“Sounds like a bit of a mess, Thomas.”
“Was and will be. What’s the word from on high?”
“Be ready to get out. The French are making a counter-attack, but they ain’t. The orders have gone out. They have been confirmed by one of their HQs. Some other general says it has been done, but the armoured division that’s supposed to have come north hasn’t moved and the reserve division that was supposed to march east has run away and the one mechanised brigade that did as it was told was hopelessly outnumbered, fought like hell and got smashed.”
“You said HQs, plural. How many have they got?”
“Three. None of them are sure who has responsibility for what, and they convey all of their orders by the civilian phone system, which ain’t working at the moment. Rumour insists that they are using carrier pigeons as the most reliable means of making contact.”
Thomas was not surprised. He was beyond amazement by this war. He went in search of Rod.
“Have you got the next move organised, Rod?”
“Apart from the fact that the roads are packed solid with hundreds of thousands of refugees, yes. I know where we are going. The lorries are loaded – we are working out of them. Every man knows where he is to go and how, which vehicle to get into. Peters has sent four lorryloads of petrol in jerry-cans and ammunition and rations and instructed us to keep hold of the lorries, so we are better off for transport. But the roads are almost impassable. The three-tonner that came in this afternoon set off at midnight – fourteen hours for eighty miles. The back lanes are usable, but the main roads are solid.”
“How good are the maps?”
“Iffy! I think we can plan a route that crosses the main roads rather than follows them – but the map says nothing about the bridges, as an example. They may not be able to pass a loaded lorry.”
“Try it. If we can’t get through then we’re buggered, so we’re no worse off if we try and get stuck.”
Word came in the evening that they should move overnight. Tanks had been seen heading west and no more then ten miles to their north.
“The field is outside Compiegne. Thirty miles. Crossing several major roads from the Belgian border to Paris.”
“We must get through, Rod. I’ll fly out an hour before dark, giving us time to find the field and get down. Send off the first lorries now, loaded as normal, but add the gate guard detail with their Brens. If needs be, carve a way across the high roads.”
“I don’t have to like that, Thomas…”
“But you do have to do it, Rod. Send an officer with them. Not fair for a sergeant to take that responsibility. The Idiot will do.”
“Are you sure?”
“It will make him or break him, Rod. He’s expendable. I can’t lose Wag or Peters and I won’t send one of the pilots. I’ll tell him myself.”
“We are moving again, Idiot. In ten minutes. The field is close to Compiegne. Here.”
Thomas produced a map with a route pencilled in, passed it across.
“Here, here and here – you cross major highways. They will almost certainly be blocked solid with refugees. You have to pass through, at any and all costs. If that involves opening fire on the civilians, you must do so. Must. An absolute order. I have put that in writing – keep it. You may need to justify yourself today or later in the war, or when it’s over – so don’t lose that piece of paper. I’m giving you the gate guard with their pair of Brens. You will carry your revolver.”
The Idiot looked at the written order and tore it up.
“If I shoot my way across, then it will be my responsibility, sir. I will not pass the buck. In any case, your order is unlawful, so I am under no obligation to obey it. My choice, Thomas. The lorries will get to the field.”
Thomas stared in some surprise as the Idiot stepped up into the cab of the leading three-tonner, a revolver on each hip, and ordered the driver to start off.
“A little delayed, but that one’s balls have finally dropped, Rod. What’s the correct award, the Air Force Cross?”
“Actions above and beyond the call of duty but on the ground? No. AFC is for flying only. The MC is allowable to RAF officers fighting on the ground, but I doubt that would include shooting refugees… Better try for a Mention. Talk to Peters, face to face, if you want an MC.”
“Put the papers in for it if he gets to Compiegne, whether or not he has to open fire. I’ll see what can be organised for the citation. It will take guts, whoever he has to kill.”
Rod agreed but was inclined to doubt that the Group Captain would want his name attached to that recommendation.
