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

by Andrew Wareham

  Less than a mile distant, ten of them, he thought, then corrected to twelve, two were out in front. The experienced men leading novices in?

  Tommy picked his target, almost certain that the man had not once looked behind him, was fixated on the fight less than two miles distant now. He levelled out, eighty yards, less, a little higher, nose down, the Vickers sighting on the engine. He opened fire, dropping his nose as he did so, bringing the line of bullets back and into the cockpit as Noah had shown him months before. The pilot dropped forward and his machine fell into an uncontrolled dive. Tommy changed his manoeuvre, pulled out behind the next in line, just waking up to the sound of gunfire and dying in the same way. Tommy heard the brief chattering of the three other Vickers, knew they had achieved a perfect ambush. A pity they had hit the green hands rather than the experienced men at the front of the formation, both of them diving hard, one left, the other right. As he watched, two of the German novices changed course violently, into each other, their planes falling in a single tangle of wreckage.

  Tommy loaded his Very pistol, fired a red flare and broke away from the scene. There was no gain to chasing about without any knowledge of who was to do what. They must have a briefing when they got home, decide on who would break in which direction after the initial attack; they could collide just as easily as Jerry.

  All four came together a thousand feet higher, resumed their diamond formation and looked about them. The big fight had ended, the Flights reforming. Blue and three, coming to join Tommy; Fred and two – lost one of his – just turning towards him; Frank and three.

  Tommy led them home, lined up in front of Bridge to give their reports.

  He looked across at Fred, saw one of the new boys was gone, Joseph, he thought. Only one, and not one of the best. Could have been much worse for a first encounter. He took his place, first in line.

  “Two, Bridge, single-seaters, DIIIs, I think.”

  “Definitely DIIIs,” Rozzer confirmed. “Two for me as well, Bridge! Broke my duck!”

  David claimed one certain, one damaged but might have been able to get home; their new man, Michael, rather thought he had three.

  “He has,” Rozzer confirmed. “Two in flames, one after the other, the third he hit the pilot and it was spinning.”

  “Three to Michael,” Bridge accepted.

  “Nine from twelve, Bridge. Won’t do that again – they were watching the fight, not looking around them. Jerry will teach them to keep their eyes open in future.”

  Fred stepped forward, claimed a pair in his own name and one for Joseph, who had been so excited by his first kill, he had flown directly into his second, still waving a clenched fist in the air.

  “Can’t really make a claim for the one that killed him, not the right thing to do.”

  Blue put in for one, stared disgustedly at his three followers.

  “These young gentlemen all picked the same target! They shredded him! Three guns at once hitting cockpit and engine. That is the deadest Hun you will ever come across!”

  Fred’s number three and four shyly begged to put in for one apiece.

  Fred nodded, he had witnessed them make their first kills very efficiently, he said.

  Frank had one, as had the other three of the Flight.

  “Eleven from twelve?” Bridge was impressed.

  “Who got away, did any of you notice?”

  “The leader, Tommy. Man at the front with a streamer. Nose down and gone. He was trying to climb again and make his way back into the fight as we pulled out. His plane was too slow.”

  Hilary was very matter of fact as he continued.

  “Frank pulled away, so I followed him rather than go down and get the Jerry. Should I have?”

  “No. Never go swanning off on your own if your leader is pulling out. You were dead right, Hilary.”

  “I thought I was. Didn’t like it much, though.”

  “I don’t like much about this game at all, Hilary. I ain’t certain we’re here to like it these days.”

  Twenty kills sounded impressive – the newspapers would love that report. Front pages again!

  “You look displeased, Tommy.”

  “I am, sir. We should have nailed them all. Especially, I should have made a target of the leader. Safer to take the men at the back, but it would have been worth it to pick up one of the big scalps. No matter! Boom will love the figures – and they were all men towards the end of their training and Jerry will have to start again with that lot.”

  Colonel Kettle picked up his telephone, asked to be put through to HQ, to Mr Baring if possible.

  “The Sopwith Scouts have just had their first war patrol, sir. They met two formations of twelve and came home with one loss and twenty confirmed kills and one damaged and probable. Tommy is upset because they missed three, but I think he has done rather well.”

