The narrative threads I spun out so easily resist weaving now, and tangle in fingers gone suddenly clumsy. So many plot lines...Ack!
Nothing for it but to Carry On. There is not a moment to be lost!
______________________________________À la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Part 11019 October 1918No. 24 Squadron RAF
Athies, France
Captain Douglas Carruthers arrived yesterday evening to take command of A Flight. Quite an old hand, he flew with No. 1 and No. 7 Squadrons as an Observer for most of 1916, then got his wings and returned to France with 29 Squadron. This Summer he flew with 85 and 84 Squadrons.
Fourth Army continues to push across the Selle river. The Huns are cracking. Saw A & C Flights up with bombs on the early morning show. Heavy mist and occasional rain but we must get after the Hun. Heading out of the Squadron Office to give the bag a thrashing when Wing telephoned with an urgent request to destroy an offending balloon NE of La Groise. Scruffy volunteered to lead the attack. I went along as did Bissonette. I might have preferred a full Flight but the three of us would have to suffice.
Taking no chances, we headed west and away from the lines for climb out. 12 miles west of the lines we popped out of a cloud and practically into an entire Jasta of Fokkers heading north.
Thank the gods they didn’t see us. We dashed into the nearest cloud. Taking the long way round to the south, we were nearly to the balloon when two Fokkers dropped out of the clouds. One caught me with a spray of bullets as I broke hard right. No damage. Both then went after Bissonette. Scruffy caught onto the trailer and shredded his starboard wing.
When Scruffy’s guns jammed, I finished the Hun. The second Fokker took an unhealthy interest in Captain Longton.He failed to check his tail, and fell in defense of the Kaiser’s balloon.
Bissonette was nowhere to be found. Formed with Scruffy and we searched in the deteriorating conditions for the gasbag. After a frantic 5 minutes we spied it at last. The Boche gunners had the range and gave us one hell of a shellacking.
I started the balloon smoking. Scruffy followed in and set it ablaze.Enraged by the loss of their dirigible, the Archie crews redoubled their efforts. As we raced west the Huns threw up everything they had. Flaming onions flew uncomfortably close. I could see the flame and smell the cordite of exploding flak.
There was a tremendous *bang* and a bright flash directly in front of F5459. Something bounced off my jaw. The Wolseley groaned in a most disconcerting manner. The steam of escaping coolant fogged my goggles. The cockpit remained dry but I smelled leaking petrol.
We crossed into British lines. I throttled back but the temperature gauge climbed rapidly. Moislans aerodrome lay in the distance. I thought I could make it…
Moislans in sight when the Wolseley quit.I touched down in the field 20 yards short of the aerodrome and bounced my way onto the airfield. Scruffy flew by twice, then seeing my wave he waggled his wings in response and headed off to Athies.
Too close. If that had been a full Schwarm instead of a mere two balloon defenders things might have gone differently.
_________________________
It wasn’t until I lowered the hood of my Sidcot and felt the sticky, painful tug on my jaw that I realized I was bleeding. The MO at Moislans dressed the cut but declined to stitch the wound. He held up a mirror. It was a clean laceration along one and a half inches along the jawline.
“Only have Benzocaine here and that won’t do for you, sir. You’ll need the Clearing Station for this job.”
I’d have something to show Smokey, though this was but a scratch compared the scar he carried. I wondered about the Old Bull. I hadn’t heard from him since September and he didn’t answer my last two letters. He was never a prolific correspondent but the silence of two month was cause for worry.
Moislans lay 8 miles north of Athies. The vast medical complex at Doingt was on the way back to the aerodrome. Corporal Chorley arrived in the Shelsley and we went directly there. The place swarmed with incoming casualties. I waited three hours before a surgical nurse stitched me up. She mentioned that 55 CCS left today for Bohain. No. 55 were here for the last two weeks and I never knew it! It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. When I inquired after Eliza, the nurse didn’t recognize her name. Eliza must still be up north.
Off to dinner now. I don’t want to be late to my own party. The rain is constant and will continue through tomorrow at the least. Disastrous for the offensive but No 24 Squadron need to blow off some steam. The past six weeks have been an exhausting slog for officers, NCOs and most especially for the men. I purchased and four extra cases of decent Rum. One for the NCOs and three for the men. A proper Rum didn’t come cheaply these days but they’d earned it and more.
