The explosion sucked the man off the ground, curving his bulk through the air. The body twisted and fell flat on its back. The second explosion, muffled by the man’s dead weight, threw the ragged corpse a few feet vertically before it slumped to soggy rest on the smoking ground.
20th June, 1940
The taxi pulled up by the guard hut at Kenley aerodrome as the dusk deepened to darkness.
Gerry leaned forward in the back seat: ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘On account, guvnor,’ the driver answered. ‘Air Ministry.’
‘Oh’ – Gerry fumbled in his pocket, pulling out an unfamiliar coin – ‘Take this.’
The driver’s eyebrows raised in surprise: ‘Thank you, sir. Most kind.’
Gerry climbed out as the driver retrieved his holdall from the boot. The guard emerged and checked over Gerry’s papers. Satisfied, he stepped back and saluted.
‘I need to report to the Squadron Leader Fenton. I’ve just joined Bluebird,’ Gerry said, ‘where do I need to go?’
The guard looked at his watch. ‘If the squadron leader is still on station, I imagine he’s in the mess, sir,’ the guard replied, ‘just up there, to the left.’
Gerry hefted his holdall and trudged up the road towards the dim outlines of buildings. Squinting in the thickening darkness he made out the words ‘Officers’ Mess’ and pushed at the door. It opened straight into a thick curtain and Gerry struggled to push his way through.
‘Put that light out!’ The shout was followed by raucous laughter. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’
Gerry untangled himself from the black-out curtain and stepped away from the door. A dozen faces regarded him flatly for a moment and turned away. A dark-haired man detached himself from the bar and walked over.
‘Hello, I’m Andrew.’ He shook Gerry’s hand.
‘Gerry Donaldson, I’m joining Bluebird Squadron.’
They walked back to the bar. ‘That’s us.’ Andrew gestured at the room. ‘Forgive them, they’re not being unfriendly. It’s just difficult being pleased to see a replacement—’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Anyway, this is Bryan,’ Andrew continued. ‘You’ll find he really is slightly unfriendly.’
Bryan turned on his barstool to look at the newcomer, cocked an eyebrow and went back to his newspaper.
Andrew winked at Gerry: ‘Would you like another pint, Bryan?’
‘Is Hitler a Nazi?’ Bryan drawled.
‘Right’ – Andrew beckoned the steward – ‘three pints of bitter, please.’
‘I don’t really drink…’ Gerry began.
‘You really ought to have a drink tonight,’ Bryan announced, ‘because you might not have a chance tomorrow night.’
‘Anyway, it’s a special occasion.’ Andrew slapped Gerry on the shoulder. ‘You’ve just joined the best squadron in the RAF.’
Bryan leaned over to one side and broke wind. Several beer-mats skimmed in from around the room, bouncing off his back.
The steward placed three pints on the bar.
Andrew took a swig. ‘Whereabouts in Canada are you from?’
‘Oh, I’m not Canadian.’ Gerry shook his head. ‘I’m American.’
‘Hang about’ – Bryan straightened in his barstool – ‘there’s something here in The Standard about an American pilot. Is that you?’
Gerry blushed: ‘I think it could be.’
Bryan swivelled on his stool to address the room. ‘Lads,’ he called out, ‘America has joined the war.’
A ragged cheer rose from the other pilots as Bryan downed half his pint to toast his announcement.
‘No, hold on’ – he squinted at the paper in his hand – ‘an American has joined the war.’
Hoots of mock disappointment rang around the room and more beer-mats sailed over the bar.
‘A Yankee in a Spitfire, eh?’ Bryan shook his head. ‘Whatever next?’
‘I’m supposed to report to the squadron leader,’ Gerry said.
‘He lives off-station,’ Andrew replied, ‘he’ll be in the briefing hut tomorrow morning. Bluebird is on readiness at 7 o’clock. The dorm rooms are down that corridor. The steward’ – he nodded towards the man behind the bar – ‘will give you a key for an empty room.
‘You’ll need to report to Flight Lieutenant Harry Stiles too. He’s the adjutant for Bluebird, affectionately known by some as ‘Madge’. But don’t try him until at least 10 o’clock, he’s not really a morning person.’
