Prologue

My wife and I were walking our dogs on the hills above the village where we live. As we crested one brow, we could make out some wrought iron railings on the summit of the next ridge. Vanessa said: “That must be the airman’s grave. Let’s take a look.” So we did. Whoever chose this spot had chosen well. Below us the village slumbered in the afternoon sun. The land fell away on three sides, green and brown and golden. Sheep, like distant puffs of cotton wool in their winter fleece, dotted a distant hillside; a large buzzard circled a patch of woodland that topped one rise, reminiscent of a monk’s tonsure.

We took in the view and congratulated ourselves once more on our decision to move to the country and then turned our attention to the grave itself. It was nothing fancy, a low rectangle of amber marble almost obscured by a riot of daffodils. Indeed, the flowers were so profuse that I couldn’t make out the black lettering of the inscription. The very last part only was discernible. It read: ‘ ... Barnes MC RFC.’ Well, as some of you may have gathered from reading one or two of my stories, I am something in the way of an amateur historian. Seeing those letters ‘RFC’ whetted my curiosity. The Royal Flying Corps! At once my mind started to race. I couldn’t wait to get back home and discover the identity of the mysterious airman whose grave lay in such elevated solitude.

I was babbling on like a schoolboy all the way home. Vanessa, who fortunately has the patience, if not of a saint then at least of a minor candidate for canonisation, indulged me. “Off you go and research him then,” she said. It was about four hours later that I returned from the depths of my office. I had been through all my source books to no avail. I turned to the Internet and logged on to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website. No joy. Eventually I got my first clue on an amateur site dealing with the history of aviation in Dorset. God bless enthusiasts! I had a name. Captain Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes, MC, RFC. Killed in Action, April 23^rd 1917. Born London, 12^th August 1894. That made him not quite 23 years old.

The site added one further snippet. His son, also a pilot, Flying Officer Michael Jonathon Welford-Barnes, DFC, RAF, had been killed in action on 15^th September 1940. Both father and son were buried in the same grave atop a hill in West Dorset. The land in which they were interred had once belonged to the family estate. The Welford-Barnes family died out with Michael; the estate was broken up to pay Death Duties.

That was it. This little double tragedy, this piece of quintessentially English History of the Twentieth Century reduced to a few spare lines on an anorak’s website. It wasn’t good enough! I had to know more. First, I had to tell Vanessa the sad little story. When I finished, she gave me one of her special little smiles.

“You ought to tell their story,” she said. “I’m sure there has to be something more to it.”

“Of course. There has to be, but where to start?”

“Well, there’s always the village museum.”

I blessed her then and made up my mind to start delving right away. You see, the dates of their death were highly significant. Phillip had died during ‘Bloody April’ - the nadir of the Royal Flying Corps’ fortunes. Michael had been killed on ‘Adler Tag’ - Eagle Day, the bloody climax of the Battle of Britain. The link between them was incredible. Both had been flyers, that was obvious, both had been decorated with medals of high honour. Both had been just 22 years old.

Chapter 1

September 1915 - ’Somewhere in France’

Phillip could never quite get used to the transition from peace to war. One minute you were walking along a dusty lane with crops growing in the fields on either side, the next instant you entered the war. You turned a corner and there it was, waiting for you. The crops vanished, the earth turned from russet brown to grey. Artillery muttered personal threats and the stench rose from the fractured land. The placid scenes of threshing machines pulled by patient horses gave way to a vista of madness: of shell holes and smashed trenches, broken duck-boards and rusting wire.

He had been in France for a whole year. The anniversary passed without notice. Everyone’s mind was on the ‘Big Push.’ The area around Loos had been selected. Confidence was high. Guns had been assembled in great artillery parks, brought there from all over the Western Front. The newspapers from home were full of it. His father’s most recent letter had informed Phillip that this time “You’re going to push the Hun back where he belongs, my boy.” He even seemed to know the date of the offensive. Even a humble subaltern such as Second Lieutenant Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes could work out that the element of surprise was somewhat lacking.

