Andrew Wareham Read online

  “Yes, sir. I will discover, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Blake.”

  “No, sir! An officer must never thank a non-commissioned officer, sir. Or apologise, sir.”

  Tommy closed his mouth.

  “An officer is never wrong, sir.”

  “I had not realised that, Sergeant Blake. Tomorrow morning at oh eight hundred hours at the main gate again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, Sergeant Blake, what if I had got the time or place wrong?”

  “Then sir, I would have corrected the misinformation that I must have given you, sir.”

  “I see.”

  Tommy exchanged salutes and left.

  The sergeant made his way to his mess and took a beer, relaxing as he joined a table of his particular friends.

  “Had a good day, nurse-maiding the little Rupert, Blakey?”

  “Young, that’s for sure. Make a good officer, that one will. Going into the Flying Corps and needs to learn the ropes first. Could ‘ave got away with it if he’d wanted to, but chose to do the job proper-like. I pushed the bugger good and ‘ard, but he just knuckled down to it and picked up everything quick. Better than average eye, as well – not Marksman, won’t see him competing in the summer – but places a tidy little group natural enough. He’s bringing a pair of Colt Automatics with him in the morning, his father gave ‘em to him before he died, fairly recent, too. We got any rounds for ‘em, Smithy?”

  Sergeant Smith was an armourer and the resident expert on pistols.

  “Short forty-fours? Should be able to dig some out – got most things tucked away somewhere on the shelves. I’ll come along with ‘em.”

  Six sergeants turned up in the morning and took turns with the automatics, professionally interested in the new weapons. They brought an issue Webley with them and very kindly showed Tommy how to fire single-handed and double and then taught him how to use an automatic as well.

  “Very different, sir, the techniques for the wheel-gun and the automatic. The revolver, sir, you fires with a bent elbow, pulling it into you; the automatic you fires straight arm, pushing it out. If you can, use two hands and slowly; if you have to take a snap shot, then one-handed and looking at the target, not at the sights, and with both eyes open. You can point your finger at anything; same with a hand-gun – point it, don’t aim it, and you’ll come very close. If you got a fuzzy-wuzzy with a spear running at you, you ain’t worried about hitting dead centre in the bull, you just needs to knock the bugger down – near enough is good enough when it’s time for business, sir.”

  “That is useful advice, sergeant. I shall not forget it. If I crash somewhere in Africa, then that will be worth remembering.”

  “War is coming, sir. Can smell it in the air, sir – so many people saying it’s going to happen then it’s bound to, because they all reckon the bloke next door’s going to attack ‘em first.”

  Tommy thought about that, realised it made sense – if Germany was convinced that England was going to attack, then the best answer was to attack first. The talk of war was making war more certain every day.

  “So, if I crash in Germany, I’ll need both pistols, you believe.”

  “With respect, sir, you will need a lot more than two pistols if the whole German army is on your tail!”

  Tommy laughed, said he should practice running in flying-boots if that was to be the case.

  “Have you discovered where I can buy more ammunition, Sergeant Blake? I think I ought to keep more than fifty to hand.”

  “Don’t know exactly, sir. One of the big gun shops in London, so they tell me, but I don’t know which one.”

  Sergeant Smith intervened, said that he could probably find out, given a little time.

  Tommy went out to the Lanchester in mid-afternoon, reasonably pleased to know a little more than when he had arrived and very thankful that he would not be spending his service existence in the company of gunnery sergeants. He drove up to the barrier and was stopped by the duty corporal.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Sergeant Smith left a parcel here for you.”

  The corporal produced a heavy, string tied cardboard box.

  “Ah, yes. Put it on the back seat, please, corporal.”

  Tommy took the parcel indoors when he reached the Lodge, opened it in the study, the bare bookshelves unwelcoming and bleak. He examined the contents.

  ‘Four packets of fifty short forty-fours. Four packets of Webley four five five, overstamped, ‘Dum-Dum arsenal type’. What’s that?’

