Like Father Like Son Ch 05

December 1916

The Real Thing

It was bitterly cold. Condensation droplets flew from the fuselage of the Avro 504 like icy needles, striking Phillip in the face, so he pulled his scarf a little higher. He opened the throttle and the plane began to rumble forward over the wet grass. The instructor’s voice sounded faint and tinny through the ‘Gosport tube’, a recent innovation that allowed conversation between the two cockpits. He gave the Avro a little more throttle and the speed increased. The 504 had originally entered service as a bomber but was now the preferred training aircraft of the RFC.

Phillip felt the tail lift and the rumbling eased as the machine took gently to its natural element. They climbed slowly, flying over the Victorian brick edifice of Fort Rowner and turning gently out over the sea. Looking down to his left, Phillip could make out the lean shapes of a destroyer flotilla at anchor in Portsmouth harbour. The Grand Fleet was still away to the north at Scapa Flow: waiting against the day the Kaiser’s battleships braved the North Sea once more. The instructor’s voice came once more and Phillip altered course to take them out over the Solent. This was real flying, he thought.

He had learned how the rudder gradually took on the work of the ailerons and vice versa as one steepened the turn. He had learnt to spin and recover, to execute ‘Immelmans’ and stall turns, to loop and then to roll off the top of a loop. He was confident now; his pilot’s logbook showed over forty hours, ten of them solo. Today he had to make a cross-country flight, navigating his way around a triangular course from Gosport to Portland, Portland to Oxford and then back to Gosport. If he completed the flight successfully and to his instructor’s satisfaction, he would only need to repeat it solo and he would be ‘passed out.’ Then it was a matter of joining a new squadron.

He levelled off at 5,000 feet, checked his heading and glanced at the clouds to estimate his drift. The airspeed indicator, one of the new ‘clock’ models, told him they were doing 80 miles per hour. He pulled a folded map from the holder by his side and spread it on his knee. He picked up his first waypoint and reported the relative bearing to the instructor. He checked his watch and settled back, wiping a smear of oil from his goggles and stamping his feet against the cold. The sky was clear and bright and Phillip thought that he could see forever.

The first hint of trouble came when he heard the engine miss a beat. He checked the oil pressure; it looked normal. He tapped the gauge with a gloved finger and the needle dropped alarmingly. The engine spluttered and then resumed its steady beat. He throttled back slightly, picked up the mouthpiece of the Gosport tube and spoke urgently into it.

“Oil pressure is way down and still falling. I think we have a major oil leak.”

“What do you propose?”

“Head for the land and look for somewhere to put her down before she seizes.”

“Good plan. Let me know if you want me to take her. You have control.”

“I have control.”

He could smell the stink of burning oil now and the pressure gauge was showing only 5 psi. The Le Clerget engines were robust but would not run for long without lubricant. He forced himself to stay calm and to concentrate. There was a small landing strip near Bournemouth. He checked the map, made a quick calculation and eased the throttle back another notch. The airspeed indicator dropped to 65. He eased one more notch, letting the engine revs drop back, nursing the sick motor. The burnt oil smell was more pronounced now and he thought he heard a different, harsher note to the engine. He pushed the nose down and throttled back, allowing the Avro to sink towards the coast. He was sure he could hear a sort of grinding noise ahead of him. His pulse was pounding in his ears and his bowels had turned to water.

Then they were over the coast. He picked up the finger of Hurst Castle spit to his right and he levelled out at a thousand feet. He grimaced as he opened the throttle, but the Le Clerget picked up its beat. There could be no mistake now. The engine was definitely running rough. He made a long gentle turn to the west and searched ahead for the field at Hern. There it was! His relief was almost palpable. He spoke urgently into the Gosport tube and the instructor fired a red flare to alert the airfield. There was no time for a circuit. The motor was spluttering and Phillip knew it was moments away from giving up the ghost entirely. There was mighty bang from in front of him and he pushed the cut out button. It broke under his thrusting finger. He felt a momentary sense of panic then remembered the fuel tap. He turned off the supply from the tank and the engine died in a fit of coughs and protesting grinding noises.

