The group captain was standing outside the hut when they taxied away. He offered no gesture of farewell. In his mind, Howard gave him the two-finger sign, then forgot about him.
***
The Gruppe Kommandeur was the same rank as Thorwald and a friend of long standing. He had telephoned to invite all the officers of Thorwald’s Staffel to dinner, as soon as he heard that he had been shot down but returned unhurt to base.
“You’ll need cheering up, Juergen,” he said. He did not allude to Rumpf’s unpleasant death. He did not need to. Thorwald understood that there was more to the invitation than concern for his own misadventure. But he contrived to sound cool as he said “Have you got a prescription for repairing lost pride, Ulrich?”
The Kommandeur laughed. “It happens to all of us, Juergen; even the best: and you are certainly among those.”
“I don’t feel like it at this moment. That damned Tommy pilot was damned good. I’d dearly like to know who it was: I do know it wasn’t Malan or Johnson, which would make me feel less ashamed of myself.”
“Never mind. We’ll make you forget about it. And you can get your own back tomorrow.”
“I won’t get my revenge until I can bring that fellow down. I’ll never forget his squadron letters or his aircraft letter.”
“You are bound to meet him again.”
The notion obsessed Thorwald all the way to the Gruppe Headquarters airfield, where another of the Staffeln was stationed. Now and again he recalled Lucienne and thought how pleasant it would have been to spend the evening with her if their relationship had not changed. He had been besotted by her for a while; dangerously so. She appealed much too strongly to his sentimental side ... she had appealed ... that was all finished now. He had admired her for so boldly declaring her political views. It put her life in danger among her compatriots. Her beauty ... the urgency of her passion ... he must forget all about her ... he had never been able to patch up a quarrel ... it was not in his nature.
The hard springing of the military car annoyed him. He had jarred his legs and bruised his ribs when he landed by parachute on the hard ground. From the back seat, Schellman and another pilot were trying to engage him in talk. He knew that the driver was nervous because he kept shifting and wriggling as he tried to find a comfortable position for his aching limbs and ribs. He was looking forward to his evening among the Gruppe staff and the pilots of the sister Staffel, but he was hating this drive.
He found his first couple of steps awkward when he walked away from the car. Then he took control of his legs and his old swagger returned. There was a cheerful shout of greeting from the mess, a large private house that the Gruppe had requisitioned. The commander of the rival Staffel said loudly “Drunk already, Juergen? I saw your legs wobbling.”
“I was practising for later ... when I shall be unsteady.”
There was laughter. One did not have to be very funny to pass for a wit in that company.
The evening passed in the exchange of similar inane banter, everyone in great good humour and thinking himself a good fellow in the best of company. Two of Thorwald’s pilots had scored victories against Typhoons and three of the other Staffel’s had claimed a Spitfire each. There had been no deaths and Thorwald was the only one among them who had been forced to bail out.
At ten-o’clock he felt a familiar urgency. Drink was a great exciter of lust. To hell with it, he would make things up with Lucienne. She was a stimulating mistress and a fine girl. He wanted her clamorously. He went to the telephone.
Her father answered. He was civil and even welcoming. He summoned Lucienne.
“Yes?”
“It’s Juergen.”
“My father did tell me who was calling.” She was icy and acidular.
“I would like to see you later this evening.”
“Well, I would not like to see you.”
He was shocked into silence. While he strove to find his voice he expected to hear the receiver being replaced. But she was holding the line, it seemed. “Er ... Lucienne ... I must speak to you.”
“It isn’t speech that you want, my lad: it’s ...” she used an obscene word, whispering so that her parents would not hear.
“Lucienne! Don’t talk like a tart ...”
“Is that what you think of me? Well, I wouldn’t be any good to you - or you to me! - tonight: you are drunk, Juergen; and drunk men are impotent. As I am sure you know.”
He blustered. “You don’t know me. I am never ...”
She cut him short. “And maybe you damaged your private parts when you had to jump out of your aeroplane ...”
“What? What do you know about ...?”
“Everyone in the town knows.”
“I’ll court martial whoever is responsible for giving such information ...”
“Nobody needed to give away any secrets. You were clearly seen.” She laughed.
“Go to hell,” he shouted, slamming down the telephone.
Schellman, seeing his scowl as he rejoined the party, asked “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Thorwald was curt. “I want a drink.”
But he took care to make it last the rest of the evening: he did not want to fly with a thick head early next morning. The only cure for what ailed him was combat and the sooner he sought it the better.
***
Four of them took off at dawn, Thorwald in a spare aircraft that would henceforth be his. His briefing had been as short as Howard’s at approximately the same time. “We’re going to patrol at low level a couple of kilometres inside this stretch of coast.” His finger ran along the map. “We’ll catch any early Tommies who come poking their snouts where they are not wanted.”
The morning, he thought: it always brings its own new problems and they always seem immense, yet as the day settles into its rhythm they all fall into place and by the evening one wonders why they looked like problems at all. But that had not been true of yesterday. His problems had come late in the day and when he fell asleep they still loomed and seemed immense. They were no better this morning, or he would not be here in this cockpit with the landscape of a conquered country flashing by beneath his wings, only a few metres from the sky blue belly of his One-Ninety.
