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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Just out of wartime training, David?”

  “Joined up in September, sir. I was a commercial pilot prior to that, working with an air taxi firm.”

  “Good. I’m Thomas. Go and get changed and be ready to fly for eleven o’clock. Your Flight is up on the board. We don’t use tight vics – forget about them.”

  Jim led Red Flight up at one minute past eleven, surprised by the extra power in the climb given by the variable pitch propeller and the new engine. Thomas had reminded him that he must adjust the pitch when cruising and landing.

  The seventeen planes kept within sight of each other and approximated to the formation Thomas wanted. He brought them down for lunch within reason satisfied that they would reach an acceptable standard in a few weeks.

  The Group Captain was waiting with Tony when he landed.

  “What the hell was that disgusting shambles, Stark? Never seen the like in all my time in the RAF! All over the place and landed in four mobs. Neat, tidy vics, that’s what I want to see, Stark! Five Flights and a section following – all properly within ten feet of each other. That’s how it’s done!”

  Thomas was ready for a fight, fairly sure that he would be backed from on high. Dowding knew that he would not fly in vics and probably wanted the message to spread through the whole of Fighter Command. The squadron leaders were used to a degree of autonomy, would resist a directive that ordered them to fly in fours, but they could, many of them, be persuaded by the example of those who had fought in France.

  “Vics failed in France, sir. The squadrons that scored all used the finger four – the planes loosely in contact with each other and varying their position, speed, height and course. My last squadron accounted for a certain sixty of the Hun, sir, using fours. The two squadrons that flew in vics for the same fortnight had fewer than forty confirmed kills between them. Vics don’t work in modern warfare. The only way to kill Germans is to get to fifty yards and fire short bursts, each man choosing his target and watching each other’s tails.”

  “Balderdash! Stuff and bloody nonsense! If the squadrons failed, it’s because they formed their vics too loosely. The only way to fight is in a tight group of three, a leader with two wingmen inside ten feet of him.”

  “Nonsense! The only way to fight is in the way we and the Germans both do. A loose four that can split into two sections and reform as necessary. And, while I think of it, that stupid Dowding Spread was useless as well. We are not running an air show for all the old grandmothers to applaud, sir. We are fighting a modern war at two hundred and fifty miles an hour and closing speeds that can top six hundred. Sitting blind in a vic is a stupid nonsense – and that has been agreed at the highest level, sir.”

  Thomas’ last words penetrated Hallam-Pettigrew’s anger. He had been slow in rising to Group Captain and much wanted Air rank.

  “I have not been told that, Stark.”

  “Stuffy Dowding gave me permission to train my new squadron in the most effective fashion, as we had discovered in the fighting in France. Our defeat there must not be repeated, sir. We must defend England’s shores.”

  “Defeat? A minor setback, nothing more. The lines will stabilise and we shall defend France as we did last time.”

  “The BEF is cut off, sir. The Germans are north, south and east of them. If they cannot be withdrawn by sea, we will lose them all.”

  “Nonsense. A scaremonger’s exaggeration, Stark! We will certainly need to regroup, but with the aid of the RAF, the lines will stabilise.”

  “The RAF is fighting from its bases in Kent, sir. Most of the Hurricanes that remained have flown back across the Channel. Pilots from the two squadrons that remain are said to be pulling back to Brittany, fighting as they go. The pair of squadrons totalled fifteen planes, last I heard. The Battles are all gone – more than a hundred of them lost. Not much better in the Blenheim squadrons. The French have virtually given up in the air. The campaign in France is lost, sir.”

  “I heard that the Battles had a hard time of it – but they went down in daring raids, destroying the enemy.”

  Thomas was irritated beyond self-preservation.

  “Bullshit! They hit nothing! Nothing at all! They were shot down before they came in sight of the target in most cases. Where they saw their point of aim, they missed it. The Battle was useless – slow, incapable of dive bombing, without defence. Their pilots were brave – I watched them, one after another diving into the anti-aircraft fire and dying in their turn, the bridges untouched. Whoever put them into service should have been shot!”

