The two opposing formations closed head-on. James, dodging cannon and machine-gun fire, thought he was more likely to collide with one of that mass of 109s than to be hit. When bombers put up a defensive barrage it formed a mesh with bullets fired from several directions by air gunners with moveable guns. These fighters were at least able only to fire straight ahead. Their tracer was streaking past from only one direction.
James held his precious 14.8 seconds’ worth of fire until he could shoot to good effect. When the leading 109s had passed him he reefed round in a 180 degree turn and saw one of them turning in front of him. He stayed with it while tracer passed above and below him. He was not much concerned with what was going on behind him: he knew that no 109 could turn inside him while he held his present flight path. His target began to descend gradually and he was about to fire when it side-slipped. The loss of speed gave him his chance. He corrected his aim and pressed the gun button. The De Wilde incendiaries hammered into its starboard wing at the point where it joined the fuselage. Its pilot put his stick hard to starboard, the aircraft rocked and, to James’s astonishment, the damaged wing folded at its root and the wind force bent it right over the cockpit canopy. It went spinning away towards the Channel.
Two 109s were shooting at him from above and behind. He held his tight turn, on the point of greying out; which he dared not let happen. He could see them in his mirror but was unable to tighten his turn enough to come round behind them. He could think of no expedient. He would have to hold on until they gave up. Meanwhile, others were getting away from his guns. It would be fatal to change the direction of his turn in an attempt to fool them: they would be able to pour fire into him as he did so. A 109 crossed twenty feet above him and as far astern. His aircraft shuddered and side-slipped when the disturbed air around and behind the Messerschmitt buffetted it. He risked a quick barrel roll, not knowing whether he would collide with another machine as he went around. As he came out of it he saw both his pursuers had overshot and were dead ahead, the Number Two nearer to him than its leader. He fired at it and when it went into a turn he kept his position and went on shooting. It began to break up. There was neither smoke nor fire; just pieces of metal fluttering and snapping loose. Had he damaged it enough to force it down or the pilot to bale out?
His own aeroplane shook. He glanced in the mirror and dived. Another 109 was behind him. His machine was vibrating. He looked out along the wings. The tip of the port one had been shattered. He steepened his dive with the Hurricane juddering from nose to tail, unaware of what other damage it had suffered. He levelled out twenty feet above the sea and plunged into a bank of mist. When he flew out on the other side he had to pull up sharply to avoid slamming headlong into a cliff. The Hurricane answered sluggishly but carried him over the beetling edge of the towering chalk buttress: so low that sheep on its grassy top were bowled over by his slipstream, and by crashing into each other as they panicked. He began to laugh at the spectacle of the sheep rolling over and over, some left lying on their backs with their legs frantically pedalling, some actually somersaulting forward absurdly. He could imagine the frantic bleating down there.
His laughter became uncontrollable. He found himself sobbing with it, gasping for breath, tears of laughter obscuring his goggles. He was trembling and his hand on the stick was unsteady. He felt very cold.
Abruptly he stopped laughing. He was still shaking, but this time from realisation of the hysteria into which the mounting fears and tensions had driven him. He felt as though he had driven too fast round a bend on a wet road, braked hard, and skidded to a stop within inches of a stationary steam-roller.
That evening when he and Ross were washing their cars at the back of the mess, Ross said, politely, “By the way, you haven’t got my set of gap-gauges, have you?”
James slapped a damp chamois leather down on his M.G. and glowered at him.
“No, I bloody well haven’t got your blasted gap-gauges. “
He felt his face grow hot and his hands started to tremble. His insides felt leaden and twisted. He was appalled by his furious reaction. He looked across at Ross, who had stopped work and was looking at him with concern, and grinned uncertainly.
“Sorry, Tiny. Let’s pack in this lark and go down to the White Hart.”
Ross nodded, a faint smile crossing his face. “I think we’d better.” A spell in bed under sedation in Sick Quarters wouldn’t come amiss for James, he was thinking.
