Like Father Like Son - Parts One to Five

One of the armourer NCOs approached Phillip as he was standing staring at the faces around him.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Welford Barnes, sir, but you don’t seem to have any Lewis drums in the kite.”

Phillip nodded.

“Oh, sorry, corporal. I ran out of ammunition so I threw them at the Huns.”

The Major was incredulous. “You did what?”

“Threw them at the Huns, sir. Uh, I didn’t have anything else. I think I’d have thrown the radio too, only it’s a bit too heavy.”

“And Phillip bagged one of the blighters, Wiggy,” said Pinky. “Went down close to the lines. Artillery should be able to confirm.”

“With a Lewis drum?” Major Wigram was gaping at them both as if they had taken leave of their senses.

“No, sir. Before I ran out. Pinky did some splendid flying and sort of caught the Hun on the hop. He turned a bit too late and I… got lucky, I suppose. One of his upper planes snapped off and down he went. Then the other Huns closed in and I dropped a full magazine over the side because the drum jammed on the right Lewis and I’d taken my gloves off…”

“So you could throw better, I assume? No. No more, Phillip, and none of your nonsense either, Pinky. It’s too much for an old man’s sensibilities. Go and tell the adj all about it.”

They shambled off to where the adjutant had re-erected his table. 

“Good God, Phillip. Did you really throw the empty drums at the beggars?”

“Yes, adj. I’m sorry. I didn’t think – wasn’t thinking really.”

“Oh no, old boy, it’s brilliant. One for the squadron annals, that is!”

A couple of days later, a new ‘trophy’ appeared in the Officers’ Mess. It was a battered Lewis Drum, painted scarlet and with an engraved brass plate bearing the legend: “The Welford-Barnes Hun Trap. Patent pending.”

Phillip’s first ‘kill’ was duly confirmed and the squadron threw a ‘drunk’ in his honour. The party was wild and frantic and many a sore head assembled the following morning for the dawn patrol. The Somme offensive ground on and on. Progress was measured in yards rather than the hoped for miles and German resistance showed no signs of weakening. The aircrews were exhausted. Day after day of clear skies meant almost constant flying. Even when the weather was marginal, they flew anyway. Struggling through low cloud, with rain like icy bullets rattling off the fabric of the machines, they performed wonders. Reconnaissance, artillery spotting, contact patrols; one followed another in an endless round. Nerves became frayed and tempers short. Only Major Wigram, through a supreme effort of will, retained the outward appearance of calm. His leadership held the Squadron together. When, on the 19th August, a shell from the British barrage he was observing obliterated his plane, the Squadron was shattered. 

More and more new faces appeared in the Mess to replace the mounting casualties. Pinky Harris was given the temporary rank of Major and appointed to command the Squadron. ‘Old Hands’ like Peter and Phillip were few and far between. Thus it came as a glorious relief when, at the end of the month, a weather front brought two days of solid cloud, high winds and rain. News reached the squadron that Phillip had been awarded the Military Cross for his efforts during the Somme Offensive and there was news, too, of a different sort. Flying Corps casualties had been heavy, particularly among the ranks of the pilots. HQ was now calling for suitable volunteers for flying training. Peter brought the news of this request to Phillip.

“I say, Phillip, here’s your chance! Wiggy did promise you that you could go home after fifty missions as an ‘O’ and you must have done nearly three times that many.”

Phillip looked up from the letter he was writing to Bethan. He looked ghastly, thought Peter, but then, they all did. Even Pinky Harris’s fresh complexion, which had earned him his soubriquet, was wan and grey. Peter thought Phillip had suffered more than most. Flying with Pinky, Phillip always seemed to draw the most dangerous patrols. Pinky would never dream of ordering a pilot to undertake a mission that he wouldn’t do himself. In fact, Peter thought, Pinky was a bit obsessive on this point. He drove himself, and consequently Phillip, harder than anyone else. A chap only had so much luck. Pinky was probably overdrawn on his share. 

It had taken Peter’s words a few moments to register in Phillip’s tired mind. The previous night’s party had left him jaded and the damp weather always made his old leg wounds ache. He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at Peter.

“D’you really think so? I’ve only been out here five months and it wasn’t that long ago I had sick leave – even if it does seem like an eternity since then.”

“Well, no harm in trying, is there, old man? Oh, and by the by, your old mob are in reserve near Bouzincourt. I heard they got knocked about a bit taking Longueval. Thought you might like to pay them a visit while it’s ‘napoo’ here.” 

