Torpedo Attack

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  'Yes, better than nothing. It'll be damn good to have a crack at the Nazis at last. Hitler's been asking for it. Now, he's going to get it... right in the neck.' Hanbury paused and said, with a casualness that seemed to demand an effort, 'I met the little tick a couple of years ago in Berlin… at an air show. Nasty bit of work. Handshake like a wet jellyfish.' He paused again. 'None the less, I'd rather wait until we have the Beauforts. The Beest is too damn slow… at least, I think it is... can't really say, never having flown one under fire. Don't much want to!'

  They both dwelt in their thoughts on the unknown quantities of anti-aircraft shells, and bullets from a fighter's machineguns. It was not a matter to which Alden had given any speculation as yet. It came to him with a jolt that it was high time to do so.

  'You'll find Bruce in the crew room,' Hanbury said, ending the interview. 'You can do some familiarisation flying this afternoon.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'See you after lunch. I'm in quarters here, but I'll drop into the mess for a drink this evening.'

  Married quarters… Alden wondered what the redoubtable and dedicated - to the Service and his progress to its highest rank - Hanbury's wife was like… and whether he had reproduced himself yet... the notion of a child in that formidable image was somehow unnerving.

  But there was nothing unnerving about his old Cranwell contemporary and friend, Bruce Courtney. Courtney epitomised the popular notion of a fighter pilot and it seemed odd to find him here, flying anything as sedate as a Vildebeest. Not that there was yet any widespread public image of a dashing fighter boy. The R.A.F. was not much in the public's mind in peacetime. The Navy had its Navy Weeks at Portsmouth and elsewhere, and from time to time it lost a submarine or did something bold with a gunboat in some corner of the empire. The Army was on display when trooping the colour on the sovereign's official birthday, at the Tidworth Tattoo and the Royal Tournament, and fought skirmishes in the Khyber Pass. All these performances and events drew attention to the two senior Services.

  The R.A.F. kept the peace in the Middle East, on the North-West Frontier, in many out of the way spots around the world. It earned little publicity and less public gratitude.

  But even the uninterested British had a fixed idea of the average aviator as a high-spirited, wild young man, forever crashing sports cars, getting a little drunk and breaking girls' hearts with callous promiscuity.

  Bruce Courtney had never crashed a car in his life, although he hared about in a red M.G. He got a trifle tight on guest nights but carried his drink like the gentleman he was. He loved girls' company, kissing, and bedding them when they permitted. But he took care not to mislead their expectations or hurt their feelings. He was an above average pilot and not averse to doing some hair-raising stunts whenever the opportunity occurred and he knew he could escape detection and retribution.

  He saw Alden enter the pilots' room and hesitate. He simultaneously hailed him and stood up. They met in the centre of the room and shook hands: Courtney beaming, Alden smiling as broadly as he ever permitted himself to.

  'Glad to see you again, Derek.'

  'I'm delighted you're here, Bruce.' It hurt a little to see someone of exactly the same seniority one rank his superior, however. Those bloody kitehawks! as the had said.

  Courtney introduced him to the dozen or so pilots, officers and sergeants, reading newspapers or chatting, who were seated around the room; dock-watching for the lunch stand-down. There was some desultory exchange of courtesies, then Courtney said 'As deputy flight commander of B Flight I'm going to introduce you to the Mess Sec.'

  'Still ten minutes to go.' The flight sergeant pilot who made the remark wore a grin and two campaign ribbons; the General Service, and the green, white and red of the India G.S. 1936--7. More significant still, these were preceded by the Empire Gallantry Medal.

  'The clock's slow, Flight. And we all know your watch has its own ideas about time. Come on, Derek.' Outside the room, Courtney said 'Flight Jenkins is a good type. He got his gong on the Frontier for bombing and strafing a mob of tribesmen who were about to massacre a platoon of infantry. His Wapiti was riddled and a bullet cut his watch strap. The watch bounced about on the cockpit floor and it's been erratic ever since. He still wears it for luck; and carries a reliable fob watch in his pocket.'

  'What happened to the soldiers?'

