Flames over France

by Robert Jackson

  “Here we go,” Pittaway said calmly. “Flaps! Brace, brace, brace!”

  Armstrong pulled hard on the flap lever and the Wellington’s nose lifted a little as the flaps bit into the airflow, decelerating the big bomber in the final stage of its descent. It seemed to hang motionless for long seconds, the only sounds the sigh of the airflow and the roar and crackle from the burning engine. Then its belly struck the snow.

  Armstrong had been expecting a massive impact. Instead, there was only the slightest rumble, followed by a series of minor jolts. Snow flew back in a spray over the leading edges of the wings. The bomber careered on like a toboggan, sliding on its underside, with no apparent deceleration. Ice particles obscured the windscreen, blocking the view ahead. Pittaway and Armstrong stared at the opaque layer, transfixed. The New Zealander was instinctively juggling with the controls, even though he was utterly powerless to check the Wellington’s long slide.

  Then the bomber’s left wingtip hit an outcrop of rock, and the noise and disintegration began. With a jolt that rattled every bone, the Wellington slewed round through ninety degrees, shedding lumps of wing as it went. It continued to slide sideways, but then the starboard wing dug itself in and the headlong momentum began to fall away. Then, with a hideous screeching and rending, the wing broke up. The section outboard of the still-burning engine folded up and spun away into the darkness, and then the engine itself tore from its mountings, rupturing fuel and oil lines and the walls of the petrol tank embedded in the wing’s inner section.

  With a huge thud and a series of metallic crunches, the Wellington came to a sudden stop. The pilots’ seat harnesses bit painfully into their upper bodies as they were hurled brutally forward, but mercifully the straps held. From somewhere in the fuselage there came a cry of pain.

  Then, for long moments, there was a deep silence, broken only by laboured breathing and the cracking of twisted metal. Armstrong registered everything through a stunned daze, and shook his head to clear it. Automatically, he fumbled for the release of his seat harness. He was dimly conscious of a red glare shining through the cockpit window on his side.

  Pittaway punched him sharply on the arm, bringing him fully to his senses, or almost. Armstrong looked at his companion groggily.

  “Come on, quick!” Pittaway shouted, his voice echoing strangely. “She’s going to go up — there’s fuel all over the place! Let’s get the others out.”

  They clambered unsteadily from their seats, flexing themselves to see if they were still in one piece, and made their way back into the main fuselage. Someone had already kicked out one of the glazed side panels, and a stream of icy air was swirling into the aircraft. One by one, the other crew members scrambled out into the night, urging each other on. Pittaway pushed Armstrong in the same direction, took a last look around the interior to make certain that no one was left behind, then followed suit.

  Ahead of him, Armstrong stepped out onto the wing, which was half buried in snow, and slid off it onto a surface which was surprisingly firm. Although he was wearing a flying overall, with a fur-lined jacket on top of it, knife-edged cold struck him like a physical blow. A sudden thought flashed through his mind and he stumbled around the rear of the aircraft, past the shattered turret with the remains of the rear gunner still trapped inside, towards the lurid glare that formed the only light in an otherwise darkened wilderness.

  On the opposite side of the Wellington he came to a sudden stop, appalled by the damage the aircraft had suffered. The engine lay some distance away, in the middle of a pool of burning petrol; there was a good deal of spilt fuel near the wreck, too, but there was no sign of the flames extending to it. He made a closer inspection to ensure that his first impression was correct, then went back to rejoin the others. All five of them were safe, apart from some cuts and bruises, although the navigator had taken a nasty blow to the head. It was his cry they had heard.

  “It’s all right,” Armstrong informed Pittaway. “I don’t think the aircraft is in any danger from the fire. It’s dying down, anyway.” He shivered; the iciness of the night seemed to be growing more intense.

  “Look,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do until it’s light. I suggest we get back into the fuselage and unpack the parachutes; the canopies will make good insulation. For God’s sake, though, don’t anyone light a cigarette!”

