The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Jenny stood and straightened her skirt.

  ‘I’ll admit it does all seem dangerously romantic. Now hurry up or we’ll be late for work.’

  ***

  The pilots of Bluebird Squadron emerged in small knots from the readiness hut, laughing and joking as they walked along the perimeter track. A man disengaged from a group here and there as they passed the dispersal pen containing his Spitfire. Ground crews bustled around readying the aircraft, tightening panels and connecting starter batteries.

  Bryan emerged last and walked alone across the airfield in a straight line to his fighter. As he arrived, the rigger stepped back from his work.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Anything special on today?’

  Bryan shook his head as he vaulted onto the wing.

  ‘Control has got an empty screen so they’ve decided we should go on a routine patrol.’

  The rigger followed Bryan onto the wing and helped strap him into the cockpit.

  ‘Let’s hope you get lucky, sir.’

  The rigger jumped down and Bryan went through his start-up procedure as engines burst into life around the airfield.

  Bryan fired up his own engine, waved away the chocks and taxied out to the grass runway. He swung into the wind and waited for his section to form up, Pilot Officer Simmonds behind his starboard wing, Pilot Officer Agutter behind his port. When all was set, he waved an arm from his open cockpit and pushed the throttle open.

  The Spitfires bounced across the grass. The tails lifted first and then the whole craft wobbled its way into flight. Bryan led his section into a circuit while the other three sections formed up and took off. Once the twelve fighters came into squadron formation, Bryan flipped on his radio transmitter.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron, climb to angels twenty-seven, vector zero-nine-five.’

  The heading would take them deep into Kent, bisecting the route to London for any raiders crossing the Straits of Dover from the Pas de Calais.

  As Bluebird levelled out at twenty-seven thousand feet, the radio crackled to life: ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Squadron. Observer corps have called in a small raid travelling north-west. The enemy aircraft made landfall between Folkestone and Dymchurch.’

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Beehive’ – Bryan squinted into the haze on his starboard side – ‘thank you. We’ll keep a look out.’

  They droned on in the grey sky, eyes scanning for any movement that might betray the whereabouts of the intruders. Small puffs of white smoke to the south-east broke the stalemate.

  ‘Bluebird Leader here’ – Bryan called his squadron – ‘there’s anti-aircraft fire over Ashford. Yellow section only, follow me, we’ll take a look. The rest of you maintain course and altitude.’

  Bryan banked away from the squadron and pushed his throttle fully open. Simmonds and Agutter followed suit.

  Craning his neck to look first ahead of, and then behind his wings, Bryan searched the flat brown fields signs of movement, the flit of a shadow or the glint of a Perspex canopy. The barrage over Ashford ceased and the white smoke thinned and dissipated on the breeze like a throng of departing ghosts. Bryan banked left to come around and behind where he suspected the raiders to be if they were headed for London.

  ‘There!’ Bryan shouted his triumph. ‘About a dozen bandits, 11 o’clock below. They look like 109s.’ Bryan thumbed his safety catch to ‘Fire’. ‘Follow me down. Tally-ho, Yellow Section, tally-ho!’

  The Spitfires eased into a dive, trading their height advantage for increased speed. Dipping below the altitude of their quarry, they pulled up into the raiders’ blind spot, closing fast.

  Bryan chose the pair at the back of the enemy formation, opening up on the closest with a long burst at one hundred yards. Something dropped away from the Messerschmitt and its pilot flipped into a steep dive. Bryan’s speed threatened to careen him past the second German fighter. In desperation he kicked his Spitfire into a skid and hauled back on the throttle. He passed diagonally under the 109’s tail and ended up in formation on the enemy’s starboard side. Bryan looked across at the German pilot. His head was averted, searching for his wingman. Bryan dropped his flaps to brake his speed, fell back behind his opponent and loosed off a three second burst that ripped into the upper fuselage from wing root to wing root, throwing a cascade of shimmering Perspex shards into the slipstream. The Messerschmitt rolled over and flew inverted, straight and level for a long moment, then gradually curved into a dive towards the muddy fields below.

  Bryan jinked furiously to check for danger on his tail, then pushed his throttle forward and dropped into a wide bank to the south. The German force was fleeing for the coast, harried by his two wingmen.

