They
call me Willy Tucker, not Silly Fucker, and I had a good reason to go to the
library. They had all the papers going back for years, and it might be a good
time to do some research. There were two major areas I needed to know more
about, one of which was engines.
I
also remembered hearing the name Foreman before, and wanted to re-read the
story.
That
was one big library. I stood momentarily, looking up at the majestic building.
I’ve been shot at by Huns, bombarded by cannon fire. I should be able to chat
someone up and get a few things. No reason to be nervous, but I wasn’t quite
used to being back in civilization. First the hospital, then rehabilitation,
and then down in Gosport. I was healthy again. It had been a long time coming.
I
sat in one of the reading areas and searched out certain items.
The
first story was in a back number of The
Times entitled, ‘About My Stories.’
It
turns out General Charles Foreman was a writer of adventure for boys of a
certain age. In the article it listed a few of his stories: ‘The Mystery of Lone Jim,’ and ‘The Lost Citadel,’ and, unbelievably, ‘The Wizard Prince.’
Holy
smokes, was that him?
I
remembered that story. That was a good story. I read it on Salisbury plain, in
a tent, with an oil lamp, in the rain. God, did it fucking rain.
The
man’s own words tell all.
‘It
was in the garden of my cottage, where the editor of the Boy’s Own Paper and I came up with the idea of, ‘Treasure of the Lost Temple,’ for that
is the title of give our new serial. I shall be really disappointed if you
don’t like the story.’
He
went on.
‘The
work and responsibilities I have; take up a good deal of my energies and time.
As the Commandant of a Detention Barrack, I have had something like 20,000 men
through my hands. These are military offenders of all kinds who were tried by
courts-martial, some of the real criminal class, the low-down house-breaking
type, but the majority of them the best chaps in the world, who basically just
made fools of themselves by overstaying their leave or blacking the eyes of
certain objectionable corporals. And it was my business to train these good
fellows to be better soldiers and to get them drafted overseas.’
(Yikes.
This is Melissa’s dad.)
‘But,
at the same time, I need to keep in touch with my own work, or I should find
myself up in the air when the war comes to an end. My first books for boys
found a public. Earlier in the war, to keep the pot boiling, as you might say,
were stories like ‘U-293’ and ‘The Mystery of Lone Jim.’’
‘My
strenuous days must soon come to an end. I have but one wish in life. A cottage
by the sea and a garden of my own, within sight of my boyhood home, Great
Yarmouth.’
Foreman
had a few other things to say, including details of a trip in the south seas.
‘We
came close to shipwreck. I was on board a small coasting vessel, inside the
Great Barrier Reef, off the Cape York Peninsula. We ran into a three-day
hurricane.’
Melissa’s
father had a personality, and the knowledge might be of some use. If I should
happen to run into old Foreman, I will be sure my shoes are shined, my hair cut
nice, and that in behind my ears is (or are)
clean, and my uniform in good condition.
‘Watch my mouth,’ sort of thing.
Defer
to the old bugger, and listen to his Kiplingesque notions of what was right.
The man had used two words, criminal
class, which told me all I needed to know about his attitudes and his
upbringing.
The
man would despise me on sight, if I wasn’t careful.
This
might be a good time to get out the old medals and polish them up, pin them on
my tunic. First impressions can be lasting ones.
Essentially
he was talking in a kind of code. What he meant was working class.
“All
our boats were swept overboard. The chief engineer was hurled against his
engines, his head split open by an ungrateful piston…”
He
had a colorful way of speaking.
Foreman
would be an interesting man to meet, even if his daughter wouldn’t have
anything to do with me.
That
might seem like a strange attitude, but she was, after all, engaged to be
married.
Betty,
a library assistant, was right there at my elbow. She gave the distinct
impression she would like to make a sandwich out of me. She was a nice enough
person, don’t get me wrong, but her huffing and puffing, sweaty sincerity put
me off more than the fact that she was a big girl and always would be.
Very
nice skin, one had to admit—
She
was in fact, a very nice girl, and all I wanted was information.
Have
you ever put yourself in the mind of a person like that and wondered just how
they see you? Does she think you’re dreamy?
