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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Both are good wartime pilots, sir. They have scores that match mine. Good ground attack experience as well.”

  “Which was not my question.”

  “Ah, well, sir, if you actually need an answer, then it has to be in the affirmative. More than that, I’m none too sure, except that they passed through Cranwell in ’34 and were thrown out soon after.”

  “Cashiered?”

  “Permitted to resign, sir. I understand they flew under a bridge – what and where, I don’t know. It seems they upset some ladies.”

  “I believe I know the story… They weren’t actually subjected to a court, so there is no reason in law why they should not rejoin… No need to make a public noise about it, however. I know nothing. Your man Chas, by the way – got a deep suntan on him. Probably got some Italian in his background.”

  “I thought that, sir.”

  “Can’t be anything else – too many big mouths to object otherwise. Make sure he knows what he is. We need pilots – I’ll take them any colour, polka-dot if needs be. Don’t recommend him to try for a post-war career in the RAF. Keep him out of the way of any politicians who come visiting. For Christ sake don’t introduce him to Royalty – it would be bad for them.”

  Chapter Three

  The Breaking Storm

  “South of Valenciennes – far closer than Metz. Hard runway. A chateau, no less, for the mess. Ground staff to be housed in the barracks at the field which were originally French army. The existing squadrons inform me the quarters have been thoroughly deloused.”

  “Glad to hear that, Rod. Bloody Frogs never heard of soap and water! Cookhouses?”

  “Staffed by our people, unfortunately.”

  “Pity. I liked the food at Metz. I won’t enjoy the stuff the RAF feeds us. Can’t have everything, I suppose. What are the orders, Rod?”

  “We are to fly out on Thursday morning. The Lizzies and Glads are pulling out on Wednesday. I intend to put some of our people onto the ferries on Tuesday morning, Thomas, in the three tonners. That will include the gate guards. I don’t want the place left empty – don’t think it would be wise.”

  Thomas agreed – there had been more instances of arson and a few cases of shots being fired at RAF and Army personnel. Not too many, bearing in mind the numbers present in France, but sufficient to justify caution.

  “What is being done on Thursday?”

  “I have three Bombays to hand, landing here Wednesday afternoon. The ten tonner and the thirty hundredweight lorries will move out on Wednesday night and should be loaded onto ferries before dawn and in France a couple of hours after us. They ought to reach the field by dusk. I’m having the ten tonner repainted, by the way. RAF blue. Should avoid a few questions. According to the information received from Group, we have a single Bofors gun at the field and half a dozen of Vickers on high-angle mountings. I will take anything else I can lay my hands on.”

  Thomas did not ask what that might be – he knew better. Ignorance was the wiser course when his adjutant chose to be vague.

  “Who is in direct command in France?”

  “The Air Component comes under a Wing Commander who is acting as Group Captain. Don’t know the name, never come across him – Raymond Peters.”

  “Presumably youngish if he’s new to the rank.”

  They worked up a flight plan – the shortest line to the new field - and put it into the controller’s office where it was rejected as unsuited to operational needs.

  Thomas telephoned the control room.

  “What’s wrong with our flight plan? What changes do you require?”

  “Better you should follow the Channel Coast to Dover and take a line to Valenciennes from there, old chap. The Observer Corps can keep you in view then – good practice for them. Add to that, the AA fellows can track you and take heights and speeds and bearings and exercise their guns. Firing blanks, of course. Make you useful.”

  “Jesus! If there’s one thing I really want it’s to have ack-ack watching out for us! You know they’re the crap of the artillery, mostly get sent to the job for being too stupid to understand their orders. They’ll open fire on us live – bound to.”

  “Nonsense old chap! Won’t happen!”

  “Bet?”

  “Well… No. But I’m sure they won’t. In any case, they’ll miss if they do. Training exercises normally register zero hits. That’s why we want to use every opportunity for them to try again.”