  “What about him?” the wireless operator asked, indicating the rear turret and its grim burden.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him,” Pittaway said. “Come on, let’s get back inside. It’ll be dawn in about three hours. We might as well make ourselves as comfortable as we can, and try to get some rest.”

  They clambered back into the wreck of the bomber and set to work pulling the ripcords of their parachutes, allowing the silk to spill out inside the fuselage. As Armstrong had predicted, it protected them from the worst of the cold, although the temperature was still low enough to deny them anything more than a fitful doze.

  It was a vast relief when daylight came. The bomb-aimer was the first to venture outside, intent on answering the call of nature. A moment later they heard him give a howl: “Christ, but it’s cold!” His comment brought the amusement they all sorely needed.

  Armstrong and the others followed the bomb-aimer outside. As he had proclaimed, it was cold all right, but not as freezing as Armstrong had expected.

  Their first task, before taking stock of their situation, was to drape a parachute over the rear gun turret. Although they were only too aware of what was in it, at least now they would not have to look at the unfortunate gunner’s remains.

  The Wellington had come to rest perilously close to the western edge of the plateau, at the end of a long swathe of churned-up snow. While the others broke into their emergency rations and set about preparing a meal of sorts, Armstrong and Pittaway walked back along the track the Wellington had made, their faces turned to the rising sun, visible now as a heatless red ball between two mountains.

  “Well, we know where we are,” Pittaway remarked. A few minutes earlier, the navigator had managed to pinpoint their position on the map by reference to the surrounding mountains and valleys. Technically, their wrecked bomber was just inside French territory. “The problem is, we don’t know whether this bit of the Alps is still in French hands, or whether the French have pulled out.”

  “Well, we should know soon enough,” Armstrong said. “Somebody is certain to be out looking for us.” He grabbed Pittaway suddenly by the arm. “In fact,” he continued, lowering his voice as though in fear of being overheard, “I think that somebody has passed this way already.”

  He pointed at some marks in the snow. They were ski tracks, and there were a lot of them. As far as the two pilots could tell, they crossed the plateau in a straight line from north to south. Pittaway crouched down to examine them.

  “Hm. A day or two old, maybe. Both sides must have outposts up here. There’ll be regular patrols, I expect.” He looked up at the encircling peaks, then back at the tracks. “Do you think we ought to follow them?”

  “No, I don’t,” Armstrong said decisively, shaking his head. “If anyone up here was even half awake last night, they’ll have seen us coming down for miles around. We were pretty well lit up, after all. They’ll be looking for us, you can bet on it.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” the New Zealander admitted. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast. If the wrong lot gets to us first, we could end up munching spaghetti for the foreseeable future.”

  Breakfast, culled from the survival rations, was bully beef, hardtack biscuits, chocolate and boiled sweets, washed down with the most welcome brew of tea Armstrong had ever tasted, or so it seemed at the time, brought to the boil on a small primus stove. As they ate, Pittaway explained to the others what he and Armstrong had found, and outlined the various possibilities that confronted them.

  “Can’t we walk out, sir?” the wireless operator wanted to know, when Pittaway asked if anyone had any questions. The pilot
shook his head.

  “Out of the question. It might be okay during the day, but without proper shelter we’d freeze to death at night. Stay with the aircraft, that’s the golden rule. We’ve got food, we’ve got water” — he waved a hand at the snow that surrounded them — “and we’ll be easy to spot from the air. Don’t forget that our other crews probably saw us go down, so they’ll have raised the alarm. All we have to do is sit tight, and wait to be rescued.”

  It was mid-morning when they sighted the aircraft, heading directly towards them from the east. On Pittaway’s order they piled back into the wrecked Wellington; the New Zealander wanted to be certain what it was that was bearing down on them before they revealed themselves. He peered cautiously up through the astrodome as the aircraft flew overhead and then turned back to circle the spot, and then beckoned to Armstrong.

  “Come up and take a look, Ken. What do you make of it?”

