The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Thomas shook his head.

  “’Slow and steady wins the race’?”

  “Exactly, Thomas. Might work in peacetime when you don’t want too many risks, but it ain’t good enough just now. We’re losing ships to submarines already and we need to take emergency measures. Can’t drop depth-charges from a thousand feet – they won’t work, it destroys their depth mechanism. We ought to be dropping from fifty feet. He won’t have it, insists it would be too big a risk to the planes. He makes us carry bombs instead, and they don’t kill submerged subs and it’s almost impossible to get to them before they dive. We need to at least try low-level attacks.”

  Thomas agreed, in theory. He hoped that his father would not be the pilot who experimented.

  On the Friday Thomas took off early in the Moth, precisely to the minute, chart open beside him and his flight path marked out, heights carefully noted. He had no radio in the Moth and relied on the flight plan being known to the controllers of all of the southern fighter fields. He was under orders to fly north to Oxford and then northeast to Northampton before making towards the coast and landing at Holt. For his return, he was to take pains to contact the field at Martlesham Heath and then agree and file a flight plan there.

  He had a Very pistol and was to fire two greens and a red as colours of the day if anything came up to investigate him. He much hoped that the same colours applied everywhere.

  There were training fields across Salisbury Plain and all through the Midlands, many of which used Moths as their initial trainers so the aircraft should be familiar to the fighter fields… ‘Should be’ was not entirely comforting bearing in mind the ever-present chance of a cock-up.

  He flew very precisely, saw other trainers in the distance and a flight of Spitfires that ignored him. He noticed that the Spits were flying in a tight formation, a leader and two wingmen within twenty feet of him, tucked in behind his wings and able to see nothing else at all. Probably it was less a case of ignoring him than never seeing him. A loose finger four formation would have given them far greater coverage of the sky.

  Cannon fodder, no more!

  He flew on, exact to course and turning at his markers. There was increasing cloud cover from the west but he thought he would be able to hold five thousand feet and get into Holt just in front of the rain it was bringing. He shrugged. If he had to drop in elsewhere, he would. There were new fields popping up all over the Midlands and Eastern England – he spotted unknown new runways every twenty miles it seemed.

  The land directly to the west of Holt was less familiar to him – he was used to coming in from the south. The coast gave him his line and he dropped in tidily enough. He spotted figures appearing from the big house as he flew over to announce his presence and check there was no other plane taking off or landing.

  Grace’s Moth was under wraps in the barn. She was not flying it in wartime, it seemed. He spotted her little MG in the line of cars, parked up and evidently in use, unlike his own Riley which was up on blocks to protect its tyres. She came running to him as he stepped down from the cockpit.

  Greeting was prolonged, no other family member coming to disturb them until they chose to leave the barn, slightly dishevelled.

  Lucy shook his hand formally, and wiped lipstick off his face, somewhat less so.

  “Still in one piece then, Thomas?”

  “More by luck than judgement, yes. That of course, is something the good Branksome cannot say.”

  She laughed and nodded.

  “Noah told me. Much to my pleasure. So perish all such unpleasant objects! Noah will come in later this evening, off the slow train at the local station. We’ll use our pony and trap to pick him up.”

  It was no longer practical to use the car to go into Norwich – it would expend far too much of their petrol.

  “Tom is busy with whatever he is doing for Nancy’s department and we have seen nothing of him since the war started. Lucinda is snowed under with work at Bart’s. She and the other new doctors are being rushed through their internship, very rightly. It is feared that they will be needed very soon. It has the advantage that she hasn’t been side-lined as a mere woman and forced to go into Obstetrics. One good thing to come out of this damned war.”

  “One small benefit, at least, Lucy. What of you, little lady?”

  “Ferrying! In the last week I have flown a Wellington, two Ansons and a Hurricane. And I get first-class railway travel back to base when they haven’t got a plane to pick me up.”

  “Good experience. What’s the Wellington like to fly?”

  “Not too demanding. You can tell that from the fact that you can take it up with just a pilot aboard. You can’t do that with a Hampden, for example. I haven’t flown one of the heavy bombers yet – they are mainly moved by Bomber Command itself. Other than that, the new Dragon Rapides come in for repair frequently enough. They are used a lot on the run to Paris and are pushed through bad weather and make rough landings more often than they should. Training Moths are in and out all of the time, of course. The Magisters come in less often – but they do get advanced learners in them. I’ve managed get a few hours in on the Queen Marys, the big Scammel carriers that bring the damaged planes in by road. They don’t always have a driver available down at the hangars so it’s useful to be able to move them.”

  It was clear that Grace was thoroughly enjoying her new occupation. Thomas was pleased for her and changed his mind about the suggestion of an early marriage in the few weeks he was likely to be in England. They were both young enough that a wedding could wait for the while.

  “Have you been across to the house?”

  “Three weeks ago, last time I was back here. Old Makepeace, the gardener, has got hold of geese. He has a dozen of them in a flock – is it a flock?”

  “A gaggle, maybe? Lucy, what’s the correct word?”

  “A skein? Or is that only the wild ones when they fly?”

