Venom Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  After a few minutes, he turned due east, ordering his aircraft down to low level. Each section of four Venoms now spread out into line abreast, the sections about a mile astern of one another. As he raced across the desert at a hundred feet, Yeoman peered ahead through the windscreen, and as the minutes went by he began to believe, with a sinking feeling, that his hunch had been wrong.

  Then the voice of the keen-eyed Wells crackled over the radio, and Yeoman felt a surge of relief with the knowledge that his calculations had been right, and that his luck had not deserted him.

  ‘Target ahead, eleven o’clock. More at one o’clock. Which group do we go for?’

  Yeoman could see the tell-tale clouds of dust clearly now, together with the insect-like tanks that were churning them up. He pressed the R/T button in response to Wells’ call.

  ‘Red and Yellow Sections, take the leading group. Blue and Green, attack the group on the left. They’re well strung out; stay in line abreast.’

  The positioning could not have been better. The Venoms were racing towards their target straight out of the setting sun, invisible against its glare, and the roar of their jet engines would be blotted out by the thundering diesels of the armoured column. This was one of the few occasions in Yeoman’s career when he knew instinctively that he was going to achieve complete surprise; it was up to him, and the others, to make the most of it.

  Yeoman’s section went for the leading file of tanks, keeping well-spaced out to cover the entire length of the target. Yeoman concentrated on the tank that was bringing up the rear, on the extreme left of the line, and saw its squat shape expand rapidly in his sights. He felt completely detached as he pressed the firing-button.

  Four rockets whooshed from the rails under the Venom’s wings, and he had time for a brief glimpse of their glowing tails converging on the target before he was pulling up and over, jinking away from the machine-gun fire that was starting to come up as the Khoratis manning the T-34S’ turrets belatedly opened fire, swivelling their 7.62-mm weapons towards the fleeting jets. He looked back as he pulled round hard to the right, in front of the column; the tank he had picked as his target had turned turtle, blasted on to its back by the impact of his rockets. Wisps of smoke were rising from it.

  The leading section of Venoms had completed their attack, and as Yeoman turned he saw Yellow Section launch their rockets. Already, the air over the desert was turning black with columns of smoke that rose from the shattered hulls of T-34S. A little farther north, Blue and Green Sections were racing in towards the rear file of armoured vehicles.

  The leading file, meanwhile, had become completely disorganized, with tanks breaking column and weaving away to left and right. Yeoman called the other pilots:

  ‘Select individual targets for your second pass, but watch out for collisions. There are trucks bringing up the rear. Use your cannon on them.’

  Yeoman came out of his turn and dived towards a tank that was scurrying away across the desert, half-hidden by the billowing sand churned up by its racing tracks. It made no attempt to take evasive action, but held a straight course. The pilot saw the machine-gunner frantically trying to swivel his turret-mounted gun towards the Venom; the man had time only to loose off a single erratic burst of fire before two of Yeoman’s four remaining rockets impacted at the base of the turret, just above the engine compartment.

  A great balloon of orange flame sailed up. Out of it the T34’S turret appeared, turning slowly over and over.

  Yeoman turned hard right, his wing-tip vortex stirring up a flurry of sand, and made for a group of trucks which had been following the armoured column. Tiny figures hurled themselves from the vehicles as he approached, running madly to escape the death that was bearing down on them. Yeoman had no wish to kill Khorati soldiers needlessly; without the vehicles to transport them, they would be useless. He therefore ignored the running men and fired a short burst of cannon shells into each truck that came into his sights as he sped overhead, setting several of them on fire. A glance in his mirror as he climbed away after the strafing run revealed more Venoms, attacking in his wake.

  Yeoman took his aircraft well up, turning to assess the effectiveness of the attack. The desert seemed to be littered with burning tanks and trucks wherever he looked, and he knew from previous experience that this armoured column was no longer in a fit state to fight. His pilots had accounted for something like twenty tanks, more than half the number involved, and the trucks that had been carrying the infantry were being reduced to blazing wreckage as the Venoms queued up to attack them with their cannon. Some of the trucks, he noted with satisfaction, were erupting with terrific explosions, indicating that they had been carrying ammunition, while others were being consumed by fierce petrol fires; even if the survivors of the air attack decided to press on, they would be starved of both fuel and shells.

