Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Camel Jockeys’
It was time to get the teams sorted out.
Start with the basics. Every pilot would be checked out on the Camel, but there would have to be a group of pilots who flew them daily. Let’s see here. Black not aggressive enough, put Andrew in charge of the Camel squadron. Call it, ‘Number 193.’ At least for now. Powell was already lined up for the strike element, equipped with Bristol fighters. The strategy was to use fictitious numbers most of the time, then pretend to be an existing squadron when appropriate. This would confuse the hell out of the enemy. We would pop up here and there, as inappropriately as possible.
Number 192 for the SE’s and 193 for the Camels. ‘Biffs,’ 194. Make a notation, it’s so new I hadn’t yet memorized who’s who.
Cowings, Dexter, Wallace and Webster. A few more boys, to start.
No sense in teaching a class to anything less than half a dozen. Lawrence, Mootry,
Nelson and Perry. They’re all ones and twos, all used to working with each other.
So I had them all in a room, and I was teaching.
“I want to read you this telegram.” (Ahem.)
“Congratulations on the success of the program thus far. Enclosed are your newly-assigned squadron numbers. Wear them with pride.” (I skipped the next part, dealing with additional numbers as needed.)
“Your men will make us proud and justify the confidence we have shown in selecting them for the pilot program, no pun intended, which you have developed. Integrated tactics are the way of the future. Your formation is on the cutting edge of airframe and engine development. We are depending on you and have full confidence in your efforts.”
“Let us know how we can further assist you in the next phase.”
“Signed, Sir John Salmond.”
One more thing to take care of. I waved the second note at the class.
“Oh, yeah, now I’m a Lieutenant-Colonel.”
How do you like that? The boys looked impressed. It’s better to work for a colonel than a captain. Some of the credibility rubs off. They were already getting promotions—to squadron leader, to flight leader, to number ones, i.e., element leaders. This helps with the motivation.
“Jim, you’re checked out on Camels.” I nodded at Nelson. “Andrew is the squadron leader until further notice. You guys are number one-ninety-three squadron.”
“Reading from the manuals, of which we have several copies, Sopwith Camel type F.1 mounts a 130-horsepower Clerget rotary engine. It is described as a single seat, two-gun fighter. It is equipped with two Vickers guns of .303 calibre. It has Hyland cocking levers. Some models have a Kauper mechanical interrupter gear, but our planes have the more familiar Constantinesco hydraulically-operated synchronization mechanism.”
“Your interrupter gear is important. Don’t be afraid to set up your guns and check that equipment once in a while.” I added. “Now, your instruments are important as well, and you have good ones available.”
The men often seemed to stare fascinated by my performance as a lecturer. Sometimes I wonder if they are far, far away.
“Wake up Mr. Lang.” Wait…here he is.
Back with us.
 |
| Major General John Salmond. |
“Also located in the cockpit is a Rotax hand-pump to raise initial air pressure in the main fuel tank. This, as you know, begins feeding fuel to the engine for start-up purposes, and can also be used in the air. We may be using it at high altitude, on an experimental basis. The real challenge is engine tuning for the thin air. Just pushing more fuel into the carb may not be that effective. I mean at extremely high altitudes of course. Still, this would act as a choke, and maybe prevent stalling of the engine.”
“In the final analysis, try to keep the engine running, and if you are having major engine problems at extremely high altitude, dive steeply to ram as much air into the intake as possible.” I went on. “Don’t worry guys, we’ll have all this figured out before we go into action.”
Ah, let’s see here.
“We have a Pyrene fire extinguisher, clipped to the floorboards, and we have the very latest in shoulder straps, which our mechanics have fitted for us from kits provided by the maker.”
“And that’s better than the old single strap, boys.” Called out Jim from the back.
“Jim, what can you tell us about flying the Camel?”
Nelson came up to the board and I sat down gratefully to one side. All the boys knew the teaching routine by now. He picked up chalk and made notes on the blackboard.
“The Camel has massive gyroscopic effect, which must be mastered on takeoff.”
He gave some tips, reminding us of firm rudder handling.
“And as soon as the wheel lifts, be prepared to put in a surprising amount of aileron.” He noted. “Honestly, it feels like a big giant hand grabs the ruddy wing and tries to throw the plane upside down…”
“While the plane has an excellent rate of climb, you want to keep it straight and level until you have good speed and enough rudder authority. The plane accelerates well. The first time I took off in a Biff, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time to get going. In a Camel the tail skid lifts very quickly, and if you’re going into a ground loop, or have the stick pulled back for taxiing, it’s all too easy to lift off and then snap-spin into the ground. When taxiing, hold hard back-stick to avoid nosing over, and you have to blip the throttle on and off because the thing has so few settings. Not like the V-type engines in the Biffs and the SE’s.”
He explained the simple carburetion and ignition system of the rotary engine.
Again, he noted the burst of torque when full throttle was applied for takeoff.
Nelson had confidence, and we listened to his calm advice.
“The same thing applies to the first turn at low level after takeoff. Make your first turn a very gentle one. Try the plane out at higher altitudes. People have tried to turn hard on takeoff and spun in from low level due to the high torque, also the fact that the craft is very nimble. You fight the plane one way, but it helps you going the other, if you use it wisely.”
“The plane climbs like a bandit, and doesn’t blow off in a turn. It turns and climbs better than any plane, even the DR-1…” (A little muttering greeted that.)
