THE END
Run The Gauntlet
First published in 2016.
Sample
1939
Chapter 1.1 – False Start
In 1939 the world found itself on the actual brink; again. The lessons of the last war were either blithely ignored or conveniently twisted to suit political expediency. European nations drew a line in the sand and dared each other to cross it. ‘Peace in our time’ was promised, but after the sabres were rattled back and forth for a while, they turned a blind eye to the upstart little Corporal one too many times. Czechoslovakia and Poland bore the first brunt of Blitzkrieg as they were put to the sword.
For the second time in twenty five years, Britain went to war and the RAF was committed to the offensive almost immediately. Movement orders were issued and squadrons moved to France to form the Advanced Air Striking Force. Fighter Command sent four Hurricane squadrons as the Air Component as a show of solidarity and support for the French. The army sent the BEF and they took up position in the killing fields of northern France. Everyone settled down and waited for the shooting to start, and they waited, and they waited.
While light bomber units were packing up to head to France, Falcon Squadron, were trading in their Fairey Battles for Bristol Blenheims. While they fell in love with their new aircraft, it felt like they had missed the boat. If they did not get in the war now, it might all be over before they got their chance.
Left behind, they kept busy practising formation flying on their new aircraft and increased their training tempo. They crossed the channel a number of times on familiarisation exercises but never saw a whiff of a German aircraft. Morale slumped further when they were told they would form part of the strategic reserve. While friends and colleagues were up at the sharp end, they were scrubbing around at home and hating every minute of it.
As September came to an end, the rush of enthusiasm waned. They settled back down to their usual routines. There was no war, no mass battle, no dogfights and no glory to be won. The days got shorter, it got colder and the papers started to print the age old fantasy that it would all be over by Christmas without a shot being fired.
As October began, their world was turned upside down again. On Sunday morning, the squadron received movement orders to pack up and proceed to France. The powers that be had decided to expand the RAF contribution and form another bomber wing. Falcon squadron and two Fairey Battle units would ship out to work closely with the French army and BEF in the north.
The aircrew were given forty eight hours embarkation leave. For everyone else, it was one mad rush. RAF Allenby became a hive of activity to do the thousand and one things to coordinate the movement of a squadron. Ground crews slaved to assemble ground equipment and admin staff burned the midnight oil to get it done in time.
For once officialdom came to the rescue. The previous year, the Air Ministry had the foresight to make arrangements for bombs, fuel, engines and other spares to be stored at advance locations in France. Also, as the other units had already flown out the previous month, it had all been done before so a lot of the kinks had already been ironed out.
The advance party left on the Wednesday in two lumbering transport aircraft. The squadron Adjutant, Michael Kittinger left with the squadron engineering officer and some erks to get things started at Bois Fontaine. More personnel left later that day in a convoy of trucks for one of the southern ports loaded with spares and supplies. The theory was that they would arrive at roughly the same time as the squadron later in the week. Additional staff would follow once the unit left England.
While all that was happening, the recently returned aircrew lined up outside the Medical Officers hut to get their vaccinations. Nursing hangovers, they presented their arms as instructed and then went to pack. Flying kit and uniform was crammed into bags, the finishing touches were put on their personal affairs and letters to friends and family were put in the mail.
The following morning at breakfast, the senior pilots and observers of the squadron pondered recent news from France that had made the war far more personal. Sat hunched over their food they listened to snippets of news and gossip concerning a clash between a flight of light bombers and some German fighters.
Battles of 150 squadron had been bounced on a recce flight along the border. Four of them had been chopped down in a matter of minutes and the last one had limped home looking like a colander by all accounts. Two 109’s had been shot down but it was poor consolation. Only the year before the Falcons had shared an aerodrome with the men of 150 on exercise and the news of the losses was a hard blow.