  He pressed the R/T button. ‘All right, that’s about it. Form up and return to base.’

  As he climbed away, Yeoman called up Hugh Dalton, who was leading 641 Squadron into the attack a few minutes behind 359. Dalton’s voice came back immediately.

  ‘We’ve about five miles to run, and we can see the smoke. Looks as though you did a good job.’

  Yeoman ignored the compliment; he was recalling what he had seen during his earlier reconnaissance. Urgently, he radioed: ‘There’s a second column somewhere, probably to the east. See if you can find it. If you can’t, then attack what’s left of our target.’ He squinted at the sun, whose lower edge was almost touching the western horizon. ‘You haven’t much time.’

  Dalton acknowledged, and as Yeoman set course for Faraz, followed by the rest of 359 Squadron, he caught a brief glimpse of 641’s Venoms, emerging like an orderly flight of wild birds from the glow of the sunset. Then they were lost to sight behind the smoke that billowed over the desert from the column Yeoman’s jets had shattered.

  Back at Faraz, Yeoman climbed wearily from his aircraft and made for the Operations Room, where he found Major Swalwell waiting for him. The SAS officer, satisfied that his men were as prepared as they could be on their ridge, had taken time off to bring himself right up to date on the situation.

  ‘Well,’ he asked as Yeoman came in, ‘how did it go?’

  ‘We clobbered ’em,’ Yeoman told him. ‘But there’s another armoured column somewhere, and 641 Squadron’s looking for it now. I’m worried in case they miss it. It’s strong enough to give you a lot of trouble, if it gets as far as the ridge. Attacking it at night won’t be easy, and if even part of it breaks through to the airfield, we’ve had it.’

  ‘What about our reinforcements?’ Swalwell wanted to know. ‘We should have had at least some back-up by now.’

  ‘I’ve been sending signals by W/T all day,’ Yeoman told him. ‘That’s one of the big problems; communications out here are terrible, and as the distances are too great for voice links we have to do everything by wireless telegraphy. There hasn’t been a squeak out of HQ, other than a rather curt message repeating the order to hold on for forty-eight hours at least.’ Before the two men could work out a fallback plan, poring over the maps spread out on the Operations Room table, they were interrupted by the sudden whine of jets. A few moments later, a young flying officer came into the room. He looked anxious as he addressed Yeoman.

  ‘The others are back, sir, 641 I mean. I think they’ve been in trouble. A couple of the aircraft are smoking.’

  Yeoman ran outside, followed by Swalwell and the flying officer. They were in time to see a Venom flattening out over the runway threshold. A thin trail of smoke was coming from its jet pipe, and its undercarriage was still up. As they watched, it touched the ground with deceptive gentleness, kicking up a burst of dust, then slid along on its belly before coming to a crooked stop, like a bird with a broken wing.

  ‘He’s blocked the runway,’ the flying officer cried. Yeoman looked across the field a second time.

  ‘No, it’s all right, he’s touched down to one side. Come on!’
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  The three of them sprinted to a nearby jeep and piled in, Yeoman cursing as the vehicle refused to start, but he got it going after a couple of tries and careered across the airfield. In the gathering dusk, he thankfully saw the Venom’s pilot slide back his cockpit canopy and heave himself over the side. He almost fell, then steadied himself, one hand braced against the fuselage, and began to walk slowly away, pulling off his flying helmet as he went. Beyond him, a second Venom touched down on the runway, followed closely by a third.

  Yeoman halted the jeep close to the pilot and jumped out. As he did so, the man sat down heavily on the stony ground as though his legs had just given way. Yeoman saw now that it was Hugh Dalton, and that his right arm was bleeding profusely.

  Calling to the other two to lend a hand, he stooped down and hooked Dalton’s left arm around his neck, starting to raise the injured pilot from his sitting position. Dalton gave a sharp, involuntary cry of pain. ‘Careful, for Christ’s sake,’ he groaned. ‘Right arm’s full of shrapnel. Hurts like hell when I move it.’ He stumbled towards the jeep, supported by Yeoman on one side and Swalwell on the other.

