“Yes, sir.”
They followed Baring to his office, sat down with coffee, knowing it would be very good.
“You did not seem pleased with the last order, Tommy?”
“There’s much to be said for an ambush, Maurice. Lure them into our side and then gang up on them, with the advantage of endurance. If we go to them, we use up petrol, have less fighting time, fewer planes to hand. Add to that, if we damage one of them, he can make an immediate landing on friendly soil. We have to limp home, a target for everything on the ground. Most importantly, we become predictable. The policy will lose us too many pilots and planes, Maurice. Add to that – ‘owning the sky’? It’s a new sky every morning.”
“Point taken, but there’s no gain to argument. His mind is made up, and General Haig likes the sound of it. Both men believe in the offensive, even though the defensive is stronger in this war. Like the American Civil War – winning ground costs more lives than losing it. The Union probably took two casualties to every one for the Confederates in their great battles, even those they won. I much suspect we shall discover the same, when we take a count at war’s end.”
Colonel Kettle shook his head; he would never fly again, he knew. His job would be to count the deaths, and order the replacements out next day.
“It’s the only war we’ve got, Maurice, but it’s a damned bad way to fight it!”
“Agreed, Rob. We must make sure that we win it very thoroughly – we betray those who have already died if we do not.”
Tommy thought they were very noble sentiments, and honestly held. There was a very good chance they would kill him.
“Twenty Squadron will be ordered to circle your field, Rob, on its way to bombard the rear areas. You can expect them early morning and afternoon. Put up a squadron of DH2s to cover them each time. If the BE2cs make any raids, it will be singly or in twos and threes – there ain’t enough left to make squadron raids. You will not be able to support them. Supplies of bombs will be coming your way over the next three weeks. What you get will, to a great extent, depend on what is sent across to us; output from the factories has been erratic as the demand for the artillery has been so high. Many of the bomb-filling factories have had to shut their doors for weeks at a time for lack of explosives.”
“Unbelievable!”
“It will be better next year, Rob. The explosives manufacturers have received a thorough boot up the rear and the industry is rapidly reorganising itself. I believe your wife’s father, Lord Moncur, has played no small part in that, Tommy. Word is that there will be an Order of the Bath or some such very soon.”
“My wife will be proud of that, sir.”
An elderly private soldier, a messenger, knocked and entered, laid a slip in front of Baring.
“Lucky for you, Rob! You are in the right place this morning. A Strutter has crashed into your buildings at the field. First report says you have lost your staff officers. Pilot as well, of course.”
“We must return at once, Maurice. One of your new lads, Tommy?”
“Blue’s boy, Smith, I will bet, sir. He was to spend this morning getting his landings right. Sounds as if he might not have succeeded. At least he was to fly on his own, no observer lost. I’ll get the Adjutant to indent for new buildings, Maurice. Can you get onto the Labour Battalions? Captain Marks is a good bloke.”
They hurried out, acknowledging salutes briefly and attracting puzzled glances – few officers ever bustled at Headquarters.
The Adjutant was calmly efficient.
“One captain, two lieutenants, a sergeant and three private soldiers in the offices at the time, sir. We know the count because it was close to morning tea and the fourth private was bringing milk across from the cookhouse and saw it happen. The pilot – Smith, I think it was – died as well, of course. Sixth time of landing and he lost his engine on the take off. He had got cocky – landed cleanly, opened up and took off immediately and pulled low and hard into his turn to port and the engine stopped. Blipped too much and had cylinders full of petrol when he landed and gave them no time to clear. I have prepared the paperwork for you to sign, Colonel. Indents for one pilot and one plane, sir – in triplicate for each, as normal.”
Colonel Kettle signed automatically, taking in the loss of offices, living quarters and all of his personal effects.
“My servant?”
“Three servants in the quarters, sir. They had time to run before the fire spread that far. They got out slightly singed and shaking, sir.”
“Lucky, I suppose, though he could have delayed a few seconds and got my overnight bag out!”
The Adjutant said nothing to that.
