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

  BOOK TWO

  The Breaking Storm

  ANDREW WAREHAM

  Digital edition published in 2019 by

  The Electronic Book Company

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  The Breaking Storm

  Copyright © 2019 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  The Breaking Storm: Following on from the Innocents At War Series featuring Tommy Stark, a WW1 flying legend, his son, Thomas, joined the RAF in the run up to the Second World War. Thomas witnessed the atrocities that the Nazis had carried out in Spain and trained his pilots to be merciless. In book two, after falling foul of the top brass, his squadron continued to attack German aircraft.

  Chapter One

  Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings, punctuation and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  The Breaking Storm

  “Take all that remains of 186 Squadron back to England, Stark. To Little Foxton again. You will rebuild from the wreckage, Stark. I would suggest you might try to conform to the standards of the RAF on this occasion. You may lose fewer of your pilots next time.”

  Air Commodore Branksome was crudely, overtly triumphant. The sole losses in his command had occurred in Stark’s squadron, which was the only one to use flights of four aircraft in loose formation. He had warned the arrogant young upstart that his unconventionality would be his downfall and now he had been proved right. He had known how it would be from the start – there was no substitute for proper obedience to the rulebook which had been written by wiser, older heads. It was fortunate that the pilots had all been foreigners and thus no loss to the RAF or to the country as a whole; had Stark thrown away the lives of true Britons then he would have had much to answer for.

  He had discussed the problem of Stark with several of his open-handed acquaintances from the Italian embassy; they appreciated that RAF pay was pathetically low and that a man had expenses. Italy was not at war with Britain and so there was no reason at all why he should not talk with the representatives of the great and generous man, Signor Mussolini. He had spent a most enjoyable evening partying with them immediately before Stark’s comeuppance in the morning.

  There could be no possible relationship between the two events – the Luftwaffe was German, not Italian. His conscience was clear, why should it not be? In any case, the war was an aberration. Germany and Britain were natural allies, should be fighting side by side to clear the world of the Communist Jewish menace to civilisation.

  Branksome made his opinions clear to his staff two days after the disaster, gravely pointing out that not only was the war unnecessary, it was also unwise. As was clear from these losses, the Luftwaffe was too dangerous as an enemy – far more sensible to become an ally of the new genius of the Free West.

  They showed amazement at his measured words of wisdom, all apart from one outsider foisted upon him late on the previous evening. From London – something to do with Intelligence. Wholly unnecessary – Air Commodore Branksome had his own sources and knew exactly what was happening in the world.

  The man from Intelligence merely nodded gravely, lacking the courtesy to put his hands together in the measured applause offered by the remainder of the staff. Perhaps the little man had not yet learned what was correct behaviour in a staff officer. Branksome would give him the benefit of the doubt, in the short term. He turned to one of his young men, a squadron leader who he had brought up in his own ways.

  “Alastair, what’s his name, that fellow from Intelligence?”

  “The naval chappie? Don’t know, sir – never asked.”

  “Find out for me, will you? I suppose I should know. He’s only here for a week, I gather, perhaps less – finding out how we do things up at the sharp end, I must imagine. London sees nothing of the real war, they must want to discover how we go about it.”

  If he was only to be present for a week, it was hardly worth the effort of getting to know the fellow, Alastair thought. The next day would do for introducing himself – he was due to play a round of golf that afternoon and there was a show to see in the evening – very new and risqué even by Parisian terms, he was assured.

  Lieutenant Tom Arkwright, present under the name of Commander Thomas Hood, RN, asked a few questions of the younger, less aware, staff officers and discovered that Air Commodore Branksome was on the best of terms with neutral diplomats and spent much of his time in their company. He was said to have been a friend of Count Ciano before the war and to know his cousin, who was on the staff of the embassy in Paris, very well.

  “Both of them bachelors, old chap – close friends, some say. Intimate acquaintances, what?”

  This was evidently a huge joke, leading to roars of laughter.

  It seemed as well that the Air Commodore was regularly in the company of the Italians and displayed great respect for Mussolini, apart from any more personal considerations.

  “No surprise, old fellow – all the best people in London feel the same, you know. Finest thing that could happen, this war – gives the chance to bring an end to this nonsense of Parliament and so-called democracy. The Air Commodore has explained it all to us. A few more weeks and we shall be back to a proper way of doing things in England.”

  Tom took a staff car out to the airfield that afternoon and used his accreditation from Intelligence to have a very senior officer pulled off the regular Dragon Rapide service to London, sitting in his seat with a smug grin, even though he was about to endure the torture of a flight. He hated flying. It was pleasant, though, to have the clout to throw a colonel off and take his place. He made a note of the colonel’s name, suspecting he might be well advised never to come near his sphere of influence. He reported to Nancy Brotherton in mid-evening.