Flight Lieutenant Paul Farmer absently stirred his spoon in his porridge. It had gotten cold ten minutes before and was stiff and unappetising. His Navigator, William Preddy morosely drank from his cup of tea while he digested the news that his roommate from Cranwell was now a wartime statistic.
“Do we know how many made it back?” asked another of the pilots, Sam Arthur. Farmer shook his head.
“I asked, but deails are a bit sketchy. I know Tony Hyde-Parker fractured his ankle and Mike Poulton and his crew got pretty badly burned. Only MacDonald actually got back but he went up in flames on landing apparently.”
“Jesus.” Arthur whistled quietly through his teeth. He ran a hand through his short black hair and rubbed his neck. “The Germans don’t muck about do they? It sounds like a massacre.”
“Didn’t they have an escort?” asked Preddy, his voice plaintive. He had abandoned his cup of tea and was fastidiously spreading butter on a piece of toast. Farmer shook his head.
“From what I’ve heard I don’t think so. They knocked down four in a few minutes. Mac only got away because once he was on his own he made out like some barnstormer apparently.”
“Christ, what a mess.” Arthur slumped back in his seat and twiddled his thumbs in his lap. “I used to like the Battle but I’m glad we traded them in for the Blenheim,” he muttered.
Farmer ate a mouthful of porridge without thinking. Gagging, he washed it down with some tea. He muttered as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Careful old man,” Preddy teased. He yelped when Farmer hit him on the left upper arm where he had been injected the previous day. He rubbed his arm and pursed his lips in pain.
“It was only a dab old boy,” said Farmer casually. Preddy scowled and carried on rubbing his arm, muttering to himself.
“Careful, you might keel over like Fallon,” cautioned Arthur. That got a laugh from the surrounding tables and Farmer thumped the table in good humour.
Only the day before when the aircrew had been going to get their jabs, there had been a casualty. Gossip held that Pettifer had come out of the MO’s office unsteady on his feet. Osbourne had followed him out and leaned against the wall fighting a wave of nausea but it had been Fallon, the runner, the all rounder who had hit the ground.
While they amused themselves, one of the subjects of their humour came into the mess. Flying Officer Julian Pettifer sat down at the next table and the mess steward took his order. Pettifer was tall and painfully thin. It was a running joke that he had pimples rather than muscles and it was some bureaucratic mistake that he had been accepted for flying training. Most marvelled that he had the strength to control any aircraft in the air.
Pettifer tugged his uniform jacket down; making sure it was tight across his shoulders. He brushed a piece of lint off his sleeve. Well groomed, he had a penchant for fussing over his nails and making sure his hair stayed in place. He fussily rearranged the cutlery on the table, making sure they were parallel to the place mats.
Prissy on the ground, he silenced most of his critics with his flying, being one of the best pilots on the squadron. That was a source of irritation for Farmer and he found Pettifers plumby voice and soft manner rubbed him up the wrong way.
Farmer leaned back in his chair and turned to glare at Pettifer. The younger man made a point of studiously ignoring him while he unfolded the day’s newspaper and laid it flat o
n the table next to him. He began reading the lead article.
“Speak of the devil; and he shall appear.” Farmer rapped his knuckles on the table top and made the quiet man jump. “Pettifer old chap, do join us.”
“No thanks,” Pettifer replied, doing his best to keep his tone neutral, although his face twisted in distaste. He had little love for Farmer and resented the attention of both him and his cronies. He kept his attention focused as he spread butter on some toast and frowned when he managed to get some on his fingers. He wiped his thumb on a napkin.
“Ooooooh,” said Farmer, giving Preddy a knowing wink. “Too good for us, eh?”
“No,” said Pettifer slowly around a mouthful of toast. “I’m just careful who I mix with.”
Farmer hitched round on his chair, leaning over the back of it to stare across the table at Pettifer, pitching his voice for Preddy and Arthurs benefit.
“You know what? I just don’t get it boys. Fallon was a rowing blue, stocky, with muscles on muscles. How come he keeled over rather than a long streak of misery like you?”
