Dark Days Of Summer (Innocents At War Series, Book 4)
Page 25
Tommy could just follow that logic; it all made sense, no doubt, if you were a quartermaster.
“The official requisition was still swanning about, however, and it somehow reached London – presumably one of their clerks simply actioned it as unfilled, not knowing any better. London, unusually, acted immediately and the stoves arrived a few days ago, together with a first delivery of kerosene in cans. So, I have four hundred greatcoats, in excess of any authorisation, and I want to get rid of them before an inspection takes place – it’s bound to happen one day! So, if I can get hold of the Chinese, we get our holes dug and they don’t get pneumonia this winter. Something for everybody.”
“I am impressed, Jim. Make sure you dig a hole for Pot to jump into. He’s a colonel, so see if you can make it fur-lined.”
“Can’t do that but I’ll have a lid made for him.”
“You’ll have to teach one of his soldiers how to pull it down, Jim – colonels ain’t used to manual labour.”
“Noted. What do we do about our observers, Tommy?”
“Not much, Jim. We can’t.”
“A word with Pot, and a request to Boom to send all who want to Pilot Training Schools in England?”
“How?”
Despite mutters about sergeant pilots, entry to Pilot Training was still reserved to volunteers joining the RFC as officers and to transfers from the Army, mostly from the Cavalry – who were coming to realise they were unemployable - and always of officer rank.
“They still have cadets, almost all boys of eighteen who will become second lieutenants if they pass out as pilots, but who will return to private soldier status if they fall-out. Why, I don’t know, as it’s very difficult to fail without dying in process, but that offers a way for us.”
“Risky for the observers – if they fail as pilots they’ve lost their sergeants’ stripes.”
Jim said that he could explain the risks, and was sure that most of observers would discount them. Only those who wanted to fly would go for training, and they had all had a chance in the Gunbuses and knew they could pass out successfully.
“I’ll speak to Pot now – give him time to organise it before Friday.”
Five of the sixteen observers set out for England on Friday morning, all determined to return to the squadron sporting wings. The remainder were posted to various two-seater squadrons needing replacements.
Tommy presided at their final parade, giving his formal thanks and regrets to see them go. They had given much to the squadron, he said, and there would be a list on a board in the Sergeants Mess, their names recorded for the squadron history. He turned to the five would-be pilots.
“Just as soon as you have been given your official logbooks, gentlemen, I very much hope you will apply to be sent back here, where you belong. I will have a very real welcome for all of you. Sergeant Denham – I absolutely insist on your coming back! A man who can shoot like you will be an acquisition to any squadron.”
Denham nodded confidently – he could master this piloting business with no bother at all.
“Arr, sir. I’ll be back, sir, and before too many weeks ‘ave gone by. Keep that old rifle shiny for me, sir, I shall be wantin’ a bit extra in the cockpit.”
Tommy wished he might be present in the mess at the training field when first they heard that accent; the public schoolboys would faint.
They flew to Amiens, placed the Strutters in a neat little row and trotted across to a line of staff cars, Jim stood in front and waving, a local officer at his side.
He counted sixteen bodies and ushered them into their seats.
“This is Captain Pinkerton, Tommy, who will sign the receipt for sixteen Strutters.”
Captain Pinkerton did so, with a flourish, showing Tommy where to countersign.
“Aye, weel, that will be the end of them, ye ken, Major Stark. Off to the Frogs the morrow.”
Pinkerton was a Scots name, Tommy knew – but he did not believe the music-hall accent, strongly suspected it was assumed to irritate the brass. He might well have done the same.
The cars drove away, through the main gate, where a strong detachment of Military Police counted them out, confirming the correct number of bodies aboard. A lieutenant gave a grudging salute. Tommy waved back.
The Sopwith Scouts began to fly in soon after they arrived at St Michel, sixteen of them at safe and respectable two-minute intervals. The ferry pilots handed their papers to Jim, accepted his signature then ran to the waiting cars, evidently fearing contamination if they remained in the company of front-line pilots. Tommy watched, dying to lay his hands on one of the little planes that had landed in less than eighty yards, taxying smartly into line.
“Smaller than a Strutter, Jim, by a good six feet in length and wingspan. They look as if they weigh almost nothing. Huge great wing area!”
The last ferry pilot left and the squadron officially owned the Scouts.
“All on strength, Jim?”
“All signed as delivered and in working order, Tommy. I presume you will fly one immediately?”
“No. Much though I want to, they have been in the hands of the Air Park, some of them for days.”
Tommy turned and waved to the mechanics, stood drooling over the new machines. The officers came across.
“Take them inside, and inspect them fully, Baldy. Can we have them for the morning?”
“Probably, Tommy. We will all get together on two of them, me on one with half the lads, Neddy on the other with the rest.”
“Neddy?”
“Captain Bolton, if you prefer. He has a picture of a donkey on his wall.”
Captain Bolton intervened, standing on his dignity.
“It is my wife’s, Tommy. We keep our Neddy as a family pet, for the children to ride.”
“Sounds good to me, Neddy. You were saying, Baldy?”