  ‘Let’s get you patched up,’ Yeoman said, ‘and then you can tell us what happened.’

  ‘I’ll tell you now.’ Dalton sat back with a gasp as the jeep moved off, driven now by the flying officer. ‘We spotted the other armoured column not long after you called me — it was much closer to the coast than I’d expected. We started our attack, and the first two sections were just pulling away when we were well and truly bounced.’

  ‘MiGs?’

  The other nodded weakly, an expression of utter distress on his face. ‘We never even saw them until they were right on top of us. It was my fault. I should have warned the other chaps to keep a good lookout. There were at least half a dozen of them, and they were carrying long-range tanks.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Yeoman interrupted. ‘Everybody was told to keep his eyes peeled. Go on.’

  Dalton clutched at his injured arm and winced. ‘Chris Stanton and Sergeant Theakston bought it. I don’t think they ever knew what hit them. I saw them both go in; there wasn’t a hope in hell of either getting out. After that, it was pretty well every man for himself. The MiGs made two or three passes at us and we just kept on turning. I remember a cannon shell-something big, probably a 37-mm — exploding just above my starboard wing root, but I didn’t know I’d been hit in the arm until minutes later, when I looked down and saw blood everywhere.’ The jeep pulled up outside a building that was being used as a first-aid centre. The medical officer wanted to put Dalton to sleep while he removed shrapnel fragments from his arm, but 641 Squadron’s commander insisted on finishing his verbal report first.

  ‘Those MiGs had us really taped,’ he said. ‘They came at us from three different directions, very fast, and their speed margin didn’t give us a chance. We were all thinking about saying our prayers when suddenly the MiGs climbed away hard and disappeared. I can only think that they’d been on patrol for some time, and were running short of fuel.’

  ‘So you got out fast,’ Yeoman said.

  ‘Not quite. As a matter of fact, we went on to complete our attack on the armoured column. I think we got twenty-five or thirty tanks and trucks, all told, but there were still plenty left. When we flew away, they seemed to be changing course towards the south west; I think maybe they were heading to join up with the remnants of the column you hit. If so, we’ll still have a sizeable force to contend with.’

  ‘All right, Hugh, leave me to worry about that,’ Yeoman told the injured man. ‘You put up a very good show indeed. Now get yourself bandaged up and get some rest. I may need you tomorrow, injured arm or not.’ Privately, he resolved to recommend Dalton for a Distinguished Flying Cross; leading the attack on the enemy column, while wounded and losing blood, deserved some tangible recognition.

  There was no time to be lost now. After conferring some more with Swalwell, who then left to join his men on the ridge, Yeoman sent a coded signal to Air HQ in Cyprus, informing them of the latest development, and then set off with the senior engineer officer to find out how many aircraft were still serviceable.

  Apart from a few minor snags which would be rectified in the next couple of hours, all twelve of 359 Squadron’s Venoms would be ready to go into action. As far as 641 Squadron was concerned, however, the picture was gloomy. Two of its aircraft had been destroyed, a third — Dalton’s — so badly damaged that it might have to be scrapped, and two more had sustained damage that would take at least twenty-four hours to put right. Yeoman therefore decided that if further air attacks had to be made during the night, 359 Squadron would carry them out; he would hold the seven airworthy Venoms of the other squadron in reserve, in case any gaps needed to be plugged.

  There was little to do now but wait, and try and snatch as much rest as possible. While the other pilots went to their tents, Yeoman obtained sleeping bags for himself and the four Muramshiri pilots who were to drop the flares; they bedded down on the floor of the Operations Room, within earshot of the VHF radio over which any alert from the troops on the ridge would come. Because of the lower speed of their aircraft, the Muramshiris would have to take off several minutes ahead of the Venoms, in order to reach the target area at the same time as the strike aircraft.

  Yeoman dozed for a long time, and must have eventually fallen asleep, for he was shaken abruptly awake by the signals corporal who had been standing watch at the radio. The man’s voice was urgent.

