The Svartfjord angled away from them now as they continued on their undeviating course. Hoppy’s voice came through. “O.K., skipper. Photographs taken...
Before he had finished speaking Grenville had put the Boston’s nose up, fighting to regain the altitude they had lost. They were still within their time-limit but God knows what 7,000 feet was worth to the Focke-Wulfs....
His eyes, sore with the strain, searched the sky incessantly. The strato-cirrus had been wider than he had thought and was still visible behind. As he turned his head, his heart gave an explosive thud. A brilliant spot flashed for a second on one side of the cloud, then darkened underneath it....
They were here and had altitude on him. Only one thing to do—go down. As he slammed his stick forward, his brain was racing like the screaming engines in either wing. He snapped his orders to Bergman.
“Listen! They’ve made it—they’ll be down on us in a minute or two. Switch on your reflector-sight and make sure your safety catches are off. Keep your head and don’t fire until they’re right on top of you. Try to remember all I told you about deflection. Don’t panic, and keep telling me which side they’re attacking from. I’ll help you as we go along. O.K.?”
Bergman’s mouth was suddenly dry. “O.K., Roy.” The Boston’s nose dropped more steeply. Bergman’s stomach lifted, making him feel short of breath. The noise was deafening, pressing into his ears like brutal fingers. He switched on his hooded reflector-sight and its orange ring glowed ominously before his eyes. Grenville’s voice again. “Watch the sun!”
Bergman peered upwards through his smoked glasses. He thought he saw three black dots silhouetted against the blinding glare. The Boston was howling earthwards now, its wings and body trembling with the speed. To Bergman, looking back along the fuselage, it seemed the shuddering tail unit would break off at any moment.
Then he saw the Focke-Wulfs clearly for the first time. One was close, already within a thousand yards, the other two more distant. He shouted to Grenville: “Three of them—closing in on our tail....”
Instantly Grenville pulled out of the headlong dive. A hand seemed to be clawing Bergman’s entrails out and his spine felt crushed under the unnatural weight of his head. The Boston groaned in agony, rivets springing, paint cracking off its tortured wings, tail-planes whipped like the tail of a child’s kite.
The Focke-Wulf was still there, twenty-odd degrees to starboard. Bergman stared with fascination at its short quivering wings, its long transparent hood, and its huge radial engine. The olive-green upper surfaces of its wings, with their huge black crosses, showed vividly as it swung into position. In the brilliant sunlight it glowed like some great insect, beautiful and evil.
Grenville’s voice came over the intercom. “I’m turning to starboard to increase his curve of pursuit. He might black out. Watch him and when he shudders, fire.” _
The Boston heeled over steeply. Bergman, crouched behind his sight, saw the Focke-Wulf’s wings tilt at a steeper angle as it tried to follow them. He understood Grenville’s tactics now. At that speed a steep banking turn increased the g, particularly for the fighter which had to turn inside them to get the Boston in its fixed forward gunsight. Bergman felt the strain himself, the bone-crushing sensation in his spine again, the tearing at his eye sockets. The Focke-Wulf’s wing tilted more steeply. Bergman could see its pilot clearly now, crouched forward under his long transparent hood. The Focke-Wulf was close—not more than three hundred yards away now. The Norwegian’s spine cringed as he imagined his turret slowly sliding into the pilot’s gunsight. At any moment he would open up with his cannon....
Then the 190 faltered. Bergman saw the sudden blind flutter of its wings, the helpless drop of its nose. The pilot had greyed out for a moment; this was his chance. He put his sight on the radial engine and fired one quick burst. His G.6 tracer curled by the Focke-Wulf’s starboard wing-tip. A quarter of ring relative speed. ... He made the correction and fired a long four-second burst, twenty bullets a second hosing out from each of his Brownings. His tracer appeared to be striking but now the nose of the 190 was coming up, its pilot was recovering. . . . Bergman fired another frantic burst and this time a white stream of glycol began pouring from the fighter’s exhausts. Its propeller stopped, it banked sharply away and began gliding earthwards.
