The Jerries were massed in solid formation at about twenty thousand feet—dark dots against the blue sky. And above them were more, just specks of tin that caught the sun. The gun barrel moved slowly up as the layers followed the approach of the formation. Langdon still watched it through his glasses. At length he lowered them. “I think it’s us,” he said very calmly. “Fuse twenty-five. Load!”
Bombardier Hood set the fuse of the shell he had ready beside him on the parapet and handed it to Fuller, who rushed it to the gun, Micky rammed it home with his gloved hand and the breach-block rose with a clang. The layers reported On.
Langdon waited. I felt chill, though the glare of the sun was terrific. The heavy drone grew louder every second. Even without glasses I could make out the shape of them.
“Junkers 88,” pronounced Langdon.
“Must be about fifty of ’em,” said Hood.
“Them’s fighters up above, ain’t they?” asked Micky.
Langdon nodded. “Swarms of them.”
It was impossible to see the shape of the fighters with the naked eye. But I could see that they were spread out in a great fan formation above and behind the bombers.
Suddenly, out of the glare of the sun, came more ’planes in a wide sweep. “There go our fighters,” cried someone. We all watched, breathless. Twenty-one against more than two hundred. It seemed so hopeless—such futile heroism. My fists were clenched and my eyes were tired as I strained upwards. I wanted to look away. But the sight of those few ’planes—British ’planes—sweeping in to the attack of that huge formation fascinated me. I felt a surge of pride at being of the same race and fighting side by side for the same things as those reckless fools.
The bomber formation came on steadily, almost slowly. There was the inevitability of a steam-roller about it. I thought of the Armada and Drake’s frigates. But in this case the enemy had a superabundance of frigates themselves. Down they came upon those two defending squadrons in steep, fierce dives. The squadrons broke before they had reached the bombers. But I saw one or two get through to that steady attacking formation. The solid hum of aircraft rose to a furious snarl as we began to get the noise of those steep dives with engines flat out. And then above the noise of revved engines came the sound of machine-gun fire. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge. It was like tearing calico.
One bomber fell away from the formation, smoke pouring from it. I heard myself shouting excitedly. I was too worked up to have a very clear impression of what was happening. Every one in the pit was muttering or shouting with excitement. Another bomber fell, but it pulled out of its dive and made for home. The air was full of the roar of engines and the distant chatter of machine-gun fire. It was impossible to make out our own fighters from the Messer-schmitt 109’s. All were inextricably mixed in a milling, dog-fighting mass. But the bomber formation came inexorably on. And high above it the topmost tier of defending fighters kept formation. In ones and twos our machines came racing to join in the fight, some almost certainly short of fuel and ammunition after fighting over the coast.
And above the din of the engines and the fight came the Tannoy: “Ground defences take great care before opening fire. Our fighters are attacking the formation.”
But Langdon, who was watching through glasses, said: “Take the leading flight of bombers. Any one see any of our fighters there?”
No one could. The layers reported On. Langdon waited a moment, gauging the range. The formation seemed to be passing to the east of the ’drome now; it was well strung out in flights of three.
“Fire!”
The gun crashed. I saw the breech-ring recoil and flame and smoke pour from it. I heard the whistle of the shell as it left the barrel. Another ammunition number ran up with a second shell. Micky rammed it home and the gun fired again. The noise was shatteringly loud. Hood had several shells already fused. The ammunition numbers were holding them ready. I braced myself for the next shot.
Not till we had fired five rounds did I glance upwards. Four puffs of white smoke showed well amongst the leading flight. As I watched, another puff of smoke appeared just behind the leader. The ’plane seemed to buck and then dived away in a streamer of smoke. And as it fell it suddenly exploded. A flash and only a little cloud of smoke showed where a second before a German bomber had been.
“Fuse twenty-two!” Langdon yelled.
Hood worked furiously with the fuse key—a circle of metal which fitted over the nose-cap of the shell so that it could be turned and set to the correct fuse.
