No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Hopeless! I will speak to my wife’s father. He may be able to twist an arm or two for Mr Bolton.”

  Tommy stalked out of the hangar, his temper, already unsteady from the morning’s brush with death, not helped by Stainer’s comments. He spotted his pupil.

  “BE2c this morning, Mr Banks. Your first time, I believe. You will find it a little more powerful than the Shorthorn but far easier to fly. Sit in the front seat and rest your hands on the controls; familiarise yourself with their position. Right?”

  Banks did as he was told, nervously; it was not the normal procedure.

  “Good. Now put your hands on your head. Close your eyes. Now, place your hands on control lever and throttle.”

  Banks missed both, though only by fractions of an inch.

  “Not bad for a first try, but not good enough. A shell burst close to hand, a cloud of smoke and the plane tossed onto its side… You have perhaps two seconds to act. Knowing your cockpit is the difference then between living or killing you and your observer both. You will have time when you reach your squadron to sit in the cockpit and get to know it. Do so.”

  Banks had not thought as far ahead as dying; the prospect shook him. He knew that he was a natural pilot and did not expect to die by accident and had not really considered that there were several millions of Germans who would like nothing more than to kill him.

  “You are a good pilot, Banks, better than most. Work hard and you will live, unless you are unlucky. Now, taxy out, take off into the wind at your discretion, and climb to one thousand feet before turning to port, a precise bank through ninety degrees, which you will follow by a climb to two thousand and a bank to starboard. If I am satisfied, we shall then proceed further. Do not forget that I am sat behind you and have no wish to climb into your lap. Once is sufficient for that game!”

  This was Banks’ sixth hour of flight and he had memorised all of his lessons. He called to the mechanic and started the engine, then quartered the sky while he was waiting for the engine to warm up. There were two Farmans upwind at about half a mile, one at one thousand, the other lower and possibly coming in to land. He looked around a full circle, saw no other planes. The one Shorthorn was in its final approach, coming in too fast and too high. His engine was up to running temperature, the oil pressure gauge acceptable and he must move before it overheated. He taxyed slowly towards the end of the field, close to the hangars, keeping an eye on the Farman. He shouted into the rubber tube that allowed his voice to be heard in the other cockpit.

  “Shorthorn landing, sir. Won’t make it, will have to pull up and try again. I shall take off as he goes into the circuit, sir.”

  “Watch him, Banks. He’s pushing his nose down.”

  “He has no chance, surely, sir.”

  “Probably not. He is committed in his mind, I suspect, cannot think about trying again... He has realised he cannot do it. If he does not flood the engine with a sudden jerk on the throttle, he may get up.”

  They watched; a landing speed of forty miles an hour was so slow that a pilot might change his mind at the very last minute and still get away with it.

  “He’s levelling off, sir, ten feet up, perhaps… He is going to survive, sir.”

  “Provided he misses the hedge at the end of the field – there’s trees twenty feet tall there.”

  The Shorthorn staggered over the hedge and missed everything and then climbed slowly away.

  Banks took another careful look around him, checked the position of the other trainer and then commenced his own take off and climb. He performed the two manoeuvres with care, lost no height in either turn, to his pleasure, and then waited for the next instruction, expecting to be sent cross-country for half an hour.

  “Bring us down, Mr Banks.”

  A tidy and careful landing. Banks made to taxy to the hangars, was stopped by a call from the rear.

  “You are on your own, Mr Banks. Wait for me to get out then proceed to one thousand feet again and circle the field twice, watching out for company. Then land and bring the machine to the hangars.”

  Tommy hopped out of the observer’s cockpit and waved the boy away, watching his every move.

  Twenty minutes later he marched Banks to the Commandant’s office.

  “Mr Banks has failed to kill me, sir. Indeed, he has hardly tried! He has just gone solo, capably. He should practice as much as he can on the Shorthorns and BEs, sir, for the next three days. I would then wish to give him two hours on our Avro, sir, so that he has experience of the rotary engine. I believe that Mr Banks has every prospect of becoming a good pilot, sir.”

