Trenchard took over.
“Lord Kitchener… has… personally expressed… his gratitude… for your actions. Major Stark… you are… awarded a… bar to… the DSO.”
She would never believe that he had not been risking his neck again – he was deep in trouble this time.
Tommy smiled and made his thanks in proper fashion; perhaps he could remain in France for another six months.
“There is to be an investiture at the Palace next week, Major Stark,” Baring said. “You are to take the ferry tomorrow morning – your quaintly named servant will meet you with your luggage in Calais. For the moment, the gentlemen of the press wish to speak with you. They know that your actions of last night must remain secret and will ask you nothing of them.”
The gentlemen of the press smiled their best – their expressions suggested they had been in receipt of quite vicious threats.
No Longer A Game
Chapter Eight
The ribbons on Tommy’s breast were modified and he faced all three of the cameras, full and half-profile, while the decision was taken as to which shot would be best.
“Excellent scars on the face, Major Stark – very manly! Don’t go near Mayfair, sir – the Society ladies would leap upon you like dogs on a bone. Is that a missing finger I see, sir? How can we get that in a photograph? Let’s see, now, stand by the window – damned rain, this really should be an outside shot! Right arm across the chest, cupping the left elbow; left hand supporting the chin as you stare ruminatively into the distant skies. Head cocked just a little… forced to stay on the ground when you wish to follow your soul, leaping into the heavens to defend our brave soldiers from the dastardly Hun. Yes, very good, sir – that will go well. Wounded in action yet unceasing in your desire to fight for King and Country! You know, Major Stark, there’s some bloody fools believe this stuff! Amazes me, but there you are! One more shot, sir, square onto the lens, staring straight at me. Poster material, sir. Major Stark asking why you are not in France with him! Pity about the moustache, sir, I’ll try to ink one in.”
“Shot off in combat, old chap.”
“Burned away by the cowardly incendiary bullets of the Hun! They’ll love that! Well thought, sir!”
The reporters had made notes of the material that must accompany the photographs, now ventured to ask the ordinary questions. How many Huns had he shot down? Had he destroyed balloons? How many? Had he sent any Fokkers down in flames? Were the new aeroplanes to come into service soon, and could they end the Fokker Menace?
Baring intervened at the last question, shaking his head gravely.
“Secret, gentlemen. You may say no more than that Major Stark was sent out from England to test one of the new types before it entered full production. He shot down two Fokkers, and would have had more if we had not needed him to perform other, even more secret, tasks. You may say that the Fokker Menace has been contained for the while and will be brought to an end within two months. We expect a whole squadron of the new planes by the spring. Not to be reported, gentlemen, but they will in fact be here sooner than that, but the Hun reads our newspapers, you know!”
They nodded gravely, reminded of the burdens of responsibility placed upon the Fourth Estate.
“What are you to do next, Major Stark?”
“I believe I must stand before my King at Buckingham Palace, gentlemen. I am to return to England for a few days and join my wife and daughter for a while. Then, well, Brigadier Trenchard will no doubt know what I am to do next and will tell me when the time is ripe.”
“So I… shall, Major… Stark. But, you… may take… fourteen days… leave. I wish… it could be… more!”
“Thank you, sir.”
A final photograph of the heroes saluting each other and Tommy was permitted to withdraw. The Belgian functionary, M. Belfort, was waiting outside.
“My King is very grateful to you for your efforts, Major Stark. He will make personal representations to His Majesty King George, Major Stark, and your service will be remembered, sir.”
Tommy expressed his thanks and left the building, Baring escorting him.
“What does that mean, sir?”
“You will certainly be retained in the RFC after the war, if you wish, and will probably be invited to act as ADC to the King for two or three years. Ceremonial posting in essence, but carrying a certainty of high rank afterwards. Useful if you have a career in mind.”
“I doubt I have, sir. I came into a little money from my father and Lord Moncur has looked after it for me and I will be able to live comfortably on it. I think that civil aviation will be my interest – and probably in the States or Australia. Much will depend on my wife, of course.”