  “Right. I’m climbing to twenty-five thousand feet. First shot, we’ll go up to thirty.”

  “So would I. What’s your ceiling, by the way?”

  “In fine weather with a following wind and a generous altimeter? Thirty-three thousand, they tell me. I haven’t tried to reach more than thirty and she’s labouring there.”

  “Well and good. Send the amended flight plan in and I shall personally make sure that every gun site receives a copy.”

  “Excellent! Will you also make sure that every one of their officers can read?”

  “Asking a bit much, old chap. Quite a number of the lieutenants went to Oundle. You only go there if reading’s a bit of a chore.”

  The ins and outs of the English public schools were a closed book to Thomas. It sounded as if Oundle was much the same.

  “They do sing some jolly songs though, old chap. Enjoy yourself in France. Bit of a boring area, Valenciennes. The beer’s not too bad, for France.”

  “It’s close to the borders. That will do me.”

  “Fire-eating? Bad habit, old chap! Have fun.”

  Thomas called the pilots together after an early breakfast.

  “You all know where Valenciennes is. We’ve looked at the map together. Our field is south of the town by about three miles, or so I’m told. We are flying in a dogleg by way of Dover. This is to give the coastal ack-ack batteries a chance to track live aircraft. If they open fire, climb and get out to sea. Do not delay to change underwear. Head direct to the new field. Flights try to stay together. Rod thinks the field is near to a small town called Prouvy, on the Scheldt, if that helps.”

  They were sure it would.

  The flight to Dover was uneventful. Not a shot fired and a weak winter sun making flying pleasant, visibility rarely good. They made their turn onto their north easterly course at Dover and flew over a convoy five miles out of the port. The escort opened fire.

  Fortunately, the Navy was incapable of judging their height and was inaccurate for speed. The shells burst a mile below them and half a mile to their rear.

  “Thomas. Squadron climb to thirty thousand. Make two hundred and eighty knots. Do not scatter yet. Over.”

  The next shells burst eight thousand feet below them, still half a mile distant.

  “Leader 186 Squadron to Dover Control.”

  “Dover Control.”

  “Leader 186. Under sustained but inaccurate anti-aircraft fire from outward convoy approx five miles east of Dover. Please tell the Navy to pull its finger out. Over.”

  “Dover Control. Roger. Over.”

  The fire petered out over the next minute, too soon for any message to have reached the pair of armed vessels.

  “Thomas. Did anybody recognise the ships? Over.”

  “Blue Three. One destroyer, one armed trawler. Over.”

  The destroyer was a professional. An armed trawler could be excused for excesses of enthusiasm – it was no more than a civilian with a few navy personnel added to its crew. A regular ship should know better. God help the country if there was an invasion.

  The field was where it was expected to be. It definitely had a Bofors anti-aircraft gun. It shot at them as they circled the perimeter before landing. Thomas saw a small figure running the hundred yards from the gatehouse as he took sharp evasive action at low level, swearing vilely. The gunners were good, their first shots within fifty yards.

  He landed and was greeted by an embarrassed gate sergeant.

  “The gunner said that English aircraft wasn’t painted blue undern
eath, sir, so they opened fire.”

  “Very alert of them, sergeant. Ask them not to do it again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was no point to taking further action. At least the gunner had thought even if he had come to a mistaken conclusion.

  The skeleton ground staff had arrived the previous day and was able to put the planes into the big French hangars. The Bombays and lorries arrived in a steady stream, dropping off mechanics and stores so that they were operational by the end of the day, to the surprise of all except Rod who had scheduled the movements.

  “I learned from our set of mistakes going into Metz, Thomas. The last lorries should be in during the night.”

  “Most impressive, Rod. All we need are working telephone lines and we will be in business.”

  “Not a chance of that, Thomas. Apparently, we are to rely on radio communication with HQ.”

  “Ah! That means we are on our own. Better that way.”