“When you want to do that, roll in, pull back, and then start pushing high side rudder. It’s like climbing up a corkscrew. Very handy to get out of trouble sometimes. No one behind or below can catch you, but you still have to watch for people diving from above.”
Good advice.
“The service ceiling is twenty-four thousand feet. It takes a long time to get up there, and the aircraft is seriously underpowered at that altitude. If you get one good dive on the enemy, make it count, because you don’t have enough fuel or time to climb that high more than once, early in the flight…”
Jim went on and the boys made notes. That’s good. It seems to me we’re almost ready to go.
“After some time in the Camel, you’ll notice one leg begins to get bigger than the other.” We all laughed. “That’s because you literally have to hold the rudder in level flight. You also have to hold down elevator, at full power or even a fast cruise.”
Pilots had been complaining about the Camel’s trim since day one.
“What about landings, Jim?” I asked, writing as busily as the rest of the class.
“You have to be careful. Generally, I like to blip up to a quarter throttle, then off.” He said. “Keep the nose down and a fairly high airspeed, say about sixty or seventy, and that way you really shouldn’t have to ram full power to it. This is a bad idea in a Camel at low level and in a low energy state. Never relax in a Camel, it requires constant attention…you can sideslip this plane, and that’s a better way to manage the energy state. When you have the nose down, you can speed up by pushing, slow down by pulling. Patience is a virtue in a Camel. There’s no sense driving it up to the edge of the runway at full throttle. Trust me, it will come down. Get above the landing zone and all you have to do is shut the motor off. Put a little down into her, she’ll land.”
The Camel wasn’t really meant as a gliding machine.
I grabbed my notebooks.
“So Jim, if you put the plane in the correct position, then switch off, she almost lands herself?” Andrew asked.
It was one of his rare moments of apparent humility.
“Check the windsock.” I blurted.
I just couldn’t help it.
“If you’re not too crazy on the control movements, yes.” Agreed Jim. “Just before the wheels touch, hit quarter-throttle for a second, and then shut it off again. This gives you good control authority. And then you’re down.”
The chord of the bottom wing was quite narrow, and it took a while for ‘flare-effect’ to kick in, Jim concluded. He was talking about high-pressure air trapped between the lower main-planes and the ground. Ninety percent of pilots knew nothing of such notions, which made Jim a lucky find. Two people on that committee must have liked me.
“Andrew, brief your men for a high-altitude training session. Just use the planes you have. A couple of your boys will have to sit this one out.”
And then I was gone, heading for another class, another bunch of projects and necessary jobs. The last thing I heard was somebody complaining about ‘cloud landing practice again.’
***
Over at the Biff squadron shack, the boys were all sitting at the long tables around the perimeter of their main classroom, writing reports on their flights.
“Okay, boys, from now on you’ll be putting squadron number one-ninety-four on your reports.” I read them the same telegrams from Sir John. “Incidentally, the SE boys are one-ninety-two, and the Camel Jockeys are one-ninety-three.”
They gave a ragged, if slightly sarcastic cheer. Impromptu and spontaneous as it was, it degenerated into a long, drawn-out, masculine-bonding kind of chuckle. Powell settled them down diplomatically. He was a good commander for this crew.
“The mechanics are painting numbers first thing tomorrow.” I added.
One of them asked about a squadron motto.
“Illegitimi non carborundum est,” quoted Biggsy when prompted.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” He replied with a mischievous grin.
You had to have met Biggsy. He was about five-ten, two hundred pounds, flaming, long, red frizzy hair, shaggy beard, moustache, twinkling blue eyes and a wheezy laugh. He wore little granny glasses, tinted sometimes, but often the clear ones. I wondered how he managed to get into his leather helmet and goggles with all the hair and whiskers.
At that weight, I wondered how he got into the cockpit at all, but he did.
He was a card. That guy knew everyone, and could wheel and deal with the best. We had a couple of good scroungers there. Whoever he didn’t know, his wingman did. I started Biggsy off with Andrew, but now he flew with Dempsey.
“How high did we get today?” I asked Powell.
“Eighteen thousand, eight hundred.” He reported. “Maybe we could improve the rate of climb with more back stick, but we get to a point of rapidly-diminishing returns.”
“Obviously the aircraft begins to wallow, and it’s no longer the best rate of climb when the aerodynamic inefficiencies get too great.” I muttered, thinking.
He waited.
“That’s a good point,” I said. “How long did it take to get up there?”
“According to the book, we should get to ten thousand feet in about eleven minutes, fifteen seconds. We got there in ten minutes and fifteen seconds. We took a full minute off the book time. Now the service ceiling is quoted at twenty thousand. I have no idea how they came up with that figure. Not with a full war-load, at any rate.”
Powell hesitated.
“What was your load?” I asked. “When we get more power, we’ll go up faster.”
“Other than burning off fuel, we had the two bombs and full ammo belts. We took up every little thing of comfort, or value or utility we could think of, even flashlights. It took almost half an hour to get up to fifteen thousand, and just under forty-five minutes before I signaled the end of the mission due to clouds looming up.”
“Do you think you could get them up higher?” I asked.
“Yes. However, I think I’ll give the men some low-level map work this afternoon, and we’ll go up high again tomorrow.” He suggested.
The dummy was looking for approval again, something that always grated on me. In that sense, I wasn’t the best command-type material.
“Yeah. Okay.” I said.