Bergman let out an exultant yell as he fired another burst after it. “I got him, Roy. He’s broken off. I hit him-”
Grenville’s voice cut his words off in his throat. “Watch out, you fool. Watch out for the others.”
Bergman glanced back and his stomach shrank in fear. The two remaining 190’s had closed in and were less than four hundred yards away. As he stared at them bright flashes ran along their wings. He twisted his guns back but was too late. Before his eyes the perspex turret splintered into white stars, he heard two shattering explosions and felt himself hurled backwards. There was a moment of intense pain, then nothing but red-streaked darkness.
* * *
Grenville felt the Boston shudder under the hammer blows of the cannon shells. A second later a shell tore through his hood. Air shrieked through the hole, buffeting his head backwards. Tracer flashed by like incandescent hail.
He threw the Boston into a spin to simulate loss of control. As always, when near extinction, his brain became unnaturally lucid, gaining the ability to consider more than one problem at the same time. One half of it was thinking about Bergman. He didn’t answer over the intercom; it looked as if he’d got the chopper. . . . Condemning faces flashed before his eyes—Davies, Barrett, Hilde. Hilde . . . God! The other half of his mind was searching for a means of escape. Searching, discarding, selecting, all at fantastic speed....
There was one faint chance of survival. He leaned forward, his eyes searching the spinning, reeling mountains that were leaping upwards to crush them. For the moment the firing had ceased but he knew the 190’s were following him down, ready to open up again if he pulled out. He watched his altimeter needle; 5,000 feet, 4,000, 3,500—already below the level of some of those mountain-tops. If he didn’t pull out now they were finished....
Groaning with the effort, the Boston came out of her spin. Instantly the Focke-Wulfs hurled themselves at her again. Explosive shells probed for her fuel tanks, for her engines, for the flesh of her crew.
Ignoring the fire, Grenville searched for his objective. He found it not a mile ahead. Again he put the Boston’s nose down. The scream of air through his shattered windscreen almost pierced his eardrums. A sunlit, snow-covered mountain peak flashed under his starboard wing, falling away dizzily into a tremendous gorge. The Boston followed the drop down, plunging into it like a meteor.
Out of the sunlight now! Into the gorge, its towering walls fined smooth by the Boston’s speed. Green water flashing below, foaming and cascading over the rocks.... ...
Grenville’s jaw clenched with satisfaction. He had made it—he was flying inland up the narrow gorge that ran into the Svartfjord. Now he had a chance, even though the 190’s were still behind him, line astern, crazed with the lust to kill. The tremendous roar of the engines thundered across the narrow gorge, bringing down avalanche after avalanche of snow.
The stressed-skin fuselage of the Boston shivered under the impact of two more shells. Grenville dropped lower. Focke-Wulf’s guns set up at two degrees . . . German thoroughness .. . forced pilots to fly low and so avoid tail gunners. Use it against them now. . . . That’s it... he can’t get you now without going lower still! Fox him ... draw him down ... he’ll be watching you, not the gorge ahead. Here’s a waterfall coming... hold it. . . hold her down ... bit longer . . . longer. ... Now!
Like a leaping salmon the Boston hurled herself up and over the waterfall. The 190 following behind had no chance. Before its pilot’s reflexes could respond, the high shelf of rock was upon him. The plane vanished in an explosion of flame and spray. The pilot of the second Focke-Wulf lost his nerve and pulled out into the sunlight above.
Grenville
followed the gorge for its full length before emerging into a wide valley. There were no enemy aircraft in sight but he knew the hue and cry would be on. At zero height the Boston turned for the coast
Hoppy’s voice came hoarsely through the intercom.
“Lummy, skipper; I thought we’d bought it that time. I could’ve washed me dirty feet in that water. How’s Bergman? Is he hit bad?”
“We’ll try to find out In a minute,” Grenville muttered.
Below the level of the tree-tops, taking all possible cover, P Popsy headed for home.