“Good. That is as it should be. My regards to her, and to your daughter! All is arranged for tomorrow – a tender leaving before dawn to take you to Calais. I must rescue the lord and master from the press – he is not good with them, I fear.”
Tommy started to laugh, able to imagine the course an interview might take.
He wandered off to the Mess, found himself hungry – which was rare at lunchtime. Fatty mutton chops in thick gravy with boiled potatoes – just the food to nurture a young Englishman! Bakewell tart to follow, with custard – what more could one ask for? He wondered for a moment just what the French and Belgian visitors who occasionally ate in the Mess would make of it – but they were only Frogs, after all!
He had a free afternoon, and probably a quiet evening in the Mess – HQ was civilised, unlike the squadrons. He was tired, he realised, and would be happy to get some extra hours of sleep. He must speak to the mechanics in the hangar, first, they deserved the courtesy.
Coming back to his billet he bumped into Baring, quietly chuckling.
“I have just farewelled the gentlemen of the press, Tommy! They could not leave fast enough! Brigadier Trenchard was in expansive mood and invited them to visit some of the squadrons. He very much wanted, he said, to record his bold lads’ doings; photographs taken in the air of his reconnaissance planes out braving the Fokker to serve the Army would be a true and historical memorial to so many dead young men. He would like, as well, articles written from the airman’s point of view by reporters who had sat in the observer’s seat for a few patrols. They were falling over each other to get into their cars and escape!”
Tommy drew breath, controlled his laughter and tried to be serious.
“Won’t that lead to some rather undesirable reports, sir?”
“No – anything but. They gained the impression, in our farewell conversation, that I was to be tasked to contact their editors and ask for specific men by name. The editors would love to have the photographs and stories from the horse’s mouth – they would sell their men down the river with no hesitation, and they know it. Any reporter who offends me may expect, or so he believes, to be measured for his flying coat! We shall get the best of press for the next few weeks!”
“Which means, sir, that the investiture at the Palace will be well covered?”
“Smile and buy your lady a new dress, Tommy.”
“I had not thought of dress – I wonder if my uniform is up to scratch?”
“Bet you any money you like it will be, Tommy. You have a housekeeper, do you not?”
“Mrs Rudge? Yes, she would not forget something like that – and she will not let me forget, either!”
“Good. Put up a good show, Tommy – dance the steps the photographers demand. There will be conscription before too long, you know – the flow of volunteers is drying up, except from schoolboys as they reach an age – not that you would know about that! Seriously speaking, there is a shortage of volunteers, and we want first take of those few – the RFC does not want unwilling conscripts. Would you fancy having a conscripted mechanic working on your plane, Tommy?”
“Not bloody likely, sir! I trust the boys – men – in the hangars. I know they will never let a flier down and will work every hour they can stay awake to get the job thoroughly done. I d
on’t know that I could ever trust a conscript.”
“So, when the reporter says ‘Smile’, Tommy, even if it’s the twentieth time in the last ten minutes, you know what you must do. There must be young – and middle-aged – men to read their newspaper and say ‘I should be out there’. There must be mechanics working in garages and taking their tea-breaks, looking at those photographs and saying farewell to their mates, for knowing that they should be maintaining your aircraft rather than milady’s Rolls. It is duty, Tommy, to prance and smirk for the photographers. They will certainly want shots of you carrying the baby, by the way.”
“I was under the impression that the officer never carried anything, sir.”
“Quite right, too – but you will nonetheless be seen with your daughter in your arms!”
“That will be no burden, sir.”
“Another piece of advice, Tommy?”
“Always, sir.”
“Get some bloody sleep – you look like death warmed up!”
“With respect, sir, officers who send pilots out flying at night, should not be entirely surprised that they run short of their beauty sleep.”
“Agreed. I stand rebuked. Now go to bed for a couple of hours.”
