On the 8th and 9th, James was in action. On the first of these dates Fighter Command shot down eight enemy aircraft and nine on the next. Both James’s dogfights were over convoys off the coast of Kent. The first time, he was shooting at a climbing Ju 87 when another, climbing behind him, shot chunks off his tail fin and tail planes and damaged his starboard main plane: the flap came down and petrol poured from the tank. He broke off and landed at an airfield on the coast. His brakes failed, the Hurricane ground looped and pitched onto its nose. In his next engagement he managed to hit a Stuka while it was diving. He had it in his sights before it tilted into its attack and was able to follow it from its port quarter. The rear gunner returned his fire but stopped shooting after six or eight seconds. James used more than half his ammunition; and about five hundred feet before the dive bomber reached its bomb-release altitude, it went over the perpendicular, onto its back, and into the sea.
The strain of early rising, waiting at dispersals for the order to scramble, searching the sky for the enemy, going into action against always greatly superior numbers, took effect all the more quickly because it was added to the strain of all those similar weeks during the battles over France.
By the fifth successive day, James came off duty limp with fatigue, his mind soggy, a ragbag of blurred pictures: all of them ugly; even the rare moments of triumph were marred by the horrors that accompanied them. He saw men being burned alive in pools of flaming oil that spread around sunken ships; men jumping off sinking ships with their clothes alight; British and Germans baling out of their stricken aircraft too low for their parachutes to open fully; baled-out aircrew plunging into the sea on the ends of parachutes which had failed to open at all; a Hurricane colliding with a Ju 87. He could never accustom himself to the spectacle of ships sinking. It was touching in a way that the destruction of land targets could never be. Even the smallest, grubbiest tramp steamer had an inherent dignity. It hurt him to see them reduced, in a few seconds, to crippled hulks: they were pathetic and no ship should ever look less than proud and independent.
Woven into the pattern of general violence and destruction were the personal threats: the vicious flames at the muzzles of an enemy’s machine-guns, the cross-fire of tracer when several of the enemy concentrated on his Hurricane, the shock of a near-miss when another Hurricane roared past and almost brushed the top of his canopy, or when he broke off an attack with his propellers almost slicing into a Stuka.
He began to dream about air fighting, but he never woke up during a dream, however vivid and frightening, because he was too tired for even a realistic nightmare to wake him.
Because they were young and fit and resilient, mentally and physically, the tired pilots revived enough to drive to their favourite local pub after dinner. Sometimes some of them brought a girl, civilian or W.A.A.F., but they were mostly male gatherings. They did not drink heavily. All they wanted was a change of scene and a sight of normal life going on around them. Other customers at the bar were concerned with matters much different from those which filled the pilots’ days, and that was also a means of diverting the thoughts of young men who spent their working hours killing and avoiding death. The introduction of rationing was a more interesting topic than warfare, to the civilians.
“How on earth we’re supposed to manage with two ounces of tea a week, I simply can’t imagine,” one housewife complained.
Her husband, who had spent the day in a Police court and his law office in the City, and was still in black jacket, striped trousers and stiff collar, said to James “Seen the letters in The Times today? Bernard Shaw saying rationing will force us all to follow his vegetarian diet, and ‘Does this mean that the country will soon be inhabited by a race of Bernard Shaws? What a wonderful prospect!’ The impertinent old devil.”
James, joining in the laughter, forgot about the Stukas that had nearly shot him down a few hours ago.
There was talk of cricket. Several professionals had joined the armed forces and Service matches now commanded attention in the national papers.
The closest the conversation got to the war was when the barmaid said “I see they’ve arrested that Mitford woman, the one who married Moseley. About time too.” No one disagreed. Sir Oswald Moseley had founded the British Union of Fascists, and his Lady was an avowed admirer of Adolf Hitler.
On the 10th, the Germans opened a new tactical phase. They began attacking fighter airfields in southern England, coastal radiolocation stations and ports. Seventy Dornier 17s and Me 109s crossed the Straits of Dover, stacked between 6000 ft and 12000 ft, to make the biggest daytime raid to date. Other big formations raided as far west as Wales.