“We will strip a machine each, looking for the most likely parts to fail. All the mechanics will watch and take part. By the time we are finished, we shall have a maintenance schedule worked out for the plane. We’ll know what to check and when. Some parts will need to be examined after every flight; some at say ten hours; others at twenty. The whole machine goes under the microscope after fifty hours, being a rotary.”
“Your decision, Baldy. I will not argue – I like to fly a machine with both sets of wings firmly attached and an engine that keeps running.”
“Exactly so, Tommy. You can have a look at them for the moment. Get to know the cockpit and get a feel of the ailerons. Both wings, look – upper and lower. Don’t much like the empennage – too small for longitudinal stability, in my mind. You’re going to have to fly this bus, Tommy – never a moment of relaxation.”
“Hell of a wing area, Baldy.”
“Take off in fifty yards, land in sixty. Hell of a plane for stunting.”
They inspected the Scout, decided that it was similar in many ways to the Strutter, a clear development process, a smaller, better edition.
“The Strutters were real bitches, but their puppies look good, Tommy.”
The Pup was named – everything in the RFC must have a nickname.
“Did they leave any specifications, Jim?”
Jim shook his head – almost nothing. They had told him they were waiting for a manual from Sopwiths, but it hadn’t arrived.
“Bloody man forgot to have it written, bet you. He loses interest in a plane the moment it flies – he’s focussed on the next model.”
“Probably, I have never met him except in passing. All we have is a single sheet of foolscap. 80 hp rotary; single Vickers, synchronised by a new method – Sopwith-Kauper, whatever that is.”
“Harry Kauper, one of the senior engineers in Sopwiths. Red-hot technical man on the development side – his design will work.”
“Good. Claims a speed of one hundred and ten, and a working height of seventeen and half thousand. Rate of climb fractionally better than the Strutter. Diving capacity much augmented, whatever that means.”
“Very light, Tommy,” Baldy called across as they wheeled the machines into the hangars. “Not much more than half a ton unladen. Very poky!”
The DH2s came in from patrol and their pilots came across, curious to see the new machines.
“Still here, Tommy? Didn’t get arrested at Amiens?”
“We were less than ten minutes on the ground there, Noah, and escorted all of the time. I don’t know what’s wrong with the people there!”
“Can’t imagine, old chap. What’s the little bus like?”
“It looks pretty. Tell you tomorrow when Baldy lets us loose.”
“We are to get Nieuports, I am told – but we don’t know what sort, or when. It might turn out to be a SPAD instead. The old DH2 is getting past it, if what they say is true. They now tell us that the new Albatros will have two synchronised guns, and it is to be faster, and a tractor, of course.”
“The sooner the better for your Nieuports, Noah!”
They peered into the cockpits and saw nothing out of the ordinary, then they went into the Mess, to celebrate getting rid of the Strutters. They had not entirely believed they would be given a true Scout, had feared they might end up with a bombardment machine despite all they had been told. The party was long, noisy and destructive of the mess furniture. Jim shrugged – he was happy to see them shouting again. Eight weeks of silent, morose insobriety had been difficult to live with.
Baldy Ross whistled Tommy to come across in mid-morning.
“Yours is ready to fly, Tommy. The rest will be in a couple of hours.”
“Warm her up for me, Baldy. I’ll put my gear on.”
The Scout lifted off inside fifty yards, built speed very quickly and climbed like a bird. Tommy reached two thousand feet in less than three minutes and began to bank and turn, finding the machine more responsive than any he had ever known. Very light on the controls, she had to be flown, the pilot on top of every movement, but she was capable of more than any plane Tommy had previously taken up. He pulled up to five thousand feet and discovered how she would dive, was amazed by the result – faster and steeper than he had even hoped for, and pulling out sweetly. A series of turns to starboard, the plane whipping round without attempting to snap into a spin; nervous-making that, he suspected that she would give no warning of being about to go out of control. The pilot must test her very carefully to discover her limits. As a last experiment, he pushed her over fifteen thousand feet, into thin air and hard breathing, and then tested the controls – still tight and responsive, no sign of sloppiness. He dived and pulled out, dived again and circled the field, dropped her into a landing just sixty yards from the hangars, drifting her into position on the concrete apron.
“Best I have ever flown, gentlemen. Fly her – never let her have her head. Watch stability – the tail ain’t man enough. Other than that, she is sweet!”
Fred and Blue and Frank nodded, all in flying gear and waiting for their own planes to be wheeled out.
Colonel Kettle was stood to one side.
“Good, Tommy?”
“Very, sir. She needs a bigger engine to carry two guns, and a solution to the longitudinal instability, but she is the best I have ever flown. The boys will need a full week to get used to her. Follow-my-leader at first, then set them free. With luck, she will kill none learning; well, only the heavy-handed! Three hours range is useful, will let us roam the whole of the back area. Noah will need to get rid of his antiquated death traps as soon as possible, sir. Two weeks from now and Jerry will be screaming that he is outclassed by the British planes. Three months on and they will have an answer in the air – you know how good their designers are, sir.”
