Fighters Up

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Whatever the reason, Howard experienced several unwelcome sensations and the recollections that had been bothering him a short while earlier came crowding back.

  “Why? What happened to Groupie Jones?”

  “Heart attack early yesterday morning. He’ll be in hospital a long time.”

  Two

  What a man! Hail the hero! Three more victories in one day to Leutnant ... Oberleutnant, now Hauptmann ... Juergen Thorwald! Thus the German press, newsreels and radio, since May 1940 and Germany’s invasion of Belgium, Holland and France.

  They hadn’t made much fuss of him in September 1939, when the Blitzkrieg crushed Poland in four weeks, except to photograph him, grinning, with his Iron Cross, First Class, direct from Hitler’s hands. The small Polish air force was mostly demolished on the ground when its aerodromes were bombed; but Thorwald had been lucky enough to find himself in the right places at the right times to destroy a few of those aircraft that managed to take to the air. The Polish fighter pilots shot down more of the enemy than they themselves lost, but the Nazis gave that fact no acknowledgment.

  There had been no publicity either for Thorwald’s successes when flying Messerschmitt 109s with the German Kondor Legion in the Spanish Civil War. Against the inferior aircraft of the Spanish Republican forces, those victories had been cheap and Thorwald himself was not much elated by them. Fighting - more accurately, massacring - in Spain had provided valuable experience, however, and enabled the Luftwaffe to perfect the technique of flying in pairs rather than the universally conventional threes.

  It had yielded other benefits also: such as the development of esprit de corps, and efficiency in transportation, supply and administration; also access to the beds of not a few high-class ladies who supported Generalissimo Franco, went to Mass on Sunday, committed fornication - if single - or adultery from Monday to Friday and went to Confession on Saturday.

  Thorwald had enjoyed more than his fair share of amorous successes as well as military. He was thinking of some of them as he flew towards his new base in France. Being a Catholic himself, he had had an advantage over most of his comrades in the seduction of those haughty beauties; although who had seduced whom was often difficult to resolve.

  He had the natural charm and hedonism of the Bavarians, and his curly flaxen hair, blue eyes and tall stalwart physique delighted his mad Fuehrer, with his crazy theories about Aryan purity, as much as it did the Latin women; and, indeed, not a few of the men ... but that interest he did not reciprocate.

  After a week’s leave at home in Munich and in Berlin he felt jaded; especially from last night, which he had spent energetically in the company, and later the arms, of a leading actress. He reflected wryly that if it was true that one act of coitus used as much energy as a five-kilometre run, then he had run fifteen kilometres between midnight and two-o’clock and another five on waking at seven.

  That particular form of weariness never blunted his vigour and zest for life. He had just been decorated with the oak leaves to his Knight’s Cross and there were still the swords and diamonds to strive for. Even better, he was on his way to take command of a Staffel for the first time: twelve Focke-Wulf 190As. He would have been given a Staffel a year ago, as an Oberleutnant, had it not been for all the time he had spent in hospital during the past eighteen months: first with two bullets through his guts in September 1940, then with his right shin smashed by a large piece of a cannon shell that had exploded against his cockpit.

  As a Hauptmann, a captain, the equivalent of a mere flight lieutenant in the R.A.F., he was eligible for command of a Gruppe of three Staffeln. He was sure that when he had put up his usual brilliant performance on his new Staffel, he would be given his Gruppe; and that this would not take long. He reckoned on four to six months, depending how much action he could cram in.

  There was another thought that caused him gratification. The poking in France was damn good, even for what the damned French sneeringly called Les Boches. He didn’t mind what the hell they called him behind his back, as long as there was an abundance of their pretty girls willing to hop into his bed. The great majority of French people hated and resented their conquerors and despised those who associated with them. Half the population was either actively or tacitly engaged in clandestine opposition to the German occupying forces. But there was a host of young women of all classes to whom a good-looking German was a welcome lover.