“I think I might do that tomorrow, Peter. I’ve letters to write and I need to see Pinky about the pilots’ course. I tell you what, why don’t we go together? Brian Redbourne’s a splendid fellow and he’ll be sure to give us a welcome.”

“Good Egg! Let’s do that. Now off you trot and see Pinky. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that rot.”

“What about you, Peter? Are you going to apply?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, old chap. I mean, look at me. I’m far too lanky. I think I’ll just stick in the back where there’s a bit more room. If I put my feet on a rudder bar my knees would be under my chin. Thank God for the ‘Harry Tates.’ It was murder in the old BE2s. And my driver was always complaining that he couldn’t see over the magnificent Riley bonce. My head stuck up so far it was permanently in the prop wash.”

Phillip had to smile. Peter stood something over six feet three and his big raw-boned frame was a tight squeeze into any cockpit. He always looked untidy, somehow, however smartly he was dressed and his huge hands and feet looked as if they had been stuck onto his long limbs as an afterthought. Phillip looked at his friend with amused affection and then said:

“Peter, I’ve asked Bethan to marry me. If she does say ‘yes,’ would you be so kind as to stand up with me?”

“Phillip, I’d be both honoured and delighted. And what d’you mean ‘if she says yes?’ Only a mad woman would refuse a dashing young aviator such as your good self!”

“I do hope so, old man. I asked her over a month ago and she still hasn’t given me her answer. I don’t want to press her, you know, in case it puts her off, but what’s a chap to do? I think about her all the time, unless we’re over Hunland. Then, well, one is rather preoccupied with other concerns.”

“Ha! Aren’t we though? I really think the blighters are getting better, you know. That chap, Bolcke, is supposedly in our sector now. From what I hear, he should liven things up a bit.”

“And your old chum, Ball, is making a name for himself, too, I hear. The last I heard, his score is over twenty.”

“Yes, rum little fellow, that one. Oh, you’ll no doubt meet him. He’s to get his MC the same day as you, Pinky says.”

“Speaking of whom, I’d better run along and put my request in.”

Phillip hurried across the soaking grass to the hut that served as the Squadron offices. He was wet through by the time he got there and presented himself, dripping, at Pinky’s door.

“Lovely weather for ducks, what? Come in, Phillip, and sit ye down. Tell me, what I can do for you this fine day?”

“It’s about pilot training, Pinky. I think you know I’ve always been keen and now, well, Peter told me Corps HQ are asking for volunteers. Would it be awfully inconvenient if I put my name forward?”

Pinky surveyed the young man in front of him. He took in the tired features and sighed inwardly. Phillip Welford-Barnes was something of an enigma to him. The vast majority of officers on the squadron acted with a kind of mad gaiety, as if each day could be their last. Phillip wasn’t like that. He was quiet, reserved. Yes, he joined in – one couldn’t criticise him there – but Pinky felt that Phillip never truly let himself go. Nor could one fault his courage; yet Pinky had the feeling that Phillip was drawing on some finite stock; that he was driven by duty and would never be otherwise. The majority of the young airmen were natural adventurers. Of course, the strain eventually told on everyone, but most could put aside the war for a few brief hours, at least, and find solace in drinking and women. There were willing girls in most of the village estaminets. The French soldiers grumbled enough at how easily their womenfolk were seduced by the glamour of the flyers. Pinky sighed again, aloud this time.

“I won’t stand in your way, Phillip, if it’s truly what you want. I know dear old Wiggy promised you could go so, in his memory, if for no other reason, I’ll support your application. I’m going to miss you, though. Who else is going to stand in the back chucking tin cans at Huns for me?”

Phillip smiled his thanks and made as if to leave. Pinky raised a hand to stop him.

“I suppose you want to be a Scout pilot?”

“Actually, Pinky, I think I’d rather prefer two-seaters. I’ve always liked the teamwork aspect, you know. We made a good team in the end, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. And we did have our moments. Oh well, I’ll suppose I’ll have to break in another new boy. Someone else to throw up all over my nice new coat! Actually, I’m rather glad you don’t want Scouts. I don’t really think they’d be your cup of tea, old man.”

“No,” said Phillip, “neither do I, somehow. And Pinky, thanks old chap, for everything. You’ve been an absolute brick and it’s been a privilege to serve under you. I never felt half as scared with you driving.”

“Really? Most of the time I terrify myself positively witless, old chap. Still, it takes all sorts, what? Now get out of here and see the adj to put your request in.” 

Pinky made a show of going back to his paperwork and Phillip left. After he had gone, the major sat back in his chair and lit a cheroot. He would genuinely be sorry to see Phillip go but a part of him was also relieved. That was one letter, at least, he would not have to write. He stared at the paper on the blotter in front of him. He wondered vaguely how many times he had written a variation on the words that stared back at him in his own round hand. More to the point, he thought, how many more times will I have to do it?