“Piss off Farmer,” said Pettifer, his tone flat. Farmer grinned and leaned lower, trying to catch Pettifer’s eye. Every time Pettifer looked in one direction, Farmer matched him, continuing to get under the others skin. Finally he succeeded and Pettifer gave in, knowing he would get no peace until he let the older man have his way.
“For heavens sake, he just collapsed.” He spread his fingers wide and placed his hands on the top of the white tablecloth. “We came out of the MO’s after getting our jabs. Fallon was rubbing his arm and complaining about a pain in the chest and then he just sort of...went over. Classic Charlie Chaplin, flat on his face. Like he’d been poleaxed.” He mimicked a fall, using one forearm as the ground and the other as a body hitting the ground. “I went and got the MO and they ferried him off to the hospital.”
“And you didn’t touch him?” challenged Farmer, disappointed at such a tame telling.
“I didn’t touch him. Ask Osbourne, he was there too.”
“I will; believe me, I will.”
Farmer turned back to his little group when the steward brought Pettifer his food.
“We’ll pop in and see Fallon later,” he said to the rest of them.
“I’m afraid there will be no popping in to see anyone,” said a voice from the doorway.
The squadron’s Intelligence Officer, Flight Lieutenant Wallis Dane stood at the doorway, hands behind his back. Forty two, Wallis was a reserve officer who had come from Kings College London swapping his seat in advanced mathematics for intelligence work. In some ways he found life on an operational squadron little different to life at Cambridge. He had merely swapped one bunch of prima donnas for another.
“Fallon won’t be having any visitors for a bit I’m afraid,” he said solemnly. That produced murmurs of surprise and a voice shouted out from the back of the room.
“What got him? The clap?” someone asked across the room. That caused much hilarity but it soon died down when Dane did not rise to the remark and his face remained set.
“According to the MO, he’s had a severe heart attack complicated by some other nasty infection so we’ll be going without him. The doctors have said he needs plenty of rest to recover.”
News delivered, he turned on his heel and left the room. As soon as the mess door closed, conversation started back up, the men muttering amongst themselves.
“Heart attack? My arse,” said Farmer in disgust. He dumped the spoon into the porridge and watched it slowly sink into the unappetizing grey mass. “He was one of the fittest men in the squadron.”
“You don’t think it was the jabs do you?” said Arthur quietly, his hand involuntarily drifting to his arm that had started to tingle.
“Of course not,” said Farmer. “They don’t need to kill us off with vaccinations. The Germans can do it just as efficiently once we’re in the air.” He shoved the plate of porridge away from himself. “One down already and we haven’t even left yet. Shit!”
That evening, the squadron threw a party. The mess laid on the best plate and silverware and afterwards there was some dancing and some singing around the piano. It was a civilised affair with female company present. The CO’s wife was in attendance and Kittinger had managed to prevail upon the senior WAAF officer to send along some of her girls.
Also putting in an appearance were the newly weds, Mr and Mrs Locke. A couple for only two months, the looming conflict had sharpened their feelings for one another. Using his forty eight, Pilot Officer Locke had wangled a special licence and they had two rushed days together at a small Hotel in Filey. Two days was not enough, but it was all they had and they had made the most of it. They ordered room service while Locke did his best to wear out the bed springs and perform his husbandly duties.
A tall blonde, she had drifted around the room in a pale mint green dress. Locke felt like he was floating around the room as she dazzled many of them with her smile and her charming manner.
The party broke up early around ten. With ladies present and an early start in the morning, no one felt much like getting stinking drunk and everyone remained on their best behaviour, much to the station commander’s delight. While they all went to bed, few of them slept. Tomorrow was the day, the one they had been training and working towards for years.