  He opened a packet and discovered that the rounds were not the standard ball but had a cross cut into the very tip, so that the soft lead would splay on hitting its target. He decided to ask Sergeant Martin about them in the morning.

  ‘One Webley pistol, standard issue, not new, and worked upon.’

  He clicked the hammer back, discovered the action to be far smoother than on the pistol he had used that day. There was a note in the holster.

  ‘Please to inform your Armourer that you have this piece, sir. He will keep it up for you.”

  A reward for allowing the gunnery sergeants to use his new automatics, he presumed.

  Sergeant Martin explained next day.

  “It’s the way it works, sir. Nothing for nothing. You do one of the lads a good turn, it comes back to you. Like when you got an officer’s servant of your own, sir. The lad will look after you, and every so often you drops him a packet of gaspers or a bottle of Scotch if so be he’s been really good. No need to talk about it, but that’s the way it works. Now then, Dum-Dum; arsenal in the Shiny, sir – that’s India to you – what invented bullets what would put down they old Pathans and their like up on the Frontier. Stop one of them Dum-Dum rounds and it’ll tear your arm off or blow a hole the size of a cricket-ball out the back of your belly; no arguing with them, sir. Thing is, though, sir, there’s been complaints what they ain’t fair and sporting-like, would you believe it! You shoots a bloke, it’s because of you wants to kill ‘im! No other reason for doing it, so if you got better bullets, well and good!”

  War was about killing. There was no other reason for going to war, it seemed, than to kill the other side. Put that way it was very professional, very simple. Fortunately, Tommy had never played cricket and had no burden of expectations of fair play put upon him. He noted it as another of the Army’s lessons.

  When Empires Collide

  Chapter Three

  A final dinner at Squire’s house and then a return to the Lodge, literally for the last time, his trunk and suitcase packed, only the leather travelling bag still remaining open.

  Eight o’clock in the morning saw him ready to leave and making his farewells to Mrs Rudge and the staff.

  “The new Mr Stark will be here in a few days, Mrs Rudge, as you know. If you find yourself turned away, then you must go to the Big House and you will be looked after there until you find another place.”

  Mrs Rudge curtsied and said she would, but that, in any case, when he bought his own house then that was where she would be going, and he had better not think to employ another in her stead! She was laughing as she said it, but Tommy knew there was no joke behind her words.

  “There will be a place for you Mrs Rudge, from the day I move in. It won’t be until I am wed, but I shall tell my lady to take none other than you.”

  “Well, sir, she’s a nice little lady and there won’t be any trouble there, I’m sure. Mind you, that means maybe two or three years of waiting before she can walk up to the altar – that is, I’m sure it’s none of my affair, sir, and I shouldn’t be speaking out of turn, which I surely am just now!”

  Tommy laughed; it seemed that some things were inevitable, well outside of his control. He had always thought, when he had considered the matter at all, that he would choose his own wife, but it seemed that the decision was out of his hands. Not to worry, he was content with the way things seemed to be and it was easier than going to all the fuss and bother of trying to meet young la
dies at balls and parties and such things. His father had said that he ought to go up to Henley to watch the rowing – he was a member of some club there and could arrange entrance for Tommy; now he would not have to waste his time in that fashion. In any case, there was no possible way that he might marry any other girl – he could not imagine finding another the like of Monkey.

  He started the Lanchester and drove the few yards to the Big House, stopping to say goodbye as he had promised on the previous evening.

  Monkey was waiting, his brooch prominently displayed on the cardigan she was wearing against the winter cold. She knew that she was being watched from the windows, offered a grave hand to shake.

  “Be careful, Tommy!”

  “I shall not kill myself, that I promise, Monkey. I do not know how long I shall be kept at Upavon – the course seems to vary in length according to the individual. I must satisfy Captain Paine and Major Trenchard that I am a fit person to be trusted with one of their very few aeroplanes.”

