It was a situation with which Connie was familiar and she knew how they would be feeling about being operational this time tomorrow. The squadron they had replaced had spent only six weeks at East Malford. They too had flown in jubilantly and whooped with joy when they were made operational two days after their arrival. Of the nineteen pilots who had come to East Malford, only seven flew out alive and unhurt.
It wrung her heart out to see the faces of these eager young men grow thin and lined with fatigue, grey with fear and tension: and she knew what must be in store for the confident 699.
The van stopped first at 172's dispersal area. Every head turned: not because the pilots' hunger pangs prompted them, but because they knew what they were about to see and didn't want to miss any of it.
Connie knew why they were looking, and she aimed to please. Taking her time, she opened the door slowly and first put one of the two sexiest legs at East Malford out of the door, and then the other. For a carefully arranged few seconds her skirt rode well above her knees and she pointed the toes of her brilliantly polished shoes daintily, as though feeling for the ground. In defiance of regulations she wore silk stockings; but they were the official grey and none of the W.A.A.F. officers felt like chiding an N.C.O. Besides, they wore the same kind themselves.
More than one of the officer and sergeant pilots had shewn their appreciation of Cpl. Gates's kindness by giving her clothing coupons, obtained by diverse means. They felt privileged, as they watched those graceful legs emerge to public view, that they knew what the unexposed portions looked like as well. It was a tribute to Connie's discretion that none of those who had received her favours knew with which of his comrades he shared them.
Pierre Dunal paused in the act of lighting his twentieth cigarette of the day and peered through the flame of his lighter with a reminiscent gleam in his eye. If it hadn't been for Connie's solicitude when he got news that his sixteen-year-old brother had been shot by the Germans and his sister and mother raped, he would have disintegrated. As it was, he nearly crashed twice and barely missed being shot down a dozen times, he was flying so raggedly, before Connie's perceptiveness led her to provide the right therapy.
Flight Sergeant Viccar, the redoubtable Bishop, who had just shot down his fifth enemy aircraft and was bursting to tell someone about it, grinned at her; a flash of reminiscent thought about a night not long ago, when he was close to nervous collapse, took his mind off his kill while he admired her figure. In shirt sleeves on this hot summer's day she shewed off her bosom to great advantage behind the tightly strained, thin material. He had been allowed to see it unconcealed, when Connie cured him of his nervous tension with her understanding ministrations.
Jumper Lee, loosening the paisley silk scarf he always wore, smiled appreciatively at this delectable bit of bogle: he felt sure the game was on, there, if he wanted to play, but he hadn't yet descended to having to sleep with the domestic staff; and anyway it was bad for discipline for flight lieutenants to foul their own doorsteps. But he could, and did, look at the goods even if he couldn't maul 'em.
Peter Knight, wearing a dub-striped silk square in place of a collar and tie, compared Connie with Anne Holt and decided there wasn't much in it; a compliment to Anne. He liked Cpl. Gates's soft west country burr: it was a pity she couldn't call him 'M'dear-r-r', but her 'Sir-r-r' was a joy to the ear; and the rest of her didn't exactly hurt the eye, he conceded. He looked with amusement towards Massey.
Six-gun almost slavered over Connie Gates. She was self-possessed and friendly, and he seemed to make so much time with her that he could never understand why she wouldn't date him. It wasn't easy to date a girl who worked in the mess; the squadron usually went about in a bunch and it wouldn't have been tactful to take her to a party with the C.O. and his wife and some of the others. But he had asked her to take in a movie and have dinner on one of his rare off duty days, and she had refused. Goddamit, he grumbled inwardly as he admired her now, what was the matter with him? He usually scored when he wanted to.
But Connie's friendly rejection of his advances was due to the fact that there was nothing the matter with Six-gun Massey. He was mentally, as well as physically, tough enough to cope with the stresses of air fighting; he gave no signs of being in danger of a breakdown. He needed no help and Connie's generosity was essentially a matter of succour. As long as there were lame ducks whom she could comfort and cure, the hawks like Massey won no response from her.