“Best you should return to London for a few days, sir? You need to re-equip yourself and speak to your tailor. Add to that, you will wish to recruit another staff. Easier to pick up staff officers in London than out here, sir; you would only get the rejects from HQ here, sir. Take me ten minutes to organise a travel warrant for you, sir. You could clear things with Mr Baring in that time.”
The thought of having to work with men who were so poor quality that even HQ noticed the fact was sufficient argument. Colonel Kettle decided he must go to London, and quickly, before HQ realised that he needed a new staff.
“Does he do that to you, Stark?”
“Jim? All the time, sir. It allows me to be a lousy squadron commander, sir, knowing that he is picking up the pieces in the background.”
“No. You’re wrong there, Stark. The job of a squadron commander – your job – is to get pilots and planes into the air and lead them. You do that well. You don’t need to be a wizard with paper – that ain’t your purpose in life! Leave that to your adjutant and to me. Where’s that telephone? If I am to be in London today, then I must get a move on!”
Noah had walked over to inspect the wreckage, came back to say that Smith had done a fine job of work.
“Straight through the front door, Tommy – petrol tank must have blown as he hit – fireball through the offices. From what Blue says, it was the first good job he had ever done in his life.”
“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it?”
“Quoting again, Tommy! All this Shakespeare! Not good enough, old chap – I see I shall have to speak to Monkey about these shocking habits she is leading you into.”
“Macbeth, or so I believe, Noah. Though why it came up, I cannot remember. She must have had a reason for it – she always has. Makes a good point though - if you’re going to go, then go with a bang.”
“He did just that – the noise brought them all out of the hangars. Most of them thought the bomb dump had blown!”
Tommy shuddered – they all, in the back of their minds, wondered just what might happen if a plane crashed in exactly the wrong place and blew two or three tons of bombs.
“Right, that’s enough about him. Have your mechanics turned up yet?”
“Middle of the night. Delayed at Dover. We will be ready fly at two o’clock.”
“Good. My lot will be too. How do we want to run things? What’s your altitude?”
“Twenty minutes to ten thousand feet, Tommy.”
“Not good! The Strutter climbs at seven hundred a minute. You take off first and form up over the field at what, six thousand?”
“That will do for familiarisation. Flights or squadron formation?”
“Loose squadron?”
“Do me.”
“We will join you at six thousand and take the lead to the lines and take you north first and then parade back to the edge of the Somme itself. We are under orders to keep clear of the area where they will attack, unless we see something nasty in the air that it would be suspicious to avoid. Archie will be heavy there, or so I imagine.”
“If we see anything interesting, Tommy?”
“I’ll take the Strutters up a thousand feet or thereabouts while you make the first attack. We’ll mop up anything you leave.”
“Sounds good. While I think of it, some of t
he boys have heard that Twenty-Four Squadron have fitted pairs of Lewises to their DH2s. Adds a bit of weight and makes them nose-heavy, I should think. Worth trying?”
“Give it a go, Noah. Must be more effective in a fight. Be a bit of a bugger for reloading, having to deal with two.”
“Three quick bursts would be all it takes to put them down, though. With the big pans, it ought to work.”
Tommy agreed, wondering if it might be possible to give a second gun to the observer. Probably not, he decided, they might be so heavy that he would not be able to swing them onto target.
“What’s your armourer like, Noah?”
“Bloody useless. I talked about Dum-Dum rounds and he just said they were unlawful and he would have nothing to do with them.”
“Not so popular now, in any case. One of the lads crashed in Holland, they say, and was found to have modified points and the Dutch didn’t like it at all. What I meant was, will he have spare guns?”
“He will. He has taken great care to cover his backside since he turned me down.”
“Difficult!”
“Keeps him efficient, Tommy. He knows I’ll have his stripes if he lets me down. He also knows that I will back him for a commission if he keeps us in the air with never a jammed gun.”
Tommy was impressed – Noah had grown into the job, he was all that a squadron commander should be, bullying with one hand, rewarding with the other.
“Lunchtime, Noah. What’s your rule on booze?”