  “Very good, Major Stark! I am glad to congratulate you, Lieutenant Banks. Take advantage of everything you may be shown on a rotary, Mr Banks, for you may be flying one within a few days. The word is that pilots are needed urgently in France.”

  Banks left the office, proud of himself and bursting to tell his classmates that he had gone solo, first of them all.

  “What is the urgency for pilots, sir?”

  “The Hun has invented a forward-firing gun, Major Stark. Losses are as high as twelve planes, British and French, in the past week.”

  “What are they using to carry the gun, sir? Something new?”

  “No. The Fokker Eindecker, the old monoplane, with some sort of conversion to enable a Parabellum to fire through the propeller.”

  “Could be worse, sir. The Fokker is slow, and not very agile. I suspect that their other planes cannot bear the weight of gun and interrupter gear together. Are there many of them?”

  “Very few, luckily. I suspect they have to install the guns carefully, by hand, only a few skilled engineers available to machine the parts and fit them. Those machines they have put into the air are butchering the BEs, from all I hear.”

  “Probably can’t catch most of the other planes, sir. A matter of getting the DH2 and FE into the air, sir. They will be able to act as escort, as soon as they are available in numbers.”

  “Very quietly, Tommy, and not to be mentioned, the DH2 was sent across for testing in July. Bloody disaster, lost most of the five that went out in accidents. At least one went down intact on the other side of the trenches. Engine failures and spinning in, for the others, I am told.”

  “What engines did they finally get for them?”

  “Rotaries, of some sort, I think.”

  “There’s your answer, sir. Rotaries mounted as a pusher are very dodgy beasts – even more likely to spin on a starboard manoeuvre. Got to watch them all of the time; must be ready for them to try to kill you. A good pilot should have no great problem with them, sir.”

  “What about young Banks, Tommy? He is one of our better products, in all probabilities.”

  “Give him even a hundred hours in an Avro, and he will be good enough. Give him two, and you had as well send him out with a coffin.”

  “He will be in France by the end of next week.”

  “Proud to go as well, poor little chap. How do you put up with it, sir? Four months of training has come close to finishing me – I have no wish to fly at all, these mornings. You’ve had damned near a year of it.”

  “I could go sick, Tommy. Easily. Then you would get some other face in this office. Possibly a soldier, or one of the men returned from France with incurable earache. At least I have some wish to ensure that the boys who come into this end of the sausage machine have some chance of surviving.”

  “Just a year since it was all a great adventure, sir. No end in sight, either. I must go – I promised Monkey that I would eat today, and I have another eager youth to take up in an hour.”

  Tommy joined Noah in the Mess, ate mechanically, hardly noticing what had been put on his plate.

  “Time to get out of this shambles, Noah. I think I had rather be in France than here.”

  “Can’t go yet, Tommy – you must wait on Monkey’s convenience.”

  “True enough – she must be getting tired of carting that great lump about! I must say, Noah, that men have
the easier part of this business of producing children!”

  Noah laughed, commented that if men had to get pregnant there might be far fewer children in the world. Tommy managed a wry grin.

  “As Drongo might say, ‘too right, mate’!”

  “He’ll be having company from home fairly soon, by the looks of things, Tommy. Have you taken a look at the new bunch in?”

  There was a round dozen of obvious newcomers, the next intake, sat together in the darkest corner of the room. A mixture, as ever, of volunteers transferred from the Army and of young men and boys who had joined from civilian life.

  “Looks like a couple of Australians and three from Canada. What are those two in British uniform?”

  “Cavalry – bright enough to realise that the horse is finished in Europe at least. Both Yeomanry, I think. Five of boys straight from school.”

  “More of boys than last time. Let’s hope there’s no Travers among them.”

  Noah quietly raised the question of what would happen to Travers now that he was finished as far as the Army was concerned.