  “Yes, I agree, sir. He is all of that. Very good, sir.”

  Colonel Kettle hung the receiver back on its stand.

  “Baring says you’re a bloody perfectionist. Boom is in a meeting at the moment. He will tell him when he comes out. Expect an outpouring of delight, Tommy.”

  “We can’t really expect more joy in the northern sector tomorrow, sir. Should we try high cover over the battlefield?”

  “No reports of anything, but why not?”

  Dark Days Of Summer

  Chapter Eleven

  “Report from Intelligence on the score we made three days ago, Tommy.”

  The squadron had seen not another enemy since, the air empty. Tommy was wondering what to do to drum up some trade before the tedium grew too much for the lads. They were not good at long, dead patrols, tension building for two and more hours and then nothing happening. The accidents would start soon, carelessness creeping in as they landed, anti-climax sapping their alertness.

  “What have they to say in Hunland, Bridge?”

  “A deal of outrage among the old hands, it would seem. They believe you deliberately targeted the boys, choosing to kill green pilots who could not fight back. There is much talk of honour and of challenging you to fight men rather than untrained boys who could not respond to your attack.”

  “What a bunch of bloody fools! Where do your people get this information from, Bridge? It don’t seem very likely, not for professional pilots.”

  Bridge suggested they were Prussians first, pilots second. As for sources, he could not say, not with any certainty, but he believed that the airfields employed numbers of Belgians as servants, and French, of course, in those parts of the country that had been occupied.

  “There is also, I believe, the question of mistresses to some of the officers. I am assured that the information that arrives is generally very good.”

  Tommy admitted that he was personally aware of the existence of very brave men and women who had met his plane when he had landed behind the lines to deliver pigeons and food.

  Bridge had not heard of that adventure, was much impressed – but not, he said, entirely surprised, it sounded like the sort of thing Tommy would do.

  “I am informed that there is a prospect that a message will be dropped on the field demanding that you meet them one to one, Tommy. They know which squadron from the markings on our planes and they are long familiar with your name, obviously. Their Intelligence also gets reports.”

  Tommy wondered who from. Were their own servants untrustworthy?

  Bridge could give no answer to that, but said that he had heard that leakages of information had come from the demi-monde in the past. Tommy had never heard the term and had to have it explained; he was then slightly contemptuous.

  “Whoremongers and pederasts, you say? Patronising the seedy clubs of Paris? I thought that was confined to the Brigade of Guards, didn’t realise one found them in the RFC. Staff officers, I presume?”

  Bridge agreed that the Staff generally had the most knowledge to reveal.

  Tommy was less surprised – he would believe most things of the Staff. He return
ed to the immediate topic.

  “A message dropped on the field?”

  “One of them to come in low at dawn and throw a letter in some sort of container. It has been done before, dropping personal effects and tags of downed pilots. Not so common these days – but we haven’t got the illusions of 1914. HQ thinks it will probably arrive tomorrow.”

  “What will they do? Set a date and time and place? Pistols at dawn over Bapaume?”

  “Something like that.”

  Tommy snorted – he thought that he had never had illusions of honour; his enemy had always been the Law of Gravity, and that had no knowledge of fair play.

  “We shall see, Bridge. Bunch of bloody fools.”

  Tommy made his way to the hangars, calling for the armourer, Flight-Sergeant Burke. Half an hour later he went into the offices.

  “What’s the weather for dawn tomorrow, Jim?”

  “Dry and sunny. Last good day for a week, Tommy. Showers forecast from tomorrow evening.”

  “Excellent. Listen, now, Jim, have you heard of this bloody nonsense of Jerry trying to get me to fight a duel?”

  Jim had not, was not pleased when Tommy laughed and said he would show the Prussian idiots.

  Jim spoke to Colonel Kettle, a little worried that Tommy might be taken by a quixotic mood.

  Colonel Kettle asked Baldy Ross whether Tommy had demanded a plane for dawn, was reassured.

  The squadron rose with the sun soon after five o’clock, all of the pilots awake and clustered together outside the mess. Almost immediately they heard an engine coming in from the east.

