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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Just a nick on the arm, sir. Quack won’t fly for at least three days, so I will break one of the spare bodies in. Do them good to have a bit of air time – might try a different one each day, in fact. You might have noticed the pair of Gun Buses come in a while back, sir?”

  “I did, Tommy. Why?”

  “I am going to train up any of the observers who wish to try out as pilots, sir. I think, and my Flight Commanders agree, that we will likely lose a number of men when we start trench strafing. We will need immediate replacements.”

  “Sergeant pilots? Who have never been officially trained?”

  “Initially sergeants, yes, sir.”

  It was irregular, but was probably running counter to no order forbidding the practice – it had not been tried elsewhere since the very early days and so had not been banned.

  “Do it, and keep your mouth closed about it! I am trying to get at least four more Strutters on strength, against expected losses in the coming battle. We can lose the fuel bills among them, they will have to be test flown, after all.”

  The supply of petrol was an increasing problem and HQ was cracking down on waste of fuel; in particular, they were chasing up unofficial vehicles using supplies meant for the planes.

  “What’s the problem with petrol, sir?”

  “Almost no oil found in Britain, Tommy. Our supplies have to come from the wells in the States or from the Caribbean, and mostly from the Middle East. While we are having problems in Mesopotamia, the flow from there has almost dried up. The navy demands tens of thousands of tons for those white elephants of theirs up at Scapa Flow and we are poor relations for fuel. The word is that we might have no more than a fortnight’s supply in France at the moment. One of these big new tanker-ships is due in at Marseilles this week – as much as five thousand tons of petrol aboard. If she makes it, we continue to fly; if a submarine gets her, then it’s holiday time for us!”

  That was a problem Tommy had never considered. He thought that after the war it might be a good idea to put money into an oil company – there must be a continuing demand for petrol. He would say so in his next letter to Monkey.

  “I presume we are to continue our aggressive patrols for the remainder of the week, sir? Do you wish the Strutters to take up a bombardment role instead?”

  “No change, Tommy. What I must do is chase up the third squadron in the Wing. They arrived while I was in England. Have you an idea of what they are doing?”

  “Neither seen nor heard from them, sir.”

  Noah shook his head.

  “Well, they must be doing some bloody thing! I shall discover in the morning.”

  Next day was distinguished by low cloud and drizzle; both Tommy and Noah decided that flying was off. They might take off in the dry and be caught by a shower when it came time to land again; not their idea of the way to spend a profitable day.

  “We need a weather prophet, Noah; a man to tell us when we can fly.”

  “My teacher at the orphanage had a strip of seaweed that told him about the weather, Tommy. He used to hang it out the window.”

  “How did that work?”

  “When he brought it in again, if it was wet, then he knew it was raining.”

  Pot came back in mid-afternoon, in a thoroughly bad temper, stamped into the mess demanding tea.

  “Bloody fool, Tommy!”

  “Who? Me, sir?”

  Tommy could not quite remember what he had done this time to justify the statement, but it had often been true in the past, so he would not deny it just yet.

  “No. That hopeless idiot who used to be CO of our third squadron and who is now on his way to Calais and the ferry. Major Brickworth, once of Fifty-Eight Squadron, and now without posting!”

  “Don’t know the name, sir? Can’t place him at all.”

  “Canadian Army, learned to fly over there. Transferred to the RFC on reaching England in late ’14. Took over a training field as a captain and was promoted out here with his squadron. Flown no patrols across the lines at all – waiting for orders – but all of his boys have spent four hours a day practising aerobatics in the rear areas; he told me they were very good at formation flying.”

  “Useless, in fact.”

  “Exactly!”

  Noah suggested that his senior Flight Commander had fully recovered from the mumps and was overdue for promotion.

  “Wasted with me, sir. Too good simply to lead three others under my orders – though more than willing to do his job very well.”

  “I will speak to Trenchard, but tell him to pack his bags. I want him there tonight and his squadron out to work in the morning.”