  “But, what of the Blenheim? A fine medium bomber and a fighter.”

  “Very much so, sir. A match for the Heinkel, the Dornier and the Ju 88. Too few of them and vulnerable to fighters – just like their German counterparts. The Germans lost at least a thousand aircraft in the fortnight we were there – and they had two thousand more to hand. We lost a few dozen Blenheims and had nothing left.”

  The Group Captain was angered – junior officers had no business to be criticising policy decisions made by their seniors.

  “We have strayed from the point, Stark. Official policy is that the RAF uses the vic. You will do so in this squadron.”

  “I shall do no such thing, sir. I refuse your order as being harmful to the squadron and to the RAF in general.”

  “Stand down from duty, Stark. You will not fly for me again. Court-martial papers will reach you tomorrow. Your senior flight lieutenant will act in your place until I have appointed an adequate squadron leader.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thomas walked out of his office.

  “Tony! I am sacked and will be court-martialled. Go in to the old fool and take his orders for the squadron.”

  The adjutant found his hat and saluted Thomas before going into the office.

  “Chalmers, sir. Adjutant.”

  “Good. Get me the senior flight lieutenant. He will be tasked to return this squadron to basic efficiency.”

  “Senior in the rank, sir, is John Wright. I will fetch him in, sir.”

  Tony found John in the mess, eating fried egg, Spam fritters and chips and showing signs of enjoying the meal.

  “It’s not bad, Tony. I like a fry-up. The tomato ketchup gives the meat a bit of flavour. What’s up?”

  “Group Captain Hallam-Pettigrew has sacked Thomas and you are to replace him in an acting capacity. The Group Captain refuses to accept the finger four and demands that the squadron be taught to fly properly in vics. Thomas faces court-martial.”

  “Does he now? I had better go in and show willing.”

  “Tie straight and cap set square, John.”

  “Naturally, old chap – how else would one present oneself? Come in with me, will you, Tony? I might prefer a witness.”

  John marched into the squadron office and saluted the Group Captain, now sat behind the squadron leader’s desk.

  “Wright, sir. Flight lieutenant.”

  “You are acting squadron leader, Wright. You have sufficient seniority and if you make a go of the job, I shall see you appointed as a permanence.”

  “Certainly, sir. Five weeks, we estimate before the Germans have consolidated their rule of France and have taken over fields on the Channel coast and are able to mount their great assault. Just time to teach the pilots how to fly effectively in the new conditions, sir. They will be greatly outnumbered, of course, but should be able to do some damage to the bomber fleets.”

  “The French will remain in the fight, Wright. They are a long way from defeat.”

  “Not what we were told last week, sir. All I hear is that the BEF must evacuate and we shall lose every tank and gun we have sent to France. The RAF in France has been defeated, as you must know. The French will surrender soon – the politicians and the senior generals haven’t got the guts for a fight.”

  “Where do you get this nonsense from, Wright?”

  “The BBC and the Air Ministry, sir. My father’s sister is married to one of the air vice
marshals, sir. I was talking to her on Sunday.”

  “Your father’s sister… Is he the MP, the one who has spoken out for the RAF over the last few years?”

  “Yes, sir. He was RFC, of course – flew with Tommy Stark in his day. And with Noah Arkwright. You know that Thomas Stark is to wed Noah’s daughter on Saturday?”

  The Group Captain did not. He had not connected the two Starks either.

  “Well – in that case, I will not send him on his honeymoon worrying about a court-martial. Now, I want you to produce a properly smart squadron, Wright. Flying in good, tight vics, as it should be.”

  “No, sir. Ridiculously out of touch with reality, sir. The last weeks have shown that the only way to fight is in a loose formation of fours - or fives possibly. Damned nonsense to so much as consider vics, sir. Very fine for circus acts but not for professional airmen. Men like Thomas with their totals show us what can be done, sir, and the way to do it.”