‘So, Yankee’ – Bryan leaned forward to interrupt – ‘when is America going to step up and give us some help?’
‘I don’t know’ – Gerry smiled – ‘but at least I’ve turned up.’
‘Surely they realise’ – Bryan persevered – ‘once we’ve been wiped out, they’ll be next?’
Gerry picked up his pint in both hands and took a sip. ‘They’re beginning to accept that. But they don’t want to send their boys to die on foreign soil.’
Andrew shook his head: ‘So they’d prefer to fight on American soil?’
Gerry nodded: ‘I’ve had a hundred conversations, and yes, that’s the way they’re thinking.’
‘What about their families,’ Andrew asked, ‘their children?’
‘Their towns and cities,’ Bryan added. ‘Take a look at Calais the next time you fly past it.’
Gerry took a larger sip of beer. ‘They see it in the same light as 1917. They question what good the last war did for them.’
‘Ha’ – Bryan laughed – ‘what kind of America would you have if the Kaiser had controlled Britain and Canada?’
Gerry shrugged: ‘All they remember is the amount of money it cost them.’
Bryan swivelled back to his newspaper. ‘I hope the lovely American people and their piles of dollars will be very happy under their impending German government.’
Andrew leaned on the bar. ‘You’re in for a lot of that, I’m afraid.’ He pulled a thin smile. ‘It’s not really fair. I suppose it always looks different from the sharp end.
‘You see, when we come into land, we often fly over a village ten miles to the east of here. My wife lives in that village, she’s carrying our first child. Everything about this war is personal to us, and that sometimes makes it seem a bit desperate.’
Gerry nodded: ‘The last time I saw my mother she was sobbing her heart out. The last time I saw my sweetheart she was walking out of my life.’ He took another swig of beer. ‘It’s personal for me too.’
21st June, 1940
A pall of cigarette smoke drifted into the rafters of the briefing hut. Squadron Leader Fenton walked in and took the dais.
‘Good morning, gentlemen’ – he smiled into the upturned faces – ‘things have been a bit slow over the past few weeks, which I know has been a great disappointment to many of you. But don’t fret, the Germans have not gone away. They’ve just been occupied moving their airfields to the Channel coast. Once they’ve got settled in, no doubt they’ll turn their attention on us again.
‘When they’re ready, it’s likely they’ll start with the closest targets. That means our supply convoys in the Channel will be first on their list. This gives us a wee bit of a problem. Our RDF stations can’t give us enough warning to get airborne and intercept short-range bomber attacks before they happen. As you will appreciate, chasing the Germans home after they’ve sunk our merchantmen isn’t going to win the war. So that means standing patrols over the Channel.’
A low groan came from the assembled pilots.
‘I know, I know’ – the squadron leader chuckled – ‘we might get lucky, we might not. I’m particularly keen myself to have a crack at a Stuka after seeing what they did at Dunkirk. We’ll see what happens.
‘But remember, every bomber strike is likely to have escorts. The 109s are a lot closer to their bases than they were at Dunkirk, so they’ll have a lot more fuel to mix it up in a scrap. And don’t chase them too far inland in case you run into some of their mates on
their way out.
‘It will be no surprise to you that the Luftwaffe outnumbers us quite heavily. So, text-book squadron or section attacks are no longer applicable against large formations. We need to get as many guns to bear as quickly as possible to disrupt the bombers before they reach their target. So, once you hear the ‘Tally-ho’, choose individual targets.
‘One more thing before we take off. Pilot Officer Gerry Donaldson joins us for the first time today. Gerry has come all the way from America to lend a hand. Back home he worked as a flying instructor, which is why he converted to Spits in around 20 hours, so he knows what he’s doing in the cockpit. Gerry will be less familiar with King’s regulations, mess bills and cricket, so help him out where you can.’
Laughter smattered the room.
‘You’ll fly as my wingman, Gerry.’ The squadron leader picked up his helmet and gloves: ‘Let’s go to war, gentlemen.’