  Mindful they were outnumbered, he flipped to transmit: ‘Bluebird Leader to Yellow Section. Break off and reform. Repeat, break off now.’

  Bryan continued the bank into a lazy orbit, waiting for his section to reach him. Glancing down, he spotted the burning wreckage of one of his kills. He cast around for the other. Six or seven small wisps of smoke rose in delicate spirals, like campfires scattered through the fields, but there was no sign of the second plane.

  Bryan’s radio crackled to life: ‘Yellow Two approaching you now.’

  Seconds later: ‘Yellow Three in formation.’

  ‘Alright, Yellow Section,’ Bryan said, ‘let’s find the rest of the squadron and go home for lunch.’

  ***

  Yellow section landed ahead of the others and Bryan led them across to the readiness hut where Fagan, the intelligence officer, waited to take combat reports. Bryan swung himself into the chair in front of Fagan’s desk and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Two 109s for me’ – Bryan blew a stream of smoke towards Fagan – ‘Agutter and Simmonds are claiming one each damaged.’

  Fagan peered over his glasses at Bryan. ‘Where did the engagement take place?’

  ‘Five or six miles north-west of Ashford. Yellow section caught a squadron of 109s on a heading towards London’ – Bryan’s face split into a fierce grin – ‘it was the perfect bounce.’

  Fagan paused in his writing and looked up again. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well’ – Bryan tensed forward in his chair – ‘we caught them cold from behind. I put a four second burst into the first and a chunk of his underside broke away. I hit the second one with a three second burst, most of that ended up in his cockpit.’

  Fagan grunted. ‘And what type of bombers were they escorting?’

  Bryan shook his head. ‘No bombers.’

  Simmonds chimed in: ‘They had extra fuel tanks,’ he said. ‘When we waded in, they dropped the tanks and made a run for it.’

  Fagan leaned back in his chair. ‘The observer corps report one Messerschmitt crashed, with no parachute, in the area north of Ashford.’ He nodded at Bryan. ‘Your second attack, I suspect.’ He flexed his fingers and frowned. ‘They also reported a very scattered bombload hitting the same area. But you didn’t see a bomber.’ He looked from man to man. ‘So, where does that leave us?’

  Bryan blinked. ‘Messerschmitt 109s with bombs?’

  Fagan nodded. ‘It would explain why they were heading towards London rather than promenading up and down the coast like they normally do.’

  Bryan chewed his lip. ‘They came in fast and low. Without the heads-up from the Ashford anti-aircraft batteries we would’ve missed them.’

  ‘Mmm. It is a bit worrying.’ Fagan picked up the telephone and waited for the operator. ‘Get me the sector commander, will you?

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, 8 October 1940

  ‘They can’t move us now, Madge,’ Bryan hissed. ‘The pilots I’ve got are settled, half of them are decent flyers and they do what I tell them without question.’ He gesticulated at the fighter planes dispersed around the perimeter track. ‘It’s madness to move perfectly serviceable Spitfires to Scotland. There are no more fat bombers waddling along at ten thousand feet begging for the Hurricanes to shoot them down, at least not in dayli
ght. The pheasant shoot is over, damn it.’

  The two men walked through the cool morning air, dew from the rough grass beaded their polished shoes.

  ‘Was it ever really a pheasant shoot?’ The adjutant tutted. ‘That’s a bit of a stretch.’

  ‘Say what you like, Harry, things have changed.’ Bryan lit a cigarette and sucked hungrily at the smoke. ‘Maybe what we saw yesterday was a trial run. But think about it…’ Bryan stopped walking and faced the adjutant. ‘When they’re escorting bombers, the 109s fly slower, and to compensate for that, they fly higher. We knew when the bombers were coming, how many there would be and which direction they were heading. Practically every time we could get a pop at them before the escort fighters closed the gap.’

  The adjutant nodded. ‘Yes, I follow that.’

  ‘Well,’ Bryan continued, ‘now they can slap 500lb bombs under one squadron of 109s and escort them with another squadron. They’re faster’ – Bryan warmed to his theme – ‘and they come in at zero feet, too low for RDF. There’ll be no warning until they’re over the heads of the observer corps and it’s too late to scramble any interceptors. That’s a free-run straight through to London.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not sure this number of bombs could be considered significant. Not when you weigh it against what they’re doing at night.’

