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

by Andrew Wareham

  No kills, but bombers who would be going home with wounded or dead crew to the detriment of squadron morale. Lose two planes and the squadron was made less effective; lose a crew member from each plane and the squadron became more interested in defending itself than in hitting its targets. The sight of the meat wagons and mortuary men going from one bomber to the next as they landed was more than disconcerting to men due to fly again that day.

  “Leader. Yellow Two. Another pass and home. Over.”

  “Yellow Two. Roger. Over.”

  They banked together, using the opportunity to scan the sky for fighters, then down into the ruckus of Hurricanes and bombers scattering in all directions. There was a pair of Junkers, side by side, heading directly for them, probably looking behind for anything chasing.

  “Yellow Two, go port.”

  There was no time for more. Thomas flicked to starboard, held a line and emptied his guns into the glass of nose and cockpit, snatched on the stick and passed across the top as it fell out of the sky. He looked to his left, saw Jim leaving a flamer behind him, the spread of his guns having scattered rounds through the wings as well as the nose.

  “Leader. Out of ammo. Home James. Over.”

  “Yellow Two. Roger. Over.”

  Thomas wondered for a few seconds whether ‘wilco’ would have been better than ‘roger’ in that case. The code system was less than perfect but probably better than plain speech; they had to use it, like it or not. If they had time, a wet day perhaps, they could talk it over among them. He kept looking while he thought, eyes picking up movement. Five Hurricanes in sight, three and two, heading towards the general area of the new field. That left three unaccounted for as yet, too many.

  He glanced at his watch, thought he must be within range of the new field.

  “Yellow Leader to ground. A pancake landing in five minutes. Over.”

  Five minutes was a guess, but Rod would not have a stopwatch out.

  “Ground, wind sou’west, light. Over.”

  Useful to know, especially to any damaged planes.

  “Yellow Leader. Roger. Over.”

  He spotted the lines of tall trees and then the meadows with wheel ruts already showing in the grass. It was low, wet land. A rainstorm would leave them unable to get off the ground. No signs of cloud, however. Four planes tucked in under the trees – Wag had been busy or there had been a delivery. Bright green camouflage paint said they were new. He lined up and came down, carefully controlled, speed to an absolute minimum, ready to switch off and hit his belts and intercom leads and run – he might have taken unnoticed damage.

  The wheels touched gently and the plane carried on straight. He taxied to the barns where he could see the mechanics and was waved to hard ground and ordered to cut his engine. Jim was parked thirty feet distant, stretching as he stepped to the ground.

  “God, Thomas, are you always stiff when you get out of the cockpit?”

  “Always, Jim. An hour and more sitting without moving and tense. Kills my back!”

  “We got that last pair, Thomas. One each.”

  “Amateurs, Jim – they were looking over their shoulders for bloodthirsty Englanders on their tails. They didn’t think to look in front of them. Eyes open and watching everywhere, and we shall continue to come home. That was a pair of new squadrons, I’ll bet you. They’re old buggers now, the ones who got back home all ripped up and scared.”

  “I didn’t think of that, Thomas. Most of them will have taken a bit of damage, and those who didn’t will be landing and watching the ambulances picking up their friends… Worthwhile! I wondered why you said to break them up and hit and run - but they won’t believe that the bomber always gets through, not any more.”

  “Did it with the Italians in Spain. The rumour was that some of the Italian squadrons had to be withdrawn, they were so broken up by losing crewmen every time they flew a raid.”

  “Were you in Spain, Thomas? I didn’t know. I was too young, still in school… One of my pals ran away and joined the International Brigade. I wouldn’t go with him for wanting the RAF. He didn’t come home.”

  “You were lucky not to go, Jim. That was a bloody shambles I wouldn’t wish on any man. Talking of which – hopeless cockups, that is – I see the Idiot Boy has found us.”

  “You know, Thomas, I don’t think he is that stupid, not as bad as everybody says.”

