Tides of Valor

by Peter Albano

  He looked first at the new pilots, Pilot Officer Robert Burroughs and Pilot Officer Milby Davenport. Then his eyes encompassed the entire room. These were his men, the best. He spoke slowly and softly, making the same basic speech he had directed at young men flying the flimsy crates of two world wars. Subconsciously, he used a mixture of idioms and slang that had crept into his vocabulary from both conflicts. “Some of you have heard this many times, but I have rules—rules that we must all follow if we are to stay alive.” Timothy Evans moved to the blackboard and wrote as Randolph spoke. “No lone wolf heroics or you’ll just be another RAF roundel on some Kraut’s tail fin—a round of schnapps at some Krauthead mess.’’ He stared at one of his older pilots, Flying Officer Anthony Bowman, who stared back with narrow, unblinking eyes. Randolph continued, “Remain in your sections of three unless ordered to individual combat. Keep the sun behind you; always carry out an attack once you have started it; fire only at close range—under two hundred yards if possible. Always remember you only have sixteen seconds of firepower. Fire in short bursts, long bursts will overheat your weapons and there’s a good chance they’ll jam. No full deflection shots unless within eighty yards. Don’t waste the Crown’s ammunition trying for the miracle shot. Attack from behind at minimum deflection and look for your enemy’s blind spot; every aircraft has them. Never fly straight and level in a dogfight or you’ll get buggered with twenty-millimeter and seven-point-nine ball in a brace of shakes. Jink, weave, don’t make an easy target of yourself. Remember, you’re a target the minute you belt yourself into your Spit, so don’t bugger all and make it easy for the Krauts to prang you.”

  He sipped his cocoa. “Think before you attack. Hit the JU eighty-seven from below. It’s cold meat. The HE one-eleven and the Dorniers from above or head-on. They can only fire back with seven-point-nine mgs. But don’t get too bloody eager. Some of our lads got the chop because Heinkels looked like cold meat but were decoys for the ME one-oh-nines hanging about in the sun. Look out for the Hun in the sun,’’ he warned again, just as he had over twenty years earlier.

  His eyes wandered over the intent faces. Every eye was riveted on him. He continued, “Another thing, if a Jerry dives on you, don’t dive. Turn to meet him. You bloody well can’t bring your armament to bear if you show him your arse.” There was a chuckle. “Always remember the Messerschmitt has fuel injection while we use carburetors. In a steep dive, your Rolls can conk out while the Daimler-Benz can purr along like a randy pussycat after a night of bonking in an alley.” Another chuckle rumbled through the room. He could hear Burroughs’s high titter over the rest. He stabbed a finger at the new pilots. “Don’t give Jerry any advantages, use your strengths, hide your weaknesses. Your enemy’s weakness is in his wing root. The ME doesn’t have the wingtip to wingtip wing spar the Spit has. So aim low at the cockpit. If you miss the pilot, you may hit the wing root. A burst in the wing root can break the whole bloody lot loose.” He moved his eyes from Burroughs to Davenport. “Remember, we can’t dive with the ME and he can outclimb you, but we are faster and more maneuverable. If you use your wits, you can get behind an ME and if you get your arse in the twist, you can always outrun him and make it home.” He nodded to himself. “You can always come back to fight another day. That’s better than having your family awarded your DFM (Distinguished Flying Medal) posthumously.” There was no laughter.

  Randolph sipped his cocoa and placed the mug back on the table. “If you want to live, remember the prevailing winds are westerly, especially when we make sweeps over the continent. This will work against you on the way home. And for all that’s holy, remember altitude is your most priceless possession. It can always be traded for speed and speed spells ‘life.’” He took another large swallow of cocoa.

  He nodded at Davenport. “Pilot Officer Davenport, you are assigned to Wolf Yellow Section under the command of Flight Lieutenant Archie Rhoads. Your other wingman is Pilot Officer Meredith Hammes.” Hammes, a burly ship-fitter’s apprentice from Liverpool, looked pained. Then Randolph shifted his eyes to Rhoads, his most valuable man and second in command.