Does she want to be asked out?
What
would happen if I did? I may be the one for her, in the same way that Melissa is
The One for me. That thought made me
uncomfortable. A feeling of embarrassment, for some reason. Maybe I should try
to be a little nicer, without actually encouraging her.
Was
that how Melissa felt about me? Embarrassment? Pleasant thought.
“Just
a couple more things, Betty.”
I
tried to smile, in spite of these depressing notions.
“Anything.”
Her shiny eyes locked on mine.
Yeah,
that’s what scares me, lady. I don’t want to just use you and throw you away
like some other man probably would. Even though I was the loneliest man in the
whole wide world right now.
Maybe
the whores of Southwark wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. At least they
had a certain objectivity…
“I
need to know about motors and engines, and while it’s probably a big subject…is
there one book that may be more helpful than others?” I asked.
“Come
with me.” She said, and I had little choice but to follow.
No
puns intended, of course. What would old Foreman think of that one, eh?
I
got The Broads off of a map. It
looked good, for my purposes, and it wasn’t too far away from…but I bet you can
guess. Yes, that’s right, I found out from my own private military intelligence
where Melissa was born. Her parents still lived there, and I was figuring on
seeing her by accident. If I could arrange one. (It turns out they lived in
Norwich, having let out the family home. My mistake.)
Also,
by reading the papers, (I always read the papers,) I saw an item in a society
column, where they said this certain young lady, known for her charity work,
was being promoted back to the Home Front, Old
Blighty in order to ‘better serve the needs of the brave servicemen.’
I
loved her so much, her incompetence really didn’t enter into the picture.
Simply
awesome.
Melissa
Foreman. Her dad was some big shot in the Army. She was back in England,
possibly even in London at this very moment. Food for thought.
As I
took my leave of my friend and employer, who was again looking somber, I
reflected that loss is loss. I knew what it was to be alone. My hope, forlorn
as it was, was something Robert didn’t have anymore. His wife was dead. She was
going to stay dead.
And
Melissa was engaged, presumably in love, with another man. I felt pretty somber
myself for some reason. Is there any hope? Or am I just going through the
motions, to shut out the void, the emptiness?
When
she is in my thoughts, I am not alone.
Why
do we think the thoughts we do?
As
an instructor, my leave didn’t coincide with any great gathering of men such as
often happens when a class graduates, or a unit embarks, or returns from a
theatre of war. Brilliant statement. I learned that part of my job standing on
the pavement in front of the club. It was eleven a.m. in London. I didn’t know
a God-damned soul in this town.
“This
is going to be great…”
I
could go to the War Office. Who knows, there would probably be someone there I
know. I could just drop in to say hello.
Not
much joy there. Awkward silence, then the over-friendly, ‘Will. Long time, no see.’
A
hurried effort to clear the desk and put something together for the long-lost
old acquaintance. Dinner, a drink or a show. Or worse. Depending on whoever I
might run into, a major pub crawl, or a night in Southwark. Only to wake up
bruised and robbed in some alleyway. With a disease, some nameless discharge
from the genitals.
“No
thanks.” I muttered, quickly ruling that one out.
“Any
suggestions?” I said to a taxi driver who was sitting there watching.
“Hop
in, mate, we’ll talk about it.”
He
got out to hold the door for me. Just walking by was a young beauty, and I
admired her for a moment.
“How
about the library?” I asked. “I just thought of something I might want to look
up.”
“Gee.”
He grinned. “My son’s in the infantry, in Flanders. My other boy’s in the
Observer Corps.”
“Brave
lads, the Observer Corps,” I assured him.
“Right-oh,
sir.” He grinned. “He’s got a bum leg, otherwise he’d be over there too. As
good a place as any, even though it is a sunny day for a change.”
The
big car dropped me off at the Savoy; but only after Smith-Barry had pressed a
card into my hand. He gave me a whole pile of papers in file folders as well.
“It’s
pretty obvious that you need your leave.” He apologized. “But. Call me in a
couple of days. And try to write that up, if you get the chance. Maybe you
could come up to a friend’s house for the weekend?”