It didn’t seem to bother the Top Brass, though. The two weeks spent in the Divisional Area training for the offensive had been punctuated by streams of visitors in immaculately cut uniforms with the red tabs of the General Staff prominent upon their lapels. They were full of jovial good humour, eyes twinkling and moustaches bristling with martial fervour. The Tommies were unimpressed. They sweated in the August sunshine and swore and cursed as they practised the advance over and over again. There was much talk about the preparatory barrage. Four hundred guns would be lined up wheel to wheel to pulverise the German positions and smash the dreaded entanglements of vicious wire. After such a pounding, the troops would walk over and ‘mop up.’

Not everyone was so sanguine though, it seemed. At the main camp at Étaples the soldiers had grown silent as they saw line after line of rough wooden coffins being moved up from the depot. Someone was hedging his bets. Phillip had long ceased to ponder the workings of the kind of mind that could allow the furnishing of such a reminder of one’s own mortality to men who were just about to go into the line. The men seemed inured to it after a time and it wasn’t long before macabre, rough jokes were being traded as the lorries bearing the coffins moved away.

“’ere, Jack, one of them ‘ad your fuckin’ name on it!”

“Yeah, well, they got a biscuit tin for you, you fuckin’ little runt.”

“They ain’t got one big enough to fit Geordie’s gut in.”

“They will once ‘e’s spilled ‘em!”

“Oh, right fuckin’ cheerful you are, Spud.”

Phillip hid a smile. The Tommies were in good heart. He was filled with admiration for these men, the last of the old, pre-war Regular Army. Their ranks had been filled out now by Territorials and the arrival of the Foreign Service battalions that had been stationed overseas. He recalled the grim retreat from Mons the year before. The anger and bitterness of the men at having to move back. He remembered the frantic fighting at Le Cateau, where they had stood and checked the German advance in defiance of orders. That defiance had ultimately cost Smith-Dorien his job. Philip and his brother officers had been angered and saddened by that. They all considered Sir Horace Smith-Dorien the best General in the Army.

Back, now, in the assault trenches, the first pre-battle nervousness had begun to tighten Phillip’s guts. He knew he’d be all right once it started. The waiting was a torture, though. There were only so many letters home one could write, only so many times one could check equipment or study the trench maps. He went through the Orders Group notes he had taken at battalion HQ that morning. He checked his watch; the bombardment was due to commence in a few minutes’ time.

A voice was counting down to the start of the bombardment.

“Fifteen seconds...”

“For what they are about to receive...”

“... I hope the fuckers are truly grateful!”

The air seemed to explode around them as the first massed salvo was hurled from the guns. They heard the passage of the projectiles overhead, a rasping, ripping sound that culminated in the brass bellow of the explosions as the shells poured down upon the German line. Phillip eased himself up onto the fire step and watched the fury engulfing the enemy trenches. The very earth bucked and heaved, and the bass concussion of the shells could be felt through their own trench walls, which seemed to jump and tremble in sympathy. The noise was indescribable. The stink of lyddite was borne to them on the faint breeze, prickling the eyes and irritating the throat.

After the initial shock, the barrage seemed to settle down, and they could pick out the individual characteristic sounds of the various guns; the flat crack of the 18-pounders as a counterpoint to the thunder of the 60-pounders. The tearing sound of the heavy shells and the higher scream of the howitzers rolled and blended into a Devil’s Symphony of pain.

The fire that danced and played upon the German parapets was terrible but also strangely beautiful. Every colour of the visible spectrum was there in the flash of the explosions. There were some colours Phillip saw that he could not put a name to. It was, quite literally, awe-inspiring. Phillip felt his own humanity reaching out to those souls who suffered a scant five hundred yards away. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of such ferocity. One could do nothing but endure. The noise and concussive blasts stunned the senses. It seemed as if one’s life-flame waxed very small and sought to hide as deep within oneself as possible, away from the mechanical insanity that reigned around it.