He resumed his letter, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated:

Dear Mr and Mrs Stacy,

As Herbert’s Squadron Commander, I can’t tell you how saddened we all are by his death. Although he had only been on the squadron a short time, he was already one of the most popular chaps in the Mess.

The truth, Pinky thought, is I have already forgotten what he looked like; but he might have been the one with the big ears and the annoying laugh. I didn’t have time to get to know him and neither did anyone else; our Lords and Masters sent him out her with a paltry seventeen hours in his logbook and some Hun pilot saw easy pickings. Like about half of the other letters I’ve got to write, this poor bastard never stood a chance and it only took three days for him to find a Hun to kill him. He resumed his letter.

It may be some small comfort for you to know that Herbert was killed instantly and did not suffer at all. It may also help to remember that he died doing the thing he loved above all others – flying.

Far better that than the truth. No one saw him go down but troops on the ground found the burnt out wreckage so it had been a ‘flamer.’ Nobody wants to think of their nearest and dearest slowly roasting to death in the five or so minutes it takes to fall ten thousand feet in a burning aeroplane.

He finished the letter, blotted his signature, and added it to the pile in his ‘out’ tray. He stretched and rubbed his temples. The familiar throbbing of a headache was forming behind his eyes. He gave another exaggerated sigh and reached for a fresh piece of paper.

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

Phillip found the Second Battalion of the Wessex Light Infantry without too much difficulty. The battalion were camped around the battered village of Bouzincourt only a mile or two north west of Albert. Peter and he had borrowed the tired old Morris van that served as the squadron’s motor transport. It had been the property of a Winchester baker’s shop and still bore the legend ‘Holmes Finest Loaves’ in faded letters on the side. It had solid tyres and only rudimentary springs and they had rattled and jounced the twelve or so miles to Albert. They stopped in the town to get their bearings and to gaze in awe at the statue of the Virgin that hung at a crazy angle from the damaged cathedral spire. A superstition had grown up that whichever side was eventually responsible for knocking the statue down would lose the war. (So it proved, for the German artillery finally dislodged the hanging Virgin during their great offensive in the spring of 1918.)

They obtained directions to Bouzincourt and set out once more on a little back road that was scarcely more than a cart track. They ground along in low gear with the old Morris’s springs complaining all the while. They topped a low rise and trundled down the road into the village. It had been knocked about a bit by artillery fire as the German batteries probed the British rear areas. Even so, the civilian population was still in residence and the fields thereabouts were still under cultivation. Outside one of the larger houses hung a hand-painted sign: ‘2/1 WLI Bn HQ,’ which translated as: 2nd Battalion, 1st Wessex Light Infantry Regiment, Battalion Head Quarters. 

Peter stopped the van and they got out. A large and familiar figure appeared, caught sight of the two officers and offered up a smart salute.

“Geordie Watts! And a sergeant, I see.”

“Fuck me! Oh, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen. Mr Welford-Barnes! Good to see you, sir. I’ll tell the Colonel that you’re here.”

“Just a mo, Geordie, or I suppose I should say Sergeant Watts. I never really thanked you properly for pulling me out. Peter, Geordie carried me back when I was crocked at Loos. He saved my life, for certain.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant. I am in your debt. Life would be exceedingly tedious without Mr Welford-Barnes to keep me amused.” 

“Thank you, sir. We were rather fond of him ourselves. Until he took up with this flying malarkey. I dunno how you gentlemen does it. I much prefers to keep me feet on the ground. The Colonel’s inside, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me.”

They followed the ample figure around the corner and entered the house. What had once been a large kitchen was now festooned with maps and the old cast iron range was covered in signal flimsies and other assorted papers. Geordie stiffened to attention and announced them:

“Lieutenant Welford-Barnes, sir, and another gentleman from the Royal Flying Corps.”

Brian Redbourne slowly stood up, a grin splitting his homely face.

“W-B, by all that’s holy, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Introduce your pal, young Phillip. This calls for a drink! Now where did I put the whisky?”

Phillip grinned back, noticing the Lieutenant Colonel’s badges on Redbourne’s epaulets. 

“Looks like congratulations are in order, sir. Have they given you the battalion?”

“Yes. Colonel McKay copped it at Longueval, along with about four hundred others. I’m sorry to say you won’t find too many familiar faces around here anymore. Oh, Geordie’s still here, of course; indestructible is our Geordie. I’ve given him your old platoon along with young Simmonds. Oh I forgot, you won’t know Simmonds, he came out in June. Still, he’s shaping up nicely, ain’t he Geordie?”