___________________________
Lt. Young, our mess president, rose to the occasion and arranged a dinner that rivalled the finest efforts of his legendary predecessor. What an evening. What a binge! Colonel Cairnes to his everlasting credit brought with him a special guest. Uncle! I felt quite the heel for not making the invitation myself but it was all to the good. He was there at the beginning. Only right that we were together at the end.
“You’ve come far, my boy. See it though now. The bloody thing will be ended soon.”
After dinner and the speeches, the party took a turn for the wild. Uncle took up station on the piano and led the singsong. The entire RAF knew the words to the song of Fifty-Four, even if they changed the squadron number to suit.
Oh! We came out from Birmingham
To see the great big war –
There was Oxo right chock full of fight,
And Nobby out for gore.
Archie shot at us ‘Gr-r-umph! Umph!’
And blacked the sky so blue,
When right up flew a Halberstadt
And said, ‘And vitch vos you?’
Chorus:
Oh we’ve come up from Twenty-Four.
We’re the Sopwith Pups, you know.
And wherever you dirty swine may be
The Sopwith Pups will go.
And if you want a proper scrap,
Don’t chase 2Cs anymore.
For we’ll come up and do the job,
Because we’re TWENTY-FOUR.
A two-seater looked at Oxo
And “Vat vos you?” he said;
And Oxo blushed quire red with rage,
and shot the blighters dead.
The we found some Hun balloonists
Behind old Vendhuille town;
The seemed keen to pull it in,
And so we helped it down.
Chorus – Oh we’ve come, etc.
Then the Hun, he looked down on Peronne,
From which he’d run away,
And Struggy, seeing seven there,
Cried “Splendid! Chaps! Hooray!
Although there’s only four of us,
You’ve got to fight you see.”
And so they went right into them,
By gad! they brought down three!
Oh we’ve come up from Twenty-Four.
We’re the Sopwith Pups, you know.
And wherever you dirty swine may be
The Sopwith Pups will go.
And if you want a proper scrap,
Don’t chase 2Cs anymore.
For we’ll come up and do the job,
Because we’re TWENTY-FOUR! After that the binge was on!Ever the good sport, Colonel Cairnes suffered himself to be suspended upside down and walked his boot-blacked footprints across the ceiling.
2.00 I sit here in the squadron office wide awake. The dull roar from the Men’s mess subsided an hour ago but the debauchery continues in the Officer’s Mess. Uncle’s words ring in my head. The Huns are broken and in full retreat. They can’t last much longer. I’ve never thought about the end but now it’s in sight. I might live through this…
20 October 1918No. 24 Squadron RAF
Athies, France
Woke early to the sound of steady rain. Gave the bag a sound thrashing and felt much the better for it. If the bleary-eyed expressions greeting me in A Flight Hangar were any indication, the night was one of historic revelry.
Today a letter from Professor Murray.
The prospect of Oxford grows more intriguing. Who knows when I might have the chance to sit the examinations?
Colonel Cairnes dropped by late afternoon.
“A fine show last night, Winningstad. Great Craic as we would say in Ireland.
I have orders for you, which I was instructed to deliver in person. Tomorrow you will meet with Colonel Harrison at the Chateau Bertangles. Noon sharp.”
“What’s this about, sir?”
“No idea. All rather hush hush,” he replied, putting his finger to the side of his nose.
One of yesterday’s Fokkers confirmed. Two Hundred two.
21 October 1918No. 24 Squadron RAF
Athies, France
The Chateau Bertangles was practically deserted, Fourth Army HQ having relocated east in late September. Gen Rawlinson now lived on a camouflaged train currently parked at Montigny Farm near Roisel.
The Colonel occupied General Rawlinson’s old office. A young Lieutenant took my cap and coat.
“The Gentleman will see you now, sir,” he chirped as he led me toward the enormous oaken door and held in open.
Gentleman? An odd manner of address for a Colonel.“Major Winningstad, sir,” said the Lieutenant, announcing my entry before making a hasty retreat and closing the door behind him.
The ‘Gentleman’ wore no military uniform but rather the black trousers and jacket of a civil servant. He stood with his back to me hunched over a large table, studying what appeared to be a series of maps. He continued poring over the maps for another 15 seconds then, leaning heavily on a cane in his left hand, he turned to greet me, drawing himself up to his full height. I couldn’t hide my shock. Standing 4 inches above six feet, he cut quite an impressive figure. The coal black beard was as always, immaculately groomed. His hair was shorter now, and slicked back to fight the natural curl. Under the noble brow his eyes were the same, deepest black and penetrating. As he stared down his aquiline nose at me, I felt the familiar clench of fear rising from my abdomen.
