Squadron Scramble (1978)

by Jackson, Robert

  ‘Hello Stingray, Red Box calling, sixty plus bandits in your nine o’clock.’

  Twelve pairs of eyes turned seawards, narrowing against the brassy glare reflected from the surface of the water. There was a moment’s pause, then Hillier radioed: ‘I haven’t got ’em. What are they doing?’

  ‘They’re going across into your ten o’clock. Closing fast.’

  Suddenly, the R/T echoed with a wild shout from Red Three. ‘I see ’em! Ten o’clock low. Christ, they’re Stukas!’

  ‘O.K., I’ve got ’em now.’ A pause, then: ‘No fighter escort. Bloody hell, no fighter escort! All sections, attack, attack!’

  Yeoman turned the knurled knob on top of the stick from ‘safe’ to ‘fire’ and switched on his reflector sight. Oxygen on full, mixture lever to fully rich, throttle open slightly. The whole enemy formation was clearly visible now, six waves of Stuka dive-bombers flying ten abreast. They must be bloody mad, Yeoman thought, venturing over here without fighter protection. It was the Spitfire pilot’s dream. He recalled the punishment the Stukas had taken over Calais and Dunkirk a few months earlier.

  The Spitfires dived on the Stukas like a school of sharks, curving down to attack from astern. It was ridiculously easy, almost like an air firing practice Yeoman’s section went after half a dozen Stukas that suddenly broke away and went into a shallow dive. They seemed to be heading for the airfield of Thorney Island. Yeoman centred one gull-winged shape in his reflector sight and closed in, ignoring the tracer that zipped past him from the rear gun. He opened fire at 150 yards and kept on firing, chopping the Stuka to pieces with short, deadly bursts. At a hundred yards the rear gunner stopped firing; at fifty yards the Stuka began to burn, flames pouring back along its fuselage. Yeoman pulled aside hastily as his target lost speed and dropped away, tumbling over and over.

  Stukas were going down in flames on all sides. A second R.A.F. fighter squadron had arrived and hurled itself into the fray, filling the R/T with shouts and whoops of jubilation. Yeoman could not help but admire the bravery of the German pilots; despite their terrible losses, they closed the gaps in their ranks and pressed on.

  Suddenly, Yeoman heard the urgent voice of Simon Wynne-Williams over the radio. ‘Stingray aircraft, this is Stingray Green One. Look out, fighters coming down hard from seven o’clock!’

  Yeoman craned his neck. Sure enough, there they were, a great number of twin-engined Messerschmitt 110s, falling out of the eastern sky. They were the Stukas’ escort, but they had arrived too late to save a score of the luckless bombers.

  Simon Wynne-Williams, who had been the first to spot the threat in the excitement of the chase, turned his Green Section away from the Stukas they had been harrying and went for the 110s head-on. Disjointed voices continued to crackle over the radio as more enemy fighters appeared, single-engined Messerschmitt 109s this time. It was difficult to work out who was calling whom, especially when pilots forgot to give call-signs in the heat of the moment.

  ‘Thirty plus, going from two to three o’clock.’

  ‘O.K. Jock, we’re looking. No contact yet.’

  ‘They’re passing from three to four o’clock now, parallel. No panic yet.’

  ‘Roger, O.K., O.K., I see ’em now.’

  ‘Greyhound Red Section, look out below.’

  ‘109s behind, watch it.’

  ‘Aircraft four o’clock, climbing.’

  ‘Greyhound leader to all sections, close up. Turning starboard.’

  Who the hell was Greyhound? Yeoman wondered, as he brought his own section round to help Wynne-Williams take on the 110s. Then he heard Hillier’s voice, calm and reassuring.

  ‘Stingray leader to Stingray Yellow Section, 109s above you and behind. Coming down on you now.’

  ‘Roger, leader, I can’t see the bastards. Tell me when to break.’

  ‘Hold it, hold it … break!’

  ‘Get stuck in, everybody.’

  ‘Yellow Two, break right!’

  ‘Christ, that was close!’

  The voices were taut now, charged with the strain of air combat, of handling the speed-stiffened controls of fighters cleaving through the sky at 350 miles an hour.

  ‘Stingray Red Section, there’s half a dozen of the buggers right on top of you.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake get a move on, Red Three!’