  “I have given you an order and expect you to obey it, Wright!”

  “No. Your order is stupid. We are not about to play games at air shows. We will be flying to protect our country – and that is to be done in an effective way that will work. I shall not order men to die so that you can amuse yourself by imagining that they are smart.”

  “Go out and speak with your adjutant, Wright. He may bring you to your senses. I will see you in thirty minutes and will expect to receive your apology and a proper acceptance of your orders. I am most disappointed by your indiscipline, Wright, but will overlook it once.”

  The pair left and closed the door, leaving Hallam-Pettigrew to sit in isolation and consider what he must do next.

  “Well done, John, but what now?”

  “Telephone, Tony. The House is sitting and my father should be contactable there. He will be upset with the way Thomas has been treated. He was pleased I was to fly with Tommy Stark’s son.”

  They ran to the offices and put the call through. The House of Commons number was given priority in the wartime telephone system and John Wright was speaking to his father inside fifteen minutes.

  “Johnny, how are you? I’ve just been made a Secretary in the Air Ministry – a junior minister with responsibilities on the aircraft production side. How’s it going up in the wilds of Norfolk?”

  The conversation lasted for five increasingly angry minutes.

  “Tell Thomas I shall take the matter in hand immediately. Congratulate him on his forthcoming marriage, will you? I can’t get there myself. I was speaking to his father just yesterday – he will be working with me, by the way – and he will definitely be there on Saturday. Hallam-Pettigrew will not be, that I guarantee.”

  They spoke to Thomas and made their way back to the squadron leader’s office, just a couple of minutes late.

  “Well, Mr Wright?”

  “I have spoken to my father, sir. He has been made a junior minister by the way. Air Ministry, of course. I would expect you to hear from your superiors later today, sir.”

  “That is damnably disloyal, Wright, to go behind my back in such a fashion.”

  “I am loyal to my country, sir. Where I see an officer behaving in a stupidly destructive fashion for no better reason than vanity, sir, I have no hesitation in seeking the greater good. I wish to fly in an efficient squadron. You wish to create a pretty confection, a showpiece to play games with. I wish to kill the enemy. We are at war, sir, although you are obviously unaware of the fact.”

  Hallam-Pettigrew jerked to his feet, even redder in the face.

  “The squadron is to stand down, Chalmers. You will not permit flying until further orders. Call my driver!”

  “I am adjutant, sir. I have no authority over operations and cannot give your order.”

  “Then I shall do so myself! Lead me to the mess.”

  Tony debated sending his sergeant to tell the pilots to clear out, to make themselves scarce. He reluctantly decided that it might be childish.

  “Go before me, John.”

  He delayed a minute and then led Hallam-Pettigrew through to the mess building.

  Conversation died as the pilots saw the brasshat. Most were still sat at the lunch tables, enjoying coffee or tea at the end of the meal. They stood, more or less rapidly.

  “Be seated. I am Group Captain Hallam-Pettigrew. I came here to meet my new squadron. I am not at all pleased with what I have so far seen. The squadron is grounded pending further orders. I have dismissed Squadron Leader Stark and have been unable to appoint an acting successor to him.”

  The Group Captain fell silent and inspected the assembled pilots. He saw that four of them were incorrectly dressed, wearing coarse other ranks’ woollen tunics rather than officers’ correct dress. He pointed to the nearest.

  “Why are you in the officers mess?”

  “Pilot Officer Duff, sir. I was commissioned yesterday and am waiting for my new uniforms. For the while, I have changed insignia on my sergeant’s dress.”

  “Commissioned? From the ranks? I have not been informed of any commissions.”

  “I expect Mr Dowding will tell you, in time, sir.”

  “Will he? What is your background?”

  “I converted from Gladiators, sir, on the course that ended last week.”

  “Did you? Why? A fine plane, the Gladiator. I might have thought you would be proud to fly it.”

