“Hit by machine-gun fire on the way out, Bridge. Everything went according to plan, we attacked almost immediately after Blue and I was able to destroy the winch to one of the balloons. I heard Balcombe’s Lewis go silent after that. He fired off two pans, I think. I saw John go down, though I didn’t know it was him – he hit hard and bounced across the whole site.”
Bridge made his notes, said no more.
Tommy turned back to Colonel Kettle.
“I need to replace Ducky, sir. Frank, I think, because he’s a bit more experienced than Barbry. That makes Fred number two in the squadron, by seniority in the Corps – he had his commission almost a year before Blue. Can we push for their captaincies to be made permanent, sir? Both deserve them.”
“That makes two colonials as captains, does it not, Major Stark? Might cause some eyebrows to rise.”
“Good men, both. A year and either could have a squadron, sir.”
Colonel Kettle said nothing to that. He knew that there were several very good Englishmen in the squadron and believed they should be given their chance – but he would not upset his squadron commander, not before the big battle.
“What will you do with Angus, Tommy? He will be senior within a few months; it will be his turn.”
“I much suspect that we will be flying squadron patrols only within a year, Rob. If that is so, then he can be promoted – he will make a damned good leader just as long as he doesn’t have to think for himself.”
“You may be right, Tommy. It goes against the grain to promote him, but he might be capable of doing the job if all he has to do is cheer his lads and tell them to follow him. I wonder what he will do after the war?”
“Oh, that’s obvious, Rob. He must become an MP – he has everything going for him to make a success in that line!”
“What do you plan, Tommy?”
“I don’t. I have talked with Monkey and she is looking into the possibilities. I suspect Australia – good for the children, though we have only the one at the moment, but I don’t doubt there will be more. She wants a son, for some reason, but I am very happy with a daughter – she might grow up like her!”
Sudden bitter envy in Kettle’s breast. Perhaps he would look for divorce, after all, and try again; he might be luckier second time around.
Dinner was a subdued meal, the table wine punished, the port tossed back, the bar busy afterwards. The pilots discussed cricket, and rugby as a courtesy to Quacker; a few made plans for reunions after the war. None said a word about the day, or mentioned the lost pilots. All drank far too much and most had to be helped to their beds, in near silence.
Breakfast was always silent.
Three DH2s flew in soon after nine o’clock, ferry pilots leaving them outside the hangars as directed and then driving away in a staff car that had been sent for them.
A Crossley tender bounced in a few minutes later and disgorged five hopeful second lieutenants, dropping their travelling bags from the rear. They looked about them for a welcome, were eventually greeted by the administration sergeant calling from the offices.
“Grab your bags, gentlemen, and come over here. The Adjutant’s leg is hurting this morning so he won’t come out to you.”
The idea that they should carry their own bags was evidently alien to three of the young gentlemen who stared loftily about for their servants. Two picked their own valises up and made good speed across the concrete to the offices. The others followed, resentfully.
Tommy had been watching from his own office, took note of the faces. Twenty minutes later the first was ushered into him.
“Welcome to Fifty-Two Squadron, Lieutenant. I am Major Stark.”
“Gale, sir. I am glad to be here, sir.”
“You look quite young, Mr Gale. Straight from school?”
“Yes, sir. Four of us are, sir. All from the training field near Catterick, sir. All of us from the North Country, sir.”
“Good. How many hours?”
“Fourteen, sir, solo, that is. Five hours on rotary engines, sir.”
“You will be flying this afternoon, Mr Gale. Without a gunner, as you will remain over British lines today. Your Flight Commander will brief you. Obey his orders, as goes without saying. You will be operational tomorrow, so learn all that you can today. Send the next gentleman in, if you please.”
McMurtrey, Callaghan and Smith followed, none making any impression, positive or negative, on Tommy – they seemed ordinary and quietly acceptable. They would make pilots, or they would die, but they would not make a lot of trouble.
Lieutenant Clifton came in last, was obviously not a schoolboy and probably not from the North Country.
“Transferred across from the Army, Mr Clifton? None of your paperwork has arrived yet and I know nothing of you.”
“No, sir. I was a police constable, sir, Norfolk Constabulary, and was permitted to join up when two of the men who had left in ’14 returned to duty, unfit to serve in France, sir, but able to work as Desk Sergeants. I had always wanted to fly, sir and applied to the RFC and was permitted to join as an officer, sir. I believe my Chief Constable had a word with General Henderson, sir. Not entirely popular with the boys from school, sir.”
“There are other pilots who come from outside of the schools, Mr Clifton. Do not concern yourself with the opinions of the little boys. How many hours have you in your Logbook?”
“Fifteen solo, sir, which includes just three in a rotary, sir. I was expecting to be posted next week, sir, but was put on the ferry with the whole of my course yesterday. I had thought we were to go to the BE2s, sir. I am glad I am not.”
“You are very green, Mr Clifton. There is a lot to learn, and a little to unlearn from your training, I doubt not. Work hard and find out what’s what. You will be in my Flight, together with another one of today’s boys. Have a word with David – he will give you some ideas of how we go about things. As a quiet word – I value men far more than boys!”