  “In the same sector as us, sir?”

  “Good point. Don’t want you ambushing each other. Split three ways, is simplest. Tommy, your Strutters are least suited as fighters; take the north, where the opposition should be softer. Noah, centre. I’ll give your fellow the south – he can use the formation flying these little chaps are so good at to terrify the Germans there!”

  General Trenchard fell in with Pot’s suggestions and gave an immediate promotion to Noah’s captain; he also sent his congratulations on the two squadrons’ performance and said that he hoped to hear the same every day.

  “What a bloody idiot that man is, Pot!”

  “Why, Noah?”

  “Because if we flew for another twenty days this month and averaged say eight Huns each a day, then we would knock down more than three hundred – and they ain’t got that many along the whole of the Western Front!”

  “Perhaps arithmetic ain’t his strongest suit, Noah.”

  “Perhaps brain-power is the problem, sir!”

  Dark Days Of Summer

  Chapter Nine

  The bombardment began one week before the planned day for the Big Push, the beginning of the battle that was to end the war.

  Two hundred and two field artillery batteries of four eighteen-pounders and their associated four point five inch howitzers each opened fire from immediately behind the lines. Four hundred and twenty-seven medium and heavy pieces, including six fifteen- and eleven of twelve-inch howitzers, fired from the rear areas. The noise was tremendous, louder than had ever been heard before. It was said by some that the bombardment could be heard on Hampstead Heath, just outside London; generally speaking, the more tacky the newspaper, the more frequently that claim was made.

  The RFC kept well clear of the actual battle area – flying through a sky full of shells was not regarded as a wise habit. The reconnaissance squadrons reported from a distance, and informed Intelligence that they estimated ten per cent of the shells to be duds. They said as well that too few were High Explosive, too many shrapnel. HE cut wire; shrapnel did not.

  Intelligence made their reports to the brass, thirty miles behind the lines in their chateaux, and were told they were talking nonsense. The bombardment was a success – the plans had proved that it must be. None of the staff officers visited the front lines to peer through periscopes at the unbroken wire; they did not need to; they knew what they would see.

  Colonel Kettle’s Wing continued to fly, when weather permitted, though recording fewer successes than in the first few days of their offensive. They supposed there were fewer planes to knock out of the sky, and to a great extent, they were right.

  Fifty-Eight Squadron had flown across the lines for the first time, and slowly broke its bad habits and began to record successes; they lost four pilots and six planes in process.

  Noah’s squadron, enlarged now, continued to register two, three or four kills a day and Noah himself moved into double figures, much to the glee of the newspapers in England, who faithfully recorded the quite imaginary competition between him and Tommy to be first to reach twenty.

  Tommy flew every day and his Flights recorded their successes, fewer each day as they destroyed the German units to their front.

  Both squadrons lost pilots, inevitably, to accident and to enemy fire, and once to the much-depleted anti-aircraft guns
of their sector. As always, it was the newer pilots who bore the brunt of the losses.; their lack of experience led them to the wrong place at the wrong time, while the old hands had taken themselves the extra few yards distant that made all the difference. New men came to replace Breezy, McMurtrey and Smith, and two of them died in their turn in their first week and were replaced again. Tommy never discovered the names of the dead green hands – it was not worth the effort, or the emotional strain, for getting to know them meant feeling their loss. Noah took much the same casualty rate, and responded in the same hard-shelled fashion.

  The enemy made a greater effort to get two-seaters behind the lines during that long, noisy week, sending them across in the first light of dawn to take their photographs at sunrise. According to Intelligence, a photo taken when the sun was low often revealed more of what was on the ground than one at midday.

  Bridge was very pleased to be able to explain why, and to feel that he was actually contributing.

  “Shadows! A gun with netting around it may be almost invisible at noon, but at dawn it will throw a shadow that shows it fairly clearly. The same for the reserves in their tents – they can be seen for the same reason. I am told – how accurately, I do not know – that the cavalry divisions show up as well, not that they matter at all. So, it is important to repress all photographic activity, gentlemen.”