  They discussed the question at length before admitting their ignorance. They asked Noah later, but he didn’t know either.

  Thomas and Grace walked and talked, and kissed and cuddled, but kept strictly away from each other’s bedrooms despite Lucy making it unspokenly clear that she would see and hear nothing. A pregnancy would suit the needs of neither – they had far too much to do for a year or so. They would wait until they knew what the war would amount to.

  Noah had the latest information from London but admitted it was all very vague.

  “It still seems as likely to fizzle out as to become a full-scale fight like the Great War. The Belgians don’t want to be fought over, yet again, and one can hardly blame them. The French seem to have no wish to commence hostilities at all. Germany is too busy at the moment trying to tidy up in Poland and Czechoslovakia, but might be ready to go inside six months. Italy won’t go to war unless someone else starts it – though they are looking at the east, from Albania into Greece, we are told. Turkey will definitely stay neutral, though they are buying Hurricanes and have a few RAF pilots training their people. Russia is busy with Finland - and making a complete mess of it. Sweden is neutral on the German side, as ever. Norway, Denmark and Holland are neutral and vulnerable. Spain is pro-German and is strongly anti-British but has privately assured us that there will be no attack on Gibraltar – they can’t afford another war, they are exhausted from their own conflict. Portugal is pro-British but frightened of Spain – probably rightly.”

  “What about the States, sir?”

  “Good question, Thomas. President Roosevelt is strongly anti-Nazi. Half of the country is inclined towards the America First people – that mob of extremists led by Lindbergh. America won’t enter the war unless it is attacked, but it will sell armaments to us, at a price. They have a Neutrality Act, and the President is ignoring it. We are relying upon the Americans already. If everything goes wrong, then the Americans will be our saviours – if we are to be saved at all.”

  “So… It’s all up in the air, sir.”

  “It is
, Thomas. All we can do is make ready to fight like hell come the spring. The word from Intelligence is of preparations being made in Germany for an attack then – but we don’t know who they are intending to target. The betting in London is that they will go for Russia. Churchill and his owners expect another Schlieffen Plan – an attack through Flanders and to the Channel ports and then against Paris. A few panic merchants expect an invasion across the Channel.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “No idea, Thomas! A push through the Balkans and into the Middle East would secure the oilfields and that might make more sense than any other course. I don’t know. We have got access to the Caribbean for oil, so that will be no disaster for us.”

  “What are the chances of a negotiated peace settlement?”

  Noah grinned and shook his head.

  “Nil. There have been talks in Madrid. Britain and Germany both have embassies there, of course. The Germans, I am told, have demanded that a sympathetic government be installed, one that will recognise the wishes of the people and to be led by a legitimate king. All Jews to be expelled as a precondition. Britain will then join in a greater European Empire, supplying its naval power. Because our efforts are to be naval, we will disband the RAF and reduce the Army to that size necessary for the maintenance of good order. We would not need tanks.”

  “That’s unbelievable, Daddy!”

  “No, Grace, it’s what they have been told would be acceptable in England. All of their information has come from the few British sources who are close to the regime in Berlin. I understand that Mosley and his dear friends truly believe those conditions to be realistic and desirable to the mass of the people, who want peace at any price.”

  Grace could not understand how they could be so deluded. The women she flew with were all determined that the war, now it had been started, must be fought to an end. As for returning King Edward to the throne – that was ridiculous.

  “He chose to abdicate, Daddy. Rather than follow the path of duty, he preferred to walk away from his place of service to the country. To Hell with him!”

  “Exactly, Grace. Self-indulgent to an extreme. He could never be trusted back in England. If the war should blow up, then he is to go to Bermuda as governor of the island, with a guard sufficient to ensure that no submarine shall turn up on its shores to take him off to Germany. That is all in hand.”

  Thomas could not understand why they were going to such lengths and expense.

  “Would it not be easier to shoot him, sir?”

  “Messy! Better to hold him in obscurity and boredom. No casinos and nightclubs in Bermuda, or so I understand, and a very limited social life which would be comprised of the sort of people he chooses never to speak to. He will see it as a prison.”

  “Good.”

  It seemed that they must wait till spring for anything to happen. That gave Thomas four months to work up the reconstituted squadron.

  Leave over, he flew back to Little Foxton to start work.

  The Defiants were still there and went up at least twice a week for an hour at a time.

  Adrian explained that his lads were all up to scratch – they knew exactly what to do and all they needed now was a convenient enemy.

  “Can’t understand why your boys are so slow to learn, Thomas – flying nearly thirty hours a week! Exhausting them and wearing out the planes.”

  “They have to be able to fight as a squadron, in Flights and in Sections. That demands different skills and techniques, all of which they have to know to perfection. No time to think when you’re at work, Adrian. They have to know what to do and choose the correct possibility instantly – and that demands unending repetition. Each one of them must fly without thinking so that his brain is available for what comes next. While he’s killing one Hun, he must be looking for another and watching for the half a dozen who want to kill him.”

  Adrian was unconvinced.