  “We have a big wireless set in its own room, and an operator who remained here when the Glads went. He belongs to HQ, not to us.”

  “What’s his rank?”

  “Flight sergeant.”

  Flight sergeants were among the most senior of NCOs and had to be treated with some respect. They knew their way around the system and could be a nuisance if offended.

  “Tell him to see me when convenient, Rod. Might as well know his face.”

  Thomas glanced at the chateau that was to be their mess – it was no more than a large country house. He had vaguely expected something of a palace. It might be comfortable. He wandered inside and was pointed to his office, a large reception room which had been painted at some time in the nineteenth century, gold probably, but now a dingy custard yellow. It had a table and a chair, precisely placed in the middle of the room. His batman, Rogers, was upstairs, he found, unpacking in a huge bedroom which kept its original, bulky Victorian furniture. The bed looked lumpy.

  “Barker, sir! Flight sergeant in charge of wireless communications, sir!”

  Very regimental, stamping to attention, and still young. Presumably he was educated at least to School Certificate level, as he must have passed courses in wirelesses and how the sets worked so that he could do his own repairs. Strange that he should be sounding like an old salt, a sergeant who had seen everything, done it all.

  “At ease, Flight. How reliable are communications here?”

  “Good for eighty per cent of the time, sir. Poor for fifteen per cent, down for the remainder. Messages almost always come through at dawn and in the late evening, so I always have the set manned then, sir. I have one erk who relieves me in the day. I need two more, sir, in order to run a night radio watch.”

  “That makes sense. Rod!”

  The adjutant listened and shook his head.

  “I haven’t got the bodies, sir. Needs a man who can read and write well. Not many of them about and all of them gainfully employed already.”

  “I’ll ask the Group Captain when he comes to see us. No messages relating to that, Flight?”

  “Nothing today, sir.”

  “Right. Report the field as operational and see what response we get.”

  Flight Sergeant Barker smiled and shook his head.

  “No, sir. Not just like that, sir. Procedure, sir, is for all messages to be written on the correct form in triplicate, sir. One for your files; one to mine; the third in the adjutant’s office. Forms are printed, sir, and will be found in your left upper desk drawer, sir. Carbon paper in the lower drawer, sir.”

  Thomas looked and was not surprised to find everything in its place. Barker was obviously a man who had a place for everything. He wrote out his message, filling in the boxes for sender, location and time.

  “All correct, Flight? Do we need location? The message is being sent from this field.”

  “Yes, sir. Location is for which office the message originates from, sir.”

  “But, if it has my name on it, then it comes from my office.”

  “Best to be quite sure, sir. Says in the Book that every message must have a location, sir. Can’t go wrong if you go by the Book, sir.”

  Thomas smiled patiently, recognising what was happening; he enquired if everything else was correct. Barker read it twice, to be sure and took out his own pen.

  “Yes, sir. Received by my office at sixteen twenty-six hours. My initials. I shall sign fully when the message has been sent and then again on receipt of acknowledgement, which is normally almost immediately.”

  “What about urgent messages?”

  “Messages will only be sent if written on the correct form, sir, and under signature.”

  It was an irritating rigmarole. It probably would ensure that important messages were not lost. It would do the same for pointless trivia.

  “Very good. All messages in to go to the adjutant’s office, which is always manned – I will often be out flying or inspecting the field.”

  “What of messages directed to you, sir?”

  “They go to the adjutant’s office and pass across his table.”

  “Incorrect procedure, sir. Communications directed to one officer cannot be sent to another, sir.”

  Thomas was not used to his orders being refused.

  “Nonetheless, it is the procedure that will be followed here. We cannot afford to have possibly urgent messages sat waiting for hours on my desk.”

  Barker smiled very kindly and spoke slowly, so that Thomas could understand his words of wisdom.

  “More important to follow proper procedure, sir. Can’t sanction incorrect procedure in my office, sir. I am appointed from HQ, sir, and must follow their rules. By the Book, sir.”