At such moments, he would fix on a memory of home. It was always the same memory; he was looking down from the unnamed hill to the south of the village. Below him, he could make out the church and the little row of cottages that fronted the lych-gate. He could see the course of the river making its lazy meanders through the valley bottom, and if he really strained, he could hear the hum of bees and the faint barking of a dog from the village below. It was thus he could insulate himself from the terror and madness around him. As he watched across the barren stretch of no man’s land, he wondered if there, some German boy was picturing his home in Saxony or Bavaria in a vain attempt to keep a grasp on his own sanity.

The guns snarled and thundered on and on. A quarter of a million shells fell on the German defences over four days. The barrage was less even now, the pace slackening and rising as the tired gunners served their steel masters. Phillip became aware of the first whooping noise of gas shells, and he shuddered. Gas had first been used against them at Ypres that spring. He hated it. He could still picture the first gas casualties and groaned aloud at the vividness of the memory. Then it started to rain. He cursed. It wouldn’t take much for the pulverised earth to turn to the strength-sapping mud that was perhaps the greatest horror of all. You couldn’t do anything about artillery; you either lived or died, or you were driven mad by the noise, pain, and terror. The mud you had to live with. It drew your strength as though you were being bled. It rotted your feet and filled your soul with the deepest misery. He uttered a silent prayer: ‘Oh God, don’t let there be mud.’

A hand tapped his knee, and he slid down off the fire step to face Captain Redbourne, his company commander. Redbourne’s face wore a fixed grin, and he was clasping a football.

“Here, young W-B, you’ve a healthy kick on you.” He was bellowing to make himself heard. “I want you to boot this into no man’s land when the whistle blows. It’ll give the boys something to chase.”

Phillip stared at him uncomprehendingly. This had to be the final proof that Redbourne was Dhoolali. Nevertheless, he took the ball and placed it on the fire step. Redbourne grinned again, patted his shoulder, and roared “Good Man!” He hurried off down the trench. Phillip watched his retreating back and shook his head slowly.

The bombardment rumbled and churned on through the night unabated. Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the explosions, his head cradled on his forearm. He dozed occasionally, but proper sleep eluded him. He could feel it now: the slow but steady tightening of every nerve fibre. He felt sick. His mouth felt dry yet was filled with saliva. He wanted to spit but forced himself to swallow. His head ached abominably from the pounding drumfire, and his eyes felt raw and scratchy.

Soon after dawn, the barrage rose to a final crescendo and seemed to reach a new peak of intensity. It seemed impossible that anyone could have lived through the torment. Phillip could feel the explosions through the trench wall. It was as though someone was kicking him in the chest and stomach. It grew so violent that he had to pull back and drop into the bottom of the trench. White-faced Tommies stood waiting for the rum issue. Every tenth man clutched a scaling ladder of crude construction. He tried to give a reassuring smile, but his facial muscles were frozen. He saw the same blank, rigid expression reflected back at him from a score of faces. He pulled out his watch, alarmed at how his hands were shaking. This was the worst time of all.

Unexpectedly, the bellow of the artillery ceased. One final desultory crack echoed in the sudden calm, then all was silence. Phillip heard Redbourne’s voice, a scream of fury:

“The bastards! Oh, the utter, stupid bastards! They’ve stopped too soon. There are still ten minutes to go!”

It was true. The Tommies looked at each other with foreboding. The premature end would give the survivors time to recover. Time to get out of the surviving dugouts and man what was left of the parapets. Time to drag up the hated, deadly machine guns. Time to call up support from the back areas, to arrange for a counter-bombardment. There was some tense muttering. Phillip sensed a crisis and called to Redbourne.

“Captain Redbourne, why shouldn’t we be early too? Early bird catches the worm and all that. Why don’t we go now?”

