The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Peter sat pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger: ‘We’re in a bloody rat-trap.’

  ‘Aye.’ Angus unhitched the entrenching tool from his pack. ‘So it would seem.’

  They scratched and chopped at the dry, lumpen soil for the rest of the afternoon, cursing the stringy, shallow roots of the pine trees. As the sun westered, each soldier lay in his own shallow scrape, munching on dry rations.

  A corporal moved down the line, pausing to talk with each group of troops. As he moved on, the soldiers roused and busied themselves sorting their packs. The corporal reached Peter’s group.

  ‘The French are withdrawing on the right flank, so we’re moving back in line with them,’ he hissed. ‘Keep it quiet. No naked lights. No smoking.’ He pointed away over his left shoulder: ‘We’re heading west.’

  ****

  Bluebird squadron sat waiting in the briefing hut. A red thread pinned to the map on the wall traced out a route from East Anglia to the Kent coast where it veered south-east across The Channel to Northern France.

  ‘What the bloody hell is that all about?’ Bryan muttered.

  ‘There are plenty of bomber fields in East Anglia,’ Andrew answered. ‘Maybe it’s a bomber flight plan?’

  ‘Good Lord,’ Bryan breathed, ‘why are they attacking forests?’

  Squadron Leader Fenton came in and took his place in front of the map.

  ‘Sit down, chaps.’ He waited for the commotion to subside. ‘I hope you’re all nicely settled in and busy running up your mess tabs.’

  A ripple of laughter washed around the room and someone threw a pencil stub at Bryan’s head.

  ‘Well, it’s time for the real work to start.’ He placed his notes on the dais. ‘As you may be aware, the Germans have invaded Holland and Belgium. By all accounts the Belgians are putting up quite a show; the Dutch are not doing quite so well.

  ‘But you may not know that the Germans have also invaded France. They’ve skirted the western end of the Maginot Line and come south through the forests of the Ardennes. Lord knows how they got their tanks through that little lot, but they did. Luckily the River Meuse is slowing them down a bit.

  ‘Three squadrons of Wellingtons are on their way to bomb the German bridgeheads. Our French-based Hurricanes will be looking after them over the target, but we’ve been asked to pick them up on their way back, rendezvous Amiens.’

  He stabbed a finger onto the map halfway along the red thread’s route back to The Channel.

  ‘By that time, they’ll be at the extreme edge of German fighter range. If you do happen to see any 109s, please do not chase them east.’ He glanced around at his pilots: ‘Let’s get airborne. Good luck, Bluebird.’

  ****

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Continue climb to angels ten.’

  Andrew looked down at the unfolding green blanket of The Weald rolling away beneath them.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. That’s Hastings. Set course one-three-five.’

  The green countryside gave way to water as Bluebird arrowed out into the Channel. Merchant ships ploughing through the swell cut glittering white wakes in the grey-green monotony.

  The French coast flashed by as the squadron levelled out at 10,000ft. Andrew fell to scanning the sky.

  Minutes passed, then Bryan’s voice crackled over the wireless: ‘Bluebird Yellow One to Bluebird Leader. Many aircraft dead ahead and below.’

  ‘Thank you, Yellow One. ‘A’ flight, follow me to angels eleven, we’ll take top cover. ‘B’ flight, go down and watch their tails.’

  Six Spitfires soared into a climb while the other six dipped into a shallow dive to meet the twin-engine bombers.

  Andrew pushed his stick forward and followed the ‘B’ flight leader in a wide arcing turn. The Wellington formation lumbered by and the Spitfires banked around to follow them. There were no other planes in the air.

  Andrew looked up to see the other half of the squadron settle in 1000ft above them. He turned his attention to the bombers droning along in front and flipped the wireless to transmit.

  ‘Bluebird Yellow Three to Bluebird Leader. There should be three squadrons. I count only twenty-two planes.’

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Yellow Three’ – the squadron leader spoke in a measured tone – ‘it looks like the big boys play rough.’

  Andrew’s Spitfire bobbed around in the bombers’ slipstream. ‘Fourteen planes missing. Six men on each.’ The thought chilled him.