I
quickly forgot about it, as I checked into a room with some gratitude. This
town was full up, with officers from a dozen nations. All the government
ministries were going full blast. Salesmen, promoters, royalty from all over
Europe came and went. Every place you went, even for a cup of coffee or a
sandwich, there was a queue. Every race, creed, color, nationality, language,
and uniform in the Empire and a hundred other countries were represented.
My
room was very expensive.
It
was a nice room, actually a suite. Very nice.
Like Caruso’s boiler room, I
mused.
Or
the Kaiser’s field latrine. All baroque, or rococo, or something like that.
Resolving
to move to a more affordable, commercial hotel as soon as possible, I dropped
into the bath. It wasn’t so much a matter of money. Rapid promotion had given
me a growing bank account. My needs were simple. A bed, a roof, a job, food,
and you, my love.
“Oh.
Golly.” I groaned. “Where is she now?”
Sad,
sad Will Tucker. As some of the aches and pains began to ooze away, all except
the one in my knee which was on fire, the words rolled over and over in my
head.
‘Not sporting,’ and, ‘Top Secret.’
And
then I thought, ‘why not?’
The
idea appealed to something deep within.
Why
not just fucking do it? If Smith-Barry was just kidding around, I’d call his
bluff.
I
started off by writing a few notes, gathering my thoughts.
***
So
far, the Germans have tended to rely on defending their own airspace, making us
come to them. They know we have to dodge Archie,
our own as well as theirs. They know we have to fight that western wind, simply
in order to get home again. The Germans, who are not cowards, have the option
of joining combat when the terms are most to their liking.
Richtofen,
Von Krumholtz, and others were known to hover far above the battlefield. Some
said as much as twenty-five thousand feet. I had my doubts about that. However,
we couldn’t overlook the possibility of a one-off, high-performance machine, or
even the use of oxygen. How would one go about enticing someone like Richtofen,
who was a scion of the lesser Prussian nobility? How could we get him to come
down out of his high perch? His technique was similar to the way my uncle and I
had hunted deer in the woodlots along the Tenth Line, in Enniskillen Township.
But
deer don’t try to get the hunter to come down out of the tree.
As a
boy, what was he like? Where did he learn? I would need to make up a watch list of names, and get it to
someone in military intelligence. I would need complete dossiers on all the
major identifiable German aces, with the names and numbers of their Jastas, along with descriptions of their
planes.
It all
seemed a bit far-fetched.
The
British had a unique outlook, the product of a public school education, and the
class system. This was geared to outdoor sport and physical fitness as much as
the study of the classics. While Greek and Latin literature may have some
bearing on life, they’re not much preparation for war. Quite frankly, much of
it is overrated.
Perhaps
it was useful in order to awe and to govern underlings, but not to fight
against true professionals.
Maybe
that’s why they needed me.
High
performance aircraft, that idea would bear some investigation. I know at least
one pilot on our side who milled down the cylinder heads on his rotary-engine
scout, thus gaining the ability to climb, a
couple of thousand feet higher than the rest of the squadron.
Height
is always an advantage, although he may have exaggerated.
Formation
flying is a definite skill and a useful asset in combat tactics. But, as soon
as combat is joined, the formation becomes unwieldy and unmanageable. There is
no communication, occasionally, not even identification. Once after returning
from a mission in two-seaters, my flight leader gave me proper shit for not
joining up at his impatient signal.
“But
I was right there beside you all the time.” I spluttered. “On the left with
fuckin’ Dingbat and Wedge.”
“Um,
um, um…who in the hell was that out there on the right, then?”
My
flight leader was furious at being contradicted—and wrong.
“For
all I know, it was Von fucking Klausewitz himself.”
I
laughed in his face.
My
new orders had arrived. Screw him.
The
point is, the tactics would have to be simple, well-practiced and relevant. For
our purposes, the aircraft would be painted in normal markings and paint jobs.
The men themselves might not even know what the mission was. Then, if they were
captured, they couldn’t give the game away. They didn’t need to know. It would
be my job to shove them around on the battlefield. Like a big game of chess.