  “Why did you name the Captain before the Major, Tommy?”

  Anything to keep the conversation going and the tears away.

  “He is a naval captain, which is the equivalent of a lieutenant-colonel in the Army. They are not certain yet whether the Army and the Navy will share an air service or will have one apiece. I must go now, Monkey. I shall come back again. Promise.”

  She managed a smile before going in out of the cold, and running to the window to see the car as it disappeared down the lane.

  The drive was slow from Farnborough to Andover, through the small town and out on the lanes Ludgershall way and then across Salisbury Plain towards the Vale of Pewsey. The big car was far more comfortable than the Sunbeam, enclosed and almost warm despite the odd spatter of snowflakes across the windscreen. Two hours brought Tommy to the camp on its bare winter hillside. He surveyed the collection of weatherboard shacks, thrown up at least cost; it seemed to house a very minor branch of the Army. There was a bitter wind whipping across the exposed grass field; he doubted they would be flying on a day like this.

  He pulled slowly up to the main gate; probably the sole gate, he corrected himself. He stopped at the side and walked into the gatehouse, a miserable little shack, hardly big enough to contain a guard detachment. There was a corporal and one man inside. They rose to their feet as Tommy entered, disclosing a tiny coal fire they had been huddling over. He was in civilian clothes, as specified in his joining instructions.

  “I am Lieutenant Stark, here to join the course.”

  The corporal checked his short list – about eight names at a quick glance – and put a tick against Tommy.

  “Second in, sir. Most of the gentlemen will be on the eleven o’clock train at Andover. The tender has gone in to meet them, sir. Please to report at the School offices, sir – the large building on the right with two cars parked outside.”

  “Thank you, corporal. Is there a particular place where I should put my car?”

  “No, sir. There are only a few cars here, sir. Plenty of space.”

  The private shuffled out into the cold to lift the boom and Tommy drove through and cautiously parked near, but not too close, to the other cars. Both were older and smaller than his; he recognised neither model. He might, he suspected, be driving a better vehicle than either the commander or assistant commander of the school, and that could be well a cause of offence; Mr Sopwith had not considered that possibility.

  There was a low veranda outside the offices and an obvious main entrance towards the middle of the wooden hut. A glance suggested no more than six rooms in a line – hardly vast!

  A sergeant sat at a desk just inside the entrance; he had no fire, but senior sergeants did not lower themselves to feel cold. He rose politely and gave his good-morning.

  “Good morning, sergeant. My name is Stark and I am to join the school today.”

  The sergeant repeated the process of checking the short list.

  “Lieutenant Stark, Hampshire Regiment, sir. Recently transferred from the Territorials, sir?”

  “Very recently indeed, sergeant.”

  He had made the correct answer, it seemed, the sergeant favouring him with a nod.

  “Very good, sir. Major Trenchard will wish to see you, sir. Have you your pilot’s licence and civilian log book to hand, sir?”

  “In my car. Shall I get them now?”

  “If you please, sir. I shall inform the Major of your presence while you do so.”

  Tommy had placed the papers to the top of his leather bag, found them quickly, was back inside the minute.

  “Very good, sir. I shall lead you in, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Stark, sir!”

  Tommy stiffened to attention, able to show no other respect in civilian clothes.

  “Come in… Stark.”

  “Sir.”

  “Take… a seat.”

  Major Trenchard had a most peculiar habit of speech, almost an impediment, that caused him to insert unexpected stops in his sentences. He seemed to force the words out in random clusters, his voice a deep baritone that made his utterances even more difficult to pick up.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your papers… if you would be so… good.”

  Trenchard scanned the licence, noting its low number and date of issue.

  “Flying for… four years?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many… hours?”

  “Nine hundred and seventy-two, sir.”

  “More than most!”

  “Yes, sir. I was fortunate to live very close to Brooklands, sir, working for my father and testing for several of the other smaller men. And for Mr Sopwith.”