“Yessir. A very good young officer, sir.”

“So who’s your pal, Phillip? Don’t they teach you manners in the Flying Corps?”

“Sorry, sir. Allow me to present Lieutenant Peter Riley, late of His Majesty’s Royal Engineers and a very good chum of mine.”

After the introductions, the three officers settled down to do some serious damage to the whisky. Peter related the Lewis Drums incident and Brian Redbourne roared with laughter. Phillip then recounted his story of Redbourne leading the company at Loos with an umbrella and handing out footballs before the attack. Peter opined that madness must be a prerequisite for a career in the Wessex Light Infantry and that called for another toast. After a little while, Redbourne took them to visit Phillip’s old platoon. Phillip was saddened to find that he recognised only about one face in five from the year before. He did notice, however, that the battalion appeared to be at full strength and the men looked fit and rested.

“We’ve been out of the lines for about three weeks,” Redbourne told him later. “We’ve been training to operate with a new weapon.”

“Oh? And what’s that, if you can tell me?”

“The code name for them is ‘tanks.’ They’re like a sort of ‘land battleship.’ We’re going to surprise Fritz and his boys with them quite soon. Can’t tell you when and where, of course, but the boys are cock-a-hoop.”

“Why ‘tanks’? Seems an odd sort of name.”

“Ah, It’s those cunning blighters in Intelligence. The story is that these things are self-propelled water tanks. That’s what they tell anyone not involved with the operation. There’s about eight battalions that have been withdrawn to train with ‘em. I really think they could turn the trick, you know. It’s the first really new idea to come out of this war; apart from that beastly gas, that is.”

“And don’t forget us, too. What was it the Army Board said in ’12? Aeroplanes have no place in modern warfare? I bet the duffer who came up with that one is eating his hat!”

“Quite right, too, Peter. I shouldn’t have forgotten our own tame birdmen, should I? I say, you two, what’s it really like up there? I mean, does it all look wonderfully strange from however many feet you boys perch at?”

“Sometimes it’s magical. I was up one evening and the sky was so clear you could see all the way to heaven. I watched a new cloud being born. It was a mystical, almost spiritual, thing, somehow. It feels like, I don’t know, a wholly new and different kind of freedom. There’s a purity, a cleanliness about it that I can’t really describe. Sometimes I hate the war simply for spoiling that. It’s cold, of course, and there are moments that are simply terrifying; but there’s a clarity about it. It makes one elated and humble at the same time.”

Peter’s voice trailed off and his eyes were distant, his mind clearly elsewhere, up among those clouds. Phillip and Redbourne stared at him as he finished speaking. Phillip was used to Peter as a light-hearted joker - someone who never failed to lift his spirits. He had never suspected that Peter Riley was sensitive to the beauty around him. Redbourne simply looked wistful. How strange, he thought, to be free of mud and filth: to fight one’s war far above the stink of the battlefield in the pristine void. He shook his head slowly. 

“I can’t pretend that I can begin to imagine it - but, thank you, Peter. Somehow, that makes me feel better.” 

They parted company soon after that. Phillip gave Redbourne half a dozen bottles of claret he had bought as a gift and they shook hands warmly. Redbourne was glad that the bonds forged in the fighting of the first year of the war were still unbroken; stretched a little, perhaps, by time and experience, but there nonetheless. Phillip felt a moment’s regret as they drove away. He had experienced again, albeit briefly, that sense of belonging, of family almost, that the best regiments engender in their own. 

Peter was silent. His big hands gripped the steering wheel and he stared straight ahead. His mind was a jumble of scattered thoughts. He pondered what he had heard about the ‘tanks.’ Could they really be the key that would unlock the stalemate? He kept drifting back to thoughts of flying; he had surprised himself. He knew how he felt, of course, but had never tried before to put it into words. He had a sudden urge to capture his feelings. He didn’t think he had the skill but he would have to try. Just in case, he told himself, just in case.

Later that night, he wrote these words:

I have seen the dancers in the sun
And heard the silvery, crystal tongue
Of rainbows breaking on the clouds
And I shouted my joy aloud.

I have seen the somnolent, wooded hills,
And breathed the morning, stretched my will
To catch an escaping dream
And have wondered at what I’ve seen.

I have flown across the face of God
That gave dimension to his rod
And staff, but saw no comfort is there
And I stopped for a while to stare

At khaki columns, winding past
To find again that I was last
In some grandiose parade;
Or maybe a charade
I never guessed quite properly,
Nor discovered which face was for me.