  'Thanks to Jenkins, they hung on until a couple of Valentias with full two-thousand-pound bomb loads were able to turn up and really bomb the Wogs.'

  'That's my car. Shall I follow you? My kit's in it.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  Driving off, Alden asked, 'What's the station commander like?'

  'Groupie Jameson? A bit dour: spells his name "lain" and wears the kilt on every possible occasion. Good type, though. Ex-Royal Naval Air Service. Transferred when the R.A.F. was formed.' On 1st April 1918, amalgamating the R.N .A.S. and Royal Flying Corps. 'He was a roaring success in the last war, I gather: got a D.S.C. in the Navy and a D.F.C. in the Mob, and picked up a D.S.O. betweenwhiles. A bit keen on bullshit: he's never forgotten all that deck-scrubbing he was brought up to at Dartmouth and in ships, before he saw the light and became an intrepid aviator.'

  'I thought the C.O. looked rather harassed.'

  'He chases both the squadron commanders in no ordinary fashion. But he's damned effective, there's no denying that. To change the subject: Jack Hanbury gave me a summary of what you did after you chucked the Service. What does it feel like to be back, after being what Groucho Marx calls a legal eagle?'

  'Chastening!'

  Courtney was not slow in the uptake. 'Oh, you'll get your second ring almost straight away, I should think; when the balloon goes up.' He turned a grave look on Alden. 'It is going to be war, isn't it? I mean, we Service types never really know what the bloody politicians will be up to; especially a fuddy-duddy prick like Chamberlain. What are people saying in London?'

  'I don't know any more than you do. But my father was lunching with our Member at the House of Commons on Monday, and he says we can't possibly avoid it: Hitler will go into Poland, for sure.'

  'Good. Ever since that Munich farce I haven't felt as though any amount of soap and water has really scrubbed the muck off me. Appeasement! God, what a disgrace!' That was enough of a serious mood. Courtney looked mischievous and asked, 'You haven't found yourself a wife?'

  'Can't afford one, Bruce.'

  'Me neither. Don't want to, anyway, at the moment. Got rather a presentable pusher at the moment, though.'

  Alden raised his eyebrows. 'Pusher?'

  'Welsh term. Flight Sergeant Jenkins's fault: he always uses it and he's got the whole squadron doing it. He lives for rugger, beer and pushers. Frightful little lecher. Unless he shoots a terrible line, he's almost unfailingly successful, what's more.'

  'I don't know whether you're censorious or envious, Bruce.'

  'Plain jealous, old boy.'

  'Not of his rugger, surely?' Courtney was a county centre three-quarter and an England trialist. There was a mocking inflection in Alden's voice.

  'Of all the grumble the little blighter gets. He's about the wiliest serum half I ever saw and I'm sure he uses the same tactics with the women.'

  'Grumble is a new word to me.'

  'Cockney rhyming slang, Derek: grumble and grunt...'

  Alden laughed. He had not felt so amused and generally unbuttoned for five years. The atmosphere of the University Air Squadron had been cheerful; and on his two periods at training schools as a Reservist 'he had found the spirit and attitudes jolly and friendly. But there was nothing like being back on an operational squadron. He was with his own kind once again and suddenly those five years seemed to have been twice as long; and yet, paradoxically, they seemed also to have vanished in a flash now that he was back in the environment he had first chosen to spend his working life in.

  'Let's have a drink while one of the batmen unloads your gear and totes it to your room,' said Courtney. 'Glad to be back?' />
  'So much that I'm sorry ever to have had to be away.'

  'Good. And this time it's going to be for more than four years, I should think.'

  Courtney was counting the two years at Cranwell, which had certainly been happy ones. But R.A.F. life only really began when one joined a squadron, and Alden went up the mess steps relishing the fact that that was just what he had done; and revelling in it.

  Two

  There were three other recalled Reserve pilots on the station, one of whom was on Tregear's squadron. All were more out of practice than Alden. This did not lessen his anxiety when he took off for the first time from East Crondal. He knew that if they were not flying, their eyes would be on him as well as those of other pilots and ground crew.