****
Molly’s head rested on Andrew’s shoulder. The pale skin of her pregnant belly pressed against his waist. He pulled the bed clothes up and over her hips.
‘You’re not to get cold,’ he said, ‘put something on.’
‘No, not yet,’ Molly murmured, ‘it’s such a relief to be naked. Nothing I have fits properly anymore.’
Andrew stroked her abdomen, delighting in its curve. ‘How are feeling? Is everything going well?’
‘How would I know? I’ve never done this before’ – Molly laughed – ‘but my ladies in the shop have been very helpful. Apparently, the backaches and trapped wind are perfectly normal.’
Andrew craned his neck to kiss the top of her head. ‘I received a letter from Dad today; Peter’s father has been killed in an accident.’
Molly twisted to look at Andrew face: ‘Accident?’
‘He walked into a minefield.’
‘Oh Lord,’ she breathed, ‘where will it end?’
Andrew shuffled onto his side, took Molly in his arms and squeezed her gently: ‘I’m afraid it’s only just beginning.’
5th July, 1940
‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader, I have bandits on their way home. Climb to angels fifteen. Patrol Dover.’
Gerry’s skin tingled with a sudden excitement.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Angels fifteen. Buster, buster.’
Gerry sat behind the squadron leader’s port wing. Fenton’s Spitfire reared into a steep climb, bucking away with acceleration. Pushing his own throttle through the gate, Gerry leapt after him.
Taking a deep breath, Gerry pulled the guard off the red firing button and swivelled the ring from ‘Safe’ to ‘Fire’. The deliberate nature of the act cemented his resolve. He flicked his gunsight on and checked his oxygen valve was fully open.
‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Vector one-three-zero. Climb to angels twenty.’
Halfway across the Channel the Spitfires levelled out at 20,000ft, throttling back to cruising speed.
The squadron banked into a long shallow turn to port. A flash of movement down to his right caught Gerry’s eye. A small silhouette raced along at lower level, heading straight for France. He reached for the transmit button, but an urgent voice stopped the motion.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron! Bandits at 11 o’clock. Tally-ho!’
Gerry glanced to his left and spotted the aircraft his leader had called out. He counted five black dots heading towards them. As the squadron wheeled left to intercept them, Gerry made a snap decision. He peeled away to the right to chase the lone aircraft the others hadn’t spotted.
The nose of his Spitfire dipped into a vicious dive as he pushed the throttle fully open. Trading altitude for velocity, the air-speed indicator ticked up towards 400 miles an hour.
Gerry eased back on the stiffening control column, pulling out of the dive in small increments, fighting the g-force threatening to drain the light from his vision and the thoughts from his mind. Flattening out to level flight, he spotted his target, still some distance ahead but travelling slower.
Gerry’s thumb hovered in readiness over the firing button. ‘What if it’s a British fighter?’ he thought.
He eased his Spitfire up slightly to get a better view. The blue-grey fighter plane ahead of him flew on squared-off wings which bore large white-edged crosses.
Gerry bobbed back down behind his target, took a glance in the rear-view mirror to check his tail and pressed the firing button. The Spitfire shuddered with violent recoil, then Gerry jolted in his seat as his plane bucked in the enemy’s slipstream.
His windscreen was suddenly empty. Cursing his carelessness, Gerry scanned the sky, catching sight of his quarry at the bottom of a diving turn. Rolling his Spitfire over, Gerry dived in pursuit.
Gaining again, the French coast slid beneath him. Over home territory, the German stopped running, swinging into a tight turn to engage his pursuer. Gerry hauled round to cut inside the other plane’s circle.
Trapped inside the wider curve, the German could only hold the turn. His plane edged closer to the centre of Gerry’s gunsight.
Boom!
A detonation clanged through the airframe behind Gerry. He hauled back on the stick, throwing his plane into an opposite turn. A huge shape flashed past his machine, banking to pursue him.
Gerry screamed into a climbing turn to come around into a firing position on his assailant. Another huge shape flashed over him. His original opponent returned to the fight. Gerry stuck with his turn, inching his nose onto the second 109’s tail.