Peter sighed and pushed the sheet of paper away from him. He wasn’t sure if it would make any difference in the scheme of things but he was glad he had done it. He stopped to gaze at Phillip’s sleeping figure on the other side of the tent. Oh God, he thought, I am going to miss him. Maybe next time I’ll get someone who doesn’t snore. He stretched and threw himself, full length, upon his camp bed. His big feet stuck out over the end. He grunted at this perpetual annoyance and turned off the pressure lantern. Lying in the dark, he heard the pops and hisses as the lantern cooled and the soft, steady beat of the rain upon the canvas above his head. He shrugged mentally. Oh well, tomorrow is another day. Who knows what it might bring? 

Autumn 1916 Back to School

Phillip never did get to meet Albert Ball. His Military Cross was presented back in England on 2nd September by Sir David Henderson, the ‘father’ of the Royal Flying Corps. Phillip’s parents came up from Dorset and, to their mutual delight, Bethan was able to get the day off to attend as well. After the presentation, they repaired to the Savoy for lunch. Phillip took the opportunity to have a private word with Bethan as they waited for his parents to secure a table. 

“I’ll be at home for a while now, Bethan, while I go to Flying School. I hope we can see each other a bit more.”

“Won’t that be grand, Phillip? I do miss you so when you’re in France.”

“Do you truly? You’ve never given me an answer, you know.”

“Of course I miss you. There’s silly you are, Phillip! And I’ll give you the answer you want when I’m good and ready and not before, do you hear me?”

He had to be content with that but his heart sang. She would give him the answer he wanted! But wait, did she mean that or simply that he wanted an answer? He turned to her again, the question forming on his lips but she forestalled it with a brief kiss. 

“No, Phillip, I’ve said all I mean to say for now. It’s no good you looking like that at me, either. It’s take your time, isn’t it? I’m not one to rush things. I’ve spoken to your mother and she understands.”

He moved to kiss her again but she held him off gently.

“Not here, Phillip! People are staring. You don’t want to embarrass me now, do you?” 

She smiled at him and surreptitiously squeezed his hand. Her eyes were bright and looked at him so lovingly that his head swam. Then they were called through to eat. William Welford-Barnes was all beaming pride and bonhomie. Beatrice sat and gazed fondly at the two men in her life. Phillip looked tired and strained but the girl beside him positively glowed. She caught Bethan’s eye and gave her a quick smile. 

Beatrice had arranged to meet Bethan at Winchester and the three of them, Bethan, Beatrice and William, had travelled up to London together. It wasn’t the most direct route for Beatrice and William and he had grumbled. Beatrice had won the argument, as usual. She pointed out to William that Bethan could not be left to travel alone and he had reluctantly concurred. Her real reason for making the arrangements, however, was that she wished to have another chance to talk with Bethan. She knew of Phillip’s proposal and Bethan’s procrastination and decided it was time that she took a hand in affairs.

Soon after the train had pulled out of Winchester, William fell soundly asleep behind his copy of The Times, as was his habit. Beatrice turned to Bethan. 

“Now, my dear, I think it’s high time we had a little talk. First, and I want a completely honest answer, do you love my son?”

“Yes.” 

Bethan was a little taken aback but had expected something of the sort from the tone of Beatrice’s letter to her.

“Yes, I do love Phillip. And with all my heart.”

“And he has asked you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“And you have put him off. May I ask you why, Bethan?”

Bethan puffed out her cheeks and stared at her hands that were twisting in her lap.

“It’s the war, now, isn’t it? I mean, if it was all over, I’d marry him tomorrow.”

“What about the war, Bethan? Are you saying that you won’t marry my son because he might be killed?”

“Oh, no! It’s not that. I mean, there’s selfish, isn’t it? No. I’m just scared that he only loves me, or thinks he loves me, because of the war. How would it be if, when this is all over, he finds himself married to a silly little Welsh girl he doesn’t really love after all? It’s not clever that I am; I’ve never been to London and I don’t know how to dance and things like that, do I? I come from a farm in the middle of what you might call nowhere. I just keep thinking I’m not good for him, for all of you. Can you understand?”

“Have you quite finished? Bethan Meredith, I have never heard such rot in all my life. I know my son as I know my husband. Let tell you a little secret. I met William when I was a year or two younger than you are now. I knew he liked me but he was never importunate. I saw that he was a sticker, not the sort to give up if things got rough. Oh, they’re not the most charming men you’ll ever meet, the Welford-Barnes, nor the most handsome.