  “All you have to do is go into the Hun. They’re not as good as us, and they’ll run if you stand up to them – everyone knows that. A cowardly race, the Prussians – bullies who only fight with the advantage of numbers. You chase the Messerschmitts and we’ll deal with the Heinkels and Junkers and Dorniers – easy!”

  “Have you read the reports from Spain, Adrian?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Thomas tried to explain that it was the only example of modern warfare to hand.

  “Fast monoplane fighters and bombers of the Condor Legion faced by equally fast monoplane fighters from the government forces. We can ignore the Italians – they were easy meat in obsolete aircraft. The German bombers were unstoppable provided they had a fighter escort, except for the odd occasion when the defending fighter had the numbers. We won’t have numbers, so we should look at the way the Spanish fought to pick up any ideas we can.”

  “Yes, but we have Hurricanes and Spitfires. They just had these Russian things which can’t have been any good.”

  “The Super Mosca will match a Hurricane, or close enough for a better pilot to cancel out the difference. The Hurry is old now – it’s not in the business of facing the latest model Me 109s. The Spitfire probably is, but our pilots generally lack fighting experience. The German squadrons will mostly be led by men who have fought in Spain and can teach their pilots what to do.”

  Adrian gave a smug little smile as he refuted Thomas’ argument.

  “Our men are all British, old chap. That will make a difference, I think!”

  Thomas scowled as he shook his head, rigidly controlling his temper.

  “I flew with a number of Britons while I was in Spain, Adrian. They died just as easily as the French and the Americans and the Spanish pilots. We lost probably nine from ten of our pilots, of all nationalities, mostly because they were green and outnumbered. I can’t do anything about the numbers, but I can make sure my boys ain’t green.”

  The pilots were all experienced – the Poles the least so but even they counted their hours in the thousands and had faced an enemy in the air. Thomas pushed them through the winter months, flying in marginal conditions when the weather was an active foe. It kept them alert and to his amazement, they stayed alive. They landed in poor visibility and on occasion skidded on ice as they took the runway, but none experienced a severe crash.

  In January he told Roberts that they were operational in his opinion.

  “You will wish to come and inspect us, sir.”

  “I shall, Thomas. Not that I have any doubts, but I want to see your lads before I send you off. There is a field in northern France earmarked for you. At the moment it is occupied by two squadrons – Lysanders and Gladiators! Both are to be pulled back to England. They were, in theory, to provide cover to a squadron of Battles which is based some few miles to the west. The lame guiding the halt! Hopeless! I will see you tomorrow, if the weather permits.”

  Roberts flew in, piloting himself in an all-white Hurricane.

  “Can’t be mistaken for one of the squadron planes, Thomas. Also, far less visible than yours in camouflage colours, so-called. Were I you, I might well get your bellies and underwings painted light blue – much less visible from underneath. The Observer Corps won’t like it, but it will make no difference to Chain Home, who are the only ones who count. What are your boys like?”

  “The Poles want blood, as does my remaining Czech. The Americans seem to want a good fight, for amusement’s sake. My so-called Australians are professional fliers and nothing else – they want to get on with the job. David, who is a German Jew, ex-Luftwaffe for obvious reasons, is very bitter and wishes to increase his score; he thinks his parents are dead. Chas is quietly determined to shine – to show he’s as good as any and better than most. You’ll see why when you meet him.”

  “Very mysterious, Thomas! What about you?”

  “Me? I would be rather annoyed with the Huns who killed my boys – but I have a fiancée who wants me to stay alive. I won’t get too wild, sir. As much as anything, I can’t lead th
e squadron into a hole again.”

  “Good. Remember both reasons. Bloody weather’s closing in. Forecast says a dry afternoon, maybe rain by teatime but it looks as it may come earlier. I’ll talk with your pilots first, if that is right with you, Thomas. A scramble and a run past the field for this afternoon. I haven’t seen a squadron in finger four.”

  Roberts talked and lunched with the pilots and watched with interest as they reacted to the klaxon and took off, forming up as they climbed and then power-dived onto the field and crossed at one hundred feet, safely above the hangar roofs. They landed in their Flights, each dropping into line astern to take the hard runway.

  “Very flash, Thomas. Good, tight flying. I can see why you like the finger four – it gives each man space to weave and allows maximum visibility. I will push all of my squadron leaders to adopt it. They won’t, most of them, because it ain’t so pretty as a tight set of vic formations. Vics were when aircrafts flew in close formation. Most of them are more concerned for the next air show at Henley than about going to war.”

  “Promotion comes from looking smart in peacetime, sir. They have no idea about war. Their successors will know better.”

  “You are sure they won’t survive, Thomas?”

  “Squadron leaders are at the front. They are almost as vulnerable as tail-end Charlie. Both will die very quickly.”

  “Then I must identify the best flight lieutenants, so I know who to promote in a hurry. What of your three?”

  “Jan, Hank and Tex – all capable of taking a squadron to war, provided they have an old and tolerant adjutant to run their offices for them. Shorty or Chas will step in to replace any of them.”

  “The two Australians are both English, aren’t they? Neither has the accent of long residence Down Under.”