“A Flight for Jim, then?”
“For sure. Who else have we got?”
“Flight Lieutenant Robert Monson was in France. One confirmed; three halves; one probable. No damaged recorded. Not very inspiring, Thomas.”
“I’ll bet his squadron flew in vics. They were hopelessly ineffective. Next?”
“Andrew Faulds, also flight lieutenant, no victories. Posted to Wick - in Scotland that is; not much chance of action. Requested transfer – which often means the squadron leader didn’t want him.”
“Dowding warned me that three of my pilots had been pushed out of their squadrons. He didn’t say why.”
Tony grimaced.
“Could be a dozen reasons. Might be as simple as having a sense of humour while the squadron leader is a dull sort. Some squadron leaders are bullies by nature, enjoy pushing their pilots and don’t like it when they shove back. In other cases, the squadrons have good reasons for getting rid of men who can’t, don’t or won’t fit in.”
“Then we shall see what sort Faulds is.”
“We shall. John Wright is next of the flight lieutenants, wounded in France in November. First action, he and two others spotted a Heinkel and attacked. He was shot up – two bullets, upper arm – and the Heinkel got away.”
“Three of them – in a bloody vic and failing to score. Not his fault if he was obeying orders. With luck he will know better now.”
Tony looked up from the next file, shaking his head.
“George Cooper who was eight years in the service, and as a flight lieutenant for one year. Court-martial papers filed and withdrawn in his last squadron. He was posted immediately after. He was with a Spitfire squadron in Kent. He has seen no action – so he did not fly with them over the Channel. It doesn’t say that he was grounded…”
“They simply chose not to fly him. I am not at all sure what we shall get in Gorgeous George, Tony.”
“I can guess. That’s it for the five flight lieutenants, Thomas.”
“Robert, Andrew and John to join Jim is my first thought. Not set in stone – it may make sense to drop one of them and put George in his place. We shall see. Nothing to be published on the squadron board yet, except for Jim. Could be an interesting day for decisions.”
“Starting soon, that’s a thirty hundredweight coming in.”
Five pilots jumped down from the back of the lorry and piled their bags and gear around their feet. A sixth stepped from the passenger seat in the cab and waved to the driver to collect his suitcases.
“Lord Muck, Thomas?”
“Looks like it, Tony. Not impossible that he’ll be back in that lorry before too many days have passed. Not my favourite sort.”
“Four of the five have got sergeant’s stripes up, Thomas.”
“So they have – that’s the first thing to be dealt with.”
“Lord Muck has flight lieutenant up. The other man is a pilot officer – commissioned sergeant or more likely recently trained… or could be a Pole or other foreigner.”
“No worry – we’ll find out soon enough. Go and greet them, Tony, and bring them in. Pilot officer and then the four sergeants together. Flight lieutenant last – just to see if waiting annoys him.”
Pilot Officer Erik Janssen spoke perfect English – which was not as good as his French, he said – and had flown a Curtis with the French after fleeing Poland.
“The name is not quite what I have come to expect from Poland, Erik.”
“Germanic influence, Thomas. Very strong in western Poland, but it does not make us any less Polish. I studied languages at university – French and English, but not German!”
“I stand corrected, Erik. You are welcome indeed, particularly with the record you bring. Two Junkers 87s in Poland. Eight bombers claimed with the French. No Mes?”
“My Flight was under orders to attack bombers. Two others provided us with cover against the fighters. We had a mixed unit, Curtises and Dewoitines. We should all have been Dewoitines - but they were never delivered.”
“I had heard that. We fly in loose fours, not the vic of three, by the way.”
“I am relieved. I have just spent two weeks converting to Hurricanes and was told that the vic was the official flying formation.”
“Not anymore! I shall put you into your Flights today – probably simply by alphabetical order at first. Tony will settle you in. For the while, I expect us to go down to the Channel coast in five or six weeks – there is much to learn if we are to be a working squadron in that time.”
“It can be done, Thomas. Thank you for welcoming me.”
“Thank you for coming to England. Will you ask Tony to send in the four sergeants – who are all to be commissioned, by the way.”
“Sergeants Duff and Poole – you have both just converted from Gladiators to Hurricanes, in the space of a week, which is a good trick!”
The two, both in their early twenties, grinned and nodded.
“Still a bit to learn, sir.”
“And six weeks at most to learn it. Now, that leaves Sergeants Entwhistle and Parkinson who have come here from training at Hendon.”
The pair of younger men nodded.
“We were Volunteer Reserve, sir, and got the chance to go regular in late ’38. Was supposed to be two years of training but it was cut to eighteen months, but they added more time in Hurricanes, sir.”
“Good. In vics of three, tight to each other, I suppose?”
All four nodded.
“We don’t do that here. It didn’t work in France and all of the squadrons that have survived have dumped the vic. Finger four we use. You will spend the next few weeks in practice.”
They nodded cautiously – they had been told repeatedly that the vic was the latest and greatest thing in aerial fighting.