There was a rumble of assent, but Phillip saw Redbourne hesitate. He understood the senior man’s predicament. To go early was to disobey orders, to depart from the ordained plan. The hesitation stretched out, one minute, two. Then they heard the shrill blast of whistles further down the trench system and shouts and distant cheering. Someone had decided to go. Phillip saw the relief wash over Redbourne like a breaking wave, and he put his whistle to his lips and began to blow like Joshua. He paused for breath and to bellow at Phillip to kick the football.

Phillip jammed his service cap firmly in place and pushed himself to the front of the queue for the ladder. He tucked the football under one arm and pulled himself over the top of the parapet with the other. He could hear sporadic firing from the German positions. At least one machine gun was still in action and was beating out its deadly tattoo. He paused for a second to collect himself and then, just as Redbourne emerged from the trench to his left, he tossed the ball into the air and gave it a massive punt towards the enemy lines. He heard the NCOs roaring orders to keep the dressing as the platoon formed up. Phillip took his place in front and waved the men forward.

“Come on, Boys! Ten shillings for the next man to kick the ball!”

They were cheering now and covering the ground at a shambling trot, weighed down as they were by rifle, haversack, and gas mask holder. Steel helmets had not yet come into service, and Phillip noticed one or two men had lost their forage caps or else had preferred to take them off. He was conscious of the leather band of his own cap biting into his forehead, but he could do nothing about it. It was at that moment he realised that he had not yet drawn his revolver, and he fumbled with the flap of the holster as he ran.

Redbourne was capering like a maniac over to his left front, yelling encouragement and waving a black umbrella. He seemed otherwise unarmed. Somehow, this seemed to fit in with the rest of the madness, and Phillip heard a huge cheer as Lance Corporal Riley caught up with the football and gave it another healthy kick across the broken ground.

Soon they came up to the first line of wire. It had been flattened and torn but still represented a serious obstacle, and they dragged their way through it painfully, with much cursing as it ripped at cloth and flesh. The opposition was growing now, and they were starting to take casualties. Riley was one of the first to fall. His body was spun around like a top as he took a burst of machine gun fire. The man next to him stumbled to a halt and gaped at the bloody ruin of the Lance Corporal’s body. Phillip ran to him and shoved him on.

“Get going, man, there’s nothing to be done.”

They stumbled on. Now the ground was heavy, shattered by the shelling and slick from the rain. They slithered and fell, rose again, and fell once more. Some could not get up.

Phillip slipped heavily and crashed into a shell hole. Water had begun to seep into the bottom of the depression, and he could smell the taint of gas. He hauled himself out, eyes smarting and tears starting. He could now make out individual field-grey shapes on the parapet ahead of him, and he roared his men on. To his right, he saw some men of another platoon breaking into the German trenches, and he angled towards them, pointing and yelling at the Tommies to follow. He was almost knocked to the ground by the burly figure of Geordie Watts, who leapt the parapet, delivering a roundhouse kick to the head of a German soldier as he did so.

Then they were into the trench, and the mayhem truly began. It was the worst type of fighting, with boot, bayonet, and bomb. They worked their way systematically up the German line. At each re-entrant, they hurled their homemade bombs into the next bay. These bombs, made from old jam tins packed with gun-cotton and scrap metal, were no match for the German ‘potato masher’ grenades that were hurled back at them, but still, they fought on. Gradually, the noise began to diminish, and only the occasional shot could be heard as the Tommies ‘mopped up.’ It was then that Phillip realised he had never fired a single shot.

The reserve company caught them up, and they made ready to push on to their next objective - the German support line. It was easier climbing out the back of the German trenches as there was no parapet, and they moved off again. In the distance, Phillip could see the huge steel structure that the troops had christened ‘Tower Bridge.’ He could see the slag heaps of the mines and, beyond them, the open green of a country untroubled by war. Someone had gathered up the football and kicked it ahead once more, but it was sadly deflated, punctured by the barbed wire.

