The Eagle's Cry

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  The Eagle’s Cry

  Richard Townsend Bickers

  © Richard Townsend Bickers 1983

  Richard Townsend Bickers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in 1983 by St. Edmundsbury Press as ‘Eagles, Crying Flames’.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  The title is taken from a poem by Rupert Brooke; which is not about war but is entitled “The Great Lover”.

  The relevant lines read:—

  “And to keep loyalties young, I’ll write those

  names

  “Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,

  “And set them as a banner, that men may know,

  “To dare the generations, burn, and blow

  “Out on the winds of Time, shining and

  streaming ...”

  These seem apt to warriors, particularly to fighting airmen, as much as to love, so I have borrowed them as the theme for this story.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Extract from Fighters Up by Richard Townsend Bickers

  One

  They had flown more than 200 miles across the Western Desert from their base in Egypt to bomb the Italian airfield at El Adem, 75 miles beyond the Libyan frontier, and now they were seeing enemy anti-aircraft fire for the first time.

  This was the R.A.F’s second raid on El Adem since Italy had entered the war on Germany’s side the day before, 10th June 1940. There had also been two attacks on the port of Tobruk, 10 miles from this major air base. The Blenheim crews had expected that even the Italians would be on the alert and these obvious targets would be heavily defended.

  Half the squadron had taken part in the bombing of Tobruk that morning, but Denton’s crew had not been among them. He had been awaiting this afternoon’s operation with what he supposed could be called stoicism and keenness. Nobody in his right mind would look forward to the risk of being killed or maimed, but at the same time he was glad to have the chance to put his hundreds of hours of training into practice. Since the declaration of war nine months ago he had been wondering how afraid he would be the first time in action and what being under fire would be like. It was not an experience one could have vicariously; and in any event there was no one on the squadron to tell him what it had been like for him: except the C.O. and he was the last person from whom to expect any confidences or revelations of that kind.

  Instead of the tremendous barrage Denton had expected there were a few streaks of yellow and red tracer fire and black clots of smoke in the sky. The tracer shells were of small calibre and exploded on impact. None had yet hit any of the 18 bombers in the formation. The dissolving smoke smudges had the crimson centres of high explosive shells bursting, scattering shards of steel around far and wide. None of it was frightening. The Italians’ shooting was not accurate.

  He was disappointed as well as relieved. He had hoped to return from his first operational sortie feeling that he had done something intrepid. So far, it was a tame affair.

  Critchley, his second pilot and observer, was not impressed either.

  “Not much of a show, is it Geoffrey?”

  “I’ve seen better on Guy Fawkes night.”

  Sergeant Butler, the air gunner, who viewed the world from a dorsal turret amidships, behind a .303 Vickers K machinegun with which to defend them against attack from astern or abeam, put an end to any complacency with which, having seen the opposition, his captain might be looking forward to making his bombing run. He was a lugubrious 20-year-old from Sunderland whose flat Geordie way of speaking took the drama and the joy out of any statement.

  “Captain from gunner. Twelve C.R. Forty-twos at five o’clock, range three miles, couple of thousand feet above, coming in.”

  The C.R. 42 was not much of a menace. It had a top speed of 267 m.p.h. in level flight, a theoretical seven miles an hour faster than the Blenheim’s. It carried only two 12.7 mm Breda machineguns.

  The Blenheim had a wing-mounted .303 Browning for the pilot to fire. It could be used only against targets dead ahead and was almost useless except for ground strafing. For defence the Blenheims depended on the whole formation staying together and all the turret gunners concentrating on a few attacking fighters at a time. On its own the Mk I Blenheim was very vulnerable.

  The Blenheims were cruising well below their maximum speed. The enemy fighters were at full throttle and diving.

  “Keep an eye open for another lot to port, Gunner. They may be playing tricks.”

  “Can’t see anything else, sir. Range about two, now.”

  The British had never respected the fighting qualities of the Italians. All that most of them knew about the Italian Army was that it had bolted from the Germans and Austrians at Caporetto in 1917 when Italy was Britain’s ally. The Italians seemed capable of putting up any sort of show only against ill-equipped and half-naked Abyssinians whom they greatly outnumbered and against whom they used the most modern weapons.

  However, the R.A.F. did expect something better from the Regia Aeronautica, the Air Force. It was, at least, well known for dashing and polished aerobatic displays and for long-distance flights. Led by General Italo Balbo, large formations had made two Atlantic crossings. The R.A.F. had adopted “Balbo” as the term for any big formation of aircraft. It was an acknowledgment, if a patronising one, of a kind of membership of the same club.

  The Regia Aeronautica was the élite of the three Italian Services and the R.A.F. expected its crews to be carefully chosen and well trained: and to make up whatever they lacked in courage by superiority in numbers and good aircraft design.

  Three squadrons had each put up six Blenheims on this operation. Denton was flying on the right in the penultimate V of three machines. In his bomb bays were three 250-pounders and 50 four-pound incendiaries. They were at 6000 ft and would bomb from 3000 ft. They should just manage to get their attack in before the CR 42s intercepted them.