  “He’s not. He couldn’t be. He’s spent a life of doing nothing useful and now he doesn’t know how to work sensibly at anything, but he’s learning. Give him a month in this disaster and he’ll be worth having around. He actually made a few sensible comments the last time I spoke to him. Worth being hard to him – might have kicked the self-indulgence out of his system.”

  Jim suddenly shouted.

  “Watch left, Thomas! Shorty coming in…”

  Shorty had only one wheel down and did not know it. He hit the ground and dug in and spun around, the plane veering off the field and into an old and solid hedgerow where it stopped. They ran towards the crash as wisps of smoke rose, saw Shorty rising from the wreckage and making his own way out and ran in the opposite direction before the explosion came. The petrol tank blew and a great gout of black smoke rose high.

  “Yoo-hoo, Adolf, we’re over here! Let’s hope nobody’s looking, Jim.”

  “One more cloud of smoke, Thomas? There’s plenty of them about.”

  “Good point.”

  They found the Idiot and made their report and claims.

  “One killed, two damaged. Ju 88s. Bright and shiny – new squadrons on a first raid, at a guess. No fighter escort – which confirms them as new. The textbook says bombers can defend themselves and these poor buggers believed what they’d read. They’ll know better next time. Jim killed one that I saw.”

  “I saw Thomas blowing the pilots to pieces in his, Idiot. One destroyed and two damaged for me. I hit one in the cabin and saw a machine gun barrel tilt upwards so the gunner must have been hit. The metal and paint of the plane was clean and bright. New, I think.”

  Three more Hurricanes landed as they spoke, all ten back home.

  “Rod, how’s Shorty?”

  “Got a Blighty one, Thomas. Fingers of his left hand well smashed, be lucky to keep third and fourth. He won’t fly for a few weeks. I’m going to put him into a lorry for HQ. Quack’s given him a shot for the pain and we’re only a few hours from them now. If the roads are clear, then he could be at the field there this afternoon and back in England before dark on the Dominie run.”

  “The roads are full of refugees, Rod. Radio Peters and see if we can get a plane in for him. Better still, I’ll talk to him myself. What’s the connection like?”

  “Clear. Young Molyneux climbed one of those bloody great poplars at the back and strung an aerial up on it.”

  “Good lad, that one. Can we put him in for a commission? Could use his initiative as an officer.”

  “I’ll pull the papers together – when I have time.”

  “Accepted, Rod. What have you done for food?”

  “Bloody good question! Can’t make sandwiches – got no bread. The cooks have no ovens. Can boil up spuds over an open fire. They’re doing that now – set up a big pot on a tripod. The farmer uses it for cooking up pigswill, but we’ve scrubbed it out. Plenty of cans of bully beef, so that’s it – cold meat and taters, like it or leave it. We’ve got a bit of butter to put on the hot spuds. Plenty of tea.”

  “I ate worse in Spain, on occasion. Can’t say as I’m enamoured of bully beef. I suspect I’m going to eat a lot of it in this war.”

  They reached the radio tent, placed at a distance from the engine noise of the barn.

  “Sergeant Molyneux, Rod tells me you’ve been tree climbing. Well done! We needed the wireless up and working, badly. Can you get through to Group Captain Peters?”

  “He’s in his radio room more often than not, sir. Night and day, I think.”

  Three minutes and there was a tired voice responding
.

  “I have your reports, Stark. You’re doing well, as are two others of the old squadrons. The rest are learning. There are more Hurricane squadrons coming out. The tanks are breaking out of the Ardennes – the French can’t hold them any longer with their second-line troops.”

  “Some were fighting hard less than two hours ago, sir. Held them in places for more than a day with no tanks of their own.”

  “Heard of it, Stark. For every unit fighting, there’s another running. Those who have made the effort have done damned well. I suspect treason – officers who want to see a Nazi victory stabbing their army in the back. Sort of thing we saw last winter, but a lot more of it.”

  Thomas was not surprised, having been the victim.

