“Note those words, Captain Naughton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will be finished, too, Naughton!”
“I must warn you, Captain Mathers, that you are placing yourself at risk of arrest and court-martial.”
“You would not dare! I am going back to the Mess and will do exactly as I choose, and if you have any sense, you will forget this stupidity. My family will crush you like the nobody you are!”
“Place this man under arrest, Captain Naughton. Have we cells here?”
“No, sir. The Military Prison at Aldershot is the nearest facility that I know of.”
“Then place him in handcuffs while you make contact with the Military Police and arrange for a party to come here and take him away. Hold him incommunicado.”
“Crow on your dunghill, my little cockerel – I will laugh when they break you for this!”
“Note that comment for evidence at his court-martial, Captain Naughton. Take the prisoner away, please.”
Naughton called for a sergeant’s guard who placed Captain Mathers in the gatehouse to wait for the Military Police. They searched him for weapons, as was their duty, and confiscated his hip-flask while they were about it, bringing it to the adjutant for safe-keeping.
“He’ll be seeing pink elephants by morning, sir!”
“They will break us both for this, sir. Powerful family, that one.”
“I have spoken to Lord Moncur, Jim. My father-in-law. Just come off the telephone. He will be seeing Lloyd George later today and will bring him into the business. Nothing Lloyd George likes more than to give the aristocracy a kicking! We will be safe till the end of the war. After that – we will be fair game and the hunting season will be open. Not a chance of getting away scot-free – they will remember us forever, but we can deal with that when it arises. I shall probably go to the States anyway. I have informed General Henderson and he will support me in the court-martial; he has family of his own in the background, of course.”
“So be it, sir. It matters nothing to me – I have a bit of family money and a few acres and no interest in politics or business – they can’t hurt me.”
Tommy knew that Jim Naughton’s ‘few acres’ amounted to a substantial chunk of Hampshire, including an income from rents in Portsmouth and Southampton.
“Good. Let’s see the next – Captain Ross, is it not?”
Captain Ross had an interest in a small engineering firm in Andover; while he was doing nothing useful at the field he had been taking the opportunity to work there, producing machine parts on a contract for Vickers.
“At least, sir, that is working for the war! I know it is unlawful, sir, but I could not waste my days here doing nothing!”
“I cannot officially condone your actions, of course. So, I know nothing of them. We shall be flying much more with almost immediate effect, Captain Ross.”
“Your aircraft will all be in as good a condition as I can manage, sir. The new man, Flight-Sergeant Bolton, will be of the greatest help to me, I believe.”
“That is why I arranged for him to join you, Captain Ross. I presume you have been drinking heavily through boredom, sir.”
Ross shrugged, said he would cut down – it was a bad habit to get into.
“There are others who may not be able to cut their intake, sir. Did I see Lord Cecil under arrest, sir?”
“You did, Captain Ross. He will be court-martialled. He has the family influence to get away with it, I expect, but he will not come back here.”
“I shall spread the word, sir.”
“Do that. We shall be flying as soon as the field is dry, and the pilots as well! What can you tell me of the RE7?”
“Underpowered, slow, determinedly stable. A typical Royal Aircraft Factory design, sir. She will carry the new bomb and a crew of two and a single Lewis for defence, and she has a range of about five hundred miles – six hours, they claim. Ceiling of six thousand five hundred feet, sir!”
“Slow and stable – out of range of the machine-guns and light cannon, but well inside the capacity of a three-inch anti-aircraft gun. Not very good! What about bomb-aiming?”
“Nothing has been done in that line, sir. Drop by eye, the previous CO said.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Several, sir. Permission to knock up a prototype, sir? I will need to spend a few pounds on materials, sir.”
“Do it. The quicker the better, and using all facilities to hand.”
Captain Ross left, a relieved and happier man.
“One ally, Jim. See one more of the pilots today, I think. Who have we got?”
“Lieutenant Harmon; one bottle of malt a day and a twitch, Tommy.”