  “Repress?”

  “That’s the word HQ used, Tommy.”

  “How about ‘kill the buggers’? Far more accurate.”

  “Less elegantly phrased. Many of the gentlemen are writing their signals with an eye on their autobiographies – My Part in the Great Battle that Ended the War – by a Staff Officer, MC, DSO and Bar, Order of the Bath.”

  “You are becoming cynical, Bridge. Far too much so for a young man of birth and gentle breeding. What would your school say?”

  “Jolly boating weather, probably. Talking of which, the latest reports on the battle in the North Sea aren’t very good, are they?”

  Colonel Kettle stirred in his chair.

  “Tut! How unsporting of you to say so, Bridge! Just because the Royal Navy lost twice as many ships and men as the Germans is no reason to suggest that they lost the battle!”

  “Of course not, sir. It was all part of the great master-plan, I have no doubt.”

  “I agree. Don’t comment any further in public, if you please. We are likely to have problems and to spare over the next few weeks without damaging morale to any greater extent. What do we do about these reconnaissance patrols, gentlemen?”

  Tommy and Noah scowled, glanced at each other before Tommy replied.

  “Get up at three o’clock in the bloody morning, sir, and take off twenty minutes before dawn and climb to five thousand feet and wait, four Flights strong, two miles between each Flight. Each squadron can cover ten miles that way. We won’t spot them all, but we will certainly pick up a few.”

  “Very good idea, gentlemen. Start tomorrow morning. Come back down for breakfast an hour after first light and then go back to bed for a couple of hours before the first single Flight patrols go out.”

  They agreed that to be an excellent plan.

  Tommy made a final request.

  “If we get both squadrons together in our mess, sir, will you come and explain the week’s activities to the lads? I’m sure they will appreciate hearing it from you.”

  “You want me to tell your pilots that they are to get up at three o’clock in the morning, and fly before four? They’d lynch me!”

  “Sooner you than me, sir!”

  “Tough bloody luck, Tommy! This pleasure is all yours!”

  They were woken at three and listened with satisfaction to the rain pouring down on the flat roofs of their huts, and went back to sleep again. The weather cleared slowly and they managed a squadron patrol in the evening, but they were on their own in the sky.

  Next day, Sunday 25th June, the sky was cloudless and they rose, unwillingly, drank tea or coffee, those who could, and put the plan into effect, the whole squadron reaching five thousand feet over the German lines as the first rays of the sun in the east showed Tommy no fewer than six two-seaters spread out below him, all heading west. They placed themselves and waited for their Flight Commanders to give the signal and then converged, two or three Strutters to each of the intruders, Vickers as they dived past and then Lewises as they zoomed into the second attack. One Strutter never rose from the dive, piling nose first at full power into the second line of trenches. Tommy could not spot who it was, watched as the six two-seaters fell out of the air, four flaming for being at the beginning of their patrol with full tanks.

  Archie responded, the sky full of an enraged barrage, which missed hopelessly, the light not yet good enough for the rangefinders to be effective.

  Tommy took the squadron home, landing first and watching the boys in and then wandering in for breakfast.

  “Lost Bill Williamson, Fred. Waste of bloody effort teaching him the facts of life!”

  “Can’t win ‘em all, Tommy. What happened?”

  “Don’t know. Blue?”

  Blue looked up from his bacon and eggs, signalled to the waiter for toast.

  “Over-excited. Banked in from the starboard, too hard, and put himself plumb in line of the pilot’s fixed gun. Don’t think he even got a round off. Another green bugger to train up!”

  “Frank, are there any of the observers ready to fly yet?”

  “Flight-Sergeant Penrose, Tommy. David’s observer – I believe that he has been receiving extra hours from his master?”