Even
if we never did get a shot at the Baron, we could learn a lot about the art of
aerial combat. Climbing up and out of the bath, drying myself carefully, I
checked my scars. The angry red sockets would never look pretty. Bathing by the
seaside would take moral courage, but no more than the courage of the faceless ones, the thousands of
nameless, wounded infantrymen who haunted the street corners in every part of
France.
Germany
must have her share of ‘faceless ones.’
No
more courage than they would need, either. The courage to face the peace.
This
scheme would give the brass a chance to evaluate Smith-Barry’s methods, with a
whole wing of pilots trained in a consistent fashion to newer, higher
standards. Instinct told me, at the very least, their survival rate would be
better. Fewer aircraft would be lost in senseless accidents, and who knows what
kind of combat record they might achieve.
That
would largely be a matter of opportunities presenting themselves.
And I make my own luck.
There
could be a lot riding on the outcome. Maybe the boss wasn’t quite so casual as
he pretended to be. Bob wasn’t exactly stupid. With a sigh, for it was after
two a.m., I reached for the stack of files.
***
‘It
seems strange that Major S. A. Wilcox reported the enemy fighters he fought on
28/09/17 as Albatros D-IV’s. According to confidential sources at M.I.,
(military intelligence,) the D-IV is an experimental variant.’
Powered
by a 160-h.p. Mercedes power-plant, equipped with a spur gear allowing a
propeller airscrew of larger diameter and therefore greater efficiency,
according to the report.
‘The
rear fuselage and rudder are rounded. The machine was built by OeFFAG, the
Oesterreichische Flugzeugfabrik A.G. Otherwise, the aircraft mentioned in the
report are probably improved D-III’s with modified fuselages…’
A
lot of intelligence work is much ado about nothing, but they must glean a
kernel out of all the chaff from time to time. Otherwise why do it? High
altitude version, eh? Might be something in that. Why did old Smith-Barry have
all this stuff in his briefcase?
I
fell asleep at some point, sitting in my armchair, with an ashtray heaped up
beside me.
Tomorrow
would be another day, and an eventful one at that.
Proposal for Air
Fighting Development Flight
Air
Ministry, Whitehall.
Flight-Lieutenant
William S.F. Tucker R.F.C.
Savoy
Hotel, London, October 23, 1917.
We have
absorbed valuable lessons from the French experience at Verdun.
Having
had time to absorb this data, now it is time to do something about it.
Visual
observation and aerial photography are vital in the gathering of fresh military
intelligence. It is an absolute necessity to have a unified overall direction
and proper co-ordination of fighter units when engaged in offensive operations.
We have identified a need for units that are more adaptable to changing
situations and capable of performing a variety of missions.
Numerical
superiority during any offensive is critical. Fighters have to be employed in
formation, on continuous patrols over enemy lines. This is a costly policy,
because the Germans wait over their own territory. Two out of every three
casualties due to ground fire are Allied pilots. The Huns don’t need to cross
the lines to shoot down our planes. We go to them, flying both ways through the
anti-aircraft belt. In the early years of this conflict, the haphazard
application of air power resulted in conditions where a few noted individuals
could rack up a big score. The vast bulk of new pilots were shot down within
five or ten flight hours of reaching the front.
It
is extremely difficult to avoid surprise in the air. Yet no one ever predicted
this.
The
Brass thought men were being shot down because they were cowards—and so the
offensive policy. If you weren’t constantly attacking, you were a coward. No
one expects a private, without supply and support, to constantly attack the
enemy lines.
Might
as well be hung for a wolf as a sheep.
The
training of our pilots doesn’t prepare them to take on professionally-handled
enemy machines, and many get themselves killed for no purpose.
Buddha
says, ‘Don’t be stupid,’ and, ‘Do nothing without purpose.’
Our
entire rationale for the offensive stance is to permit freedom of action to our
artillery-spotting, reconnaissance and other ground support aircraft, and to
deny such freedom to the enemy.
One
machine working with a partner has a better chance of a decisive outcome.