“At that altitude our indicated airspeed was about one-hundred-ten.” He added without hesitation.
It was an expression of confidence. To be quite honest, he had initially doubted the notion of experimenting with our planes and motors. He even doubted things like filtering the fuel, at first. Until we did it and then examined the cloth we used as a filter. Then his doubts were removed.
He was very helpful when it came time to put fuel-filter elements in the systems of our aircraft, bearing in mind our ever-present shortage of skilled mechanics. Tomorrow they would try with no bombs, start off with exactly the same equipment in each plane. One camera per plane, no extra film, only one extra magazine for the observer, and a reduced number of rounds in the front belt. It kept them busy flying.
“Tell everyone to bring a quart of water, a sandwich, and try to keep exactly to the program. Try retarding and advancing the spark. And the mixture. See if you can save fuel, especially after you achieve maximum altitude. Watch the temperature gauges. If one guy’s carburetor freezes up, everyone else’s probably will too.” I lectured.
He was keeping copious notes on the findings of the test flights.
“Also, a leaking radiator can freeze up and then your engine will overheat. We’re trying to adapt the gun-breech type heaters to the carburetor assembly.” I told all the men. “That might prevent carb icing. But we don’t have a lot of geniuses on hand.”
There weren’t enough hours in the day. The real problem was that batteries and electricity were a bit of a mystery. Building from a drawing was fine. Creating something from scratch, was much more challenging. It required certain fundamental knowledge to visualize. You have to know the words in order to ask for something. It also required the extra weight of a battery in each plane. A factor to consider, plus the need to re-charge after each mission.
He was already putting a lot of thought and effort into his crew.
I slapped him on the back and told him. “Good job.”
“Thanks, skipper.”
 |
“That’s fine.” I said. “But be aware that we will be pulling out as soon as next week.”
The men were learning. There is a direct co-relation between war-load and aircraft performance. Something the Air Ministry didn’t seem to realize. For example, they always thought an airframe delivered was an airframe ready to meet the enemy, and didn’t seem to take into account the in situ work of assembly and test.
“Yes sir,” he said.
I was halfway out the door when I suddenly remembered something and spun around.
“Any idea where all them army types went?”
Black shrugged.
“They might have gotten called up or something.”
“Very funny. Well, I’d better keep looking.”
By not over-supervising, I showed confidence in him. That stuff is important, when motivating people. Finding men to guard the place was my responsibility.
***
Captain Howard-Smythe was reading the papers.
‘The Adj,’ was already on to the problem. Apparently the infantry sections assigned to guard our cozy little aerodrome nestled in the Broads had been reassigned.
“Nice.” Was all I could say.
“The Hun is going all out.” He explained. “With the collapse of the Russians, and the signing of the armistice on the Eastern Front, they realize that this opportunity may not come their way again.”
A million German soldiers, loading up onto trains and headed our way.
And on the home front, morale was at an all-time low. There were even stirrings of anti-war sentiment. People grumbled about rationing, long line-ups, and about Zeppelin and Gotha raids.
“They’re trying to beat the Yanks to the punch.” He concluded.
I wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment. He was a line commander, before a very large mine buried under the lines by enemy sappers killed most of his troops and ruined his hearing. After that, Howard-Smythe did something in Intelligence.
“Cor Blimey. I ‘ears the bloody Yanks is coming, sir.”
That would be the corporal. I sighed. Now that guy was all ears
“Yeah. I can’t wait.” I called back with a wink at Howard-Smythe.
He had learned to deal with Corporal Whittington and I.
The Times was on the desk in front of him, and he was reading up on the new Royal Air Force, which came into being only recently. I thought it was crazy to bring up the issue now. He thought if we waited until after the war, it would never happen.
Ultimately, it turns out he was correct in this assessment.
When I first met him, I took him for a desk-bound paper pusher, but he had surprising skills, once you got to know him. Howard-Smythe was a man who could get a lot out of the news. Howard-Smythe went for politics, the war news, travel, puzzles, employment and sales ads, he read all that long before he got to the sports section. He could read a tidbit from the foreign news page and tell you what it all meant. He had an eye on the big picture.
“For the time being, a platoon of replacements is in transit by train. Unfortunately, it is a local and will make all the stops.”
He grinned wryly, studying my face. It took some time and effort to learn to speak clearly, to enunciate my words, for he lip-read well. I knew a few basic signs, which shortened up the conversations to that which was essential. A wave will do for good morning.
“We’ll all have to take a turn on guard duty.” I decided.
“Already taken care of. Here’s the schedule.”
There was mail, some telegrams, some papers to sign.
“There are some completed motors for us at the Farnborough aerodrome. They’re under lock and key. We ask for Sergeant-Major Rosenberg.” He reported. “I understand you’re headed up there again?”
Rosenberg. I made a note.
“Yup.” I nodded, reading three things at once, as he showed me where he wanted my signature on a train requisition.
“It will be here Monday by noon, Tuesday morning at the latest.”
“Huh.” I muttered. “We’re getting three new trucks?”
“That’s what it says.” He agreed.
 |
| The Adj. |
But we both had our doubts.
“Who’s this?” I queried.
A letter, smelling quite nice.
“I’ve never heard of her.” He allowed. “I’ll see if I can find out.”
“It sounds Russian.” I murmured.
An invitation to a ‘soiree.’ I had no idea what that meant, so I wasn’t too interested.