The Hurricanes reached the field at Compiegne and found the tattered remnants of a squadron of Battles there already. There were two of the light bombers under canvas together with a single pilot and three aircrew. The ground staff were all present and mostly drunk.
Thomas routed out the engineering officer, who was at least half sober.
“Your Battles use a Merlin engine, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Get your ground crews together and use them and your spares on the Hurricanes. Thirteen planes to be ready for take off at dawn.”
“I don’t think I’ve got thirteen mechanics fit to stand, sir.”
“Kick ‘em!”
“It’s a risk, sir.”
“Not half the risk you’ll be taking if my planes aren’t fuelled, armed and serviced by four o’clock. What’s your name?”
“Rigby, sir.”
“Right, Mr Rigby. I expect my people to arrive during the night. If they do, well and good. If they don’t, the responsibility is all yours. Move!”
The Battle squadron had kitchens with food in store. The officers mess cooks were drunk, utterly incapable of working in front of hot stoves. Thomas marched down to the NCOs mess, found the cooks more sober, having had to produce a dinner for the sergeants that evening.
The senior was a flight sergeant, able to stand upright and speak coherently.
“Dinner for thirteen pilots, sir. Hot breakfast for three-thirty, sir, for sixteen officers, if they have all arrived during the night. Yes, sir. Full dinner, sir?”
“We have been eating boiled potatoes and bully beef from the can for the last three days.”
“Christ, sir! We can do better than that. Thing is, sir, not many of our officers are left and the mess cooks became discouraged, sir.”
“I thought they were pissed, not discouraged.”
“Yes, sir. Take an hour, sir, to get a decent meal together. Hot, at least. Breakfast will be better, sir.”
“Thank you, Flight.”
Thomas found the armoury with an erk on guard, carrying a rifle and bitterly sober.
“Can’t drink on duty, sir.”
The building was an old cowshed by its smell, but it had been racked out and the contents were dry and properly organised. The Battles carried a single machine gun, a Vickers K which used large pans carrying a hundred rounds, valueless to the Hurricanes with their Brownings. There were tens of thousands of rounds in their boxes, but no belts to load them. Effectively, until Peters arrived with his pair of lorries, they had the ammunition already in the wings and nothing else.
“What’s that at the end of the building?”
“Bofors rounds, sir. Two of them on the field, sir. Haven’t used them, sir. Not seen any enemy aircraft, sir.”
“Are the guns manned?”
“Not at night, sir.”
“Be sure that they are in the morning. Wake your sergeant up when you go off duty – what time is that?”
“Midnight, sir. Working twenty hundred to midnight then the relief comes on till o-four hundred, sir.”
Thomas grinned, aware how popular his next order would be.
“Excellent. Wake your sergeant when you go off duty. Inform him that the Bofors will be manned at first light and that he must report to me.”
The erk grinned back. He would enjoy obeying that order.
“Have yo
u any other guns set up?”
“Yes, sir. The Armourer, sir, has four spare Vickers, sir, on pintle mountings in gun pits outside the sergeants mess. Unmanned but the first to get to them is supposed to use them. Checked every day, they are, sir.”
“They will probably be needed. Good to see you are alert, Aircraftman. Understandable that everybody else is half-cut, I suppose, but at least you know your duty. Well done. What’s your name?”
“Smith Three, sir.”
“Right, I may need more men for the guns. If you want, you can transfer to 186 Squadron with a step up in rank.”
“Please, sir. I’ll see the adjutant in the morning, sir.”
It was not quite standard procedure, but Thomas knew he could get away with it in the prevailing conditions. Better to make use of a man than leave him idle in a dead squadron.
The lone Battle pilot was waiting for Thomas when he returned to their mess.
“Johnson, sir. Sorry that you found us like this, sir. Only the pair of us got back from the last raid, four days back, and Mickey had taken a couple of rounds and was lucky to get his plane down. He was taken off to hospital and I have remained, sir. Sole pilot and officer left on the flying side. Lost all of the other ranks aircrew except my radio operator and Mickey’s two sergeants. Didn’t hit the target, either.”
