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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Make Blue up to First Lieutenant, sir. He can take over for a couple of days – provided they keep to high level bombardment. I can sit on the ground and talk him through the first few days. The American, Joe, will make a good second to him. Tell them both I have recommended them because I have complete faith in them. It ain’t too untrue – they’re good pilots, or will be, if they live. Give Noah both Flights, so that they’ve got an experienced man over them; no flash, Noah, but he’s better than me – people just don’t notice him.”

  “I do, Tommy. He ain’t better than you as a pilot, to my mind, but he’s no worse an officer. He’s talking with your lads now, shepherding them past Brains.”

  “Brains?”

  “Intelligence Officer – he had to be called something, and there’s nothing noticeable about him.”

  Tommy would have laughed, but his face hurt too much.

  The doctor was waiting for him, tools set out in his sick bay – a moderately off-putting sight to the layman.

  “Let’s see now, Major – an earache that won’t go away and becomes acutely painful whenever you attempt to fly… No! Not one of my usual run of patients, sir. It makes a change – out of respect to your injuries, I shall not say a ‘pleasant’ change. Sad, really – just a second while I get my needles ready – the less wide-awake come in here and say they can’t do it any more, can’t face flying. I ground them, and write a report saying Lack of Moral Fibre, and they are stripped of their rank and are sent to the rear to be treated with contempt, probably cleaning the latrines in France until the war ends. The bright lads have an earache, and I cannot disprove it, and they must not fly in that condition, so they go home as casualties of flying and enjoy a respectable existence at airfields and offices throughout England. Right, ready now. I am going to slap a heavy shot of cocaine into your hand – which will continue to hurt for a few minutes – I don’t want to inject your face yet, if at all – I don’t know what damage there is and I might need to discover where it hurts. Sorry!”

  A glass hypodermic, more suitable for treating horses than men, Tommy thought, and a shot of anaesthetic into the hand, which was distinctly unpleasant, the needle hurting as much as the finger for a few seconds.

  “Don’t want to knock you out with gas, Major Stark – needs a nurse or two and a second doctor to do that safely. The Germans have a development on cocaine for this purpose, apparently more efficient in smaller, controllable doses - but it’s not made by British medical firms. I am going to trim up the finger that’s gone and clean the other wounds. No nurse here to hand me the tools, which would make it quicker. If I was you, I would look away – don’t want you fainting on me. Orderly!”

  A large private soldier entered the room and made a show of washing his hands. He stood at Tommy’s side, ready to catch him as the need arose.

  “Had the head butcher from the kitchens in here last week, sir,” the orderly said. “Slipped with one of his knives. Fainted just as soon as he saw his own blood! Biggest laugh since Ma…”

  “I’ve heard that before, soldier. Since Ma what?”

  The orderly became very prim, shook his head discouragingly.

  “I don’t think we should say any more in front of the doctor, sir.”

  “Quite right, too. We doctors live sheltered lives. I might be shocked.”

  There was a rattle of instruments, a brief tugging sensation and then the feel of the hand being lifted and bandaged, the cocaine deadening all sensation, not merely in the hand.

  “I’ve trimmed the little finger down to the lowest joint, Major Stark – no sense leaving a stump to stick out, probably without movement. Third finger suffered minor lacerations – quite trivial cuts and scratches which should heal within days. I have cleaned them and wrapped them up. Now let’s look at your face…”

  “I thought it was only a graze, doctor.”

  “It was – you were lucky to an extent. But it looks as if it was grazed by wood splinters from the cockpit, and if that is so, they will be dirty and will probably have remained in situ. I must dig them out, if they exist – and that means I must poke about to see what I can find. This, I am afraid, will hurt…”

  The doctor was right; it was acutely painful, and Tommy, an officer and a gentleman, was obliged to sit silent and unmoving through the drawn-out procedure. At intervals, the doctor gave little cries of ‘aha!’ and ‘oho!’ and waved tiny trophies before his eyes – nasty, dripping, crimson slivers of wood.

