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

by Andrew Wareham

  Tom had been told that the command of the BEF had not been exceptionally well-managed. He might have heard less than the whole truth, it seemed.

  “Slit trenches are over to the right, at the edge of the shrubbery there. There’s another set out behind the rose garden at the back. Get into them fast when you hear the whistles go. The air’s full of bloody Germans. About one raid in ten is intercepted by the bloody RAF – the rest drop unhampered.”

  “Have we got ack-ack here, sir?”

  “Light only – a dozen machine guns. The Bofors are all out in the field. There were some three point seven inch guns, but they were left behind somewhere.”

  “Who else should I report to, sir?”

  “Don’t bother, boy! None of them know what they’re doing. Just stick at my shoulder. When it comes to pulling out, use my Humber – that one, over there. I’ll tell my driver to take you. I’ve got to go elsewhere tonight, and I’ll make my own way to the coast.”

  Thomas made a note of the number of the vehicle.

  They shifted south and a little west that night. The evening after they relocated due west in a set of farm buildings. By then it was clear that they were cut off to the south and must head for the coast if they were unable to hold their perimeter.

  Thomas spent the day trying to discover what was happening, but nobody knew. He ate his dinner in General Gort’s company, happening to be in the farmhouse when the meal was served.

  “You, young feller, Hanson, is it? ‘Pay Corps’, I see, ho, ho!”

  There was a smile around the table.

  “Take over the AA guns for me in the morning, Hanson. Their lieutenant broke his damned leg last night, falling over a slit trench in the dark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  No other reply was possible.

  He noticed that Gort used the formal ‘AA’ rather than the more common ‘ack-ack’.

  Dinner was prolonged – an hour for the food and then another lingering over port. Conversation was correct for a mess – no shop but a long discussion of the forthcoming cricket season. It seemed that the war situation was as yet insufficiently urgent to be discussed out of hours.

  Thomas made a circuit of the guns before he turned in, found twelve of them, all manned by gunner, loader and sentry, properly alert. He ordered each to stand down, to sleep till dawn.

  “What’s the rules for engagement, gunner?”

  “Wait for the lieutenant to blow his whistle, sir. Don’t open fire wildly, sir.”

  “Balls to that! Open fire at any time you see an enemy in range. What are these guns?”

  “Vickers K, sir. Got them off the RAF because their planes was all down and didn’t need them no more, sir. Useful, sir, having the big pans and not having belts to fiddle with.”

  Tom turned to the NCO who had accompanied him on his inspection.

  “Right, sergeant. Pass the word to all of the guns to use their discretion to open fire. How do you stand for reloads?”

  “Plenty, sir. Got a three tonner of our own, full of three-o-three.”

  “Good. Can you use these guns against ground targets as well?”

  “If needs be, sir. Pintle mount gives flexibility, sir.”

  “Good. If the need arises, use your own discretion.”

  Tom hoped that order would solve any problems – he had no idea of how to fight any sort of battle.

  HQ moved repeatedly over the next few days, ending up at Dunkirk. The number of officers present was whittled down with each shift in location – some were sent back to England, others were given commands of units that had lost their own people in the fighting. A few simply disappeared, separated in the confusion of trying to move on the ground. Tom remained, making his careful notes and trying to write a narrative account each night.

  General Gort attempted to order counter-attacks in conjunction with the French. All failed and cost more men and tanks thrown away in half-hearted engagements. Finally, he accepted that the sole course available was evacuation; he decided to hold a perimeter on the canals around Dunkirk and get as many men away as he could. It was Gort’s intention to be last man off the shore, fighting to the end, as was to be expected of a man with his record of personal bravery; he commandeered a Bren for his personal use. The government ordered him out days before the end, determined that he should not be captured or have his body put on display as a trophy of war. One of his final orders before going obediently to his ship was made to Tom.

  “You’ve done well with the AA, Hanson. Set yourself up in the dunes with your guns, do what you can with these damned bombers. Protect the men waiting to get off.”

