Once More the Hawks (17 page)

‘Is he hoping to get St Aubyn’s job?’

‘He got it. Like God, bad leaders only reveal themselves when it’s too late. However, he didn’t win what he expected. He’d hoped for a bomber group but Harris has old memories of him in Iraq and won’t have him within a mile of him.’

Hatto pushed a packet of cigarettes across. ‘You know Harris. He always thought all the leaflet dropping we were doing was just giving the Germans enough toilet paper to last them through the war and when he had 5 Group he found his Hampdens were inadequately armed so he had gun mounts made to increase their fire power. Privately. Because he knew it would take months for his request to work its way through the red tape. And he ordered a lot, because he knew if he ordered only a few he’d have to pay for them himself.’ He paused. ‘How are you on multi-engined jobs?’

‘I’ve just flown a Sunderland.’

Hatto nodded approvingly. ‘I always did think you could have flown a three-ton lorry if somebody had fitted wings to it. What else?’

‘Everything. Bombays. Hyderabads. Vernons. Wellingtons.’

‘That’s good. Because we got splendid reports of what you did in Greece and Bert Harris has asked for you.’

‘Is he getting me?’

‘Temporarily.’

‘Willie, I’m sick of temporary jobs. I’m always getting temporary jobs!’

Hatto smiled. ‘That’s because you’re good at flying.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m an office type these days, old lad.’ Hatto slapped the desk top. ‘I fly these. Mahogany bombers. But I’m a wizard at clearing away the bumph.’ He indicated a waste-paper basket full of files. ‘My predecessor’s,’ he pointed out. ‘But
you
’re not and never have been and when they need some fat pulling out of the fire they send for you. You’re going to 21 Group. You’ll be based at Rumbold Manor. Once belonged to an uncle of mine. Pity you’re not married. You could have had your wife with you. You’ll have the rank of Air Commodore and Tom Howarth’s running Harwick, one of your stations.’

Hatto beamed and started to polish his eyeglass. ‘We’re beginning to think that the idea of putting all our money on heavy bombers might at last begin to pay off,’ he said. ‘They’re going to knock hell out of Germany, and the Germans, who put their money on dive bombers and two-engined jobs, are going to find they don’t pack enough punch. All that’s needed is to build up the bomber force and Harris has a few ideas about that. Go and see him. He’s here and he wants to talk to you. He says he’ll give you a lift back to High Wycombe where there’ll be a car waiting to take you to your headquarters.’

As Dicken opened the door, Hatto called him back. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘There’s an item of news you might be interested in. Erni Udet shot himself. We’ve just been informed. It seems his face didn’t fit in with the Nazis any longer.’

Dicken was silent for a moment. A straightforward man who was never a political animal, Udet had always been completely at sea among the ambitious and perverted minds of the Nazis and Dicken remembered something he’d said when he’d last seen him just before the outbreak of war. ‘I put a noose round my neck when I put on uniform again.’

‘Thanks, Willie,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think old Knägges was ever really part of the set-up.’

Harris hadn’t changed much. The red hair was sprinkled with grey now and the hot temper had mellowed a little, but not much. He signed to Dicken to get into his canvas-topped Bentley and started talking as soon as they left London.

‘All this damned involvement in the army’s campaigns has reduced Bomber Command to the level of everybody else’s skivvy,’ he growled. ‘There’s a lot of talk now of invasion but it’s a waste of breath before we’ve smashed German industry. Besides, it’s time the Germans had a taste of their own medicine. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, sir.’

‘The good old British sporting public is beginning to ask when we’re going to start hitting them back and Winston doesn’t disagree. But when I took over Bomber Command I found we had only about seventy-five more machines than we had in 1939 yet nearly twenty squadrons were added last year. They’ve all been lost to Coastal Command and North Africa. The only bright spot is that we’ve got forty or fifty heavies, Stirlings and Halifaxes, and there’ll be two squadrons of the new Lancasters very shortly. However, they’re all due for Coastal Command, too, and most of the mediums and lights are due for the Middle East, while what can be spared will go to Russia. What it amounts to is that the Admiralty and the War Office are trying to divert practically the entire bomber force to tasks for which it’s not designed and not trained. I’ve started to get ’em back, and this time I’m going to keep ’em. But to do that I’ve got to do something that’ll make the bloody politicians realise that they’ve got a potential war-winner in their hands. It’s got to be something that will fill the newspapers and make those fat-heads in Parliament understand that you can’t whittle away a good weapon just to help out the army and the navy. I’ll expect ideas from you.’