There was a symmetrical design to life, even when all its normal parameters were disturbed by warfare. It should not be difficult to superimpose that regularity again on the surface of his existence. Damn that Tommy and damn Lucienne.
He came to his senses with a jerk. He could not imagine how his mind had been so preoccupied with the loss of a comrade, the humiliation of being defeated in single combat and being spurned by a girl. All were everyday events and he had experienced them all before. How had he become so involved with this introspection which was so unlike him? It was dangerous to let it linger. He looked with total concentration for some sign of an enemy aircraft.
It was his Number Two who gave the first warning. He looked to his right and saw the small flitting cruciform shapes hugging the ground.
***
The four Spitfires carried drop tanks to increase their range enough for their long indirect route to the target and to allow enough fuel in hand for a long return track if they had to dodge pursuit or fight their way out. If they reached their objective without having to use any ammunition against defending fighters, they would use it all when they strafed the new landing strip or airfield, whichever it was. That would leave them defenceless on the way back. If they were intercepted then, they would have to rely on speed, evasive action and a weaving track: all of which meant a high petrol consumption.
If they were met by enemy fighters on the way to the target, they would have to use most of their ammunition, if not all of it, and abandon the sortie.
These were the factors that occupied Howard’s mind as he led the way across the Channel. The two pairs were in finger four, with Jannier to his right as his No 2. On Howard’s left was Megson with Odchodski as No 2, further still to the left. They would attack the airfie
ld from four different directions, to confuse the flak gunners. This would increase the collision risk and Howard was almost more worried about Odchodski’s performance than about the flak. When Oddy went into action he forgot everything except killing Germans. He hardly looked where he was going and everyone else had to look after himself. Jannier was almost as dangerous. He boiled over with hatred for the oppressors of his nation and for their insolent occupation of French soil. It was an outrage to see the Boches and their aeroplanes on it.
Over the calm grey water with its scattered small whitecaps, Howard felt in a strangely transient region, a brief phase of tranquillity; as though he were on a training exercise. England lay comfortingly close astern. The enemy-occupied shore was a long way off. There were no hostile aircraft at this low altitude and any that were high above would not see them.
Nothing else disturbed his thoughts except a recurrent irritation when he recalled Northam’s attitude before take-off. Even this ceased to bother him when the French coastline appeared and he looked across to Jannier to confirm that all was well. He had told Jannier to take over the lead if there should be any difficulty in recognising landmarks and the target. At this distance, even anyone as familiar with the landscape as “my Froggie” would not be able to discern any details of the coast. Jannier turned to look at him and raised a hand to signify that he was happy in his work. “Are you happy in your work?” was a wartime Service catch phrase. And to anyone who grumbled - a binder - the unsympathetic comment was “If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t have joined.” This was ironical: most of those who had joined were conscripts. But Jannier was a pre-war regular in l’Armée de l’Air and plainly enjoyed what he was doing now.
The first hazard was enemy coastal shipping, but on Jannier’s advice the track should avoid any chance encounter. The Spitfires climbed slightly to scrape over some cliffs. Cattle grazing scampered about their meadow as the four Merlin engines disturbed the morning. People ran out of farms and village houses to peer up and wave. They were out of sight in a flash. The Spitfires dropped again to follow the contours of the gently undulating terrain.
Howard spotted his first turning point and rocked his wings before beginning a gentle wheel. The intruders thundered on, disturbing more cattle, dogs, poultry, horses and people; but not, evidently, any of the enemy.
They turned again, edging their way north-eastwards. Howard instinctively tried always to simplify any situation. This slightly complicated route was not much to his taste. But it would have been foolish not to be cautious and there was always the danger of over-simplifying, which would have meant disaster. To his surprise he was having what might be termed “a nice day”! It had started off well - except for the egregious Groupie’s unexpected apparition - and his enjoyment of it would be impossible to explain to anyone but a fellow fighter pilot. He loved low flying. Hedge-hopping was exhilarating. He was looking forward to creating havoc among the Mel10s dispersed about the airfield.
He looked to his left, where the coast lay. All clear there. They were well inland now and there was only one more change of course to make. He looked at Jannier and again received a reassuring gesture.
A thirty-degree wheel and now they were heading straight for their objective. The last two minutes always brought the most unpleasant sensations and this time was no exception. One’s heartbeat quickened, one was apt to betray nervousness by a fussy caressing of the spade grip of the control column or the throttle lever, or withdrawing one foot from a rudder pedal and tapping the floor; or scrutinising the instruments with unnecessary frequency.
Howard saw his last landmark, a village with a steepled church in its centre. He climbed two hundred feet and there was the airfield.
A quarter of a minute later he was firing his guns. Figures in field grey uniforms were running to shelter in slit trenches or to gun pits. He made out the shape of a Me110 under a camouflage net. Four seconds later it burst into flame under his cannon shells and incendiaries.
He banked away steeply, turning to circle the field, seeking another vulnerable aeroplane at which to open fire. He could see no blast pens. The Me110s seemed all to be parked under trees and among shrubs, covered with camouflage netting and foliage. Some must be in the two wooden and canvas hangars.
