Chapter Forty-Four
Stress is a Silent Killer
In retrospect, I think was really suffering back then. What with the project, and getting the whole thing off the ground, it took a toll. Training the men, and the constant, never-ending, unremitting work, I guess you could say the stress was beginning to show.
I was the last one to know.
As I turned away from Prince Sakahaji, who should be standing right there but good old Bert. His accusing eyes locked onto mine.
“What?” I asked.
Bert was my winger on the mission, and with a twinge of guilt I realized that I just sort of forgot all about him, just taking it for granted that I had a wingman at all.
“That was good shooting.” He said, rather obliquely.
His eyes shifted around under my gaze, but then came right back.
“You almost took the nose off me when you turned.” He grunted angrily.
“Sorry, Bert. I don’t know what came over me.” I said. “I did tell you to stay a few yards off.”
His eyes had that look, the old disbelieving, ‘Yeah, you fucking told me all right,’ type of look.
“What do you want to hear, Bert? That I’m very disappointed in myself?”
Lord. Give me patience.
“Now I understand the rationale behind the formation design.” He admitted. “But holy, fucking, Jesus.”
“Don’t start.” I suggested.
“They’re going to shoot the first one of us that jumps out in a parachute.”
“Yes, they will. Would you like to know the truth? We’ve asked for parachutes, many times, and we have been refused.” I told Bert.
Shoulders slumped, standing there in the heat of the sun, the dust, and the insects whizzing around us, Bert seemed pretty sad. Bert was quite a small man. A lonely man, a lost man. Balding at the front, a number of grey hairs at the temples. The thick but shapeless moustache. The grey-blue eyes, very tired and a little bloodshot. That funny little chip off the front tooth. An individual, unique in every aspect.
Some would have dismissed him. I listened very closely.
“I didn’t know that.” He said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, Bert. You’re probably right.” I acknowledged.
The price of a parachute was quite high, and the Brass thought we would jump out in a panic. They thought we were cowards. Never mind that no rational pilot jumps out of a plane without a good reason. You jump out in a ‘chute that costs maybe fifty pounds, and the plane goes into the dirt.
“Silk is expensive, and that’s what parachutes are made of. Airplanes cost money. Life is cheap. Us working class people, we breed like flies. You know that.”
“What can I say?” He muttered.
 |
| Bert Hall. |
The Brass thought we would abandon our ships, when they were not too badly-damaged that they might have been recovered. Once again, they forgot that the pilot is the most important part of the machine. It takes tens of thousands of pounds to train a good pilot, and it takes months or even years to do it. All they thought of was money.
They were, ‘responsible to the taxpayers.’
Like hell they were. They acted like a God unto themselves, sometimes.
The Brass, the politicians, were just incredibly stupid people, most of the time.
They simply didn’t live in the real world.
They weren’t like the rest of us.
***
Anger is a gift. It sustains a man when nothing else will.
Hatred is a way of rallying support, a way of recruiting, a way to become a hero.
Curiosity killed the cat.
No operation of war is moral.
I had a funny little idea about ships, and was hoping that curiosity didn’t kill any of my men. When you get an idea, it’s better to think on it for a while. Don’t act too quickly. If it’s too crazy, just forget about it. But if it’s any good, you have to take responsibility. To let someone else try to carry it out, in a half-baked fashion, may doom them, and the idea, to an early grave.
A good, long, private chat with Dawley, resplendent in his brand-new Royal Air Force Major’s outfit, and Bernie, helped to settle my mind.
“What do you think about bombing ships?” I asked Bernie.
“But can they not maneuver? Out of the way of the bombs?” He asked.
In order for a bomb to penetrate the deck of a battleship, they had to be released from high altitude. Most high-explosive bombs actually broke up on deck. Our bombs were meant for concentrations of men, artillery, buildings, roads, bridges, and et cetera. They were thin-walled bombs with a big charge inside. They weren’t designed to penetrate four inches of upper-deck armor-plating.
“Torpedoes must be launched very low, within range of every ship-borne gun.” Major Dawley reminded us.
“Can’t use torpedoes.” I acknowledged. “But what if the ships were in the harbor?”
They thought it over.
Bernie spoke first.
“That takes care of the speed of a moving target, and the maneuverability.”
“Ships in harbor are notoriously unready for gunnery.” I stated.
A ship is a long, skinny little target when viewed from altitude.
“Where and when do you want to do this?” Asked Major Dawley. “We still need to thrash this out, but I can get any information we need.”
“We have to be very, very discreet.” I suggested.
Taking a deep breath, I let the cat out of the bag.
“I want to bomb Wilhelmshaven.” Their eyes got a little bigger.
“A very stoutly-defended target.” Noted the Belgian.
“I want to use your Boche bomber.” I told Bernie. “They won’t be expecting that. Do they even know we have it?”
His jaw dropped with the simplicity of it all.
“Even if they know about that plane, and some of the others, they would never expect us to use them.” Bernie mused thoughtfully. “It’s too risky, from the point of view of conventional thinking.”
“Damn conventional thinking, it just gets conventional results.” Noted Dawley in approval. “I’d like to fly on that one.”
“We’ll see. No promises.” I promised.
“So you want to go up to Heligoland Bight, and bomb the German High Seas Fleet, simply as an experiment?”
Dawley was astonished, but a quick word of explanation seemed to help.
“We’re not allowed to attack our own fleet, after all. It would cause bad feelings.”
The quick grin, the nod.
“Very audacious.” Dawley murmured.
“Would not two planes be better than one?” Asked Bernie.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “You have more than one?”
“Er, not exactly.” He admitted.
“Spit it out, you dapper little Belgian, you.”
“Well?” Added Dawley.
“The Government of the Netherlands has impounded a big bomber. I forget which type, but I know where it is.”
The crew was under internment, pending repatriation.
