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

by Andrew Wareham

  “I thought not. There is a dozen of Vickers K guns in the armoury, with their pintle mountings. The Battle squadron’s transport is still here, four of three tonners and six thirty hundredweights. We could grab their drivers and use them ourselves and put the guns up.”

  “Good idea, Idiot. Do it. Get them organised. Load up the contents of the armoury. What’s the chance of towing the Bofors away with us when we go? Find out and put it in hand. Well done – glad you’re here, you’re more than pulling your weight.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Breaking Storm

  They fled Compiegne a day later, this time to a field to the south east by some sixty miles.

  “Protected by the Maginot Line, Stark. The advance through the Ardennes has turned west, is certainly headed for the Channel coast and south of the bulk of the BEF, the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium. Consequently, you will in effect be behind the advance.”

  Group Captain Peters’ voice was tired but not dispirited. Thomas gained the impression that he believed there was a strong chance of turning back the spearhead of panzers, of bringing a halt to the mobile war and trapping the German army in a salient, vulnerable on both of its long sides.

  “If we can stop them, we can destroy them in three months of solid grind, Stark. The Luftwaffe is taking losses far in excess of German daily production of aircraft. They have lost five hundred aircraft at least – certain kills. Provided we can keep up the attack in the air, we can drive them out of France. We are manufacturing planes faster than the Hun.”

  It occurred to Thomas that the Germans must take greater losses in the air, flying so many more bombers and transports than fighters. He had heard, however, that the RAF had lost many planes on the ground.

  “Have we the pilots, sir? My lads are getting tired, flying never less than six hours a day. I could say goodbye to half of the squadron in a single patrol, easily – it would need the least of bad luck – running into a couple of squadrons of Messerschmitts would be a disaster. I need another six pilots to give my boys a rest one day in three.”

  Peters suddenly sounded far less buoyant.

  “Haven’t got them, Stark. Three new men came out yesterday and I expect four today. Not sufficient to make up the losses let alone give a cushion. I’ll send a pair of new pilots up to you now. They should be with you in time to fly tonight. The remaining Battle pilots have been sent back to England and are retraining there, but they won’t be back for a month – and that will be too soon for them. There are more Poles in England, some going to existing squadrons, others forming their own pair. They won’t be ready before August. One or two groups are coming to England from the Empire, but too few. The Indian Air Force has offered a large contingent but that fool Churchill has refused them – he says that it’s a political move to push for Indian independence, which he insists is never going to happen.”

  “Bloody old fool! Someone needs to tell him Queen Victoria is dead. How did they let him off the leash long enough to make that decision?”

  “From what I am told, he has managed to get some independence – he’s not listening to his advisers and they can’t risk dumping him – there’s no alternative if they want to keep fighting. The House of Commons is behind him and the Lords are quiet, at the moment. The newspapers are doing as they are told and are building him up as a genius and our sole hope as a war leader. They have created the old man, and now they are stuck with him, and that means giving him the freedom he’s pushing for.”

  “Better than Chamberlain, sir.”

  “He’d have called for peace talks by now. He’s in the War Cabinet but is obedient to command according to rumour. The French are said to be discussing the possibility of an Armistice already. Their armies are in disarray at the top. The middle ranks are trying to fight, mostly, but the generals are refusing to respond to the new state of affairs. They had planned for a war of containment – a year at least on the defensive, sat in fortifications in the field, followed by a massive, inexorable pressure to push across the Rhine. They have no plans for a war of mobility and cannot respond to the tank attacks. Impossible to get General Gamelin to offer any plan, he is interested in playing politics and proving it’s not his fault while General Georges has been in tears for the past two days. They’re talking of pulling old Weygand, the French military commander in World War I back to France from Syria and digging Petain out of the Madrid embassy.”

  “So… What are we to do, sir?”

  “Patrol and attack, Stark. Find their bombers and knock them out of the air. Try to avoid their fighters.”

  “Yes, sir. Can you send more anti-aircraft to the new field?”

  “Haven’t got any, Stark. What we have in France is going to the BEF.”

  “We have been raided three times so far, sir. The guns have knocked down eight low-level bombers but we have nothing to deal with high-level. Sooner or later, they will hit the planes on the ground.”

  “Do what you can, Stark.”

  “Will do, sir. Stocks of petrol, ammunition and spares, sir? Available at the new field?”

  “They are on their way now, Stark. Rations as well.”

  “Very good, sir. It is eighteen hundred hours now. We will fly one more patrol this evening and then fuel up and reload and go to the new field before dark. The ground staff will move overnight. We have managed to get organised, sir, and can move with some efficiency, due mainly to the efforts of the Intelligence Officer.”

  “The Idiot, is that? I have put in his citation for the MC – for gallantry manning the ack-ack on the field. I expect that to come through. He has a pair of Mentions for his services elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, sir. He deserves them all. To my pleasure, he has turned into a useful member of the human race. Never expected it. Signing off now, sir. Wag has released the planes for the patrol.”

  “Good luck, Stark.”

  They flew and had the fortune to meet up with a small raid returning to its home field.

  “Thomas. Red One to Me 110s in high cover. Blue, Green, Yellow to the Dorniers. Tally-ho. Over.”