  “Could kill you, those little fellows, Major Stark! Infect the wound, turn it gangrenous, and not a damned thing we could do for you! Only safe way of dealing with septicaemia is to cut it out – and amputation at the neck ain’t recommended!”

  Tommy wondered if this was medical wit and humour – it gave him no desire to laugh.

  He heard a distant foghorn, coming nearer, entering the corridor; he braced himself for the presence of Brigadier Trenchard. The door flung open and the great head appeared.

  “Shan’t… come in! All well?”

  “Will be, sir - provided infection does not supervene! Major Stark will rest for at least an hour when I am finished but will then be available to you, sir.”

  “I’ll go… then. See… you later…. Stark!”

  The door slammed to.

  “Now there, Major Stark, is a legitimate cause for earache in any of his subordinates! Finished now. I am going to clean you up and tape a light dressing across the cheek. If you remain in France, then your attendant at the airfield will examine the wound every day and clean and replace the dressing. Without fail – you must not get infected! I would prefer that you returned to England for a while – but that does not lie in my hands. This is not quite a ‘Blighty one’ – unless your superiors determine that it is so. Strange how it goes, is it not, Major Stark? A year ago, I had a young private in tears because I ordered him back to England; now I have grown men weeping when I will not classify their wound as a Blighty one!”

  “I have heard rumours, Doctor, of men shooting themselves in the foot to get back to England…”

  “So have I, Major Stark. I have not come across such a case – but, serving at a Headquarters as I am, I would not. I do not know whether or not it is true – but, as I may have mentioned, earache is increasingly prevalent here. Lie down now for half an hour at least while the pain goes off. I don’t want to knock you out with morphine – I don’t like the bloody stuff, too many side effects which we don’t understand and often don’t even recognise. I use it only when I have no choice. We will have plenty of cases to observe in the next few years, of course, should know a lot more about all of these things when peace comes again. This war may be a Godsend to medicine, you know – all of these involuntary subjects to examine and experiment upon as we try to improve their care!”

  “What is it, on the Golden Syrup cans, doctor?”

  “Oh, yes! The dead lion with the beehive in its carcass – ‘out of corruption shall come forth sweetness’. Very apt, Major Stark!”

  Tommy dozed off for a few minutes, was woken up by an insistent bladder. He decided that as he was moving, he should present himself to the Brigadier; he requested the doctor’s permission to leave him.

  “Jolly polite of you to ask, Major Stark. Of course. Boom will wish to see you at earliest. Wish I could understand that one – I must imagine it is some sort of nervous disorder, that habit of speech.”

  “Perhaps the missing lung has something to do with it, doctor?”

  “Do what?”

  “Shot to pieces in Africa. Lucky to live, was put out to grass for a while but worked his ticket back into the Army. Remarkable fellow, you know – even if he is a homicidal maniac in his spare time.”

  “Quite…One must, in the face of that evidence, agree with you. Wholly! Off you go, Major Stark. If you fall down – which is quite possible, shock and all that - have yourself carried back here. Orderly!”

  The large private returned, looked quizzical.

  “Esc
ort Major Stark to Brigadier Trenchard, if you would be so good.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The orderly closed the door behind him, pointed Tommy up the corridor.

  “Since Ma caught her tits in the mangle, sir.”

  “What? Oh. Yes, I see. Thank you.”

  Brigadier Trenchard was at his best, smiling massively behind his desk; he was accompanied by two staff officers, unknown to Tommy, and Maurice Baring, who found him a chair.

  “Glad to see… the RFC… taking the… offensive… Stark.”

  “It’s those hundred-pound bombs, sir. Very offensive, and they seem to be valuable. Pity we have no way of aiming them, sir. A bomb sight would have much to recommend it.”

  “You… did well… at Douai… today. Pigeon… came in… hour ago.”