I set that one aside, with a couple of personal letters from home, easily identified by my old mom’s atrocious spelling.
And this?
“Wants to do a quick inspection.” He advised.
“We don’t have time for that shit,” I said in no uncertain terms.
“I’ll try to break it to him gently” Sighed Howard-Smythe.
Ever the diplomat.
There was always too much to do.
I sat back in my swivel chair with the casters, and put my feet up on my desk. A relic of the Crimean War. From the scrap pile at Woolwich Arsenal. It would be wise to load it up and take it to France.
“A general’s first study should be the road atlas.” I began.
Howard-Smythe beat me to the punch.
“What’s her name and address?” He avowed firmly. “I’ll look it up right quick so Corporal Whittington and I can get back to our important duties and functions.”
He had some surprising skills.
***
Melissa was preying on my mind quite a bit. It was time to scratch that itch.
No matter what the outcome. But I had to know if that gut reaction was real. Puppy love can be pretty intense. There are women who have that ethereal something. Like Helen of Troy, a face that could launch, (or sink), a thousand ships. Maturity was catching up, and so with Jennifer, I made sure to do nothing a gentleman shouldn’t.
One thing a gentleman should not do is to take advantage of a lady in distress. Yet I had, hadn’t I? This much seemed certain, Jennifer was very vulnerable.
She said she loved me?
You had to take that with a grain of salt. It’s like a doctor, ‘first, do no harm.’
The Hypocritical Oath. It was unfair to Jennifer to go any further than just talking. No matter how hard she tried to provoke me into going a little farther than I might have intended. And I liked her a lot.
From a technical point of view, Jennifer was probably just as physically beautiful as Melissa. Perhaps even more so. None of us in wartime had even the slightest chance of a normal relationship, a normal courting process. Where I grew up, a first date was likely spent sitting on a Sunday afternoon in the parlor, with your lady love and her parents, sisters and brothers. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Grandma and grandpa and great aunt Minnie. You didn’t even try to hold hands with that bunch around.
It sounds a little old-fashioned, but now I knew the cost of being impetuous.
There was a good excuse. It came to our attention through informal channels that there were some people who might be useful, but they were incarcerated for minor infractions.
It was time to go and chat up old Foreman, and see if I could bail these boys out and take them to France. Captain Howard-Smythe, The Adj, applied all of his powers of persuasion in writing a letter to Foreman. Foreman was gracious enough to make an appointment, with no real indication from us as to what sort of matters would be discussed. That’s kind of unusual, in someone of his military rank. The kind of personality that runs a prison, or ‘detention barracks,’ is not often noted for artistic creativity. It might not be too out of character for the writer of The Wizard Prince, to take an appointment from a stranger on short notice, without some idea of what it was all about. All I could do was to play it by ear and see what kind of a person he turned out to be. I had bet a nice, crisp five-pound note with Howard-Smythe that Foreman would invite me home to dinner, if I played him right.
Flying up to a little village just north of Birmingham, I timed it so that my wheels touched down at the aerodrome after lunch on a cold, rainy, miserable Friday afternoon.
It was barely possible that he would be a little eager to get out of the office early on a Friday, make for home and the weekend.
Foreman would enjoy the little domestic pleasures. Most generals do.
Linking up with a vehicle and driver, I found my way to the military prison.
Working my way through several steel doors, gates, barred access points, guard-houses, gates, doors, and locks, it was almost three-thirty before I sat down in his office anteroom, took a load off, and loosened my collar. But only a little.
Then I had to wait for another half-hour. Old Foreman had lots and lots of people coming and going. I dreaded the office part of my job. There were far too many people, wanting far too many things for my liking.
The door opened, and I overheard, “…and put some cream on that and let the cat lick it off…” And a young guard came out, avoiding my smile.
All of eighteen years old, by my estimation. He had a wispy little seventeen-hair moustache, and very, very red-faced he was, too. Was old Foreman something of a tyrant? Finally his secretary admitted me to his presence.
“Thanks, Danny, you can go now if you like.” Said Foreman to the other man as we shook hands. “Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He indicated a chair, and I sat down. I made sure to sit up straight, and not slouch.
Opening up the briefcase, and whipping out a few sheets, so that I had a copy and he had a copy, my presentation could actually wait a moment.
“You’re taller than I expected.” I admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’m a little nervous.”
“What can I do for you?” He asked kindly, as he studied the cover letter.
“I read about you in the paper.” He said, looking up. “Second Ypres, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” I acknowledged.
“Humble, are you?” He asked.
“Yes, sir.” I acknowledged again.
“You earned those decorations, I reckon?” He murmured drily.
“Presumably.” I murmured back, unable to control the impulse.
“Well. Presumably you’re here to see if I will release someone?”
“I have to find a few people, actually. I need machinists, mechanics, aircraft riggers, drivers. I suppose a couple of corporals, quartermaster clerks, almost anyone I can get.” I began. “A doctor, now, that would be priceless.”
“It’s a little irregular, but not exactly unheard-of.” He replied, a little suspiciously.
 |
| General Foreman, Melissa's father. |
He explained further.
“If they have a unit to go to, and that if unit will have them back, and if they have a required skill, and if it’s approved by my superiors.”
“Well, I can’t ask you to break any rules. But I have a unit they can go to. Three squadrons, actually. And I’m a stern disciplinarian, let me assure you, sir.”
Breaking a few rules was exactly my intention.