He knew he had one chance of getting it right. He pushed the stick forward, letting the speed build. The wheels brushed the treetops at the edge of the field and he eased back on the stick, willing the nose to come up. He held the Avro up as long as he could. Gradually she lost flying speed and settled gently onto the grass. The tail dropped suddenly and, for a moment, Phillip thought they were about to ground loop but the machine steadied and they ran slowly to a halt. There was a strong smell of hot metal and burnt oil that added to Phillip’s feeling of nausea as he climbed out of the front cockpit. The instructor had already dismounted and was standing at the side of the machine, a shaky grin sketched across his oil-streaked features.

“Not much to say, save ‘well done,’ old fruit.”

Phillip gave him a tight smile. He swallowed bile, coughed briefly, and turned his attention to the air mechanics, who were hurrying up to drag the stricken Avro off the landing area.

“Lost oil pressure. I think we might have thrown a con rod.”

The NCO in charge nodded gravely.

“Not much we can do here, sir. It will probably need an engine change. Once they go, well, they really bloody well go, if you take my meaning, sir.”

Phillip and his instructor found their way to the Flight office. A bored looking RFC Captain was sitting behind a desk, resting his feet on the scattered papers that covered its surface. He leaned further back in his chair as they came into the office and arched an eyebrow.

“Spot of trouble, chaps?”

“Bloody engine’s ‘napoo.’ D’you have a telephone?”

“Help yourself, old son.”

The instructor waited for his call to be connected to Gosport while Phillip looked idly around the hut. A blackboard gave the names of pilots and aircraft scheduled to fly that day. There were a number of unfamiliar types listed. He turned back to the bored Captain, who was half-heartedly shuffling a thick sheaf of notes.

“What do you do here?”

“Number Three Aircraft Evaluation Flight, at your service. We get to try out, and usually break, any old rubbish that some crackpot thinks is the answer to every good pilot’s prayers.”

“How does that work?”

“Oh, some ‘genius’ will come up with a new design for a Scout. They build a prototype or two and send it down here for us to play with. Most of them fly like bricks. If we do get a good ‘un, which isn’t often, the chances are it will never be taken up because the Royal Aircraft Factory has something worse.”

“Don’t you mean better?”

“No, old son, definitely worse. We had a lovely little Avro down here earlier this year, fast two-seater. Knocked the BE’s and FE’s into a cocked hat. Their Lordships up at Farnborough didn’t like that, I can tell you. We were all waxing lyrical about it but no go, I’m afraid. They stuck to the flying coffins instead. If we ever think that we’ve got a winner, they always come up with some excuse – can’t get the engines or the undercart isn’t strong enough, some sort of rubbish – it’s enough to make you spit at times.”

“Gosh. I would have thought that we would welcome anything that was better than what we have.”

“Well, one would think so, but it doesn’t seem to work like that. Too many vested interests higher up the totem pole, old son. Still, it’s not all doom and gloom. There’s a new machine that really looks like it might be rather good. I had a spin in one myself the other day and I was really impressed, which doesn’t happen often, I can tell you.”

“Oh? Which one’s that?”

“The Bristol F2. Two-seater but handles like a Scout. Could take a bigger engine but she flies like an angel even if you need muscles like a circus strongman to get the best out of her.”

“And do you think it will ever be built?”

“Absolutely. We’ve finished with her now and there’s an order been placed already. I think I heard they’re going to form a new squadron of them. Take a tip from me, old boy and wangle yourself a posting. Knocks spots off anything else we’ve got at the moment.”

The instructor returned with the news that a new engine was being sent over from Gosport with a mechanics’ crew to install it into the Avro.

“Won’t be here until late afternoon so looks like we’re stuck here for the duration, I’m afraid.”

On the advice of the captain, they made their way over to the Officers’ Mess and took an early lunch. They sat around in the anteroom afterwards and read the latest magazines and killed time with desultory conversation. It was almost dark by the time the crew from Gosport arrived and it was too late to do anything that day. They spent the night in the Officers Mess and Phillip heard again from the evaluation pilots just how good they believed the new Bristol F2 to be. Opinion was sharply divided as to whether it really was a two-seater fighter or a fast and well-armed reconnaissance machine. The majority were of the view that it could be flown like a fighter, whatever its eventual role in the war.

The next morning, Phillip and the instructor made their way to the flight line where the mechanics were putting the finishing touches to the newly repaired Avro. The crew were under the eye of a lugubrious sergeant who informed them that they were extremely lucky that the ‘whole bloody issue’ hadn’t exploded.

