Wings Over Persia (British Ace Book 7) Read online

  Wings over Persia

  Book 7 in the

  British Ace Series

  By

  Griff Hosker

  Published by Sword Books Ltd 2017

  Copyright © Griff Hosker First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Cover by Design for Writers

  Dedicated to Hilary. A dear friend taken far too soon.

  The British Ace Series

  1914

  1915 Fokker Scourge

  1916 Angels over the Somme

  1917 Eagles Fall

  1918 We will remember them

  From Arctic Snow to Desert Sand

  Wings over Persia

  Prologue

  I had a month’s leave and, instead of playing with the children and going to the pub as often as I could, we had decided to take the family off to northern France to buy a house. What was sad was that we would probably not get to holiday in it for some time as I be deployed to Mesopotamia in less than four weeks! Mr Churchill was a hard task master! When I returned from Somaliland I had been told that I had just four weeks. It was not a long time but I had a young family and I intended to make the most of every single minute of it.

  It was actually my wife Beattie who came up with the idea. We had a lovely home in Essex. We overlooked the River Crouch and it was a divine place in which to live. She had made it a wonderful home. I had been lucky. I had money. When Reginald St. John Browne had died and left me twenty thousand pounds we had decided on a home in northern France as a memorial to him and the pilots who never came back. I loved that part of the world. Many people wondered at our choice and yet, for me, it was not a sad place. I could remember the pilots and gunners who had never returned and, when I was there, it was as though they had never died. The main argument, however, was that it was somewhere to have a holiday. Beattie and I had not had a honeymoon and the children had never had a family holiday.

  We packed up the car and headed across the channel. We had money to burn and a desire to live. I had seen more than four years of war and then I had been thrown into the maelstrom of the Middle East crisis. To sit behind the wheel of the car with my family inside, it was glorious! The weather was not glorious. As we left for the cross-channel ferry it rained. The children enjoyed the novelty of a ship and we made it fun. Being late spring, the weather was unpredictable. Beattie proved to be a marvel. She kept the children amused while I drove. She seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of songs and games. We based ourselves at Amiens. For me this had been the last place I had seen my youngest brother alive and it had been close to many of the airfields we had used. We found a hotel and used it as a base.

  The owner, Madame Bartiaux, was a widow. Her husband and sons had died in the Great War. Discovering I was a pilot made her warm to us. The children made her adore us. Tom and Mary knew how to giggle and smile at the right times. We could not have had a more perfect hotel. More than that she told us of properties which were available. She was a practical woman. Many of the farms and horses had been left without owners. The war had been a great leveller. We found one after two weeks of searching. L’Haut Ferme was a little run down but it was perfect. The seclusion suited me. It was on the edge of a lovely little village which still had a brasserie, a boulangerie and an epicier. There had been many which satisfied me but Beattie knew what she wanted. It had to be in a village and not a town. There had to be a garden and there had to be water and electricity. The one we found was worth waiting for. We spent a week negotiating until it was finally ours. Of course, with all such matters legal negotiations and searches would mean we could not move in in the time I had left from my leave.

  Beattie was ever practical, “Bill, the children do not start school for a year or two. I like it here. Instead of running back to England with you and then popping over to see to the house how about I stay with the children and we spend a few months sorting it out! You will be busy in the Middle East anyway. Madame Bartiaux has said she will give us a cheaper rate in the hotel until we can move in. She knows builders and the like. It will be exciting for me and the children.”

  “The language! You don’t speak French!”

  She looked offended, “I speak it better than when I came. And Tom has taken to it like a duck to water! Besides Madame Bartiaux can teach me.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, you will need the car to get home!”

  “Don’t be a goose! I am a big boy. There are trains! If you are certain that you and the children want to stay here?”

  “Of course, I am.”

  And so that was how I came to head back to England alone. I left it until the last possible minute to travel back to England and catch my flight to Baghdad. It was not a pleasant feeling as I climbed aboard a train to head to England. The weather had turned brighter and warmer. We had been told we could move into the house within a week and I was heading for another war zone. I felt quite resentful. I had served through the war with barely a leave. I had dropped everything to accommodate Mr Churchill and now I was missing out on what would be a great adventure. Life was not fair. As I sat on the train heading to Boulogne I wondered just what kind of task the irascible Winston Churchill had set for me.

  Chapter 1

  One of the reasons we had bought our home in Essex was because of the proximity of R.A.F. Rochford. I had asked Mr Balfour, from the Ministry, to arrange for my transport to await me there. It was not a hardship to anyone concerned and it suited me. Beattie had often said that I did not use my position as a senior officer as often as I should. As a nurse in the war she had witnessed senior officers receiving preferential treatment. That was not my way and I think that Beattie knew it.

  I knew the station commander, Squadron Leader Philip Power, well. He had been a pilot in the Great War and been wounded. He would never fly again but he knew how to run a station. I rang him from home and had a car sent for me. It was a short run from my home to the airfield.

