The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1) Read online

  BOOK ONE

  The Gathering Clouds

  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 Gathering Clouds

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  The Gathering Clouds: Following on from the acclaimed Innocents At War series which featured Tommy Stark, a Great War flying ace, his son, Thomas, after seeing action in Spain, joined the RAF in the long lead up to the Second World War. Young Thomas witnessed the atrocities that the Nazis had carried out in Spain and trained his pilots to show no mercy when towards the end of the book, he breached the rules to attack German planes.

  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 Gathering Clouds

  “Perhaps we should start with your name and address, sir? And those of the others in your party?”

  The sergeant was at a loss and turned to routine to save him. He had already telephoned Police Headquarters at the Castle in Winchester and expected an Inspector or more senior officer to come down on the next train to Eastleigh station. He had a taxi waiting there, despite the cost to station funds of keeping it with the meter ticking over.

  He shook his head as he stood in the wooden hut serving rare civilians flying from the airfield. It was crowded with the fourteen passengers and two crew of the DC2 that had arrived without warning from the Channel and Bay of Biscay. They meant trouble and he much preferred a quiet life dealing with the local drunks and scowling at youths who thought of becoming rowdy; he was not in the trade of dealing with haphazard foreigners.

  It was an hour after dawn on October 10th 1938 and the country as a whole was coming to the realisation that war was inevitable, despite Mr Chamberlain’s piece of paper. The sergeant did not want to be first into the front line and rather feared that the big and unexpected aircraft might put him there.

  “My name is Thomas Stark, sir, and I am an English citizen but resident at my father’s place in Brisbane, Australia, although I have been away for nearly two years this time. I have my passport here, if you would like to see it?”

  The sergeant was pleased to do so and to confirm that the young man was Mr Thomas Stark.

  “This says your age is twenty-one, Mr Stark. You look older.”

  “A year and more in Spain is enough to make any man look old. In part I expect it’s living in the tropics that does it – I was flying for two years up in the Territory, Papua and New Guinea, before going off to holiday in Europe.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now, sir, the other people aboard the plane you flew in, sir – who are they? Are they English as well?”

  Thomas gave his best smile. He had spent much of the long flight wondering what to say when he reached England, which he had never seen before except as a very little boy. He did not know what the police were like, but the Australian press had always insisted that the English Bobby was different to their own corrupt mob. He had decided on simple candour.

  “Well, actually, no. None of them. Three Americans, all of them pilots like me. Their lady companions, as you might call them, who are all Spanish girls who have chosen to stay with them. Four Swedish men and one young lady, also Swedish. Two Germans, both of them Jews. One South African gentleman. One Spanish flier who acted as co-pilot. Fourteen passengers and two crew in total. We flew out of Barcelona in the middle of the night, wanting to be well out over Biscay before daylight, to avoid the German fighter planes which are active in daytime.”

  The sergeant was not very pleased – dealing with foreigners was always trouble.

  “I see, sir. Were you with what has been called the ‘International Brigade’, sir? I must warn you if you were that you may have broken British law and should be careful in anything you say. I won’t caution you, sir, not yet, in case you do wish to discuss anything with my superior when he arrives. Better to keep things unofficial while we can, sir. Why did you land here at Eastleigh, sir?”

  “Fuel. We have at most another one hundred miles in the tanks and this was the first field we saw after crossing the coast near Southampton. We didn’t come across it by accident, it was marked on our map, but we don’t have a proper chart for Southern England and had no knowledge of winds in the Channel. We were aiming for here as soon as we saw the Isle of Wight and knew exactly where we were.”

  It was not the best of places to land in the sergeant’s opinion – the field was in use by Supermarine for testing the new Spitfire fighter plane and could be regarded as a sensitive military location. It was likely that there were some of those spy people from London at the field, looking after it, and they would be making a fuss about the unauthorised appearance of a plane full of foreigners. When London was involved then the Chief Constable would be told; he would blame the local station sergeant for everything that went wrong. It was always the case that the local sergeant took the can when things were not going smoothly at the top – officers did not accept blame and always passed it downstairs.

  “Have all of these people got papers, Mr Stark? Passports, that is?”

  “Some of them, probably, sir. The Americans might well have, together with their logbooks. The Germans can’t have – they had to escape from Germany. The Spanish girls won’t have any papers at all – I know they burned their Republican documents for safety’s sake. My co-pilot will have his licences and logbooks – every pilot keeps them on him. About the South African, Piet, I don’t know. He was one of the Brigade, like the Swedes, a sniper, not a pilot. We picked the Swedes up last week; they were at a loose end and they’ve tagged along since, no idea what papers they might have. Nice enough blokes, in their way. Bit too much in the habit of shooting people for my liking. We had to deal with a few sentries when we grabbed the plane last night. They did it the easy way.”

