by Murray Pura
He sat frozen.
“Get up, sir, get up!” One of his ground crew was waving his arms. “Those are Me 109s! They’ll be back for another pass!”
Sean stared at his controls again.
“Never mind all that, sir. Start the engine and get her in the air. You’re a sitting duck.”
A hangar suddenly flew apart in a blaze of light. The German fighters shot overhead on a second pass, and their bullets ripped into several of the planes racing down the runway. A Spitfire skewed to the left, purple and black smoke pouring from its riddled fuselage. Other Spitfires swept past on either side of Sean and rose swiftly into the air. For a moment he saw British fighters and German fighters flying together only a few hundred feet from the ground. Then they split apart to the left and the right and their engines screamed as they fought for altitude.
“This is the Squadron Leader.” Sean’s radio transmitter crackled and buzzed. “Form on me, A Flight. Rendezvous at twenty thousand feet, angels two zero. B Flight and C Flight, form on your commanders.”
“This is James.”
“Patrick.”
“Where are you, Hartmann?” Kipp’s voice. “Flying Officer Hartmann?”
Sean had begun to taxi along the runway. “Taking off, sir.”
“Taking off?” Kipp was incredulous. “Let’s have you up here, Hartmann. Rendezvous twenty thousand feet. Keep up with the formation or Jerry’ll have you for tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sean’s plane bounced once, twice, three times and fought itself free of RAF Pickering Green. Sean spotted his squadron—ten Spitfires less himself and the one burning on the airstrip—yanked the stick back, and climbed as rapidly as he could. A stream of tracers slipped over the front of his plane. Sean froze for the second time. An Me 109 with a yellow nose and gray paint scheme swooped past underneath. He prayed desperately it would not bank and turn back after him. It disappeared.
Thank You, God. Thank You, God.
“Hartmann?”
“Climbing, sir. Have you in sight, sir. Approaching twelve thousand feet. Speed one hundred and eighty-five miles per hour.”
“Cut back on the speed as you climb.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And make sure you use your oxygen mask, Hartmann.”
“It’s on, sir.” Sean quickly placed it over his mouth and nose.
Steadily he made his way to twenty thousand feet and joined the others, attaching himself to the plane with the black devil. Below and to the south he saw a large bomber formation. Hurricanes were already swooping down on them.
“Squadron leader to A, B, and C Flights. Pickering Green’s Hurricanes are going after the Junker 88s. The fighter cover is coming down. We will rise to engage. Follow your flight commanders. Maintain a speed of one hundred and sixty in the climb. Hartmann, stick with Patrick as long as you can. Once the fighting starts, do what you’ve been trained to do. Short bursts, Hartmann. Keep the eyes in the back of your head open.”
Sean stayed just behind Patrick’s right wing. At first the enemy planes seemed to Sean to be approaching very slowly, as if they were floating. Suddenly they were on top of the Spitfires and moving like the wind in their dive. Patrick broke right after an Me 109, and Sean quickly followed. He saw tracers from Patrick’s wings slice into the Messerschmitt’s tail. Suddenly the whole rear section of the enemy fighter snapped off, and the plane went into a spin like a feather. Patrick swung left after another. Sean turned with him, gripping his stick as tightly as he could.
“On your tail, Hartmann! Break left and climb!”
Sean saw tracers streak over his right wing. He shoved the stick to the left and hauled it into the pit of his stomach. Another Me 109 was suddenly right in front of him.
“Cold meat, Hartmann! Give him a squirt!”
Without thinking, Sean thumbed the gun button. The eight Browning machine guns in his wings hurled tracer at the enemy plane. The smell of burnt cordite from the ammunition filled his cockpit.
To his shock, black smoke streamed from the Me 109, and it went into a dive. Its pilot yanked back the canopy and leaped out, tumbling over and over until suddenly a white parachute popped open over his head. Sean shot past the man, glancing back as the German drifted to earth. Tracers snapped over his engine cowling, and he instinctively banked hard to the left and climbed again. An Me 109 tore past off his right wing. He caught a glimpse of a Spitfire burning before he was blinded by the white mist of a summer cloud. In half a minute he was through it and flying upside down. He could see the farmlands of Kent far above his head. After righting his plane and leveling out, he shook his head to clear it and looked to his left and all around for aircraft.
The sky was empty.
The needle on his gas gauge trembled near the bottom. Sean realized he could scarcely think of a single landmark that might help him find his way back to his air base or aerodrome. There was a stone church with a lot of old graves tilting to the right and to the left a few miles from the base. He had noticed it when they’d driven him up to RAF Pickering Green the day before. Banking to the east, he had the Channel off his starboard wing and London off his port wing, its barrage balloons gleaming silver in the sunlight. He found himself praying again. After ten minutes he spotted the church. Keeping it on his right, he saw RAF Pickering Green half a minute later and came in for a landing. He saw nine Spitfires being refueled and rearmed, ground crew crawling over them.
“Hartmann! Well done!”