  He pointed to the field with his pipe when I got out of the car, “Vickers Vimy, sir all ready for you. They are a couple of good pilots and they will be serving with you in Mesopotamia.”

  I nodded. I had never flown in one before but I had heard of them. “Like the one Alcock and Brown used to fly across the Atlantic.”

  He laughed, “Just so long as young Carruthers doesn’t end up cracking it on landing as they did you should be alright.” He nodded to the wings. “We have the extra tanks that Alcock and Brown had. You have enough fuel to get to Malta and a little to spare. Then off to Heliopolis. You know that place of course.”

  “I do.” We had reached the aeroplane and I patted the lower wing. Philip said, “I think that they have ironed the kinks out. It won’t have the same weight to carry as a bomber. This one is going to be an air ambulance.”

  I laughed, “I hope that isn’t prophetic as I will be their first passenger!”

  He nodded as we strolled over to the waiting aircraft. Two of his Erks carried my bags. “We sent more Vernons out for Squadron Leader Harris last week.”

  “And the Snipes we will be using should already be at Jaffa. It looks like this is going to be a bi
g show.”

  “Rather you than me, sir. Too damned hot out there.”

  I nodded, “I know. I was in Somaliland. The dust gets everywhere. The poor fitters and riggers have to filter every drop of petrol and clean the engine every day.”

  Two young officers stepped from behind the wing. They snapped to attention and saluted. “Pilot Officer Carruthers and Pilot Officer Grundy, sir. We are your taxi drivers.”

  I saluted. They looked to be schoolboys and they appeared terrified. It was no wonder. They would be flying a senior officer and a British ace, no less, for four thousand miles. I smiled, “At ease. Have you many hours in these?”

  Carruthers was the pilot and he beamed, “Oh yes sir. Twelve hours!”

  I gave him a wry smile. “Well that will be doubled by the time we reach Malta then!” His face fell. “And you, Pilot Officer Grundy?”

  “Eight hours sir.” He sounded less confident.

  “And as I have no hours in this bus we will all be learning, won’t we?”

  “You intend to fly her, sir?”

  “If you think I am going to spend God knows how many hours sitting in the cabin twiddling my thumbs then you are in for a surprise. Now let’s get this crate in the air.”

  “Yes sir.” They scampered up the ladder into the cockpit.

  I turned to the Squadron Leader, “Beattie will be in France for a couple of weeks. Could you have some of your chaps nip over and give the garden a bit of a tidy?”

  “Of course, sir and good luck.”

  I climbed through the open hatch up into what would be the ambulance part when the Vimy reached the Middle East. There was a small window and a bunk. Grundy secured the hatch closed. It would not do for it to come open at ten thousand feet. It was cosy. The Erks had stowed my baggage. I was wearing my flying coat and my fur lined boots, it could get quite chilly. The cockpit was open. I had heard that there was going to be a commercial version of this type of bus with a closed cockpit for the pilots. They would have to do as we had done in France and freeze. The ground crew had, thoughtfully, supplied us with flasks of hot soup and tea. I saw, next to my bunk, on the shelf which would normally have medical supplies, tins of biscuits. The two Lewis gun positions were not there and that meant we were a little more aerodynamic. As we were not carrying bombs we had all brought plenty of baggage. The two young officers did not know what to expect in the Middle East, I did.

  I put the reports from intelligence on the shelf with the biscuits. I heard the engines start. Grundy leaned down to speak to me. “Sir, do you want to strap yourself in?”

  I had no intention of taking off lying on a bed like an invalid. “No, I shall come up there with you chaps. If you don’t mind.” I suspected that they did mind. The last thing they wanted was for a senior officer standing over their shoulder as they took off.

  Through gritted teeth I heard Pilot Officer Carruthers say, “Of course not, sir.”

  I crawled forward and then stood when I reached the cockpit. There was a small curtain separating the pilots from the flying sick bay. I was surprised by how effective it was at keeping the ambulance part warm. I stood behind them. There was just enough room behind their seats. The two powerful Rolls Royce engines thrummed on either side of us. Carruthers was obviously the senior of the two and we began to roll down the grass runway adjacent to the Thames. With less than a quarter of the payload she was built to carry she soon soared into the air. I was glad I was holding on to the straps of the safety harnesses. It was more powerful than I had expected. I remained silent as they climbed and then banked to head south east over France. They would take the most direct route possible. I saw that Grundy had the maps out. The flight would take twelve hours.

  As soon as we were over the middle of the Channel I said, “I will do a little bit of work. I will spell one of you chaps in four hours.”

  “You don’t need to, sir.”

  “Pilot Officer, it is a long journey and I will be happier if I know that you have both had a bit of rest and a cup of soup. It is not open for debate!”

  I slipped back inside the cabin. It felt warmer there and I risked taking off my flying coat. I felt quite comfortable. Now that we were at our cruising altitude it was a smoother ride. I risked pouring a cup of tea. That done I propped myself up on the bed and took out the intelligence reports. I had a pad and pencil next to me. I jotted down the key points.