  Tom thought his sergeant gunner had handled the defence of HQ very well, but could hardly say so. He stomped off into the dunes outside the port, covering the evacuation beaches, and sited his eight remaining guns as well as he knew on open high ground where they would be able to see the bombers, whatever direction they came from.

  “Empty the lorry, sergeant, cases of ammo to each gun then immobilise the vehicle.”

  The sergeant obeyed. He had the men dig into the sand, watched it trickle back and gave up. There was no sacking, he could not make sandbags. The guns sat exposed on the dunes, their crews equally vulnerable. All eight opened up on the next raid to come, Messerschmitt 109s on strafing runs. The agile fighters lost one of their number and returned, concentrating on the guns themselves with their own cannon and machine guns. They blew Tom to shreds as he stood hopelessly watching his first and sole command die around him. Soldiers from the beaches came up to aid any wounded and took the ID from the bodies; they recorded the death of Lieutenant Hanson.

  Thomas enjoyed his leave, more than he had expected for Grace deciding that as they were to be wed so soon there was no sense in keeping to separate bedrooms for the weekends when she was present. He agreed with her logic.

  He shifted from the Lodge to his quarters at the new field, although permitting himself weekend nights out of camp.

  The airfield itself was ample for the needs of a single squadron of fighters. It had a concrete runway aligned more or less with the prevailing winds and only a few trees out beyond the perimeter. The local hills were low. That was the best that could be said for the posting in the first weeks.

  “Welcome to 280 Squadron, sir. I am the Adjutant, Flight Lieutenant Chalmers. Tony, that is.”

  Tony sported an eye patch and fresh scarring across the side of his face.

  “Flew out to France in a Bombay, in September. Pilot error on landing. I’m a penguin now.”

  “Bad luck, Tony. Don’t expect to be grounded by the cock-ups of our own people, but that’s how the luck goes. I’m Thomas. What have we got here as yet?”

  “Twenty Hurricanes came in yesterday, together with the ground crews. Mark IIs with the metal wing and the variable pitch props. Armourer and Engineer are present, again since yesterday. Full complement of cooks and kitchens are up and running. Guard detail is on the gate, as you will have noticed. The Intelligence Officer came in last thing yesterday – a flight lieutenant, says his name is Idiot and that he was with you in France. Only thing missing is pilots. They are due for off leave from this coming Monday– there was no sense in pulling them in at the end of the week, just to send them off for the weekend.”

  “There won’t be many weekends until the squadron is operational, Tony. The Idiot showed up well when we got down to business in France. Should be useful. Who is the Group Captain?”

  “Hallam-Pettigrew. One of the older men. Don’t know if you’ve met him? He was Wing Commander when I was in 7 Squadron a few years back. Nothing he likes more than a good display – nice tight vics.”

  “Tough shit, that. We fly in finger fours, as does every squadron that has just had experience in France.”

  “He won’t like that, Thomas.”

  “Sod his luck. What about the Wing Commander?”

  “None until we are operational and placed in a Wing.”

  “Pity. It might hav
e been useful to have a layer between him and me. What did he do in the Great War?”

  Tony glanced skywards, made a play of not catching Thomas’ eye.

  “Home Service. Apparently, he spent his war on the watch for Zeppelins and Gotha heavy bombers, but never managed to catch any. He ended the war as a major with the DSO as recognition for his services.”

  “One of those! Lots of family in Mayfair. The Old Man had a bit to say about that sort.”

  “Your father?”

  Thomas nodded – the Old Man’s identity would become known, best bring it out early.

  “You know that Noah Arkwright is located hereabouts, Thomas?”

  “I’m marrying his daughter on Saturday week. You will attend, I trust, with the rest of the squadron?”

  Tony would be pleased indeed to be present.

  “Have we got the paperwork for the pilots?”