Dinner was restrained by the presence of Brigadier Trenchard at the table; he was not one for alcohol and high jinks.
“Nor even low jinks, Tommy,” Baring confided. “By the way, what is a ‘jink’?”
“I really do not know, Maurice. I doubt it will be much good to ask the man himself.”
He woke without a hangover and was put into a tender before dawn, stood on the dock at Calais, looking faintly lost in the half-light.
“Over ‘ere, sir.”
“Ah, I hoped you would know what was going on, Smivvels. You are coming to England with me, are you not?”
“Yes, sir. Your personal servant, sir, all official-like, to go with you to your postings, sir, and on leave.”
“Good! That will make my life far more comfortable. What ship are we to board?”
“The old Southern Railway ferry, sir. Like it was peacetime. Puts you down right at the quayside station, sir.”
Tommy knew nothing of the railways – he had never wished to be an engine driver.
“Got your trunk on a trolley, sir. If you just hand over the valise, I’ll stick that with it. First Class for you, sir. I go Third.”
Smivvels led Tommy to the correct gangway and gave him his travel warrant, telling him he would take it back for safe-keeping when they got to the other side.
Two military policemen examined the warrant and saluted, glancing respectfully at the ribbons on Tommy’s breast.
“Beg pardon, sir, but that black and yellow one’s new to me.”
“Russian, soldier. The Order of Saint George, Fourth Class.”
“Never ‘eard of that, sir. Seen most of ‘em passing this post, sir. Thank you, sir. Is that your batman, sir, with the trunk?”
“Corporal Smivvels, yes.”
“I’ll just run with ‘im down to Third Class, sir. Be quicker if I tell them he’s alright. They got to check careful, these days, sir. Most weeks we pick up a deserter trying it on with false papers what ‘e’s written out ‘imself. Only last month, sir, we ‘ad one what was dressed up as a captain, and we only spotted ‘im for ‘aving a medal ribbon upside down, sir.”
“Ah – so that was why you wanted to know about the Russian ribbon. Well done, soldier! You need to catch that sort!”
“Got to do the job, sir.”
There was a small queue building up behind him and Tommy passed up the brow to the open deck, was very rapidly ushered into a comfortable saloon. An elderly waiter took his order of coffee and offered a full breakfast.
“Very calm, sir, this morning. No trouble eating, sir.”
“I am a pilot. I am used to rough conditions. I am hungry, too – now that I think of it – but not kidneys, not for breakfast today.”
Tommy had come to dislike the sight of offal.
The ferry sailed as breakfast arrived at Tommy’s table; he was surprised to see small naval ships taking station on either beam.
“Destroyers, sir. Escorts against they submarines what tries now and then to get into the Straits of Dover, sir. Making a great barrage they are, sir, across from Dunkirk, to keep the subs out of the Channel.”
Tommy had not heard of the activities of submarines before – the newspapers that he had read had said very little on the topic. Control of the Channel was an obvious necessity for the Army in France.
The ferries were fast, the crossing short enough that he had to hurry his final cup of coffee. He noticed that the dining-room service was still very good, despite the war. Glancing around the other tables – all of them full - he had spotted the red tabs of the staff to predominate. Front-line, serving officers were a minority – they had far fewer opportunities of leave. It was interesting to observe the ranks as well – few of them were as junior as majors. None carrying wings that he could see, certainly none in RFC uniform – his was the sole maternity jacket in the cabin. He stood and wandered out to the rail to watch the entry into Folkestone harbour, surprised that it was not Dover.
He enquired of a steward passing by, was told that it happened quite often, but there was no worry, there would be a train meeting them. It was probably the case that Dover was unusually busy with troops going across to France, or possibly with hospital ships after a flurry in the trenches.
“Might get a few ‘undred of extra gas cases ‘aving to be taken to beds in England, sir. Or maybe some general tried to straighten out a section of his line, or to take back a salient that was lost, or something like, sir. Just little scraps, but they fill an extra couple of ships what ‘ave to be found space on the docks, and then they need ‘ospital trains which block the station. Sees it most weeks, sir.”