“I can get you paper transfers. They’re all signed and everything. Then you can give them back to me.” I offered. “But I need some names to put on the papers.”
Foreman sat back. He surveyed me. As I knew he would.
“So, um, you’ve traveled from the South Seas to Zanzibar.” I told him. “I read ‘The Wizard Prince,’ when I first got to England. It was in basic, Salisbury. It rained for weeks, and I was grateful for your story.”
“Well, that’s always nice to hear.” He began.
“I do a little writing,” I said diffidently.
“Huh.” He chuckled. “Ha. Well, I hope you’re prepared for a lot of rejection. By Jove, I remember…I remember the first time I sold a story.”
He had a big smile on his face, somewhat unusual for a person of his rank and stature in the military establishment.
“My old man used to say things like, ‘well, I wish you luck,’ in a certain tone.” I told Foreman, as he regarded me with almost colorless eyes.
He nodded in sympathy, no doubt familiar with doubting attitudes.
“Be that as it may, and I also liked that character.” As my mind blanked momentarily. “You know, that one you sort of turned into a fat Chinese Sherlock Holmes, who spoke English with a Boston accent.”
“It’s a lot of fun writing for boys.” He admitted. “I actually get a lot out of it myself. On the one hand, you really shouldn’t waste too much time worrying about the reader, but on the other, you should write to serve, not to impress. Give the reader some credit. If they really didn’t want to be there, they wouldn’t have made it past the first page.”
And one more thing.
“…don’t try to be something you’re not…”
“My, my, my.” I scribbled it all down. “See, I knew I wasn’t wasting my time.”
Foreman was thoughtful.
“I’ll tell you what. Give me time to consider this, and I’ll see what I can do.” He said.
“This Crouch character of yours, he was like a mixture of a missionary in South Africa and the captain of a Chinese river steamer, sort of like Mr. Cutliffe Hyne’s, ‘Captain Kettle.’”
“Yes, yes. I can see you’ve been doing your homework.” He chuckled. “Look. I admire your persistence, and if you like, maybe we can get together some other time.”
Damn.
“I really don’t know any publishers who are looking for bright young writers at the present time.”
He thought for a moment.
“Lots of demand, but it’s being fulfilled by established authors. Your decorations will stand you in good stead. If you’re any good at all, and keep at it.”
Shit.
Foreman stood, came from around the desk with hand outstretched.
“Good luck to you.” He offered.
Fuck.
“Well look,” I said. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than this, but would you mind signing my copy of the Boy’s Own Paper? I mean, if you don’t mind?” His story, right there on the cover—
Now that one got to him. I could see it.
“Why, certainly.” He said. “Did you save this for the last two and a half years?”
“Um, um, yes, sir.” I stammered.
God, I’m a good actor. One of the finest Lesbians who never trod a stage. We swiped it out of their own publication morgue, by a friend of a friend, but I can’t tell him that.
It pays to have men under your command.
Lucky shot, but I seem to have found my way to the miserable old bastard’s heart.
He sighed, just a little. A very polite and self-possessed man, yet I caught it.
“Well, would you like to meet the wife?” He offered.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t, really, impose on your hospitality,” I proffered in confused embarrassment.
“You must come and have a cup of tea with the old girl.” He said. “You’ve had a long trip, after all.”
He asked me to wait outside. He locked up and had a quick chat with someone. Then we went out through all the gates, doors, checkpoints, ‘et cetera.’
My driver followed him over to his place, a stone manor house. It wasn’t overly imposing. It was just a nice big place. The drive in was through a clump of huge oaks, but out back it was all fields and hills, with a little creek meandering away in the far distance.
In the dim half-light of overcast skies, it looked like a nice little set-up.
He showed me to the drawing room, and then went to find his wife, who turned out to be a slender blonde woman. Her gracious manner implied good breeding. She had social skills far above mine, but no doubt like piloting skills, that sort of thing comes with practice and experience. She made him a good partner. A very political wife, it seemed.
“The weather has socked in.” He informed Mrs. Foreman.
“That’s too bad.” She nodded, eye-balling me.
“It will clear up later.” I assured them.
An old woman in a maid’s uniform served us tea, crumpets, scones and butter.
“So you’re a writer, Will?” She began.
“It’s always good to have another string to your bow.” I said. “No telling what work will be available after the war is over, and it sure beats hammering rivets or putting nuts on bolts in some smelly old factory.”
She repaid this sally with a smile, which transformed her pallid features. I could see the ghost of a much younger woman. A young man came in, dressed in casual civilian clothes.
“Ah, Jack. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Foreman stood. “Come and meet Will Tucker.”
I had to stand there while Foreman listed all of my decorations, and Jack stared at me with that weird kind of awed reverence. I never knew how to handle that. I still don’t.
Basically, it was a list of gross errors in the decision-making process. No one ever seemed to get that.
Jack was a nice-looking fellow, with straw-colored straight hair, blue eyes, and horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a Harris tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, light grey trousers, and black Oxford type loafers, but he had a good handshake.
“Jack and our daughter Melissa are engaged.” Mrs. Foreman explained proudly.
Oh, ah, jolly good.
“What brings you up this way, Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker?” Asked Jack. “Bit cold for flying, in my opinion, but I don’t know very much about it.”
Jack was just getting back from a stroll, down to the village pub and back.
“The usual press-gang type of mission.” I replied. “We’re very hard up for skilled trades in my outfit.”