  Armstrong surveyed the aircraft as it made a run overhead. It was a single-engined biplane with a spatted undercarriage. He was certain that it was Italian, less certain what type it was. “I think it’s an Ro 37,” he said hesitantly, wishing his knowledge of Italian aircraft was as thorough as it was of German types. “An observation aircraft. Hello — looks as though he has seen enough.” The biplane, having made a couple of orbits over the plateau, flew off the way it had come.

  “We can expect visitors, then,” Pittaway grunted. “Well, we’ll give ’em a warm reception. Come on — let’s get the two beam guns unshipped, with as much ammo as possible. We’ll set up a couple of positions at the far end of the plateau.”

  It took them an hour to complete the task. Using the emergency axe from the aircraft, they dug foxholes in the ice and insulated them with parachute silk, which they also used as makeshift camouflage to make their positions invisible from the air. The snow on the plateau was as hard as concrete, and there were no telltale footprints that might give them away.

  Pittaway was convinced that help would reach them that day, and that it was simply a matter of keeping the Italians at arm’s length until it arrived. Their positions commanded a fine view of the defile that led up to the southern edge of the plateau, and the two air gunners seemed confident that they could pin down anyone who came that way. The six men settled down for what might turn out to be a long, cold wait.

  After a couple of hours, the distant drone of an aeroengine heralded the reappearance of the Italian observation aircraft. It passed directly overhead, circled the wrecked Wellington once, and then flew back down the defile. They saw it waggle its wings, as though signalling to someone on the ground, and then it turned around the side of a mountain and disappeared from view.

  “Can’t see anything down there,” Pittaway said, cautiously peering down the defile from under a fold of parachute silk. He called softly to the men in the adjacent foxhole, which was sited a few yards away. “Any sign of life?”

  There was a pause, then one of the gunners called back: “I’m not quite sure, skipper, but I think I can see some movement … Yes, they’re there all right. You see those rocky outcrops that look a bit like a cat’s claws? There’s a patrol coming round them. Ten men, maybe a dozen. About a mile away, I reckon.”

  “Yes, I can see ’em now. Okay, let’s let ’em get really close. Wait for my word, then let ’em have it.”

  Next to Pittaway, Armstrong checked his Smith and Wesson.38 Service revolver. He hoped he would not have to use it. He had never killed a man face to face, and didn’t relish the prospect. But he knew that if he had to do it, he would.

  The enemy troops came on at a steady pace, methodically working their way up the defile. Armstrong felt sorry for them. The crew of the observation aircraft must have indicated that the wrecked bomber was deserted, that the survivors, if there were any, had decided to walk out. The Italians were laughing and joking amongst themselves as they plodded on; they obviously had no inkling of what lay ahead of them.

  Pittaway let them get to within less than a hundred yards, then gave the order to open fire.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rattle of the two machine-guns was shockingly loud, magnified by the echoes that rebounded from the surrounding mountains. The bullets cut into the Italian soldiers, hurling them to the ground in a welter of blood. Some died without knowing what had hit them; others writhed in the reddening snow, screaming in shock and pain, until the bullets traversed to and fro across them and silenced them forever.

  Then there were only the echoes, and a ringing silence. Armstrong looked at the carnage and felt sick. So, judging by their expressions, did the others.

  “Poor bastards,” Pittaway murmured. “Still, it had to be done.”

  “Hold on, skip. Look. Look there.” Pittaway looked at where the gunner who had spoken was pointing. More men were emerging from behind the rocky outcrop. As he watched, they suddenly went to ground, alerted by the sound of gunfire. They would be able to see what had happened to their comrades, and Armstrong had an unpleasant feeling that they would not be in the mood to take prisoners, if it came to that.

  “I wish we had some binoculars,” Pittaway said. “I think they’re up to something. Can’t see what, though. Do you reckon they can see us?”

  Armstrong shook his head. “Don’t think so. But they’ll know roughly where we are by just looking at the bodies. My guess is … ”

  What Armstrong’s guess was, nobody ever found out.