The pilots crowded around, and Kipp pressed a cup of hot tea into his hand.
“If you make it through your first week you’ll live forever,” Kipp joked. “You’re off to a good start, bagging a Messerschmitt.”
Patrick shook Sean’s hand, cigarette in his mouth. “There you go. We’ve told Prescott, the intelligence officer, all about you. But he’s got the green form for you to fill out just the same.”
“I do indeed.” A tall man with dark hair and dark-rimmed eyeglasses pushed his way through the knot of men. “An Me 109, was it then, lad?”
Sean nodded and gulped at his hot tea, wincing as he burned his lips.
“Did you see any special markings on the enemy plane?” asked Prescott.
“I saw a black cross so I fired at it.”
The pilots laughed.
Sean looked at Kipp over the rim of his cup. “What happened to the chap whose Spitfire got hit at takeoff?”
“He’s all right. Climbed out of it with a few cuts and burns.”
“What about the one I saw in flames during the fight?”
“Swansbury? He rang us up from a village pub about fifteen miles away. He chuted onto an old woman’s clothesline.” Kipp grinned. “She didn’t mind at all. Served him up a tea and some fish and chips.”
Prescott was scribbling on some sheets attached to a clipboard. “Your bloke wound up in a pond, Hartmann. Would have drowned but a couple of our farmers fished him out.”
A phone rang in a hut nearby. A corporal leaned his head out the open window. “Right! You lot are off again! Squadron scramble!”
The pilots ran for their airplanes. Sean followed, still trying to drink from his teacup. One of his ground crew took the cup while the other helped him get squared away in the narrow cockpit.
“Good luck, sir. Give Jerry what for.”
“Thank you. I don’t know your name.”
“Higgins. And the chap pulling the chocks away from your wheels is Musgrave.”
“Very good.”
“The Officers’ Mess is serving a kipper and chips lunch. Don’t be late, and don’t get shot down, or you’ll miss it.”
Sean finally felt like smiling for the first time that morning. “I shall do my best. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this.”
Higgins laughed. “I should say you are. Cheerio.”
Sean started the Rolls Royce Merlin engine, and its roar drowned out his words. “I’ll be back in half a shake.”
Monday, August 26, 1940<
br />
A road south of London
“Now, mind, Tavy, no word of this to Lady Preston.”
“Not a breath, my lord.” Tavy steered the Rolls Royce around a sharp curve.
“She’s been down in the mouth since Peter was killed and she wasn’t in a very good humor to begin with. The last thing she needs to hear is we were cavorting about the countryside while German bombers were flocking over our heads.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“With the Germans bombing London on Saturday night, she’d be frantic if she knew we were out here.”
“Mum’s the word.”
Lord Preston rolled down the window and leaned his head out. “This will do, Tavy. Find some sort of lane and pull off the road. The sky is wide open now.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Tavy pulled off under some trees. Lord Preston got out and craned his neck at the blue sky. It was criss-crossed with white lines and circled by white swirls.
“They are fighting, Tavy. Fighting for their lives. Fighting for our lives.”
His butler stood beside him. “Yes, my lord.”
“It’s not just my children and grandchildren up there. It’s hundreds of other parents’ and grandparents’ children and grandchildren up there with them.”
Tavy nodded.
“Do you have the Bible with you?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Please be good enough to read from the verses I selected.”
Tavy opened the large Bible under his arm and began to read aloud.
Have ye not known? Have ye not heard? Hath it not been told you from the beginning? Have ye not understood from the foundations of the earth? It is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in: that bringeth the princes to nothing; he maketh the judges of the earth as vanity. Yea, they shall not be planted; yea, they shall not be sown: yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth: and he shall also blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the whirlwind shall take them away as stubble. To whom then will ye liken me, or shall I be equal? saith the Holy One. Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth. Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel, My way is hid from the LORD, and my judgment is passed over from my God? Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: but they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.
“Amen,” pronounced Lord Preston, his eyes upon the vapor trails of the aircraft high in the sky.
“Amen,” echoed Tavy, closing the Bible carefully and tucking it under his arm once more.
“The Lord God be with them. The Lord God have mercy on them. The Lord God have mercy on our people.”
Monday, August 26, 1940
Over Portsmouth
“You can’t catch him in a dive, Hartmann! Pull up!”
“On your tail, Patrick! Two Me 110s!”
“Cold meat! Got him! The Heinkel’s headed for the drink!”
“Bale out, Swansbury! Hurry, man!”
Sean banked left and then right and came up on an Me 110 from underneath, pressing the gun button for the count of three. The twin-engine German plane kept going. Annoyed, Sean pulled up behind it and fired at point-blank range. Bits came off its tail, but it continued to fly in a straight line. Sean was sure someone had crept in behind him. He gave the Me 110 fighter a final burst and shoved his stick far to the right. Tracers filled the air in front of him, and two Me 109s shrieked over his head. As they passed the Me 110 it exploded, spraying them with bits of wing and fuselage. Shrapnel rattled against Sean’s Spitfire too.
