‘It’s about confidence,’ the man said. ‘Just rely on the fact that the German will get out of your way and you’re through scot-free. Cheers.’ He took a swig from his fresh pint. ‘But you need to practise it. Take a couple of sections up and fly directly at each other for a while. You’ll soon get used to it.’
Chapter 23
Consummatio
15th September, 1940
‘Feel that?’ Andrew asked. ‘There’s a distinct chill in the air.’
‘Mmm,’ Bryan mused, ‘it’ll soon be Christmas.’
‘Thanksgiving first,’ Gerry said.
Bryan cocked a quizzical eyebrow: ‘What the hell is Thanksgiving?’
The telephone in the hut jarred the moment. The three pilots strained to decipher the mumbled conversation, quickly terminated by the ding of the receiver clattering back into its cradle. The orderly walked out of the hut, making straight for Bryan.
‘Beehive Control want to take Bluebird to ‘standby’, sir.’
Bryan blinked at him. ‘They want us to sit in our Spitfires?’
‘Yes, sir’ – the man nodded – ‘something big is brewing and they’re having trouble working out what’s happening.’
‘Right’ – Bryan glared at the orderly – ‘you’d better tell everyone then. Sitting in Spitfires it is.’
The pilots straggled off across the grass and climbed into their fighters. They tightened straps and plugged in headsets. Ground-crews lounged on the grass or leaned against wings. From the trees at the edge of the field a crow cawed once and fell silent.
Bryan’s patience was mercurial. He switched to transmit: ‘Bluebird Leader to Beehive Control. I have 12 Spitfires at standby. When can I expect to scramble?’
‘Hello, Bluebird Leader. We’re deciphering plots. Maintain standby.’
‘Plots usually do two things, Beehive’ – Bryan’s tone dripped acid – ‘they drop bombs and they shoot at us. We generally prefer to be in a position where we can shoot back.’
Beehive remained silent and empty static whirred in the squadron’s headsets as the minutes ticked by.
Inactivity and expectation chafed at the edges of nerves. Sweat trickled down temples and seeped into underclothes. Prickly itches sprang up between the toes of booted feet. And all the time, the ghastly weight of the leaden moments grew with the accretion of each trivial thought that danced, dodged and delayed the final apocalyptic notion: ‘Will it be me today?’
‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Squadron. Scramble. Two-hundred plus bombers with many escorts crossing the coast, Dungeness to Ramsgate. Vector one-zero-zero, angels twenty-five.’
Engines coughed into life, belching out blue smoke that writhed across the airfield in the breeze. The fighters rolled out to the landing strip, formed into sections and raced into the air, banking onto the vector.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. It looks like Adolf might be on his way after all. Increase rate of climb, let’s get high enough to bounce the bastards.’
Noses tilted skywards and airspeed indicators ebbed. The hollow groan of labouring engines reverberated in cockpits and ears popped in protest as the squadron clawed upwards into space, through the haze to the placid alien blue of the upper troposphere.
In the south the flashing glints of sunlight on Perspex sparkled in the sky as another Spitfire squadron climbed on a converging course, condensation trails swirling behind their wings like the sleeves of ball-gowns.
With no discernible transition, the sky ahead filled with dark specks, dropping away in a curtain of aircraft that seemingly draped all the way to the ground.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Bandits dead ahead, coming right at us. Engage top cover fighters. Red and Yellow section break right. Green and White section break left. Let’s mix it up. Tally-ho!’
From the corner of his eye Andrew sensed the other Spitfire squadron roll onto their backs, diving to attack the bombers below. He drifted out of formation to give himself firing space and then the 109s were upon them. Yellow noses reared large and gunfire sparked at him from thin grey wings. Andrew thumbed the firing button and the leading Messerschmitt lanced through his bullet-stream; it flashed past underneath him, hits dancing along its fuselage.
‘Hold it,’ he told himself. He flew straight and level until the last two 109s bolted past by his starboard wing, dragging empty sky behind them. Then Andrew hauled the Spitfire into a vicious right turn, his propeller slashing through the Germans’ slipstream.