“Oh, my. You flew in this weather?” Gasped Mrs. Foreman. “Where did you come from? I hope it wasn’t far?”
She was a little stunned when she learned that I had flown in from Norwich.
We had our tea, ate our vittles, and passed the time pleasantly enough. It wasn’t long before I was drawing out Jack. Langdon was his last name. He was in the Navy. Jack was first officer on a monitor, and seemed like a bright chap.
“Oh, yeah? I was studying for my ticket when war broke out.” I said, wondering when and if Melissa would be strolling in. “My steamship ticket.”
“That’s too bad, old fellow.” Said Foreman, who obviously loved the sea.
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| The general loved the sea, or at least writing about loving the sea... |
There were a few hints, scattered amongst the nautical bric-a-brac. The walls were covered by pictures of ships and the sea. The tea-cups had sailing ships on them, I kid you not.
“Bit of a stroke of luck, actually.” I said. “We did three trips on the upper Great Lakes. Then the ship was rather hurriedly pressed into service for the Atlantic run. ‘Twas a wee bit of a shock even after Superior or Huron, let me tell you.”
“The Atlantic crossing put you off?” Jack chuckled.
“Something about seventy-foot rollers, hundred-knot winds and high, following seas.” I explained with some feeling. “Sea sickness was a secondary consideration, although I didn’t have it near as bad as the captain.”
Jack grinned. I guess he’d seen a few seasick men.
“But the real problem was the days and weeks of sheer, unremitting terror.” I added firmly. “Those lakers are like three hundred feet long, with a beam of about twenty-two feet.”
One trip was enough to convince me. Nothing would ever get me on a ship again without a damned good reason. I had an aversion to it.
“So, that’s how I ended up in the British army as opposed to the Canadian army.” Which seemed to settle an unasked question, and Mrs. Foreman smiled at her knitting.
“Then I was transferred back to the Canadian Army.”
It was a little confusing. Basically a long story.
“Then stuck in the RFC…a stroke of luck. Really, I just wanted to learn how to cook.”
Mrs. Foreman raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
“Nothing quite like conning a ship in heavy seas while standing in a puddle of vomit.” Jack noted. “You just need to lash yourself to the wheel.”
I grinned in appreciation.
“But enough of my troubles. Just what exactly is a monitor and what does it do?”
Nice safe subject. Keep them talking about themselves. People love that sort of thing.
There aren’t enough good listeners in the world.
“A monitor is special. We’re not built for speed, or transport, and we’re definitely not built for comfort.” He stated.
“It seems to me an unsung and thankless kind of a job,” I told Jack, and the others. “I mean you read about it, some such statement in the paper: ‘our monitors bombarded the Belgian coast for four hours last night,’ or yesterday, or the day before, and did ‘great damage’ to Ostend and Zeebrugge.”
“Unlike the great ships of the Fleet, the names of officers are never mentioned.” Pointed out Foreman. “Very unglamorous work.”
“The entire design of the ship is predicated upon carrying two really big guns,” Jack explained. “We do carry other weapons. We don’t do long voyages. We aren’t much good on the open sea or in a fleet action.”
The monitor was ‘flatter, far wider, stumpier,’ and had less extraneous equipment than other ships. It was, ‘completely specialized.’
“We’re designed for short-range shore bombardment.” He concluded.
“You mean like a bomb ketch of the seventeenth century?” I asked.
“Those were far more seaworthy vessels. And we have the constant threat of submarines. An attack is inevitable, sooner or later.”
“What do you do about that?” I asked.
“Well, we have a very shallow draft. Unlike a cruiser or battleship, we’re an extremely difficult target for a torpedo. And subs don’t like shallow water.”
“I remember when the gallant General Plumer was attacking the Germans near Roulers.” I said. “On the right, the British were threatening Menin, and on the center we were advancing on Roulers. Somebody offshore was sending some big shells over.”
Okay, it was mostly bullshit. But it was good bullshit.
“We were there.” He said stoutly. “We could see both places in flames. We co-operate with the artillery. A rain of projectiles on the enemy’s rear positions. We swept his lines of communications, paralyzed the movements of reserves and inflicted heavy losses on troops marching to the front.”
“Well, somebody out there saved our asses.” I said, then blushed furiously as Mrs. Foreman looked up with a little gleam in her eye.
“Er, in any case, thank you.” I muttered rather feebly.
“They must have been mighty big fires.” Said Foreman. “But I guess you could see them twenty or thirty miles away. It must have been quite a spectacle.”
A friggin’ spectacle.
“Yes, sir, it was that all right.”
“That’s enough talk of war.” Said Mrs. Foreman. “I hear someone in the front hall.”
My heart flipped over at that.
The man of the house was skimming through the paper and taking little part in the conversation.
Damn that Jack. He was a hell of a nice guy. I really liked him, and that was not what I was hoping for. Actually, I wasn’t too sure what I was hoping for.
“This is our youngest,” said Mrs. Foreman. “Gillian, meet Will Tucker.”
Holy. Gillian was a vision of loveliness. But, she was obviously too young for me.
And I had a lot of unresolved issues elsewhere.
After tea, Mrs. Foreman, (Gillian senior,) and Gillian Jr. went off to, ‘see about dinner,’ yet the servants hardly needed supervision. Us men withdrew into Foreman’s study, where old Jack was doing a spot of writing himself.
“I met Melissa, my fiancé, right here, in this study.” Began Jack. “I came from Rosyth, on my way to Southampton. My first posting.”