11
The private sitting-room was empty when Maisie showed Grenville into it. The black-out curtain had not yet been drawn and the winter dusk was filling the room with shadows. A bright fire was burning on the hearth.
“She’s in her room, sir,” Maisie said, touching her curls. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll give her a call.”
Grenville nodded and went over to the window. The dusk was robbing both the earth and sky of colour. He could see nothing of the airfield for the high fence, the boundary between a peaceful Britain and a Britain at war. On this side human life was of the highest value, a thing above price. On the other side it was freely bartered away for destruction. And only a wooden fence separated the two....
Grenville turned back and glanced round the room. The fire, sharpened by the cold, was making the brass ornaments wink cheerily. He stood motionless, listening to the silence of the old inn. It had the profound peaceful quality of old age.
Then he heard her footsteps outside, and felt his pulses quicken. She came in, recognized him, and drew slowly nearer. He gave himself no time for hesitation.
“I have some distressing news for you, Miss Bergman. Your brother has been wounded.... Not seriously,” he went on quickly as she lifted a hand sharply to her throat. “But he will be in hospital for two or three weeks.”
She was a thoroughbred. She fought and conquered the tremor in her voice. “What has happened?” She came forward again, making a fluttering movement with one hand. “Please sit down.”
Grenville remained standing. “It happened this morning. We were out on a photo reconnaissance. Three Focke-Wulfs jumped us and your brother was hit. Not seriously, but he was wounded in the right shoulder and suffered concussion. He’ll be all right in a week or two.”
“Where is he now?”
“I had to leave him in the Shetlands. They made arrangements to get him to hospital. I made certain he was all right before I left.”
“What did you do this time?” she asked quietly.
“I beg your pardon.”
Hilde looked him full in the face. There was a fine silt of resentment in her blue-grey eyes. “I am sorry but I cannot help feeling bitter. My brother has had to fly many times since 1940 but his pilots, knowing the dangers he had to face on landing, have at least taken care of him in the air. With you he has had only two flights—on the first one you deliberately risked his life, on the second you come back with him wounded. I told you when we met that it was not fair he should share your dangers too, but it seems you took no notice.”
The tension of the fight had not yet worked out of Grenville. He was like a coiled spring, dangerous to handle. His hands tightened as he tried to control his temper.
“You don’t think I tried to get him wounded, do you? This was his operation. My orders were that he should come on it, and this is the result.”
“What was the operation?”
“Ask your brother, not me,” Grenville said curtly. “I was only the taxi-driver.”
Hilde moved over to the fireplace. With one arm on the mantelpiece, she stared down. The firelight seemed eager to touch her, running its glow over her slim body, limning its contours in shadows. A welter of emotions suddenly surged up inside Grenville. None was defined, but all seemed to gear up with his tension, inciting him to some act that would explode it away and bring him relief.
Hardly aware of the movement, he drew closer to her. She looked up and saw how near he was standing. The firelight, growing in strength as the room darkened, shone full on his face, betraying much that the dusk had kept hidden. She saw the intense weariness in the shadows under his eyes, the resolution in the lines of his cheeks and jaw, the bitterness and strain round his mouth. She looked into his eyes, where the fire-glow was hot, and saw tiny miniatures of herself framed there.
She frowned slightly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. That was not fair of me. I should not say such things until I know more of what happened____”
It was this retraction of hers that triggered off Grenville’s impulse. That, and something which sprang without authority into her eyes on seeing the desire in his own.
He caught hold of her, jerking her towards him. Her mouth was parting in protest as he kissed her, and his lips imprisoned her words. He held her like this for a long moment, neither knowing nor caring whether she was struggling or not. His lips moved to her eyes, her forehead, her shining hair. She was lax now, her eyes closed and cheeks pale. She was crying something softly in Norwegian.
The light was suddenly switched on. For a moment Grenville did not know what had happened. Then he turned his bloodshot eyes on the door.
Valerie, in hat and coat, was standing there. Her voice was cold, spiteful. “I’m sorry. I’d no idea what was happening, of course....”