  “I have a wounded pilot, sir. Hand smashed up, can’t fly for weeks. Probably going to lose some fingers. How do I get him back to England? The roads are blocked solid.”

  “I’ll send a Dominie up. I have pilots for you and more planes. Can you take another squadron on your field?”

  “No. No kitchens, sir. We will be living on boiled potatoes and bully beef.”

  “Shit!”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “I’ll put some bread onto the plane. How many more Hurricanes do you need?”

  “Two. No sense keeping reserves up here, sir, if you can fly them up at need.”

  “Right. Petrol should be coming up overnight, and ammunition. I’ll try to send a cookhouse lorry up to you, but I can’t guarantee that. A Dominie with one new pilot then, to return with your wounded man and the ferry pilots. I may have a job for you tomorrow. The last of the Battles are to go on a raid to hit some bridges… I know! Don’t say it. They won’t come back but it must be tried. The Army is retreating and won’t stop probably until it hits the coast – though they are not saying that. Gort thinks he can organise a counter-attack when the panzers are stretched a distance from their supplies and petrol. He might be right.”

  There was no reply to make – if Gort was right, the German columns would be destroyed or forced back. If he was wrong, he would lose a great number of men and a lot of tanks.

  “Right, sir. We will continue to fly today. We can put about half of our planes up at the moment. We will need that ammunition for the morning.”

  “It will reach you, if it is humanly possible. There will be written orders on the Dominie, Stark. Read them carefully.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Over and out, Stark.”

  Thomas shook his head and turned to Rod.

  “Orders that he does not want heard on the radio. Do you think he’s hiding them from the Germans or the French?”

  “The Frogs, Thomas. Instructions for the coming retreat, I don’t doubt.”

  “Agreed. Can you sort out lights for the field? The Dominie will take off late, I expect. There must be a risk of fighters by now.”

  “Half a dozen storm lanterns will do the job. I’ll do that now. There will be a plate of grub coming across to your tent. Eat something before you fly again.”

  They flew two dead patrols, smoke from raids in front of them and to either side but no planes where they happened to be.

  “I reckon I could fly one handed, boss.”

  “If any man could, it would be you, Shorty. You’re not going to. Get back to England and let the quacks work on the hand. You can certainly fly with two fingers on the left hand and I want you back in the squadron. You’re due for flight lieutenant, next vacancy, and I need your experience.”

  “I could stay here and give advice.”

  “I want you in a hospital, Shorty. A good surgeon might be able to save one or both of those fingers. I need you fit and active. I can give advice. Bugger off!”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “If you’re at a loose end any time, my father has a spare room in his house on the edge of the New Forest. I’ll give you his address. He’s one of us so he knows how to talk to pilots.”

  “I may do that, Thomas. Is that the Dominie coming in now?”

  “Should be. The guns ain’t opening up so it ought to be one of ours. That pilot’s welcome to his job – driving a tub like that when there must be fighters about.”

  They watched as the Dominie came in at fifty feet and dropped quickly onto the field and rolled across to the cover of the trees without being told. A pair of Hurricanes came in after him, the ferry pilots presumably acting as escort.

  The door of the Dominie opened.

  “What have we got, Shorty?”

  “A boy of about twelve, at a guess, boss. Christ but he looks green! The old fellow behind him looks more like a pilot. Brass by the looks of him – got a chest covered in ribbons.”

  Rod called behind him to the mechanics in the barn.

  “Brass on the field.”

  Tommy contradicted him.

  “Cancel that. Don’t worry.”

  He walked forward, shaking his head.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Old Man?”

  Tommy grinned, almost embarrassed.

  “They were short of bodies, Thomas, so they took the pilot of the Dominie off and put him into a Blenheim, temporarily, and I’m driving the bus for a couple of days. Ran out of a job with my Battles – none left! They sent them up into Belgium to go for the bridges again. Overruled me.”

  “And refused to let you fly with them?”

  Tommy made no reply and Thomas shook his head again.