Working
in pairs, with proper combat separation,
they exemplify mutual support and co-ordination. Simply put, one man in a Pup
may be no match for one man in a Fokker. Two men in Pups can take on three or
four enemy planes with proper tactics and co-ordination. At the very least they
provide a second pair of eyes to scan the vulnerable blind spots behind and
underneath your partner’s machine. The avoidance of surprise is a distinct
combat advantage. It enables the pilots to break away and not engage if the
enemy is vastly superior. Four, or five, or even six planes cannot be
maneuvered by one flight leader effectively. Individual pilots must have more
initiative. They also need to know what their partner is going to do. This
requires training.
Incidentally,
by doubling up our planes, we force the enemy to do the same, but most of them
are already doing it.
Imagine
two scouts, British, flying at 10,000 feet. They are directly beside each
other, and separated by a hundred yards. You are in the left hand machine. Look
over to the right. You can see your number two, and without craning your neck
away back, you can see his cone of
blindness behind the tail, and under the rear fuselage.
If
you see a threat, don’t even signal to your buddy. Just turn into it. There’s
plenty of room, and he can see instantly what you’re doing. You can blast an
enemy off his tail before he even has time to know it’s there. Pilots shouldn’t
even have to think about this.
It
must become second nature.
Four
aircraft flying in pairs are more than a match for any badly-handled group of
five or six. Especially if you can see them coming. This is where Boelcke’s
Dicta, or our own, ‘Notes on Air Fighting,’ simply cannot tell the whole story.
The
fact is that experience, all alone and of itself, is a huge advantage. What is
the problem with our pilots at present? Lack of operational experience when
they arrive at the front. Generally, the operational side of training happens
at Squadron level or even Flight level. Senior staff at the Front really don’t
have time for this.
Some
don’t even have the necessary knowledge, in regards to squadron or flight
leaders. The blind are leading the blind when it comes to training pilots.
Seventy hours of total flying time are not enough.
‘Notes
on Air Fighting,’ helpful as they may be, need to be verified, modified, and
taught. Practice makes perfect. You can’t learn to fly from a book. You have to
strap your ass to a plane. You can’t learn air combat from a book either.
You
need to practice in a safe environment.
Leadership
is always hard to find. In war it is even more difficult. The demand is high,
and the supply is small. Attrition is high. Training takes too much time to
waste it on dead men. We cannot replace all unimaginative CO’s, and the new
ones we churn out have little aerial combat experience. With all due respect to
some brave and well-meaning men, maneuvering a five or six-plane flight in the
horizontal plane is no substitute for proper combat tactics.
Our
men need to know what to expect when they go into combat, as well as what is
expected of them. We must give them the tools to succeed.
Another
problem is that the pilots who come out of our new scheme are posted alone, or
in very small batches to the squadrons at the front. Once there, they are
subject to the CO’s assessment of their abilities, not to mention the fact that
he may be using old tactical formations. What chance does the cherry have to put his new-found
knowledge to work? To show the CO what is actually possible? When like-minded
individuals, with a common book of maneuvers and tactical situations, fight as
a team?
My
preference would be to institute well-trained squadrons as a group, familiar
with each other, using a common tactical doctrine, from day one.
Only
experiment can discover if the theories are valid. Consider a two-seater,
alone, aware of an enemy on his tail. Our two-seater pilots are not trained in
dog-fighting. They turn tail and dive for the ground. ‘Experience,’ has taught
them that the enemy can’t get below them and out of the defensive fire of the
observer’s gun. Enemy pilots often break off attacks under these conditions
because they refuse to risk ground fire, or to engage with an enemy who hasn’t
been taken by surprise.
Many
of the newer two-seaters have a gun in the nose. The pilots don’t know how to
maneuver the aircraft to best advantage, using both guns to defend or engage,
in spite of a few noted individuals with a good record of success. Some of
these individuals have learned to attack. This proves that it can be done, with
the knowledge, training and confidence of an experienced pilot at the controls,
and with an observer trained to work with him as a team.
Then
they wouldn’t have to dive into the ground fire, especially if they were
working with another aircraft.
Statistics
aren’t available, but four out of five combat kills probably never saw their
assailant coming. The first thing they knew was that they were already under
attack and damaged or injured. To escape a properly-executed surprise attack is
something of a miracle.