  Their purpose was to destroy enemy aircraft on the ground and there were plenty of them at El Adem: eight squadrons of Caproni and Savoia-Marchetti bombers. Some must be in the hangars but most of them were parked on the edge of the airfield and not even dispersed at wide intervals to give them some immunity from destruction and damage.

  The leading V was about to begin its dive to bombing altitude when the ack-ack converged on it. The Italian gunners may not have been among the world’s best but they were good enough to hit something by shooting into the midst of a large formation. Denton saw a shell explode directly beneath a Blenheim. A wing crumpled and flames belched from the fuselage. It began to cartwheel towards the ground, trailing dense smoke. As he followed the rest of the formation he watched for parachutes but none of the crew escaped. Shells burst and weaved tracer patterns above his aeroplane while he dived. Heavy machineguns joined in but were ineffectual above 3000 ft and the bombers would begin to pull out at that level.

  Butler kept up a commentary on the C.R. 42s.

  “Fighters holding off, Skipper.”

  They would wait outside the barrage, such as it was, and go for the Blenheims when they turned for home. Time enough to worry about them after we’ve bombed, Denton thought.

  A power dive was always exhilarating, with the engines roaring close at hand on either side, the aircraft hurtling at the ground at a speed that made the senses spin the altitude reeled off, the scream of the wind thro
ugh the windows. On this June evening with the sun sinking ahead of them and casting a red glow over the tawny sand, the cobalt Mediterranean ten miles to starboard, acres of palm groves, gardens and farmland, white buildings scattered among them, the bombers’ intrusion seemed an outrage.

  Denton could see the lines of parked aeroplanes at which he would aim his bombs. Smoke, flames, sand, earth and fragments of smashed Capronis and Savoia-Marchettis; slabs of wall and roof, human bodies, pieces of lorries and cars: all were hurled high in great spouts and fountains by the explosion of the bombs dropped by the Blenheims in front of him. Fire rippled and spread on the ground, glowing red and orange and blue as it consumed petrol, oil, rubber and timber where the incendiaries fell.

  Their headlong rush had not completely upset the aim of the anti-aircraft gunners. One of the Blenheims did not pull out of its dive. With smoke and flame coiling all over it, it slammed into the ground and was blown to bits when its fuel tanks detonated. He would have preferred to see some more encouraging spectacle as he followed in its tracks with a strange new sensation in his stomach as though a giant pair of pincers were rhythmically squeezing it and then allowing it to expand until it made him feel he was bursting.

  He lined up his aircraft on a row of Caproni 311s, known as the Ghibli, Desert Wind. Their 40-foot fuselages and 53-foot wingspan presented a good target. In a 60-degree dive it seemed as though the ground were rushing up rather than the aircraft swooping down. In the last few seconds before pressing the bomb-release this impression was very strong.

  Denton felt the nose of the aircraft lift as it was relieved of the weight of the bombs. Instead of pulling out immediately into a climb he held his dive. He would use his front gun on enemy troops and parked aeroplanes when he was down below 1000 ft, and his gunner would be able to do the same when the Blenheim climbed away. And the lower they were when they left the target area the more difficult it would be for the lurking C.R. 42s to attack.

  When the altimeter showed 600 ft he began to fire. At 200 ft he began gently raising the Blenheims’s nose to sweep a long path ahead of him. He banked into a port turn that would enable him to look down at the effect of his shooting and take him towards some wooden huts into which he could fire in the hope of hitting Italians in there.

  His explosive bombs fell among the Ghiblis and either blew up or set alight to several of them. The incendiaries started many more fires. He eased out of the turn and kept blasting away with the front gun. Tracer from the defenders’ cannon and machineguns whizzed around the Blenheim as it skimmed the roofs of the aerodrome buildings. Sergeant Butler had depressed his gun and was also shooting down at the ground. Denton went into a gentle climb to give him a better field of fire.

  They raced over the perimeter fence and he looked around for the other Blenheims. Everyone had stayed low to strafe and get away hugging the ground. There were three machines close enough to Denton’s for him to catch up and join them at the rear to form a diamond. He was dripping with sweat from heat, exertion and being under fire.

  “Good show, Geoffrey.”

  “Nice work, sir.”

  Ian Critchley and Sergeant Butler sounded as relieved as he was that they had done what they came to do and were on their way home.

  The Fiats were waiting for them. The Italians had turned eastward while the Blenheims were carrying out their attack, to intercept them when they withdrew. The Blenheims had gone down to 50 ft to make it difficult for the fighters to dive and pull out safely. The Italians, however, brought their nimble machines down steeply and broke off 100 ft above their targets to zoom up, roll out and come in again. The height they gained each time enabled them to dive again fast enough to catch up with the fast-retreating Blenheims.

  At the rear, Denton’s crew had the benefit of the fire of the turret guns of the three other Blemheims, which maintained a concerted fire on the enemy. The leader, which had the least protection, came under the heaviest assault. The eight Fiats kept up a succession of attacks from either side.

  Denton felt the shock wave as the leading Blenheim finally caught fire and blew up. The blast tossed the two nearest C. R. 42s aside. Bullets thudded into both Denton’s engines and by the time he had left the enemy astern the smell of petrol vapour was mingling with the reek of cordite from the guns and the smoke from fires and high explosives the Blenheim had sucked it in through the cockpit windows while over the target.