  ‘Get your own bloody finger out, that bastard nearly had me then!’

  ‘It’s O.K., I’m watching your tail.’

  ‘Yellow One calling, can’t see a bloody thing … oil everywhere.’

  ‘Get the hell out of it, then.’ Yeoman grinned, recognising Jim Callender’s drawl. The lanky American’s philosophy was simple; if you found yourself with the slightest problem in the middle of a fight, stick your nose down and run like hell. You stayed alive, that way.

  Wynne-Williams’ section, up on top of the scrap, had come into brutal contact with the leading nos. Two of them were already going down, staining the sky with smoke. A Spitfire tried to limp away, streaming a white trail of glycol, only to be pounced on by two 109s. With horrible finality, it rolled slowly over on its back and its nose went down until it was diving vertically. A few thousand feet lower down, it exploded. There was no parachute.

  Wynne-Williams closed in on a 110, setting its port engine on fire. He saw the observer struggle clear and bale out, but the pilot remained at the controls and turned seawards in a gallant attempt to escape. Wynne-Williams followed, getting into position to deliver the coup de grâce.

  His thumb caressed the gun-button, but he never fired. In that instant, the world blew up in his face. A cannon shell exploded under his seat, sending white-hot splinters searing into the backs of both legs. A second shattered his cockpit canopy and tore his scalp to shreds under his leather helmet; and a third, the most damaging of all, slammed into the upper fuel tank on the other side of the instrument panel.

  Instantly, the Spitfire’s cockpit became a roaring inferno. Semi-conscious and blinded with blood from his scalp wounds, the pilot clawed at his safety harness, ready to fling himself over the side, away from the blistering flames.

  Then, through the fog of pain and smoke, something shot into sudden focus ahead of him. It was a Messerschmitt 109, presumably his attacker. A blind, all-consuming rage and hatred filled him and he hurled his Spitfire in pursuit, tucking up his feet to escape the worst of the flames. He wore no flying boots, and his trouser legs were burning. The 109’s wings filled his sights and he pressed the gun-button. His eight guns roared; one burst was enough. The 109’s tail flew apart and the remainder flicked into a series of fast rolls, disappearing below and behind.

  Through the red film that covered his eyes, Wynne-Williams looked down at the hands that gripped the control column and throttle lever. His fingers looked like blackened bananas, with the skin cracking and peeling away. In front of him, the instrument panel seemed to flow before his eyes. He shook his head to dispel the illusion, then realised dimly that it was no illusion after all; the panel was melting in the intense heat.

  Somehow, he tore his hands free and reached up, tugging at the cockpit canopy. It slid back easily and he breathed a prayer of thanks for his ground crew, whose attentions had ensured its smooth function.

  Flames burgeoned around him as air rushed into the cockpit. The skin of his face was burning. He gripped the edge of the cockpit and cried out in agony as the metal bit cruelly into the charred flesh of his palms. Clenching his teeth, he levered himself head-first over the side. The slipstream caught him and whirled him away from the stricken fighter.

  He left a streamer of smoke behind him as he fell, his body wreathed in flames. His fingers groped desperately for the D-ring. They were swollen and locked stiffly, and it was several agonising seconds before he was able to grasp it firmly. He pulled hard, nearly passing out with the pain.

  His parachute opened with a crack and a jerk that almost tore his tortured body in half. Gasping for breath, he beat at his smouldering clothing. Al
ready, the blood on his face was congealing into a hard mask. He forced one swollen eyelid open and looked down. He was drifting over open countryside, mercifully clear of woodland. Unable to control his descent properly, he would have to take his chance on landing.

  The air rushed past him, turning the exposed areas of his flayed skin into deep pools of pain. He was falling too quickly. His parachute canopy was full of splinter holes; the seat pack must have saved his life.

  There was nothing he could do except wait for the impact. His mind functioned with a strange clarity; he felt an odd sense of peace. He was going to die, and there was no point in making a fuss about it. Better to go this way, anyhow, than to linger on for the rest of his life as a scarred travesty of a human being.

  He never saw the ground race up to meet him. He was totally blind now, his seared eyelids gummed shut. He slammed feet-first through a tall hedge and into a ditch. The impact knocked him unconscious instantly. He lay there face down in mud and watery slime, like a blackened log. The hot buckles of his parachute harness made a faint hissing noise, and a wisp of steam curled among the undergrowth.