“Don’t know how it managed to keep going so long, gentlemen. Two cylinders are completely shot and at least four of the pistons are scrap.”

They did their external checks and started the engine, running it up under the watchful eye of the crew. When all pronounced themselves satisfied, Phillip taxied the Avro out onto the grass strip and took off once more. They flew straight back to Gosport and landed, handing over the aircraft to the mechanics, who would now go over the new engine with a fine-toothed comb before the machine was returned to full service. Phillip had barely enough time to snatch a cup of tea before he was sent in a different aircraft to complete a solo flight to Bicester, returning the following day. A little while after he landed, the CO of the training squadron sent for him.

“Well, good news, my lad. You have been found ready, willing and able to join the ranks of the fully-fledged. Normally, it would be the depot at St Omer for you but something has come up. I think you expressed a preference for two-seaters?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Then you’re in luck. A new training squadron is being formed at Rendcombe in the New Year, Bristol F2s. I’ve never heard of ‘em, I might add, but they’ve asked us for our four best students. Harry told me how you handled that engine failure. Well done, by the way, so you get to be among God’s chosen. Suit you?”

“Yes, sir, very much. I talked to the evaluation chaps at Hern. They thought the new Bristol rather good.”

“So Harry said. Well if you’re happy, I am.”

“Thank you, sir. Who else will be going, if I may ask?”

“Wilkins, Horrocks-Brown and Cavanaugh. All right?”

“Topping, sir, thank you.”

“Good. I suggest you stick around here until Christmas and get as many hours in as you can. It’s an opportunity not granted to many. Now cut along and tell Harry to fix you up with some slots. Tell him I said you are to try the ‘Pup’ as well as anything else he can think of.”

“Thank you again, sir.”

Phillip spent the next few days cramming in as much flying as he possibly could. He was amazed at the difference between the training machines and the Sopwith ‘Pup.’ The Pup was a truly delightful aeroplane to fly. It was fast, responsive and would turn on a sixpence. Once or twice he played ‘follow the leader’ with an instructor, zooming in and out of the piled cloud formations; hurling down to skim the wave tops and soaring back to where the air was so thin and cold that every breath came as a painful, rasping gasp. He was exhilarated, overcome with the joy of flight in the cold vastness of the grey, winter skies.

Flying the ‘Pup’ was a wholly different experience from the ponderous two-seaters. Phillip could easily understand why most pilots wanted to fly Scouts. It was as if the aeroplane had its own sense of freedom; it seduced you, sucked you in with its nimble agility. For the first time ever, he felt part of the machine, as if throttle and joystick were part of one organic whole with him, the pilot. It was, he told a colleague, as if you didn’t fly the ‘Pup’ at all; it was a co-operative thing. The aircraft seemed to demand that you flew it in a certain way; would somehow let you know what it wanted. It would sing to you, the bass of the engine as counterpoint to the grace notes of wind through wires. He had never felt so vibrantly alive.

Christmas almost seemed to come too soon. But there was a wedding in the offing and thoughts of Bethan filled his waking hours while images of her peopled his every dream.

***************************

January 1917

A Married Man

Christmas, in that year of 1916, was a muted, sober affair. The long agony of the British Army on the Somme had finally come to an end in November, leaving nearly half a million casualties. There did not seem to be a street in the land that had not experienced the cold hand of death. Black wreaths were more numerous than the traditional holly on the doors in cities, towns and villages. The nation seemed to have turned in on itself and there were few who felt like celebrating.

Some good news did reach Pitton House. Pinky Harris had been posted back to England to form a new Bomber Squadron and had asked Peter to accompany him and be his senior Observer. This meant that both would be able to attend the wedding. Phillip had also invited Brian Redbourne but had received a warm letter expressing regret. The battalion was being sent to Palestine to assist in operations against the Turks. Redbourne had been his usual cheerful self and expressed his satisfaction that he, too, had at last found a way out of the mud but, as he put it, ‘without the daily risk of breaking my neck.’

Bethan had returned to her father’s farm for Christmas and she and Phillip spent the holidays writing long letters to each other, once, and sometimes twice, each day. It was agreed that the wedding should take place in Dorset and the banns of marriage were read for three consecutive Sundays in the little parish church. Beatrice was in her element, organising everything and everybody. If she had been allowed to have her way, the guest list would have run into hundreds. Phillip stood firm, however, and Beatrice had to settle for a much more modest gathering. She consoled herself with the thought there would be Christenings and birthday parties to arrange in due course.