Gods below! What evil brings him here?!“Tennyson,” I said. The word escaped my lips in a low hiss.
“Ah, Major Winningstad. We meet again. I see from the look on your face that you still intend me harm. Be that as it may, I have need of your service in a matter of the gravest import.”
“What matter would that be? Am I to play the tethered goat again in one of your Tiger hunts?”
“No, no, nothing like that. In three night’s time, I require you to fly into the Netherlands, retrieve a package, then transport it to England.”
I stood there incredulous. The nerve of the man. What game was he playing now?
“Is that all? You wish me to navigate 200 miles of enemy territory in the dark, then land in what I assume will be some farmers field, after which I will collect some mysterious cargo and then fight my way back to British lines?”
“Yes, exactly that. Be a good fellow and say you’ll do it.”
A foreboding seized me… then in an instant I was there.
The undercarriage collapsed as I struck an unseen furrow sending the machine over her starboard wing in a cartwheel. A crushing blow struck my left leg as the cockpit pinched and folded around me. The engine drove aft into the fuel tank. Pain. Excruciating pain. My leg was broken and pinned in the wreckage. Petrol spilled everywhere. A yellow light danced about the nose of the wreck. Fire! In a panic I tried to escape the shattered cockpit as the flames danced voraciously around me… I couldn’t free my leg. The first flame took hold on my right arm. The Sidcot suit, soaked with petrol, lit obligingly and the fire spread. The heat turned quickly to an incandescent agony. Burning… burning! I closed my eyes to banish the vision. When I opened them again Tennyson was there waiting patiently. His eyebrows flicked briefly, almost in acknowledgement, as though he were witness to the same drama.
“Madness! This is suicide! I have at most four hours experience of night flying and that nearly two years ago. Why call on me? There must be 50 pilots of the Independent Force more qualified.”
“No doubt,” he replied drolly. “Alas, circumstances demand that it be you.”
“Go to hell. I’m not leaving my Squadron in the middle of an offensive to run some crack brained midnight errand.
“You are within your right to refuse me but if you do, Clarissa will die.”
“What?! What does Clarissa have to do with this?”
“Clarissa is the package.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so at the outset?! Yes! Yes, of course I’ll fly it!
Gods be thanked! Clarissa is alive! “Excellent,” Tennyson replied ominously.
“What I said about my night flying remains true. It’s a tremendous risk.”
“That can’t be helped. As I stated, it must be you. If your nocturnal shortcomings truly render you unable to perform,” he said as his lip curled infinitesimally into a brief smirk, “then I suppose we might engage one of your night flying colleagues from the IF to pilot the aeroplane. Of course, he would then give up his place for the return to England. Such a man would have a fascinating tale to tell after the war, recounting how he chauffeured the highest scoring pilot in the RAF, a VC no less, on a secret mission to Holland only to be abandoned and interned as a thank you. Yes, that would make for quite a sensational story. Could get a bit sticky for you…”
Bloody Hell! He has me and he knows it. “You knew I’d agree as soon as you mentioned Clarissa. Why all this skullduggery and misdirection?”
Tennyson looked away toward the grand bank of large windows overlooking the Chateau grounds, deciding how much, or how little, to tell me.
“I needed to determine the strength of your attachment to Clarissa. You recall when we last met that Clarissa was part of an effort to ascertain the state of Germany and the threat of a Bolshevik revolution there should the war continue into 1919. In that effort she and her colleagues succeeded. After aiding their escape, she remained behind in Germany on another mission.”
“Mission? What mission?”
“You do understand that a man in my profession does not reveal information unnecessarily, so pray refrain from plaguing me with questions.”
“Clarissa has for the last two months been hunted by those same intelligence services which followed you in London. Given such scrutiny, her extraction from Germany remained impractical until the Germans shut down the “Wire of Death’ two weeks ago.”
“Wire of Death?” I inquired.
“The electrified border fence between Belgian and Holland. The recent German retreat in combination with large numbers of refugees clogged Belgian road networks. To alleviate this impediment to the movement of reserves, the Germans opened the border. With such a large movement of civilians, it was easy for Clarissa to make her way into Holland.”
“I still don’t understand why you need me.”