“Six months at absolute most, Tommy, and this machine will be old hat. Good luck for the while.”
They played for a week, never venturing over the lines, losing none of the little machines, to their surprise. On the seventh day Tommy decided they were operational. He asked Colonel Kettle for orders.
“Return to your old hunting grounds, Tommy. From here, north to the Belgian sector, up to say thirty miles on the far side of the German lines. Leave balloons alone for a starter. There is a possibility that Jerry is doing much the same as you have been this week, training up his new groups – Intelligence has taken to calling them Jastas, which seems very pretentious to me. If you could pick up one of these squadrons and carve a hole in them, it would be much appreciated. They will be as big a menace as the first Fokkers were if they get among the BEs and REs in numbers, despite not having their new machines yet. They are still flying in fours and sixes over the battlefield – on the rare occasion they are flying at all. The French have got Verdun sewn up in the air now, and our squadrons of DH2s and FEs have almost complete control over the Somme.”
Tommy commented that they had lost none of their pilots to German fighters when attacking the trenches, asked who was to perform bombardment now.
“Squadrons of modified BEs and of Caudrons, bought from the Frogs. They carry a better bomb load than the Strutters. The French like the Strutters for their range and are producing them in their own factories for distant work. For us, de Havilland has a purpose-built bombardment machine due to come off the line soon, and Vickers are working on a machine almost as big as the Russian thing. Jerry, of course, has two different sorts in the air already, and more under design. Looking at half-ton loads and five hundred miles and more of range. You may see them over the Somme, it is thought. Flying very high. Your Scouts will be able to reach them. They have three or four guns.”
“A whole Flight to each machine, picking them off, one by one. I’ll talk to the boys when the time comes. When can we go to war, sir?”
“Now.”
Tommy glanced at his watch, decided to eat lunch first.
He rounded up the Flight Commanders, sat them down with him at table.
“Sorry to spoil your food, gentlemen.”
They stared at the fried corned-beef fritters and boiled potatoes on their plates.
“I must have a word with Jim, I think. Can’t we get hold of refugees these days?”
“Can’t get hold of food, I think, Tommy.”
“I’ll still speak with him – we might do something a bit more exciting than this. Anyway. We fly for real this afternoon. North and high. Going across no more than thirty miles. Keep a look out for big bombers – huge buggers with several guns. Take them with a whole Flight, all split up, coming in from either side and above and below the tail.”
“Go for the gunners, first, Tommy?”
“Good question, Blue. Work it out.”
Fred thought it might be a better idea to try for the pilot, quicker and simpler that way. Frank was inclined to shoot at the engines.
“See what works. There’s a chance that we will find them training up their people in flying in squadrons, in which case, we look for the leaders first. They often have streamers attached to Flight Commanders’ planes. If possible, kill the experienced blokes first, then mop up the green hands. I will take us up to twelve thousand feet for a start. Depending on the cloud cover, of course. We should be able to chase them out of the air, until they get their new machines in. I reckon we can make hay until Christmas at least, maybe longer.”
“Are Noah’s lot sticking with the DH2s, Tommy?”
“Not according to Pot. Hopefully they will get Nieuports, possibly even the SPAD, which is said to be a hairy beast, but may not be coming out of the factory in numbers yet. The Nieuport might be as good as our Scout. It needs to be, if what they say about the forthcoming Albatros is true.”
The sixteen Scouts took off as a squadron, in close formation, because it looked smart and they thought it was fun. Tommy led them in a climb to twelve thousand feet, directly out and over the lines and into the German rear areas.
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They had not intruded so far since the opening of the Somme. The battle was still raging and it seemed reasonable that they would not be expected.
The air was clear, a beautiful early autumn morning, and bitterly cold at height. Tommy made a note to haul out his woollies – they would be needed in the new planes. He saw a wave from Blue, out to port, covering the land to their north. He followed the pointing hand, spotted a few dots in the air, perhaps four miles distant and two or three thousand feet lower. He looked around – no other sightings. He acknowledged and commenced the turn to port.
A minute and the dots became planes, twelve in three blocks of four, all on the same course and height, pottering along parallel to the lines on a southerly bearing.
Tommy pointed to Blue, Fred and Frank, waved them down to the attack; he turned to his own three and gestured due east. They followed him to cut off any who might flee.
He watched as the Scouts swept down on the training squadron, saw they were two-seaters, attempting to return fire, several showing smoke and flames almost immediately. He looked about as Rozzer stabbed an arm east and low.
He could see nothing, took Rozzer’s word for it and dived in the direction he had pointed. A few seconds and he picked out a formation, low and climbing to join the fight that was spreading across the sky behind them. He risked a look across, saw that the Scouts were swooping over the German formation, out-turning them and diving and climbing far faster. It looked much like a massacre.
“Goody! Blood for supper!”
The new squadron coming in was of single-seaters, labouring to climb at four hundred feet a minute, he estimated, and at not more than ninety miles an hour. Best to dive in on their rear, make a firing pass and then continue down, zooming at half a mile or so distant and turning back in. He steepened his angle of dive, knowing that the others would follow him.