The two enemy fighters banked left, seeking to re-engage. Andrew’s tighter turn scissored them into his gunsights and he stabbed out a snap-shot. Pieces flew from the first German’s wing and he flipped onto his back, diving away from danger. Andrew kicked into a roll, reversing his turn, and latched onto the tail of the second fighter. The pilot jinked in desperation, pulling up into a climbing loop. Once more flying inside his opponent’s turn, Andrew loosed a five-second burst. Black smoke unfurled from the 109 and tongues of flame licked from its exhausts. The angular canopy flew off and the pilot stood up, his slipstream clawing him out and away into the void.
Andrew glanced in his mirror for danger and pulled up into a climbing turn, searching for another target. The sky around him was interlaced with woven con-trails and Andrew pointed his aircraft towards the thickest cluster. A flash in the sky scratched a fiery curve across the blue as a Spitfire dropped away from the battle, looping lazily into its long descent to destruction. German machines also dropped away from the melee, diving south, heading for home.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron’ – Bryan’s voice rattled in Andrew’s earphones – ‘they are breaking off. Let them go. Reform in sections, let’s bully some bombers on the way home.’
The Spitfires coalesced amongst the vapour trails. Andrew picked out Bryan and Gerry, falling into formation behind them.
Bryan dropped them into a long, lazy dive to the north, banking gently to westward. The Essex suburbs stretched out below them as they cruised across the bomber route out of London.
‘Yellow Two here,’ Gerry called. ‘Bandit at 2 o’clock below, heading south. Appears to be in a hurry.’
‘Thanks, Yankee.’ Bryan led them into a slow turn to port, calculated to converge with the fleeing bomber. ‘Looks like a Dornier. Follow me in.’
The bomber flew at top speed, but the momentum of the diving Spitfires gave its pursuers the advantage. Bryan’s fire peppered the fuselage and tail-plane. Then Gerry attacked the port engine, knocking chunks off the cowling and dragging black smoke from the crippled motor.
Andrew dropped into position behind the raider and paused, thumb hovering over the firing button. An orange glow filled the rear-gunner’s position. It took a moment before Andrew recognised it as fire. The inside of the bomber’s fuselage rippled with flames.
Andrew throttled back, falling away from the crippled enemy but compelled to witness its end. The tail section wobbled in the air-flow; its oscillation grew in wildness until it disengaged from its melting mountings. It dropped away from the aircraft, tracing a curve of thin black smoke. Losing stability, the bomber flipped onto its back and nosed into a dive. Trailing a blowtorch of fire from its rear, the Dornier lanced its incinerated crew into oblivion on the ground.
‘Job well done, Yellow Section,’ Bryan chirped. ‘Let’s go home for some lunch.’
****
Bluebird Squadron straggled down to the airfield. They dropped into a hum of activity, immediately immersed by a wave of riggers and armourers, scrambling over their planes with ammunition boxes and fuelling hoses.
Andrew pulled back the canopy to be greeted by his rigger’s grimy, grinning face inches away from his own: ‘Any luck, sir?’
Andrew pulled himself upright. ‘A 109 destroyed, two damaged. The other two got themselves a Dornier.’
‘Magic, sir.’ The man’s grin broadened: ‘I reckon we’ve got ’em on the run.’
The memory of the falling Spitfire invaded And
rew’s mind. He looked around at the dismounting pilots, wondering who was missing.
‘Is it just me’ – Bryan stood behind his wing – ‘or did those 109s seem a bit windy to you?’
Andrew jumped down and the pair walked towards the dispersal hut.
‘They looked keen to get home,’ Andrew answered. ‘But we’re all keen to do that.’ He paused. ‘Who did we lose?’
Bryan grimaced: ‘Another new boy from Drew’s section. I have his name written down somewhere.’
As they reached the hut, Vincent emerged, bumping into Bryan.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Vincent’s pale, drawn face blinked in recoil from the collision. ‘I b-beg your pardon.’ He hurried away.