“Trust, my dear Winningstad. Loyalty and the national interest are rather fluid concepts these days. For some time, I have suspected a penetration at the highest levels of Intelligence and the Government but until recently had no definitive evidence. England has enemies far more dangerous than the Central Powers. Enemies both foreign and domestic, some of whom have become increasingly agitated as the war slouches toward its conclusion. Their recent assassination attempt and my subsequent use of this cane speaks to their level of desperation.”
He’s wounded! Not immune to the pitiless bronze after all. Tennyson’s voice trailed off and he limped heavily toward the window overlooking the Chateau grounds. If an enemy could get to a man as elusive and well protected as Tennyson…
He stared out the window again, resuming his internal debate as to what he might disclose, then sighing as if in resignation he went on.
“The details of Clarissa activities are not your concern. Suffice it to say that the intelligence she carries will reveal the enemies in our organization, among other things. Holland is fairly infested with intelligence operatives. They practically trip over one another in Rotterdam. For this reason, Clarissa insisted on certain extraction protocols, those we call Geneva Rules.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Clarissa will only break cover and return in the company of someone she trusts absolutely. The list of those who meet that standard and can pilot an aeroplane is rather short. One name only, in point of fact. Yours. You still carry the Sovereign she gave you, yes?”
I nodded in response.
“Very good. You will need that at the ready on landing. One of Clarissa’s assets will approach your aeroplane and determine your bona fides. Come have a look at these maps.”
The safest route would take me up the coast and across the Dutch border. I could then fly east toward Willemstad. North across the Holland Deep the road north would guide me. Clarissa would meet me south of the village of Klaaswaal. The local map was an old one. The houses were gone. A small grove of trees stood near the crossroads there. I would need to approach the landing from the east, taking care not to run long and crash into the roadside dike. The great unknown was the nature of the landing field itself. Reconnaissance photos were inconclusive but it appeared to be stubble. Tennyson’s reach was long indeed if he could arrange recon photos of a neutral country.
“Do you have a preferred aircraft?” asked Tennyson.
“A Bristol Fighter.”
“One will be made available the night of the mission.”
“That won’t do. I will select my own machine from the depot and bring it to Athies tomorrow. I’m not flying an unfamiliar aeroplane 180 miles into Hunland until my Ack Ems give it a thorough tuning.”
“Impossible. The secrecy of this enterprise must be preserved,” he answered flatly.
“Secrecy won’t matter if the engine conks and I crash into the sea or burn on the landing. You said it yourself, I’m the only one she will trust. Geneva Rules. Clarissa wasn’t negotiating, Tennyson, and neither am I. There’s one more thing. If I bring this off…when I bring this off, you will incur a rather serious obligation.”
His bushy eyebrows raised high. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, genuinely shocked, or simply reassessing his opinion of me. Tennyson was not a man who brooked refusal lightly, but he was as far as I could determine, intensely practical.
I had him over the proverbial barrel as well, and he knew it. Whether he might seek retribution in future didn’t matter. Foreboding or no, I was enjoying his discomfiture. His brows descended and with eyes of the deepest black he stared at me in silence, just as he had done when we first met at the Royal Automobile Club.
Once again that ebon glare froze me to my very core. Phobos and Deimos rampaged in my mind, spreading their panic and terror. I held his gaze with supreme difficulty. If he saw through my hardened features to the fear beneath, he made no sign. He gave every impression of weighing my soul in judgement. After an unforgiving moment Tennyson nodded.
“Accepted,” he said at last. He hobbled over to a large desk and seated himself in the massive leather chair behind it.
“Your third award of the DSO presents an opportunity. There is to be an Investiture at Buckingham Palace on the 24th. Orders will be issued to the Depot releasing a Bristol to you under the pretense of flying to the ceremony. So will be the fiction. The reality will see you depart on the 23rd for RAF HQ at Saint-André-au-Bois. In the early hours of the 25th you will fly to Holland and bring Clarissa to London Colney where I will be waiting at the west hangars.”
“London is far out of range. I’ll need to refuel before crossing the Channel.”
“Obviously. Do so at an Advanced Landing Ground. There will be fewer witnesses to deal with.”
Deal with? Merciful Gods! He sounds as if he might eliminate them. Might he eliminate me? “As to your lack of night flying experience,” he continued, “I suggest you use the intervening time to amend that gap in your education. The Met Office suggests the coastal weather will clear sufficiently on the 25th. Irrespective of the weather, you must collect her at dawn on that day or all is lost.
“Until that time you will not fly combat operations. I require you alive. Good luck, Major.”