  “If there is a family firm out in the provinces, Noah, then he might be sent as a manager – they can cover for him as ‘too important keeping the wheels of industry turning’. From what Major Richards said, I doubt they would be able to get any firm outside the family to take him. I think, almost certainly, that he will have to leave the country. I doubt he’s bright enough to be taken on by a medical school to train as a doctor – no stigma in that rather than military service. I think he will have to go.”

  “Where, Tommy?”

  “Don’t know, Noah. America, I suppose – big place and a man with a bit of money can get thoroughly lost there. Don’t think he’d make a cowboy, though.”

  “How much harm can his people actually do us, Tommy?”

  “Could be a nasty posting in line for either of us, Noah. They might send you out to somewhere unpleasant, but they’ll find it less easy to get at me, of course. I have family connections, Noah – you have not.”

  Noah shrugged; life was the way it was, there was no gain to being upset about it.

  A week and Tommy was called to the CO’s office, Major Richards grave-faced as he introduced a colonel from the War Office.

  “Colonel Fox, Major Stark.”

  “Mr Tennant, the Under-Secretary of State, has sent me to enquire about the matter of Mr Travers, Major Stark. There has been a complaint that you actually physically assaulted him, and threatened to shoot him. All made sub rosa, of course. I am aware that the young man has been discharged as Unfit for Service. It has been implied that this was done to hide your misconduct, sir.”

  It had started, but Tommy was ready; he had paid a brief visit to his father-in-law over the weekend, driving Monkey across to visit her sister and her two-month offspring, on the surface. He had happened to mention Travers and had listened carefully to the advice given.

  “He made a mistake flying, Colonel Fox. He brought the plane to a stall at two thousand feet and then he panicked.”

  “Ah! That I had not heard, Major Stark. From the little I know, a stall tends to be fatal. What happened?”

  “He wet himself and then froze at the controls. I had to lean forward from the rear and punch him hard to knock him sideways, out of the way. I was then able to bring us both down safely. You are not a pilot, I believe, sir. Would it be better if you were to see a Farman, so as to understand the problem?”

  They led Colonel Fox to the hangar, showed him the actual machine they had flown, it being down for engine service.

  Sergeant Morgan came to attention and saluted.

  “Be ready in about an hour, sir. Still whiffs a bit!”

  Colonel Fox stepped forward.

  “Why does it smell, Sergeant?”

  “Well, sir…” He looked to Major Richards for help.

  “You may tell Colonel Fox everything, Sergeant Morgan.”

  “Right, sir. One of the trainees, sir, he, ah, wet his breeches, sir. In the air, sir. Never heard the like of it in all my days, sir! Soaked the seat and the floor, so he did. Major Stark had to climb out of the rear cockpit, sir, and lie on top and lean over and fly her down himself.”

  “Good God! You climbed out in the air, sir? And actually flew the machine that way? Sitting up, on the outside, high in the sky? And then you threatened to shoot him, Major Stark? Not that I blame you, I suspect that I might have done the same after that.”

  Major Richards shook his head, said it was not quite as it sounded.

  “He would not get out of the cockpit, sir, until Major Stark told him he would fetch a rifle from the guardroom if he did not. The young gentleman was in a blue funk, sir!”

  “Well, I too have never heard the like of that! Beyond belief – or should be!” Colonel Fox remembered that it was not done to discuss an officer, even an ex-officer, in front of lesser mortals. “Thank you, Sergeant Morgan.”

  Colonel Fox said no more until they reached the privacy of the CO’s office.

  “You should have given him a revolver with a single round, Major Richards! Bloody disgrace to the uniform and the family both! In front of an audience of other ranks! Visible to every man on your field I do not doubt! I shall put an end to Mr Tennant’s old friend’s complaints, I assure you! Mind you, I will wager you any money that the elder Mr Travers was not told the whole story by his son. Bit of a bad business, that is likely to be…”

  “I tried to keep the affair as quiet as I could, for the family’s sake, Colonel Fox.”

