The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Poor man,’ she thought and closed her eyes as the body hit the water.

  Teeth gritted against the impending maelstrom, she waited. But above her the invading swarm disarticulated, tearing itself into four groups, splaying out over the town and grinding inland, each gaggle to a different target.

  ****

  The orderly dashed out of the hut: ‘Bluebird Squadron, scramble!’

  Chairs clattered to the ground and newspapers skittered away in the breeze as the pilots dashed for their aircraft. Andrew skidded around his Spitfire’s tail and jumped onto the wing. He caught the flash of Bryan’s manic grin as he shoe-horned himself into the cockpit.

  Bluebird Squadron roared across the field and lifted into the late summer sky.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Control. We are airborne. Listening out.’

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader, make angels fifteen, vector one-six-zero towards Eastbourne. Many bandits heading your way.’

  The squadron wheeled onto course in a steep climbing turn.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Try to avoid the fighters, chaps. I know they’re more fun to play with, but we need to keep the bombers away from the airfields. Loosen up and attack in sections.’

  The squadron drifted apart into groups of three. Andrew swayed back and forth behind Gerry and Bryan, scanning the sky for danger.

  ‘Fifty-plus bombers at 12 o’clock. Tally-ho!’

  Andrew saw the Heinkel bombers flying in close formation at the same level, heading in a shallow diagonal across their path.

  ‘Yellow Section, let’s hit the top row,’ Bryan called, ‘break left after attack.’

  Andrew eased back on the stick to follow the other two up, then nudged it forward to bring the onrushing bombers into his gunsight. Stabbing the fire button he lurched his Spitfire over the Germans as they flashed past below. Banking hard left he latched onto Gerry’s tail.

  The enemy formation wavered as the rest of Bluebird wheeled into their ranks; some damaged aircraft dropped away, heading for home.

  ‘Yellow Section stick with me,’ Bryan called, ‘we’ve got some cold meat to clear up.’

  Andrew glanced upwards: ‘Escort coming down now, watch your tails.’

  Bryan chose a fleeing Heinkel, diving south towards the coast. Black objects fell from its underside as it traded its bomb-load for speed.

  ‘Yellow Leader calling, remember, 250 yards from dead astern.’

  Bryan dropped in behind the bomber as the rear-gunner sprayed bullets into the sky around him. Bryan opened fire; a long burst raked the fuselage and hits flashed off the wings and engine cowlings. Bryan peeled off and zoomed away.

  ‘Fairly certain the gunner has bought it.’ Bryan’s voice held a flat calmness. ‘Your turn, Yankee. Try 200 yards.’

  Gerry swooped down and closed on the bomber’s tail. A body fell from the open bomb doors; a parachute plumed behind it. The Heinkel wallowed to and fro, attempting to evade the attack. Gerry opened fire, matching the bomber’s zig-zagging banks. Pieces of aircraft skin fluttered out behind the bomber’s tail and a thin ribbon of black smoke streamed from the starboard engine.

  Andrew scanned the sky behind: ‘Yellow Three calling. Looks like the escort has stayed with the main formation. I am attacking now.’

  Either the German pilot had given up evasion, or his controls had been damaged. He flew straight and level. Andrew crept closer. Coming within 100 yards he pressed and held the fire button.

  A cascade of destruction danced around the bomber. Orange flashes spattered the wings between engines and fuselage, releasing tongues of flame to leap from the wing-roots and lick the length of the fuselage. The Heinkel shuddered under the onslaught and rolled over into a steep dive. Twisting a spiral column of smoke in its wake, it crashed in a fountain of fire amidst a patch of woodland.

  ‘Well done, Yellow Section,’ Bryan called. ‘That’ll teach him to crack walnuts in church. Let’s go home.’

  The three Spitfires reformed and headed north-west. Bryan led them in a shallow dive, losing height on the approach to base.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Squadron’ – the wireless rang with a copper hollowness – ‘bandits approaching Kenley and Biggin Hill, low- and high-level. Divert Redhill for refuelling.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bryan barked. ‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Section. I don’t want to go back to Redhill as long as I live. Do you two have any ammunition left?’