Andrew and Bryan entered the hut and Fagan regarded them from behind his typewriter. ‘Sergeant Drew takes the losses in his section very seriously, almost personally.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eye. ‘It’s none of my business I know, but do you think he’s suitable to be a section leader?’
Bryan sat down heavily. ‘I don’t think he’s suitable to be a fighter pilot in the first place,’ he said. ‘But somebody else made that decision, so we’re stuck with him.’
‘It’s the shortage of pi—’
‘Shortage of pilots?’ Bryan exploded. ‘We train men half-way in the basics of flying and then send them into battle against the most dangerous air force the world has ever seen?’ Bryan’s spittle flecked the air. ‘Some poor mother’s son just roasted to death in his cockpit because he didn’t have the faintest clue about air combat. How does that solve a shortage of pilots?’
Bryan subsided into the chair, defeated by his own rage. ‘Every time we go up against these kind of numbers, at least one of us isn’t coming back,’ he said quietly, ‘and we have to carry on as if we don’t care.’
The phone chimed into the silence and Fagan picked it up. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
Bryan looked up with a resigned smile: ‘What does the nice telephone say?’
‘Bluebird Squadron is back on standby.’
****
Vincent sat outside his tent watching the twilight steepen towards darkness. A figure crunched across the gravel to the officers’ mess, paused, hand on the door handle, and then turned to walk towards him. Vincent made to stand up, but the figure waved him back down, shaking his head.
‘Relax, sergeant’ – Andrew smiled – ‘it’s been a long day.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s been a rough day, too.’ Andrew lit a cigarette and sat down on the grass. ‘I’ve never seen so many planes in the air at the same time. It’s a miracle we didn’t lose more people.’
Vincent nodded; a wretched pallor masked his face.
‘Let me tell you about my friend Alan.’ Andrew blew out a stream of smoke. ‘Alan was one of the nicest blokes you could hope to meet. Even when he was snoozing at dispersal he had a smile on his face. He was a concise and methodical fighter pilot. He knew all there was to know about flying, a complete wizard at aerobatics.’
Vincent remained silent.
‘Alan collided with a Stuka over Dunkirk.’
A tremor ran over Vincent’s body. He clenched his teeth to stop it.
‘And my friend George,’ Andrew continued, ‘he was a bit younger than me, a rowdy bastard after a few pints, always up for a laugh. Vain as a peacock; he’d check his reflection in every window he passed. He was determined to become an ‘ace’ as soon as possible.’
Vincent squeezed his eyes shut and waited.
‘George was shot down in flames by a 109. He didn’t bail out quickly enough.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Vincent’s voice quaked with fragility.
‘They were both flying in my section on the day they copped it.’ Andrew stood and put his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. ‘Get some rest, son. Tomorrow’s another day that we both need to get through.’
29th September, 1940
‘Settle down, gentlemen, please.’ Fagan’s shout quelled the murmur of conversation in the crowded dispersal hut.
‘Good morning to you all.’ Fagan’s glossy smile flashed around the room. ‘You are all aware that things have quietened down over the last two weeks. I would like to be able to tell you that this is because you’ve won what Winston likes to call ‘The Battle of Britain’. Sadly, I don’t believe that battle is yet over.
‘Until France is retaken, German bombers will remain within easy range of London, and indeed, within easy range of our fighter bases. So, we are a long way from being out of the woods. However, the Air Ministry has received some interesting intelligence that has come to us via the American Ambassador to Switzerland. Although this information is classified, Squadron Leader Hale and myself feel you have a right to be told.
‘It appears the German High Command are preparing domestic press releases stating that Britain will be defeated by the effects of bombing and blockade alone. It seems they are distancing themselves from their previous commitment to invasion.’
A murmur of hushed voices rippled around the room.
Fagan held up a hand and the talking ebbed away: ‘This is by no means certain. But you should allow it to give you some heart. If we spend the next six months building fighters, training pilots and honing flying skills, by next summer we might be in a position to stop the bombers getting through.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. You should be very pleased with yourselves. Dismiss.’