  Flight Lieutenant Archie Rhoads was Freddie “Coop” Hansen’s replacement. At twenty-seven years of age, Rhoads was a distant second to Randolph in age. Of average build and balding prematurely, he looked to be ten years older. In fact, he looked more the part of a college professor than a fighter pilot. Holding a degree from Oxford in civil engineering, he had left his profession and joined the RAF in 1939 on the day war was declared. He had fallen in love with flying as a youth and had joined the Oxford University Flying Club as a fledgling “aeronaut” when only seventeen. Rhoads became an expert with the Hart Trainer airplane and by the time he was eighteen he was putting the sturdy little biplane through wing-bending acrobatics. Throughout the Blitz he was assigned to Fighter Command Group Thirteen in the north and flew Hurricanes out of Sunderland in Durham with Number 27 Squadron. Opposed by Luftflotte 5 operating out of Norway and Denmark, action was sporadic as few German raids originated across the North Sea. Still, Rhoads had shot down four bombers and a single ME 110. Hungry for more action and a chance to fly a Spitfire, he had harangued Fighter Command until he was transferred to Number 54 Squadron. Immediately, Randolph had been impressed by the man’s aeronautical skills, dazzling panache, and insouciant verve when in combat. Since joining the squadron in July of ‘41, he had added two Heinkel 111s and three ME 109s to his skein of kills. Randolph was delighted with him. He was a killer. If anyone could keep Davenport alive, Rhoads would do it.

  Major Higgins moved his eyes over the faces, stopping on Flight Lieutenant Cedric Hart, his starboard wingman. “Lieutenant Hart,” Randolph said. “You will fly wing with Flight Lieutenant Mason Wykoff in Flight Lieutenant Rhoad’s section and’’—he gestured to Burroughs—“Pilot Officer Robert Burroughs will take your place in my section.” The news brought a grimace of distaste to Hart’s face, a smile of delight to Burroughs’s.

  Randolph turned to the ready pilots. “Unless you have questions, return to the dispersal hut.” Sturgis and his two sergeants rose, gathered up their parachutes and life preservers, and left. The commanding officer turned back to the remaining pilots. “Any questions?” His eye was caught by some movement to his left.

  Randolph smiled as he acknowledged Flying Officer Anthony Bowman. A short, round man with an unruly plume of brown hair falling forward over his forehead like a wild growth of brambles, Bowman had an intensity about him that doubled his size. A zealous trencherman and drinker with the palate of a gourmet, he was revolted by the squadron’s food and stuffed himself in London’s finest restaurants whenever on leave. A small paunch told all of his weakness. By some miracle, he had an inexhaustible supply of Havana cigars padlocked in his foot locker. In fact, it was an exhaled jet of blue smoke and a waved cigar that caught Randolph’s eye.

  A capable, workmanlike fighter pilot, Bowman was famous and somewhat notorious for an unauthorized lone-wolf attack on the German fighter base at Wissant on the Pas de Calais. The attack had been carried out after his wingman, Clyde Millford-Davis, had been shot down by Major Erich Kochling and machine-gunned by the German while he drifted in his dinghy. In a blind fury, Bowman had actually attacked the wrong air base. Kochling’s was known to be near Hardelot Plag while the enraged Englishman pounced on the first airfield he saw. The unfortunate airdrome happened to be the fighter strip at Wissant. Bowman destroyed two fighters on the ground and shot down another ME 109 as it tried to take off. In the usual British schizoid approach to unauthorized bravery, he was both mentioned in dispatches and reprimanded at the same time. Randolph had exacted a solemn promise from Bowman that the act would never be repeated without authorization and support. “Any news about our friend Kochling,” Bowman asked in a soft voice as he came to his feet.

  Randolph gritted his teeth and turned his lips under. “Intelligence would have us believe Jagdstaffel Vierter is on the Russian front.”

 
“What do you believe, sir?”

  Randolph dropped his jaw and rubbed his cheek with an open palm. “I can smell the bloody bastard.”

  “I say, bully for you, sir,” Bowman agreed. “I can smell him, too.” He looked down at his wingmen. Flight Sergeant Melvin Greentree and Pilot Officer Ernest Krasney, who were seated beside him. The three men exchanged smiles and nodded at each other. Bowman jammed the cigar into the corner of his mouth, dropped into his chair, and began talking to his wingmen in excited whispers.

  “Any other questions?” Randolph asked. The pilots looked back silently.

