A Wretched Victory (Innocents At War Series Book 6) Read online

  Andrew Wareham

  A Wretched Victory

  Innocents At

  War Series

  BOOK SIX

  Digital edition published in 2017 by

  The Electronic Book Company

  A New York Times Best-seller

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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.

  A Wretched Victory

  Copyright © 2017 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

  Epilogue

  By the Same Author

  Introduction

  A Wretched Victory: 1918: Ludendorff makes his predicted Spring Offensive and takes Haig by surprise! Tommy’s pilots are forced to use low flying tactics to thwart the advance. The relentless daily raids are effective, but the loss of pilots and growing fatigue make them unsustainable. The arrival in strength of the Americans ends the German advance and then the ravages of the Spanish Flu’ turn the tide of war against Germany.

  About the Series: The Royal Flying Corps grew from the amateur hobbyists flying the earliest and most dangerous machines. Mostly drawn from the Army and Navy, the pilots regarded themselves as gentlemen members of a new club. The Great War saw the death of amateurism - except in the higher ranks - and the unplanned, fortuitous creation of a professional force.

  Innocents at War follows the career of Anglo-American flier, Tommy Stark, an enthusiastic boy forced to grow up quickly as many around him die. His deep affection for squire’s daughter, Grace is his only certainty as the bitter conflict threatens to strip the world of its innocence.

  Books best read in series order

  Chapter One

  Editor’s Note: A Wretched Victory was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings, punctuation and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English. For example: the author uses the British/RFC alternative spelling, ‘taxy’ when referring to aircraft ground movements, rather than the now more common form: taxi. (Notes updated 18 March 2017)

  A Wretched Victory

  Tommy glanced quickly to his left, where he had seen something happening in the hurly-burly of the fighting aircraft – a dogfight, the newspapers called it, and they were always right, so that was its proper name. There had been a plume of smoke and fire, a collision probably. One of these bloody triplanes and a Camel, he saw, falling almost together, the tripehound in flames, the Camel coming out of a spin but still diving. Good flying to get back that much control. He had no time to see more, had been too many seconds in a straight line.

  He pushed hard into a spiralling climb to starboard, looking behind, below, above, port then starboard, finally to his front, all in fractions of a second. That was what kept a man alive, he knew, the ability to look and see instantaneously – and that only came with experience, and a pilot only gained experience if he stayed alive in the first instance – how could he teach that to his green hands?

  There was an Albatros to his starboard, a little lower and slightly ahead of him, almost on the same line, bright blue and with a hound painted on the cockpit; it made a good target. He whipped round towards its tail, fired a quick burst from the quarter as he came on line, saw the dog’s head burst apart, suspected that the pilot inside had fared no better. He continued his turn, pushed into a sharp dive, risked another look down at the flooded mess that was Passchendaele.

  At eight thousand feet it was almost impossible to tell one shell-hole from the next – the valley seemed one great inundation. There was land there, he knew, tracts of mud between the pools. There were men as well, tens of thousands of them scrabbling their way through the morass. He spotted a Camel, very low, turning to the west, its outline untidy, something dangling.

  ‘Quite right, too’, he thought. ‘Damaged, on his own and sneaking off home’.

  He worked his way higher, looking now at the dogfight, spotted a Flight of triplanes below him, coming together and turning in a dive to the east. The Fokkers had only a very small petrol tank, it seemed, could patrol for a bare hour; fortunate too, for they were better than a Camel at close quarters. They were, however, an amount slower; a diving Camel could make a pass from behind with a good expectation of success. He exchanged height for speed and came down on the rearmost of the group, hitting behind the cockpit and then hauling his nose up, the twin lines of fire walking their way along the fuselage and as far as the engine, the dead hand of the pilot dropping the triplane into a final spin.

  Tommy made no attempt to pull out of his dive; there were four other triplanes there and he was not going back to mix it with them. He turned his head to the west, spotted another Camel at six thousand feet and dropped into formation with it. A pair was far safer than flying alone. He waved, saw it was Captain Potter, successor to the jolly fellow who had been Ikey’s replacement, the one who had spun in on his first flight in a Camel, with the squadron for a few hours, almost forgotten because he was useless. Potter was good, however; valuable in the squadron as well, a leader by nature. He had been given the nickname ‘Shards’.

  They landed and taxyed in, switched off and wandered across to Nancy.

  Tommy was senior, made his report first.

  “Killed a brace, Nancy. Albatros in the middle of the fight – doubt anyone will have seen that to confirm it – they were all far too busy. Then I picked off Tail-End Charlie from a Flight of tripehounds going home. Lost at least one of ours – he collided with a tripehound and went down. Under control, he may not be dead. Don’t know who.”

  Captain Potter shook his head, voice gloom-filled.