“Squadron Leader to all Pickering Green pilots. Check your fuel level. If you can’t make it back to base, put down at another airfield.”
Sean was chasing an Me 109. For a moment it was directly in his sights, and he thumbed the gun button. Nothing happened. He tried again but his machine guns didn’t fire. The Me 109 went into a sharp dive and escaped. Sean hit the control panel with his fist.
“Out of ammo! Or they’ve jammed! Blast!”
He turned his Spitfire north and east. But he knew he was far from home, and the needle on his fuel gauge had nowhere else to go. Middle Wallop was nearby, but Tangmere was closer and King’s Cross closer yet. He spotted the distinctive chapel and the aerodrome right beside it as his engine began to cough.
Cheers, Uncle Ben. I’m dropping in for an unexpected visit. I hope you’re at home.
Hurricanes and Spitfires from the King’s Cross squadrons were landing and taking off. He circled the field twice and finally picked a moment to touch down.
“What’s your complaint, sir?” asked one of the ground crew with a grin.
“Out of petrol.”
“We can fix you up. Where’s home?”
“Pickering Green.”
“That’s a fair hike. Who sent you all the way out here?”
“Uxbridge. And I suppose Jerry did too by mounting such a heavy raid over Portsmouth.”
“Help yourself to a tea in the Officers’ Mess, sir. Anything else you need besides fuel?”
“I have no ammunition. Either that or my guns have jammed.”
“I’ll not send you on your way without the ability to defend yourself, sir. Pack in some tea and crumpets and we’ll have you on your way in half an hour.”
Sean climbed down about the same time two more ground crew came over. They joined the one who had been talking with Sean, and all three were examining his wings.
“You don’t hold anything back, do you, sir?”
Both wings had been holed by more than half a dozen bullets.
“It was a bit of a scrap,” said Sean, standing beside them.
“So it was, sir. We’ve lost one of our best pilots today and four of our aircraft. But no one’s come in with six holes in his wings and climbed from his office cheery as a lark.”
“I’m not that cheery. We lost a pilot too as well as three planes. But the long face won’t win us the war, will it?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll go to the Mess and get my tea. Can you tell me if Squadron Leader Ben Whitecross is on the base?”
“He’s only been down five minutes and he’s going up again if Jerry’s still at Portsmouth.”
“Where is he now? Do you know?”
“Giving his report to the intelligence officer. I expect he’ll drop in on the Mess for a toast and jam before he climbs back into his Spit.”
Sean made his way to the Officers’ Mess. He had hardly stepped in the door before Ben Whitecross got up from a nearby table with a slice of heavily buttered toast in his hand.
“I’ve got to find out what they can tell me about the raid,” he was saying. “B Flight all down, Tommy?”
“Yes, sir,” replied a lanky red-haired man in his flight jacket and Mae West.
“Everyone all right?”
“Tim’s got the burns on his face and hands. But he’s not bad. Doc’s bandaging him up.”
“I’ll look in on him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Sean remained by the door.
“Excuse me,” Ben said and went to go by Sean before he suddenly stopped. “What’s this? Sean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Never mind the sir.” Ben put an arm around him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the mix-up over Portsmouth. Ran out of fuel.”
“Splendid.
This is my nephew Sean, lads. I haven’t seen him in a thousand years. And here he’s a pilot and was in the dogfight over Portsmouth today.”
Several of the men whistled and clapped.
Ben led him to the bar. “What’ll you have?”
“Some tea and toast would be wonderful, Uncle.”
“Tea and toast it is. Now don’t tell me Uxbridge called you into the raid on Portsmouth?”
“They did. Kipp’s my squadron leader.”
“Right.”
“I expect they’re all on their way home now. So was I. But my petrol was low.”
“How’s Kipp?”
“He made it through the day, sir.”
“ ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ What about James?”
“Top notch.”
A phone behind the bar rang.
“For you, sir,” said a young corporal holding the receiver.
Ben went behind the bar. “Whitecross. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Very good.”
He hung up the phone. All the pilots in the Mess were looking at him.
“Stand down, lads. Stand down and have your bangers and mash. Jerry’s gone back to France.”
A few men cheered, and the others went back to conversations that immediately became noticeably louder and spiced with more laughter.
“Here’s your toast and tea, sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” replied Sean. “What sort of jam is it?”
“Plum, sir. Local people mixed up a batch for us.”
Sean took a bite. “Excellent.”
“I’ll pass that on, sir.”
Ben took Sean’s arm. “Let’s have a sit. You can spare another ten minutes, can’t you?”
“I can. Though Kipp might mother hen it.”
“I’ll ring up Pickering Green once you’re airborne.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“How have Jerry been treating your airfield?”
“They hammer us every second or third day. Always more potholes for ground crew to fill. We lose personnel too. It gets a bit wearisome.”
Ben had a fresh cup of tea. “If you take a look around you can see what a shambles we’re in here.”