  His words were interrupted by a dull thump from where the Italians were sheltering behind their rocks. A black object curved high over the defile, reached the top of its trajectory, then descended towards them, gathering speed as gravity helped it on its way.

  “Mortar bomb!” Pittaway yelled. “Get down, everybody!”

  Six heads vanished into the foxholes as the bomb plunged down, emitting a shrill whistle. Seconds later, it exploded below the edge of the plateau, close to where the dead Italians lay. Powdered snow pattered down on the foxholes, bringing with it a strong stench of explosives.

  A second thud told the airmen that another bomb was on its way, and they ducked down once more. This time, the missile exploded a short distance away, right on the rim of the plateau. A third impacted just behind them.

  “Time to leave,” Pittaway shouted. “Grab the guns and ammo and get back to the aircraft. Get a move on!”

  They abandoned their positions and ran back to the wrecked bomber. As they did so, more mortar bombs exploded behind them, on and around the foxholes they had just vacated. It had been a close thing, Armstrong told himself, and wondered what Pittaway was going to do now. Whichever way you looked at it, he thought, they were pretty well snookered; the Italians could make a quick recce of the plateau, see how the land lay, stay out of sight and lob mortar bombs over. There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide. If they stayed together near the Wellington the bombs would get them; if they split up and made a run for it their hope of rescue would vanish like morning mist.

  “We’ll make a stand over there,” Pittaway said. “Between the western edge of the plateau and the Wellington. The Eyeties will think we’ve taken shelter in the aircraft, and with a bit of luck they’ll use up their mortar bombs on it. When they come up over the far side of the plateau, we’ll use up the rest of our ammo on them and then scarper. It’s the best we can do.”

  Closer to the edge of the plateau there were some ridges of rough ice, big enough to hide the airmen. They took shelter behind them, getting the machine-guns ready for action again and taking stock of their remaining ammunition. It was one thing they had in plenty; they hauled more from the wreck of the Wellington and the gunners surrounded themselves with belts of it. Then, once again, they waited.

  They could feel the warmth of the sun now, although it was not strong enough to melt the snow on the plateau. It was a hell of a way to visit some of the world’s most picturesque scenery, Armstrong thought. See the Alps and die. Well, it was as good a place as any.

  Half an hour went by; three
quarters. There was no sign of any activity on the far side of the plateau, although the Italians must surely have reached it by now. They must be hatching some sort of plan, something foolproof that would avoid further losses.

  “Hullo,” Pittaway said, “our little friend is coming back.” He pointed towards a speck in the eastern sky.

  “There’s more than one,” someone else remarked. It was one of the air gunners, who had exceptionally keen eyesight. He was right; within a few moments, Armstrong was able to count four incoming aircraft. A few moments more, and he was able to identify them. They were Fiat G.50 monoplane fighters, distinctive by virtue of their raised cockpits, which gave them a hump-backed appearance.

  As he and the others watched, the fighters dropped into a line-astern formation, the roar of their radial engines swelling as they went into a shallow dive, heading directly for the plateau. “Looks as though they mean mischief,” Pittaway said. “Take cover, everybody!”

  The men flattened themselves in their foxholes, trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. “Don’t shoot at them!” Pittaway yelled. “The troops will be coming in next — save your ammo for them!”

  His words were drowned by the leading Fiat, which flattened out a few feet above the plateau, its machine-guns chattering as the pilot opened fire on the wreck of the Wellington. The fighter flashed overhead and the second attacked in turn. Bullets ricocheted off the ice and howled off into the distance. The third and fourth aircraft came in, and this time their gunfire produced a flicker of flame from the bomber’s port wing. It died away, then reappeared more strongly as the fighters climbed away and turned to make a second run. Their bullets, Armstrong realised, had found their mark in the Wellington’s wing tank, which was still intact and must now be filled with volatile petrol vapour. At this altitude, with a reduced oxygen content in the atmosphere, it was taking a few seconds longer than normal to ignite.