  “Billy Parsons, Tommy. Flying as my number two. The new lad who came in yesterday. Could have been good; just inexperienced, went left where he should have gone right. I saw him go down, get his spin under control and hit the mud. He just kept going down, Tommy – went straight under, sucked into the mud. If he was still alive, he bloody well drowned!”

  “Jesus! That’s rough!”

  “Don’t expect to drown flying a fighter, Tommy! Oh, I saw your triplane – you hit him square from behind and he spun all the way down. Made a bloody great splash!”

  Nancy gravely noted their words.

  “What about you, Shards?”

  “Damaged a pair, I think, in the first flurry. Nothing certain. Albatroses. I was trying to keep Billy close – if they live through the first fight, they’ve got a chance, Nancy.”

  They watched the remainder of the squadron in; three carrying damage, but no other losses.

  “Who came in first, Nancy? I saw one man low and in a mess and heading home.”

  “One of Drongo’s boys, Tommy. A great streamer of canvas flapping behind him – but it wasn’t his. Caught around his wheels – both of which stayed attached, to the surprise of all. I haven’t heard the story yet.”

  Drongo had appeared from England six weeks previously, replacing Noah as squadron commander. He was still in a state of some shock at his promotion, saying that it was a long way in four generations from convict to major in the British Army; he was not sure that his father would forgive him.

  Colonel Sarratt, in command of Wing, was more in a state of horror – he had not had close contact with an unregenerate Australian before.

  “Anything to say, Tommy?”

  Nancy always asked pilots for their observations – new tactics; particular aircraft; identifiable pilots – anything that might add to their knowledge of the opposition.

  “Colours of this lot, Nancy. New, I think. Individual pilots with their own insignia – the Albatros had a dog on its side. New squadron perhaps, but still with the older planes.”

  “Noted, Tommy. I suspect they are being given some experience while they wait for their new stuff to come in. There’s an Albatros that is thought to be very hairy, and a biplane Fokker that will be fast and very strong – able to outdive everything; a new engine from Mercedes, and a better one from BMW in the making. Then there are the ground-attack planes which are ready but are being held back. There’s a whiff of planning in the air, Tommy, as if the new machines are to be brought in all at the same time, rather than trickled in. Personally, I would say that there is going to be one hell of an attack come the spring. The Yanks will be here by late summer – in their hundreds of thousands. It will make sense to batter us or the Frogs flat before the doughboys arrive.”

  “’Doughb
oys’?”

  “That’s what they are calling them. Why has not been vouchsafed to me.”

  “Strange – I expect there is some reason for it.”

  Poacher knew why they had the name – it was old as the hills, he said.

  “Most of them American soldiers who come first, and their Marines, which is supposed to be better than the soldiers, and they are good… Where was I? Hard work, trying to say anything in this here King’s English, Tommy, old chap! Anyway, they’re volunteers, and mostly country boys. Blokes who ain’t volunteered, which is mostly bloody townies, reckon they’re stupid, and they’ve always called daft country lads ‘doughbakes’, or so they do down my neck of the woods. If you’re only a bit daft, then it’s ‘doughy’ – so, allowing for them being Americans, what can’t talk proper English anyway, you get doughboys.”

  Tommy admired the logic, and suspected it might be correct – it would do. He was also impressed by the effort Poacher was making, though regretting as well the loss of the homely old accent. It allowed him to fit into the Mess, which was necessary, particularly if he was to make his next step up the ladder.

  Colonel Sarratt, who did not approve of any colloquialisms, also thought Poacher was doing well, especially because he had now topped twenty confirmed kills. He had four men in his three Camel squadrons with more than ten kills to their credit, knew that he gained reflected glory from them.

  “Colonel Salmond has been given the Training Division, temporarily, it seems. Sent back to England last month, as you know. Something messy going on, I think. Don’t know who’s doing what, just at the moment.”

  Tommy glanced across at Nancy, raised an eyebrow, received an elaborate shrug.

  “Whatever is going on, Colonel – and I’m damned sure something is – they are keeping their mouths shut just for the while. My people out here know nothing, and London ain’t telling us. I think Boom is on his way out – but when, I have no idea. He still has Haig’s confidence – which might be why he’s under pressure, a way of stabbing Haig in the back.”

  Tommy was disgusted – not at the attack on Haig, but at the abuse of Boom, who had many faults, but a number of virtues as well.

  “Dirty!”

  They agreed with Tommy, put their minds to some serious drinking, the weather having turned wet again and looking as if it was set in for the night.

  “What happened with your chap this morning, Drongo?”