  “Files turned up yesterday, Thomas. A right mix, they are. You will know one of them, Michael James, newly made flight lieutenant and from your old squadron.”

  Thomas laughed.

  “The biter bit! He’s still too green for the rank, Tony, but he deserved promotion for what he did in the fortnight of fighting. He’s a killer born, a real fighter pilot. A natural. The sort every squadron needs. But, he don’t know anything about command – I doubt he’s ever had to do anything more complex than decide which pair of socks to wear. I’ve got him, and he’ll be tickled pink to think I asked for him, so don’t disillusion the poor little sod. We’ll need to make him into a flight commander. He’s not stupid. He’ll learn.”

  “He will have to, Thomas, and quickly.”

  “I spoke to Dowding last week. He said the rest are basically odds and sods who need to be put together to make a squadron. They’re not ideal, but they must fly – we need the planes in the air, or will when France finally falls, which will be soon. I estimate we have two months. The Hun will need some time to commission fields in Belgium and northern France and get ground staff and squadrons into them. Can’t be done overnight. Just to get supplies of petrol and ammunition to the new fields will take some weeks. Some time in July or August, they will have the numbers to hand and will start sending them over the South Coast and to East Anglia.”

  “What will the aim be? To destroy London like they did Rotterdam?”

  “London is far bigger – that won’t be done in a single raid. If they have any sense, then they will try to make the airfields untenable and that will allow them to attack the naval ports and drive the Navy out of the Channel and the south of the North Sea. But they have to do that quickly. They can’t attempt their invasion after the weather turns in September. A winter of the factories working full out and there will be so many AA guns around the ports, they won’t be able to close them down. So it’s attack in July and finish the job in August if they are to have a chance of invading. I am convinced they can’t do it but I expect them to try. The squadron must be ready to fly to war in six weeks.”

  Tony was not at all certain that was possible.

  “We can but try, Thomas. What’s the plan?”

  “Four Flights, each of four. Initially, I shall be watching and correcting, from the ground and in the air. We’ll have the Flights listed before they come in and up on the squadron notice board. Do it alphabetically, so they know they have been assigned randomly, not according to any perceived virtue. Have we got four flight lieutenants?”

  “Five, Thomas.”

  “No worry – always useful to have a spare waiting to step up. I’ll need to talk to the Armourer first, Tony.”

  “Pilot Officer Cedric Paynton, sir. Armourer.”

  A rigid and precise salute and then a fall into ‘at ease’. Paynton knew his drill. Thomas had had time to glance at his record of service – twenty-five years in the ranks and commissioned just two months previously. He was grey and lean, old with an ingrained professionalism.

  “Right, Cedric. I am Thomas.”

  “In the office, sir – not before the Other Ranks.”

  “Everywhere, Cedric, unless there is brass about. Now then, the guns. I presume they are set up in the Dowding Spread?”

  “Yes, sir. All correctly aligned.”

  “As I expected. I want them synchronised to hit in a six foot by three box at eighty yards. The size of a cockpit. A matter of urgency – you and your people will need to work over the weekend and all night.”

  “That is not the regulation setting for the guns, sir. The regulations are clear that the Dowding Spread is the sole correct way to align the guns, sir.”

  “Experience in France has shown that the Dowding Spread is wrong. We shall use the eighty yard pinpoint. I know that some of the squadrons have argued for two hundred yards, but I prefer eighty.”

  “Yes, sir. I am sure that the new settings will be sent to us, sir, as soon as they are approved.”

  “Cedric, they have not been approved. It will take a year at minimum for the brass to create a committee and then listen to its findings. We will be fighting this summer, and I want the guns to be set up correctly.”

  “The guns are set up correctly, sir. Regulations are crystal clear on the right way of aligning the Brownings, sir.”

  Thomas was carefully patient – he knew he must not start shouting, still less find his revolver and shoot the nit-picking dickwit dead – as he much wished to do.

  “Cedric, have you ever served in Africa, on the bit they call the Fever Coast?”

