Flames over France

by Robert Jackson

  However, the day passed without incident, and a few minutes past midnight found Armstrong sitting in the second pilot’s seat of Pittaway’s Wellington as it lumbered down the runway between the rows of flares, gathered speed and lifted into the darkness — if it could be called darkness, for even without a moon there was always a translucence about the Mediterranean night, an extra brilliance to the stars that hung over the earth.

  The new moon had yet to rise, and so only the stars accompanied the six bombers as they headed out over the coast. The plan was to head due east across the Ligurian Sea to a point north of Corsica, then turn through ninety degrees to approach Genoa from the south. The Italians, Pittaway reasoned, would not be expecting an attack from that direction. Armstrong hoped that his reasoning was correct.

  The flight to the turning point was uneventful, except for some scattered anti-aircraft fire that came at them from some ships — probably friendly — and brought forth a string of curses from the crew. Luckily the fire was inaccurate, and soon dwindled astern. Ahead of them now was the coast of Italy, and they had no difficulty at all in locating Genoa.

  “Gawd, take a look at that!” Pittaway exclaimed. “It’s lit up like a bloody Christmas tree!”

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth when the lights went out.

  “Thanks a lot, skipper,” said the bomb-aimer, from his position in the nose. Normally, the navigator would have dropped the bombs, but on this occasion each Wellington carried an extra crew member; the navigators, Pittaway had reasoned, would probably have their hands full over this unfamiliar territory. After a pause, the bomb-aimer said: “Not to worry, I’ve got my bearings. Turn left five degrees.”

  Ahead, the darkness was suddenly split by a searchlight beam. It speared straight up like a luminous finger, remained stationary for a few moments, then began to track to and fro across the sky. It was joined by others, and now the crew could see twinkling flak bursts between the searchlight cones.

  “They’re a bit premature,” Pittaway said laconically.

  “Do not jest, skipper,” his navigator commented. “Five minutes to target. You okay, George?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it,” the bomb-aimer replied. “This heading is fine. Steady as she goes, skipper.”

  “Roger,” Pittaway acknowledged. “Gunners, keep your eyes peeled. There may be fighters about.”

  “Steady, skipper,” the bomb-aimer said again. “We’re spot on. I can see the target area. Stand by to drop the flares. Begin descent to five thousand.”

  Pittaway obeyed the bomb-aimer’s instructions. As he levelled out at the required altitude the man in the nose released two flares, which fell into some patchy cloud and shed a soft light over the whole city.

  “Marvellous,” the bomb-aimer said. “I can see everything. Steady, skipper. Bomb doors open.”

  The Wellington vibrated as the bomb-bay doors swung down into the slipstream. The other five bombers had dropped back into line astern at half-mile intervals and would now be beginning their individual runs towards the target, guided by the drifting flares.

  “Steady, steady … ” The bomb-aimer’s voice sounded unnaturally calm. Looking through the side cockpit window, Armstrong could see the red flashes of anti-aircraft gunfire, but curiously there was no sign of any shellbursts.

  He wondered why, then realised that the Italian gunners must be firing high, and that the flashes of the bursts were eclipsed by the glare of the searchlights.

  “Steady, steady … bombs away!” The Wellington gave a leap as the four 500-pound bombs dropped away, and Pittaway’s heartfelt comment sounded over the intercom.

  “Thank Christ for that! Course for base, nav?”

  “Two-five-oh, skipper. Climb to ten thousand.”

  “Okay. Rear gunner, keep your eye on the target.”

  “Roger, skip. Oh, there go the bombs. One, two, three — wow! That was a big one. A sort of greenish flash. We’ve started some fires, by the look of it.” His voice took on a sudden note of excitement. “Hello, the searchlights have picked up one of our chaps! He’s turning … It’s okay, they’ve lost him. There are more bombs exploding. Can’t tell if they’re on target.”

  “Right-oh, rear gunner. Well done, everybody. Don’t relax, though; we’re not out of the wood yet.” He glanced across at Armstrong. “Do you mind taking over for a minute, Ken? I could do with a pee.”