  The gauges showed why the aircraft was filled with petrol fumes. There was barely enough fuel left to get them over the frontier, let alone all the way back to base at Bir Sazara. One spark could ignite the vapour and cause an explosion. The raid had been timed to give the Blenheims the cover of darkness on their way home. Night was falling fast. There was no question of landing in enemy territory before complete darkness overtook them, to avoid a night landing by the light only of the landing lights. The Italians had built a wire fence along the frontier. It stretched from the coastal road 400 miles south into the desert: a fence 20 ft wide, four rows of five-foot steel posts and barbed wire. They would need wire-cutters to get through it.

  “We’ve got enough fuel to take us over the frontier, if we’re lucky.” Perhaps the enemy had buried mines in the sand along the border. If forced down this side of it, they’d find out the hard way.

  Butler had returned to the wireless station. Denton had climbed to improve transmission and reception. “It’s O.K., sir, Group got my forced landing signal. Got a good bearing on us.”

  Critchley was plotting the position on the chart. “Even if you have to dump us fifty miles from the frontier, we’ll be all right. I’ve got a good fix.”

  But a good bearing and an accurate fix couldn’t help them to cut through a quadruple barbed wire obstacle.

  Critchley had given Denton a course that would take them south of due east, away from the populated coastal belt. Every five miles he gave a progress check.

  When they were within 25 miles of the border Denton could feel a muscle in his cheek twitching nervously. The fuel gauges read “Empty” but they were not finely graded instruments and he could have one minute of flying time left, or ten. He was tempted to turn a few degrees further south to go deeper into the desert and reduce the chances of meeting an enemy patrol when they had to abandon the aircraft, if forced down inside Libya. But the Operations Room at Bir Sazara would be plotting their progress along their present heading and a change of direction would make it more difficult for a search party to find then.

  Being forced down in an enemy-held area threatened the ignominy of being captured with the war against Germany only nine months old and against Italy only 24 hours. Until Italy entered the war the R.A.F. in North Africa had had no fighting to do. If they were taken prisoner now it would mean the humiliation of having flown only one operation before they were out of it. This had been in Denton’s mind from the moment the Fiats’ bullets began to hit them.

  The same anxiety weighed on Critchley and Butler while they counted the minutes. Critchley had often thought about capture and wondered whether years of being deprived of women could make a man impotent. Discomfort, dirt, insufficient food, he could endure. But not celibacy. At least, he supposed he would find celibacy unendurable. He had never tried it. Other deprivations would be mitigated by comradeship, but he did not see how common misery and a brotherly bond could alleviate lust. He was having a very unhappy time there at his navigator’s station while he calculated their chances of making it to Egypt.

  Butler had thought about prisoner of war camp quite often. He was not the greatest optimist on the squadron. He had joined the R.A.F. at the age of 18 as a wireless operator. Before the war, air gunners were chosen from volunteers in various ground trades. Most of them had to pick up gunnery by means of whatever training their squadrons could arrange. For each day they flew, sixpence was added to their pay. By the time war broke out Butler was an aircraftman first class and three months later all air gunners were made acting sergeants with a large increase in pa
y. He wondered whether, if he were taken prisoner, he would be paid as an A/C1 or a sergeant. He had little confidence in the generosity of the remote authorities who made these decisions. They would probably say that if he wasn’t flying he wasn’t entitled to flying pay. He had no wish to find out.

  Critchley had just announced that it was 25 miles to the frontier, when both engines began to cough and misfire.

  Denton had never had to make a forced landing. If he left it much longer the aeroplane would stall and crash. The crew would probably be killed. If they survived they would be too badly injured to walk 25 miles. That blasted fence would have to be dealt with, he reflected as he prepared for the inevitable.

  “Stand by for a rough landing. I’m putting her down.”

  He was too busy and too professionally interested to be afraid. The sand here was firm and fairly level. But the desert surface was often misleading. Men, horses, camels and vehicles could sink deeply into it with no warning indication.

  He switched on the landing lights. The ground undulated gently, scattered with small clumps of camel thorn. He lowered the undercarriage. At their low altitude, if one engine cut the wing would drop and they would sideslip into the ground before he could correct. He switched both engines off and glided. There was only the soughing of the wind to break the silence.

  How far away had their engines been heard? If there was an Italian Army unit within earshot they would have little time to get far before the enemy turned up. If there were Arabs around, they would help them to evade capture. The Arabs hated the Italians, who had annexed Libya in 1911 and were tyrannical and often cruel colonisers. The frontier fence had been erected in a fatuous attempt to prevent the Arabs leaving the country.

  Denton had gambled when he put the wheels down. A belly landing on sand would have been easy, but the friction would cause sparks which might ignite the petrol vapour. If they had not been blown or burned to death, a fire would bring the enemy down on them. With the wheels down, if the sand was softer than it looked the aeroplane would pitch onto its nose and somersault or break its back. Sudden deceleration was a killer. And a crash would probably cause a fire.