Again my guts flipped on hearing her name.
“What are you working on?” I asked. “An adventure story?”
“No, we’re collaborating on a translation of Sappho.” Jack replied. “But we’re going to publish it under a pseudonym.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to spoil the Brigadier’s image.” I murmured, receiving a quick smile in return.
“He is a bit daunting, at first.” Jack admitted.
The other man was out of the room for a moment. It seemed a good time.
“I’ve been writing my brains out,” I said, and whipped out a few sheets torn from an elementary-school ‘scribbler.’
“Can I read you something, Jack?”
He was flattered, no doubt about it.
“Of course, old boy. Love to hear it, but wait for the Old Man, will you? His ear is excellent.” And so, while waiting, Jack mixed cocktails.
“And the Brigadier gets annoyed if you go a little too heavy on the soda.” He talked to himself, as he shook the drinks in a shiny metal-lidded device.
“There you go, get that into you. It’ll ward off the chill of a dank and dreary night,” he instructed.
“So anyway, I’m working on various manuals for my students.” I said. “You know, when I started, I thought I understood English. But it is a lot harder than it looks.”
“It’s not until you actually try to do it, then you find out how hard it is.” I added ruefully.
“Where did you go to school?” He asked.
About this time Foreman came back into the room and stood by the bar, sipping his drink appreciatively.
“Aye, aye, aye.” He said with a wince.
“Dry, isn’t it.” I quipped. “Ma vie en mains…taking your life in your hands.”
“I went to school in Petrolia.” The story went. “I got all the way to grade nine, which means that William Sebastien Francis Tucker is the best educated Tucker so far.”
The school systems in Canada and England didn’t exactly correspond, but Jack and Foreman seemed a little stunned.
“What about the technical side?” Asked Foreman. “Student pilots have to knock a lot of books into their heads, don’t they?”
He gave Jack a significant look. There was a strange glint in his eye. Jack choked a little on his drink. These guys were patronizing me. I don’t even know how to pronounce that properly, but fuck them anyway. They say it different over here.
I’m not even really sure what it means.
“Well, I am literate, thank God. My mom taught me how to read, you know, like the alphabet and stuff.”
One might as well lay it on thick.
“Let’s hear you read what you brought.” That’s what I liked about Jack, no stiff formality about him.
“All righty then. I’ve been trying to develop a style. Here goes: in the case of inclement weather, one of the greatest difficulties confronting the pilot is that of finding his way.”
I always had a good voice, perhaps that helped. The room was otherwise silent.
Breathing slow and shallow, they listened, eyes far away.
“Like a mariner upon the sea, the airman relies upon his compass, but the instrument has one failing. It’s only useful as long as he knows his position on the map. As soon as he loses his bearings, the compass isn’t much good anymore.”
To read aloud properly requires pacing and good breathing skills.
“When flying, one encounters various air currents and cross-winds. These will carry man and machine off course. The flier has no way of knowing how far. At high altitudes, the wind may be from a different direction than the wind at lower levels or at ground level. Clouds at different levels are often going in different directions. When speeding along at ninety or a hundred miles per hour, a pilot has little time for astronomical observation, even when weather conditions are favorable.”
“Why not just say, ‘good’,” suggested Foreman. “There’s no need to unnecessarily decorate it, if you know what I mean?”
“I suppose you’re right.” I acknowledged. “On the one hand, it’s a manual for my fliers, and after the war, it could maybe be adapted for training civilian students. Weather is an art, unfortunately, not a science, like astrology.”
Foreman and Jack laughed.
“On the other hand, maybe I could get a different kind of a book out of it, after the war. A book on flying for general interest readers.” I petered out. “Sort of.”
“You could write your memoirs,” Noted Foreman.
“Not much to talk about, at this point,” I assured him and they both grinned.
It was time I got going. It looked like Melissa wasn’t going to show up.
Jack pressed another quick one on me. I swallowed it at a gulp, feeling the fire down below.
“I’ve had my differences with the Navy in the past.” I admitted. “But you fellows certainly do know how to build one. Whew.”
“All I can say, is to believe in yourself, and never quit.” Said Jack with a nod at Foreman.
And it helps if someone else believes in you, but I didn’t have that luxury.
“Well, I’d better get moving along,” I noted. “Thanks for everything.”
As I said my goodbyes to the women of the household, back in the drawing room, Foreman came out of the study again.
“I’ll make a couple of calls.” He said. “I’ll see if I can get you some people.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and made my exit.
There were three squadrons of men and machines, and a train due to be loaded in about three days. Pleasant as the interlude was, my work was cut out for me, and there was little time to waste.
“Be careful,” Foreman said as he and Jack stood on the front porch. “And Jack’s right. You’ll be fine.”
That was all I got out of him.
What he didn’t know was that flying was not the problem, not even at night. Living, living in the world, that could be a problem. In some small way, my feelings about Melissa were resolved. A little. There are some things in life that you just can’t have. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? I’m just glad I liked Jack. It made it all so much simpler. No further action required, nor would it have been appropriate.
The truth about why I didn’t join the Canadian Army? I’m just glad the question wasn’t asked. When I decided not to go back on the ship, it did cross my mind to join up with them. I probably could have signed up with a unit from my own county and everything. According to conventional thinking, that would have made the most sense.
That’s what decided me against it.
Because I knew who would be Colonel.