  Armstrong gladly took over the controls, allowing Pittaway to unfasten his seat harness and make his way towards the rear of the fuselage, where there was an Elsan chemical toilet. The Wellington was once again amid the stunning scenery of the Alps. There was little to do now, he told himself, but enjoy the flight back.

  He should have known better.

  Five miles to the south, a French Potez 631 night fighter was patrolling at roughly the same altitude. Its pilot, Sergent-Chef Gillet, was not a happy man. He belonged to one of the French Air Force’s five night-fighter escadrilles, or rather what was left of it, and he had flown many night patrols since 10 May without seeing a thing. In fact, most of the French night fighters had been used in day combat during the early phase of the campaign, with disastrous results.

  On one occasion, eighteen Potez based in the Paris area had been ordered to attack enemy armoured columns near Fourmies. Six were shot down, and of the others only two — including his own — had returned to their airfields unscathed.

  To make matters worse, the Potez, with its twin fins and long cockpit canopy, was often mistaken for the Messerschmitt 110, and several had been shot down by friendly fighters. All in all, the story of the French night fighters had not been a happy one.

  Now here Gillet was, flying one of the modified Potez 631s armed with two cannon and seven machine-guns, of which four were fitted under the wings. To compensate for the extra weight a rear gunner was no longer carried, so Gillet was truly a single-seat fighter pilot, a role he had always coveted. It was rather unfortunate, he told himself for the umpteenth time, that he had achieved his ambition when it was too late.

  With the battle in the north over, the remnants of Gillet’s escadrille had been moved to Marseille to provide a defence against the Italian night bombers. That was a laugh! The Italians didn’t like flying at night, everyone knew that. They had made not a single night attack; indeed, it seemed they had disappeared from the sky altogether.

  Gillet glanced at the luminous dial of the chronometer on his instrument panel. Soon it would be time to return to base at the end of yet another fruitless patrol. He realised that he was still flying east, and tossed a mental coin to decided which way he should turn; north or south. He chose a northerly direction; his intention was to fly towards Monte Viso, then turn south-west towards his base, and some welcome hot coffee.

  Suddenly, he frowned. There was something out there ahead of him, something that was not quite right. He strained against his straps, leaning forward to peer through the cockpit windscreen. No, he told himself, he was not mistaken; it was there all right, a black shape skimming between the mountain peaks. An aircraft — a large aircraft — crossing into France from enemy territory.

  Adrenaline set Gillet’s heart pumping as he turned in pursuit of the strange aircraft, releasing the safety-catches of his guns as he did so. He climbed a little so that he was looking down on it, its black silhouette etched on the snow below. Twin engines, a single fin and rudder; it looked a bit like a French Bloch 210 bomber, but it was not. In any case, he knew that they had all been either shot down or grounded through lack of spare parts. So, he asked himself, what were the alternatives?

  Gillet was a fairly simple man, and try as he might he couldn’t think of any. His reasoning was as simple as his nature. The aircraft was not French, therefore it had to be Italian. The possibility that the RAF might have bombers in this area never once crossed his mind; even if it had, the only British bombers he had seen were Bristol Blenheims and Fairey Battles, neither of which resembled this one.

  Carefully, Gillet bega
n to set up his attack.

  Pittaway, hugely relieved after his trip to the Elsan, slid back into the first pilot’s seat and did up his seat harness, shaking his head when Armstrong asked him if he wanted to take over the controls again. “No, matey, you fly ’er for a bit,” he said. “I’m for a coffee.” He reached down and pulled a thermos flask from a pouch on the side of the inner fuselage and started to unscrew the lid. “Want some?”

  “Wouldn’t mind,” Armstrong admitted. His throat was dry, and he was chilly.

  At that moment, the rear gunner’s urgent voice cut across the intercom.

  “Skipper, there’s an aircraft, working its way around towards our five o’clock position. Can’t say what it is. It’s not a Wellington, though.”