  “Open and shut, sir. Branksome was informed of the operation in the early afternoon. He spent the evening in the company of members of the Italian embassy in Paris. The squadron on the operation was ambushed next morning by the waiting aircraft of two Luftwaffe squadrons. It might be coincidence, but it don’t seem likely. The only question is whether he was loose-mouthed or deliberately played the traitor’s part. He has made no secret of his expectation of a Fascist takeover in London.”

  Nancy asked for details and
then nodded his satisfaction with Tom’s work.

  “Hard to tell if he’s an active traitor, Tom. We know that there was cable traffic from the Italians in Paris to Rome. All coded, as normal and we have yet to break their latest cypher. No proof there. We have cleared all of our people who were in the know, including Major Curtis. It might have been another member of Branksome’s staff, of course, but they seem to be a thoroughly anodyne bunch – selected for their ability to kiss their master’s arse and cheer for Hitler and with no other abilities or contacts. I will take the business higher, Tom. Back to the house in Hertfordshire for you, Tom, out of sight. You can remain unknown until I need to send you back into the field on another day. Very useful to have an anonymous officer to be put on a staff for a day or two with the right accent and knowing the correct names. You can expect to be used again for this sort of job, Tom. You did well.”

  Nancy attended the daily early morning meeting of the Committee, as always, briefly exchanging such information as was safe with his equivalents from the three services and the Metropolitan Police and the other intelligence department. He did not ever discuss the most secret activities of his own people, being convinced that the other intelligence department was leaky, thoroughly penetrated by Moscow.

  “The losses to the RAF last week are very likely the result of information, gentlemen. I have word that Air Commodore Branksome has, at minimum, a loose mouth. He is definitely politically untrustworthy.”

  The Army, Navy and RAF shook their heads; they had no information. The Met by its nature knew nothing of events in France. The other department agreed.

  “Word from our sources in Paris suggests he is in a relationship with a member of Ciano’s family. Male, of course. Our closest watcher is of the opinion that Branksome is probably unsound. No hard evidence to see him convicted in the Old Bailey.”

  “A trial might not be desirable in any case, John.”

  “Not at all, Nancy, yet it does now seem that his mouth should be stopped.”

  Nancy looked around the five sat at the table.

  “Is there any objection?”

  They shrugged – Air Commodores were not so very rare a species. The loss of one was of minor significance.

  “Next business?”

  186 Squadron – the six pilots remaining from the original thirteen – flew into Little Foxton and parked up at their original, still empty hangars. There were ten new Hurricanes on the hard standing, waiting for them.

  “What are those things next door, Thomas?”

  A squadron of low wing monoplanes, very pointed in the nose and armed with a turret carrying four Brownings.

  “Bloody Defiants! They must have worked up a squadron, Hank. Pity the poor sods who fly in them.”

  “Two-seaters and with the weight of the turret as well – slow and un-manoeuvrable!”

  “Careful what you say. We’ll be sharing a mess with the poor sods.”

  Rod, the adjutant, had flown across on the previous day, was waiting for them.

  “Rooms are arranged. Thirteen put aside. None sharing. There are spare rooms as they had built more accommodation. The Defiants are two-seaters, pilot and a sergeant gunner and the expectation had been that they would have Blenheims, which have a crew of three, two of them commonly officers.”

  They tried to make sense of this, decided it didn’t matter. They wandered off to drop their overnight bags into their rooms.

  Thomas found his office and asked why it was unheated on a cold winter’s day.

  “Cock-up, Thomas. The boilers run on coal and they forgot to deliver any extra this week. Be here tomorrow.”

  “Happens, Rod. I should meet the Defiants’ CO.”

  “In the mess. You’ll find him there much of the time, I gather. It’s an Auxiliary squadron. They had Gladiators, were transferred into Defiants two weeks back.”

  “What the hell are they doing on the Channel coast if they’re not worked up, Rod?”

  “I gather, Thomas, from the little their adjutant will say, that they informed Group they were all experienced hands in their Glads and could make the change to Defiants in a matter of days. Easy!”

  “Of course! I should have realised.”

  Thomas walked into the familiar surroundings of the mess he had left a couple of months earlier. Still the same barmen and waiters, he saw – older aircraftmen, no longer fully physically fit but able to work inside, out of the cold. He was wearing flying gear, having no other clothing with him. The mess was half full, all of the Defiant pilots present and correctly attired in working dress with starched collars and ties; they were very smart, all well-tailored.

  Their CO stood and greeted Thomas.

  “Adrian Wilbraham, old chap, Squadron Leader, 64 Auxiliary Squadron.”

  “Thomas Stark, 186 Squadron, or all that remains of it.”