  The Channel stretched out in front of them and the top cover Spitfires descended to sit in front of the bombers. Minutes later Hastings beach rolled away underneath.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Let’s go home.’

  The Spitfires banked away to the north-west.

  15th May, 1940

  Gerry watched Devline walk across the airfield towards his office. The sway of her hips threatened to break his resolve. He moved away from the window and sat behind his desk. Devline knocked once and breezed in.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘I brought you a piece of cake for your coffee break.’ She put a paper bag on his desk and leaned over to kiss his forehead.

  ‘Sit down, Dev,’ Gerry said, ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  Devline straightened up, looked from Gerry’s face to the newspaper on his desk and back again. She settled into the chair and regarded him with a steady gaze.

  Gerry looked down at his clasped hands to escape the disruptive power of her eyes. ‘A travelling salesman dropped by today. His company sells spark plugs for aero-engines all the way up the east coast, even as far as Ontario—’

  ‘Uh-huh!’ Devline’s interjection drew his eyes back to hers.

  ‘Anyway’ – he held eye contact – ‘he said the Canadian Air Force are recruiting pilots to go to Europe.’

  Devline unlocked their eyes and reached for the newspaper on the desk.

  ‘Germany invades Holland and Belgium.’ She read out the headline. ‘British and French armies advance in counter-attack.’

  She dropped the newspaper onto the floor and a tear welled in her eye: ‘You do know that I love you, Gerry?’

  Gerry reached across and took her hand: ‘I love you too, Dev, but—’

  She looked up sharply and the tear dropped away from her jaw. ‘But what, Gerry? Why does there have to be a ‘but’?’ Her voice grated along the hard edge of her outrage. ‘If you were defending America it might be different. We’d all be in it; everyone would give up their man.’

  ‘Don’t you see, Dev,’ Gerry implored, ‘I will be defending America?’

  Devline pulled her hand from his and stood up, clattering the chair onto the floor. ‘You’re the only one that thinks that way. You’ll be alone.’ She choked out a sob: ‘And I’ll be alone too.’

  ‘There are people losing their homes and families, Dev. I have to do something for them, I just have to.’

  Devline stalked to the door and pulled it open. ‘You’re doing this for nobody else but yourself,’ she hissed.

  The wooden wall of the hut reverberated with the slam of the door. Through the window Gerry watched Devline walk away.

  ****

  ‘I’m sorry, Mom’ – Gerry held her hand across the kitchen table – ‘but it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘I know, son.’ Tears escaped onto her cheeks. ‘And I’m very proud that you’re standing by what you believe. I knew my good boy would grow up to be a good man.’

  Bob paused from stirring the stew. ‘Anyway, Mary, there’s nothing to say the Canadians will take him on.’

  ‘You take that back.’ Mary’s eyes stayed on Gerry’s face. ‘My son is the best pilot in the state’ – she smiled through her tears – ‘they’ll snap him up.’

  Bob served the stew and sat at the table. Mary dried her eyes and said grace.

  ‘What happens next, Gerry, in Europe I mean?’ Bob sprinkled salt onto his meal.

  ‘It depends on how fast the G
erman army moves.’ Gerry took a mouthful of stew and chewed. ‘If the British and French dig in where they are, then I guess we’re back to 1917.’

  His father nodded.

  ‘If the Germans push them into the sea,’ Gerry continued, ‘then the French coast becomes the front-line.’

  ‘And the Germans invade Britain?’

  Gerry paused in thought. ‘They might risk it.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’m sure the Royal Navy would put on a pretty big firework display if they tried.’ Gerry shook his head. ‘I think the Germans are more likely to offer peace terms.’

  ‘So’ – his mother brightened – ‘it could all be over before Christmas?’

  ‘I suppose that depends on the British and how much they trust Hitler’s respect for treaties. In any event, if the Germans capture France, their bombers will be in easy range of England, probably with fighter escorts’ – Gerry paused, looking down into his stew – ‘which is why they need more pilots.’