  It did not help.

  The arrival of the taxi, clattering across the railway lines running beside the road to Southampton, saved the need for further questions.

  “Oh, Chris
t!”

  “Problems, Sergeant?”

  There was a very quick mutter.

  “It’s the Superintendent, Mr Stark. Very military, sir. Was a major in the Hampshires. Don’t know much about policing, sir, so be careful what you say. He’ll be worried about the Spitfires, sir, and the men from London.”

  The sergeant stepped to the door, opened it for his superior and froze into a rigid salute. Like many policemen, he was ex-Brigade of Guards and knew how to greet an officer.

  The Superintendent, bright and shiny in blue with a peaked cap, returned the salute and then asked what the exact problem was.

  “The aircraft, sir, on the field behind you. Foreign. Made unauthorised landing, sir, carrying fourteen passengers and two pilots. Mr Thomas Stark here is the man in command. He is the sole Englishman, sir, and he is Australian by residence. I have not yet collected all of the papers, sir, thinking it might be best to determine their diplomatic status first.”

  Like all policeman, the Superintendent hated diplomats.

  “Mr Stark?”

  Thomas stepped forward.

  “I am he, sir.”

  “You have your passport?”

  “The sergeant is holding it, sir.”

  The passport was inspected and found to have the stamps of many different countries, a suspicious discovery.

  “Pilots travel the world, sir. As well, I left Australia to take a holiday after two years of bush flying up in the Territory. Got to France and was persuaded into Spain. I was intending to visit England and see my parent’s old place in Wilton while I was in Europe. Possibly meet some of my mother’s relatives as well.”

  The Superintendent scowled – the Spanish Civil War was nothing but trouble. It caused riots on British streets which in turn led to letters to the newspapers condemning the police for permitting them.

  “Why did you go to Spain?”

  “Met a girl, sir, in France. She was going back to Spain and encouraged me to go as a pilot there. Remarkably persuasive, so she was – very pretty. She said there was a war coming against Germany so I should learn how to fly a fighter. She died two months ago. Bombed in Barcelona.”

  “Humph! Bad luck that. Got bombed meself, more than once, twenty years ago. Stark, from Wilton… was your father the flying ace?”

  “He was, sir.”

  “Explains why you’re a pilot. Met him once – on a leave train. Pleasant chap. In Australia now, is he? Good place to be, they say.”

  “We like it, sir.”

  The Superintendent accepted that Thomas was born to the right sort – he might well have relatives in places of power.

  “Right… well, must work out what to do with your people. German Jews, they’re no problem these days, not if they’re here already. There’s a committee in London that will take care of them. The Americans? The embassy is the place for them, but I don’t know what to do about the young women.”

  “Two at least of the Americans have got rich parents, sir. I don’t know about the third. If they can make contact, they will find a way round their system and get them into the States, supposing they’re going home, sir. Good pilots, all three, and they don’t like the Germans at all. Seen too much of their bombing and machine-gunning civilians. They might well want to stay here till the war starts and then join up.”

  The Superintendent was not sure about that idea.

  “You’ve been flying for the Reds. Don’t like that much. Don’t like Reds at all. On the other hand, you’ve been flying against the Germans. Hate the bloody Huns! Won’t be my decision, anyway. I’ll put it across to Special Branch, and they don’t know their arse from their elbow, so Christ knows what answer they’ll come up with.”

  Thomas nodded gravely.

  “Five Swedes – the four of them gun-happy, you say?”

  “All five, sir. The girl’s just as willing to shoot as the others, and better at it than two of them. I hope she emptied her handbag. I asked her to before we got aboard.”

  Superintendents were not in the habit of disarming belligerent foreign females.

  “Sergeant, ask the young lady if she is carrying a gun.”

  The sergeant turned to Thomas.

  “Does she speak English, sir?”

  “Not to me. Anders does, the tall man with the fair hair. Ask him.”

  Two minutes of persuasion and the Swedish girl sulkily produced a massive Colt Automatic from her large handbag. Another few seconds and she shrugged and heaved her skirt up to her waist and unstrapped a holster from her thigh, handed over a smaller .32 automatic, a little Belgian gun.