“None during flying hours. I discourage it at breakfast, too.”
“Very wise.”
The ancient-seeming DH2s took off in their three Flights, their pushers straining to take them off the ground. Tommy watched critically and then laughed; a year ago and he would have been admiring their performance. He led the fifteen Strutters out, the four Flights taking off with seconds between them; again, a year before and he would have wanted half a minute at least. He wondered just how much better the new Sopwith would be, then forgot everything except flying. There was no time to ruminate in the air.
The Strutters climbed quickly to five thousand feet and then circled gently while waiting for the DH2s to reach their height, before placing themselves in front of the fighter squadron and just slightly higher. The two aircraft were of much the same speed, the DH2 possibly a little quicker, being the lighter plane and with a similar rotary.
Tommy led them north to the limit of their sector, through the desultory barrage and then a mile behind the German lines before turning south. He wondered just how Jerry would react to a force of nearly thirty machines swanning about his skies unchallenged. Trenchard would have gone into fits of rage; possibly his German counterparts would be equally upset… be a good idea to come back tomorrow in the hope of trade. They banked again as the anti-aircraft fire grew heavier; the guns had certainly been shifted to the south.
Ninety minutes and they turned for the field, landing by Flights, all tidy and precise, as both Majors demanded.
The mechanics took over and Tommy announced they would not be flying again that day; Noah echoed him and they retired to Tommy’s office.
“A pleasant summer’s excursion, Noah. How do you propose to cover us when we are trench-strafing?”
“One Flight low, Tommy, at about one thousand feet, in case of ambitious Fokkers trying to pick you off at ground level. The other two Flights to shepherd you in and out. After the first day or two I would expect the Fokkers, and whatever else they have to hand, to be trying to hit you before you make your attacks. They will – or I would – be waiting a quarter of a mile or more on our side of the fighting line or perhaps even over the field. What have you got in the way of guns on the field, Tommy? It would make good sense to hit us hard on the ground. We could lose half of our planes in a single attack.”
“Good point, Noah. Nothing at all at the moment. Jim!”
The Adjutant came briskly through the door, wondering just what his lord and master had thought of now. More precisely, he suspected, the question might be what Noah had come up with.
“Guns? Airfield protection? Do you think they might… Bloody good point, Tommy! I would! What do you suspect, low strafing or high-level bombardment?”
“Forget high-level, Jim. They could never hit a target as small as a set of hangars with any degree of certainty. I couldn’t, anyway. A dozen of two-seaters, say, with small bombs and the observers’ guns, at nought feet – exactly as we have taught them!”
“And we know that works, Tommy. Amazed that they haven’t caught on before. Only a matter of time before they must hoist us with our own petard.”
Jim came back next morning with a sketch of the field and placements for machine-guns.
“Pairs of Lewis guns, for needing fewer men than a full Vickers team, Tommy. In pits and with a post mounting – except that if we dig them in, they will flood. So, it’s got to be in open-topped pill boxes, but still on post mountings. Permanently manned from fifteen minutes before first light till breakfast and in the afternoons till full dark. Far less chance of an attack in daylight hours, so just a couple of sentries in place – might be able to put a box on top of a hangar. It will need some extra men, but can mostly be done by putting General Duties soldiers onto a roster. There will have to be secure and dry storage at each pit, for guns and ammunition pans, but that can be organised. The expenditure will have to be authorised, Tommy. Too big for my funding. Needs to be a rush job.”
Tommy thought, trying to determine the best course to follow; he had resolved to play a greater part in the administration of his own squadron, still having doubts about his own performance of his job.
“I could get on the telephone to Baring in Pot’s absence… no, better than that. Have a word with Bridge, Jim. Get him to speak to his people at HQ. A warning from Intelligence that the bombardment fields may be targeted themselves should bring orders from on high – far better this should be Boom’s own idea.”
“Good idea! I should have thought of that myself. I’ll get onto it now.”
He left, leaving Tommy feeling a little hurt – there had been a distinct surprise in Jim’s voice when he had congratulated Tommy for having an idea of his own.