  Randolph nodded, satisfied. “Then inspect your aircraft—every nut and bolt. We have the best ‘plumbers’ (armorers) and mechanics in the RAF. But your life hangs on that prop, not theirs. I’ll join you shortly. Only after your inspection will you return to your quarters and get some rest.” He finished off his cocoa. “Things are quiet. It’s a good time to get some relaxation.”

  Never had the squadron commander been so wrong.

  He was awakened before 0500 hours by Sergeant Forrest Woodhouse’s frantic voice. “Sir! Sir! You’re wanted in the operations room. Something big is astir.”

  Quickly, Randolph, dressed only in trousers, undershirt, and slippers, bolted down the stairs to his office. A sleepy Edwin Smith was already there, pulling on his tunic and sipping a cup of coffee. Anxiously, Sergeant-Major Timothy Evans, who had the duty, rose from his chair behind his desk and handed the major a handwritten sheet. “Signal from Group, sir. Just got it by telephone.”

  Randolph froze in the middle of the room as he read the document. Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, and Prinz Eugen had broken out of Brest with at least seven destroyers. Unbelievably, the flotilla was headed up the Channel. Every fighter squadron in Fighter Command Group Eleven was ordered into the air as soon as the weather permitted. Surprisingly, takeoff was at the discretion of the commanders.

  “Weather?” Randolph shouted.

  “Scattered clouds, rain, and fog, sir. A four-knot wind from the northwest gusting to eight, Major,” Evans answered.

  “Blast it! Full squadron scramble!” Randolph ordered. “Crew chiefs start warming up engines. Pilots to the mess hall.”

  Evans pushed three buttons setting off alarms in pilots’ and enlisted men’s quarters. Then he grabbed the telephone.

  Randolph bounded up the stairs to his room where Woodhouse already had his flight kit laid out on the narrow bed. A mug of steaming hot coffee was on the nightstand. First Randolph pulled on a white roll-necked knitted pullover that he pulled down over his belt. Then, seating himself, Woodhouse helped him pull on his white knitted socks and tucked the trouser legs into the tops. Brown suede flying boots with rubber soles were pulled on next and zipped securely in place. Quickly the major stood and Woodhouse helped him shrug his way into his sheepskin-lined flying jacket followed by his yellow Mae West. Then he pulled a type C flying helmet made of brown chrome leather and lined with chamois down over his head. Antiglare goggles followed, pulled down only to his forehead where the elastic band held them securely in place above his eyes. Then he stuffed two maps into his boots, grabbed his parachute, and rushed through the doorway. He had not touched the coffee.

  When he ran out of the door, he was appalled by the weather. Now he knew why takeoff was at his discretion. If his squadron was lost because of foul weather, he would be blamed, not Fighter Command. The politicians and generals would be secure. He looked around anxiously. Low banks of fog were sweeping across the airfield, blotting out the feeble efforts of dawn and casting everything in the deep darkness of midnight. The tarmac was wet and the air smelted of fresh rain. At first, he thought that all of his haste had been wasted. But there were breaks that appeared like dim lights held behind blankets. Once they took off, they could climb above the weather and be in the clear. Maybe find Kochling. He knew what his decision would be—had to be. He felt his pulse quicken, and strangely, he saw Bernice’s haunting eyes, ravaged face ruined by hard down-turning lines. The terrible words came back. “You’re wrong. Stop haunting me,” he cried to himself. Am I going mad? he asked himself. He shook his head and she vanished.

  Entering the mess hall, he found eight pilots talking and drinking coffee or tea. They were all standing. “Seat yourselves,” Randolph said. As he mounted the platform three more pilots entered. Davenport and Burroughs were the last to enter.

  Woodhouse handed the major a fresh cup of coffee and this time Randolph was able to sip the hot liquid. Quickly Randolph told his men of the breakout of the German warships that, by now, were well into the Channel. “Only a few heavy units of the Royal Navy are available and they’re based at Scapa Flow,” he said. He looked around at the tight, expectant faces. “I doubt if they can intercept,” he added. “Only the RAF, destroyers, and motor torpedo boats stand between the Germans and escape and you can bloody well bet your bit every German fighter on the continent will be up there.”