With three good brains on the project, it didn’t take too long to hatch our little scheme, and from my own perspective, it was a good thing they didn’t squawk too much. Not to put too fine a point on it, we stood down, ‘partially,’ and moved our operations fifty miles from our past exploits. Half our men were sent on leave, half of the pilots, half the Army, half the ground personnel, and a good few of the officers and NCO’s. A couple of weeks of routine missions. Show our new numbers, let the Boche get used to us. Start the game anew.
My big problem was to get away for a few days. The worry was, what if a big-shot Army General came along, and commandeered our train, or started assigning unsuitable missions? My deputy, whoever that might be on any given day, might not be able to stand up to them. Also, I didn’t want to return from my own leave, which was becoming a matter of some importance, and find the formation decimated by our own command structure.
While I had the gift to be able to stand up to them and get away with it, I couldn’t reasonably expect someone like Hastings, or Jaeckl, or Howard-Smythe to risk a career or even time in a military prison for us. Their life, perhaps, but not their career.
“I have an idea.” Proffered Dawley.
Never shy, his promotion to Major, and official transfer into the RAF, had given him increased stature. He was learning to make the most of it. His experience with our tactics and strategies was a real eye-opener. And he was a very sharp young man.
For someone in Intelligence, a little field experience, a little time spent with the troops, can give insights that just analyzing data couldn’t provide. This one time, the enemy doubled the number of troops in a given location. Intelligence suggested an attack. I knew it wouldn’t happen. And I was right, not that anyone listened. It was just that the enemy had no trains. They couldn’t remove the men who needed to be relieved.
So they left them in the trench. Ultimately, I was proven right, just for the record.
Two days later, everything was back to normal. As an observer, no one trusted my conclusions.
“Bert, he can be a Bulgarian General.” Suggested Dawley.
“Ah. Now that’s a smart-ah man.” Breathed Bernie in admiration. “Nom de Dieu. Brilliant.”
“Yeah. I like that. He can be a Bulgarian General who speaks no French or English, and he can command the boys while we are away.” Dawley outlined the plan. “No one will dare to steal any of our units, if they can’t argue their case with him.”
How can you browbeat a man who doesn’t understand you? Good concept, keep it coming.
“In a crisis, he can turn his guns on the generals.” The Major mused aloud.
I liked that idea well enough.
“I need Bert, if we can find another plane.” I noted, and Bernie made a face.
“We can get the plane, but it may be tricky.” He said.
“Tell me about that plane.” I suggested. “Bert can lend his hat and jacket to our stand-in.”
It turns out a German crew got lost and found themselves in a fog, low on fuel and unaware of their location. They were lucky not to get lost over the North Sea. The Dutch were neutral. When the Germans spotted lights down below, they had no choice but to search out an aerodrome, and bring the plane down.
They were locked up pending diplomatic maneuvers.
“Is it bombed up?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no.” He admitted.
“No, that’s good. I want to drop one of those sixteen-hundred-fifty pound bombs. Two would be better. We’ll send them a little message.”
Thoughtful, pursing his lips, he gazed across the table.
“It is nothing but a problem to the Dutch authorities, and they will not give it back to the Boche.” He assured us.
“Contact someone trustworthy up there. See what you can find out. We can help them to properly and safely dispose of it, if they would like that?” I asked Bernie.
“I am sure they will be delighted.” He vowed with satisfaction. “They can see which way the wind is blowing.”
“We have a couple of thousand pounds.” I noted for the others. “In our unofficial little contingency fund. Bribe anyone who wants to be bribed.”
“If we can’t get it, we can contact Trenchard, and borrow a couple of his planes.” Mused Dawley.
“We’ll have to get the bombs from him anyway.” I noted. “That will save a lot of time and bullshit questions from the Ministry.”
“Why don’t we get on that, and let Bernie do his work.” Suggested Dawley, and that was it for another bull session.
Truth is, I didn’t let them in on the whole plan. It would have been too much to swallow all at once. I’d let them in on the other half when the preparations were further along.
You are what you do.
I was turning into a manipulative bastard.
***
We got to work on the double switch-play, phase one.
Bombing German ships while they were still in the harbor was actually a pretty good idea, but still cooking in my mind, was another little idea. An idea too crazy to share with anyone. Sitting across from Hugh Trenchard, he seemed to be in a good mood, but then Hugh always liked me for some reason.
‘Boom,’ as everyone called him, (but not to his face,) took lessons at his own expense in 1912, sitting beside Tommy Sopwith. That plane must have been staggering all over the sky. Good old Boom was a big man. It was a fifty-horsepower Farman, a Longhorn.
“Hey, Boom.” I said, then sat and waited patiently.
But it proved he was truly air-minded, not just some fuddy-duddy with the necessary rank and pull to get a glory job, which was what his Independent Bombing Force was. Of course, just like the rest of us, he began with nothing.
The press and the populace, they just loved the idea of taking the fight to the German heartland. Trenchard’s boys weren’t particularly effective. I would never tell him that. Over time, they might be built into something greater, but in my opinion, strategic bombing couldn’t win a war if they couldn’t hit anything. You needed to put bombs on targets, the best targets. As for bombing at night, it just scattered bombs all over the place. More of a terror weapon, really, to be used against civilians in cities. We don’t like to talk about it much. I didn’t bring up my criticisms at this time, it being impolite to do so.
 |
| They didn't have much to do. |
Germany is an industrial nation because the people didn’t have much to do, so they built lots and lots of factories. I wouldn’t have a problem with bombing, if we went after refineries, transportation networks, or command and control. But they kept trying to hit irrelevant targets, like shipyards, Krupp’s at Essen, and other armaments factories. I would hit economic targets of high value. I didn’t have time to argue with Boom.
The enemy aircraft industry seemed beyond their ken, and beyond their reach. If they simply focused on the enemy air forces, then their own, ‘bomb-effectiveness,’ would go up markedly. Enemy fighter pilots would be in short supply.
Hugh Trenchard once said, ‘I like the way you keep going to the net, even when you don’t have the puck.’