When she and the driver had, with the help of some of the aircraftmen, unloaded enough trays, she climbed back into the van. Nobody thought of eating until the last flutter of lace and the last promising inch of long, silk clad leg had disappeared from sight.
'On going in to attack I selected a Heinkel 111 on the extreme left of the eight leading bombers. I attacked from the starboard quarter and opened fire at three hundred yards aiming at the front of the e/a (enemy aircraft). I saw strikes at the starboard wing root and in the cockpit. On diving past the e/a I looped, half rolled off the top and attacked again from the port beam, shooting into the cockpit. I evidently killed the pilot, as the Heinkel went into a steep dive from which it did not recover. I later saw it crash in the Channel after two of the crew had baled out.
'Before seeing it hit the sea, I had begun my attack on the aircraft behind it, coming in again from the port beam, but had to break off after two seconds to avoid collision with another Hurricane.
'At this point, the controller informed us that another squadron had been scrambled to deal with the bombers and we were to intercept the high cover enemy fighters.
'Red One ordered us to formate on him at fifteen thousand, at which point Yellow Two said he had been hit and was baling out. As we had been making individual attacks, I did not know where he was. I saw a Hurricane going down on my port side and the pilot bale out. There appeared to be no smoke or flame and I presumed that the engine had been put out of action.
'Yellow Three and I joined Red Section and found the rest of the squadron in action at twenty-five thousand feet. I attacked the leader of a formation of four Me. 109s from head on, after which I broke upwards to port and had a dogfight. Yellow Three stayed with me and we scored hits on two 109s, of which one broke off with oil and smoke coming from it.'
Flying Officer Knight read over his combat report and said 'We turned inside them but they outnumbered us, and while Six-gun was covering my tail two of them were getting on his. With a complete section, if Yellow Two had stayed with us, we'd have got at least two of them.'
Herrick pushed a sheet of paper towards Pilot Officer Massey. 'Want to add anything, Six-gun?'
The American took his own report without a word, and scanned it.
'I attacked the Heinkel second from the end of the leading line, giving it a short burst in the starboard engine before breaking away to come in again from astern. I silenced the rear gunner, then fired a long burst into the starboard engine, which stopped. I then dived past and came up from slightly below, shooting at the port engine, which caught fire. The e/a lost height rapidly. I saw two survivors bale out.
'I then rejoined Yellow Leader and we formed up with Red Flight to intercept some 109s. We had a dogfight and damaged two.
'Yellow Two passed the Heinkel I first attacked, and I saw him climb away to starboard. I later saw a Hurricane attack a Heinkel on the outside of the formation, from high on its quarter, and thought it must be Yellow Two. I also saw a pilot bale out of a Hurricane which was in an inverted spin but not on fire.'
Both pilots rejoined the rest of the squadron around the trestle table on which their lunch had been laid, leaving Herrick with his paperwork, struggling to sort a clear and accurate account of the engagement from the often involved and conflicting combat reports. It was as well that he was a newspaper reporter in civilian life.
Bernie Hannon was the centre of a gesticulating, noisy argument. His sharp little black eyes snapped with gaiety as he relived the battle in which he had neatly picked off a Me. 109 befo
re Spike Poynter, who was flying well ahead of him and had chosen it as his target, could open fire.
Spike said aggrievedly, 'You can't expect us all to be ruddy Daniel Boones, Bernie: you might have left that one to me; I had him cold. You could easily have got another!'
'How was I to know which one you were going to attack!'
'And you frightened hell out of me when your tracer came whizzing over my head from astern: I thought I'd been jumped.'
Knight and Massey joined in the laughter.
The squadron had done well. Only Blakeney-Smith had been shot down; and he was seen to bale out safely. Three Hurricanes had suffered minor damage. And that was all. In return, they had destroyed six Heinkels and damaged four. Harmon and Lotnikski had each destroyed a Me. 109 and the whole squadron had, between them, severely damaged three or four more.