  He knew he was redundant, the “squadron telegraph” had already informed every man but he gave them the details anyway. He had to be sure every pilot knew the object of the mission. He gestured skyward, “The Krauts have got to be up there already. We’ll climb through this muck on full throttle on a heading of one-six-zero and at thirty-second intervals. This way we won’t come up under a staffel. Assemble when we break into the clear and then we’ll turn toward the Channel. Kraut fighters should be swarming over their ships and our bombers will be trying to make their runs. We’ve got to protect the bombers. If our field’s closed in by weather when you return, land on any available field.” He waved a hand overhead. “As you can see, we have a heavy overcast and the wind is from the northwest at four knots—but it’s gusting to eight.”

  He took a moment to take a last look around at the young, intense faces. How many would he lose? How many would die? He choked back a rising lump and shouted a phrase that had been an epitaph for so many, “Man your aircraft and good hunting!” Suddenly his stomach was empty and sick.

  The cheering pilots ran to the door. Randolph was the last to leave. He was not cheering. As he ran to the waiting lorry, Elisa flashed in his mind’s eye and he felt a sudden inexplicable yearning for her. But just as inexplicably, Bernice crowded her out. This time she came out of the darkness like a demon, a witch, a harpy, howling on the cold wind from the north. He wondered if he were going mad, felt like a flood victim clinging to the straw of his sanity. “Leave me alone, damn you,” he spat as he grasped the hand grip next to the vehicle’s tailgate. Ian McBride had a startled look on his face as he extended a hand and then hesitated. Randolph muttered, “I didn’t mean you, Ian.” The Scotsman grasped his arm and pulled him up into the vehicle. As Randolph seated himself, Ian stared, curiously but remained silent.

  Four lorries charged off into the dim light as the feeble sun battled its way through the clouds and fog. The front was weakening and the ceiling lifting sluggishly. Now he could see shreds of it hanging from the control tower, hangar roofs, and the tops of the poplars lining the field. Within minutes, Randolph’s lorry stopped in front of a hardstand two hundred yards north of the last hangar. The major dropped to the ground, the weight of his parachute almost toppling him onto the wet grass. In spite of his heavy clothing, a gust of cold wind cut through him like a sword. Within seconds, McBride and Burroughs had dropped beside him and the lorry roared off into the gloaming.

  The three Spitfires of Randolph’s section, Wolf Red, were parked in a sandbag-protected hardstand just off the perimeter track. Each aircraft was in its own protected area, shielded from the others by a six-foot-high wall of sandbags. With the engines already warmed, they had been turned off to save fuel and prevent overheating. In this enclosure, they were safe from low strafing attacks. Only direct hits by bombs could destroy them. At the back, or closed end of the dispersal, the ground crewmen had built shelters for themselves out of scrap lumber, corrugated iron, tarpaulins, and o
ld packing crates. Struggling with his chute, Randolph jogged to his aircraft where his crew chief, Sergeant Everette Harrington, awaited him, crouched on the wing.

  An old professional with over twenty years in the RAF, Harrington was probably the best crew chief in England. He was a short, white-haired, jolly man, who if he had had a white beard could have passed for Santa Claus in greasy overalls. This morning he wore a heavy fleece-lined jacket but still shivered as he held a gloved hand down to his pilot. “Big show today,” he said, pulling Randolph up onto the wing.

  Puffing, Randolph said, “Jerry’s got his wind up.”

  “Take some of it out of his sails, sir,” Harrington said, checking the canopy lock.

  Grunting, Randolph fastened the leg straps of his chute. Carefully, he placed his booted foot into the slot at the side of the cockpit and Harrington gave him a heave up. He lowered himself into the cramped cockpit. Cursing, he pushed and pounded the parachute pack into its seat box and then adjusted the inflatable dinghy that was actually his seat. While Randolph plugged in his oxygen mask, microphone, and headset, he felt the crew chief tug at his shoulder straps that felt too tight and then fasten them without loosening the straps. Randolph knew this was wise, the distraction of loose straps could prove fatal in a dogfight. He worked the stick, rudder pedals, and checked his rudder, flaps, elevator, and ailerons. Everything was proper.

  “Engine warm, mixture closed off, pitch control all the way, half inch of throttle. Are you taking off in pairs today, sir?”

  Randolph looked around at the clouds that had lifted to perhaps eight hundred feet. The heavens had brightened and there was no rain or fog. He was encouraged but shook his head, thinking of his new pilots. “Singly. At thirty-second intervals.”