The rest of that particular inter-services hockey team was mostly, ‘all show and no go,’ and he didn’t like to lose. I would have bombed their training fields. The enemy’s training fields. Not the hockey guys.
“How have you been, Tucker?” He asked, after signing about fifty documents.
“Several days ago, was the first day of the rest of my life.” I told him drily.
“That good, eh?” He snorted. “Better than road kill? What’s up?”
“This project is so secret, even I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.” I admitted ruefully to his twinkling eyes.
Boom stared across the desk. You couldn’t put too much over with him. It had to be plausible. Funny thing was, he didn’t even ask.
“You’re shitting me.” He said, and gave a belly-shaking laugh.
Hugh was in a fairly good mood.
“Join the club.” He said, which concluded his opening statements.
On the plus side, Boom wasn’t one of those guys whose opinion is always the same as whoever spoke to them last. Carl Jung related the driving force, the will to live with creativity. Jung also said, ‘War is not instinctive, it is a learned response.’ I’ll take his fucking word for it, but the point is that Boom would have had his own ideas and stuck with them. His will to live complemented his creativity.
“I just need to borrow a couple of planes for the weekend.” I requested politely.
“I can’t spare any pilots.” He said in a no-nonsense tone.
“Not a problem, sir. I just need two planes, and a half a dozen big bombs.” And I kept it short. “In case we need to go back.”
Boom didn’t know there were five-ton lorries waiting around the corner.
“I’ll need a bomb-dolly to go with that, and, a teensy little bit of radio equipment.”
My boys were just down the road, waiting for me to tip them the nod. I was prepared to steal the planes. A sign of my increasing cynicism. I was under a lot of stress, and had ceased to care by this point. But we could have waited until later and high-jacked them.
Nothing, and no one, was going to stand in my way.
“I want something from you.” He said.
“What would you like? Within reason, of course?” I asked.
“We’re just having a hell of a time getting any decent beer around here.” He grieved.
“How much do you want?”
He grinned, showing a fine set of teeth, which caused me a moment of envy, having grown up in poverty. While my general state of physical health is usually pretty good, my teeth have been a real cross to bear at times.
“As much as we can get, within reason.” He said with a certain emphasis.
“I’ll make you proud.” I promised. “Hell, I’ll put it in my will.”
“How soon do you need them?” He asked. “Knowing you, immediately?”
“Well…”
He nodded and grinned.
“Go on. Don’t hold anything back.” He said encouragingly.
“Okay. I need a half a dozen of your block-busting cookies, the sixteen-fifty pounders, I’ll need at least two planes.” I pretended to think. “Fuel, and a couple of other minor items.”
He thought briefly.
“Here.” He said, standing up, and I jumped up and followed him into the outer office, where staff were busy typing, making calls, and studying reports.
He led me over to a big blackboard. After a quick moment of study, he turned to regard me.
“Jesus H. Christ.” He muttered irritably. “You are the only man I ever met, who makes me feel short.”
Hugh Trenchard was about six-four. He wasn’t used to it. That’s for sure. I mean, I found him intimidating, but then I’m not used to it either. A world filled with short people, and we’re used to towering over them. We take it for granted, we really do.
Shit or get off the pot, for Christ’s sake.
“You are short.” I told him affably.
His staff took a collective deep breath.
“Hah.” He said with a grin.
The staff let out their collective breath.
He pointed at the board.
“Take oh-nineteen, and oh-twenty-one.” He offered. “They’re available, but we don’t have the crews up to snuff yet. The planes are in good shape, though.”
“May I use your radio?” I asked.
“Yes, but keep it tight.” He agreed. “The Fritzies would love to locate us, if they could.”
“Thanks, sir.”
And he turned and strode into his office. Usually a polite and courteous gentleman, he must have had a lot on his plate. A tough row to hoe, as the saying goes.
“Right this way, sir.” A spit-and-polished corporal led me to another tent.
Very impressive. They had the whole rig going, where our experiments with radios, wireless, Morse, were somewhat lackadaisical. I should have asked Boom for a couple of good radio technicians. Maybe next time. Mental note to bring a lot of beer.
I’ll just commandeer it. It’s not like I can afford it on my own.
“Send this. The freak is on there as well.” I asked the technician, and handed over a note.
“I don’t understand.” He queried.
“It’s a private code.” I said. “‘Fall Gelb,’ that’s German. It means, ‘Case Yellow.’ If they overhear it, they’ll think it’s one of their own spies, using a different code-book.”
“Very well, sir.”
His fingers began to spin the knobs, searching out a frequency.
He tapped it out with speed and confidence. All of a sudden he grimaced, and winced, and grabbed a knob, and quickly turned it anti-clockwise. The volume control.
I wished I knew more about radios, but simply hadn’t found the time to read the stuff provided.
“Fuck. They must be in the next tent.” He blurted. “Sorry sir. Anyhow, the answer is ‘yes.’”
“That’s okay, son, I’ve heard people cuss before.” And he grinned in appreciation.
He looked to be about forty-five, whereas I was still stuck there at the age of twenty…and a half. But I was very mature for my age. Less than ten minutes later, men were spilling out of the trucks, and swarming all over the planes, while several other lorries and a crew went looking for the bomb dump.
A vehicle pulled up, a window rolled down and a deep, commanding voice called out.
“I admire your confidence, young man.” And then Boom rolled away.
The last impression I had was of a big, happy grin.
Yes, Boom liked me, for some reason. I’ll bet he could taste that beer already.
A good judge of character.
An hour later, I took off in, ‘oh-nineteen,’ a Handley-Page 0-400 bomber, fully fueled-up and with a big crew of men in the fuselage. Mechanics playing at gunners. I could see our little truck convoy rolling down the road. Six big, I mean really big mother-fricking bombs were tightly strapped-down in the beds.
They were going by road to St. Omer, where we planned to rendezvous with the rest of the team. Our own fields were just too small to get these big planes in and out of.