  “Do take a seat, old chap. Eleven o’clock – sun’s over the yardarm, time for a beer?”

  Thomas had noticed every man in the Mess to have a pint at his side.

  “Tea, please, Adrian. I’ve a busy day ahead of me yet. Do you know if any of my new pilots have arrived? I saw that the planes were here.”

  “Yes, the Hurries came in yesterday.”

  They had been left outdoors overnight; if it had rained their canvas wings would be soaked and water would have pooled inside them. Thomas thought that was slack; very poor on the part of the Defiants’ ground staff.

  “I’ll have to arrange to get them inside, Adrian. The Hurricane’s an old bus, you know, still uses canvas on part of the wings.”

  Adrian gathered this might not be an excellent thing, vaguely wondered why. He had heard the name Stark before, he thought, but could not quite place it. He must ask his uncle when next he saw him – he had been RAF for many years, had retired as a Wing Commander in 1930, his career having stagnated after a promising start; something had gone wrong in the Great War.

  “Still, you can soon deal with that, Stark. Just talking over this bloody nonsense from Wing, Thomas. Have you read your copy? I know your adjutant had it to hand.”

  “No time for anything yet, Adrian. What is it?”

  “Dining! All squadron dinners are suspended for the duration. No Dining-In. Mess bills to be not greater than one half of pay. No extras. Have you ever heard of such bloody nonsense, Thomas?”

  “Sounds like good sense to me, Adrian. All of my pilots are foreign, of course. Most of them have no money in this country. The Poles particularly can’t get hold of anything other than their pay. Can’t expect them to waste their cash on dress uniforms. Besides that, with the food shortages coming in, won’t be able to splash out on six course meals. We don’t ever Dine-in in 186.”

  Adrian could not approve.

  “Talking of dress, old chap, when do you expect your wardrobes to come in? Can’t exactly say I’m easy with the thought of your people coming into luncheon and dinner in flying dress. We do have an example to set on the field, you know.”

  Thomas resolved to be polite – they had to work together.

  “Should be here tomorrow. The mechanics took off at dawn in a mix of planes – whatever there was to hand. They loaded all of their tools and spares and they will be in over the next hour or two, I should imagine. Everything else was stuck onto lorries and will come by way of Dover. Middle of tomorrow at earliest, I would expect. Managed to load a Bombay with a ton of three-o-three rounds, so we will be ready to fly, first thing. Sounds like engines now, Adrian. I should be out there to get them sorted.”

  Adrian could not see why that should be. The engineers and the other dirty-handed chaps could look after themselves quite well. They were good at such things. He was, he said, a little surprised that tools and such were given priority over the officers’ trunks and cases – civilised behaviour was not unimportant. He found that he was talking to himself, the man Stark having found it necessary to go out to the hangars.

  Thomas returned two hours later, caught the mess-sergeant’s eye.r />
  “Haven’t the time to sit to a meal just now. Put me up a plateful of sandwiches and a cup of tea in my office, please. Same for Rod.”

  “That is the Adjutant, I presume, sir? Mr Wilbraham is generally insistent on meals being taken properly, sir.”

  “I am insistent on your cooperation when I am busy, Sergeant! I expect the food within ten minutes.”

  Sergeants did not argue with officers.

  “Certainly, sir. Pickles, sir?”

  “Not for me. An apple would be welcome.”

  The sergeant was not entirely pleased, the more because he had been informed there would be no further formal dinners. He had always been able to pad the bills for the extras and tuck at least five pounds an evening into his own pocket; that income had ended and his retirement to the ownership of his own pub was postponed by some years. Now, to make things worse, he had to cater for the needs of foreigners and squadron leaders who did not know the proper ways of going on.

  Being an experienced NCO, the mess-sergeant knew who Squadron Leader Stark was and had a good idea of his contacts and range of influence. He was fairly sure that the new man punched more heavily than Mr Wilbraham. It was a pity, but as a betting man he knew how unwise it was to back outsiders.

  “Very good, sir. It would be possible, sir, to put a gas ring into the squadron offices and have one of my people there to produce tea and coffee and knock up a sandwich or such when called for.”

  “That’s a good idea. Please do that, Sergeant.”

  Squadron Leader Wilbraham came across to Thomas’ office soon after lunch.

  “I say, Stark, old chap, a bit of a problem, you know… Not me, as such, but some of my lads… You might say we wondered just a little about your man Charles… Not quite the sort they’re used to, you know.”

  “Chas McPherson? Good pilot. Picked up an Arado and then a Me 110 for his second kill in that bloody shambles we were involved in. Flown for years, mostly light aircraft in the Caribbean. You may have noticed him to be heavily sun-tanned. Not necessarily one of the gentry, Chas, but a damned good pilot, and that is all that counts, do you not agree?”