  “Well, Mr Stark, we could see she was keeping nothing else hidden!”

  “Very free-thinking, these Swedish girls, sir.”

  “The bloody embassy for them, I hope.”

  There was a tap on the door and a pair of middle-aged men appeared. Both looked like insignificant clerks from an insurance office, wearing grey suits with plain ties and white shirts, anonymous seeming. One of them greeted the Superintendent and showed him a small wallet with a card inside.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I am Superintendent Parkin of the Hampshire Constabulary. Do you wish to take charge of this investigation? If so, I shall be pleased to withdraw.”

  The elder of the two, slightly greyer in general appearance, probably through longer practice, smiled his thanks and nodded.

  “If you could just tell me what you have discovered so far, sir, we could decide what happens next.”

  Half an hour of identities and explanations brought the suggestion that the bulk of the sixteen should be taken to London.

  “Train to Waterloo and then we can escort the American gentlemen to their embassy, with their ladies. They can deal with their documentation and will take responsibility for them while they remain in England. Is that satisfactory, gentlemen and ladies?”

  The six gained the distinct impression that they would be wise to agree. They nodded almost in unison.

  “For the Swedish gentlemen and lady. A choice. We can put you aboard a Swedish bound ship out of Tilbury or give you into the hands of your embassy. If you prefer, you might apply for asylum in England. We can discover employment for you – we are short of Nordic linguists in our offices.”

  Anders spoke for the five.

  “The Swedish government is in the pockets of Germany. Better we don’t go back. Asylum is better, if you please.”

  That would be done and was probably the wiser course – the current Swedish government was not inclined to be kind to those returning from Spain.

  “Eleven dealt with very simply, Superintendent. Now then, the two German nationals – you will not wish to return to Germany, gentlemen?”

  They did not.

  “Very wise! There is possible employment for you, gentlemen. Please come to London with us. If you prefer, the Jewish community in London will be able to find you housing and employment. That we can discuss privately.”

  They smiled their thanks, relieved from the fear that they might be repatriated, with certain death awaiting them.

  “Just two remaining. Mr Piet Botha – the simplest course is to pass you across to your High Commission. As a citizen of the Empire, you are at liberty to join the British Army, if you wish. No action will be taken against you for fighting for the forces of a foreign government.”

  Piet gave a brief bow, said that he would speak to his people but suspected that he would be pleased to volunteer. There were still Germans to be killed; Italians as well, if they were available.

  “The Spanish gentleman provides a difficulty. Britain is not accepting refugees from Spain. That said, as a trained and experienced pilot, sir, we can no doubt discover employment for you. You will be looked after, sir, quietly. You may have to leave England, possibly for Canada.”

  The Spaniard bowed in his turn. Like most pilots he had a sufficiency of English to get by.

  There was a silence and then Thomas ventured to enquire what was to become of him.

&nbs
p; “You are an Englishman, Mr Stark. What you do is up to you, sir. I would remind you that conscription is likely to be introduced this year or next. I must warn you that service with the armed forces of a foreign country may be a criminal offence in the United Kingdom, but that there will be no immediate investigation of your actions. Beyond that, sir, you are at liberty to go, but not before you have disposed of the alien aeroplane cluttering up this field. Are you the lawful owner of the plane, sir?”

  Thomas had rather feared they might ask that question.

  “No.”

  “Who is, sir?”

  “Probably the Republican government of Spain.”

  “Leaving aside that the Republican government hardly exists any longer, do you have their permission to fly this aircraft, sir?”

  “Implicitly, yes, inasmuch that I am a pilot of their Air Service, which admittedly no longer has planes or active airfields, but which has not dismissed me.”

  The elder of the grey functionaries scowled.

  “I shall inform the RAF, sir, and request them to dispose of the plane. I do not think you should fly it again, sir. Better it should be in government hands.”

  “Can I pick up my suitcases from the hold, sir? I have all of my logbooks there.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, sir. I started flying when I was ten, my father thinking it was a good sport for a boy. I believe he was much the same age, or a little older, when he first flew, well before the Great War. I have a lot of hours behind me, sir.”

  The Superintendent intervened to explain who Tommy’s father was.

  “The VC? I remember him from the last war. Often in the headlines.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The budding hostility evaporated – a war hero made a useful father.

  “Will you seek to join the RAF, Mr Stark?”

  “If they will take me, sir. It might be better for me to go back to Australia. I would have no problem picking up a commission there. Thing is, sir, I would not much like to spend months at this Cranwell place, learning to fly, sir.”