  “All right, treat it as hostile and watch it. I want to know every move it makes.” Pittaway screwed the cap back on the thermos and stowed the flask in its original position. “Okay, Ken, I’d better take her. You know the drill, though. Stand by to take over if anything happens to me.”

  “Rear gunner to pilot, the aircraft is turning in. I got quite a good look at it … I think it’s French, although it looks a bit like an Me 110. Coming round into our six o’clock, now.”

  “Could be a Potez,” Armstrong said doubtfully. “The French have been using some as night fighters.”

  “Well, keep on watching it like a hawk,” Pittaway told the rear gunner. “I don’t trust the buggers.”

  “It’s closing in fast,” the rear gunner said, his voice high and frightened. “Shall I open fire?”

  “Only if it fires first,” Pittaway instructed. “If it does, give it all you’ve got. And stand by for some evasive action.” Holding their breath, they braced themselves.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In his turret, the rear gunner watched, like a rabbit mesmerised by a stoat, as the dark silhouette of the unidentified fighter grew larger. Suddenly, fire streamed from its nose and wings and red golf balls of tracer shells reached out to ensnare the Wellington. It took him only a fraction of a second to react, and then he too opened fire.

  Up front, Armstrong tensed as the red streams of fire ripped past and into the Wellington, and felt rather than heard the vibration as the four Browning.303 machine-guns in the rear turret opened up. Pittaway swore; because of the mountain peaks he was unable to take evasive action laterally, so the only way out was to go either up or down. The trouble was, he couldn’t see what lay below.

  “Throttles, Ken!” he yelled. Armstrong, understanding what was wanted, opened both throttles wide while Pittaway used both hands to pull back on the control column, putting the bomber into a climb. As he did so, orange flames burst from beneath the starboard engine cowling.

  “That’s buggered the job,” Pittaway gasped. With one engine hit, there would not be enough power to sustain the climb. He eased the pressure on the control column and brought the bomber back to level flight.

  At his station further back in the fuselage, the flight engineer hit a button, activating a fire extinguisher that sprayed foam into the crippled engine. For a few seconds the flames dulled and almost died away, then they returned with what seemed renewed intensity.

  “Shut it down,” Pittaway ordered. The flight engineer obeyed, using his own bank of throttles to close down the engine, and threw another switch to ‘feather’ the propeller, turning its blades edge-on to the airflow to reduce the drag.

  “Rear gunner, what’s the bastard up to now?” Pittaway shouted over the intercom. There was no reply, and Armstrong noticed that the guns had fallen silent. “Nav, go back and find out if he’s okay.”

  A couple of minutes later, the navigator’s voice sounded over the intercom. He sounded shaken.

  “He’s had it, skipper. The turret took a direct hit. He’s blown almost in half … God, there’s blood and guts everywhere.”

  “All right, spare us the details. Listen, everybody. We can still make it back to base. Nav, get up into the astrodome and watch out for the fighter. Let me know the moment you see him coming in again. Wireless op, get on to the waist guns. On the nav’s signal, I’ll turn as sharply as I can. See if you can get a shot at the sod.”

  “Okay, skip.” The navigator left his seat and stuck his head into the Perspex bubble on top of the fuselage, peering back past the tail fin. “Can’t see a thing,” he reported a few moments later. “It’s the engine fire. There’s too much glare. The tail’s taken a beating, though. Looks like a lot of loose fabric trailing from it.”

  “Right. Keep on looking out, anyway.” Pittaway glanced across at Armstrong, who at this moment was feeling utterly helpless. “Ken,” the New Zealander said, “I’m going to need some help if I have to put her down. She’s becoming hard to control.”

  Armstrong reached out and gripped the control column, following Pittaway’s movements. The feel of the stick transferred the bomber’s agony to his hands; he could sense the abnormal shuddering and jerking of the control surfaces where shells and bullets had punched through them, the lifting and twisting of the right wing as the good engine did its best to drag the aircraft round towards the left. Adding his strength to Pittaway’s, he turned the control column towards the dead motor, lifting the right aileron and lowering the left, allowing the airflow to drop the right wing and so cancel out the bomber’s inclination to turn.

