"Blue 2 to Blue Leader. Blue 2 to Blue Leader. Am returning to base. Low on fuel. Over."
"Roger, Blue 2. See you in the bar. Over."
David turned and headed back towards England. The flight was uneventful after the hectic dogfight above the beaches. He flew straight and true, man and machine at one with the sky, his mind filled with images of the recent battle. When he landed at Hornchurch with only a few gallons to spare, his heart was still thumping with the excitement of combat, head aching from the smell of cordite, mouth dry. Now it was all over, reaction to the combat began to set in and he felt a deep weariness. As he made his way towards the Dispersal Hut to report to the intelligence officer, his knees were weak with the relief of being back on the ground again.
Over the next fifteen minutes the remainder of the planes landed, and it did not take the intelligence officer long to add up how many German planes had been confirmed or probably destroyed by the two flights of No. 74 Squadron. No sooner had he finished than the pilots were ordered to return to their aircraft, which had already had their bullet holes swiftly but expertly patched. The squadron took off again, their planes completing the journey across the Channel in a tight formation which was swiftly broken when they ran into the enemy above the beaches. David felt a knot of fear in his stomach as he saw the mass of Heinkel bombers approaching like a gaggle of grey geese. Flying a little above these were a close escort of countless Me 110's while, high above these, was formation upon formation of Me 109's, betraying their presence by their smoke trails at such a high altitude. How was their squadron, only twelve planes, to combat such a huge number of the enemy? Then the RT crackled.
"B Flight, take on the top cover. A Flight, stick with me and we'll show these bombers what we can do."
David pulled back hard on the stick and climbed rapidly, the force of his climb pushing him back into his seat like a heavy fist. Suddenly he found himself in the centre of a milling mass of Me 110's. Locking in on the nearest enemy plane, the Spitfires machine guns began to live up to their name. The first burst missed, and David turned swiftly to stay on the tail of his prey. Tracer bullets from the rear gunner crept closer and closer to David, and he crouched down as though to make a smaller target as he depressed the triggers again. This time he scored a direct hit, and the enemy plane fell like a stone, both engines blazing.
Licking his dry lips and wiping the sweat from his brow, David turned back into the dogfight. The sky was filled with tracer and flying bullets. He had lost count of the number of ominous thuds that he had heard ripping into the fuselage of his plane, and he offered a silent prayer that the damage was not too great, that he would make it home. Another enemy plane, this one with a shark’s jaw painted on its nose, passed in front of him. Pushing his fears aside, David tacked onto its tail and fired from about forty yards’ range. He could not miss, and felt a surge of exhilaration as he emptied the last of his ammunition into the plane. As the enemy began to fall from the sky, David pulled out of the aerial combat and headed for home.
6
Sarah Porter stood with the other VADs and nurses on the steps of Heronfield House waiting for the casualties they had been warned to expect. This would be her first experience of dealing with wounded people, and she chewed nervously on her lower lip.
Sarah turned towards the VAD beside her.
“Something’s happening at last. When I joined up the day after Chamberlain declared war, I didn’t think it would be nine months before I saw my first patient!”
Jane Scott grinned. “Yes, but the training has been fun, hasn’t it?”
Sarah nodded and smiled. “Yes. And I’m so glad we’ve both been posted here.”
“Yes, but it’s been bloody hard work this last week. Typical of administrators I’d think. We’re supposed to be at war for nine months, and we do nothing. Not till the Germans are chasing our boys right across France do they send us here to set up the convalescent homes, and only give us a week to do it. Bad planning if you ask me.”
“Stop moaning, Jane! At least we’re going to see some patients at last!” She looked behind her at the old mansion house. “I don’t suppose many of the wounded would expect to be treated somewhere like this.”
“I bet it’s only for the officers. Ordinary soldiers will probably go somewhere a little less plush.”
“You are a cynic. Still,” Sarah perused the edifice which was Heronfield House, “you have to admire the Kemshall family for giving all this up to be used as a hospital for the duration, and moving into that little lodge at the end of the drive.”
“Little lodge! It’s much bigger than my home!” Jane laughed. “How the other half live, hey. I never thought I’d find myself in a place like this in a million years!”
“Then let’s make the most of it while we’re here.”
Sarah looked around at the people assembled on the steps. The nurses and doctors were ready to greet their patients, and a number of men had been called in from the nearby village to act as stretcher-bearers. She frowned to see so many people gathered there together.
“You know, I expected the wounded to come in ones and twos, but it looks like they’re expecting far more than that today. Do you think the rumours that our men in France have been defeated are true? I’ve heard the whole army is being evacuated under fire, but surely that can’t be right?”
“Of course not. It’s only been a few weeks, there’s no way the Germans could have defeated us yet.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
Jane shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think we’re soon going to find out. Look, here they come.”