  ‘Yellow Two. I sure do.’

  ‘Yellow Three. Plenty to play with.’

  ‘All right, gentlemen. Let’s look for this low-level raid. Buster, buster!’

  Andrew knocked the throttle through the boost-gate and leapt after the other two Spitfires. The altimeter ticked down until Bryan levelled them off at 300ft and throttled back. Sevenoaks spread a grey smudge amongst the green countryside. Shadows flitted across its streets.

  Gerry’s voice crackled over the air: ‘Yellow Two calling. Nine bandits at 2 o’clock. Low and fast. Heading towards Biggin Hill.’

  ‘Thanks, Yankee,’ Bryan called, ‘Junkers 88s, and they’re burning it. Buster, Yellow Section. Buster, buster!’

  Andrew curved down at the back of the section into a tail-chase with the bombers. His engine whined and rattled in protest as he continued full-boost.

  The bomber formation ahead loosened up, spreading out for their bombing run. The rear-gunners fired speculative bursts at their pursuers. Ahead of them a flight of Hurricanes clawed into the sky from the end of the Biggin Hill runway.

  ‘Individual attacks, Yellow Section. Tally-ho!’

  Andrew splayed out to his right to attack the starboard section of bombers. At 400 yards he punched a one-second burst of fire at the formation. The outermost bomber banked away to the right. A lucky hit on a control cable or the pilot losing his nerve? Andrew let him go, fixing his attention on the section’s leader.

  The gap closed to 300 yards as Biggin Hill’s perimeter flashed by below. Black shapes fell away from the bombers. Andrew squeezed another burst and then gasped as his Spitfire bucked in the shock wave of explosions.

  A moment of hell flashed across Andrew’s vision: monolithic plumes of earth thrown up by high explosives; figures running and falling; smoking trails of Bofors shells traversing the sky; a building fell in on itself; a truck cartwheeled in the air. He eased back on the stick, fighting to trade speed for altitude and avoid a stall. Shapes flashed over his canopy, the Hurricanes hammering north-west after the fleeing raiders.

  Andrew pulled into a shallow climb and banked north to avoid trouble. He pulled a few gentle manoeuvres to check for damage. The controls were tight and responsive.

  As the adrenalin of action dissolved, a memory invaded his mind: silver bi-planes at an air-pageant, streaking through this same sky, playing at fighters and bombers in a game where the bombers always lost. He banked left around the smoking bomb-craters speckling the airfield below and remembered his first sight of Molly in the crowd.

  ‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Section’ – Bryan’s voice deflated his daydream – ‘let’s go home and re-arm.’

  Breathing a sigh of heavy sorrow, he held his turn and set course for Kenley. Leaves Green wheeled around below him. His life and his love, no more than a speck on someone else’s invasion map.

  Andrew headed west, catching up with Bryan and Gerry a couple of miles from base. They put down between the white flags and taxied over to dispersal, a rigger on each wingtip, guiding them past the rough earth of recently filled bomb-craters.

  Andrew climbed out of his cockpit to find a rigger examining the fuselage.

  Gerry approached: ‘What happened to you?’

  Andrew grimaced: ‘I flew straight through a bomb-blast. Knocked all the wind out of my sails. I was lucky not to stall.’

  ‘Shrapnel damage, sir,’ the rigger called up from under the plane, ‘right the way along the fuselage and tail. Starts just behind the cockpit’ – he craned his neck and grinned at Andrew – �
�which was a spot of luck.’

  Andrew lit a cigarette. ‘Will she fly again?’

  ‘Certainly not today, sir. I’ll need to check all the control lines are sound and patch the holes. I’ll get the chief to assign one of the reserves in case you need to go again.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He turned back to Gerry: ‘Did you and Bryan have any luck?’

  ‘We emptied our guns into one. He looked pretty beat up, then two Hurricanes barged in and put him into the ground about five miles north of here.’

  Bryan strode up to join them. ‘I’ve just given Mortice a slap on the back for his loading job. That’ll be par for the course from now on.’