  Military uniforms were alluring in themselves, and decorations inspired admiration. Power was a notorious aphrodisiac; and who had more power than a conqueror? Added to this, many young Frenchwomen were ashamed of their army and air force’s defeat in 1940 and of these there was a great number who had even reconciled themselves to France remaining permanently a vassal of Germany. They had nothing to look forward to from their own menfolk and it was natural to embrace the vanquishers.

  Thorwald was well aware of all these factors and had already had several French mistresses: susceptible or self-interested rather than genuinely affectionate, but he didn’t give a damn for their reasons; it wasn’t love he sought but orgasms. There would surely be attractive new flesh to sample around Verge-sur-Miches: which he could discern now, with the English Channel, blue in the sunshine, a few miles beyond. Der Kanal was not in the least blue, but a chilly grey, as he knew only too well. He had been shot down by a Hurricane in June 1940 and forced to bail out. The water into which he fell was unpleasantly cold. That had been a particular humiliation because the Me109E (the Emil) was in many ways superior to the Hurricane. The second time he was shot down, in July the same year, it had been by a Spitfire; and even the great Adolf Galland, who was then commanding a Gruppe of 36 Emils, had told Goering that he wished they were Spitfires! It was no great disgrace to fall to one of those, but the Kanal had been just as damned cold.

  He would not have changed places now with Galland; who had been promoted to command the whole Fighter arm. He did not want to be anywhere but in the cockpit of a FW190 which he could hurl across the sky at over 650 kilometres an hour, and whose two machineguns, two 20 mm and two 30 mm cannon gave it such withering firepower, on the fine summer day on which he was assuming his first command.

  Nothing marred his satisfaction. I am a superb pilot, he told himself, and a wonderful marksman. Even more important, I am highly experienced. With what I know now, I would be able to out-manoeuvre the very latest Spitfire in the oldest Emil; I am sure of it. I have an impressive array of medals. I can have virtually any woman I want and there is going to be no shortage of them. I shall live on the fat of the land, too. The privations in the Fatherland will not affect me, with all that French farm produce to plunder for the mess.

  A variety of thoughts came to him in rapid bursts, like bubbles rising automatically and irresistibly from a bottle of champagne. He felt as exhilarated as though he had in fact just drunk a whole bottle. No shadows were cast. The sombre memories were hidden by a mist of self-congratulation and contentment. There were plenty of sad memories, too, which assailed him from time to time as inexorably as the happy ones of this moment. He would never forget the friends who had been killed or maimed, blinded, burned, left limbless. But, for the moment, his life was uncomplicated by any intrusion into his preoccupation with himself.

  He would give the boys a beat-up they would never forget, to mark his arrival. He chuckled in anticipation. He’d be over the airfield in another few minutes. He was about to call and announce his imminent arrival when he spotted what looked like a swarm of bees to the north: but bees in orderly formations, stepped up in layers from 3000 metres to twice that height and more.

  Good timing! Here was a chance to do more than put on a show of aerobatics: he’d shoot down a couple of Tommies and make his arrival with a bravura that nobody could surpass.

  He was at 3000 metres himself and began to climb steeply, turning a little to port, so that the early afternoon sun would be behind him. By Greenwich time, it was shortly after midday. Continental time was an hour ahead and the
British were on double summertime, which made it something past two for them. He would ensure that some of them did not return to base in time for tea.

  The thought tickled him and he grinned behind his oxygen mask.

  Might as well let the Staffel know what he was up to. He called the airfield and received an instant acknowledgment.

  “There’s a swarm of Red Indians coming in from the north,” he reported.

  “We know. The Staffel has just been ordered to take off.”

  “Good. I’ll help myself to a couple of Tommies while the boys are climbing.”

  “Understood. Hals und Bein Bruch!” Break your neck and leg: good luck, it meant. Actually to say “good luck” was unlucky. The Poles had the same superstitious custom, but Thorwald didn’t know that and wouldn’t have been interested if he did. He regarded the Poles as too inferior to be worth a thought.

  He had been told that the R.A.F. called these big formations Circuses: a handful of light bombers escorted by a great host of fighters. The main object was not so much to bomb Luftwaffe airfields, railway yards, factories serving the Germans war needs, or other targets, but to provoke the German fighters to do battle.