The dark silhouette grew larger. As Gerry prepared to fire, his stomach lurched in horror. The electric gunsight was dead and dark. Grappling to stay in place behind his target, he thumped the base of the gunsight with his gloved hand, shouting in frustration.
White fingers of tracer curled over his right wing, dashing away ahead of him, their trails pumping closer to his cockpit. Swallowing panic, Gerry pulled into another violent turn that flung his shuddering Spitfire into a tailspin.
Dropping away from the combat, Gerry kicked the rudder to correct the spin and nose-dived to regain airspeed before levelling out. His compass spun wildly. Looking about to get his bearings, a thin white line on the horizon lent him a clue.
Gerry turned to threaten the 109 that was still in view. It banked away to the east. Gerry turned back to the west and the thin strip of Dover chalk. He rammed the throttle into full boost and dived for home trailing black exhaust smoke across the water.
****
Gerry taxied in next to a knot of pilots talking and gesticulating amongst themselves. He was the last to land. The ground crew waved him into place and he shut down the engine. Pulling off his helmet and gloves, he climbed out of the cockpit.
As he hit the turf his legs threatened to buckle beneath him and he reached out to steady himself against the fuselage with his left hand. He hung his head forward to stretch neck muscles that were locked like steel cables at the base of his skull, wincing against the pain. Despite the sunshine bathing the airfield, cold shivers crept up his spine.
‘You really ought to look at this.’ Andrew’s voice came from the other side of the fuselage. ‘You picked up a cannon-shell’.
Gerry walked around the tail to join him. There, just below the roundel, a ragged hole breached the aluminium skin of the aeroplane. Gerry crouched next to Andrew as he peered into the cavity.
‘Looks like a couple of battery connections have been cut,’ he said.
‘That explains why my gunsight stopped working.’
‘But look at this.’ Andrew put his fingers behind two control cables at the bottom of the fuselage. Against his pale skin it was easy to see both were nearly severed. ‘That’s your elevator and that’s your rudder. You’re lucky you brought this crate home.’
Gerry looked away into the sky, sucking in a deep breath. Without a rudder or elevators there would be little chance of staying alive against two 109s.
‘Good Lord, Yankee’ – Bryan’s ebullient voice jarre
d Gerry’s reflection – ‘what have you done to the King’s Spitfire?’
‘Bryan has just scored his third victory’ – Andrew stood, helping Gerry to his feet – ‘so the beers are on him tonight.’
‘Well done.’ Gerry forced a smile. ‘What did you get?’
‘Oh, just a cheeky little 109. Confirmed, mind you.’ Bryan leaned forward: ‘Do you know the best way to get a ‘confirmed’?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Keep firing until the canopy shatters.’ Bryan grinned. ‘Because if the canopy goes, the bastard’s head goes with it.’
Chapter 15
Mater
19th July, 1940
Eileen Drew pushed her straggling hair away from her eyes and bent to scrubbing the kitchen table. The knock on the door echoed along the hallway and she froze mid-stroke, waiting. The knock came again. She glanced at the clock, shaking her head as she thought: ‘Must be a salesman’. Tutting, she wiped her hands on a tea-towel and walked down the hall to open the door.
Eileen’s hand flew to her mouth: ‘Vincent!’ She threw her arms around him and squeezed.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Come in, boy, come in.’
Vincent peered warily over her shoulder.
‘He’s at the slaughterhouse until six, then he’ll go straight to the pub. Come in, son.’
Vincent walked down the hall to the kitchen and sat down at the still-damp table. Eileen closed the door and followed him.
‘I’ve missed you, Vincent’ – she smiled through fresh tears – ‘it’s so good to see you again.’
Vincent took her hand in his: ‘I came back to say I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to stay and help you. I’m sorry I ran away without saying goodbye.’
He reached out to wipe Eileen’s tears away with his thumb. ‘I took the train to London. The RAF were recruiting at the station. I just fell into it, really.’ His own tears welled. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’
‘No’ – Eileen shook her head – ‘you shouldn’t be sorry, Vincent. No boy should have to see his mother treated like a sack. It isn’t you who should be sorry.’
‘Is he still…?’ Vincent didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
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