  The Flights fell into sections and attacked in line abreast. The Dorniers clustered together in mutual protection while the Messerschmitts turned tail and dived hard for home.

  “Red One. Mes has got no rounds. Maybe they been ground attacking. Over.”

  “Thomas. Do not pursue Mes. Hit bombers. Over.”

  There were no more than nine of the Dorniers and they were rapidly butchered, driven down flaming or fluttering out of the sky, wings and empennage shredded, glass gone, crews shot to pieces. Alfred grew over-enthusiastic and strayed too close to a dorsal gunner and followed his victim down, exploding as he hit the ground, still in his cockpit.

  “Thomas. Go home. Over.”

  They landed, made claims for eighteen Dorniers and waited for their guns and fuel tanks to be made ready.

  The Idiot came across with his reports pad.

  “How many were there in the raid, Thomas?”

  “Nine.”

  “All nine down?”

  “The lot. No parachutes – too much tracer floating in the air around them. Jumping was just from frying pan to fire. Couldn’t happen to nicer people. Halve the claims, Idiot, unless they are fully backed.”

  “Including yours, Thomas?”

  “Three damaged is all I’m putting in for.”

  “Wise! Set an example of moderation for the squadron not to follow.”

  “They’re fatigued, Idiot. They see what they want to most of the time. Get across to the new field, man! Will you be trailblazing again?”

  “Doubt it, Thomas. Fewer refugees in the east and those that ran have gone already, thank Christ!”

  “You have a pair of Mentions for your work so far. Keep it up.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t ever expect anything, you know, Thomas.”

  “Until this last couple of weeks, you deserved nothing. Amazing what a real war can do, ain’t it?”


  “High price to pay for growing up, having to start a war. Do we know anything about the new field?”

  “Its location.”

  “Helpful!”

  They flew out, fourteen strong, the two new youths having appeared as promised. Four Hurricanes remained on the field at Compiegne, stripped for spares and to be burned, damaged beyond the capacity of the ground staff to repair.

  There was half an hour of daylight in hand, time to circle and double check that the new field was feasible. An orange windsock confirmed that it was a landing ground, but it seemed no more than the ornamental lawns of a large chateau with stable blocks and barns to the far side. The grass was emerald green, lush, and probably uncut for some weeks; it looked as if it might be wet.

  “Thomas. Make a circuit while I land. If I don’t get in, return to Compiegne pending orders. Over.”

  He dropped in low and as near to the hedges at the leeward end as he could manage. The grass was the better part of a foot long and snatched at his wheels, but not enough for him to dig his nose in. It was dry, the soil hard. He taxied round the edge of the lawns, coming to a hard gravel standing area. An old farmhand appeared and walked slowly towards him before stopping fifty yards away and gesturing him forward, both hands to his chest. Thomas trickled another twenty yards before the man pointed sharply right towards a pair of big Dutch barns, freestanding roofs with four open sides. With a little contrivance, it would be possible to shelter the whole squadron inside them.

  The farmhand gave the ‘cut’ signal, both arms sweeping down and out. Thomas obeyed, wondering just how he knew it.

  “Evening, sir. Been a good few years since I saw the old roundels. RFC, I was, sir, and stayed on at the end of the war, for liking it out here and having taken on a missus locally.”

  “I didn’t know they had demobbed ground staff in France.”

  “Well, you might say as how I demobbed meself, sir. The war was over and I’d done four years and that was more than enough for me... They told us last week there would be a squadron coming so we cleared the barns and scrubbed out the stables for the ground staff. The horses all went to the army last year so that was no trouble. We got no beds, but there’s straw and hay in plenty to put down for barracks rooms. Officers to sleep in the big house. Kitchens are big and can feed a squadron, if you have cooks and rations. Mechanics can use the tack rooms, I suppose – there’s space for them to set up a few benches there.”

  Thomas walked out onto the grass and waved the squadron in.

  A little later a messenger came from the house, a maidservant begging their attendance. They trudged across, most of them conscious that they were sweaty from a day’s flying and fighting.

  A formally dressed gentleman in black and white greeted them at the French windows looking out over a terrace.

  Thomas assumed he was the owner – a lord by the look of him - and gave a short bow.

  “I am the butler, m’sieu. The Comte has found it wiser to leave for pastures greener. He sailed to the United States last year together with the whole family. I am custodian, you might say. My master was – no doubt still is – of the extreme right, politically. I, however, am proud to be of the Popular Front. As such, sir, please be welcome to the house and to the fullest use of its facilities. You will find that the reception rooms to your left are suitable for an officer’s mess; a proportion of the contents of the Comte’s cellars are to hand at an impromptu bar. No doubt more can be brought up at need. The dining and breakfast rooms are to the right. The cooks will feed you from the cold rooms and pantries. I trust you will eat well. How many of you are there, sir?”

  “Fourteen pilots surviving plus four officers on the ground staff, if they all make it here.”

  “I will instruct the maids to make up eighteen rooms. It should require only a few minutes - we made initial preparations when we were informed you were to arrive, last week. I must presume you will wish to fly at dawn?”