Steadily the gun went on firing. And in the intervals between our own shots I could hear the other three-inch cracking away furiously. Little cotton-wool balls of smoke marked the passage of the formation.
“Fuse twenty!”
They were almost east of the ’drome now. In a moment they would be past us, heading for London. I glanced away at the dog-fight between the fighters. And even in that glance I saw two ’planes spin out of the fight in a long spiral of smoke. The fight had moved almost over our heads. Suddenly the scream of a diving ’plane sounded above the din of the action. I looked quickly round. For a second I was at a loss to know where it came from. Then I saw it. Just north of the ’drome it was, falling absolutely perpendicularly, its engines flat out. I saw it plan view as it dived out of control behind some trees. I saw the spout of earth and smoke it shot up. I felt slightly sick at the sight. I could imagine some poor devil fighting at the controls and then desperately trying to pull back a hood that had jammed. It had dived into the ground at quite 500 m.p.h. And all the time these thoughts were running in a flash through my mind I could still hear the growing crescendo of the engine. It was as though I had been shown in a dream what was going to happen. And then came the sickening crash, terrifyingly loud, to relieve my suspense.
I looked up again at the formation of Junkers. The leaders were turning slowly westwards, towards Thorby, puffs of smoke all round them. The gun kept up a constant fire. I was getting used to the noise now. My ears were singing, but I no longer braced myself involuntarily before each shot.
And as I watched the German ’planes bank I knew what was going to happen. And sure enough as they banked they began to drop into a dive. I had seen the same thing happen to Mitchet. Now it was our turn. Strangely enough, I felt no fear. I seemed outside myself and comfortingly detached. With a critical eye I seemed to watch the completely automatic actions of my body as it ducked down, head thrown back, watching those silvery eggs fall from beneath each ’plane.
It seemed an age that I waited, tense and expectant. The only sounds were the three-inches, the screaming engines of the dive-bombers and the more distant sound of machine-gun fire.
And then suddenly all hell seemed to be let loose on the ’drome. As the Jerries pulled out of their dives at about seven thousand feet, the Bofors and Hispano and Lewis guns all let loose. The red tracer shells of the Bofors, like little flaming oranges, could be seen streaming lazily up to meet the bombers.
Then a fountain of earth shot into the air just behind the dispersal point to the north of us and shook the pit. Pandemonium broke loose as bomb after bomb fell. All over the aerodrome great gouts of earth hung for a second in the air. And as they fell, others rose.
And all the time Langdon stood there easily, just behind the gun, controlling the fire. Many of the team were crouched against the parapet for shelter. But the layers were still on their seats and Micky was engrossed completely in the business of firing. There was a momentary pause when no shell was brought up to the gun, though Hood was still there fusing them. Without thinking, I ran across to the pit, grabbed a round and held it for Micky to punch home.
For the next few minutes I knew nothing of what was happening as my whole attention was concentrated on the task of keeping the gun supplied. All I knew was that outside that concentration of effort absolute pandemonium was going on. Shrapnel was flying all over the place, bits of metal whining as they flew through the air just above the pit.
> Others began to join Fuller and myself in taking shells to the gun. We were beginning to get used to the continual crump of bombs which shook the pit as though there was an earthquake. I remember once hearing the whine of a shell—it was particularly loud—and looking up to see the thing coming straight for us. Instinctively I fell flat on my face. It fell, a second later, barely twenty yards from the pit. The noise was deafening. Part of the sandbag parapet crumbled inwards and great clods of earth and stones fell all round us. One fellow—Helson, it was—was knocked right out. But a second later the old gun was going again. We got one ’plane, I know. We got it in the midst of its dive, and it continued straight on, crashing into one of the hangars and blowing up in a great burst of flame.
And in the midst of all this racket the telephone rang. It was just luck that I heard it. I dived for it. I picked up the receiver to find the message already coming through. “——low to the south. Another raid coming in low to the south—— Very low. Another raid coming——” The voice from Gun Ops. sounded frightened and jerky.