Maxwell went into his office to telephone 82's commander. They had been in the same year at the Royal Air Force College and the two squadrons worked closely. He came out looking pleased: 82 had all come back, except for two pilots who had forced-landed. They had shot down four 109s.
'If the bastards aren't too ambitious this afternoon we should stand down in time for a good party tonight,' Maxwell had just observed, when the Ops Room telephone in the crew room interrupted him.
Hands that were in the act of raising sandwiches to hungry mouths either fell limply or thrust the food quickly between champing teeth. Cups of coffee were drained or set aside.
Nigel Cunningham and his friend Webb looked into each other's apprehensive eyes and, without a word, both walked quickly behind the nearer hut and retched. F/Sgt. Viccar's hand, began to tremble so violently that he spilled his coffee. Dunal gave a convulsive jerk that sent his cigarette spinning through the air, to be pounced on immediately by Moonshine with an appreciative bark.
They all listened to the voice of the airman who was taking the message from Operations. It seemed to be a longer one than the usual scramble order. And when the telephone orderly came to the door it wasn't in his habitual rush. He was grinning. He walked over to Sqdn. Ldr. Maxwell.
'Message from the controller, sir. Flying Officer Blakeney Smith was picked up by an air sea rescue launch. He's unhurt, sir. The controller says he'll be back on the station in a couple of hours.'
Nobody cheered; as they might have if the good news had been about any of the others.
Dunal remarked: 'Now he will exhaust himself trying to arrange an airlift; but in a Blenheim, of course, to go one better than me.'
When attacking bombers which outnumbered them, particularly when there was no dose escort, fighters did not necessarily attack in formation, with each section following its leader. Knight could not criticise his Number Two for peeling off and selecting his own target when the C.O. had ordered individual attacks. But there was something else to discuss. He drew Massey aside and spoke in an undertone.
'Did you see Simon after we broke?'
'Nope. And I'm only assuming he was the guy I saw coming in for a high quarter attack.'
'So you didn't see him hit?'
'He wasn't hit, Pete.' Massey was full of scorn. 'He was having a go because there were no 109s in shooting distance. But as soon as the Boss called us off to go after the high cover, Blakeney-Smith quit. That's what I reckon, anyways. He's no eager beaver.'
With compressed lips, Knight walked away angrily without another word.
But Six-gun called after him: 'And I'll tell you something else. Pierre's wrong. He won't hitch a ride in an airplane; that would get him back in time for the next scramble, maybe. And Simple Goddam Simon don't like a-flyin'. So he'll take his time. We won't see him before stand down.'
Knight felt his ears burning with vicarious shame and stiffened his back in embarrassed anger as he kept walking away from his American friend; who, he knew, was speaking the bitter truth about a British comrade; to whom Knight was bound by every sort of loyalty.
He went into the crew room and picked up the second telephone to ask for Anne's number. It was against regulations to use it for private calls, but Knight, after an all ranks dance once, had given one of the telephone operators a pleasant hour in the back of his car, and she and her colleagues lived in hopes of getting more; so they bent the rules for any officer calling from dispersals.
Talking to Anne was the distraction and catharsis he needed at that moment. The bell had rung only twice when she answered breathlessly. She gasped with relief when she heard his voice. He invited her to dinner at the Spider's Web: his father had sent him a five pound note the previous day.
'See you at half past seven,' he said, and strolled back to his friends, his dog jumping playfully at his side. He bent down and fondled its head. There were still some sandwiches left and he shared one with Moonshine.
Lee was shifting impatiently from leg to leg. He kept looking at the clear sky. Knight, guessing what was coming, watched him go and speak to the C.O. and then return.
'If you've finished wolfing, Pete, we'll take the two new boys up and see how much they know. We've got wee replacement aircraft coming in this afternoon.'
'And more new boys?'
'No, the A.T.A . are ferrying these in. Two of them are going back in that Magister that got stranded here the other day. The third one's staying: in the W.AA.F. officers' quarters,' he added with a grin.