  He counted twelve twin-engined bombers in four Vs of three, at about 3000 metres. They would be Blenheims. Spitfire squadrons flew on either side of them and above: close escort, high cover and top cover. There must be two wings of them, each comprising three or four squadrons. He hadn’t time to count them, but a quick, practised survey suggested that there were at least seventy-two: six squadrons; probably more.

  Damn them! Their target was probably his own airfield. What cheek. But it was a stroke of luck for him.

  He saw that the lads had taken off from Verge-sur-Miches. They knew that he must have an eye on them. They raced across the countryside in pairs, each couple close astern of the next ahead. They rose into the upper air keeping almost precisely the same spacing. Well done! They rocketed up steeply, shaking themselves out into battle formation, the Nos. Two a hundred metres to one side of their leaders: the formation they had developed in Spain, which the R.A.F. had started to copy in June 1940; after they had learned the hard - and lethal - way that fighters in threes were too inflexible.

  He selected the Blenheim on the starboard side of the first V. British - he habitually thought of them, as all Continentals did, as “the English” - bombers relied a lot on mutual supporting fire. If he attacked the leader of the first vic he would come under fire from the dorsal turret gunners in its flanking aircraft as well as its own. If he took one of the wingers, he would receive less attention from the other two. By attacking the first V, he would avoid being shot at by the other nine: the dorsal turrets had only a 180 degree arc, covering the tail and the rear half of each beam.

  If he attacked from ahead, he would face only the fixed gun in the port wing, fired by the pilot: a weapon that was about as useful as a fly-swatter wielded by a man with a stiff arm against a stooping condor. But he would have to fly over the rest of the bombers in his break and climb away, and that would give every air gunner his chance. He would not break downward, because that would give an advantage to any Spitfires that chased him.

  He began his dive at 4000 metres. The FW190 was so small that it was difficult to spot. But he saw a pair of enemy fighters bank towards him when he was halfway to his target. He hurtled past them and held steady on the starboard front Blenheim. It was almost the easiest of shots, needing no deflection. He opened fire with his cannon from 400 metres: two quick bursts. The first missed: he saw his tracer sizzle past the port wing. A small adjustment and the next few shells smashed into the cockpit, on the pilot’s side.

  The Blenheim’s nose reared abruptly. He could visualise the dead pilot, hurled backward by the shells, still holding the control column. The Blenheim climbed a little, then stalled. The port wing dropped. It began to spin uncontrollably.

  Tracer whipped past him. A Spitfire was on his tail. He opened the throttle further and raced away. More tracer followed him from a different direction. He turned tightly. He saw a Spitfire closing on him from his starboard bow. The Spitfire tried a burst. Its bullets and cannon shells traced bright paths towards him, but he had skidded aside by the time they reached him. He banked steeply and turned tightly, inside the Spitfire. He fired, machineguns and cannon together. There was a belch of flame and smoke. The Spitfire broke into pieces that rattled against the FW190 as it flew through the wreckage. Smoke came into the cockpit. The shock wave of the exploding fuel tanks tossed the Focke-Wulf about.

  Thorwald looked for his next victim.

  The Blenheims were bombing: and, damn them, they were bombing his base. There were fifty or sixty FW190s and Me109s aloft, some circling the British force, others swooping into action. If it were not for the demands of the Russian Front, there would be twice as many. But there was no lack of them and Thorwald could see reinforcements in the distance, approaching. Radar had detected the attack while it was still forming up over England, but intercepting it was not a simple matter of ordering the defenders into the air. First, one had to try to determine whether the raid was a bluff, then what area it was attacking, and its route. If the enemy flew a dogleg or other changing track, it was difficult to estimate the time at which to send fighters up: too early, and they would use so much fuel that they were left with a very short combat time; too late, and they would be completely ineffectual.

  Thorwald thought that the ground commanders and controllers had been tardy this time. The Tommies had come too far before they were intercepted. He would do all he could to compensate for this.