“How near?” I cut in.
“Very near,” came the answer.
“I caught Langdon’s arm and yelled the message into his ear. “Stop,” he shouted. “Lay just over the hangars. Shrapnel, fuse two. Load!” The gun swung round.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTERMATH
IT SEEMED such waste to cease fire and stay, waiting, with the gun pointing over the hangars, instead of firing at the dive bombers which were still coming down on us. To the south the sky was empty. It flashed across my mind that some fifth columnist might have tapped the line. But it didn’t really matter, for we should have had to cease firing anyway. The weight of the attack was falling off as our own ’planes, reinforced by stragglers from other fighter stations and by reserve squadrons which had been thrown in, were worrying at the bombers, upsetting the precision of their dives and foiling their attempts to reform en masse as they pulled out of their attack.
The other three-inch had also ceased firing. There was only the roar of battle overhead and the dull thuds of the bombs falling on clay soil. For the first time since the action started I realised that my shirt was wet with sweat, yet I did not feel warm. In fact, I did not feel anything. I could have had my arm blown off and I wouldn’t have noticed it. I understood then why men continue to fight at the height of battle though mortally wounded. I could have done the same then. It wouldn’t have been heroism. I am not an heroic person. It was just that I had no feelings, recorded no impressions. I saw the hangar blazing where the Jerry had crashed, with the foam squad and other fire-fighters working to put it out. I saw half the officers’ mess was blown in and one of the barrack blocks by the square was just a shell. I noticed that there were few bombs on the flying field, but that the surrounds had been well plastered. I just noticed these things. I did not think about them. I made no move to help Helson, who was still lying on the cinder floor of the pit, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead. No one moved to help him.
These observations took but a second. And then we heard the ominous sound—the whine of fast-flying aircraft low to the south. It grew in an instant to a roar that drowned the sounds above us. And then they were there, like magic, over the hangars. Strung out in a single line, they came fast and low—so low that I saw one of them lift his port wing to overtop the wireless mast by the main gates. They were not more than thirty feet above the barrack blocks as they laid their eggs. Wing tip to wing tip they seemed to be. I saw the bombs cascade from beneath their fuselages.
Sharply came Langdon’s order: “Fire!”
The gun cracked. And at the same moment the whole camp seemed to lift in a pall of smoke and high-thrown masonry and earth. The remains of the half-demolished barrack block appeared to rise into the air, blasted into a thousand pieces. At the same time there was a roar like thunder. And against these black spouts of smoke and buildings that had risen like a solid wall across the camp the ’planes showed silver as they roared towards us through the hot sunlight. They seemed huge. Dorniers they were—Dornier 215’s. I recognised the hammer head. They seemed to fill the whole sky. And amongst them a great puff of black smoke. Two of them rocked violently as our shrapnel smashed into them. But still they came on.
The gun cracked again and then again. The other three-inch was firing too. But it had no effect. They were already too near for the fuse we were using. They had split up now. Breaking into two formations in line astern, they swept up each side of the landing field. Suddenly I was frightened. It was the first time I had felt frightened. For I knew in that instant, suddenly, what had been clear to my subconscious for some time: they were going for the ground defences. Not only the ground defences, but the personnel of the aerodrome as a whole. The bulk of the hangars stood clear and solid and undamaged against the pall of smoke and flame that was rolling over what had been the barrack blocks, the Naafi and the canteen. Yet I still stood there, fascinated, as the ’planes swept down on us.
A bomb fell close to Gun Ops. and another by an Hispano pit. A brick and concrete pill-box only fifty yards from us was hit. One second it was standing there, just as it had been built a fortnight back, and the next it had disintegrated into a pile of rubble spewed callously into the air. And then the first ’plane was upon us. At point-blank range Langdon gave the order to fire, in the desperate hope that we should score a direct hit. I suppose we missed. At any rate it swept unfalteringly over us, its great wing span casting a shadow over the pit that seemed to me like the shadow of death. I could see the pilot, sitting woodenly in his cockpit. I saw his teeth bared and thought how it must take nerve to do what he was doing.