  “We haven’t got a mess and I can’t feed you, Old Man. Rod! Can we find a beer for a thirsty pilot?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a man with a sense of priorities, Thomas. No food…”

  “But always a beer. When do you intend to go back?”

  “Ten minutes. I’ve got a shuttle run to London yet today. Your new little chap has never flown eighty miles at fifty feet before. I’m not sure the experience was good for him. They don’t come greener than that one. He’s just about the last of the intake from before the war, training much compressed but they’ve sent him out for being a peacetime regular, not one of these wartime volunteers. He had his full dress with him. I had it put onto a wagon going back to England.”

  “Good. What have you got for us besides him?”

  Tommy jerked his thumb at the erks unloading the Dominie.

  “Fresh bread. Cheese. Tea leaves. Milk. The necessities of life. Memories of the Great War, my son. Toilet paper and soap and razor blades.”

  “Good. Do you need to refuel?”

  “No. Do that at HQ. You have a passenger for me, a wounded pilot. Walking or stretcher case?”

  “Walking. Left hand chewed up.”

  Tommy winced, waved his own damaged fingers.

  “That hurts! Where is he?”

  “Here, boss.”

  “Good. My father, Tommy Stark. This is Shorty.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Where did you get that nickname from? Taking off in five minutes. Have you got a bag?”

  “Emergency bag and a suitcase the batman packed when we left the last field.”

  “Right, keep an eye on them. You might even manage to take them with you. When we land, simply stay put. Don’t get out and they may not notice you. If it works, you’ll be in London tonight. Better than hanging about at the hospital here and getting sent out by train tomorrow.”

  Shorty nodded and wandered off to the Dominie where he installed himself and his bags at the rear. The ferry pilots joined him and Tommy shook Thomas’ hand and trotted across to strap himself in.

  The mechanics started the engines and Tommy nudged the passenger plane around in a clumsy circle and waved a farewell. He took off at a slight angle, climbed up to less than a hundred feet and brought her to cruising speed then dropped to treetop height and headed west.

  “Your father, Thomas? Is plenty medals. Red one, is VC, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ha! Mad old bugger! Good man! Ferry pilots say he come up at no feet and top speed.”


  “That sounds like him, Jan. There’s fresh bread and cheese in the barn, Jan.”

  “Give him another medal for that, hey, Thomas?”

  They flew out of the field near Reims for three days, meeting more opposition each time they took the air.

  Thomas’ reports to Idiot changed in tone, the early, cheap successes gone.

  “Met twelve Heinkels escorted by 109s. Damaged a 109, never got close to the bombers.”

  Later in the day the report was similar.

  “Killed one Stuka. Shot up by Me 110. Lost Jerzy and what was his name… the bloke who came up with Jim?”

  “Alfred, Percy, El Cid?”

  “Cid, that’s it. He got into the middle of a finger four of 110s. Why I don’t know.”

  “He probably thought it was a good idea at the time, Thomas.”

  “He quickly learned better. Three of them hit him at once with their cannon and the rear gunner of the fourth got a clean shot as well. Turned him into confetti.”

  The Idiot made his notes and checked El Cid’s record.

  “Sidney Garrison – three halves to his name. No great loss to the squadron.”

  “None at all. What’s Shorty’s replacement got?”

  “Paddy? A Stuka and half a Dornier. Damaged a 109.”

  “Good going in two and a half days. Why Paddy? I hadn’t noticed an accent.”

  “He comes from London, but his father was a Belfast man – one of these Orangemen who was elected to Parliament and made the family home close to Westminster. You don’t call one of that sort Paddy unless you want a fight, so the boys thought it was funny, those who understood the joke.”

  It seemed more than usually juvenile to Thomas, but he had better things to worry about.

  “What happened to Jerzy, Thomas? Did you see?”

  “He got excited. Sandwich job. A Heinkel with Jerzy up his tail, blowing him to bits. A 109 behind Jerzy, returning the compliment. Then Feliks got the 109. For a couple of seconds there was the four of them in line and all of us shouting ‘break’.”