Sarah checked that her auburn hair was neatly arranged, and smoothed her starched white apron as she craned her neck to see down the sweeping driveway that led to the house. Sure enough two, no three, buses had just passed the Lodge and were making their way towards them. Sister Freeman, as senior nursing officer present, made her way down the steps to greet the new arrivals. As the first bus halted at the bottom of the steps, Sarah licked her dry lips and put on a welcoming smile. As Heronfield House was to be used as a convalescent home, the wounded would already have been treated at field dressing stations before being brought back to England; thankfully she would only have to change dressings and help to re-build the strength of the men as they were made ready to return home. It would have been a far different prospect if she had to deal with wounded straight from the battlefield. But she was wrong.
The first casualties to be helped from the bus were a group of officers. They were dirty, disheveled, some wore only part of a uniform and everywhere - on arms, legs, bare torsos - were bloody bandages.
“Good God!” Sarah was stunned. “What has happened to the usual casualty routine? These men should have had their wounds cleaned and properly dressed at a field dressing post somewhere along the line, but they look as though they’ve come straight from the battlefield. What the hell is going on out in France?”
As she made her way down to help the walking wounded while the stretcher cases were carried inside, Sarah noticed the dirt and the smell, a miasma of sweat, blood, putrescence. She felt physically sick. Never had she expected to see anything like this! What were the conditions like further down the line, if these men had come all the way to a convalescent home in the heart of England in this state?
Putting an arm around the waist of a young man who struggled to mount the steps with a swollen leg smothered in bloody bandages, she quickly assessed his condition. He was unshaven, his face haggard from pain, lack of food and sleep. Blinking away the tears which pricked her eyes, she smiled a welcome.
"Come on now. You're home at last. Everything will be all right. You're in England now." She talked to him as though he were a child, not really knowing or caring what she said. The words were as much of a comfort to herself as to him.
Heronfield was not prepared for such an influx of men in need of emergency treatment; the small operating room was soon in constant use, while those less seriou
sly injured had to be tended in the wards. The crisp white sheets on the beds were soon filthy as uniforms were removed and bodies, unwashed for many days, carefully sponged down. The men were dead tired, some did not even wake when their uniforms were removed and they were washed. They soon awoke with cries of pain though, as the field dressings which had stuck to their wounds were soaked and then peeled away.
Sarah helped her casualty onto a bed and he lay down thankfully. His leg was swollen to an unbelievable size, and Sarah saw that it would be impossible to remove the trousers. A sister hurrying past with a tray of syringes noted her hesitation.
"Cut them off down the seam. They may have to be used again."
Sarah took a pair of scissors and began to cut the uniform away to expose the leg, bloody and mangled. The wound had obviously been dressed on the battlefield days before, and then not looked at again. The sickly-sweet smell of putrescence rose from it and she fought to control her churning stomach. As the dressing stuck to the wound, she began to soak it in warm water. The soldier winced in pain. His face was ashen and his eyes tightly closed when Sarah looked at him.
"How long has it been like this?"
"Six, maybe seven days. It's hard to remember."
Sarah was aghast. "You couldn't get treatment in all that time?"
The soldier shook his head. "Treatment wasn't the most important thing on my mind, I was just glad to get away with my life. You can't imagine what it’s like out there." He closed his eyes as though to try to drive the scene from his mind, but the images were obviously still there, for he continued to speak. "The whole bloody army is stuck on the beaches at a place called Dunkirk, and it looks as though every ship in England has sailed to help us. I was brought off by a Thames barge."
Sarah felt rather than saw someone at her shoulder, and turned to look. It was Sir Michael Kemshall, owner of Heronfield House. She had seen him before but only at a distance, and had not realised that he had come to the main house to greet the casualties.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I would like to talk to the soldier, if I may."
Sarah was not sure what to do. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, I suppose it will be all right as long as he wants to. But don't tire him."
The soldier opened his eyes, and looked at the balding man in front of him.
"Are you the doctor?"
Sir Michael shook his head.
"No. I'm just trying to find out if anyone has seen my son. His name is Tony. Tony Kemshall. He's a civilian, and he's somewhere out in France at the moment. Have you seen him?"
The soldier shook his head.
"Can't say I have sir, but there's hundreds of thousands of men on those beaches. Most can't even find their own company again, so there's no chance of me remembering a stranger. They all seemed to be strangers to me."
Sir Michael muttered his thanks and moved on in an attempt to find someone, anyone, who might know the whereabouts of his son. A doctor took his place and lifted a corner of the now loosened dressing. He turned to the nurse who accompanied him.
"I think you should get this one prepared for surgery. You," he turned to Sarah as he spoke, "there are more being brought in all the time. Can you get another one cleaned up for me, please?"