Aerial
combat isn’t about jousting in the air.
It’s about killing enemy aircraft.
If
that doesn’t strike one as very sportsmanlike, tell that to von Richtofen, who
hovers in the sun waiting to strike at the first crippled aircraft to leave a dogfight.
The
Junkers class prefers driven game to a real hunt, where the quarry is aware of
the situation, and can shoot back. Most pilots know that a Pup or a Camel can
out-turn an enemy aircraft of a given type. Many know that at a given altitude,
they may lose this advantage. If it were possible to work out tactics using
dissimilar aircraft, under both ideal conditions and non-ideal, new chapters in
the book of air-fighting may yet be written.
Three
squadrons, one of Bristol Fighters, one of Camels and one of SE-5a fighters
would be the minimum suitable to carry out the program I propose to work out in
conjunction with Air Ministry requirements and other authorities as directed or
as the need is identified, or as I deem fit.
The
Flight would be based where logistical support can be established, where it
does not conflict with existing operations, and contributes to Home Defense. It
needs to be where security concerns are minimized, and where noise and nuisance
complaints by civil authorities won’t become a problem. A remote area far from
the city and the supervision of deskbound warriors is desirable. Due to the
rather experimental nature of our work, security concerns are addressed by the
remoteness and the small size of the working group.
Norfolk,
perhaps ‘the Broads’ area, might be suitable due to the nature of the terrain,
and its proximity to Gotha and Zeppelin routes. This presents a credible excuse
to train at high altitudes and at night.
With
the sparse population, and lots of lakes and swamps for air-to-ground gunnery
practice, the Broads would be ideal. Other than a major offensive build-up,
there really is no way to entice the enemy forces to fly over our lines, other
than occasional strategic reconnaissance, night bombing, or nuisance raids.
On
the ground, we have no choice but to attack. In the air, it is the same.
There
is no trench fighting in the air, no tunnels, no submarines.
While
legendary battles in the air may have taken thirty minutes, the truth is most
last just a few seconds. It is vital to use those seconds wisely.
We’ve
all heard the expression, he who
hesitates is lost. My students will be trained in every conceivable combat
scenario, and know exactly what to do.
My
men will not hesitate. My men will not be lost.
Our
men must be trained to, see him, kill
him, and get the fuck out, and everything else is just nonsense. But in the
light of our decision to take the battle to the enemy, for we surely have no
choice if we expect to win, then we have to be able to conduct our forces to
minimize our own losses while ‘improving’ the enemy loss-ratio.
The
sad fact is, right now half our casualties are from accidents, many in
training. It is a sad fact, but more than half of all fliers lost in combat go
down due to being Archied. This is no
excuse for inadequate combat training. The survivors still need it. We need to
train our pilots how to fight back, without having to dive into the ground
fire.
Personally,
I would love to meet Voss, Immelman or Von Krumholtz in person, face to face,
man to man.Because when you don’t see
him coming you’re dead. And it’s better than being blown to kingdom come by Archie.
It’s
not all that easy to shoot a man down. The successful ones like Guynemer,
Mannock, Bishop, Ball, Boelcke, they made a science, a study of it. They relied
on speed, surprise, and a knowledge of the other man’s weaknesses. They looked
for blind spots.
If
we plan to overwhelm the enemy with superior numbers and an offensive policy,
it’s time to put a little thought into how that overwhelming force may be used
to best advantage.
***
With
a borrowed typewriter from the hotel, it was all written up, when he called on
me two days later.
It
may have been a bit long-winded, but it was all I had, italics, barbaric style
and all. Bear in mind, I really didn’t have much schooling…
“Good
work. I thought you might have forgotten.” Smith-Barry looked pretty down, and
I reflected how sad he was lately.
He missed her, I could tell. It would have
sounded stupid to say, I understand,
for of course no one really does. His recently-departed wife clouded his mood
from time to time.
“Nice.
Short, sweet and to the point.” He said. “Most of us are afraid to criticize
our superiors.”