  They walked together back to the readiness hut where a knot of pilots stood conversing in low voices and smoking cigarettes. The tension hanging over them was palpable. From the wireless inside a disembodied voice repeated a morose litany: ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Are you receiving me? Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader…’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Andrew asked.

  Fagan looked up with a drawn expression: ‘Squadron Leader Fenton isn’t back yet.’ He chewed the end of his pencil. ‘No one has seen him since the escort waded in… I don’t suppose you—?’

  Andrew shook his head: ‘Yellow Section went south after a Heinkel running for home.’

  Fagan raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We shot him down in flames,’ Andrew said. ‘Crashed just south of Tunbridge.’

  ‘Good show.’ Fagan nodded absently.

  The wireless crackled again: ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Are you receiving me…?’ Silence whined against the static. ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Are you receiving me…?’

  The telephone jangled. Fagan grabbed it from its cradle. ‘Bluebird.’ He listened in tight concentration and gave a short nod. ‘Thank you.’

  Silence fell over the assembled pilots.

  Fagan looked up with a wan grimace: ‘A Spitfire dived vertically into the ground just outside Lingfield at about the same time Bluebird Squadron engaged the bomber formation. The observer corps report the pilot was in combat with three 109s shortly before he crashed. They saw no parachute.

  ‘The Army will get some engineers onto it, dig out the wreckage. Until I know what they find I will be posting Squadron Leader Fenton as ‘missing’. I’ll suggest to the station commander that Pilot Officer Hale is made acting squadron leader until we know something definite.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. Another bad day at the office.’

  Chapter 21

  Agnus

  31st August, 1940

  Bryan walked into the office and let the door swing closed behind him. He sat down at the desk, careful not to disturb anything. Lighting a cigarette, he looked around for somewhere to flick the ash. Half a dozen cold cigarette butts lay crumpled in a metal Burton Ale ashtray on the edge of the squadron leader’s desk. He froze for a moment, staring at the logo.

  A knock sounded at the door and the adjutant walked in.

  ‘Hello, Bryan.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Bad news I’m afraid. The army have dug the Spitfire out of that ruddy great hole and found Squadron Leader Fenton in the cockpit. Well, what was left of him, the poor sod.

  ‘So, it looks like you’re in the hot seat for at least the next few days. I know it’s a bind, but I’ll try to keep some of the bullshit off your desk. Most of it’s routine, easy enough for me to deal with.’

  ‘Thanks, Madge’ – Bryan smiled – ‘I appreciate your help.’

  ‘I’ll get someone to collect Malcolm’s things. The station commander and myself are off to visit his wife later on this afternoon. Sad times.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, one thing, though,’ he said on his way to the door, ‘we’ve got a new intake arriving tomorrow afternoon. Two new bods fresh in from flight training and one hospital discharge. You’ll have to give them their induction, if that’s all right?’

  Bryan nodded.

  The adjutant opened the door and left. As the latch clicked behind him Bryan picked up the ashtray and emptied it into the wastepaper basket.

  ****

  Bryan stood at the bar between Andrew and Gerry: ‘Right, let’s get this started.’ He turned to face the room.

  ‘Gentleman. May I have your attention, please.’ Bryan’s voice quelled the murmuring in the room.

  ‘You know why we’re gathered here this evening. Yesterday we lost our squadron leader. Today they recovered his body from the seat of the Spitfire in which he spent so many hours playing merry hell amongst our enemies.

  ‘Bluebird Squadron has lost many pilots this year. Some have left ragged holes in our lives, some we barely noticed, gone as quickly as they arrived. But yesterday the Germans got one of the irreplaceables. This man was a leader in a sense of the word that politicians and kings struggle to fulfil.

  ‘I can’t remember an interception where we haven’t been outnumbered by at least five-to-one. Yet never have I been daunted by those odds, not as long as I’m flying with Bluebird. Squadron Leader Fenton made me feel safe while he led us into unspeakable dangers.