  The gunners in the pits around the field cocked their weapons; six Vickers and four Lewises on high-angle mountings pointed upwards.

  A fast biplane, a type they did not recognise, came in at little more than ground level, below the arcs of the mounted guns, and dropped a leather bag with a streamer attached as it passed in front of the hangars. Coming into clear sight as it started to make height, the plane was coned by the fire of every spare Lewis Gun from the armoury, a long rank, shoulder to shoulder and all loaded with Brock rounds, in the hands of soldiers and mechanics who had never had a chance to shoot at Jerry, and really wanted to. The plane disintegrated into burning shards, some of which must have been the pilot.

  Jim and Colonel Kettle had also risen early, now walked out onto the field and picked up the message bag.

  “Eighteen guns, Jim?”

  “Always was an enthusiast, young Tommy, sir - got out every spare gun in the armoury!”

  They took the message to Tommy, who was now in the dining-room and calling for breakfast.

  “For you, sir.”

  Tommy glanced at the envelope, confirmed it said ‘Major Stark’, opened it and read the brief note aloud.

  “’I shall be waiting alone over Ypres at nine o’clock this morning, at five thousand feet.’ Signed by one Lothar von Bismarck, Hauptman.”

  “Good family, Tommy. I hope he wasn’t the heir to the title. Shame to see the name die.”

  “You might well be right, sir. I’m sure I have heard that name somewhere. The gentleman is mistaken, however, thanks to our gunners he definitely won’t be over Ypres today. Typical Jerry, making boasts he cannot deliver!”

  Tommy ate his breakfast and took a second cup of coffee, talking idly, waiting for the rest of the squadron to finish.

  “Food, Jim! Not up to scratch, you know. Can we get hold of civilian cooks, perhaps?”

  “I would need another two hundred quid in the Mess Fund, Tommy. Not easy either to get hold of decent meat and vegetables, these days. Or fish.”

  “Keep this quiet, Jim, no need to make a splash of it, but my bent half-brother can come in useful – some of his ill-gotten gains will be in your hands within a couple of days, if I can get on the telephone to England.”

  Colonel Kettle said it was impossible, absolutely against regulations and he should come across to the office before dinner.

  He knew that Tommy would pull a few strings.

  “You will want to speak to Lord Moncur, I should imagine, Tommy.”

  Tommy stood and briefed the squadron, as was normal.

  “Frank, I want your Flight one mile north of Ypres at precisely eight-fifty, at eight thousand feet and looking for anything coming out of the east. Fred, you will be one mile south at ten thousand, watching in all directions, just in case they’re as nasty as we are. Blue, you’ve drawn the short straw – you will take your Flight fifteen miles east of Ypres, at about twelve thousand feet, depending on the cloud, if any, and looking for any enemy aircraft taking off from airfields in the vicinity at around about eight-thirty, then make your way back towards us. Try to locate active fields, if possible, for future reference. My Flight will climb to ten thousand feet and then descend towards Ypres for nine o’clock. If there is a replacement for Lothar von Bismarck, Hauptman, we shall splatter him between us. If there are spectators, we shall send them home with their tails between their legs – those few who survive. You all know my opinions of knightly honour, gentlemen – let us pass the message to Jerry today.”

  “Excuse me, Tommy.”

  “Yes, Hilary?”

  “Do you mean that we should instantly try to shoot in the back any pilot who has come to watch an honourable combat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good! I just wanted to be clear in my mind that you didn’t want a free hand first.”

  “No. My aim to is to kill any and every German we can lay our grubby, peasant hands upon, Hilary. As dead and as quickly as possible.”

  “An excellent idea, if I may say so, Tommy. How should we be loaded?”

  “Ball, I think, Hilary. We must be a little short of explosive rounds after this morning’s profligacy.”

  There was a full squadron waiting over Ypres, a mixture of Fokker biplanes and monoplanes come to watch the knightly joust, and who died full of outrage, demonstrating that indignation and moral virtue were no substitute for a faster and more agile plane. Tommy’s Flight opened proceedings by shooting down one lone new Albatros, patrolling slowly at precisely five thousand feet, and Frank and Fred’s pilots dived and fired and banked away repeatedly among the spectators. Blue’s Flight met the five survivors as they fled eastward and reduced them to one.