Who would be the captain, who would be lieutenants, who would be the sergeants, corporals, and privates. No doubt I would be a private in any army in the world. But only in the Canadian Army could you find officers like that. I knew my local judge, my local postmaster, my local school principal, my local firemen, my local butcher and barber. I knew my local laboring hands, drunks, retards and perverts. I transferred in later, and I actually got into a pretty good little unit, with a pretty good little field commander and a pretty good little platoon, with a pretty little good sergeant. But by this time, I knew what I was doing, when I applied for a transfer.
It was about the best one could hope for.
A man can be a private in any army. It’s up to him what idiots he may wish to serve with. And I know idiots. I’ve met enough of ‘em.
***
When arriving at the Birmingham aerodrome, I made sure my plane was stashed in a convenient hangar. I didn’t know if I was staying. There was the pub, but what the hell. Not much point in hanging around. I borrowed a convenient bike, leaning there against the hut wall. There was no one around to ask proper permission.
After a meal, I returned to the aerodrome, and got into my flying clothes. Then I got someone working late to flip the prop, and took off into the night. My Avro 504-C was equipped for night-fighting, so I had a primitive electrical lighting system on the instrument cluster, and two small torches in my pockets. These were chosen for the fact that they had big switches. They were easy to turn on with gloves. Special spring clips, similar to bicycle clips, held them in place.
It was a snug little office.
Snug as in tight, not snug as in warm.
The front cockpit was obstructed by an angled machine gun. The pilot flew from the instructor’s seat. This one still had the big fuel tank up front. Check the trim, with these babies. There was a full moon, almost no wind. No clouds, just a starry sky blazing with little pinpricks of light. You could almost read a book, once achieving an altitude of about 3,000 feet.
Visibility was unbelievably good. With the map folded out to show just the section required, it was possible to follow train tracks and watch the villages and towns speed past below. It was way too cold for proper fog to form, but tiny wisps of vapor were forming on ponds and rivers. There was the occasional yellow gleam from a window improperly blacked-out.
The light of the moon’s pale orb gleamed off the tracks. They were an outstanding feature of the landscape, being plainly visible. Some of the towns had names painted in big white letters on the roofs of the railway stations. While most were blotted out, it was still possible to deduce from adjacent rivers and the relative size of towns, that one might be Stratford-on-Avon, the next one Banbury. The big thing was the rivers and lakes. If you can pick them out, follow them downstream. All the tributaries converge instead of spreading out, in branches which can be confusing.
That had to be the upper Thames. Damn, I’m good.
Cruising over Oxford, how could one mistake it? I was maybe a tad lonely, knowing that everyone down there was snug in a pub, or better yet, at home in warm bed.
Damn. It was cold.
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| All alone in the night. |
The cold was a constant companion, winter, summer, spring and fall. I was dressed to survive, and comfort is a relative thing. My hands had been cold before. All you can do is keep wiggling your fingers, and moving your feet. Scrunch up the toes in the boots.
Relax them again…scrunch them, relax. The toes were fine.
Wiggle the butt in the seat, lean forward, shift around. It will end.
Grin and bear it.
You can’t allow racing thoughts to distract from the business of flying. I have been lonely before, and survived. I’ve been cold before, and lived.
Where the hell was Farnborough? It had to be around here someplace.
What is love?
I had no problem flying at night, and I had no problem finding Farnborough. My only hope was that some right-thinking, reasonable-minded person would come out and light up a few smudge pots, or flares, or line up some vehicles along the runway. Run the motors, put the headlights on and let me know just exactly where the sky ends and the ground begins. For some reason, as you approach the earth, everything gets a whole lot darker. The ground should be found as gently as possible. I try to sneak up on it.
Love is difficult to define, isn’t it?
People say, ‘I just want what’s best for you, because I love you.’
Sometimes they have a hard time taking, ‘no,’ for an answer.
Well, I wasn’t sure I could just let go of Melissa. The idea, of love. The childish need, the fantasy of it. The love to end all loves. I thought, or at least it felt like I had invented it and no one would ever understand. I needed to grow up. No one knew that better than me. Melissa had mothered me. And I was one poor, crazy, mixed up kid in those days. Just a big kid, with way too much responsibility for my age. Shot to pieces.
All you can do is to file it away for future reference, and hope to make sense of it all later, when you have more time.
I brought the plane down to 1,000 feet and buzzed the place again. Then back up to 2,000 feet. At times like this, a very small bomb would come in handy. Next time I’ll bring a hand-grenade.
Finally, somebody put a light on. A pair of headlights swung out along a runway, and soon more blobs and pools of light blossomed in the Stygian darkness below. Whatever the heck ‘Stygian,’ means. It’s just something out of a cheap, dime-store novel.
The wheels startled me with a little ‘cheep,’ as we hit the main strip.
A couple of men rattled up in a chugging three-wheeled lorry.
“Jesus H. Christ, do you never sleep, sir?” Someone asked glumly.
“No. I’m a vampire.” I grunted.
“It takes all kinds, to make a world.” His partner chided. “Welcome, good sir. We’ll be glad to find you a room and a cup of fresh blood, if you like.”
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| This is Croydon, post-war when it was all lit up. |
END
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Images. Louis is sort of a researcher and curator. He has to decide what would be best and then try and find it. Many images are public domain or credit is given through a Youtube or other link. Camel in Flight. Major General Salmond. Bristol F2b.
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