The 0-400 was a vast improvement over its predecessor, the 0-100, and we had a few ideas on how to get more out of them. Instead of the full bomb-load, we would just use one bomb. Get rid of useless equipment, carry minimal defensive arms and ammo, minimal fuel load. All the gunners were skinny little men, hand-picked for the job.
Surprisingly easy to handle, it was just a big kite. Obviously not a fighter. She wasn’t too maneuverable. When I put generous amounts of aileron into it, she hesitated, made up her mind about it, then slowly and gently began to roll. You really had to think ahead with this machine. Yet it was stable, calm and reassuring after our nimble little fighters. The biggest surprise was just how much effort it took to turn it, and the effort required to hold the control surfaces against the forces of the slipstream.
Still, it was manageable, even relaxing.
“Roll in, pull back, she’ll go.” I told Dawley.
We cruised along at 2,500 feet.
 |
| What if fighters come along... |
“The nitrous bottle should help.” He observed non-committally.
Some of our ideas might be unworkable. You just never know. You have to try them out. The cockpit area was roomy. While not exactly the bridge of a ship, there were some surprising similarities. A big wooden steering wheel, multiple throttles, rows of gauges and instruments, a leather-padded seat, nice touch, that honking great windscreen out front.
The compass was huge, compared to the ones in our scouts. The bigger compasses are usually more accurate. Bombers are expensive, and not so expendable, not meant to be disposed-of in constant plane-to-plane combats.
They have longer missions, navigation-wise. It was like sitting in an office, after our tight little cockpits. I reveled in the luxury of being able to stretch, and to move around, with the map in a clip-board off to one side, and with Dawley to engage in conversation if I got bored.
“What would you do if German fighters came along?” He bellowed over the roar of the big motors, mounted right behind our heads.
“Die.” I called back.
That’s why they used the bombers at night. The guns were mostly for show, especially as our mechanics weren’t particularly well-trained in aerial gunnery.
Nodding, he called back, “I suspect you’re right.”
After some discussion, we picked on Captain Howard-Smythe to play the role of the Bulgarian General. He couldn’t fly, while Bert could. Bert had an amazing resume, when you think about it.
Craning his neck around, Dawley found Bert and our other plane, up, behind and to our right, just under the cloud base of approximately 6,500 feet. He waved, a little gingerly, as the propellers were literally right there.
“Jesus. I sure wouldn’t like to jump out of this thing in a hurry.” He observed.
“The pilot is supposed to switch off the motors.” I told him, wondering how many men, in the heat of the moment, a moment of panic, went right through those spinning props.
While our boys didn’t have parachutes, the Fritzies did.
He shook his head.
About an hour and a half later, St. Omer hove into view. Now came the tricky part.
Bert had multi-engine experience. I had none. I swear to God, Bert flew them giant four-engine Sikorski planes in Russia. He had a lot of experience.
Bert’s plane began to lose altitude. We stayed in a position where we could watch, observe his technique, and learn.
“Right over that big stone barn.” Dawley reported.
“I see it.” I concurred.
Bert was at about a hundred and fifty feet, and a good half a mile out from the ‘drome.
Is he going to make it?
But without a bomb-load, and low on fuel, the plane seemed to glide forever. It had a huge wing area, after all…Bert made it. We circled around while he taxied out of our way.
“Still glad you came?” I asked Dawley, who remained silent, or ‘muet.’
Right about now, I’ll bet he wished he had a parachute.
“You’re looking good.” He suddenly responded. “Just relax, we’re doing fine. Here it comes.”
The barn passed underneath, and the field loomed up in our vision.
Someone on the ground launched a green flare. I chopped throttles and a few moments later our wheels touched terra firma.
“Holy shit. That was awesome.” Dawley allowed.
Sometimes I impress myself. Honestly, all you have to do is throttle back. If the speed drops off, push the nose down, and holy fuck, stand on the rudder.
“Over there.” Dawley pointed.
“I see him.” I grunted in acknowledgement. “Jesus friggin’ Christ.”
The thing was hard to taxi.
My leg ached, especially the knee, after standing on the rudder pedals for a while.
Ramming full throttle on one side, and pulling back on the other only had limited effectiveness. Finally the hulking brute was parked beside Bert’s plane, and right next to him was Bernie’s AEG. The clump of men beside it visibly relaxed, and tried to catch their breaths, after my hair-raising taxi-tour of the ‘drome.
“The boys needed a good run anyway.” I quipped, shutting her down abruptly.
The sudden silence was deafening. Ringing in the ears. I noted the time in my log book while Dawley clambered out and down. Standing beside him in the wan sunlight, we looked around.
“Where’s Bernie?” I asked, but got nothing but shrugs.
As the boys spilled out and stretched the legs, Jaeckl came out of an office door on the front of a hangar.
“Holy shit. What happened to you?” Asked Dawley.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Jaeckl. How does it feel to join the despised officer class?” I joked.
“A little strange.” He admitted. “Still, Mrs. Jaeckl will be pleased with her new social status, and a slight increase in the old pay-packet can’t hurt.”
“Are you planning to stay in after the war?” Dawley asked.
“Not for all the fewking tea in China.” Came the response.
We chuckled at that, as we waited for Bernie to show up. Can’t say as I blamed him.
He would likely be busted back to private anyway, after the need for good men was gone.
***
According to a lot of historians who weren’t there, the second battle of the Marne marked the turning point of the war. It lasted from about July 15 to August 4. Following the plan as conceived by General Ludendorf, the Boche attacked east and west of Rheims. While successful in crossing the Marne, they subsequently made little progress.
On July 18, the Allies under General Ferdinand Foch counter-attacked with forces that included several American divisions. One of the fiercest fights occurred at Chateau-Thierry. It was here that the Americans won their first victory, and a decisive one at that.
The German armies were forced to withdraw across the Marne. This counterattack destroyed Ludendorf’s plan for a massive stroke in Flanders, meant to split the Allies.
Now the Allies held the initiative.