Dark Days Of Summer
Chapter Eight
‘We should be very pleased to meet you at any time you may be in London. You may wish to write an article for the New Statesman; be sure that I shall see it published, provided the state censors will permit.’
The letter from Beatrice Webb was the first real response Monkey had had to her attempts to communicate with the political elite; she suspected that most political leaders had little use for women in their field.
There was very little prospect of her visiting London, she thought – she could not face the big city on her own.
Monkey was, however, delighted with the prospect of putting her words into print. She would denounce the money-grabbers who had killed forty young women, and six older men, in their ruthless desire to enrich themselves. She sat with pen and paper – and then began to think.
‘What would happen to Tommy if the article was published under her name?’ She did not delude herself that she might remain unsuspected and anonymous; any investigation must turn up her name as the author.
They would destroy Tommy in retaliation – a posting far overseas to fly obsolete wrecks in the forests of Africa or the deserts of Mesopotamia would be their least reaction.
Her father would be hurt as well – they would revenge themselves on the whole family.
Monkton, of course, would be at the forefront of the chase, demonstrating his loyalty, and getting back at the family that he must realise habitually sneered at him.
She put her pen down, the paper untouched.
It was impossible to fight the government, and its wealthy backers, in wartime. The rich and the independent, such as the Webbs, could rely on their privilege to be voices of dissent, but the country-born wife of a mere major was very small fry, quickly squashe
d under the heel of the military police.
She sat back to the table and wrote a polite letter in return, thanking the Webbs for their interest in her problems. She regretted, however, that as the loyal wife of a serving officer, she could not publish in any magazine; she suspected, but did not say, that her letter might be read by others before it reached its destination. Was she to be in London, she continued, she would certainly make their acquaintance; the concerns of her family made it impossible to leave Wilton at the present.
That was true, she thought, resting a hand on the belly that was just showing; four months and definitely time to inform the lord and master that they were to enjoy the coming of another child. Perhaps a son, this time? She knew Tommy would want another daughter at least as much as an heir to his name; she would like a boy child, but either would be a joy. She started another letter with far greater pleasure and certainty.
She telephoned her mother that evening, making her second to hear the news, as was proper behaviour for any well brought-up girl.
“Your father is here, my love. He will be delighted too. Wait a second.”
“Grace? Can we come to visit you for a couple of days? I am very glad to hear your news, of course, but I need to discuss business relating to Tommy’s half-brother. Best not done over the telephone – one never knows who might be listening at an exchange.”
Monkey knew exactly who would be listening at the Wilton Exchange; the postmistress would be most annoyed to know that there was confidential business to be done out of her hearing.
Lord Moncur was unusually, rarely gleeful, not merely for the news of the very welcome baby.
“My lawyers have been keeping an eye on the late and good Mr Joseph Stark, my dear!”
“Good, sir?”
“’Of the dead, let nothing but good be said’, and dead he most certainly is. As I say, my people have been watching him, closely, in England, and other of the government’s employees had him under equally close check overseas. He believed himself to be a very clever man, with accounts in banks in several states of the USA, all of them postal and operating under secure codes. To make a withdrawal he had to send a letter containing several key words, to be written in different coloured inks and set in a particular order; unfortunately, he did not realise that the bankers there are all loyal to their government, which is friendly to ours. The implication that Mr Stark was acting in the German interest was sufficient to disclose all of his details. We were therefore aware of his American business and withdrew all of his cash on – quite possibly immediately before - the discovery of his death. Those funds were remitted quite properly to the Bank of England’s agents in the States and have been made available to his executors. He had made no Will; none has or will be discovered. He died intestate and his brother has been demonstrated to be his sole and whole heir to the satisfaction of the courts, all done very quickly under pressure from the Exchequer, which wished to lay its hands upon the death duties at earliest. The sum of one million pounds in tax is not to be sniffed at. It also allowed the money to be transferred to the Bank, as I said, a very welcome flow of much-needed dollars. The money remains in America, of course, and we have been paid in England in sterling.”
Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4) Page 18