And as it swept past a little line of jumping sand ran along the top of the parapet. The rear gunner was firing at us. I ducked. But just before I ducked I saw the Bofors on our side of the ’drome open fire on the ’plane. Its little flaming oranges streamed towards it. And then one hit and another, bursting along the fuselage. The great ’plane staggered and then crumpled up and plunged towards the earth. I didn’t see it crash. By this time the next ’plane was over us and the rear gunner was pumping a stream of bullets into the pit. Something struck the back of my tin hat, jerking my head forward so that for a second I felt my neck must have been broken. I heard it whine into the air. Then I was crouching down against the parapet for protection. Bullets sprayed along the cinder floor and punctured the sandbags in perfect symmetrical lines. Above the din I could hear the clang and whine as they hit the gun and ricochetted off.
And all the time Langdon stood erect and the layers remained on their seats and Micky continued to fire. It was fuse one now, and the noise of the charge seemed to be followed almost immediately by the burst of the shell. Hood was fusing the shells, crouched close to the ground, and the ammunition numbers ran up to the gun with them, bent almost double.
Incredible it seems, looking back, but only one man was hit—it was a lad called Strang, and he only had his hand torn by a ricochet. Yet as each ’plane swept over us, little darts of flame that were tracer bullets streaked into the pit. None, thank God, struck any of the open ammunition lockers.
Once Langdon shouted. A second later a piece of metal fell into the pit. One of our shells had burst very close to a ’plane. I sensed the stagger of the machine as its shadow crossed the pit.
From my crouched position I caught a glimpse of a Hurricane diving practically vertically on to the hangars. I thought it was going to crash. But it flattened out and came down on to the tail of the sixth Dornier. The sound of its eight guns could be heard for a second above the din. The stabs of fire from their muzzles were visible even in the glare of the sun. It looked like one of those little war toys made in Japan that have a flint spark. I glimpsed the lettering on the fuselage—TZ05. Nightingale’s ’plane! And my heart warmed to that daring piece of flying.
Automatically I had counted the ’planes as they came over. It was the fifth that we had damaged. And close on its tail as it went over us came the
sound of the next one. And then something hit the parapet opposite me, covering me with loose sand and spilling the shells from a locker on to the floor of the pit. And as the parapet collapsed the ’plane passed directly over us, so low that if I had jumped up I felt certain I could have touched its wings.
And as the noise of it died away to the north, firing ceased and everything was strangely quiet. I looked up at the cloudless blue of the sky. The dive attack was over, and all that remained of it was a ragged formation of ’planes heading south-eastwards, nose-down, for home. And then in the unnatural quiet we heard a new sound—the crackle of flames.
I got to my feet and gazed round. Thorby looked a shambles. The whole camp to the south of the landing field was enveloped in smoke. Through it I could see the hangars, still largely intact. But the other buildings were broken and battered shells from which great tongues of flame leapt up clear against the background of black smoke. And between the camp and our pit stretched a profusion of bomb craters, like old mole hills.
There was no doubt about it: they had gone for personnel, not for the field itself or even the aircraft, of which, as it happened, there were quite a number in the hangars waiting to be serviced.
Heaven knows how many ’planes that German squadron had lost. We heard later that it was one of their crack squadrons. It had to be. It was a crazy, beautiful piece of flying. They must have known that Thorby was well defended before they undertook the flight. It would need nerve to take on such a job in cold blood. There was one down at the north end of the flying field, a crumpled wreck. And another had plunged into the scrub near the remains of the one we had brought down the other night; it was burning furiously. Others, too, must have been hit. And then the rest had to get home in the face of our fighters without height.
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