No longer were Ju 87s coming over unescorted or with only a few fighters to cover them. Twenty Do 17s attacking a convoy were accompanied by twenty Me 109s and thirty Me 110s. Six Hurricanes were patrolling the ships. Four squadrons were sent to join them. Every day now, the air battles were fought on this scale; but always with the R.A.F. outnumbered, sometimes by as much as five to one.
Rationing and cricket became trivial matters. Hitler was preparing to invade Britain. Conversation in the pubs around Stanswick turned to the exploits of Fighter Command: but, even so, each day’s air fighting was treated more as a sporting event imbued with a special excitement than as a struggle for the nation’s survival in which the young pilot who was sharing a joke with you over a pint of bitter might, this time tomorrow, be dead, blinded, limbless, facially burned beyond recognition, or grievously wounded.
The squadron had lost four pilots killed in France and four so badly wounded that they would not return for many months, if at all. In the first two weeks of July, two more were killed and three wounded. Just over half of those who started the war with the squadron remained. Old friendships grew closer.
There were occasional evenings when, instead of going out, Ross put on overalls and worked on his cars. James would join him and tinker with his M.G. The Yellow Peril had survived the Battle of France and arrived in England. One or other of the ground officers had driven it from airfield to airfield as the squadron moved. Finally it had reached Le Havre with the squadron Intelligence officer at the wheel and Engineering, Equipment and Operations officers as passengers. The S.I.O. taught French and German at a major public school, was highly resourceful and spoke a colourful brand of idiomatic French. The Ops. officer was an imposing middle-aged reservist with iron-grey hair, squadron leader’s rank, a D.S.O., M.C. and other ribbons from the last war; including a Croix de Guerre and Medaille Millitaire. His French was idiosyncratic and had been acquired mostly by sharing a pillow with a variety of Parisian chorus girls. Between them they convinced the master of a French vessel which was loading troops and military equipment for Southampton that, for the honour of France and ten pounds sterling, he should embark this fine vehicle which was the pride and joy of a heroic young pilot who had shot down several Boches.
The Hotchkiss had suffered some dents and scratches, so Tiny Ross was contentedly finding relaxation in repairing these as well as thoroughly overhauling the engine and brakes. There was not much to keep James busy on his little car, so he had time to spare for helping his friend.
They took off one afternoon, for the third time that day, in squadron strength to patrol the south coast. There had been heavy rain, briefly spoiling the fine summer, but the change had not deterred the enemy. Large clumps of cloud were scattered about the sky. The Hurricanes, following the coast eastward, saw three Heinkels come through the clouds in a shallow dive, followed by the familiar procession of Vs, three bombers in each, until there must have been almost forty of them. Above these, in their usual loose fours, were the 109s and 110s, their numbers at least equal to the Heinkels and stacked for six or eight thousand feet above them.
James was flying as Addison’s number two, Red Two, and Ross was leading Yellow Section. Before they took off, Ross had been dozing in a canvas chair. James had been making a deliberate effort to keep awake. By the afternoon, on most days, he felt d
azed and if he let himself fall asleep he woke, when a scramble order came, feeling confused and uncoordinated. If that happened, he gave himself a whiff of oxygen as soon as he was in the cockpit. But it was better to stay awake. He stayed awake best if he were amused or his attention held by one suspense after another. He was reading Dornford Yates — Adele And Co. — which did both.
When the order came from Ops. he had to shake Ross to rouse him. Ross automatically jumped up from his chair, hut instead of breaking at once into a run for the door, he stood for a moment looking vague. James paused in the doorway. “Come along, Tiny. Jerry won’t wait for us.”
Ross began to move lethargically. His face suddenly turned red and he bolted towards the door.