  “A pigeon, sir?”

  Baring took over, frowning a little; this was information that really should not be disseminated to all and sundry.

  “The people over in Belgium often send their reports by carrier pigeon. Would it be possible to land a plane behind the German lines, Major Stark, to deliver another cageful of birds to them?”

  “Given a clean landing field and a two-seater, so as to have a navigator, then it could be done, sir. A pair of bright carbide lights, sir, in the night, to show beginning and end of the strip, and no trees hidden in the dark – I would be willing to give it a try in a couple of weeks, sir.”

  “You will… be given… the… opportunity… Major Stark. Douai, now.”

  One of the staff officers, a pink and sheltered captain, no wings, young – probably Intelligence, Tommy thought – placed a sheet of paper on the desk.

  “One large warehouse gutted by fire. Totally destroyed. An estimated eight hundred tons of flour, hence burning so well. One other warehouse, gable wall down and some fires, partial destruction of a tonnage of canned meats. One smaller warehouse, roof well alight, out of control, fire engines unable to put the blaze out at time of writing; full of fats. Thought that burning timbers from the roof have fallen in – probable total destruction. The rations for an Army Corps, we believe, which will demand transport and time to replace. Valuable work, sir! In addition, bombs fell on the railway tracks and, by good fortune, onto a signal box. Some incendiaries set fires in the yard as well. Many hours of disruption to the railway system as a result.”

  The second staff officer, equally pink, slightly more cherubic, definitely never having ventured into trenches himself, took up the tale.

  “Your first raids yesterday, Major Stark, destroyed a farmhouse which happened to be in use as an officers mess. Casualties were significant, two battalions being effectively put out of action until the missing captains and major can be replaced. The attack upon the cavalry brigade caused substantial disruption. Your comments upon the attack were noted, and agreed with, sir.”

  “So… Major Stark. Well done! What further… conclusions… have you?”

  “A recommendation, sir, that a unit should be formed here at Brigade to evaluate potential targets for the squadrons. Every raid should be made against a target specified by your people, sir. That way, you can decide which is most important and allocate it to the nearest or best-equipped squadron to do the job.”

  “Don’t… we do… that? Baring?”

  “No, sir. Targets are suggested to Wing and are given out there, commonly in ignorance of exactly where they are or how they should be attacked.”

  “Bugger!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Create… the unit. Major Stark… you cannot fly… for a week. Stay here… set the… thing up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tommy swore to himself; he knew that he should have kept his mouth shut.

  Maurice Baring found him an office, in very short time.

  “Chaplain’s resting place. Fifth time he’s been shifted this month and each time further distant from the Mess. He may get the message soon. There is always a chance he will seek a transfer closer to the lines – he will get it, be amazed at the speed with which he moves. You will require one junior officer and I shall supply a sergeant and a private. Have you any specific choice as your aide? A lieutenant, it must be, I am afraid. Could not justify pulling a captain out of a squadron.”

  “One of Noah’s lads has been particularly badly trained. Willing enough, but he ain’t the sort to make old bones in a squadron.”

  “I’ll get on the telephone, Tommy. I can cut corners which you don’t know about. I’ll send your sergeant along, and collect together the paperwork that’s hanging about today.”

  Tommy sat down behind the official pattern desk, found it was empty. The room was about fifteen feet by twelve, with no other furniture and a single window looking out over a muddy field to some sort of depot, with horses.

  A scrawny Welsh sergeant appeared five minutes later, introduced himself as Davies, glanced around the office and said that it would never do.

  “If you would excuse me for a while, sir…”

  He left. Soon after a pair of privates came through the door bearing a large kitchen table which they squeezed into the room beside the office, which Tommy had not even noticed before. They took out a dozen large cartons which had been stored there, disposing of them somewhere further down the corridor.

  They returned with a large noticeboard, at least eight feet long by four high, produced hammer and nails, and attached it to the long wall. They went away again, not a word said. A while later they brought in another desk, a pair of chairs and then a typewriter.