  Bob threw a nervous glance at his wife: ‘Well, Gerry’s a flying instructor, so if I was the British, I’d put him to work training those new pilots.’

  ‘Yes, sir’ – Gerry nodded – ‘that’s what I’d do too.’

  19th May, 1940

  Peter trudged west, his platoon wedged near the front of a long khaki snake of marching soldiers. His pack bit deep into his shoulders and he hefted it continuously, seeking respite. Angus plodded beside him, humming around the stub of a cigarette, solid and indefatigable.

  The road widened and broke out from the woodland shade onto a plain of open ground. The late afternoon sun dipped in the sky in front of them; prickles of sweat broke out on their foreheads.

  Peter squinted ahead. The road crossed open fields for a mile before diving into the cover of more woodland. He scanned the terrain to the north, nothing moved except a swirling flock of crows circling an isolated stand of trees. To the south a black smudge stained the horizon, too dark for storm clouds. He nudged Angus and pointed.

  His friend grunted: ‘Something’s well ablaze.’

  ‘How far away?’

  ‘Too far to bother us just now.’ Angus lit another cigarette. ‘Let’s just keep going.’

  ‘The Panzers turned north, didn’t they?’ Peter swallowed a moment of panic. ‘They’re coming for us.’

  ‘Aye’ – Angus blew a long line of smoke over his head – ‘so it would seem.’

  The sweat trickled down Peter’s temples. He fixed his gaze on the shaded shelter of the trees 500 yards ahead.

  A faint drone tickled the edge of Peter’s hearing. He looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see motorbikes on the road. There was none. But the column rippled as some of the marching men faltered. The engines grew louder.

  Peter turned back as two black shapes emerged from the sun’s glare. The column erupted into shouts around him as the shapes resolved into fighter planes, flattening out from a shallow dive. The men in front of him parted like a bow-wave, scrambling to get off the road.

  Peter stood transfixed by the yellow noses rushing towards him, their noise clattering to a deafening crescendo. Then their wings sparkled.

  The air above and around Peter ripped like tearing canvas. The two fighters roared over, 30ft above his head, large black crosses incongruous against their impossibly blue undersides. The machine-guns’ rattle and the thumping of cannon played a rhythmic counterpoint to the cacophony of engines.

  Peter screwed his head to follow the planes and the blast of their passing whipped dust and grit into his face. He blinked his eyes clear, buckling to his knees at the sight revealed before him.

  The column was cleaved apart. Two furrows ploughed by cannon-shells curved along the road and onto the grass verges. Around these scars lay the bloodied bodies of soldiers, some still, many writhing or crawling. Peter gazed at one man, thrown onto his back in a ragged pentangle by the force of his own evisceration.

  ‘Peter!’ Angus beckoned from a roadside ditch: ‘Get over here, man. They’re coming round again.’

  Peter crawled off the road, rolling into the ditch. The two fighters climbed away in a banking turn to the right. The second plane slotted into formation with his leader. Their path took them round and over the road but they made no move to attack.

  ‘The bastards,’ Peter breathed. ‘They’re taking a look at what they’ve done.’

  The staccato popping of rifle fire followed the planes as they accelerated away to the east.

  The ringing in Peter’s ears subsided, replaced by the gentle ebb and flow of moans and coughs from the wounded.

  Peter and Angus climbed from the ditch. ‘We were right there’ – Peter’s voice cracked – ‘we were walking right there…’

  The platoon sergeant’s voice broke through the miasma: ‘Move out! Give the medics space. Let’s get under the trees in case those bastards come back.’

  Shouts echoed down the road and the column shifted again, flowing through and around the human wreckage scattered along the path.

  22nd May, 1940

  Peter lay behind a log, peering into the woods opposite. Over to his right the platoon’s Bren gun team set up behind a bush. Angus dropped down next to him.

  ‘Looks like we stand here, Peter.’

  Peter wriggled deeper into the leaf-mould and settled with his rifle resting on the top of the log, the weapon’s butt snug against his shoulder. The thick moss on the bark bled its moisture into his battledress.