  They landed to find General Trenchard waiting for them.

  “Kill ‘em… all, Stark?”

  “One got away, sir.”

  “Might be… better! Pass the… word… to his… superiors.”

  “Agreed, sir. We shall go out again this afternoon on patrol. I am a little worried, sir, about the effects of flying repeatedly in thin air, at fifteen thousand feet and more. Some of the boys have complained of headaches, and there are other symptoms. Do you know if the medical men have anything to say about it, sir?”

  “No. Baring?”

  “Nothing that I know, Major Stark. I will make enquiries. Perhaps some of the Alpinists, the mountain-climbing fraternity, might know something about it.”

  General Trenchard was not particularly interested in his pilots’ headaches; war demanded sacrifices, especially by young men. After all he had heard from the Somme, a pilot with a headache was a long way down his set of priorities.

  “Bombing machines… Stark. The Hun… has been… sending… machines over… the battlefield. AEGs. Mark Fours. Very big. Bombing high. Not much… use. Sometimes… hitting at… random. Try to… kill them.”

  “Certainly, sir. Do they attack at any favourite time of day, sir?”

  “No… pattern reported. Dawn, perhaps.”

  “A nuisance. Single Flights, I suspect, sir. Colonel Kettle?”

  The Colonel acknowledged Tommy’s courtesy. The Major could give advice, but military etiquette demanded that his Colonel must issue the orders.

  “We shall organise patrols, General. The new Sopwiths – the Pups – at height, and DH2s at lower altitudes.”

  “Better… to leave… the DH2s… to chase… artillery… spotters. Mu
st keep… the air clear.”

  Colonel Kettle agreed, instantly; he would have done so in any case, not being in the habit of arguing with General Trenchard, but he actually believed that keeping the German artillery blind was the most valuable service the RFC could offer to the soldiers on the ground.

  “Do we know what height these AEGs work at, sir? I don’t know much about them.”

  “Send your… man to… HQ… Intelligence. Full… briefing on… them.”

  Colonel Kettle could not understand why that information had not already been sent to every squadron in France. Why should useful knowledge be kept secret?

  “Good question! Baring?”

  “Habit, sir. Secret knowledge is far too valuable to be given away to people who might need to use it. Much wiser to keep secrets.”

  “Does that… make sense?”

  Baring shook his head.

  “Every squadron… to have… all details. Soonest!”

  Baring nodded and waited until Tommy led his master away to inspect the new Scouts.

  “Nothing makes sense in this war, Colonel Kettle, but I shall get the Intelligence people to print all they have about the different German aircraft and send it out. Put them up on the wall where the pilots can see the pictures, and try to persuade them to read the words as well, Colonel.”

  “Ambitious, sir. Asking rather a lot of these young men! Reading is not a skill they tend to cultivate.”

  “Perhaps not. It could be useful in this instance. What did you call the new Sopwith?”

  “The Pup, sir. It is clearly derived from the Strutter, and is smaller. It is less illogical than many of the names they come up with.”

  “Less bald than ‘Scout’, I will say. Why not? I shall try to persuade the lord and master to accept it. The newspapers will like the idea of naming planes. You have lost only one, so far. No accidents, either. Why so low a wastage, Colonel Kettle? I am not complaining, you understand, merely seeking elucidation.”

  “Every pilot here has at least fifty hours in. The bulk are over one hundred. Experienced pilots kill themselves far less frequently, one might say, sir. We lost eighteen pilots in the Strutters from a squadron of sixteen – a number of new men not outlasting their first week, the first day in some cases. Consequently, the men who stepped up into the new cockpits were survivors. We will lose some, inevitably, but far fewer for the next few weeks. Tommy saw the first new Albatros this morning, and said that it was probably very good. I gather that he flew towards it, as if to accept this silly bloody challenge, and David came down from behind and shot it to pieces while the pilot was busy making his formal salute.”