  Thomas’ patience ran out.

  “Get off my field, Barker. You are suspended from duty with immediate effect. Rod, put the Flight Sergeant into a lorry and send him to the nearest railway station with a warrant, if that is possible. Not? Then send him back to HQ and dump him there. Send his erk to me.”

  Rod ushered Barker out, ignoring his cries of indignation, and came back five minutes later.

  “There was a lorry delivering stores to the Other Ranks’ kitchens. I’ve put him aboard that. The driver stuck him in the back. Said he was not allowed to carry passengers in his cab. Barker’s number two is here, Thomas.”

  A very youthful aircraftman came in and saluted.

  “Molyneux, sir. Wireless Specialist, sir.”

  He had a badge on his arm.

  “Good. You are the sole wireless operator on station for the moment. You will have to maintain a watch all day until we get another man to assist. Your meals will be brought across to your office.”

  “Thank you, sir. I missed the midday meal most often, sir, having to stand in for Flight while he took his. They’d normally stopped serving before I could get there. And I always had to take the dawn watch, sir, and the evenings as well. So it won’t make much difference except I’ll get my food, sir.”

  “How long have you been in, Molyneux?”

  “Six months, sir. I volunteered after I took my Advanced School Certificate, sir. Was put on a wireless course because I had good marks in Science, sir.”

  “Can you maintain the set you’ve got?”

  “Yes, sir. I did most of the jobs because Flight was trained on the older models, sir.”

  “Right. Off you go. All messages without exception are to go to the adjutant’s office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rod remained as the boy left.

  “Can we promote him, Rod?”

  “To sergeant? Easily – goes with the job. Can’t put him up to Flight yet. Give him three months in the work and that can follow. I’ll take his stripes across this morning. Poor little sod! He’s had a bad introduction to the RAF.”

  The Group Captain flew in the following morning, arriving just ten minutes after the radio message announcing his intention.

  Thomas and Rod were ready, Molyneux having brought the message at the run.
/>   “Bit of a bastard, Rod? Giving us advance notice but deliberately too little?”

  “A shit’s trick! We’ll need to watch this one!”

  It was a dry day and the Hurricanes were at dispersal outside the hangars, all ready to fly. The pilots were dressed in flying gear and sat decorously in the ready room, trying not to puff and pant from running so hard. The squadron gave the virtuous appearance of being on top line.

  Thomas and Rod greeted their CO, very formally, standing to attention and saluting as he climbed down from a Dominie. His pilot remained in the plane.

  “Just a quick visit, Stark. Making my number and all that. I see you’re ready to go. I’ll show my face to the pilots and take a glance about, no more. Where are they, in the mess?”

  “No, sir. All in the ready room. I shall be taking the squadron up for familiarisation with the area later this morning. After that, it will be my intention to have one Flight always in the ready room.”

  “Probably no need for that, Stark. No sign of activity as yet, apart from the weather flights Jerry sends over most days. We do much the same, of course, though we don’t cross the Belgian or Luxembourg borders. They don’t seem to worry so much about the rights of neutrals but we must.”

  “Very high, I presume, sir?”

  “Better part of thirty thousand feet. By the time we climb to them, they’re gone. The new Junkers 88s, so the reports say. Probably specially modified to get a few thousand feet extra out of them. No guns; reduced crew; no radio; fuselage stripped to the bone – so I should imagine.”

  It seemed likely; it would be difficult to deal with them.

  They inspected the hangars and spoke to the pilots; the squadron showed a high level of efficiency, as was only right in the Group Captain’s opinion.

  “Had a complaint on my desk, Stark. Something about throwing a Flight Sergeant off the field?”

  “Wireless operator, sir. From HQ. Lazy and everything by the book. One of those who knows how to work the system to do nothing and get away with everything. I saw through him and threw him out as being quicker than trying to find a charge to justify breaking him.”