Putting down the paper, musing on this subject, one could hear a faint droning in the distance. This war can’t last forever.
A person rushed in the door, and said, “They’re here.”
The glare in the doorway revealed a familiar profile. Pete, my pet mechanic.
Rising, I made my way outside to where a little clump of men stood watching a speck in the serene, distant sky.
“Holy, schmoley.” Someone muttered.
“It’s the real thing.” Dawley agreed. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“Friends in low places.” Jaeckl quipped, and nods of approval went the rounds.
They were a competent crew. The AEG bomber entered the glide-path and made a very professional-looking landing. With a minimum of fuss and bother, they brought it to a halt. Right behind them, came a couple of our Brisfits on escort duties.
The gang’s all here.
“All right. Let’s get this dog and pony show on the road.” Yelled Jaeckl, who still hadn’t gotten into the habit of being an incompetent lieutenant.
There was in fact, no point in bringing along Corporals Carson or Whittington.
Jaeckl had my full confidence.
Two pilots, men with hard-bitten faces and cold, tired eyes. Then Bernie clambered out as well. They strolled over, along with a proud-looking Bernie, and accepted an envelope from my own hand. They got into a waiting car. It sped off with a guilty-sounding squeal of the tires. The civilian driver hadn’t gotten out, not even for a pee or a smoke, or anything. He wouldn’t talk to us at all.
Bernie looked as pleased as punch.
“Are those Germans?” Gasped Dawley.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Quipped Jaeckl with a funny little gleam in his eyes.
Some kind of professionals, I suspected. Don’t talk to anyone, that’s the way. For all I know, they might have been Germans. Bernie knew what he was doing, no doubt about that. People who could keep their mouth shut, is what I figured.
They didn’t wave or look back.
“Nice work, Bernie. I promise not to ask too many questions, and the same goes for the rest of you guys.” Raising my voice to the assembly of men and officers.
“Any man who talks about this, will be put up against a wall and shot.” I added. “As far as you know, there were two AEG’s when we arrived, and two when we left. It’s just some little oversight by a clerk doing paperwork.”
Not that they needed reminding. We needed to get the planes ready. We put our noses to the grindstone and went to work with a common purpose. St. Omer was a strange place and it had some strange stories to tell, no doubt.
“Jaeckl.” I called.
“Yes, sir.” He snapped to attention in front of me.
 |
| Jaeckl after the war, in Hollywood...a guy has to make living. |
“Take the batteries out, clean the connections, test them and charge them. Check everything, okay?”
The planes were readied, fueled, checked over thoroughly, bombed up and armed, tires checked, oil checked, coolant checked, and a few other odds and ends, including a couple of cases of squid, and a few hundred weight of cabbages. Those all-essential little details that say, ‘Je suis un artiste.’
Those flying on the mission retired to a hangar. We closed it up as tight as a drum, with a guard on the door. Time for a briefing.
“Tell me about this little tid-bit of information.” I asked Bernie.
Bernie had a little surprise up his sleeve. I knew, but no one else did. I wanted to watch the looks on their faces.
“Originally, we were planning to bomb ships at Wilhelmshaven.” Bernie began, which caused quite a stir.
He stood at the front of the room, and we all looked at him, and the map.
“We have obtained information that the Kaiser is attending a map-exercise…”
“Yay. Yay.” Voices rose in a colossal hubbub as they intuitively guessed what was coming next. “Yay. Yippee.”
They just wouldn’t stop talking.
Finally I took charge with a big, loud, ‘Simmer down.’
Even then, it took some time but they did get quieter after a while. What the hell.
They’re all volunteers. Cut them some slack. We had a few hours. Not that most of us couldn’t use the time to catch up on some badly-needed sleep.
***
“Snotty, you bomb outside the castle, while Owens, you drop the cabbages as close as you can. Try and drop them right down the fuckin’ chimney.” I began.
All around, nods and grins of approval. It’s like they don’t understand the danger.
We studied the map, a little town.
“It’s called Baden-Baden.” Bernie put in. “It’s a spa town, a watering hole for the high and mighty.”
He pointed to the map. We fly to a certain airfield, refuel, and launch from there. It’s very dangerous to attempt a landing with a bomb onboard, but it can’t be helped. At night, it’s even harder. I guess. No one seemed to catch on, but we could have trucked the bombs there, and armed up there.
“The plan is to launch from here, and then to fly behind our own lines as far as possible.” He told the boys. “Then we cut over and drop our cookies on this castle here.”
He produced another map, drawn to another scale. It showed the town, mountains, hills, rivers, elevations, the whole shebang.
Waiting expectantly, their eyes were all lit up. No morale problem here.
Here comes the kicker.
“And then we fly on to Switzerland, and then we all jump out in the parachutes provided to us, courtesy of the Government of Belgium.”
There was a lot of commentary then, let me tell you. But I could tell they liked the plan.
“Colonel Tucker has personally supervised the packing of the chutes, and he will be wearing one himself.” He assured them.
Tipping me a wink, he went on with the briefing, as all the men looked and listened eagerly.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker and Prince Sakahaji tested the parachutes last Saturday, as I’m sure all of you are aware. We have full confidence in the parachutes, and you have all seen the Boche use them successfully.”
“Wait a minute.” Asked Bert. “Doesn’t Trenchard expect his planes back?”
“You let me worry about that.” I told him. “We can always stay in Switzerland. It’s really beautiful this time of year. And, if we escape internment, it will really look good on our resumes.”
He nodded thoughtfully, eyes boring into my own.
“In any case, the two German bombers will carry out the attack. Hopefully they will be seen, identified, and be taken for a sign perhaps, of a general mutiny among the troops.” Explained Bernie. “We also have two Handley-Page bombers. They will accompany us to the border, in case of mechanical failure. But really, they are just a precautionary, back-up element.”
If all went according to plan, they could jettison their bombs, and return to base.