Harris concentrated on his driving for a while. ‘It’s going to mean that a lot of young men are going to die,’ he went on. ‘But from now on I’ll want to know why. You know me, Dicken. Most people go in healthy fear of me. But it’s best that way. It makes people work harder. If a chap makes a genuine mistake I’ll do all I can for him. But God help the buggers who dissemble. You and I know one or two like that, don’t we?’

They were heading along the Great West Road now and approaching ninety miles an hour.

‘There’s a police car behind me,’ Harris said. ‘I expect he wants to tick me off but if he goes on the way he is, all he’ll do is kill himself.’

With a sigh he drew the Bentley to the side of the road. The police car swerved in front. The policeman who appeared saluted gravely.

‘Do you realise, sir,’ he said, ‘that you were doing almost ninety?’

Harris gestured. ‘Have a look at the front of the car. There’s a plate on the front bumper clearing me of all speed limits. Sometimes I’m called on to deal with emergencies.’

‘That’s all very well, sir, but you’re liable to kill people.’

Harris gave a grim smile. ‘I’m paid to kill people,’ he growled.

As he drove off, he was frowning. ‘I hope I wasn’t too rude,’ he said. ‘But it’ll get back and everybody’ll think I’m a ruthless commander and that’s what we want just now. They call me “Butcher”, did you know?’

‘I’d heard.’

‘It worried me a bit at first but then I learned it had started simply as “Butch” among the Commonwealth crews and doesn’t mean anything.’ Harris swerved round a milk float pulled by an elderly horse. ‘I hear I haven’t got you for long.’

‘I heard that, too.’

‘Well, no matter. We’ve got around four months and that’s enough for what I want you to do. Your group’s a bit lost. We’ve expanded too fast and we’re losing far too many crews. I want to know why.’

‘Can I pick my own staff?’

‘No. I want them there when you’ve moved on.’ Harris paused. ‘But I see no reason why you shouldn’t have one or two who’ve worked with you. Got any ideas?’

‘Chap called Babington, sir. He’s Signals but he’s worth much more as an organiser.’

‘He’s yours. Ask for him. Do you mind giving up your leave?’

‘No, sir. I have no family wanting to see me.’

Harris grunted. ‘I heard about your wife. She was a good flier.’

‘Not quite as good as she thought, unfortunately.’

Harris was silent for a moment. ‘That’s probably the trouble with a lot of the crews. They’ve been trained too quickly and all the good ones from before the war have gone because of the bloody stupidity in the Houses of Parliament that failed to give them the machines they deserved. As it is–’ he shrugged ‘–well, as usual they all see themselves as Richthofen or Albert Ball, which is the one thing they’re not, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the much-advertised destruction of precision targets is quite mythical. Most of our crews can’t hit a target 250 yards long in broad daylight on their own doorstep. I want to change that and I’m taking steps to make sure I do. I want
you
to make sure that 21 Group fits into the picture.’

Rumbold Manor was a mid-Victorian manor house, with panelled walls, ivy poking in at latticed windows, a magnificent entrance hall and a splendid if over-decorated oak staircase. It was full of specialist officers of all ages, some of them men who never flew, some wearing RFC wings and ribbons of the last war, one or two of them younger men with new ribbons who had been through the mill of the present conflict and managed to survive. One of them, Dicken recognised at once as Fisher, the trainee who had shot him a line on flare path duty. He was wearing a DFC and a DFM and was now a flying officer. He walked with a heavy limp and was working in Signals.

‘You’ve come a long way in two years, Fisher.’

Fisher smiled. ‘I might add also, sir, that I’ve never shot any more lines.’

Dicken smiled back. ‘I should say that it doesn’t matter much now. How many tours did you do?’

‘One complete one, sir, and twenty of the second. We were hit over Essen and crash-landed at Bassingbourn. We all survived, but none of us walked away. Fortunately, she didn’t burn.’

‘You’re probably the man to supply me with the information I want. The C-in-C wants to know why the losses among the crews are so high.’