  The warmth of the sunlight waxed as the morning wore on. Silence fell over the waiting troops, broken only by the occasional rustle and clink as soldiers fixed bayonets onto rifles.

  Peter caught a flicker of grey against the gloom of the woods, then another. The movement resolved into a ghostly human shape, flitting across the ashen sunlight filtering between the trees. The movements multiplied, cascading into small groups of men until the whole wood rippled with advancing soldiers.

  A cold fear descended on Peter as he watched and waited.

  The first German stepped out from the tree-line pausing to look over his shoulder for his comrades. More grey-clad soldiers broke the cover of the trees, blinking against the sun.

  ‘Open fire!’

  Echoes of the shout drowned in the rolling barrage of rifle fire. The grey-clad soldiers in the open bucked and crumpled, the trees behind them spitting splinters over their bodies.

  The barking recoil of Peter’s rifle clanged against his steel helmet and rang like fury in his ears. The deeper mechanical thunder of the Bren gun rattled and paused, rattled and paused.

  Peter loosed a round into an emerging German and one more into his corpse as it hit the ground. Raising his aim, he fired blindly into the gap between two trees and another dark figure slumped forward.

  The machine-gun swept back and forth, chewing bark away from the trees. Peter fired at random through the gaps between the trunks, moving left and right until his empty rifle clicked with impotence. Twisting urgently, he grabbed a fresh magazine from his belt and jammed it into the gun.

  Turning back to the tree-line he paused. Nothing moved.

  ‘Cease fire!’ The order rippled down the line. ‘Cease fire!’

  Uneasy silence settled over the scene. A low moaning drifted across from the trees. Shattered bodies littered the grass at the edge of the woodland, grey uniforms seeping into red around ragged tears and gashes.

  ‘Peter?’

  Peter stared into his friend’s face.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Angus reached out to squeeze his arm.

  ‘We killed them,’ Peter breathed. ‘They didn’t even shoot back.’

  The heavy air rumbled to a new vibration; a deep-throated engine gunned and strained, underpinned by the clanking of caterpillar tracks.

  ‘Christ,’ Angus whispered. ‘Panzers.’

  A thunderous boom rolled over the ground followed by an explosion 50 yards away in the woods. Three trees sagged over to tangle in the branches of their neighbours. Shrapnel skittered against
the leaves and sang through the air over Peter’s head.

  ‘Fall back! Fall back!’ The platoon sergeant’s shout released them. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  Peter and Angus rolled to their feet and jogged away north with the rest of the platoon.

  Chapter 11

  Receptus

  26th May, 1940

  Andrew held Molly’s hand and toyed with her wedding ring. The wooden pew felt hard against his buttocks and the sparse stone church retained an echo of winter’s severe chill.

  The vicar’s voice trembled in the still air: ‘We have all admired the courageous bearing of the British Expeditionary Force during the intense and difficult fighting of the last two weeks in Belgium and France. We can be proud of the gallantry they are displaying against a determined foe, gallantry which will be written with honour in the annals of the British Army. Hold our magnificent troops in your hearts and minds as we dedicate our prayers to them in their hour of peril.

  ‘Our Father, which art in heaven…’

  ****

  Andrew and Molly crunched over the churchyard gravel through the shadows cast by the lichen-spattered gravestones.

  ‘You should move to Norfolk, Molly,’ he said. ‘My father would be glad to look after you.’

  ‘No. I prefer to be close to you. Look after myself.’

  ‘It won’t be long before the Germans start chucking bombs around.’ Andrew stopped and turned her to face him. ‘And you live just outside the fence at Biggin Hill.’ He took her face between his palms. ‘It’s just too dangerous.’

  ‘Please let’s not argue about it.’ She walked on. ‘It’s far more dangerous for you.’

  Andrew opened his mouth to reply but she cut him short.

  ‘Like the vicar said, today we should be thinking about the soldiers in France. We should be thinking about your friend Peter.’

  Andrew sighed. ‘Poor old Peter. I told him his training would keep him safe. I don’t believe that’s true anymore. The enemy he was trained to fight no longer exists.’