When they went into the mess on their return from the pub, a steward told James that his mother had telephoned and left a message for him to call her.
Christ! It’s Christopher, he thought. His finger shook again as he dialled the number.
“Mummy?”
“James, dear: I thought it must be you.” His mother sounded unaffectedly cheerful and his heart stopped thudding. He was momentarily speechless.
“Is everything all right?” She sounded anxious.
“Very much so. Christopher O.K.?”
“Yes, darling. Nothing to worry about. Are you all right?”
“Fine, Mummy. I thought something must be up when I got the message to telephone you.”
“I’ve got a pleasant surprise for you. Hold on.” There was a couple of seconds’ pause.
“James?” A girl’s voice, and his name pronounced as “Zhams”.
“Nicole! This is wizard...wonderful. How are you...and your family? When did you get here? And how?”
Nicole Girard was chuckling away.
“Helas, my parents had to stay in France...Henri’s ship was in Algerie...Algeria and we were waiting for news of him. I was learning to be a nurse in a military hospital in Lille...I went away...it was not very easy...I went home and then I went to Spain...and from Gibraltar I was sent to England...I arrived today and have come straight here to see your family.”
“This is the best news I’ve had since the war started. Does Christopher know?”
“Not yet. We tried to telephone him but he was out also.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I did not like nursing very much. I would like to join the Free French as something different: one of the women’s Services.”
“When can I see you?”
Her voice changed. “You are very busy now, James.”
“How long will you stay there?”
“I must not stay long: your parents are most kind, but I must go to London and find something at the Free French Quartier General...the...”
“Headquarters.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you in London as soon as possible. Call me, or write, as soon as you have an address there and tell me how to get in touch with you.”
“I can’t wait to see you, James. And...I am very proud of you...and Christopher...and all your comrades in the Royal Air Force.”
He laughed. “I’m pretty proud of a girl who could get herself from German-occupied Lille to England under her own steam.”
“Under what? Steam?”
“Par tes propres efforts.”
“But I am not killing Boches, like you and Christopher.”
“Tell him that: he’ll be flattered! He hasn’t seen a Boche yet.”
“They will be sorry when he does.” Nicole was always loyal to her friends.
* * *
July merged into August and James was hardly aware of the fact. He did not keep a diary. The only record he kept was his flying log book. The entries in it would have made monotonous reading if the events they chronicled had not been, as everyone by then had come to realise, the story of a nation fighting not only for its own life but also for the freedom of all Europe.
His flying hours accumulated rapidly and with them victory and defeat, exultation and terror, exhilaration and depression, hopefulness and doubt, and constant weariness, piled one on top of the other.
21st July. First enemy fighter-bomber raid. 15 Me 110s attacked convoy. Radiator damaged. Broke off and R.T.B. (returned to base)...24th J
uly. Patrolling in rain at 7000 ft between cloud layers. 24 Heinkels and 30 Me 109s. Shot down one Heinkel...25th July. About 30 He 111 and 20 Do 17 with equal number of 110 and 109 escort in Straits. Shot down 110, damaged Do 17. Got shot down, probably by 109s in general dogfight. Baled out near Ramsgate. 27th July. Me 109 fighter-bombers seen for first time. Got one over Dover...31st July. Dogfight over Channel with 109s. Controls badly shot up. R.T.B….8th August. Large formations of Ju 87s and Me 109s. Shot down two Ju 87s and damaged one.
More than 400 enemy aircraft operated over the Channel on 8th August. Fighter Command shot down 31 for the loss of 16 fighters and 13 pilots; of the three survivors, two were wounded.
On the following day the squadron was released for 24 hours. James drove to London to meet Nicole. It was fourteen months since he had seen her. During the twelve years that they had known each other he had seen her change from a mischievous and sometimes hoydenish little girl with several front teeth missing, through her self-conscious adolescence when she strove to subjugate her natural tomboyishness under a pose of maturity which did not work very well, to a poised and attractive young woman.