  “No, sir. The Gladiator is valueless in modern conditions. No biplane can survive in the war with Germany. I did not wish to be sent out to the Middle or Far East to shoot up fuzzy-wuzzies, which is all the Gladiator is good for.”

  “I will not bother to correct your misapprehensions, Duff. Just be content that you do not know what you are talking about!”

  The Group Captain turned and stamped out of the mess, ignoring the roar of voices rising behind him.

  “Where is my car?”

  “I’ll call for it, sir.”

  Tony poked his head into his office to send his sergeant to fetch the driver, saw he was on the telephone, heard him say that the adjutant had just returned. The sergeant put his hand over the set.

  “Dowding, sir!”

  He passed the handset across and rose from his chair to give his officer privacy. Tony signalled him to sit down.

  “Holmes, sir. I am afraid that Squadron Leader Stark has been dismissed, sir, ordered to stand down pending court-martial. We have no acting squadron leader. The Group Captain is still here, sir.”

  There was a short question from the other end.

  “I understand that the Group Captain ordered the squadron to fly in vics, sir. He said that it is more important to be smart than to worry about fighting the Luftwaffe.”

  There was a snarl of outrage.

  “Yes, sir. I will call him to the telephone, sir.”

  Tony pointed to the sergeant, jerked a thumb to the veranda where the Group Captain was waiting for his car.

  “Now what?”

  “Dowding wishes to speak to you, sir.”

  Hallam-Pettigrew took the receiver, tried to speak calmly though he was certain he had been stabbed in the back.

  “Yes, sir. I did, sir. He refused my order, sir… No, sir, an entirely reasonable order… Oh! I was not aware, sir… I have been inspecting my fields, sir. I have not been at my desk today or I would have been aware of the new instructions. I took proper action, sir. The squadron landed in a disorganised and untidy shambles, sir. There is no reason why they could not show smart, sir. Do what? I submit that would be to destroy my authority, sir. I cannot be expected to rescind perfectly correct orders merely to suit a changing whim of my superiors, sir. It is obvious that this new fad will not last and that we will return to the vic within weeks. But, sir, you cannot take such an unreasonable course… What? Certainly, sir!”

  The Group Captain shoved the handset towards Tony.

  “Take it. He has orders for you.”

  “Chalmers here, sir.”

  “Listen and repeat your orders, Chalmers. You will pl
ace Group Captain Hallam-Pettigrew under arrest and instruct his driver to take him to his quarters where he is to remain. I will have him dealt with at his last place of service. You will inform Stark that he is reinstated and will continue his programme of training.”

  Tony repeated the two orders and left to carry them out.

  “Sergeant. Get me the old man’s driver, quick time!”

  The car arrived at the offices in two minutes, its driver grave-faced. Tony was sure he was trying not to laugh.

  “Group Captain? You are to consider yourself under arrest, sir. You must return to your quarters – not your office – and there consider yourself under custody in your house until you are given further instructions. Do you understand, sir?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you in possession of a side-arm, sir?”

  “No. And I shall not be committing suicide.”

  “Very good, sir. Please withdraw from this field now, sir. You should not talk to any other RAF personnel pending resolution of the current situation, sir.”

  “I am aware of the regulations and will not breach them.”

  “Drive off now.”

  Tony saluted and was ignored.

  “Sergeant! Locate Mr Stark and get him back to his office.”

  There was a burst of yelling from the mess. Tony presumed that the message of the Group Captain’s discomfiture had reached them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Breaking Storm

  The wedding was plain and simple, wartime austerity prevailing. It was, however, far larger than either bride or groom had anticipated.

  Twelve women ferry pilots managed to land at the new field at Holt, remaining for a couple of hours, driven down by weather according to their logs. A Bombay appeared, its pilot on exercises and its passengers from Little Foxton not existing officially. A red double-decker bus drove into the town and parked up by the church, depositing three dozen not entirely sober pilots on weekend leave from fields in the vicinity of London.

  The Army was, in the nature of things, less mobile, but several members of the Earl’s family managed to attend.