A ragged cheer rose from the pilots and they filed out under a buzz of chatter.
‘Great news, Andrew.’ Gerry slapped him on the back as they left. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this day for the world.’
‘Yes.’ Andrew looked down, his eyes glistening.
‘What’s up, buddy?’
Andrew shook his head: ‘I wish they could’ve been here to hear that.’
‘Who?’
‘Alan… George… all the hundreds of others. I wish they could’ve believed this was possible. That their homes and their families might survive.’
Gerry put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder: ‘God willing, they know it now.’
Chapter 24
Astrum
30th September, 1940
Bluebird Squadron sat at readiness, waiting for daylight raids that didn’t come.
Andrew stood and sniffed the air: ‘It’s a decent enough day for flying, perhaps we should take a flight up for some training.’
Gerry nodded: ‘It would be better than sitting around here.’
Bryan pulled a face while he considered the proposition. ‘All right, take two sections up for a bit. I’ll stay here with the others in case there’s a flap.’
Andrew winked his thanks and called out: ‘Green Section, follow me. We’re going to stretch our legs.’ He spotted Vincent sitting apart from the others: ‘Sergeant Drew!’
Vincent looked up.
‘I need you to fly third man in Yellow Section.’
The six pilots congregated, walking towards the Spitfires in dispersal. Ground-crew, spotting their movement, bustled to ready their starting batteries.
‘From what Fagan said yesterday’ – Andrew raised his voice so the group could hear him – ‘we can expect to face more bomber formations in the future, if not this year, then certainly next spring.’
The group reached Andrew’s Spitfire and stood next to the plane in a loose circle.
‘Many times, we end up chasing a bomber formation. In some ways this is the least effective way to attack. Your closing speed will be a little more than 100 miles an hour, less than that with a Junkers or Dornier, less still if the enemy has already dropped his bombs. This means you’ll present an almost stationary target to the rear-gunner. In a reasonably large formation, you may get five or six rear-gunners take an interest in you.’
Wry laughter rippled from the men.
‘A beam attack is better. Their return fire is always less accurate. Your approach speed is 300 miles an hour, but your target is moving past yo
u at 200 miles an hour. For this reason, always attack the leading planes in the formation. The others have to fly through your bullet-stream. Break away above or below the formation, never try flying through.’
Vincent looked down at his feet.
‘But,’ Andrew continued, ‘the most effective way to disrupt a bomber formation has been championed by the squadron leader’s beloved “tractor-drivers”.’
Another round of quiet laughter traversed the group.
‘The Hurricane boys from Biggin have perfected the head-on attack. It’s by far the hairiest way to approach the enemy for two reasons: everything happens far more quickly – the combined approach speed is at least 500 miles an hour; and flying head-on at another plane goes against everything you were taught when you learned to fly.
‘But’ – Andrew wagged his finger – ‘that’s why it’s so effective. The German pilot will want to get out of your way. He’ll pull up, he’ll turn, he’ll do anything to get out of your way. This breaks up the formation. Once you’ve split them up, they make individual decisions. At the very least the concentration of bombs hitting their target is disrupted. At best, a large proportion will dump their bombs and head for home.’
Andrew smiled from one face to the next: ‘Right, Yellow Section – that’s me, Yankee and Drew – will fly as bombers. Moderate speed, straight and level in vic formation. Green Section, you’ll be the interceptors. I’ll talk you through all the approaches I’ve just mentioned.’
The men nodded.
‘Good. Let’s get up there.’
****
The landlord surveyed the decorations and beamed a smile: ‘I never imagined the back-room could look this pretty, Molly. Well done.’
Molly blushed. ‘It’s only paper-chains and bunting, Geoff’ – she smiled – ‘it’s really nothing special.’
‘It looks lovely,’ Geoff said. ‘Here, hold on a minute.’ He ducked out the door.
Molly straightened the tablecloth on the side-table and put a cake-tin in the centre.
Geoff reappeared and thrust a bottle into her hands: ‘Happy anniversary to you both.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 24