  “Regrettably, yes. May I congratulate you on your mastery of the English language? It shames me that I have no French.”

  “I am English, sir. All the best butlers are. My master recruited me some twenty years ago and I married here and have been content to remain.”

  “We are lucky that you did. It will be necessary to set up anti-aircraft guns, such as we have, around the field. You must expect to be raided. Have you shelters for your people? May I have your permission to dig slit trenches around the barns?”

  The butler assured him they had deep shelters – an ice house to the rear having thick walls as well as being mostly underground.

  “As for slit trenches – feel free, sir, but the soil is thin over rock, you will not go deep. Better to build little bunkers where you can.”

  Thomas shrugged – the ground staff would see to that.

  They ate a light supper and drank a little of the Comte’s wine and fell into comfortable beds. They rose at half past three, sour and ill-tempered.

  The convoy arrived as they sat to breakfast, Rod coming wearily to table.

  “Delayed two hours crossing one of the highways south. The remnants of a full French division pulling back from the border. Mostly on foot. No artillery. Some of the soldiers without rifles. The bulk of the officers in front, in cars and heading off fast. A rout.”

  “Don’t unload, Rod. Work out of the lorries. Use the stocks of food here. The butler is English and helpful.”

  They fretted away most of the morning waiting for the mechanics to release the planes, the pilots idling in comfortable armchairs, ordered to rest, to do nothing to help the scurrying ground staff. It was obviously wise, was still resented.

  “Lords and masters of bloody creation, Thomas.”

  “So they are, Rod. They’re knackered. So am I. Alfred went west for being careless - probably too tired to think straight.”

  “I know, Thomas. The younger men are bloody near comatose. Why don’t you sit down?”

  “More likely to fall down, Rod. If I sit, I’ll stop. I’ll go to bed earlier tonight. How soon before the Hun knows we’re here and pays us a visit? All the planes on the ground – two bombs and we’re finished.”

  “We’re safe today, Thomas. Maybe two days before they work out that you’re coming in from the east and start hunting.”

  “Bad luck for the Comte – I doubt there will be much of his chateau left to come home to.”

  “I can live with that, Thomas. From what the butler says, he’s a pal of Adolf’s – he can ask him to rebuild.”

  They flew just before midday, decided it was the Luftwaffe’s lunchbreak, seeing nothing before coming down after an hour.

  “Thomas, is you seeing the roads at the west of patrol?”

  “I saw, Jan. Full of traffic – all of it military and heading south. Did you spot the French airfields?”

  “Two. Tricolour painted on hangars. Empty. Maybe bomber fields, all shot down?”

  “Perhaps they are fighter fields, all run away?”

  They shrugged and ate and wandered back to the barns to wait for their planes.

  Wag was not a happy man.

  “I’ve got four planes with the big hundred hour engine checks due, Thomas. No facilities here to get an engine out onto a bench.”

  “Let it go, Rod. Do the fifty hour checks overnight and look for anything you can see with the engines in. I know it’s not good enough, but I can’t see another answer other than to fly the planes back to England and replace them with new. I don’t see that as possible.”

  “It’s not, I know. I’m worried, Thomas, that the planes will let you down.”

  “Can’t be helped, Wag. We do what we must. How do we stand for petrol and oil?”

  “Two days.”

  “Bugger! Where’s Molyneux put the wireless sets?”

  “In the stables offices, the building with the white clocktower and the flagstaff.”

  “Aerials up high?”

  “Just that.”

  “Have you got contact w
ith HQ, Molyneux?”

  “Weak signal, sir. Might have lost their original equipment and had to replace with worse stuff.”

  “It happens. They might have been bombed – shame for the brass to be in the firing line.”

  They shared a grin.

  “Message to Group Captain Peters confirming we are active on site. We require petrol and oil by sunset tomorrow. Ammunition by the day after. Pilots fatigued.”

  “Ten days in, sir.”

  “And no good end in sight, Molyneux. Have you got a slit trench close to hand?”

  “No, sir. Bloody great concrete water tank, empty, just outside the door.”

  “Use it when the raids start coming in. They’re not going to like having an active field in what is effectively their rear area.”

  “We’ve mounted a Vickers up on the roof, sir.”

  “You are not to man it, Molyneux. We need your skills with the radios.”

  Agreement came, as it must, but it was distinctly sulky.

  Thomas mentioned Molyneux’ attitude to Rod, surprised in the man.

  “The sergeants are running a pool. Put a pound in each. Man with the best score on the machine guns scoops the pot. Molyneux got one in the third raid at Compiegne – nearest are two with halves. There’s ten pound riding on the outcome, Thomas, and a deal of glory.”

  “Mad! Tell him I didn’t realise and that he can man his gun if he wants, but if he gets killed I won’t put his papers in for a commission.”

  Rod laughed, said it was unkind.

  “Making the poor chap choose which he wants most. He’s a bright youngster, I bet he withdraws from the competition, blaming you so that he don’t seem chicken.”

  “He’s too useful to lose posturing, trying to be a big man.”

  “Bound to happen, Thomas. Always the same in a squadron – the pilots are the glory-boys and the rest of us get no chance to shine – especially so in fighters.”