  ‘Let’s not forget, it took three of them to knock him down. And those three will be back tomorrow, and the next day. So, every time you have a 109 in your sights, think of Malcolm Fenton and show no mercy. Shoot to kill.’

  A voice called out from the back of the room: ‘Three cheers for Squadron Leader Fenton! Hip-hip…’

  The mess erupted into cheers. Bryan turned back to the bar and took a long draft from his glass.

  Andrew leaned across: ‘What a wonderful speech, Bryan. Didn’t know you had it in you.’

  Bryan shrugged: ‘My father is a vicar. I was forced to sit and listen to his sermons every week.’ He grimaced. ‘The theme is the same really, your miserable life is blighted by an acquired fear of God, and then you die, usually quite horribly.’

  Gerry frowned: ‘Your father is a man of the cloth and you don’t believe in God?’

  Bryan snorted: ‘I don’t believe in anything, least of all my father and his God.’ He turned to shout over his shoulder: ‘Drinks all round, lads!’

  The steward lined up more pints in front of them.

  Bryan caught him by the wrist: ‘Put the round on Fenton’s mess bill.’

  ‘But, sir—’ the steward protested.

  ‘Has anyone told you to close his mess bill?’ Bryan hissed.

  ‘Well, no, sir—’

  ‘In that case it’s still open’ – Bryan smiled and released the steward – ‘and it will stay open for the rest of the night.’

  1st September, 1940

  Vincent snapped to attention as the door opened behind him.

  Bryan strode round the desk and regarded the three pilots lined up before him.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen.’ Bryan sat down. ‘I’m Acting Squadron Leader Hale. I acquired this position after our real squadron leader became one with his Merlin engine at the bottom of a 12ft hole.

  ‘He was a well-liked man. In that regard I do not expect to follow in his footsteps. I have a job do. I have to prevent the Germans from beating us. One small part of that is to keep them from killing the three of you. If I can get you through your first three combat sorties, there’s a small chance you’ll be around to celebrate Christmas.

  ‘Over the next few days you’ll be going up as wingman to an experienced pilot. They’ll put you through your paces and report to me. These ‘familiarisation’ flights will take place well north of here, outside the usual stamping grounds of the 109s. You will only go on combat missions once I am reasonably certain you have at least a small hope in hell of coming back. Do I make myself clear?’

  One of the pilot’s piped up: ‘I’d rather get straight on with some Hun-bashing, sir.’

  Bryan blinked at the man. ‘Would you, now? Well, I’d rather not have to write a letter to your mummy telling her how brave you were, and that we’ll send your body back as soon as it washes up at Pevensey Bay.’

  The pilot looked down, blush
ing.

  ‘Right. Drew, you stay here. Otherwise dismissed.’

  The other two pilots left the office. Vincent tensed, not sure whether to stand to attention again.

  Bryan cleared his throat: ‘Sergeant Drew, it says on your posting papers you’ve just been discharged from hospital.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It also says you were “under observation”.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Why were they observing you, sergeant?’

  ‘I had a c-close call, sir,’ Vincent said. ‘It shook me up a b-bit.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve just been released from a loony bin?’

  Vincent focused on the wall over Bryan’s shoulder: ‘I’m not mad, sir.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Drew.’ Bryan lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air. ‘I do sympathise. Having a 109 up your arse is not a pleasant experience. But I can’t carry a pilot who’s going to get windy every time we—’

  ‘I’m not a c-coward, sir.’ Vincent took in a deep breath to steady himself. ‘I want to do my bit. It’s what I’ve been trained for.’

  Bryan inspected the nicotine stains on his fingers as he thought. He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward: ‘All right, Drew. You’ll be put on the training flights with the others. But you’re bottom of the reserve rota, understand? No combat flying until I’m sure you’re not a liability. Dismissed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Vincent left the office and walked out onto the airfield. He sucked the air into his lungs and willed his shoulder muscles to relax. The faint tang of aviation fuel sizzled in his sinuses. Across the grass, armourers worked on a Spitfire. He ambled off in their direction.

  The men glanced up as he arrived, nodding by way of salute, not pausing in their work.