  A mile astern of the Wellington, Sergent-Chef Gillet rolled out of a turn, having broken away after his first firing pass, and went in pursuit of his quarry once more. He had no difficulty in picking it out; the engine he had hit was glowing like a furnace. Keeping the glow centred in his windscreen, he closed in steadily, intent on finishing the job he had begun less than five minutes earlier. This time, he would get in really close.

  The glow from the bomber’s burning engine grew brighter; sparks and fragments of molten metal swirled past him, and the stench of burning oil pervaded his cockpit. The glow lit lip the bomber’s camouflage, the code letters and the roundel on its fuselage side.

  “The roundel,” he whispered to himself in sudden horror. “Oh, my God!”

  He could see the colours quite clearly in the glare of the flames. They were red, white and blue. The aircraft was British.

  Feeling sick, Gillet pulled off to one side. He had identified the other aircraft now as a Wellington. He began to manoeuvre into position off its port wing, desperately searching his mind for something, anything, he might do to help, some act of atonement to redress his terrible error.

  In the astrodome, the navigator saw their attacker for the first time as it crept into position on the starboard beam, and shouted a warning. The wireless operator dashed to the small window in the starboard side of the fuselage and seized the single.303 machine-gun that was mounted there, its position designed to give an arc of fire covering an attack from the beam. Almost at once, he saw the fighter and took careful aim.

  “Hold on!” the navigator yelled as he registered what he could see of the other aircraft beyond the roaring torrent of flame from the starboard engine. Its light revealed a roundel to him, too, its colours the reverse of the RAF’s. “Hold on! It’s French!”

  He was too late. In the bomber’s waist, the wireless operator took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger, stitching a line of tracer bullets along the full length of the fighter. A couple of seconds was all it took; there was no sign of fire, no sign even that he had hit the other aircraft, but it suddenly dropped away and spiralled down towards the snow-covered crags below.

  In the cockpit of the Potez, Gillet registered sudden surprise that he could no longer control his fighter. His hands and feet no longer seemed to obey him. It was all very strange. He had experienced dreams like this; maybe this was a dream. If it wasn’t, he could not remember why he was here.

  Gillet had not even felt the two bullets that had struck him in the left side. His face was still registering a look of blank amazement when the Potez hit the ground and exploded, but by that time he was dead.

  In the
Wellington, the wireless operator suddenly realised what the navigator had been shouting. He released his grip on the machine-gun and instead grabbed one of the aluminium bracing spars that formed the bomber’s fuselage structure. “Christ,” he stammered, “I’m sorry … I didn’t realise … ”

  Pittaway’s crisp tones cut across him. “All right, belt up! Don’t worry about it. Crash positions, everybody. It’s time to put the old girl down. We’re not going to make it back.” The bomb-aimer and the front gunner scrambled out of their nose positions and made their way into the main body of the fuselage, leaving Pittaway and Armstrong alone in the front of the aircraft. Suddenly, the New Zealander took a hand off the control column and pointed ahead and down. Peering past the nose, Armstrong saw a broad expanse of snow, nestling between two rock walls. Had there been a moon.

  casting dark shadows, they might not have recognised it for what it was.

  “Looks promising enough,” Armstrong commented. “Pretty flat, as far as I can tell.”

  “Well, old son, we don’t have much choice, do we?” Pittaway observed.

  Armstrong didn’t need to voice his agreement. Pittaway was already throttling back the engine that was still running, at the same time pointing the Wellington’s nose towards the plateau. Anxiously, Armstrong looked out of the side window at the flames that were now eating into the wing; it would be touch and go whether they would get down before the fire reached a fuel tank. Every second was precious now.

  “Ken, I have control. Stand by to drop the flaps when I tell you.”

  Armstrong relinquished his hold on the control column and placed his hand on the flap lever. The snowfield was coming up at them rapidly now; Pittaway chopped the throttle and the port engine fell silent, its propeller windmilling. Behind the pilots’ positions, the flight engineer hurriedly flicked off all the engine and fuel control switches and turned his seat to face rearwards, tightening his harness.