  The wireless operator/air gunner detailed to accompany him was a red-faced, button-nosed West Countryman who looked cheerful and adolescent but was, Courtney informed him, a mature twenty. Leading Aircraftman Fussell had entered the Service as a 16-year-old apprentice and passed out of the training school at Cranwell three years later, a wireless operator mechanic, a Worn. He had volunteered to be an air gunner and was duly paid an extra shilling a day flying pay and, when he qualified, another sixpence a day for his aircrew trade. He also wore a winged brass bullet on his left sleeve. When not flying he did not sit around in the pilots' room. He worked in the Signals section or on the wireless equipment in the squadron's aeroplanes.

  He was standing by their aircraft waiting for his pilot. He gave Alden a smart salute and said, 'Good afternoon, sir. L.A.C. Fussell.'

  'Good afternoon Fussell. This is going to be a bit of a bind, I'm afraid: just a sector recce.'

  'Suits me, sir. Give me a chance to make sure the set's on the top line. It was off tune when I D.I.'d it this morning.' A D.I. was a daily inspection.

  An hour's flying to familiarise himself with landmarks and generally enjoy himself suited Alden very well too. Fussell obtained some bearings and fixes for him which he did not need but were good practice for them both. They had a set procedure to go through and time passed quickly. Flying had never bored Alden and he was sorry when Fussell's voice on the-intercom announced, 'Base has sent P.U.F.O., sir.'

  Alden recalled with amusement the first time he had heard the message, years ago. The four Morse letters that signalled the end of an exercise and return to base stood for 'Pack up and fuck off': a terminology and abbreviation originated by some wireless operator, somewhere, at some early date in the Service's history. Alden duly did so and was relieved when he made a smooth landing. The last thing he wanted was to give his Wop/A.G. such a jolt that he would report the new pilot to be ham fisted, to his mates.

  Three more days spent with various Wop/A.G.s on navigation exercises, bombing practice and, for the Wop/A.G.s, air-to-air firing at a drogue towed by a Fairey Gordon superannuated bomber, had a sense of urgency and stern purpose. Germany had invaded Poland on the day after Alden's arrival at East Crondal. The R.A.F. was ordered to the alert and from that evening civilian clothes were not permitted when off duty. Alden found it difficult to register the full gravity of the situation until he went down from his bedroom to the ante-room for a pint of beer before dinner and found the place thronged with his comrades all in their best blue. Nobody was allowed off camp.

  Neville Chamberlain's uninspiring drone announcing the outbreak of war, broadcast by the B.B.C. at 11.15 a.m. on 3rd September, seemed an anticlimax. The whole station had been psychologically prepared to fight. But now that the moment had come, its two squadrons were impotent. They were resigned to the disappointment that they would not be called upon until their obsolescent Vildebeests had been replaced by Beauforts.

  It was the conversion to twin-engined types that held the pilots' interest while the war passed them by. Few on either squadron were qualified on twins. Group Captain Jameson, displaying the effectiveness which Courtney had acknowledged, arranged for an Airspeed Oxford twin-engined advanced trainer to be detached to each squadron; with an instructor from Cranwell. Alden became so absorbed in learning to handle two engines - taxiing was different, let alone flying- that he ceased for a while to chafe at being left out of the fighting.

  In fact, there was not a great deal to fret about. Few squadrons were taking much active part in the war. The fighter squadrons that had gone to France were patrolling, the bomber squadrons posted there were carrying out exercises. From British bases, fighters were doing convoy patrols and both they and aircraft of Coastal Command flew anti-U-boat patrols: the former, from shortness of range, only coastwise.

  The only aggressive actions were attacks by 29 Wellingtons and Blenheims against enemy naval vessels in Schillig Roads. This did aggravate the Vildebeest crews' frustration at being left out of the fighting. Two Wellingtons and five Blenheims were lost: a chilling indication of the casualties to be expected when their own turn came. Other bombers flew over Germany every night to drop leaflets defaming the Nazi Party and urging the population to surrender. Even this activity would have been preferable to none. At least those crews were flying over enemy territory and encountering flak and fighters, taking the risks they had been trained, and were being paid, to take. They were getting a taste of the real thing, not still preparing for it.