  “Simon? He must have clipped a Jerry – he thinks it might have been an Albatros; he saw one close out of the corner of his eye. He was in a turning contest with a tripehound – and losing out – when three Albatroses came across in a straight line between them but a bit lower, with me on the tail of the last man. New hands, must have been, no idea what they were doing. The first of them disappeared – I never did see the going of him – and I bagged number three and then the second bludger. I reckon the first one scraped his top wing off against Simon’s undercart – just the fabric hooking up. There was a strip twenty foot long torn off.”

  “Bloody lucky! Simon, did you say?”

  “Yeah – not much use as a pilot but he’s scored four in a bloody week, would you believe? Lucky ain’t the word for him, Tommy. Jerry just lines up for him to take a pot at.”

  They were not surprised. Luck was a fact. They knew of outstanding pilots who had never scored a kill unshared – men who had flown well and tried their hardest; then there were types like Simon.

  “Get him a gong quickly, Drongo – good luck don’t last too long.”

  “He’s waterproof, Tommy. His triplane forgot about him and turned for a shot at me, sat up begging under Simon’s guns – he made number four. Then he came on home because the Camel was flying a bit queer – wallowing, he said, which ain’t no great surprise trailing half of an Albatros’ wing behind it.”

  “Born to be hanged, so they say, Drongo – Jack Ketch is the only bloke liable to do for him.”

  The beer flowed and the rain fell – Tommy later thought that was his main impression of the Battle of Passchendaele, pouring rain and drowning his sorrows. The only event that stood out was his birthday, which the squadron seemed to think was important. They presented him with a signed letter of good wishes, and fed him and themselves with all of the delicacies they could lay their hands on, the cooks producing five separate courses at dinner; then they all got riotously drunk, even more so than normal.

  Colonel Sarratt grounded them next day, informing Brigade that they had eaten something that had disagreed with them, a minor food poisoning, in fact; none of his men were fit to fly – which was true.

  The battle petered out through November, but the rain continued and the squadrons spent more time on the ground than in the air. Colonel Sarratt badgered HQ with demands to be permitted to send his pilots on leave, received the same response of ‘not yet’ each week.

  In mid-November, they were told the astounding news that there was to be a third force created, an Air Force, in fact; they yawned. Instead of being a Corps of the Army, the Royal Air Force was to come into existence as an equal to the Army and the Navy; the Naval Air Service was to become a part of the RAF, they were told – no more interference from the Admiralty.

  “Who runs the seaplane carriers, Colonel Sarratt?”

  That was still to be decided, Nancy was not to worry himself about that.

  “When will the RAF be formed, sir?”

  “In the spring, Tommy. A new force, with its own ranks and medals and headquarters!”

  “Lots of generals and offices for them to fill, no doubt, sir. Hurray.”

  “We will be independent, Tommy – no longer at the beck and call of ignorant soldiers.”

  “Getting rid of Trenchard and Henderson and Sykes, are they, sir? Each one of them has a quarter of a century in the Army, and at most five years in the RFC. Don’t see it makes a hell of a lot of difference what you call us, myself, if you keep the same people. They will still make the same mistakes.”

  Colonel Sarratt was reproachful.

  “I had thought that as an airman – and never a soldier - you might have wanted to see the air given its own service, Tommy.”

  “No, sir. I need land to come back to every couple of hours, and when I am fighting, it is to assist the soldiers to win the war. I think it is a mistake, sir – but what I think don’t matter, because I shall still say ‘yes, sir’, the same as I always have.”

  “Except when you get annoyed, Tommy.”

  “That won’t change either, sir.”

  “No, I suppose not. Have you heard anything from England lately?”

  Colonel Sarratt could not bring himself to ask whether Tommy’s father-in-law, the politician, Lord Moncur, had given him any inside information on the war recently, but he very much wanted to know what was happening.

  “Russia, sir. Going fast into civil war. Germany is said to be shifting several army corps to the west. How many is ‘several’ is unknown – but it’s a good bet they will have another one hundred thousand men on the Western Front by spring, probably a few weeks before the Americans get here.”

  “So… a German Big Push, for a change. No reason to suppose they will be more successful than we have been, Tommy.”

  Tommy was equally complacent – the stalemate had lasted for more than forty months and was probably set for as long again. The war would be won by the blockade, not by the military.

  “The front is unbreakable, sir. They won’t do any better than us. It won’t do any harm to put some extra Archie around the field, just in case – they are bound to try ground attacks. First we will know of the Big Push will be Jerry trying to destroy us in the dawn. If we could pick up more pom-poms, sir, it would be useful. I have heard that they have two-pounders as well now, sir, quick-firing guns that can be used as both low- and high-angle artillery. They did well for us the only time we were raided. If we can’t get them, then twin-Lewises could be handy. We would need a few old conscripts to man them as well – always plenty of useless bodies hanging about, they’ll be glad to find a billet for them.”