  “Why, no, sir. Have they got fields there?”

  “Just one, I believe. Listen very carefully, Cedric, and think before you answer… Do you wish to go there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good – we are in agreement. I would not wish to go there. You will be stepping aboard ship by the end of next week, Cedric, if you give me the wrong answer to the next question. Listen now! When will all of my Hurricanes be synchronised at eighty yards?”

  “By eight o’clock on Monday morning, sir.”

  “Thomas, not ‘sir’. I am glad to hear that you can accede to my wishes, Cedric. Now then, next business. Special tracer rounds – how many have we in store?”

  “Explosive bullets, Thomas? De Wilde rounds, that is? Very few. I can give you an exact figure in ten minutes, Thomas, it will be in the ledgers.”

  “No need. I shall requisition half a million. Make space for them and load belts with them. When we go to war we shall carry nothing else.”

  “Quite correct, sir. We never loaded anything else after the Buckingham and Brock rounds first came out on the Western Front.”

  “Excellent. I am sure you will do very well here, Cedric.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Breaking Storm

  Thomas got down from the bench seat of the pony and trap, made his thanks to the old groom from the Lodge and picked up his weekend bag.

  “I’ll carry that, sir.”

  “Rogers? Where did you come from?”

  “Little Foxton, sir, literally, that is. When the non-essential personnel were evacuated from France, sir, they sent us back to our last field, where we were, you might say, surplus to requirement. As soon as you were known to be posted here, sir, I requested a transfer, which was granted instantly, there being too many spare bodies hanging about the field.”

  “Well done! I can use a hand with my limited wardrobe. Half of my uniforms have been lost and the rest are overdue for a go over with a smoothing iron. I’m getting married next weekend, and I don’t think my wife is much more domesticated than me – and she’s a ferry pilot anyway.”

  Rogers made his polite congratulations. He was looking forward to a return to the quiet life of the batman. They had made him do guard duty at Little Foxton, and put him on an ack-ack gun, which was not his cup of tea at all. He was glad to hear that the new wife would not usurp any of his functions.

  “Far more civilised, Tony. There’s much to be said for a batman.”

  Tony agreed, amused by Thomas’ self-indulg
ence and his rich boy’s inability to do his own laundry. He tugged his forelock.

  “The staff are due in today, your lordship. I’ve sent a lorry to Norwich railway station for those coming up from Ipswich way – there are a few who had postings in Essex and Suffolk. For the bulk, I’ve sent both thirty hundredweights to the local station. I don’t expect many to drive themselves, not with the rationing of petrol.”

  “That makes sense. The four sergeants are all to be commissioned – I begged Dowding to allow the peasants to rub shoulders with their betters. I doubt we’ll get away with it again, but it makes far more sense to keep the pilots together in the one mess. I don’t know if they’ve been told.”

  “Some won’t like it, Thomas. Officers’ mess fees are higher than sergeants are used to paying. Married men won’t enjoy that.”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Mess fees will be cut to the bone, Tony. No formal dinners; no expensive wine cellar; certainly no purchase of silver plate for the dining table. Wartime austerity is to be the rule for 280 Squadron.”

  “It makes good sense, but the traditionalists won’t like it, Thomas.”

  “How very unfortunate, Tony.”

  They chuckled and glanced again at the lists of names.

  “Flight commanders, Thomas – by seniority in the rank?”

  “No. Experienced men who have flown in France and made a kill get first priority. After that, I’ll go for whoever’s face fits. What do their records say?”

  “Your Jim has five kills and two probables and eight damaged – a hell of a record for a bare fortnight of flying!”

  “No rain. We flew every day, all day. Never fewer than four sorties in a day. Once we managed seven. Damned near exhausted us. He’s a killer by nature – fell into the habits within two days. Get behind your target, if possible; if not, give him a burst into the cockpit at fifty yards and disappear at speed. He’s no knight in shining armour!”