He decided to shoot up one of the hangars. Its materials would catch alight and any aircraft it was sheltering would be burned.
As he levelled off, a huge conflagration broke out along the far side of the flying field and he saw that someone else had already hit the hangar there. He changed course towards the other hangar.
A Spitfire hurtled across his bows, its starboard wingtip missing his propeller by only a few feet. His aircraft shuddered and waffled in the slipstream. Tracer from machineguns - which were deadly at this low altitude - and 20 mm flak shimmered up from the ground in a dozen different directions.
He saw another Spitfire come racing in from somewhere on his starboard quarter.
A blaze of light lanced into his eyes from one side. A shock wave of hot air hurled his Spitfire nose-up and upset its lateral equilibrium by tilting up the port wing. Then came a rumble, a bellow, a thunderclap of noise from the explosion.
Near the middle of the field, two Spitfires, fused, welded, locked together in a roaring furnace of leaping flames and billowing smoke, were already reduced to blackened, molten metal.
Howard touched his transmit switch. He could guess whom the two incinerated pilots must be. “Meg?”
“Yeah, Boost ... with you.”
Howard had used less than four seconds’ worth of shells and bullets. He was glad that he had not been prodigal, when he saw the four FW190s that had come haring towards the fighting from the direction of the coast.
“Where are you, Meg?”
“Astern ... joining up.”
The fire from the ground had ceased. The gunners were leaving the destruction of the two remaining Spits to the Focke-Wulfs.
Howard turned north-westwards. He saw a Spitfire in a tight orbit. In his mirror, he could see another. What the hell was going on? Disoriented, doubting his eyes, he called “Meg?”
“Right behind you ...”
A voice he had not heard on the R/T for a long time said “Aston to Hamlet One-Six ... I have only three seconds’ ammo left.”
“Christ!” It was an involuntary exclamation and Howard had already switched on his transmitter again. Fires were burning in several places on the airfield.
Northam was obviously responsible for some of them.
“We’ll formate on you, Aston.”
“Be quick.” It was hardly a gracious acknowledgment of the protection being offered.
A 190 hit the ground and shed pieces of its wings and fuselage as it skidded across the grass on its belly.
“Gottim!” That was Megson’s shout of triumph.
Two 190s were snarling and darting around Northam. One was persistently trying to get on Howard’s tail, firing snap shots that missed him by inches. In a flash he realised that he knew the markings. There was that arrogant figure “1” on its side in crimson, and a crimson and yellow four-square check pattern beside it. The checks were the livery of all the aircraft in one of the FW190 Staffeln ... and the Number One denoted the Staffelkapitän.
That’s the blighter I shot down yesterday afternoon! No wonder he’s after me so relentlessly ... must have memorised my aircraft letters ...
It was a daunting thought with which he could well have done without.
He saw Northam loose off a burst at one of his attackers; which instantly veered away ... but came in again from another direction.
There was no more firing from Northam and Howard knew that he must have exhausted his ammunition.
He broke off his dogfight with Thorwald and let rip with a three-second burst at the other of Northam’s tormentors. Its nose dropped and it flew into the ground, to detonate with a sheet of flame.
Northam was already well clear of the airfield. Howard had not taken
notice of the fact that as he circled with Thorwald they were drawing away from the field all the time.
“One-Six from One-Eight ...” This was Megson calling Howard. “Bandit catching up fast ... I’ll take him ...”
Turning his head to look astern, Howard saw Megson crab to the right in a flat skid. In his mirror, as he turned his aircraft a little, he saw a 190 with flames pulsing from its gun ports. It did not hit Megson. He saw it overshoot and turn. Tracer from Megson’s machineguns - all his cannon rounds were used up, obviously - riddled the tail unit and rear fuselage of the 190, which at once abandoned combat.
The two remaining 190s were boring in, using the height they had gained while the last piece of action was going on to dive on the Spits. The extra speed enabled them to overhaul these.
Howard saw bullets striking Northam’s aircraft. He saw a few holes appear in his own starboard wing. He looked for Megson, about whom he was much more concerned than about Northam.
Megson had formated on Northam’s left and both were weaving and switchbacking, widely separated for safety.
And Howard saw that Staffelkapitän Thorwald, whose name the squadron Intelligence officer had found out for him, was coming in to try to finish him off.
The other 190 was moving into position for a lethal diving attack on Northam’s port quarter.
Let him have the bastard ... I’ll save my ammo for Meg ... and myself ...
The thought and a contrary reaction came together. It had become instinctive with him to fire at the enemy when he saw a chance and if a comrade was in mortal danger.
He had been shooting for two seconds before he fully appreciated that Northam had sideslipped out of his attacker’s line of fire. Howard saw his own bullets hit the 190’s wing, but it did not show any signs of damage. Its pilot dived at Northam again.
Bullets from Thorwald’s guns passed just beneath Howard as he climbed slightly. He knew that Thorwald would cling to him. He would draw him off and hope that Megson and Northam could continue to evade their attacker until he had used all his ammunition.
Fighters Up Page 14