“Thank you, sir. What the Hell was that?”
There was a sudden roar of aircraft engines as a dozen DH2s passed overhead at fifty feet.
“That was Major Arkwright announcing his arrival, Mr Clifton. He is to share the field with us.”
“The VC, sir?”
“That’s him. He won his VC for saving my neck – we are good friends”
Dark Days Of Summer
Chapter Seven
“All well, Noah?”
“Within reason, Tommy. The DH2 is already past her prime, of course, out of date before she flew, but will do for another few months – no choice in the matter. The new Sopwith is going to the RNAS first. From what I am told, unofficially, the plane is being built by contractors as well and we are to have the first of them – in September or October, depending on engines, of course. According to Mr Hawker, it’s the best thing Sopwith have done yet. Now they are looking at the development of a slightly bigger, faster machine to carry two guns. Real Cowboy Pete stuff!”
“Not before time, Noah. The Strutter ain’t much good. I shall be glad to get rid of it. It can wipe a Fokker monoplane out of the air, but the new biplanes are hard work, and the word is that the Albatros – when we see it - will fly rings round us.”
Noah sympathised, the Strutter was neither fighter nor bomber, and the new planes coming out in Germany were very much one or the other.
“Word in the hangars was that you had a costly one yesterday. Saw five of new pilots being shown round the planes.”
“Balloons!”
“Enough said.”
“Too much. Some prick from HQ will be here within a day or two to tell us what a wonderful job we did – bet you any money you like!”
Noah nodded, turned the conversation to home.
“Lucy sends her best, Tommy. She’s in the family way – no time wasted at all! Couldn’t ask for anything better, so she says, and me! She has gone back to the house at Wilton. I took her across last week and saw Monkey while I was there. You heard of the shell-fi
lling factory, of course? The whole village is full of black. Every last one of the dead came from Wilton or the little hamlets immediately surrounding. They have been paid out generously, after a lot of humming and hawing by the insurance companies. Tried to rob the people blind – all sorts of technicalities why they couldn’t pay them, until Lord Moncur took a hand. Which means Monkey must have bent his ear first! I know she was very upset about the business. Still is. I don’t know all of the ins and outs, but she is still writing letters and involving herself. Good thing. Someone had to create a fuss. Not much better than murder – the owners cutting corners to make money! Typical of the bosses!”
Tommy was mostly proud of Monkey – it seemed likely that a large number of people of their village would have been worse off without her actions – but there would be resentment among the rich and powerful of the land. To be practical, they could be as resentful as they liked – he had no expectation of needing those people after the war, in the increasingly unlikely event that he saw the end of the war.
“I shall tell her how proud I am of her, Noah. This war is being run by the rich, for the rich. Someone needs to be heard.”
“Agreed. Lucy’s father said the same. Mind you, he’s mostly big in agriculture, and feeling the pinch just now.”
“I heard about that from Lord Moncur, better part of a year ago, talking about the delightful Monkton. It seems that he is buying land hard – thinking to make himself one of the great. From what his lordship said, he was snapping up farms cheap, without asking why the price of acres had fallen. Damned fool! Even I can work out that if something’s coming cheap then there has to be a reason – but not him!”
“Lord Holt knows exactly what the problem is, Tommy. First and foremost, Lloyd George, as goes without saying – if anything goes wrong, then the aristocracy blames Lloyd George first. But after that, more rationally, the price of everything except food is going up fast, but the government has started controlling food prices so that the factory hands can still buy enough to get by on. Wage costs are going up, and the farmers are having to buy machinery to replace men, and are finding petrol and coal to be more expensive too. Add to that, more of grain is coming in from the States, despite the submarines. Australia and New Zealand are both running more freezer ships, mutton and lamb coming in by the tens of thousands of tons. Butter and cheese as well. Always in the past, the farmers have been able to dip their hands into the Exchequer – grants and tax relief almost on demand. But now they are having to pay their way, and they don’t like it.”
“Sad, ain’t it?”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of people, Tommy! Talking of which – fine upstanding gentlemen, that is - I saw mention in the Daily Telegraph that the noted up-and-coming man of business, Mr Joseph Stark, was shot dead in an armed robbery in the Wild West of America. Very sad, a reflection on the unfortunate levels of lawlessness that prevail in the young country. Mr Stark was busily purchasing foodstuffs for England and the paper could not help wondering whether he might not have been assassinated by minions of the brutal Kaiser.”
Tommy shook his head sadly, said that he must go into mourning for the poor chap – cut off in the prime of his life, years of service left to give his country.
“In fact, if I only had a black tie, I would wear it, but as it stands, I am forced to show disrespectful.”
Noah laughed.
“I wondered if that was so, Tommy. Playing the treason game, was he?”
“In effect, Noah. No need to say anything, of course, but I am less than wholly surprised to hear of his demise. No doubt this week’s letter from Monkey will contain the news, but no details of the unfortunate business.”
“I wonder if he made a Will, Tommy?”
“I hope so. If he did not, then I make a profit from his stinking business – and I had rather not. Having said that, I shan’t give the money away if it comes in my direction – I am not so much the altruist!”