“Many
men hope to have a post-war career, whereas I’ll probably go back to Canada.”
“Ah,
yes. That’s always a consideration, bureaucracies being what they are.”
The
boss relaxed in his high-backed wing chair and signaled for another round of
drinks.
“I
hope you’re enjoying your leave,” he said.
“It’s
all right,” I said.
The
strong, silent type. The man of action.
We
sat in the quiet, leather-bound world of his exclusive club, where the
split-tailed coats of the waiters were bottle-green. Thick rugs, polished oak
paneling, ceiling framed in ornate coves and with rosettes around the
chandeliers. Creamy rugs, indigo curtains. Tasteful, subdued. The boss read. I
sat very quietly, and counted his page-turns so as to know how far along he
was.
“In
the early days, we were often sent out without the benefit of any intelligence
reports. Authorities did not co-operate in any way. Such reports as did reach
us were weeks out of date, and were not intelligently used…” He was quoting me
to me.
He
looked up.
“Wow.
Not pulling any punches, eh, Will?”
He
went back to reading silently while I just sat there savoring the whiskey, and
taking in the atmosphere of this famous, and very high-class club. A long way
from Enniskillen Township, and a hundred-forty acre dirt farm.
“I
like the way you have it written. It’s non-controversial,” His eyes flicked over.
“Trying
to keep personalities out if it. I’m not pointing the finger or assigning
blame, but if this idea is valid, then the people you present it to must be
made aware that the way things were done in the past is simply unacceptable.” I
explained, in a rather long speech for me.
“Well,
they’ll remember this. This is good. Hit the buggers, excuse me, right where
they live.”
He
went on.
“Early
reconnaissance reports by RFC observers were invariably disbelieved by Military
Intelligence staff at Headquarters. It is a historical fact that Von Kluck
refused to accept reports from his own aerial observers, who reported that a
gap existed between the British and French armies. If he had believed and acted
upon this information, then surely he must have crossed the Marne and Paris
would have fallen.”
“By
the way, that other matter may never come up.”
He
looked up.
“And
we shouldn’t lose sight of the benefits.” I advised.
I
had my hands relaxed in my lap. None of this Gallic gesturing in a quiet
English club atmosphere. Sometimes you just have to concentrate on being
totally relaxed. The end result of all this was still uncertain.
“I
mean Manfred.” I noted.
There
was a pause.
“This
will be presented through the proper channels.” He began. “But I have some pull
in other, shall we say, corridors.”
“Hell.
It’s just an idea. You wanted it, you got it. Write someone else’s name on it.”
He
smirked at that remark.
“I
doubt if we’ll get three squadrons. Actually, the rest of it shouldn’t be too
big of a problem.”
From
a purely technical point of view, Bob had a few squadrons already under his
command.
“The
military intelligence aspect may be a toughie.” I responded, thinking aloud.
“You
know what pisses me off?”
I
bit back further expletives, but got no stern looks from the other denizens of
the place. I had to remember, I was back in the real world.
“No,
Will. What pisses you off?” Smith-Barry looked askance. “Is your whiskey too
light?”
He
reached for the decanter, and I let him. He was looking a trifle jug-eared.
Perhaps he wasn’t a drinker. I find you have to be attuned to it.
The
kind of guy who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful, like my Uncle Ed.
Obviously,
he was under some form of stress at the time.
“Think
of Von Krumholtz, or Crown Prince Friedrich, or some other dickhead, the way
they call themselves sportsmen.” I told him. “You know the way they hunt?”
“No.
Not really.” He admitted. “Go on.”
“They
stand up on a big ledge, on a cliff. Off in the distance they can hear
gun-shots. That’s
the beaters. Then, when they see an aurochs, that’s like a big pre-historic ox,
when it walks into the clearing below them…they take a high-powered, big-bore
weapon with a telescopic sight, and they blow it away. From about thirty
yards.”
“And
you want…?”
“Give
me three squadrons.” I suggested. “And a couple of hundred thousand pounds, and
about three dozen pilots.”
Spare
engines, mechanics, motor transport, a ship…a train.
“I’ll
see what I can do.” He said, looking all introspective.