The weather smiled on them, the service went without a hitch and enough good wine flowed at the reception to keep even the Flying Corps contingent happy. Peter made an amusing speech, as befits the Best Man, and Bethan’s father entertained the company by delivering his oration, first in Welsh and then with the English translation. Pinky Harris rose to make a toast and gave a comical, if somewhat profane, account of Phillip’s RFC career. Bethan looked as radiant as any bride should and Phillip, as nervous as if it were his first solo flight all over again, had somehow managed to stumble through the responses. Sister Hallam drank too much sherry and became very giggly and was much taken with Pinky Harris. Pinky remained just sober enough to escape her clutches and set off on his own pursuit of one of Bethan’s nursing colleagues. All in all, it was accounted a great success.

Phillip and Bethan were seen off in style and Peter drove them to the railway station in Dorchester to catch the London train. With only four days available for a honeymoon, London had seemed liked the best alternative and Phillip had booked them into the Savoy. Alone together at last, they were shy in each other’s company. The excitement of the day had taken its toll and they sat in the first class compartment, holding hands and smiling at each other, like children with a guilty secret. They said little but their eyes spoke volumes. Bethan, who had been all gaiety during the reception, was now quiet and a little subdued. Phillip, for whom the day had passed in a whirl, could only gaze into her eyes and wonder at his good fortune. His brain seemed to have stopped working entirely and attempts at conversation foundered after a sentence or two. It was a relief to both when the train pulled into Waterloo.

Bethan watched over Phillip’s shoulder as he completed the guest register in the name of

Lieutenant & Mrs Welford-Barnes.

“Oh, it does look funny, seeing it in writing, Phillip. I really am your wife now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, my love. You most certainly are!”

They were shown to their room overlooking the river and Bethan was delighted with the grandeur of it all.

“I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before. It’s absolutely lovely.”

“The loveliest thing in this city is you, Bethan.”

She looked at him, half afraid that he was mocking her. His face wore a wistful expression and he smiled gently and gave a self-deprecatory shrug:

“That’s what I think, anyway.”

Before she could think of a reply he crossed the space between them and enfolded her in his arms. He could smell the scent of her, a light, delicate perfume that evoked a deep feeling of warmth within him. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him close, as if she were trying to convince herself that he was real and not some fleeting dream. He gently removed her hat and unpinned her luxuriant dark hair. A momentary feeling of panic flashed through her. She suppressed it ruthlessly, mocking herself for her fears. They were man and wife and would do what married people did; it was as simple as that.

Phillip felt her tense slightly and then relax. He correctly guessed the reason and lifted her face to his, cupping her chin softly with one hand and lightly stroking her hair with the other. He looked into her eyes and leant down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids and the tip of her nose. She looked up at him, wondering at the gentleness she saw reflected in his steady gaze. She also thought she could see a hint of nervousness that matched her own, but there was something else that made her melt inwardly. He loved her; of that there could be no doubt. Just as there could be no question that she loved him. So what was to come would be born of that love; a natural culmination, a fulfilment of everything they felt for each other. A spark of courage ignited in side her. Yes, the fear was still there, but now it had a delicious edge to it, a thrill. Emboldened, she reached up and pulled his head down, fastening her lips upon his, and kissed him passionately. Unconsciously, she ground herself against him, moulding herself to the contours of his body so that they touched from head to knee, yet still she wanted to get closer.

Phillip’s heart soared as he felt her move against him. His arms went round her once more and he held her tightly, burying his face in the riot of her hair and mumbling his love in a barely coherent stream of half-finished phrases. Bethan had the sense of being wrapped in a warm glow; it enveloped her, soothed her and somehow engendered a heightened awareness, as if she had never known truly who she was before that moment. Then. With a rush of clarity, she knew what she wanted. It had to be now, that very instant; she did not want it hanging between them all the evening. She eased back a little and unbuttoned his jacket. Part of her was aghast at her boldness but another part burned with pride that her fingers did not tremble. Phillip caught the shift in her and fumbled to assist, his head spinning, intoxicated by her perfume.