  It soon became clear that the removal of the Turks had merely exacerbated the problems. The Turks had been cruel rulers. However, they had also been corrupt. Bribery was rife and many of the Kurds and other ethnic groups could not come to grips with the fact that the British officials and soldiers who ran the country were not open to negotiation when it came to taxes and rules. Sheikh Mahmud had been governor of Southern Kurdistan. He had had to be dismissed when he led an armed revolt. The huge country was like a medieval state. It was filled with clans and tribes who fought with each other and often joined together against the ones they saw as oppressors. He had recently been reappointed and was Governor of the Sulaimaniya district.

  Our eight squadrons of aeroplanes were replacing thirty-three battalions of infantry, six regiments of cavalry and sixteen batteries of artillery! It was a tall order. I saw that I was going to be at Baghdad where I would be in command of two squadrons of fighter bombers and one of Snipes. There would also be two squadrons of Vernons there for transport and heavy bombing. There were still ground troops but they were just there to protect major settlements. It would be our job to police the vast country that had been Persia. I saw that the key towns were Kirkuk, Ebril and Mosul.

  I had also brought with me a book about the country’s history. I read of Xerxes and Darius, Alexander the Great and Crassus. All had found the country difficult to control. Even the might Saracens and Seljuk Turkish rulers had found problems when the Mongols almost conquered the whole country. I was under no illusions. This would be far harder than the task I had completed in Somaliland.

  I glanced out of the tiny window and saw the green of France below me. Beattie, Tom and Mary would be there. I would rather have been there than here planning to do the impossible; control a country whose size was so vast I could not even comprehend it. I returned to my reports and I drank my tea.

  I managed to doze off for half an hour and woke, refreshed. I replaced the papers and my notes in my leather attaché case. Something that the Vimy had which we had not needed in the Sopwith Camel was what my grandmother had called a gazunder. It was a pot which went under the bed; a sort of portable toilet. It saved a journey downstairs and into the yard on a cold night. I used it and then carried it to deposit it aft. The rear gun cockpit allowed me to throw it over the side. Returning to my cabin I replaced it. I slipped under the curtain and said, “Who wants a couple of hours off first?”

  They looked at each other. I saw that Carruthers’ hands were on the stick. I tapped him on the back, “Take over Grundy and Pilot Officer Carruthers can go and have a cuppa.”

  Grundy nodded, “Sir. I have the stick!”

  Carruthers let go and undid his safety harness. I had to slip back into the main cabin to allow him to pass. I nodded to the bunk. “Get your head down if you can. Even if you don’t sleep the rest will do you good.”

  “Sir.”

  I strapped myself in and then looked at the controls and dials. I spent fifteen minutes watching how Grundy flew. He was nervous and that was my fault. “Right Grundy. I’ll try it for a while. Let me know if I am making a mess of it. I am more used to the Sopwith Camel. This is just a little bigger. It is like being in a Gunbus again.”

  “Sir.”

  I put my feet on the pedals and grasped the stick. I checked the dials and the trim and then said, “I have the stick.”

  It was not as heavy as I had expected but then it would not have to be as responsive as a fighter. Carrying wounded passengers, it would need to fly as steadily as possible. I saw that we were travelling at just sixty-five miles an hour. Even the ol
d Gunbus had flown faster.

  “Is this heading, right?”

  “Yes sir. We used the Eiffel Tower in Paris as a marker to check and this is spot on sir.”

  “Good.”

  After a while he said, “Sir, how many Jerries did you shoot down in the Great War?”

  “Over seventy I think.”

  “Don’t you know the exact figure sit? I think I would.”

  “I pray that you will not have to, Pilot Officer. I lost many friends who did not even manage three or four. I know just how lucky I was. A fight in the air can last seconds. You need lighting fast reactions. This is a more noble calling. You will be saving lives and not taking them.”

  We flew in silence for a while. I could see that I had made him think. “This war will not be about shooting down enemy aeroplanes. We will be bombing and strafing ground troops. That is even harder than shooting down an aeroplane.”

  “Surely not, sir!”

  “You have unforgiving terrain and anyone with a gun can bring down an aeroplane. Remember that when you fly. You have a side arm, don’t you?”

  “We were issued them. Mine is in my bags.”

  “When we land wear it. From now on you never get in an aeroplane without one. If I were you I would get yourself a Lee Enfield too.”

  “Really sir?”

  I gestured with my thumb. “I have one in my bag as well as a German automatic pistol. If you land in hostile territory then you need to defend yourself. For most of us that means we have broken down. For you and Carruthers it will be a deliberate act to rescue someone. You will be picking up wounded men. That sort of implies the enemy will be about, doesn’t it?”

  “Sir.” His glum voice told me he had not thought that through.

  “Of course, you will have medic with you. Make sure that he is armed too!”

  As we neared the Alps I had him fetch Carruthers. “Now you get your head down.” Carruthers joined me a few moments later, “Did you manage any sleep?”