a cookhouse chimney and went into the ground and hit direct into the gas-plant. Even bigger bang! Terence’s observer said he was hit by machine-guns on his way out but kept control all the way – God knows how! Quacker thinks he will lose both legs below the knee – what he calls ‘compound fractures’, bones sticking out! What happened to you, Tommy?”