He was not accustomed to his girl friends arriving at a rendezvous before him. For a moment he did not recognise, from a back view, the tallish, slender figure in a well cut tunic and skirt of Armee de l’Air dark blue, when he walked into the Berkeley Hotel five minutes before their five-thirty tryst. She was seated at a table in a corner, a defensive stiffness about her attitude, reading an evening paper. It was the characteristic slight tilt of her blonde head that identified her to him.
“So you charmed your boss into letting you off early, did you?”
She dropped the paper and rose to her feet, smiling.
“James!”
For a second or two they regarded each other uncertainly. In the past they had always greeted each other with a handshake. In the French manner, they had shaken hands on first encounter every day even when the families were spending a week or two together. She gave him her hand, then raised herself on her toes and kissed him on both cheeks, which he returned. They stood grinning at each other rather fatuously and still holding hands.
“You look very pretty, Nicole, and the uniform suits you.”
“It is the first time I see you in uniform too. But how tired you look.” She took his compliment in her stride. They were too old friends for it to embarrass her, although he had never said anything like it to her before.
A waiter brought him a whisky and soda. Nicole took a sip of her sherry and apparently lost interest in it. Like all Continental women she was mildly shocked by the quantities in which British ladies drank gin and whisky.
James noticed her hands. He was used to seeing them, sun-bronzed, hauling on a sheet or halyard, gripping helm or wheel. They were not tanned this year, but white and beautifully kept with pointed nails which looked as though they would snap off in a small boat in heavy weather. The saucy forage cap worn at an angle on her glossy hair suited her. He experienced a strong proprietorial feeling and was not at all sure that he was pleased about her looking so cute, in London, with the place full of predatory males. And he ought to know about predatory males, he told himself wryly.
“How are you liking it at Air Ministry?”
“It is very interesting. And very good for my English: as I hope you notice.”
“How many more compliments d’you want? I’ve already told you you’re beautiful; and smart.”
She looked startled, began to blush, and said, a little hastily, “Mais, ecoute James: il nous faut parler francais, non?”
“Volontiers. Ce m’est egal. And am I allowed to ask you what you are doing at Air Ministry?”
She lowered her voice, although they were talking French. “It is a planning section.”
“All right. I won’t ask you what you’re planning. And I hope none of the Air Ministry wolves have got any nefarious plans about you.”
She threw back her head and laughed, startling him by her sudden change of demeanour. Here was a glimpse of the old, robust Nicole who would climb a tree, scale a cliff, dive off a fifteen-foot rock or sit out a dinghy in a Force Six wind without a qualm.
“Some of the British officers apparently have rather bizarre ideas of Frenchwomen’s morals! I do not accept any invitations.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And what about invitations from your French colleagues?”
She shrugged. “If they are of good family, I do not mind going to the theatre or a restaurant with them.”
“I can come up to London very often: there are a lot of shows I’d like to see.”
He had spoken almost without thought, and then he recognised that there had, in fact, been instant forethought, a spontaneous protective reaction. It confused him rather; particularly because she gave him a grin that was pure mischief and comradeliness but which was accompanied again by a reddening of her cheeks.
They talked about her parents and her brother, who was still in Africa. They dined at Boulestin. They had so much to talk about that there was no time to spare for a theatre.
When he dropped her at her billet in a requisitioned Bloomsbury house, it was he who took the initiative in exchanging a goodnight kiss. Still, however, an affectionate one on the cheek, as with a cousin.