There was nothing useful to be said to that.
“Have you ever flown a Hurricane?”
“No, sir. Battles since I came out of Cranwell, three years ago.”
“Have you reported to Group?”
“The adjutant drove to Group two days ago, sir, as we couldn’t get through by radio. Nothing since.”
“I’ll inform my people when our equipment arrives. Can’t do much for you until then, Johnson. Have you got an airworthy Battle?”
“Both are fit to fly, sir.”
“You might be useful yet, though I suspect they’ll send you back to England. I’ll inform you of what, if anything, is intended for you when I know.”
The Idiot arrived at the field before midnight, having taken a bare three hours to cover the thirty miles.
“Well done. How did you manage to get here so fast?”
“Forced a way over the first highway – not so full of refugees, coming from a bit farther east. Not too difficult. The side roads and farm tracks are all dry – good weather all week. The two fords were low, no more than trickles, and the bridges held up. The second highway was crammed with people, some walking, most laid down for the night on the verges and wherever they could settle. Had to fire in the air to get them to move and give us a passage. A lot of them panicked and ran through the hedges – Christ knows what happened to them, women and children splitting up in the dark. Got to the third highway, no more than five miles from here, and that was worse. We had to turn down it for a couple of hundred yards, sort of an offset crossroads. Headlights on and horns blaring and runners screaming in front of us. At least two went under the wheels. Couldn’t help it. Bloody mess!”
Thomas thought that was not as bad as it might have been but chose not to say so.
“You did well, Idiot. I expected you to – that’s why I gave you the job. You’ve turned yourself into a useful officer, an asset to the squadron. Welcome home! There’s hot food in the kitchens and a cook on duty. Feed yourself and get some sleep.”
Rod brought the remainder of the vehicles in before dawn. He had a cut on his head.
“Got through quickly – the mob all ran when they saw us coming but some of them threw stones at us. The Idiot did well as a forerunner. No problems at all for us. They shouted a bit but the lads don’t speak French so that was a waste of their time.”
“Do you speak French, Rod?”
“No, but I know what a piece of pig shit is in several languages. They weren’t as inventive as the Arabs in Palestine.”
“Fair enough. We have one surviving Battle pilot and four aircrew to deal with. He doesn’t know how to fly a Hurricane and would take too long to convert. Best get rid of him if we can.”
“The radio will be working within the hour, Thomas. Molyneux is onto it already. I left our Bofors at the field – the lorries were overloaded without trying to tow that. Destroyed the breechblock and sights and training wheel but brought the ammo away.”
“Good. There’s two here. They should be manned for first light. Four Vickers K guns as well. Set up our own guns as soon as possible. Bound to be airfield attacks on the flanks of the tank columns.”
Rod nodded and set off wearily.
Thomas had had no more than an hour’s sleep either. He was not especially sympathetic.
The squadron took off at first light, hoping the mechanics had been better than they looked. The engines all fired and the guns were still loaded and Thomas thought it wiser to get off the ground. The field had been in use for months, must be on German maps, ignored as yet because it had Battles and had been more distant from the action. A squadron of fighters would attract attention – might already have done so, it being generally accepted that the north of France was full of spies and Nazi sympathisers.
Thomas had decided to fly north and then make a patrol to the east, expecting to find bombers in front of the tank columns. He thought fifteen thousand feet should be sufficient to bring the squadron in above the low-level bombers and their close escort.
“Thomas. Red One, watch high. Over.”
They had decided that ‘Thomas’ was easier to hear than ‘leader’.
It was a fair assumption that there would be Me 110s at high level. If they came diving in, then it might be possible to get onto them and reduce their numbers. The attack would be unexpected as the Hurricanes were under orders to target bombers. With a little luck, the Huns would find their assumptions of superiority dented and it was time to hit back rather than simply react to their aggression.