Lieutenant Harmon was no more than twenty years of age, was rake-thin and displaying a heavily lined face. He showed the signs of a stomach full of acid and of sleepless nights.
“Is this your first posting, Lieutenant Harmon?”
“No, sir. I was flying Farmans with Four Squadron, sir, for three months before this. Hit by ground fire three times, sir, came back with a dead observer twice. Crashed twice on landing, sir.”
“And they sent you back to England rather than ground you in France?”
“Yes, sir. CO said it would give me another chance, sir.”
“Well-meaning, but not very kind. I think you are medically unfit to fly, Lieutenant Harmon, and will ground you pending a medical report. I believe you are experiencing severe pain from stomach ulcers. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.” Harmon was suddenly close to tears.
“Good. Get off the bottle before the doctors see you and you will probably be found unfit to fly and be put on ground duties as an officer in England. If they decide your disability is self-inflicted by alcohol, then you may find yourself broken. Your own strength of mind will be the only route to preserving your commission. Good luck!”
“Thank you, sir. That is generous of you, sir. I am sorry to have let you and the RFC down, sir.”
“Perhaps we let you down, Lieutenant Harmon. Off you go!”
Tommy had seen enough of his office and wandered off to the hangars to take a first look at the RE7.
They were large and angular, very ordinary single-engined biplanes otherwise; he noticed that there were two different engines fitted, neither rotary, to his relief. He could relegate the bottle of kaolin and morphine to the back shelf of the bathroom cabinet.
There was an internal bomb carrier with a variety of hooks and clips, able to accommodate different loads. The observer sat to the rear with a Lewis Gun on a Challenger mounting, giving a reasonable field of fire for attacks from high rear and either beam, but blind ahead and underneath. The observer’s view forwards and downwards was obscured by the wings and so he would hardly be able to aim the bombs – dropping would have to be the pilot’s job.
Captain Ross joined him, inspecting the machines.
“Where are the bomb releases, Captain Ross?”
“Duplicated, sir. Both cockpits.”
“Sensible. Pilot will have to make the drop ordinarily, but there may be need to get rid of them in emergency. How wet is the field?”
“Flying will be possible tomorrow afternoon, sir, provided there is no rain overnight.”
“I will want machines for two o’clock, say.”
“Will be done, sir.”
“Where are the observers messed?”
“Rear of the hangars, sir. Not entirely comfortable, sir – the previous man having little concern for the Other Ranks, sir.”
“Send a message to the adjutant to join me.”
“We need to look to the comfort of the observers, Jim. Money spent on the Sergeants Mess for a start. Check the quality of the billets, and ensure they are heated as the next step. We need willing men sat at the back.”
The observers were sat together in their Mess, huddled in their greatcoats; there was a fireplace, with nothing burning in it. A Flight-Sergeant called them to attention as Tommy stood at the doo
r.
“Thank you, Flight! Permission to enter your mess?”
“Come in, sir.”
“Why is that fire not lit, Flight?”
“No fuel, sir. CO was unwilling to waste money on it, sir.”
“Coal as an urgency, Adjutant. Borrow from the kitchens for a few days until you can get a delivery made. Do something for the privates and corporals as well. The men will become ill if we do not look after them better than this!”
“I shall discover a coal merchant, sir, and arrange deliveries.”
“Good. What about your billets, Flight-Sergeant?”
“Some of the roofs leak, sir. None of them are heated.”
“Adjutant?”
“I shall do what I can, sir. If possible, our own people; if not, a local building firm. As quickly as possible, sir. Kerosene stoves, perhaps?”
“See to it, please. Talk to me about the funds. Now, Flight, what has been the habit for rostering observers here? Have you flown in pairs or has it been a random choice every time?”
“Ain’t flown much at all lately, sir. Mostly, sir, we just tried to avoid getting picked by the bad pilots, sir, to be honest.”