  “Of course, you did, Major Richards, and quite right, too. Last thing we would want would be a court-martial and charges of cowardice – however justified they may have been. The whole family would have been shamed! I would like to know what his school thought of him… They must have at least have given him a recommendation for him to have been granted his commission. Damned irresponsibility on their part!”

  There was a scapegoat – it was all the fault of the schoolmasters who had evidently hidden the boy’s nature, which they must have known. A very satisfactory conclusion.

  “Nothing for you to worry about, Major Richards, or you, Major Stark. Damned good piece of work on your part, saving both lives the way you did, and brave, too! How you managed to crawl out of your cockpit in mid-air I do not understand – but I do know how you come to have that ribbon now! MC and bar! I was told you were not the sort of chap to make threats or assault another officer – and I shall make damned certain that anyone who may have heard the rumours hears the truth now. Won’t keep the business as quiet as one might have liked, but that is young Travers’ fault. Pity you could not have chosen just to save your own life – he would have been no loss!”

  “We tried, did all we could for the boy, sir. Myself and Lieutenant Arkwright both attempted to bring him to his duty, sir.”

  “Arkwright, heard a whisper about him, too – his background. Something funny about the chap?”

  “Good flier in France. Nothing funny about the MC on his breast, Colonel Fox.”

  “Well said, Major Stark. I shall make that very point, most strongly, you may be sure.”

  A weekend and then Tommy and Noah were asked to present themselves in the CO’s office.

  “Colonel Fox was most impressed by you both, gentlemen.”

  “He never saw me, sir,” Noah protested.

  “What he heard, he liked. Put up your captain’s star, Noah. Overdue, in my opinion!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your work has led to it, sir. Well done! Tommy, your DSO has been gazetted. Very neatly done, too – the award recognises your service to the RFC and particularly mentions your courage in climbing out of your cockpit in the air to come to the rescue of your trainee and bring him to the ground safely. Now let the Travers family say anything!”

  They started to laugh.

  “Award of the DSO will be a Palace job, Tommy. Delay it a few weeks for your wife to be in shape to accompany you, I think. When is the
event due?”

  “Any day now, sir. Her mother has taken up residence and the midwife visits morning and afternoon. Both of them scowl at me as if it’s all my fault!”

  “They always do, Tommy. I have three boys, and each time I have been driven to hide in the garden shed, away from the womenfolk.”

  Monkey performed her duty that evening, producing a daughter, somewhat to her chagrin – she had wanted a son and heir. Tommy was delighted, said, honestly, that he much preferred a little girl who could grow up like her mother.

  “What of names, Tommy? We have none for a girl.”

  “Mary is very much in fashion at the moment, not that I like it especially… What are your favourites?”

  “Elizabeth Jane – I have always loved Jane Austen.”

  Tommy applauded her choice – they were names he liked too. He wondered who this Jane Austen was; he would ask around, see if anyone in the Mess knew.

  “By the way, dear, I was told today that I have picked up a DSO, some fuss about a bit of a problem in the air with a trainee, amongst other things. We shall be obliged to attend one of these ceremonies at the Palace, I suspect. We will need to wait a couple of months, I would imagine.”

  “I am too tired to discuss the whole business just yet, Tommy. No doubt we can talk about it tomorrow, or the next day!”

  He kissed her and left, hoping she might have forgotten the whole business by the time she had her strength back – but he doubted it.

  “A girl, Noah! Both well!”

  Noah made his congratulations, showing his pleasure for them both, smiling his best; Major Richards glanced at him, said nothing, then added his pleasure at the event. The other instructors, almost all of them unmarried, like the bulk of pilots, cheered and shouted and seemed just a little horrified at Tommy’s assumption of such responsibilities.

  “Paterfamilias, eh, Tommy? A load to bear at your age, old chap!”

  “Better to take the pleasures of age while one can, old fellow!”

  They knew their chances of living to the end of the war, whenever that might come, were slight, especially if they remained as instructors in aircraft not designed for the purpose.