  *

  Two and a half miles above, a desperate air battle flared across the sky. Beneath it, the surviving Stukas slipped away across the Channel. They would not be coming back. The much-vaunted dive-bomber had made its last appearance in English skies.

  Yeoman had seen Wynne-Williams go down in flames, but there had been no time to investigate his friend’s fate. Within seconds, he had found himself fighting for his own life as his section became entangled in a whirling mass of Messerschmitt 109s and 110s. His Spitfire shuddered as a cannon shell slammed into it somewhere behind the cockpit, and the fighter went into a spin without warning. He regained control and pulled out of the spin four thousand feet lower down. He looked round in time to see a pair of 109s diving hard at him; there was no sign of any friendly aircraft.

  He was hopelessly trapped. Another cannon shell punched a hole in his port wing root and something kicked his left foot hard. He experienced an odd sensation, like pins and needles, but felt no pain.

  The two 109s were harassing him, edging him towards the coast. He knew that with his aircraft damaged, he was no match for the pair of them. Deliberately, he pulled back the stick and closed the throttle, putting on hard right rudder as the fighter lost airspeed. An instant later, the Spitfire went over into another spin.

  These tactics had got him out of a jam once before, over France, and he prayed fervently that they would work on this occasion. He held the fighter in the spin, watching the earth rotate around him in a brown-green blur. The altimeter unwound with frightening speed, the needle sweeping away the thousands of feet.

  At five thousand feet he eased off the pressure on the stick and pushed forward his left leg to apply opposite rudder.

  The leg refused to move. There was no feeling at all below the knee. He tried again, mouth gaping with the effort, willing his muscles to obey the frantic commands of his brain. This time, a violent pain stabbed through his whole leg, tearing at his groin. He cried out involuntarily but gritted his teeth and kept up the pressure, realising that the pain must mean that his left foot was pushing against the rudder pedal.

  The dizzy rotation slowed and then stopped altogether. The Spitfire plunged earthwards in a steep dive. Yeoman gripped the stick with both hands and pulled with all his strength. The aircraft responded unwillingly, its nose coming up inch by inch towards the horizon.

  A bulbous silvery object flashed past, followed by another and another. Yeoman’s heart almost stopped. He was streaking at nearly four hundred miles per hour through the middle of the Portsmouth balloon barrage. Flak burst around him as trigger-happy gunners opened up. A cable flashed past his wingtip, missing his speeding aircraft by inches.

  He opened the throttle and pulled back the stick, sending the fighter bounding into the air. The ‘g’ pressed him down into his seat and he blacked out, regaining his senses seconds later to find the instrument panel swimming in front of his eyes. The Spitfire was in a near-vertical climb at full throttle, already passing through six thousand feet. The Portsmouth anti-aircraft gunners were still doing their best to shoot him down. It was high time to get out of it.

  He levelled out and put the Spitfire into a shallow dive, turning eastwards in the direction of Tangmere. His aircraft was vibrating badly, but the engine was running smoothly enough and he knew that if she didn’t catch fire she would see him home. His leg and foot were his main worry; the pain was hitting him with a vengeance now, rolling through him in waves like savage toothache. Some sensation had returned to his toes; they felt sticky, but whether with sweat or blood he had no means of knowing. Probably both.

  He stayed low down during the short flight back to base, scanning the sky constantly. Apart from a flight of Hurricanes, a few thousand feet higher and heading west, he saw no other aircraft.

  His radio was still working and he called up Tangmere, asking for and getting permission to ‘pancake’. Landing was tricky; he felt light-headed and his hands trembled, making it hard for him to set up a steady approach. He could have almost wept with relief when the undercarriage came down; he felt he no longer had the strength to cope with a belly landing. Still, it was difficult: enough. His flaps refused to work and he touched down at fairly high speed, bounding across the airfield in a series of kangaroo leaps before the fighter settled at last. He taxied to dispersal, streaming sweat, the pain in his foot growing worse every minute.

  He managed to unfasten his straps and then slumped in his seat, exhausted. His fitter, L.A.C. Morton, jumped on the wing, took one look at Yeoman’s pale, drawn face, and at once yelled for help.

  ‘Two-six over here, quick! The pilot’s hurt!” He turned back to Yeoman, his face concerned. ‘Where did they get you, Sarge? Your kite’s taken a bit of a beating.’