“Understandable. We will be flying a lot more from now on, and will be in France by the end of January, and on operations by mid-February. I can say that there will be some new pilots as well. I had rather that you worked out how best you want to do things, Flight, but I would much prefer that you made up regular teams, pairs who will get used to working together.”
“That will be done, sir. While you are here, sir, what will be the position on leave? We have had no leave since we got here, sir. We was told that we had such a soft life here that we didn’t need leave as well.”
“I apologise, Flight!”
“Not your fault, sir.”
“Even so, I can feel bad about it! Local men away this weekend – there will be no flying Saturday or Sunday, so any man who can benefit will be free to go out from four o’clock on Friday, back for eight on Monday morning. Present the adjutant with a roster, seven days off for each man, leaving sufficient for the planes to fly. If needs be, quickly train up bright corporals or privates to take their places. In any case, I want two observers for every pilot; every man trained to be paid appropriately, Mr Naughton. Christmas week will be non-flying. I want every man who has a family to be at home with them. I will try to get you all a few days of leave before we go out to France – that depends on being able to get hold of travel warrants immediately after you have had them at Christmas.”
There was a buzz of satisfaction and mutters of ‘Told you so’.
“The lads all thought things would get a bit different when we heard you was the new CO, sir. We shall ‘ave a roster set up for the morning, sir, both for flying and for leave, sir.”
“Good. I knew I would be able to rely on my sergeants – I have always done so in the past. Have any of you put any time in as pilots?”
“Not here, sir!”
“No. I can understand that. I shall see what can be done – and I can make no promises. I am told that there are to be sergeant pilots in the RFC. It will make sense that any man who becomes a pilot will fairly rapidly be considered for further promotion. That is not in my hands, however, and I don’t know what strings I may be able to pull. What I will say is that I will not forget you.”
It was a risk, in effect to pit his sergeants against the old pilots of the squadron, but there was no prospect of making the squadron efficient without their aid.
Dinner was a silent meal; Tommy gained the impression that the pilots were sending him to Coventry. It amused him.
Soup, fish, meat, sweet courses succeeded one another, delivered by well-trained waiters, a different wine for each. The port was outstandingly good and was followed by brandy, again excellent. The meal lasted two full hours.
Tommy drank very little, as was his habit, but noted that the others were all quite well lit up. He calculated quietly that most had taken four glasses of wine, followed by three or four glasses of port and one at least, not small, of brandy.
Noah, as second in command, was President of the Mess and he brought the meal to its end by rising from his seat. Almost all of the officers present signalled to the waiters as they sank into their personal chairs in the anteroom; they began a discussion of the prospects for the local hunt, most having the intention of riding to hounds at the next meet.
“Are you a hunting man, Major?”
“North Hampshire, Long Benchley way! Poor country there, Captain. I have been out occasionally, but there is not much to it there. Of course, we will have almost no opportunity to go out ourselves this next couple of months – too busy flying.”
“It has always been our habit not to fly on sporting days, Major.”
“One of your many habits that has come to an end, Captain. We shall fly on every day that the weather permits.”
There was a general snort of outrage at that prospect.
“Lord Cecil not with us, Major?”
“He is under close arrest in the cells of the military prison at Aldershot. He is facing court-martial on several charges. Their exact nature is under discussion with General Henderson and with the Attorney-General; Mr Lloyd George is taking a personal interest, I am told. I will, of course, inform you of the progress of his case, which I expect to be very swift.”
Most of the faces registered simple horror; a few became thoughtful.
Frank, Micky and Blue arrived in mid-morning, quietly confident young men far removed from the uncertainties of a few weeks before. Tommy welcomed them, told them they would be flying almost immediately.
“Working uniforms and flying coats, gentlemen. You will be assigned planes and observers at the hangars. Jim Naughton is Adjutant and will deal with billets and suchlike. I have banned alcohol before six in the evening – you will do me a favour by informing the other pilots that this is my invariable habit. Noah will assign you to Flights. Things will be slightly disorganised for a while – we are over establishment with three men gone and six or seven in, including me. I shall, I have no doubt, be removing one or two over the next few days.”