  ‘It doesn’t need to be significant.’ Bryan flicked his spent cigarette away over his shoulder. ‘The observer corps will call in the raid, the ARP will set off the sirens and London will head for the shelters.’

  ‘Winston thinks London can take it,’ the adjutant mused. ‘They’ve been under the cosh for over a month now and they’ve behaved magnificently.’

  ‘What choice do they have, Madge?’ Bryan lit another cigarette. ‘Who do we speak to about keeping Bluebird on the frontline?’

  ‘There is no-one to talk to, Bryan. It’s done. We’ll all be in Scotland in two weeks.’ He placed a hand on Bryan’s shoulder. ‘For Pete’s sake accept the facts. You need the rest as much as anyone.’

  Bryan shrugged the hand away. ‘From tomorrow Bluebird is on standing patrol by sections’ – he looked squarely into the adjutant’s eyes – ‘on rotation, three fighters patrolling the London corridor at any one time. Exactly like we did over Dunkirk.’

  The adjutant shook his head. ‘You can’t do that without a general order.’

  Bryan’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘We start tomorrow.’

  ‘But… the rules.’

  Bryan turned to walk away. ‘The Germans have changed the rules, Harry.’

  Wednesday, 9 October 1940

  The leaden grey of pre-dawn nibbled at the black night sky as Bryan clumped through the door onto the wooden floor of the readiness hut. The assembled pilots dragged themselves to their feet, hushed conversations dying mid-sentence. Bryan waved them down and waited for the scraping of chairs to subside.

  ‘Yesterday, Yellow Section engaged a Staffel of 109s. It turns out some of the bandits were carrying bombs. It’s our assumption they were trying to sneak through to London for tip-and-run attacks.’

  A murmur rippled around the pilots.

  ‘Sector have been informed of our suspicion and I’m sure they’ll be having a conversation with the Air Ministry, who will no doubt put a committee of experts on the case next week.

  ‘In the meantime, we’re going to run standing patrols. One section taking off every fifteen minutes. Patrol east-north-east to Rochester, south-west to Tonbridge and back to base. Refuel and re-arm as required and wait for your next turn. The flight times should mean we have two sections in the London corridor at any one time, flying in opposing directions.

  ‘We’ll be searching for groups of 109s, most likely in single or two Staffel strength heading for London, probably flying low. Some may be carrying bombs, some may be escorts. It’s possible that control will call them as they cross the coast, but from there it will be hit and miss for the observer corps to track them. Any questions?’

  The room remained silent.

  ‘Right. I don’t really have permission to do this, so please log these as training flights. Red section first, then Green, Yellow, then Blue. That’s all.’

  ***

  Bryan taxied out to the runway and waited while Simmonds and Agutter formed up behind him. He checked his watch and flipped his radio transmitter on.

  ‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Beehive Control. Yellow Section requesting permission to take off on training flight, over.’

  ‘Beehive Control to Yellow Leader. This is the third training flight we’ve logged in less than an hour. What’s going on?’

  ‘Practising to be perfect, Beehive. Now, can we bloody well take off or not?’ The static crackled in his ears for a moment.

  ‘Beehive Control to Yellow Leader. You are clear to take off.’

  ‘Shiny-arsed bastards,’ Bryan muttered to himself as he waved his arm out of his open cockpit and throttled forward. The three Spitfires surged across the grass and lifted into the air.

  Wheels clunked into wing bays and Brian switched to transmit, ‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Section. Angels ten only, repeat angels ten. Yellow Two, scan port. I’ll quarter the starboard. Yellow Three, watch our tails.’

  ‘Roger that Yellow Leader.’ Simmonds voice crackled back.

  Then Agutter’s; ‘Yellow Three here. I’m weaving.’

  Bryan set course for Rochester and the three Spitfires levelled out at ten thousand feet. Two pilots scanned the ground ahead and to the sides, the third wallowed back and forth in a series of banks, scanning the skies above and behind for danger. The minutes passed.

  ‘Yellow Three to Yellow Leader.’ Agutter’s voice broke into Bryan’s concentration. ‘Three aircraft at 2 o’clock, heading south-west. Must be Green Section.’