Hilde tore away, supporting herself against the mantelpiece. Grenville’s face was murderous. Valerie thought he was about to strike her and drew back in sudden alarm. He hesitated, cursed, then made for the hall. Two seconds later the front door slammed shut. There was no quality of peace now in the silence that returned to the inn.
* * *
Bergman returned from hospital sixteen days later. It was a grey blustery day early in February when he entered Grenville’s squadron office, his left hand outstretched. His right arm was held up in a sling under his naval mackintosh. A severely bruised cheek, still discoloured, gave a lop-sided effect to his smile.
“Hello, Roy. It’s good to see you again.”
Grenville was on his feet, his own hand outstretched.
For a moment, mixed with gladness, there had been a faint measure of uncertainty in his eyes. Now he was smiling, a rare smile that made him look almost boyish.
“Hello, Finn. I didn’t expect you out quite so soon. Sit down and tell me all about it. Here, have a cigarette.”
Grenville’s cordiality, unusual in one so taciturn, gave Bergman an assurance he had not felt before. Now he knew he had made a friend of Grenville, and his smile was an expression of his delight.
“It’s good to be back. I’ve missed you all. Honestly, I really have.”
Grenville laughed. “We haven’t missed you quite so much. We’ve had a holiday from those crazy jobs of yours.”
Bergman was curious. “Have you really had a rest? I know nothing has come through from my end, but I understood Bomber Command had borrowed you back in the meantime.”
Grenville gave a rueful nod. “They did. We had to do a couple of Low Country jobs for them.”
“What were they like? Very tough?”
Grenville’s face turned expressionless for a moment. “So-so. They could have been worse.” He shrugged, then his voice lightened. “Well; what are you bringing us? More trouble?”
“Later, perhaps. But at the moment I’m bringing you something good. I heard they were coming this morning, and persuaded the doctors to let me out. I wanted to see them arrive. You’ll have heard, I suppose?”
Grenville nodded. “Yes; Davies told us last week.” He looked down at his watch. “You’ve timed it well. They’re due here any minute.” He lifted his eyes to the Norwegian’s pleasant face. “Will we be getting any more gen now?”
“Yes. The Air Commodore is going to come down, possibly tomorrow. He is going to tell you about the training he wants doing. It’s pretty technical, of course —right outside my province.”
Grenville nodded, not labouring the point. He 97 watched B
ergman keenly. “Have you seen your sister yet?”
“Yes; I called over on the way here.”
“Did she go to see you in hospital?”
Bergman looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? Haven’t you been across?”
Grenville was toying with a ruler on his desk. “I don’t seem to have had much time. . . . But I saw she was kept informed about you.”
“Hilde told me. It was very decent of you, especially to arrange a trip for her. Anyway; I hope you’ll be able to get over more now.” Bergman looked away, speaking with some diffidence. “I’d like the two of you to get to know one another. She hasn’t any real friends over here—that worries me in case something should go wrong on one of these trips of mine. I know you’d see she was all right.” He turned back anxiously. “You don’t mind my saying that? I’ve no right to, of course____” .
“I shouldn’t worry about her,” Grenville said abruptly. There was a short, awkward silence. The sound of distant engines brought them both relief. Grenville jumped to his feet. “This sounds like them now. Let’s go out and take a look, shall we?”
They stood on the tarmac path, staring up at the grey, windswept sky. The sound of the engines was approaching fast, coming from the west. Grenville pointed over the hump-backed roofs of the Nissen huts.
“There they are!”
Two graceful shapes emerged from the low ceiling of cloud. They were long and slender with a high tailfìn and shapely, tapering wings. Their engines had a sweet, powerful note. They circled the airfield, banking steeply to follow its perimeter. One pilot feathered an engine and deliberately did a slow roll not a hundred feet above the wet grass.
“What a lovely job,” Grenville breathed.
The two planes drifted in to land, as light as thistledown. They braked, then taxied towards the Control Tower. Grenvüle nudged Bergman’s arm.
633 Squadron Page 10