When they were airborne James kept glancing in his mirror with a suspicion that something was badly amiss with Ross. He had never seen him like this before, even during their worst days in France. Ross was more than even-tempered, he was placid; he pretended to take nothing very seriously, but his flippancy could not conceal the fact that he was a zealous officer and a thorough professional. Unlike James, he had gone through the Cranwell mill. His father had started the war as a full colonel and was now a brigadier. His grandfather was a retired lieutenant general. The family’s military tradition went back two centuries. Ross had told James, as though it were the best jest in the world, that his father was “brassed off’ because he had chosen the R.A.F. instead of the cavalry. What he had not said, but what James divined, was that his determination to attain eminence in the R.A.F. was redoubled by his family’s disapproval.
Walter Addison had his eye on Ross too.
“Tighten it up, Yellow Section...you’re waffling about like a gaggle of wet hens.”
Then the controller. “Trident are on their way to join you.” Trident was the callsign of the Stanswick Wing’s Spitfire squadron.
Addison’s voice sounded cheerfully indifferent. “Understood, Tendril. Plenty of trade for all.”
The Hurricanes set their sights on the bombers and in a few seconds the air was laced with tracer bullets, condensation trails and streaks of exhaust smoke. James was in a race to get within firing distance of a Heinkel before a Messerschmitt began shooting at him. Skidding to avoid the fire of at least half a dozen air gunners in the closely formated machines, swerving, but not too violently, which would reduce his speed, his intestines lurching and the blood pounding in his temples, his vision momentarily greying out when he was forced to jink more crazily than he intended, he bored in.
Addison, ahead of him, must have got one: a Heinkel, emitting sparks and long flames, tumbled past, wing over wing, the howl of its engines rising for a moment above the roar of his own Merlin. The Hurricane trembled as he made a flat, skidding turn to avoid a collision. A bullet ricocheted off his windscreen, leaving a scar.
James fired. Two seconds...another two...break. His incendiaries brought a tendril of smoke from the Heinkel’s port engine; then, a second later, a gout of flame.
The bombers had broken formation. They could not withstand the violence with which the Hurricanes had slashed into them. They broke left, right and downwards. James pulled a hard turn and an undamaged Heinkel caught his eye. He went after it. There was no fire from the dorsal gunner. He saw that it was not undamaged. The fuselage around the gunner’s blister was pocked with bullet holes and the gunner was dead or badly wounded. A four-second burst into the port engine. He always preferred to go for the port side, because that was where the pilot sat. Some of his bullets might smash into the cockpit. At least, tracer so close to his head would startle the pilot, might unnerve him.
The Heinkel’s engine cowling broke into shards of metal which its slipstream flung back to rattle against the Hurricane. The engine stopped suddenly, James saw the propeller blades, which before had been invisible as they spun at full revolutions. Two of them snapped off. The port wing dipped almost to the perpendicular before the German pilot could take correcting action. It all happened in a brief moment.
“Red Two, behind you!”
James did not recognise the voice, but he put the stick hard over to the left, pushed his left foot urgently against the rudder bar and whirled away in a steep break, snatching a glance at the mirror as he did so. A 109, guns firing, hurtled past and was gone: no chance to hold his turn and get onto its tail.
A Hurricane rushed by on his port side. He looked down and saw a Heinkel a few hundred feet beneath. The letters on the Hurricane’s side told him it was Ross’s. There was another Heinkel closer to both of them. Why was Tiny so determined to get that particular one? He started to turn towards the nearer Heinkel and saw two 109s converging on Ross. One of them began to shoot with his cannons but his aim was poor. Ross was still too far to fire at the Heinkel. James looked around: his own tail was clear. His eyes followed Ross again. He was still after the Heinkel and unaware of the two 109s on his tail.
“Yellow Two, break!”
His warning was too late. He saw strikes from the leading 109’s machine-guns on its fuselage. Thank God the Jerry must have run out of cannon ammo.
“Tiny...two behind you.”
James fired, without hope; he was 300 yards behind the 109s and they were travelling much the faster. But his tracer flitting past the leading one had the desired effect: its pilot broke sharply and his wing man, who had closed from Ross’s other side, followed him obediently.