“No more would I be, Tommy. The money will be clean by the time it reaches the children’s hands.”
“True enough. To business – have you met Pot yet?”
They decided that they really should speak to Colonel Kettle, as a matter of courtesy at least; he would probably be waiting for them to remember his presence.
“He’s not too big an idiot, for a colonel, Noah. Stick your hat on – he’ll want to play the saluting game.”
Colonel Kettle was punctilious in his performance of the salute; Tommy was tempted to mock, but realised that the man was wholly sincere in his respect. It was an overdone performance, but made in all honesty, must be accepted as such.
“I am glad indeed that you are to be part of my Wing, Major Arkwright. The next few weeks will see hot work, I much fear, and I am more sanguine for knowing that you will be present. Which is not, of course, in any way a reflection upon you, Major Stark!”
“Certainly not, sir. I am quite used to playing second fiddle to my very good friend, Major Arkwright.”
Colonel Kettle had a suspicion he was being mocked – but that was nothing unusual in the RFC. Senior officers were more often than not the targets of their juniors’ jibes.
“For the coming month, gentlemen, until the Push on July First, we are to concentrate on blinding the enemy. They must see nothing of the British lines. We have taken action against their balloons, as you will have heard, Major Arkwright, and paid the price for success. Now we are to ensure that nothing crosses the German front line – and that anything that might sneak over unseen shall never return. Being practical, it will always be possible for them to cross the lines – take off before dawn and navigate in the dark and it will be feasible to be in position to take photographs as the sun rises. Return must be made impossible.”
Noah agreed, said that it simply demanded a Flight to take off thirty minutes before sunrise and to sit at three or four thousand feet over the lines, watching to the west.
“Two Flights, sir,” Tommy interjected. “One to look west, the other to cover their rear.”
“Point taken, Major Stark. Observers from the ground would very soon see what was happening and take the appropriate action. I would suggest that you commence from tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Will you return to squadron patrols, Major Stark?”
“From tomorrow, sir. I would wish as well to work out how to use the DH2s for cover while we are engaging in ground attacks, sir. The DH2 is unsuitable for trench work, but can protect us from the air. We can assume that the Big Push is no secret, sir, and that the Germans will plan to protect their trenches.”
“Aircraft or machine-guns, Major Stark?”
“Both, I would suspect, sir, but imagine that they will throw all of their aircraft into the air on the morning of the Big Push. They must know that we will be making an all-out effort, and they will be looking to counter it. I would much like, sir, to bombard the nearest airfields on the evening of the 30th of June, if that is permissible. We can hope they will have decided that we are permitting no bombing raids before the attack. In any case, if Noah is backing us up at five thousand feet, we need have few fears for their fighters.”
“It won’t be permitted by HQ, so I shall not tell them, Major Stark. Tactical decision taken after observation of planes coming into the field during the afternoon – that’s what Wing is for, to respond to the immediate needs of the battle. Or that’s my excuse, anyhow!”
“Will you get away with that, sir?”
“Kind of you to care, Stark, but I would expect to be safe. In the unlikely event of the Push being successful, the Generals will be too busy congratulating each other to notice what happened. Assuming that the whole business fails – and you have seen from the air just how probable that is – then they will be far too much occupied with finding scapegoats for so minor an infraction to attract their attention. Haig will blame the government for sending him too few men; Trenchard will be accusing Henderson of skimping on the training of his pilots; both will accuse Lloyd George of supplyin
g too little money. For the coming month, we are free agents, gentlemen, provided we do not go too far in our enthusiasms.”
“How far is too far? Have you heard what is happening at Verdun just now, sir? The Frogs borrowed some of our people, I know, early on, but I haven’t heard much from there of late.”
“The French say that they have control of the air, now. They managed to get the numbers on Jerry and have driven him out of the air. Their Nieuports are better than the Fokker monoplanes and the Germans simply put up too few of the newer machines to wear the French down. I have not spoken to Intelligence for some days – they send their little appreciations out to all of the Wings, but they have to be approved at General Officer level and are meaninglessly optimistic as a result. The only way to get a true picture is to talk privately with their senior men, and I have not been at HQ to do so this week and more.”
“I can send Bridge off to HQ, sir. We need some up-to-date maps of the Trenches, particularly of the German rear areas. That will do as an excuse. What about you, Noah? Did you bring a spy with you?”
“Coming by land and sea, Tommy. My Adjutant is to hold his hand in his first venture into foreign parts. The man was a school teacher, from one of the lesser public schools, I gather – he said that I would not know its name, which is certainly correct. He is well into his thirties and can barely have passed his medical, but he is enthusiastic and surprisingly clever. He managed to work out the route the Zeppelins were taking to reach London by mapping all of the sightings over the last few months. If only we had been in the business of hunting them, it would have been very useful.”
“No doubt he can do something similar here, Noah. If he maps all of the sightings of the invisible Albatros, then we might find out where that lives.”
Colonel Kettle gave his opinion that the machine did not actually exist; he thought it might be an exercise in propaganda – an imaginary bogey-man to make them more cautious.
Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4) Page 16