  Yeoman managed a weak grin. ‘Okay, Jack, don’t panic. Just a splinter or two in the foot, that’s all. Got myself a Stuka.’

  Morton’s face lit up. ‘Good-oh! The squadron’s really gone to town today. Hang on, we’ll have you out of there in a jiff. Here’s the blood wagon.’

  An ambulance rolled up, and an airman jumped on the other wing of the Spitfire. Yeoman hooked an arm round his neck and the other round Morton’s, and between them they eased him out of the cockpit. As they did so, the pilot caught sight of his left foot and winced. His shoe — he seldom flew in flying boots because of the heat, preferring to tuck his trouser bottoms into his socks, like a cyclist — was in ribbons. Blood oozed darkly through the holes; the whole cockpit floor was covered in it. Sudden panic gripped him. God, he thought, what if they have to take it off? He pushed the thought aside, swallowing hard.

  They laid him out on a stretcher and he cried out involuntarily as a spasm of white-hot pain lanced through his foot. Someone gave him a shot of morphine. His last impression, before he passed out, was of the ambulance doors slamming, shutting out the sun.

  *

  ‘So, you’ve woken up at last.’

  Yeoman moved his head groggily and a face swam into focus. It grinned at him. He recognised Squadron Leader McKenzie, the senior medical officer. For a second or two, Yeoman wondered where he was. Then, remembering, he tried to sit up, opening his mouth to speak. His throat was dry and parched and only a croak came out.

  McKenzie pushed him back on to the pillow. ‘It’s all right. Take it easy. Your foot’s still in one piece, although we pulled enough scrap iron out of it to build a tank. Want a look?’

  Yeoman nodded and McKenzie reached for a small tray on the bedside locker. On it lay half a dozen pieces of rusty-looking metal, the size of a thumb nail or less. They had jagged edges. Yeoman suddenly felt sick.

  McKenzie laughed. ‘I thought you’d like them,’ he said. ‘You can have ’em for a souvenir, if you want. Here, drink this.’

  He handed Yeoman a glass full of pinkish liquid. The pilot eyed it dubiously. ‘Go on,’ the M.O. urged, ‘take it. It�
��ll do you good. It’s my universal remedy for all ills, from bullet holes to pimples on the bum.’

  Yeoman drank, and began to feel better almost at once. He looked down the bed. His foot was propped up, tightly swathed in bandages up to the ankle. He looked at McKenzie.

  ‘Is it going to be O.K.?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, sure. Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse injuries as a result of mess parties. Mind you, you’ll be laid up for a while. It’ll be a good three weeks before you’re in a fit state to do any more flying, although you can be up and about inside a week, if you’re a good lad and do as you’re told. I daresay we can find things for you to do. Now, I suggest you make the most of it and get some rest. One of the orderlies will be round with some food later on.’

  Yeoman settled back against the pillow and plucked idly at the bedclothes. He still felt drugged, and his thoughts wandered. Above all, he hated the idea of being confined to bed, a useless liability, at this critical time. It was going to be hard to endure.

  He drifted off to sleep. It was dusk when he awoke. His door was ajar and a naked electric light bulb glowed dimly in the corridor outside. He wondered, for the first time, what building he was in; it couldn’t be sick quarters, because that had been pulverised by an enemy bomb.

  The door was pushed wide open and an orderly came in, carrying a tray. On it was a plate of sausage and mash and a mug of tea. Yeoman suddenly felt ravenously hungry. The orderly placed the tray on the locker, crossed the room and pulled the heavy curtains, then switched on the light.

  ‘Evenin’,’ he said, turning to the pilot. ‘Thought you were never goin’ to wake up.’

  He helped Yeoman to sit up in bed and placed the tray across his thighs. Yeoman grunted as his foot throbbed, and eased it into a more comfortable position.

  ‘Hurt, does it?’ the orderly enquired cheerfully. ‘Never mind, Sarge, soon be up and about again, Privileged, that’s what you are. Know what this place is? Part of the officers’ mess, that’s what. You won’t be lording it all on your own for long, though. We’re moving a couple of other blokes in here later on. Poles, they are. Mad buggers. Really good company, if you ’appen to speak Polish. By the way, you’ve got a visitor.’