“And they’re also a kind of decoy, a kind of long-range escort.” He added. “With Tucker on board, we cannot allow them to overfly enemy territory, except in dire need.”
I’m too valuable, was the implication, and I studied my fingernails for a moment. You know me. I always try to remain humble in front of the men under my command.
The plan was to have Bert in the lead plane to navigate, and my two planes would turn back at the point of commitment—not a good idea to call it, ‘the point of no return.’
Anyway, the boys seemed to buy it.
Owens and Dexter were the other pilots. The crews, some of my more mature, steady, sober and reliable men. Good pilots, they would give the man in command of the plane additional confidence. They studied everything that was known about the AEG’s and the 0-400’s. One could sit in the co-pilot’s seat and read the manual in case of an unexpected problem.
The gunners, real ones this time, were the best we had. Three per plane.
“Interestingly enough, if fighters from either side turned up, they won’t know who to attack.” Grinned Bernie in conclusion. “They might even provide an escort.”
Now the reader is probably thinking, ‘That’s a bullshit plan.’
Sure it is. But it gets a heck of a lot better. You can trust me on that.
***
It was the good old double-whammy.
As luck would have it, neither of our hard-won AEG’s would start. Some kind of electrical problems. Our suspicion was that the Boche electrical systems, knock-off copies of a government-subsidized British design by Lucas Systems, were at fault.
And then Bert’s new 0-400 bomber wouldn’t start. Possibly a bum fuel system.
The engines were starving. No fuel, no start. A quick consultation, and then I had to revise the crew arrangements, with guys hurriedly jumping in and out of planes. Some got to go and some had to stay home. As simple as that. Confusion reigned, and it was with some sense of relief and gratitude that I finally decided to roll out and take off.
“Do your best.” Were my last words.
Pete dropped back out of the cockpit and a moment later, I saw him in front of the plane. I throttled up and began to move forward. Pete seemed disconsolate, but that’s just the price you have to pay. At least he was smart enough to step aside.
Seven-thirty, on one of those long summer evenings. At this latitude, sunset seems to last forever. Our mission would go on. Bernie was riding along with us.
As we beat our way to the west, gaining as much altitude as we could, Dawley was in the fuselage. We had a pair of gunners along as well. Aweemowep and this other guy, an American in the RAF, whose name has been withheld. (Davies.) I figured all these men would disperse to their homes after the war, and might never see each other again. They would never get together and compare notes.
The story was unbelievable, and unverifiable. All going according to schedule. Watch the gauges, check the instruments in a kind of circular scan. There are three to five gauges you should watch in any plane.
Bernie sat beside me.
The land below was washed in a golden glow.
It was pretty, and peaceful behind the lines.
Bernie grabbed my arm.
“We can turn now.” He indicated.
“Right-oh.” I said.
I leaned into it, and slowly she responded. The earth below began to rotate just like a compass needle in an electrical storm. Slowly, the land and the horizon slid around. I lined her up on north. While we leaned, it seemed like the plane was standing still and the Earth moved. The big Rolls-Royce engines thundering away was all that could be heard.
Almost reassuring. Almost peaceful.
The air was crystal clear. Visibility must have been a hundred miles. Off to the east, a long line of cloud tops, flickering from time to time and lighting up as a late season thunderstorm washed the stench of death from the Western Front. Darker over there, where night was falling. To the west, it was still a kind of luminous royal blue.
We flew north, still gaining altitude, which takes forever in one of these babies. Bernie tapped the clock on the dash, catching my attention.
“Seventy-two hundred.” I noted for Bernie’s benefit.
He nodded, and wrote it in the little book he kept in his breast pocket, and continued to study the map.
“We are now over Belgium.” His voice came crisp in my ears.
Accustomed to the noise of the props and motors, your hearing adapts, oddly enough.
“Meulebeke.” He confirmed.
“Turn to a course of thirty-two and a half degrees, and hold it for one hour.” He said after a while.
The sky grew ever darker, and then we saw them, a string of heavy bombers, slightly below and directly ahead. A light flickered from one of them, going across our bow, from left to right.
“Ignore it.” I told Bernie.
Just about then, Dawley came out of the fuselage, and stood there, balancing with a hand on the back of each of our seats.
“Holy shit.” He laughed. “Where did they come from?”
I had no answer, peering to the left for more traffic.
“Why are they headed east at this time of night?” Asked Bernie, barely audible, yet voice clear and thin.
There was very little static, but maybe his microphone was caught up in the scarf.
“Maybe they aborted a mission.” I suggested.
We turned in behind one of them, and slowly began drifting back in the stream. I snatched the microphone and pushed the button, as Bernie watched. Then he beckoned and I handed him the microphone—it was too hard to fly that plane with one hand.
“Aweemowep. Aweemowep. Can you hear me?” He queried, holding one hand over his ear phones.
“Yes, sir.” Came the voice in our ears.
Bernie held the thing up in front of my face, two inches from my mouth.
“Do you see anything back there?” I called.
“There are two airplanes behind and below us, one of them is getting very close.” He reported.
I gently eased in some left rudder and drifted out of the stream.
His voice came in my ears again.
“They are passing us by now, and flashing a light.”
As they pulled out in front, they were a thousand feet below. Their gunners wouldn’t be able to hit much, even if they wanted to.
“Ignore it.” I ordered the crew.
We were obviously experiencing technical difficulties. At least that was the theory.
We sat and watched the last two planes slowly drift ahead.
Finally, there was comfort in turning left again. Bernie pointed at the map, nodding at the left side of the plane. He wanted me to confirm his calculations.
A quick look confirmed the town below. He shrugged, and peered over the side. A penny for your thoughts. Belgium, quite near his hometown. He should know his own neighborhood.
“Very good.” I acknowledged.
Altitude, 7,600 feet. Speed, eighty-four miles an hour.
Bernie kept silent, made more notes. Theoretically the 0-400 could go about eighty-five, but this newer model was actually rated at ninety-seven, ‘and a half,’ miles per hour.