The 110s did not show but there were Junkers 88s and Stukas active in three locations, the dive-bombers closest.
“Thomas. Red One, go for those circling, waiting their turn. Green One, try for those who have bombed and are going home. Blue and Yellow with me. Tally-ho. Over.”
They dived, faster than the Junkers 87s but at a far shallower angle, seeming to achieve surprise. There were no fighters covering the Stukas.
“Red One. Is 109s distant, coming fast. Get up late this morning. Over.”
“Thomas. Don’t mix it with the fighters. Run when they get close. Call the break. Over.”
“Red One. Roger. Over.”
A few seconds and Thomas saw a Stuka falling out of control from above him. He swung onto a diving plane, coming onto its quarter, the gull wings identifying it. A single burst stopped its engine and the steep dive became vertical. He looked for another, saw one clawing up, trying to make speed as it climbed away after its bomb run. It was farther distant than he liked but almost unable to manoeuvre, a sitting target. Two short bursts, the first too far towards the tail, the second killing the pilot. He pulled up looking for a third.
“Squadron break!”
He obeyed Jan’s command, diving away to the south, low, below five hundred feet, where he could fight with 109s on even terms.
“Thomas. Pancake. Over.”
He tried to get his bearings, not easily, so low and looking for a field which he hardly knew. He spotted a squadron of Heinkels a few miles distant and on the edge of a town which he thought was Compiegne. He suspected they were visiting the field. He pushed the throttle through the gate, hoping to get to them, to use the last three seconds in the guns.
The bombers were low, expecting a clear run on a surprised target. Thomas saw one go straight in, hit by ground fire, the two Bofors and at least a dozen of machine guns earning their keep.
“Thomas. Field under air attack. Over.”
The bombs fell and the Heinkels turned away, going back home and just a mile farther off than made sense to chase them, running on less than half a tank of fuel and low on rounds.
“Thomas
to ground control. Status? Over?”
“Control. Land to western edge of the field. Heinkel burning on the east. Minimal damage. Over.”
“Big-headed bastards, Thomas! They came in low and slow in pairs. Eight of them. Taking it in turn so as not to fly into the bomb blasts. Used to no defence, I suspect – gunners running at the sight of them or nothing more than a few Lewises. The first pair never reached the field – that’s them outside the perimeter, look – went in nose first and blew. They flew straight down the barrels of the Bofors! Number three is burning still, on the field. The fourth dropped but missed and got out of it – he turned away early. Chicken! The last four bombed while climbing. Missed almost everything and took a fair amount of damage as they went. Dropped a hundred several kilograms of high explosives right into the other ranks’ latrines – showers of shit everywhere! That was the total of damage.”
“They’ll be back, Rod.”
“Bound to be! I’ve got shovel parties out already – one lot digging a set of temporary latrines, the rest on slit trenches. Amazing just how fast they can dig when it’s their own necks on the line.”
“Anything on the radio?”
“Not a word – too early in the day for HQ.”
“What time is it?”
“Half past five.”
“Bloody hell! Feels like mid-afternoon. Busy day. Is everybody down?”
“All in. Counted thirteen bodies lining up to make their claims.”
“Got into Stukas on their target. Nice and slow. Their escort got up late and was miles off. I counted twelve of them – I’ll bet there’s twenty claimed by now.”
The Idiot was resigned to the pilots’ claims, knew they were not deliberately dishonest, merely hopelessly wrong.
“Eighteen, Thomas.”
“I saw two flying off low, Idiot. The most we could have got is ten. There might have been others sneaking off at ground level.”
“We need those camera guns, Thomas.”
“Agreed. Make sure your reports say so. We won’t get them until this business is over and we have a line stabilised – or are back in England, more likely. Don’t unpack your bags, by the way – there ain’t a chance in hell we’ll stay here more than a day.”
The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2) Page 14