  Squadron Leader Hanbury was prominent in instructing the squadron's pilots, not only those in his own flight, in the technique of flying twins. Daily contact had not lessened Alden's instinctive wariness of him. The prospect of his first flight in an Oxford with Hanbury was unattractive. He hoped that he would have enough time with the squadron's borrowed instructor to acquire some polish before the ordeal. The Oxford was easy enough to fly and it was a step towards the really big bombers to which he hoped one day to progress. He liked the feel of two throttle levers against the palm of his right hand. He like harmonising the engines to a powerful and rhythmical duet. He liked the spaciousness of the cockpit.

  He did not like his first and only sortie with his flight commander.

  Hanbury settled into the second pilot's seat. 'Right, you take her off, Alden.'

  The port throttle lever stuck fractionally as Alden released the brakes and accelerated. The Oxford swung briefly to port. From the corner of his right eye he saw Hanbury turn his head to look at him. He could not see Hanbury's expression: he was staring straight ahead. He did not want to see Hanbury's expression. He was sure it held surprise and reproof.

  He had corrected the swing at once but the humiliation lingered, even though it had not been his fault. He waited a trifle longer than necessary to ensure that he had enough speed before drawing the control column back to lift the aeroplane off the ground. He brought his wheels up while he climbed the boundary fence.

  The intercom crackled. 'You can bring your undercart up sooner, you know, and hold her right down on the deck to build up speed.'

  Yes, and then zoom away in a split-arse climbing turn. But I hardly thought that appropriate, in the circumstances. The unspoken retort smouldered in Alden like heart-burn after too hot a curry.

  He left the circuit and set course for the coast, where he had to orbit for some minutes to give an anti-aircraft battery practice in using its instruments to gauge the Oxford's height and predict its course, for aiming its guns. The short exercise was plainly tedious for Hanbury. For Alden it was a chance to display the smoothness and accuracy of his Rate One turns in both directions and he hoped that his excellence would expunge the awkward moment when a throttle had stuck.

  P.U.F.O. he thought to himself when the gun site fired a green Verey light and he levelled off to turn away.

  Hanbury woke up. 'Right, I have control. You can do some quite amusing things with these, you know.'

  It depended on one's definition of amusement and Alden was not at all sure that his and his flight commander's would coincide.

  Hanbury began climbing out to sea. At ten thousand feet he said, as though there had been no break since his last contribution to their sparse conversation, 'Such as a roll off the top.'
>
  The next instant, Alden was clutching for support as he found the aircraft in a dive. When the speed had built up to Hanbury's satisfaction he gently pulled it into a steep climb and Alden was soon hanging head-down in his straps. His senses suffered a mild disorientation as the aircraft half-rolled from the inverted attitude to level flight: in the opposite direction.

  The cockpit was full of dust that made both its occupants sneeze. Scraps of paper, small stones, a couple of spanners and a screwdriver, an airman's forage cap and an old black gym shoe had rattled about as Hanbury turned the aircraft upside down. When he had finished sneezing he said 'That's the way I always find out if the erks are keeping an aeroplane properly swept. They aren't.'

  He put the Oxford into a barrel roll which was a marvel of symmetry and firmness. There was not an inch of slip at any stage of the manoeuvre.

  'Right, Derek, you have control.' Hanbury took his hands off the stick and throttles at once. The aircraft was not trimmed to fly itself. Alden grabbed for them; but gently. Hanbury sounded in a good humour. He must be, Alden concluded: Derek, forsooth! He felt that he had passed through an initiation, although exactly what it was he could not quite decide. Perhaps his remaining totally unruffled had done the trick.

  It was a rare event for a mischievous impulse to prompt him to an escapade. The last few austere years had tended to deaden any youthful wildness he had ever possessed.

  I am not without my own means of initiation and my own standards for whether I accept a man or not, he told himself.

  With a calmness that astonished even himself, he throttled back and stalled the aircraft, then let it spin five complete revolutions before correcting. He forced himself not to look at his companion. After a few seconds of level flight and still with adequate altitude, he carried out a slow roll. Once again the cockpit was filled with disturbed dust and small objects shot around all over the place. When he was flying straight and level once more, he still resisted the temptation to glance at Hanbury.