* * *
James spent Saturday 17th August at readiness in a mood of increasing suspicion that a cataclysmic assault must be imminent. The hours passed without any hint of a German raid anywhere over south-east England. Instead of comfort this brought mounting tension. It was too good to be true. Sheer tiredness sent him into intermittent sleep, but he kept waking with a start and looking frantically around, expecting to find that he had somehow missed a scramble, that there would be no one else in the crew room or on the grass outside. But they were always there, all of them; waiting. Reading, playing cards, talking or simply lying back in a chair, there was not a man who did not, every now and then, look up and search the sky, listen intently. The sleepers would waken as suddenly as James and make the same galvanic survey of their surroundings before dozing off again.
Tug Wilson’s car drove up. He had been across to the hangar. Two passengers got out with him. They both wore the Polish Air Force badge on their caps and the Polish pilot’s badge, a silver eagle: now, for the duration of the war, symbolically fettered with a thin chain.
One of the strangers was small, dapper and had perky, simian features, straw-coloured hair. The other was tall, hollow-cheeked and raw-boned, with dark, straight hair and eyes set unusually wide apart. They followed the squadron leader towards the pilots grouped around the hut door, enjoying the sunshine.
Wilson looked at Walter Addison.
“Two new members for your flight, Walter. Do the introductions, will you?” He disappeared towards the dispersal bays in conversation with the Engineering officer.
Addison went forward with his hand out. Both Poles, who wore flying officer’s braid on their cuffs, clicked their heels and bowed.
“Uwodzicielski.”
“Brzk.”
Addison stopped. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Polish.”
The short Pole bowed again. “Is name. Uwodzicielski. How you do?” He offered his hand.
Addison shook it. “Sorry, could you come again?”
“Come back?” The Pole looked puzzled.
“I mean, say your name again.”
The Pole enunciated it carefully. “Oo-vodge-ee-tsee-el-ski. “
“Well, now, that might be a bit difficult for some of us. What’s your Christian name?”
“Christian? Yes, of course: I am catholic.”
“Good show. I mean what is your other name?” Uwodzicielski knitted his brows. Then enlightenment dawned. He beamed. “Zbigniew.”
“Christ!”
Addison turned to the tall one. “Your name again?”
“Brzk.” He smiled. “B — r — z — k. Bzzzzhk.”
“And first name?”
“Tadeusz.”
/>
“Tad-ay-oosh?”
Tadeusz Brzk looked delighted. “Is right!”
“All right. We’ll call you Tad; and you,” Addison turned to the shorter man, “Z-big-ny-ev?”
“Very good.” His face shone with pleasure.
“We’ll call you Big.”
“English humour, yes, because I am not big man, yes?”
“Something like that.” It would be interesting to hear what the troops made of these outlandish names, Addison reflected. He presented the newcomers to the rest of the pilots and the squadron’s ground officers. The Poles talked about the German invasion of their country, their long, roundabout journey to reach England. Their speech was halting. Everyone was eager to help them out when they got stuck. The squadron took Tad and Big to its heart. They looked forward to some lively moments on the R/T when the Poles cut loose with their rudimentary English.
The Poles, apparently, had lively interests of a different sort. They had both drifted over to sit near James. He had helped them over their linguistic problems, as they both spoke some French which was rather more articulate than their English.
They both leaned towards him with a conspiratorial, not to say furtive, air. Big, it seemed, was the spokesman. He lowered his voice.
“Is many nice W.A.A.F. on station?”
“None that speaks Polish!”
Tad and Big grinned. “Is not for talk we like beautiful W.A.A.F.”
“There’s an all ranks dance in the N.A.A.F.I. tonight. You can try your luck.”
Tad looked startled. “You say we can try in .N.A.A.F.I. dance to f ok ?”
Big cut him short with a kick on the ankle. “Idjota. He say szczescie.”
“Oh! Luck. Yes, I understand.”
Whatever luck they might have with the W.A.A.F., there was none that day in the way of kills. By the time that the sun began to set James felt like a sprinter in his blocks waiting for the starter’s pistol. Surely the enemy must come. But the sun went down, Ops. called through to stand the squadron down, and the day was done; with no sign of the enemy.
Trial By Fire Page 16