'At last! I've always wanted to get a close up of one of these Air Transport Auxiliary women pilots.' Massey, who had overheard, looked animated.
'Bet you can't get a date with her tonight,' Knight challenged instantly.
'How much you wanna bet?'
'Dinner at the Spider's Web.'
'You've got yourself a deal, Pete.' Six-gun put his hand to his forehead in pretended agony. 'Hold it! What am I saying? Suppose she has a face like a coyote's ass?'
'Then you're bound to win your bet: the plain ones are always the most grateful.'
'Who looks at the mantelpiece when he's poking the fire?' asked Jumper. 'Come on, Pete, let's get airborne.' He beckoned to the two nineteen-year-aids who were hovering on the outskirts of everything, keeping their own counsel but watching, listening with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. 'Cunningham, take "A". You and I are going to do some dogfighting. Webb, yours is "N": Peter Knight's going to shew you the ropes. Come on, pull finger, let's get cracking.'
The two youngsters were galvanised. In an instant they cast aside their distress and dashed cheerfully into the crew room for their parachutes, helmets and Mae Wests.
Knight, walking beside one of them, asked pleasantly: 'You're Nigel, aren't you?'
'No, sir. Roderick ... Roddy.'
'O.K. Roddy. I'm Peter. Only call the Boss "Sir". Don't they teach you anything at training schools these days?'
'They don't teach us much about dogfighting.' He had just the right note of ruefulness. Knight approved of his answer.
He looked quickly at the boy and grinned encouragingly. 'Good for you, Roddy. I don't know a hell of a lot about it, either. Don't let it worry you. This isn't going to be a high-diveinto-no-water effort: I'll explain what I want you to do and give you plenty of time.'
Webb was grateful for the sense of security and the reassurance that Knight's friendly, off-hand words gave him. He could imagine how different a briefing he would have received from Blakeney-Smith, whose every sentence implied that he was in the ultimate know about everything and determined to take unfair advantage of you . Knight was not much older than himself, but at once imparted confidence and encouragement. Even his blunt featured, cheerfully pugnacious face and thick, disorderly fair hair were part of it.
Knight's rigger scrambled down from the port wing of 'E', holding two cans of paint. A sixth white and black German cross gleamed, wet and new, on the fuselage.
'You don't waste much time, do you?' Knight assumed a false scowl.
'The more of these they sees, the more them Jerries'll leave you alone, sir: scares 'em off when they see 'ow many you've shot down.'
'I wish I had your confidence.'
Knight, dogfighting with the callow Webb, thought seriously for the first time about the vulnerability of new pilots like this. He had always supposed that the longer a man was on frontline service, the worse his prospects of survival.
At the outbreak of the war he had, like most regulars, taken it for granted that he would more probably be killed than survive. The thought had not frightened or depressed him: although it was so personal, he remained objective about it. It was impossible to imagine being dead. In the early days he had had disagreeable thoughts about how he might be killed: being shot in the guts, burned, or trapped in a diving Hurricane would be hideous; what happened finally was something everyone had to face eventually, and of itself it did not terrify him.
He supposed that young Webb must have had the same thoughts, so to encourage him he let himself be out-manoeuvred two or three times.
Then he began to think about Blakeney-Smith and instantly slid into such intense concentration on his flying that the unhappy Webb had no chance at all: and each time he had Webb in his sights he told himself that it was Blakeney-Smith's heraldically adorned Hurricane there, tempting a blast from his guns. He saw Blakeney-Smith's snouty, pudgy face with its silly moustache and had to blink to make himself realise that he was only playing a game; and that he was playing it with the pink cheeked Webb whom he had decided to encourage.
So once again he allowed his pupil to bounce him from up sun and gave him words of praise.
He thought how convenient it would have been if the Germans had picked Blakeney-Smith up and locked him away for the duration, where he could no longer irritate the rest of the squadron.,
But suppose the oaf had turned up again, more obnoxious than ever after a successful prison break?
Summer of No Surrender Page 6