Smoke began to trickle from Ross’s machine: some of those bullets must have gone into the engine. White glycol smoke, black oily smoke. The Hurricane was yawing and wallowing, so its controls were obviously damaged.
“Tiny...bale out.”
The Hurricane continued to descend in ragged swerves and staggers. James hared after it. He caught it up and looked into its cockpit. A flame darted out of the engine, but Ross flew on apparently without concern. James stared: had a stray bullet killed him?
“Yellow Two...wake up, Tiny...jump you silly bugger.”
He saw Ross start, his head jerk up. James tore past him and turned across his bows. The fire in the engine was glowing brightly through the smoke.
“Bale out, Tiny.”
Thankfully, he saw Ross’s right arm go up to slide back the canopy. The Hurricane rolled onto its back and Ross fell clear. James made a circle around him, counting. Ross kept on dropping, turning slowly end over end. James felt like vomiting.
He saw Ross’s arm jerk across his body and snatch at the ripcord. The canopy opened. He watched him alight on a clifftop, then turned for home.
Ross got back to Stanswick two hours later and by then James had spoken to the squadron doctor: who took Ross to Sick Quarters on some convincing pretext and kept him there in bed for thirty-six hours: which he spent mostly sleeping.
When James went to see him, Ross gave him a sheepish half-smile and said “Thanks. I made a clot of myself.”
“Someone had to give me a shout, just before: I hadn’t spotted a 109 on my tail.”
“I heard him.”
“I found out it was Walter: in fact he left me in no doubt of it...called me a dozy clot.”
The weather deteriorated, which gave Fighter Command a respite. Rain, thunderstorms, cloud down to 1000 ft and less on some days, persistent haze over the Channel, allowed the tired Hurricane and Spitfire pilots time on the ground which in fine weather they would have spent patrolling.
One drizzly morning soon after the rain had stopped, Wilson’s squadron and the Stanswick Spitfires were scrambled to head towards the Straits of Dover at one thousand feet. It did not make sense to the pilots. If Stukas were on their way, they would not be able to make their attacks properly with only a few hundred feet to dive before they had to let their bombs go. If Heinkels or Dorniers were on a raid, they would be shot to pieces so low down: to avoid destruction they would have to hide in the clouds, which would make nonsense of their mission.
Another false alarm, then?
James, for the first time, wished it were when Tug Wilson said “Tallyh
o” for the benefit of the controller in the Stanswick Operations Room, and added “109s.”
There were forty of fifty of them and there was really no need for Wilson to order his pilots to attack: for, at the instant of sighting, battle was joined. The Germans opened fire with their cannons, and that was enough to send the British fighter pilots tearing into them. It did not occur to anyone that this was just what the enemy wanted: to lure the defenders up so that they would be refuelling and rearming when a fleet of bombers came over later.
Most of the air battles which James had fought had been pounce-and-break affairs and most of his victories were against bombers. He had only two Me 109s and two Me 110s on his tally. This was the experience of the majority of fighter pilots. Long, whirling single combat with another fighter in the Great War style was rare. In this war you picked out your target — sometimes in a fleeting moment, among chaos — you charged at it, whether from above, below or the same level. You gave it a quick squirt, two to four seconds probably. You couldn’t do more at the speeds at which you were both travelling. You might have time to turn and hit it again, if necessary. If you hit it in the right place you did enough damage to its engine or controls in one or two short attacks to put it out of the fight. Or you might kill the pilot. The destructive power of eight .303 machine-guns was colossal. Incendiary bullets gave them devastating capability.
Against another fighter one did need room to manoeuvre, which meant not lateral space but plenty of altitude. Altitude was denied them this morning. But that could be slightly to the advantage of the British. The Messerschmitts had fuel injection, which enabled them to dive vertically, if hard pressed, without losing power. The Hurricanes and Spitfires, on the contrary, suffered momentary fuel starvation if they made a vertical dive, through the effect of gravity. The 109s had little room to dive vertically out of trouble this morning. And both Hurricanes and Spitfires could turn inside them: the former easily, the latter in the hands of an experienced pilot.
Trial By Fire Page 15