“Next – and listen before you moan – you have all been commissioned. As of this morning. You are pilot officers. The reason why is twofold – first, I want every pilot in the same room at the same time when I give a briefing; second, I want my pilots to talk to each other in the bar after the day’s flying – you will learn that way. Mess fees will be low, no greater than you paid as sergeants. Uniforms are no problem in wartime – all flying dress will be supplied, together with basic mess dress. Financially, you will not be hurt.”
One of the older men, Entwhistle, he thought, objected mildly.
“I ain’t no gentleman, sir?”
“I told Stuffy Dowding the same thing – I’m a Digger. I want a unified squadron – we fight together, eat together and if needs be, die together. I have no use for us and them. There’s only one distinction in the air – us and the buggers we are killing!”
“Orders are orders, sir. It can’t hurt too much.”
“It need not hurt at all – I don’t know your name yet but I’m Thomas, except when there’s brass about. Tony will deal with the paperwork. Get settled in – we fly tomorrow.”
“I am Andrew Faulds, sir. Flight Lieutenant. I must say, sir, that it seems a little strange that I should have to wait on the convenience of a bunch of sergeants.”
“All are pilot officers, commissioned as of today, Andrew.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any better. Not to worry! We are here to fly. Put me in a Hurry and I shall be happy! I was at the Hendon Air show three years running, you know.”
“Glad to hear it. I am Thomas, by the way. We fly in the finger four, as has been proved best in France. What was the railway journey up from London like? I gather the bar was open at least.”
There was a strong smell of whisky in the air.
“Well, a man has to have something to drive away the tedium, Thomas.”
“Agreed with that, for sure. Not when flying, obviously.”
“Oh, I don’t think a nip to keep one warm does any harm, Thomas.”
“I disagree, and it is my squadron, my rules. No drinking when flying, Andrew.”
“Which Flight will I have, Thomas?”
“We h
ave more flight lieutenants than Flights, Andrew. I shall probably swap men about until I am satisfied.”
Thomas smiled and ran his eyes over Faulds, spotted a bulge in his jacket pocket that was about the size of a flask.
“Why did you put in to leave your previous squadron, Andrew?”
“Too far from the action, Thomas! The war is going to be on the Channel coast, not up in Scotland.”
If it was true, it was a good answer.
“There was some mention of a possible falling out with your squadron leader, Andrew?”
“Oh, that was just because he was a straight-laced old puritan. He wasn’t happy because I put a nurse in the pudding club and wouldn’t marry her – as if I was likely to marry some common tart just because she dropped her knickers for me!”
“None of my business, but I would ask you to be a little more circumspect in the immediate locality. You can always go to King’s Lynn - that’s full of tarts for your weekends.”
The Fisher Fleet district in King’s Lynn was renowned over the whole of East Anglia.
Tony poked his head into the office after Faulds left.
“What do you think of Mr Faulds, Thomas?”
“Horrible little shit, isn’t he? Might make a damned good fighter pilot – that one won’t worry about killing and will revel in shooting the Hun in the back!”
“God help us all, Thomas, but I suspect you’re right. Thing is though, he’s a lush. He came out of your office, stepped round the corner and took a swig from a pocket flask. Thought he was out of sight and didn’t know I’ve got a back window. If he’s reached the stage of hiding his drinking, he’s a long way gone.”
“I warned him about the booze – and his reaction was to ignore me. We are not flying today, so I won’t break him yet. If he goes to a plane smelling of alcohol, I shall have him arrested. Bloody nuisance! What’s the time? When’s the next train due in?”
“Who knows? The railway companies don’t! That could be the three tonner coming in from Norwich. I told the driver to come away as soon as he had any passengers, not to make them wait for hours until the next train came in. He was to ask the station master to ring us if any more of our people arrived there.”
Eight men climbed out of the lorry, four with wings and a pair of sergeants and two aircraftmen for the hangars.
“That reminds me, Tony, I must speak to the engineer.”
“Can’t today, Thomas. He’s off at the hospital having a wisdom tooth dug out. Not likely to be fit for much for a couple of days.”
“Annoying, but hardly his fault, poor bugger. Who’s his number two?”
“Four flight sergeants who share the Flights between them – four planes and a spare apiece. All good men, so Phil says.”
“Philipps?”
“No – he plays a flute, and he’s quite good with it, I’m told, so he’s Phil the Flautist. Or Phil the Fluter if you prefer.
“Right – I am sure that makes sense. Let’s have a look at these four.”
“George Cooper, sir. How do you jolly do? Good to meet you, sir!”
Cooper was big, booming, ginger and possessed of a huge handlebar moustache – evidently a pal to everybody. He smiled enormously, displaying yellow horse-teeth.
“Good to be here to help bring a new squadron onto top line, sir. Pity it’s only Hurricanes, but you can’t have everything! I’ve been flying Spits, you know.”
“Ah, so you have. I haven’t got all of your records, George. Did you pick up a score in the last couple of weeks flying across the Channel?”
“No – damned bad luck! Went down with an ear infection, you know. Couldn’t get into the air!”
Impossible to argue – pilots could not fly with earache. Those who tried to often found themselves hospitalised with deep-seated infections or with ruptured eardrums that grounded them forever. It was unwise to leave the ground with any sort of cold in the head. Malingerers had long recognised earache as a friend, so much so that pilots had to be watched to see that they were not trying to cover up ear problems for fear of being thought yellow.