  David happily confirmed that he had taken him up in the Strutter, whenever he could ‘test’ the machine after the mechanics had worked on it.

  “Tell him to be ready for three o’clock, David. Find yourself a replacement.”

  “Got one lined up, Tommy. Private Second Class Denham – young lad, barely eighteen, farmer’s son, been using a shotgun since he could walk, he says; amused himself with a two-two rifle, shooting pigeons on the wing. He handles a Lewis like it was a shotgun.”

  Four of the pilots thought themselves to be good sporting shots who made very substantial bags of pheasants in season; they knew just how difficult a shot a pigeon was with a scatter gun.

  “Dead-Eye Dick in person, David! Tell Jim that the boy is to become a sergeant. None of our observers can be of lesser rank.”

  Jim moaned – he would have to argue with the Pay Corps; they objected to rapid promotions that skipped through the ranks.

  “More important to keep the office wallahs happy than to kill Jerry, you know that, Tommy!”

  “Yes, Jim. I’ll speak to Pot.”

  Noah joined them, bewailing the fact that his squadron had only seen four targets – they had destroyed them, with no losses, but how would he keep the Daily Mail happy with so few?

  Pot was happy – he could report yet another success story to General Trenchard, and each such occasion brought promotion to Brigadier closer.

  “Good morning, Tommy. Six for one? Damned good going! I’ll send a message to Admiral Jellicoe, explaining to him that this is what a victory looks like!”

  “I doubt you will be very popular, sir. However, you might be safe – very few sailors have ever learned to read.”

  “Very true! What is on your mind this morning, Tommy, other than your hat?”

  “Jim, sir. Works his balls off for the squadron. Damned good fellow. Used to be a hell of a pilot before he got bent. I think he should be a major, sir.”

  “So do I. Not sure I can get it through – too senior a position for me to make him, it will have to cross Boom’s desk. Still, if I send it together with the report of six two-seaters in a single patrol, he might be more willing. Try anyway. Warm sunny day today, Tommy. What have you planned? The weather prophets are gloomy for tomorrow.”

  “Balloon-busting, I think. Don’t fancy it, but they are popping up like bloody mushrooms just lately. Singles, these days, instead of three or four together. Might
be they will have fewer guns to each.”

  “We need to kill them if possible, Tommy. The fewer observers, the better. What have you in mind?”

  “One plane, one balloon. The first one in warms the guns up, makes it bloody near impossible for the planes following. We can try these Brock rounds – they work for Vickers and Lewis equally well, according to the gen. The Flight high along the lines, a good distance away from the balloon; one plane to sneak in at nought feet.”

  “You, I presume?”

  “Who else?”

  Colonel Kettle shrugged – no man who called himself a leader could order one of his pilots to go instead of him.

  “I’ll see you later, Tommy.”

  Tommy called the three Flight Commanders to him, explained the day’s work.

  “Patrols at two hour intervals. I will be trying for a balloon. You will not. The word will go out to them all after the first attack and they will be waiting for you, more than they normally are, that is.”

  They did not like it, but the boss had spoken.

  Blue was especially unhappy.

  “Who’s your observer today, Tommy? Is Quack back?”

  “Not till tomorrow – he took a fair old thump to the head as well as the cut. He’s better off for an extra day of rest. I’ve got one of the drivers coming on a first run today.”

  They did not approve. Blue walked out of the office, came back with David.

  “You need my Denham, Tommy. I’ll take the driver for today, start with Denham tomorrow. I’ll go and speak to him now.”

  Denham was waiting for Tommy at the Strutter, a solid, short youth, almost as wide across the shoulders as he was tall, and heavily muscled. He was carrying a Lewis in one hand.

  “Arr, sir, they says to I as ‘ow we’m off to bugger a balloon or two. Never shot one o’ they before, sir. Summat new every day, ain’t that what they says, sir?”

  “So it is, Denham. New Forest?”

  “Arr, sir. Down Hordle way, sir.”