  He saw a Blenheim catch fire. Light flak, that would not endanger the German fighters, which were comfortably distant from, or above it, had hit the bomber. Another was burning and a 190 was just breaking off its attack.

  Constantly turning his head and making small alterations of course and attitude, he spotted a Spitfire darting up from beneath to make a belly attack on him. He flew on for a few seconds, pretending that he had not noticed it. For a moment he was unaware of the noise of his own engine or the sounds of gunfire. He flew in an atmosphere of hushed tension amid the loud noises of battle.

  The Spitfire was some 200 metres below and coming in on his port bow. He flicked into a half-roll and pulled the stick back. He had perfected the inverted attack. He called it, blasphemously, “For Jesus”. He touched the rudder pedal and the FW190 swung towards his adversary. He was diving at the climbing Spitfire and had it in his sights. Its pilot flattened out and sideslipped.

  Too late. Thorwald’s bullets hammered into the engine. White coolant smoke coiled out of the cowling. Then came a puff of black oily smoke. The two intermingled. There was no need to shoot again. The Spitfire half-rolled to make it as easy as possible for its pilot to drop out.

  Thorwald glanced around to ensure that he was not being threatened, then sought the British pilot. The parachute was already open. He was satisfied. He had no lust for killing. His objective was to destroy enemy aircraft. He bore no grudge against the British. He supposed the fellow was an Englishman. One could never tell these days, with all those Poles and Czechs, Frenchmen, Belgians, Dutchmen, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans and even Americans in the R.A.F. In one bomber he had shot down, a Whitley, there had been, astonishingly, two coal black air gunners; one from Jamaica and one from Trinidad.

  He felt greatly superior to the R.A.F. The Luftwaffe would never dream of admitting black men from German South-West Africa to its ranks. The Fatherland did not have to depend on refugees from conquered nations, or help from colonials.

  With this smug thought, and his ammunition having been used up, he put his aeroplane into a steep dive and tore through the scattered remnants of the air battle towards his airfield. He hoped that some of the pilots in his new command had observed his first kill, before the scene became too confused.

  In a mood of high elation, enhanced by the post-action adrenalin flow, he circled the aerodrome. He woul
d not gratify himself by putting on a scorching display of aerobatics. He had not felt any bullets or shells hitting his aircraft, but one never knew. A pilot who performed even a simple victory roll after being in a fight was an idiot. Unsuspected damage could cause a fatal crash. Any pilot on his Staffel who perpetrated such a moronic act of exuberance would be grounded and court martialled. This was a stricture he was going to impress on them all from the outset.

  He intended to make himself felt in every possible way, now that he was a Staffelkapitän. He had an inherent petty beastliness about him, which he mistook for the characteristic of a natural leader and disciplinarian. Small minds with high ambitions, when they were also ruthless, could evince an essential heartlessness which left its victims bewildered, indignant and vitriolic. It was a home truth which he had yet to confront.

  Three

  For Howard, flying was the only panacea and he was aware of it in precisely that term. He had been well schooled in Latin and Greek. The word’s literal meaning, a universal cure, an assuagement for all ills, was in his mind when he soared into the Sussex sky in a Spitfire Mk VB that had been delivered that very morning by a pretty five-foot-two blonde pilot of the Air Transport Auxiliary.

  Ostensibly he was on a sector reconnaissance: to familiarise himself with local landmarks that would help him to find his way back to base in bad weather or if his radio failed. Radio failures these days were mostly the result of being shot up, but there were also occasions when a gremlin got into the works and the set produced nothing but silence or a series of howls and crackles.

  It was a superfluous exercise. Every landmark within the necessary range was stored eternally in his memory. The air itself, with his cockpit canopy open, seemed to have a familiar tang. He had taken the two-cannon four-machinegun VB up immediately after lunch that first day because it was the only sure way of expunging his worries and apprehensions; even if only for the time being. He had joined the R.A.F. because he thought flying would be fun and that other young men with the same view of it would be the best company in the world. It was even greater fun than he had anticipated and the fellowship even more to his taste.