The area between the German front and support lines was a nightmare wilderness of shell-holes that overlapped and sagged, one into another. It was like crossing a small outpost of hell. The land stank of high explosive and gas. There was another smell too - of viscera and blood. The tired troops clawed their way eastwards. The first rush of adrenaline was past. Now only discipline and willpower kept them moving. Over to his right, Phillip could see flares go up. Two reds above green, the signal of success. He looked left and saw the signal repeated. His spirits rose. Perhaps this ‘Big Push’ would really end the war.

The German supports were deserted. Either they had all been caught in the front line or else they had withdrawn. He halted the men and set them to digging in. Tired as they were, they responded immediately. Should a counter-attack come, the trenches would be useless. The parapets, what was left of them, faced the British lines. New parapets had to be thrown up and a fire step cut. They set to with a will, dragging sandbags from the front to the rear of the trench and digging out the sections that had been blown in by the guns. This resulted in a number of grisly finds and more than one Tommy turned away retching.

Redbourne appeared, hatless, red-faced but still clutching that bloody stupid umbrella.

Phillip called out: “Where’s the second wave?”

Redbourne shrugged and glared back towards the British lines. Nothing moved. In the lull in the fighting, they could hear birdsong. The Captain threw himself down on the makeshift fire step and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the bowl with quick, practised movements of his stubby fingers and hummed a little tune to himself. He patted his battledress pockets for matches and finding none, called to a nearby soldier:

“Private Jenkins, might I trouble you for a lucifer?”

The man grinned and tossed Redbourne a box of matches bearing the Union Flag and the legend ‘England’s Glory.’ With his pipe well alight and drawing nicely, Redbourne turned his attention back to Phillip.

“Well, young W-B, we got this far. Casualties?”

“Nine dead, sir, four wounded. Chapman’s the worst, but he should be all right, the medic says. I think we got off lightly. Half the bloody wire wasn’t cut.”

Redbourne nodded. When he replied, his voice was pitched low so that only Phillip could hear.

“Do you know tomorrow’s my birthday? 26^th September. I shall be eight and twenty. Who’d ever have thought it? I can tell you now, old fellow, I never expected to see it. Not after Ypres. So! We must think of some way to celebrate.”

He raised his voice so it carried to the platoon in the trench around him. “Any of you chaps know how to bake a cake?”

He was rewarded with laughter. Redbourne was popular with his men. His cultivated madness reassured them as it was intended to. Some of the older men had seen it all before but recognised, despite their increased cynicism, that the newer hands needed the Captain’s antics. It helped to persuade them that things could not be all that bad.

“No bakers, what? Damned shame! I was counting on you lot. Looks like it will just have to be jam roly-poly again, eh chaps?”

This too raised a laugh. The infamous tinned stodge that, along with ‘corned dog’ and the unidentifiable canned meat known as ‘dead baby,’ was the staple ration.

“Maybe you’ll get a parcel from home,” Phillip said.

Redbourne gave him a sharp look and then shook his head wearily.

“I don’t think so, W-B. No people at home to send one. What about you? Anyone waiting in Dorset with bated breath for the telegram boy?”

“Just my parents. I had a brother. He died when I was quite young. I don’t remember him at all.”

Redbourne looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

“We ought to be pushing on now. The longer we delay, the more time we’ll give the Huns to organise their defences. What’s keeping them?”

He leapt to his feet and strode off down the captured trench, stopping every now and then to crack a joke or pat a shoulder. Phillip heard his booming voice recede around the traverses and he felt again that wave of inadequacy. Redbourne was a true leader. He could fire the men or calm them as the situation required. He, Phillip, lacked that touch. He didn’t delude himself. He wasn’t the stuff of heroes - he just tried to do his duty.