1.2 – Foreign Fields
They got up mid morning. There was no real rush. It was short hop over to France so they had plenty of time. Tired faces looked into mirrors as they washed and shaved. Breakfast was eaten with and mess bills were settled. Locke saw his wife off at the train station. Rooms were cleared. They changed into their flying gear and went off to briefing. The station commander, Group Captain Pritchard wished them well and said he would see them off. The CO, Wing Commander Winwright took his place on the platform and made it clear he would brook no nonsense. He expected them all to arrive at Rouen in good order, he wanted to put on a show for the French. He made it all sound like a jolly Sunday outing. Out for the day and back again for tea and crumpets.
They took off in groups of three, circling the airfield once before taking up a course for France. Winwright took off first, his bomb bay filled with luggage and bags of spares. Warrant Officer Alistair Burke sat behind the CO in the well above the bomb bay. Burke tried to get comfortable. His tall frame was folded into a small space and his knees bumped the kitbag he held in front of him. He was off to war again.
Every ten minutes another batch set off until finally, an hour later, Pilot Officer Charles Chandler and his crew led the last group of three away. The afternoon sun was low in the sky when their Blenheim headed for the coast and said goodbye to jolly old England. Pettifer formed up on his left wing and Flying Officer Osbourne on the right.
Chandler liked the Blenheim. Built as a private venture to challenge the variety of record breaking German aircraft, Lord Rothermere’s challenge to the British aviation industry resulted in an aircraft that was faster than the fighters of the day when she had first been introduced in 1935. Compared to the tired Fairey Battles the squadron had recently traded in, she was a Rolls Royce. A twin engine light bomber, she had a crew of three and a 1,000lb bomb load.
She was not so fast now; fighters had caught up in the last few years but Chandler did not care. The Blenheim mkIV had 9lb of emergency boost to provide an extra burst of power to get him out of trouble. He also liked the safety two engines brought him instead of the Battles one.
Up front in the glazed nose, his navigator Aaron Morgan fiddled with his maps as he looked out at the countryside in despair. He had not seen anything he recognised for the last ten minutes. He checked his watch and hoped the landfall was vaguely close to what it should be. Twenty eight, he had come into the service via the Reserve. Called back up before the start of the war he had escaped his dreary bank job and thrown himself once more into service life. He looked over his shoulder back at Chandler.
Sandy haired with dancing blue eyes, his pilot was twen
ty three years old and had only come out of Cranwell in the spring. Fresh from an Operational Conversion Unit he had arrived when the squadron was transitioning from their Fairey Battles to the Blenheim.
Arriving at the squadron at the same time, it was only natural they would be paired up. Coming into an established unit as the new boys brought certain burdens. The old sweats viewed newcomers with a certain amount of suspicion until they had proven themselves.
As a crew, they looked after each other and that was fine by Morgan. Unlike some, Chandler would prefer to find the cause of a problem, rather than hang someone out to dry. Morgan needed that catch net sometimes. He fished in his navigator’s bag and pulled out a handful of pencils and started attacking them with a sharpener, making a pile of shavings on his small desk.
LAC Mark Griffiths sat nervously behind Chandler in the well. Hugging his knees he kept trying to catch glimpses of the ground below. He watched quietly as the pilot made small movements with the yoke, riding the air currents, keeping the flight smooth. His twin brother Martin was the radio operator/air gunner sat in the turret back in the fuselage.
They crossed the channel and the French coast started to slide under the nose. Morgan kept glancing at the maps and could feel the sweat crawling down his neck. He compared the position of the headland and made some rapid calculations. They were off by miles. The wind must have veered. He wrote a correction down on a splip of paper and passed it up to Chandler.
Pettifers navigator, Slater, gave a theatrical sigh and passed a slip of paper to his pilot. Pettifer glanced down and grinned to himself. He looked down into the nose and shared a looked with him.
“Even money he doesn’t spot the course change for about ten miles skip.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Pettifer. He called up his gunner. “Willis; get a DF fix will you and pass me the position when you have it.”
Maximum Effort Page 68