Fisher shrugged. ‘Lack of experience, sir. Once they get a few missions under their belts, they seem to survive. I suspect some of them just get lost. I did the first time we went very far. Fortunately, I had an intelligent observer and, instead of panicking, he went through his calculations again and found his mistake.’

‘Would you be prepared to fly again?’

‘They said I couldn’t.’

‘Suppose I say you can?’

‘Then, yes, sir, of course.’

‘Not across the Channel, though you might have to, but with one or two of these new crews to see what they’re doing wrong.’

‘ I’d be glad to, sir.’

‘Anybody else around here with experience who’s growing bored?’

‘One or two, sir.’

Get me a list. Pilots, navigators, wireless operators, engineers, bomb aimers, gunners. A few of each. I think we’re going to be busy.’

With Tom Howarth in command of RAF Harwick nearby, Dicken arranged to receive a thorough grounding in the new four-engined Lancaster there and, moving into the mess, he spent several days getting his cockpit drill correct, learning where every single switch and tap lay, so that he could put his finger on them without having to look. Every movement had to be made automatically, because a glance away from the instruments at the wrong moment could well mean the difference between life and death.

When he arranged to be checked out, Howarth took him on one side.

‘I’ve asked one of my chaps to go through everything with you,’ he said. ‘He’s a flight lieutenant and he’s good, intelligent and brave. You’ve met him before and I’d like you to meet him again. His name’s Diplock.’

Dicken gave him a look of alarm. ‘Does he know he’s going to be checking
me
out?’

‘He does. He knew you were here. He’s spotted you about the place.’

‘Does he mind?’

‘He’s pretty level-headed.’

When young Diplock appeared, he looked ten years older than when Dicken had first met him. His face seemed bonier and the boyishness had gone. Only over his cheekbones was there any colour; the rest of his face was pallid and he seemed to be in a different world from Dicken. Under his wings was the ribbon of a DFC.

‘I had a bad crash in a Spit,’ he explained, ‘and I decided my reactions had slowed down so I asked for a conversion course. Somebody in the family has to do some flying.’ The way he spoke told Dicken that he had managed to find out about his father’s record and had felt he had to do something to redeem it.

Diplock passed him out without difficulty, demonstrating the characteristics of the Lancaster then handing it over to him to fly. After two or three landings he told him he was competent to fly solo, so he carried out another three and a half hours flying that day and a further two the following day, mostly doing circuits and bumps. Returning to the mess, he suggested Diplock might like a drink to celebrate a good job well done.

Diplock smiled. But it was an empty smile as though he wasn’t a young man who saw a lot of cheer in his life. ‘Even my father said you were the most natural flier he’d ever seen, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ve heard older officers say you flew like a sparrow with a cat after it.’

It seemed only polite to ask after the boy’s parents. ‘How is your father?’

Diplock shrugged. ‘Safe in London as usual, sir. Especially now the bombing’s stopped.’

‘Do you see much of him?’

‘I prefer not to, sir.’

It was obvious the boy had a chip on his shoulder and Dicken didn’t push the questions but unexpectedly Diplock spoke again.

‘I go to see my mother instead, sir. She’s taken over the house at Deane.’

It sounded unlike Annys, who enjoyed the social round, to retire to Deane when she could have shared the more sophisticated life Diplock must be enjoying in London. It had come alive with the arrival of the first Americans, who never permitted the war to interrupt their enjoyment of life, and parties were constantly being organised to allow the two sides to get to know each other.

There was another long silence then Diplock spoke again. ‘She doesn’t often see my father these days,’ he said. ‘You’ll have heard of the Waaf, of course.’

Dicken guessed what he was getting at but he answered warily. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t, so perhaps you’d better not tell me.

‘I thought everybody had heard of her. And I’d prefer to tell someone. And, since we’re related, I suppose you’ve got to be it, sir. I’m sorry. Perhaps I’ve been talking too much.’

‘Perhaps we’d better just have another beer instead.’

Diplock smiled. ‘My turn, I think, sir. I’ve just got engaged.’

‘Someone from Deane?’

‘No, sir. She’s on this station. Section Officer Paget. She works in Ops. She’s the one who looks after the blackboard. Puts down the time as the crews land. I try to make sure she always has mine.’