Thomas was sympathetic.
“All cleared up now, I hope, old chap?”
“Raring to go, sir.”
“Very good. We shall be flying from tomorrow, George. I am Thomas, by the way.”
“So I heard, Thomas. Not Tommy, eh?”
This, it seemed, was a great joke, worthy of roars of laughter. George left the office, calling ‘his old pal’ John Wright in.
“Come in, John. Are you fit to fly?”
“Have been for a month, sir. Waiting for a squadron as they wouldn’t send me back to France to rejoin my own people.”
Thomas accepted that at face value – he liked the look of John, quiet spoken and reserved, as so many of the best fighter pilots were.
“I want you to take on a Flight for me, John. Four of you, we don’t deal in that bloody nonsense of vics here. It’s worked in France. The squadrons using vics were hammered. Those of us who went up in loose fours did far better. The other pilots are mostly green – no idea of how to fight. We have five weeks to teach them. In close and short bursts, none of this bloody nonsense of opening fire at four hundred yards. It works, John.”
“Then I shall do it, sir.”
“Good. Served with George before, have you?”
“Cranwell. Not a close friend.”
Thomas left it at that. John was evidently not one to discuss another pilot with his squadron leader.
“Ask one of the others to come in, will you?”
They filed through the office over the course of a long morning. Another Pole; two flying officers who had converted from Battles, lucky men who had remained in England and had lived; two more who had been wounded in France and were now recovered.
Peter; Roger and Fred; Aloysius and Iain – all seeming likely enough.
Jim appeared, a dog with two tails, delighted to have been recalled by his mentor and still amazed by his promotion.
“I went home, Thomas, for the week. My parents were most appreciative of all you had done for me and when the letter came through with the promotion and the posting – well, Thomas, you should have seen them! I’m the third son, you see. Both of my brothers went to Sandhurst and they are first lieutenants now – one in France, or was, and the other at Aldershot, training up the new intakes to his battalion. Jeremy was sent back from France with a bullet through his leg – he was at home as well. Bit surprised when I outranked him! Add to that, Thomas, they’ve given me a DFC! Came through yesterday afternoon – I didn’t have time to get the ribbon put up.”
“Five kills and two probables and any number of damaged – they had to recognise that considering it was achieved in less than a fortnight, Jim. I’m giving you a Flight, naturally. Three new lads who you must bring on to be as good as you. A light touch, of course, but they must be up to scratch by mid-July. You can do it, Jim – you know what I want, and that’s what you will want as well.”
Last of all that day, Flight Lieutenant Monson drove in, the only man to bring a car. It was an MG, as befitted a fighter pilot, open topped and sporting.
“Can’t do without the old car, sir!”
“Up to you, Robert. Petrol rationing is a problem, and the fuel tanks here are under close watch. The Military Police have heard that local farmers have been getting hold of illicit, black market supplies and they have an eagle eye on every gallon of petrol they know about.”
“Ah! No filling up in the dark hours, you say?”
“They’ll catch you and break you, Robert. No use telling them that I need all my pilots – you know what that lot are like.”
“I do, too. Bastards all!”
Thomas laughed and agreed and commented on their nature, eventually bringing the conversation back to the squadron.
“Now, you’ve flown in France and have a score, I see.”
“One Ju 88 downed. Shared two Me 109s and a 110. One probable Stuka. Not the best of records, Th
omas, but I know how to get them now.”
“Good. We will make it easier for you – flying in the finger four rather than in vics. I want you to learn the techniques as quickly as possible. We have more flight lieutenants than Flights so you will rotate in the front position until we get everything sorted the way I want it.”
“I thought the vics worked rather well, Thomas.”
“The squadrons using vics scored one third as many kills as those of us flying in loose fours. Our job is to kill Germans. We use fours, Robert.”
“So be it, Thomas. Can I have a day off in the next while? Best to take the car to my parent’s place down at Hertford and leave it there – plenty of room in their garage.”
“That makes sense, Robert. I want us all to work together for a few days – so go down on Friday?”
Thomas spoke to the pilots after breakfast, explaining how they had been allocated to Flights and reminding them that nothing was yet permanent. Particularly, Flight Commanders would be rotated, to give the greatest possible experience to the five flight lieutenants.
“We should have sixteen pilots and me, but seem to be missing one body – probably lost in transit. The railways are so bad now there’s no guarantee of anybody getting to their destination. Flying at eleven o’clock. Check the board for your Flights and your Commander. I do insist on radio discipline, by the way. Mouths shut unless you have something to say and then use the proper language. Take off will be in Flights, myself on this occasion last man up.”
Tony appeared at the ready room door.
“Our lost sheep has appeared, Thomas. He got into Holt at ten o’clock and took a room at the Station Hotel rather than try to get transport out to us at that time of night.”
“Makes sense. I’ll see him quickly now. Make sure he can fly with us this morning, Tony.”
“David Aaronson, Pilot Officer, sir.”
The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2) Page 19