  ‘Message from Major Swalwell, sir. Wants to speak to you right away.’

  ‘Okay.’ Yeoman eased himself out of his sleeping bag, feeling stiff and cold, for the desert night air outside was bitter. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Oh-two-hundred, sir. Shall I wake the others?’

  Yeoman nodded and crossed to the radio, putting on the headphones. He quickly made contact with Swalwell and asked him what was happening.

  ‘My patrols have sighted the enemy column,’ the major told him. ‘It’s about ten miles out and closing fast, making for Sector Bravo.’ The code-word referred to the road that cut through the ridge, the narrow bottleneck through which the Khoratis would have to pass.

  ‘All right,’ Yeoman said. ‘Give me the exact co-ordinates. We’re on our way.’

  He turned to one of the Muramshiri pilots, who spoke reasonable English, and explained carefully what was required, so that the man could translate the instructions to the others.

  ‘Position yourselves just ahead of the armoured column,’ he ordered. ‘Fly a series of S-turns, well-spaced out in line astern but keeping one another in sight. Watch the ridge to the south, and when you see two white lights go in and drop your flares. As I told you earlier, the white lights will be the signal from the ground forces that my Venoms have crossed the ridge and are on their way in to the attack. Once you have dropped your flares, get out of the target area as fast as you can and return to base. Stay above two thousand feet until you have crossed the ridge. We shall be operating well below that height.’

  The Muramshiri pilot repeated his instructions and departed, together with his colleagues, all of them looking more than a little apprehensive, and Yeoman went personally to rouse his pilots. Most of them were already awake, or partly so, and had kept on their flying clothing; it took only minutes to give them a quick briefing and drop them beside their aircraft.

  The runway lights flickered into life as the Venoms started their engines. As he started to taxi, Yeoman glanced at the clock on the instrument panel; it was less than fifteen minutes since Swalwell’s call had come through, and seven minutes or thereabouts since the Muramshiri flare-droppers had taken off into the night.

  There was no moon, but the brilliant stars cast their own wan light over the desert as the Venoms climbed steadily away, and the pilots could see a surprising amount of detail. The dark, hump-backed shape of the ridge passed swiftly beneath their wings, and glancing down Yeoman saw Swalwell’s two white flares arc up into th
e sky, right on schedule. He had calculated that it would take the Muramshiri aircraft two or three minutes to turn and start dropping their flares over the armoured column; the Venoms would take only seconds longer than that to reach their target after crossing the ridge.

  ‘Keep your eyes on your instruments,’ he warned the other pilots over the radio as they flew on at five hundred feet, ‘or you’ll lose your night vision when the flares go down.’

  It was a wise note of caution. A few moments later, the sky ahead burst into vivid white light as the first flares were released, drifting down on their parachutes. After the initial burst of incandescence, Yeoman looked ahead and saw the desert bathed in pale ghost-light; the illumination was not as intense as he had expected, but it was enough to reveal what he was looking for.

  There was no time for finesse. He pushed down the nose of his Venom and hurtled straight for the first group of vehicles he could see; they looked like self-propelled guns. He released four rockets at one of them, then applied a slight backwards pressure on the control column and fired the other four at a long, low vehicle that was turning broadside on to his line of flight. The red tails of the rockets, startlingly bright in this unnatural light, disappeared into its side.

  The next instant, Yeoman was flying through a mushrooming fireball. There was no time to think; no time even to duck. He felt a wave of intense heat, lasting only a second, and the sickly smell of burning oil invaded his cockpit. Disorientated for a moment, unable to see clearly, he pulled back the stick and took the Venom into a climb, breathing hard. His target must have been a fuel tanker.

  The other Venoms were roaming across the armoured column, the pilots swatting tanks and trucks like beetles with their deadly rockets. A second batch of flares went down, followed closely by a third. Yeoman frowned, for the flares were being dropped too closely together and their light would soon be extinguished. Then he realized that it no longer mattered: the desert was already lit by the flames of burning vehicles, and new conflagrations were springing up all the while as the pilots added to their scores.