I would like to see that, but so far no good. She’s just working too hard. Still climbing, though.
“Report, Major Dawley.” I asked the man standing there patiently.
He keyed his own microphone button, now plugged into an auxiliary jack behind the seats.
“It will take Pete hours to figure out the problem.” He replied. “They’re following procedure.”
It was awesome to have a radio on board. His response, two clicks, would hardly be enough for anyone to direction-locate us. We were also a moving target.
Our boys were talking from St. Omer, and if the Fritzies wanted to bomb that, it was ‘very well-defended.’
“Good.” I said. “Excellent.”
What this meant, was that the bombs would be removed from the planes, after a quick examination revealed that there was no quick and easy fix. Then the problems would be painstakingly traced to their solutions. It could take all night. And with Pete on the case, it could take forever. Good old Jaeckl was well-briefed, with several more tricks up the old sleeve. We were on our own, which was just what I wanted.
That looks familiar, even in the darkness which was now complete.
The glare which now became visible, or glimmer might be a better word, was the pewter shine of the Zuider Zee. That was the Netherlands down there. The shapes of the bays, the inlets and the rivers dumping into it were unmistakable. Navigating at night isn’t too bad if you can see things. No worse than daylight, if you can see things.
“Major, break out the rations.” I requested.
“Right, Dawley out.”
“What a gorgeous night.” Bernie told the crew through our newly-invented intercom system.
A couple of us sat down, read a book on electricity, and then we invented the thing.
Dawley went back to the radio set-up inside, where he had his little office.
Then he brought everyone a drink. This was a bit of a climb-around in the fuselage, with the huge bomb, slung inside a cut-out section of the belly, and a tiny little tunnel to crawl through to the tail gunner. It took a lot of courage to do that at night, where a man’s imagination can work overtime. A funny little bump of turbulence, and you think the plane is going down. Like walking through a pitch-dark room at night. It can be very odd, and it’s quite difficult to keep your balance. There’s nothing to refer to visually, other than the walls. Presumably he had a torch with him in there. It wouldn’t do to put a foot through the fabric. That could scare the shit out of any man.
(It would scare the shit out of me.)
A real panic attack, in the dark, and no one would even know if you were having a problem.
He came back, and Bernie reached for our bottle, which he then held between his legs in the classic, ‘drinking and driving position.’ He wrestled with the top.
“Skoal.” Quoth Major Dawley, who now had our cups ready.
Dawley laboriously managed to get some in the cups, without breaking the neck off the bottle. Only a little light turbulence, but it was probably enough.
“Prosit.” Responded Bernie.
We raised our tin cups in unison. A toast to the world we lived in, as crazy as it was.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” I told the boys, in a lisping, wise-guy accent.
“When you get to the North Sea, turn right.” Bellowed little Bernie, then he tipped her back and sucked it down.
“Git ‘er done, boys.” He proposed, in a tolerable Texas accent.
Dawley and I complied. With alacrity. It was quite a balmy summer night as we climbed through the 8,000 mark. Then the chill in the eighty-plus mile per hour air-blast coming in around the sides of the wind screen became apparent.
The air is made up of layers.
Snuggle down into the collar a little more. Settle in the seat and feel the burn of the booze warm my viscera. Below us the land began to end, even as I marveled at the beauty of smoke-grey clouds and the shadows they cast away in the incipient moonlight.
If we played it right, all those witnesses, all those eye-witnesses on the ground, would swear that nothing happened, leaving enough confusion to fill up any official inquiry’s notebooks.
The fog of war is well-known. The art of confusion, is the art of scattering facts all over the place, and then allowing them to contradict each other.
The gibbous moon lay behind our right shoulders, but at night the land is black, the sky quite light, and whatever color the sky is, that is the color reflected back by the sea.
Tiny rows of even, serried waves made abstract and ever-changing patterns. Then there was a fog bank down there. Black as wrought iron in places, glistening like a diamond necklace in other places, and that ever-constant roar of motors. Hours passed.
At the appointed time, I gave the order to open up the valves and adjust the regulators. I carefully watched the new gauges our mechanics had installed.
“Just a dribble, Bernie.” I said, and he made a check of the time, the speed, and the altitude.
Just another research flight.
Let routine be your guide and your comfort, yet now came a little of the fear. This was the first time we had ever tried nitrous oxide. Hopefully we don’t break Boom’s plane. Listen to the motors. They sounded fine, in fact better. The air gets thinner up here. Motors need air.
Her best speed was achieved at 6,500 feet, according to the book.
“The sea, my friend.” Bernie announced.
I turned, holding it as best I could, and slowly she came about. The North Sea was on our left.
“Nine thousand, three hundred.” I reported.
The compass settled between eighty-eight and eighty-nine degrees, but I could see the coastline just fine.
“Hard-a-starboard, laddie. Steady as she goes.” Called my erstwhile companion.
Old Bernie was in a strange mood tonight.
I wondered about re-incarnation, and who, or what, Bernie might have been in a previous life. The fuel tank was still almost three-quarters full. Some power-mad Roman tyrant? A Venetian galley slave in the middle ages?
A freaking head waiter, in the not-too distant future? Who can say. The little bugger might even get his wish to be a private detective.
You never can tell. Maybe we’ve all read too many dime-store novels.
Now we’re back in enemy territory, and this is defended airspace, even at night. The enemy has felt the sting of our raids, conducted by airships, bombers, torpedo planes and even ‘Ship’s Camels,’ which sometimes operated at night. They shot down a couple of airships someplace around here. Cuxhaven, they have a lot of big airship hangars there.
“Listen up everybody.” I called through the intercom. “Look sharp and keep your eyes peeled. Check in by the numbers from the tail.”
“Number four, where’s my whore?” Came from Aweemowep in the tail.
Predictable.
“Number three, I have to pee.” Put in the left side gunner, Davies.
Who shall remain nameless by request.