  Bryan craned his neck over his starboard wing, searching for the aircraft. He spotted them, picked out as tiny silhouettes against the backdrop of haze hanging over Maidstone. As he watched the aircraft’s black outlines changed. Their wingtips lifted and the trio banked into a starboard dive.

  ‘Yellow Leader here. They’ve seen something. Follow me, line astern.’

  Struggling to keep the silhouettes in sight, Bryan hauled into a wide starboard bank to bring his section into a tail-chase with the other Spitfires, tearing north-west towards London.

  ‘Christ, they’re moving. Buster, Yellow Section, buster, buster.’

  Throttles pushed through the gate and engines vibrating in protest, Bryan’s section slowly gained ground.

  ‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Bluebird Green Section. We’re approaching you from behind.’

  Bryan’s slightly higher altitude gave him a view over the chasing fighters to their quarry. Still far ahead of them, flashing low against the fields and roads he made out seventeen or eighteen squat, dark shapes. Half-a-dozen of them peeled up and back to meet their pursuers.

  ‘Spread out Yellow Section. Here they come.’

  The shapes resolved into yellow-nosed Messerschmitt 109s and the flash of gunfire sparkled on their wings and cowlings. Two hollow bangs clattered Bryan’s port wingtip, like a man hitting paint tins with a lump hammer. Then the 109s flashed overhead.

  Bryan held straight and level and glanced into his mirror. Simmonds clung in dogged formation behind his starboard wing. Agutter had vanished. Perhaps downed in the fire that had hit Bryan, or perhaps he’d wheeled with Green Section to engage the Germans. Bryan’s eyes remained fixed straight ahead and he counted twelve 109s barrelling at full throttle towards London.

  ‘These are the evil bastards with the bombs.’ The thought struck him with an implacable certainty.

  Below, the fields broke against the ragged shoreline of the conurbation, like a brown sea held at bay by the manmade megalith of urban sprawl. Rooftops streaked beneath as the chase dropped to two hundred feet. The faces of people on pavements upturned in shock at the flashing aircraft and their snarling engines, ripping so low across their s
leepy streets.

  The Germans fanned out, splitting into pairs. Bryan hung on to the closest and Simmonds stuck with him as they edged into range. A wide road opened out below. One of the 109s dipped and opened fire. Bryan gasped as lorries and cars swerved and crashed under the hail of cannon shells and bullets. Holes flecked across vehicles, dirt and stones kicked into the air. Bryan nudged his nose lower, dipped below the tail of the German fighter and squeezed out a burst of fire. Hits slashed into its tail and the 109 reared up from the impacts. Climbing with it, Bryan sunk another burst squarely into its wing roots. The Messerschmitt rolled into a lazy parabola, trailing white smoke in a languid spiral. The Thames dashed by beneath Bryan as he climbed and banked away from the combat. The German plane rolled at the top of its loop and dived into the river’s murky waters, its bomb exploding on impact, sending a cascading fountain of grey spume into the air.

  Screwing his head around, Bryan searched for the other intruder.

  There!

  With Simmonds on its tail, the other 109 jinked into a right bank, heading back across South London. Bryan turned to chase them.

  A black shape fell from the 109. Wobbling through its languorous, curving descent, it crashed through the slates of a terraced house. The explosion sucked the roof downwards and blew the façade out across the road.

  Bryan hunched his shoulders into the chase. Getting closer, he could see ribbons of gun smoke trailing from Simmonds’ wings. The 109 stopped jinking, waggled its wings and lowered its undercarriage. Simmonds broke off his attack and the German dipped into a descent.

  Bryan throttled back and looked on as the 109 went into a landing approach towards a large patch of green common land in amongst the network of streets and houses.

  ‘Tut, tut, my friend,’ he purred to himself. ‘There’s no surrender for you. Not today. Not after what you’ve just done.’

  Bryan dropped his flaps and shadowed the Messerschmitt into its approach. As its wheels touched the grass he thumbed and held the firing button. A furious hail of ordnance bracketed the German plane, kicking up gouts of grass and soil around and beneath it, shredding panels and shattering the Perspex cockpit hood. The machine lurched on a punctured tyre and swerved violently, crashing into a tree and tipping its tail into the air like a broken bird. Bryan glanced down as he overflew the scene, noting the white figure eight painted on the enemy’s fuselage.