“I did not know that the numbers were so high.”
“Don’t see it up in the air, sir. Just one or two gets killed at a time up there. Down in the trenches, it’s thousands every week; feels like it anyway. I got two boys out there, sir. Keeps waiting for the telegram to come. Too old for it meself, but they’re too bloody young, begging your pardon, sir.”
Tommy said nothing; there was nothing useful to reply.
The train was full, six officers in every first-class compartment; the third-class was jammed, men standing in the corridors, even lying outstretched in the luggage racks, but that was normal enough – they could count themselves lucky to have leave at all.
Tommy had managed to obtain a corner seat, was able to lean back comfortably, ignoring the grunting of the colonel at his side who thought that his rank entitled him to the better place. There was a captain across in the opposite corner, red tabs and beautiful tailoring, who observed the problem and offered his seat, having a much finer idea of what was due to his superiors.
“I say, sir, is that the RFC uniform?”
Tommy had been looking out of the window, miles away in his mind, was slow to respond.
“Oh, sorry, old chap! Yes, I am one of the few to join the RFC direct and wear the Corps uniform rather than regimentals.”
“Ah! I see! Wings, of course – bit of a giveaway, you know!”
“Well, yes, they do tend to hint at an association with flying.”
“Yes, so they do, haw, haw! Clever sort of comment.”
The young gentlemen made his opinion of ‘cleverness’ quite clear – it was not the done thing in his circles to be ‘clever’. The other officers nodded their approval – clever people made them uneasy.
“I’m afraid we get into bad habits in the RFC, you know.”
Tommy offered the half-apology, preferring not to engage in verbal fisticuffs with the dregs of Mayfair.
“Is one of those habits not to grow the moustache, Major?”
A second colonel who was sat by the corridor, a position inferior to the window, which should have been his by right of rank.
“Facial wound
, Colonel. Half of a moustache seemed rather foolish, sir.”
“So it would, boy! My mistake, I believe. I should perhaps have inspected your chest before I spoke. What’s that thing on the end?”
“Russian, sir. Order of St George. They were handing them out at Christmas.”
“Ha! Well said!”
Conversation lulled – strangers were not expected to speak to each other in railway carriages.
The captain, who had not really noticed the ribbons on Tommy’s chest, spent the remainder of the journey surreptitiously inspecting them and trying to remember what they all were, quietly watched by the second colonel. The train pulled into Charing Cross and the colonel spoke again, still quietly.
“DSO and Bar; MC and Bar; Belgian Legion d’Honneur; the Russian thing. Quite a collection for fifteen months of warfare, Captain. No doubt you will soon match it.”
Tommy noticed then the absence of red patches on the Colonel’s collar; very few real soldiers had respect for the Staff.
“We cannot all have the privilege of serving in the front line, Colonel.”
“Quite true. I have no doubt you enjoy the privilege of serving in the rear. I am for Paddington Station; are you for the West Country, Major?”
“Salisbury, sir, and then Wilton.”
“Thought you might be. Saw your face somewhere. Join me in a cab?”
“Changing postings, sir. I have my servant and trunk with me.”
“Very well. No doubt we shall meet again. Fighting soldiers bump into each other quite frequently – they seem to stand out for being so few of them! The Palace on Tuesday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Will we see you there, Captain? No? What a surprise.”
An hour saw Tommy and Smivvels on the way to Salisbury, in their separate carriages. The train was again full, almost entirely with Army on their way to the Plain. The bulk of the officers were very young, second lieutenants entering training; there were a few of their elders, mostly sent home from the trenches to provide experience to Kitchener’s New Army that was expected to win the war in the following summer. The boys chattered noisily while the older men – a year in age, a lifetime in endurance – had nothing to say to them or each other.
No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3) Page 19