  “Your father… Mr Joseph… Stark?”

  The question was inevitable, must be asked by every man of the tiny flying community; all would have heard of his father and many would be aware that there was a son who flew as well. They would all want to know just how one of their own had come to die.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah! What… happened?”

  Trenchard obviously wanted background rather than the trivia offered by the press.

  “New machine, sir. A monoplane constructed with a single stringer. Parasol type, sir, not unlike the older Morane-Saulnier in many ways, but designed to be very light, and so faster. Two-seater, sir, the high wing to allow ground vision for an observer. No fin as such, sir, just a rudder. Ailerons rather than wing-warping. Sunbeam engine; very powerful, sir.”

  “Too light? Too much… engine?”

  “I believe so, sir. We could see vibration and she was hunting as she climbed. But the accident happened because the engine stuttered as my father came off full throttle, and he flooded it – opened-up fully and stalled the motor. Then he tried to turn back, sir.”

  There was no need to say more.

  “Did you agree… with the design?”

  “I did not like it, sir, but I am no designer. My father was a mechanic by feel, sir, a natural, but I am not. That said, he was never an instinctive pilot, sir.”

  Trenchard grunted; he had very barely attained his licence and flew as little as possible. He had been severely wounded in the Boer War, had only one lung, and had small tolerance for the cold of flying.

  “You are… I presume?”

  “Yes, sir. Flying since I was a boy, sir, and it came naturally to me. I suspect it is much like swimming, sir, which they say comes easily to the child but is hard for the grown man to learn.”

  “Cross… country?”

  “I can use a compass, sir, and find my way by map, but I tend to follow the railway lines where possible!”

  “So do we… all. While you are here… you… will learn map… reading. To observe… and come… home again. You will… fly… different machines.”

  Trenchard banged on his desk and the sergeant came in.

  “Mr Stark… to Captain… Paine. Allocate… his billet.”

  “Sir!”

  The sergeant picked up Tommy’s
papers and ushered him out.

  “Captain’s office is at the end of the building, sir. I shall take you to him. Billet, sir – we have four single rooms and four shared. You are a full lieutenant, sir, so you get a single. Your servant will be shared with another lieutenant, sir, but one batman can deal with the needs of two officers very easily here, sir. We do not wear full dress except very rarely. I shall take you across to your room after the Captain has finished with you, sir.”

  Captain Paine was very much the naval officer, far more formal than Trenchard but also simpler to deal with.

  “Mr Stark, welcome to Upavon, sir. May I see your logbook?”

  Paine scanned the pages of the three notebooks, stapled together, that formed Tommy’s civilian log.

  “Damned near a thousand hours, sir! In a score of different machines, as well! We may well turn you into an instructor, sir.”

  “I would be honoured, of course, Captain Paine, but I would prefer to get some experience on a squadron first. I have a great distaste for what might be called theoretical fliers, sir. I have found that I learned far better from men who had, as it were, got their hands dirty.”

  “That I cannot argue with, Mr Stark. If you do well here at Upavon – and I see no reason why you should not – then we will see that you are posted to one of the squadrons. Two years and we pull you back here for a tour of duty. How is that?”

  “Very generous of you, sir. Thank you.”

  Captain Paine lit a pipe and leaned back in his chair, trying to seem casual, a man idly gossiping. Tommy was immediately suspicious, ready to choose his words very carefully.

  “Of course, there may well be a war before two years are up, and then all bets are off! What do you think about wartime flying, Mr Stark?”

  “Observation work, mostly, sir. The fliers’ job being to do the work that cavalry cannot in modern conditions. But, sir, I wonder if the enemy will not attempt to stop us? I would, if I was a soldier and saw a man in an aeroplane staring at me and discovering where I was and what I was about to do and possibly bringing artillery to bear on me! I think we shall be shot at, sir, from the ground, and may have to keep to a high speed which will make it more difficult to see what is underneath us.”