Blue raised an eyebrow.
“Brigadier Trenchard called us to his office, sir. He informed us that the squadron was badly needed in France and we were being sent to assist you to bring it up to scratch. We were ordered to give you the backing you needed – selected for our ability to do so, he said.”
“It would be very unprofessional of me to suggest that a number of the pilots already here are of limited fighting spirit. I know nothing of their ability as fliers. I do know you three. You probably will not have met Fred Petersham, who is also very good. You four will be exemplars. Barbry Allen as well, if he is posted here.”
They nodded, very seriously.
“Right, that said, how do we go about aiming these big bombs? If they hit a target they will do it a lot of no good. If they hit a farmer’s field they will just make a bloody great hole in the ground. Think about it while we practice. It must have a lot to do with mathematics, and I’m buggered when it comes to sums!”
“Pity Joe’s not with us, sir. He went to one of those American Military Schools, and they taught gunnery there – ballistics and that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t know that, Blue. He’s too busy with his Morane for the while. When the first DH2s and FEs get out then it may be possible to pull him across.”
There were sixteen RE7s in the hangars, sufficient to allow for some to be under maintenance at any given moment and to replace any lost to accident. There were others on training fields throughout the south of England and it would be possible to make the squadron up to strength as it faced the inevitable losses of active service. Fifteen of them were rolled out, warmed up and fully fuelled when Tommy walked down at two o’clock.
The observers were all present, stood by the machines and waiting for their pilots with greater or less enthusiasm.
“Flight-Sergeant Bal
combe, zur. I am to be your observer, zur, on likin’.”
Balcombe had a strong West-Country burr, a homely accent that should have come from the lips of a hulking Saxon-blond farmhand. He was in fact dark of hair and complexion, very lean but strongly muscled.
“Comes from back of Bristol, zur. Lots of us what is dark there, zur.”
Bristol had been a slaving port for centuries, had freed many of their cargo in England, normally as a reward to men who had served several voyages as interpreters after being brought aboard as captives.
“How’s your navigation, Balcombe?”
“I can read a map, zur.”
“More than I can do, that’s for sure. Are you good with a Lewis?”
“I can load it, and I knows where the trigger be, zur.”
“That will do me, Flight-Sergeant. I intend to get a feel for the plane today, probably two hours, no more. Do your belt up and be ready for me to dive and zoom and bank as hard as she will take.”
The squadron had long been assigned to its Flights, and the new men were given randomly to Red, Blue and Green. Noah had replaced Lord Cecil in Blue Flight. Tommy intended to hold aloof and watch on this occasion.
“Take off and form up in your Flights, as briefed. You will proceed on a first leg to Poole, then east to Portsmouth and then back to Netheravon. Keep in contact with each other. Cloud base is high and you will be able to maintain four thousand feet. If you get lost, for any reason, return to Netheravon. I shall take off first.”
Tommy went through his rituals - tucking in scarf, settling his flying helmet, pulling on his gloves - and then signalled the mechanic to start the engine. He caught the one hundred and sixty Beardmore and slowly throttled up; she was warm already and he signalled for the chocks, a recent innovation, to be pulled clear. He bounced slowly forward on the unfamiliar tricycle undercarriage and turned into the wind, peering to either side of the raised nose before opening to full. The underpowered machine picked up speed and waddled into the air, most unimpressively; he estimated that he would require at least as much runway as the Breguet 4 when carrying a bombload. The rate of climb was equally uninspiring, little more than two hundred feet a minute; he glanced at the clock then at the altimeter. Nine minutes to two thousand! He circled to port and watched the three Flights take off, observed that station-keeping was poor – they were wandering like gaggles of chicken!
No Longer A Game (Innocents At War Series, Book 3) Page 23