“Dawley.” Came the next voice. “I’ll go relieve number three, so number three can relieve himself. Aw, hell, you know what I mean.”
Bernie looked at me, then pushed his button.
“Number two, targets for you, ten more minutes.” He said.
Cute. He’s a poet, and he’s not even aware of it. I’ll work on that one.
“Number one, strap down your bum.” I buzzed, and there were answering laughs in the headphones.
Good. We’re ready to meet destiny.
Dawley came back, tapping me on the shoulder.
“Dawley is back. Strapping in. Cabbages all set to go.” And then he retired to his jump seat behind our driving positions.
We had no nose gunner. I wanted to see out the front with no obstructions. Dawley could get there petty quick in the unlikely event of a night-time encounter. At night, head-on attacks were pretty rare. Although they would be very effective. Dawley was our ‘floater,’ with a number of different job assignments.
“Next time we do this, I want to lash the gun pointing forward, and set up a remote firing mechanism.” I called to Bernie.
“I’ll make a note.” He reported back.
Reaching for his pen, top left pocket, I was looking east, west, north and south now, and hope everyone else is too.
One word, clearly visible in the moonlight: ‘gun,’ underlined three times. He wouldn’t forget. It is absolutely true, when a pilot tells you, ‘the moon was so bright you could read a book by it.’ I ain’t bullshitting you. The sky was clear above us, with clouds to the south, and fog over the sea. If you know where to look, Mars looked on, inscrutable in his red mask of war.
“Watch for fighters, and use your call numbers when you talk to me.” I told all the men. “Bernie. Open up the regulators.”
His hands went to work. The surge of power was almost frightening. Would she hold together? As the speed increased, I began to pull back, gently.
“Calm, cool, and collected, like a cucumber.” Bernie’s familiar voice soothed.
There it was.
Bernie made intermittent notations, time, altitude, heading, speed.
“Two minutes. Steady on the cabbages. The squid goes ten seconds later.” I told Dawley and the rest of the crew.
My voice was taut in my ears.
“Climbing past 10,000.” I informed them.
A sense of relief, almost palpable. The higher the better. Airships might attack at 20,000 feet, heavy bombers fully loaded, 6,000 to 8,000 feet. I honestly didn’t believe the guns would find us. That’s what I told the boys during the briefing.
“What does it profit a man, if he gaineth the whole world, and loseth his very soul?”
I felt Bernie’s eyes in silent scrutiny, assessing me. Wondering.
Good question, Bernie.
But a moment like this can be very satisfying.
The south side of the docks were directly ahead. Ships, ships, ships.
“Ready with the squid?”
Dawley’s voice, disembodied, yet right inside my head, came back loud and clear.
“Ready. Squid ready.”
“Hold…hold…hold…let them cabbages rip.” I ordered, speaking firmly, and as usual, counting in my head, because the target was now below us and out of my line of vision.
And then Dawley said, “Fore.”
A little golf humor there.
There came a barely perceptible lift to the plane, as I told Dawley, “Let the squid go…now.”
She lifted again, as I watched. The altimeter went up to just over 10,300 feet.
It’s like being on an escalator.
We waited an awful long time. Someone down there must be awake.
‘Boom.’
A big white flash dazzled us.
“Shut off the nitrous, Bernie.”
His hands shot out, spinning valves, just blurs.
“Put your head down, boys.” I called, and focused on the flying instruments.
Throttle back.
‘Boom.’
The enemy were firing really big shells, but they were ahead, to the right, and at least 2,000 feet below.
‘Boom. Boom.’
Half a mile away.
The next one should be along…‘Boom.’…right about now, and I pushed the nose over. We descended at about a five degree angle, watching our speed.
As the thudding, crackling popcorn noise rose to a crescendo, there was no time for talk.
“Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five.” She still won’t do a hundred.
Ease off, and fly by the speedo. Push left rudder, watch the slip. Push down the nose, always tending left. There’s a good target. Another row of ships, lit by the moonlight. Now the moon was well off to our left. We’re not silhouetted against it. All part of the plan. That’s why we flew over the south shore, the angle of the moon’s glare was above us. Luckily the sky wasn’t too milky or we would look like a big black insect up there.
You have to think of everything.
We were diving, in a full hundred and eighty degree sweeping turn, holding a little under a hundred miles per hour…waiting. Diving out of the east now.
‘Boom. Boom. Boom.’ All around and about the place, the sky lit up with flash after flash, yet they were just illuminating themselves.
Quite a spectacle.
They were firing through a fog bank, one which reached up to about 1,000 or 1,500 feet. It was a light, thin fog.
Boom boom boom boom…
“Hang on boys.” I called over the microphone, with Bernie’s steady hand holding it.
The top of the fog reached for our wheels.
“Thank you, Bernie.” I nodded.
Reach for the handle.
Three ships, tied together side-by-side. I was approaching from the back end. One good yank, and she lifted up on her own again, relieved of her burdensome cargo.
Man. The back end of the aircraft lifted five or six feet when she went off with a helluva dull, ‘thud,’ one which put the Fritzie’s piddly little firecrackers in perspective.
The mother of all bombs.
“Holy, cow.” Came the voice of Aweemowep. “You hit something.”
He shouted in glee.
“Shit. A destroyer. You vaporized it.” We heard.
“Sacre bleu.” Added Bernie. “Merde.”
“Tabernac,” I threw in for good measure.
Out over the sea again. Behind us, searchlights lit up the sky, with ‘Archie’ going ‘bang-bang’ all over the bloody place. Too little, too late. An impressive display, to say the least. Glad I didn’t have to fly through that. Fritzie had about a million searchlights going by this time. I wished I had about another fifty planes.
Maybe Trenchard knew what he was doing after all. You have to admit, it was fun.
The noise receded. They slackened fire noticeably, as I kept the shoreline on our left on the way out. At seven minutes after nautical dawn, we arrived over St. Omer, complete with two Biffs for escort.
The landing, uneventful. The round trip, well over seven and three-quarter hours.
END
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