  Sergeant Davies put his head in the door to observe progress.

  “Sergeant – where is this stuff coming from?”

  “Stores, sir. Never you mind, sir. Let me just look in the tea room, sir.”

  He came back almost immediately.

  “No gas supply, sir. Half an hour.”

  Other soldiers came up the corridor, attaching a long rubber hose to the wall as they walked. They led the pipe over the door and into the tea room, sawing a hole in the door frame to give access, and then attached it to a gas ring which they produced from a sack.

  “Ten minutes, sir, to get rid of the air in the pipe. You might want to go down to the Mess for a while, sir. Gets a bit smelly sometimes.”

  Tommy did as he was told; he fancied a cup of tea and a bite to eat now that he was recovered from the medical treatment.

  The Mess Sergeant did not recognise Tommy, assumed he was a visitor.

  “Major Stark, attached to Brigade for a few days to create a bombardment unit.”

  “Very good, sir. Leave the details to me, sir. What can we get you now, sir?”

  “Tea and a sandwich or a bun or something. From the feel of my face, easy to chew.”

  “Cup of tea and a bowl of soup, sir. Thick vegetable, sir. Very nourishing. Favourite of the Brigadier.”

  “Sounds just the thing.”

  The sergeant was old in his trade, supplied tea and soup and a slice of bread and stayed out of the way. If the officer felt sick, eating for the first time after a shot of cocaine, then a mess waiter could deal with him.

  Tommy actually felt better for food and walked quite briskly back to his office.

  There was a private sat at the second desk, paper in his typewriter, briskly tapping out the details from a pile of sheets at his side. An easy chair had been set in the corner, with an occasional table by it; there was another comfortable chair in the tea room, with Sergeant Davies in occupation, a wooden cupboard by his side which he was filling with documents.

  “Mostly blank, sir. Forms to fill in as the occasion arises. I have the list of requests for bombardment from Army, and there is a large map due to come in later to go up on the notice board. Private Devon is typing out the bombardment list, sir – easier to see, if everything is brought together on a single sheet.”

  “Very good, Sergeant Davies. What were you in civilian life, may I ask?”

  “Worked in the coal pit, I did, in the valley, sir, not so far
from Tonypandy. Went in as a boy of twelve, see, and soon found I would rather work in the office, sir. Made myself useful there and became assistant to the manager, like. Much as I am doing here, sir. There was a strike, a long one, and I did not like the way things was going – the collier lads all thought I was management, and the white-collars knew I lived down in the terraces. I was neither fish nor fowl, you might say, so I joined up, sir, five years before the war.”

  “And transferred to the RFC and have become very useful here… Would you be interested ever in shifting across to a squadron, Sergeant Davies? It’s surprising just how much time is wasted there by people like me chasing bits of paper but with no real idea what to do with them.”

  “Just so long as there is a proper place, like, that I can turn into me own, sir. All very well being a sergeant, sir, but an ill-minded warrant officer can be a proper sod, sir.”

  “Noted. I will speak to the Adjutant when I get back to the squadron, Sergeant Davies. We suffer for not having a man who knows his way around.”

  Tommy sat and looked at the list of targets sent by the Army; it was rapidly clear that they had been created at different levels and by officers with quite distinct aims. Some of the demands must have arisen at company level in the middle of the fighting and were almost certainly irrelevant by the time they had risen through the chain of command and had been passed across to the RFC.

  He winnowed out all of the immediate tactical demands for strikes against this machine-gun and that pill-box and made a note that they were out of date before they had been received. He must speak to Baring about the problem.

  That left almost a half of the requests, and they had been divided up for him into close and distant bombardments. Tommy approved of the division and glanced across to the private on the typewriter.

  “Is this your work?”

  “Yes, sir. It seemed to make sense to split them up. I have some knowledge of the north of the country, sir, and could see what, one might say, was what.”