The sky darkened and a light rain began. Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the magical play of Very lights as they blazed and fell in the black bowl of night. The harsh white light flattened everything into a two-dimensional relief. The spectral glare compressed distances. He found it impossible to judge how far away the old front line was. He felt he could reach it in a couple of steps; yet, that morning, it had seemed as distant as Africa. From his left he heard the persistent crump of artillery and saw the distress flares lazily arcing upwards. Someone was catching it. The men were quiet in the trench beneath him. He understood. The fighting and the sudden relaxation of tension had drained them. He often found himself yawning prodigiously immediately after moments of high danger. At the same time, he would be too wound up to sleep. No doubt there was some physiological explanation for it.

It was past midnight when he eventually turned in after a final check on the sentries. He had barely been asleep a few minutes before he was roused by a summons from Captain Redbourne.

“Another attack has been scheduled for eleven ack emma.” Redbourne used the phonetic version - a.m. for a.m., p.m. for p.m.

“Why so late?”

“Delays in bringing up reserves, cavalry not in position to exploit any breakthrough, the usual. Ours not to reason why, young W-B.”

“Yes, sir. Still, it does seem like handing the advantage to the Hun.”

“Indeed. However, between thee and me, old fruit, I rather think we did that today when everyone pulled up a bit too sharpish. Some of the lads got clear into open country but had to come back for lack of ammunition. Anyway, the Brigade says they were held up on the left and our flank was open. So we do it all over again.”

The dawn was chill and grey; a thick mist clung to the battered landscape and left pearly droplets of moisture on men and weapons. The mist cleared slowly as the morning wore on and soon they could make out the new German defences. Artillery preparation was to be minimal. Very few of the bigger guns had any shells left after the initial bombardment. A ten-minute barrage was all that could be managed. Phillip checked his watch for the twentieth time that morning. An overwhelming lethargy had seized him. His limbs felt leaden, detached from him in some inexplicable way. The men seemed to be feeling the same. They stood as patient as oxen, blank-faced. It was as though they were all resigned to their fate. There was none of the nervous edge that had been present the previous morning and no rum ration to impart any cheer or ‘Dutch Courage.’

The guns began promptly at ten minutes before eleven. Phillip’s practised ear noted the lack of ‘heavies’ - the flatter crack of the 18-pounder field guns predominated. Time seemed to both stretch and compress. Each minute seemed interminable yet, when the guns ceased and the whistles blew, he could scarcely credit that ten minutes had passed so quickly. Heavy-footed, he stumbled out of the trench and began to advance.

Of course, it was a disaster. German reserves had been rushed to the fighting overnight. There were now seven times as many enemy troops as there had been twenty-four hours before. The German High Command had responded energetically. Phillip covered less than a hundred yards before being slammed to the ground. His first reaction was one of total wonder. He could not connect the smashing impact of the machinegun bullets across his thighs as having anything to do with himself. There was no pain. He dimly recognised that this was due to shock, but still it seemed unreal. He tried to stand, but his shattered legs would not obey him. He rolled slowly onto his back and gazed up at the blue, cloudless vault above him.

The noise of the battle seemed to be coming from a great distance, like the tolling of a church bell on a summer Sunday morning. His attention wandered. High above him, he saw a faint shape, delicate as a dragonfly. He thought he could hear the hornet hum of its engine as it made its stately progress across the heavens. It seemed to come to him like a revelation. That was where he wanted to be; flying in the clear air above where there was no gas, no lyddite fumes, and, above all, no mud.

The tumult was slackening now. The attack had failed. A handful of soldiers made their way back past him. He craned his neck to see where the rest were. The untidy hummocks of khaki littering the broken ground told their own story. There weren’t any others. Over half of the troops that had climbed from the trench scant minutes before were either dead or wounded like him. Rough hands seized his shoulders, and he felt himself lifted onto a broad back. He was still in that strange dreamy state. He hardly felt the jolting as Geordie Watts carried him at a stumbling run back to their own lines.

He woke to darkness and pain and cried out. The memory of being hit returned slowly, but this time he could connect with it. His legs were on fire. A haggard medical orderly loomed out of the darkness.