Sarah nodded and moved across to the next bed, where two men carrying a stretcher had just deposited a soldier. His eyes were covered with a blood-soaked bandage, his uniform torn and bloody. Feeling desperately sorry for him, Sarah laid a hand on his shoulder, and he started at the unexpected touch.
"Hello." Sarah's voice was cheerful, though her eyes filled with tears as she began to help him out of his uniform. "Let's see what we can do for you."
7
David sat in the mess with a half-empty pint of beer, his second so far, in his hand.
"It was far more exhilarating than I’d anticipated." He smiled grimly. "Once we actually came into contact with the enemy I didn’t feel afraid at all."
"I know what you mean." Martin Ritchie signed a chit for the drinks. "The planes seem so impersonal, as though you're not really shooting at people. It's only when they bail out that their humanity sinks home."
The door burst open and the rest of their flight came in.
"Good news." Ted Browne walked up to the bar. "Philip and Ken are both all right. They were shot down, but they’re reported to be with the army on the beaches."
"Not bad, considering how many of them we shot down." David turned so that he could see the station band, who had grouped together around the piano in the dining room, and were beginning to play. "Still, they did some damage to us. You should have seen my kite!"
Martin laughed. "It's the best impression of a sieve I've ever seen! But you're not the only one. We'll be lucky to get a dozen planes in the air tomorrow."
David finished his drink and called for another round. It was funny how the combat seemed to have stirred up a terrific thirst in them all. Perhaps it was a way of coping with the excess adrenalin, for the drinking went on late into the night as they swapped tales of confirmed kills and near misses. All the time the band played lively dance tunes, as though attempting to make the men forget that they must be up again early the next morning, to fly once more against the enemy.
The next day dawned to find a depleted squadron out on the airfield. Of their sixteen aircraft only eight were serviceable enough to fly.
“Even less than we thought!” Martin grinned nervously. “What good will eight of us be able to do?”
“Don’t worry.” David grinned at his friend as they made their way towards their planes. “We’ll do all right, just like yesterday.”
The engines roared into life, and the flight took off for the uneventful trip across the Channel. It was only as they crossed the French coast that they ran into about fifty German bombers with their fighter cover and, regardless of the odds, attacked from below. All was a whirling confusion of planes and tracer bullets. There was no chance of avoiding the enemy, all they could do was to hope for the best as they picked a target and stuck to it until it went down.
“That’s two to me!” David’s voice was ecstatic as the adrenalin flooded his system. “One has gone down, I saw it flaming as it went; the other’s limping away with both engines smoking. I don’t think we’ll see him again today!” He looked down at his fuel gauge. “I’m getting low. Heading for home.” As he turned his plane in a sweeping curve back towards the Channel and home, the RT crackled.
"I've been hit!"
It was Martin's voice, and David frantically scanned the sky to see where he was. At last he saw him. The plane was in a shallow dive as it headed north towards England. David dived in pursuit, imagining the fight that Martin must be putting up to bring her under control, and praying desperately that the damage wasn’t too bad.
"Hang on there, Martin. Your engine is smoking, but it will get you home in one piece."
"No chance of me making it in one piece, David." Martin's voice was strained." I've already lost the bottom half of my leg."
For a moment David closed his eyes, in an effort to bring his whirling emotions under control. At last, head spinning, bile rising in his throat, he was able to speak.
"Come on Martin, pull her up." He tried to force a little joviality into his voice. "You drank so much last night that you can't be losing any blood yet, just alcohol!"
A strangled sound, almost a laugh, came over the RT.
"We must have drunk enough to float all those boats down there."
David looked down, and realised that they had now dived perilously close to the heaving grey waves.
"Come on, Martin. You can do it." His voice was encouraging and at last he saw the plane responding, coming out of the dive into level flight some thirty feet above the waves.
"Escort me home, David?"
"Of course. It's your round first though. Don't ever give me a scare like that again."
They flew slowly towards England, talking briefly at times, but th
e silences between their comments became longer and longer, and David could feel Martin slipping away.
"How are you feeling, Martin?"
There was no reply.
"Martin?"
At last a whisper.
"I'm tired, David. The floor’s swimming with blood."
David felt a lump in his throat.
"You can make it, Martin. I know you can."
"Thanks mate." Talking was obviously an effort. The words were coming slower now, and slurred. "Do me a favour. Phone Mum and tell her it was all over very quickly. I don't want her to think I died in pain."
David felt tears in his eyes, and dashed them away with the back of his hand.
"I'll tell her."
"Good luck, David. Kill one of those bastards for me."
David could say nothing as he watched Martin’s Spitfire waver in the air, as though the pilot were losing control.
"I'm tired. I'll be glad to sleep."
The plane banked to the left and fell into the cold embrace of the sea, while David continued grimly home alone.
It seemed strange to David to be flying without Martin. They had not seen much action, but they had been together for some time and immediately hit it off. It is rare to find such a friend, and David found his mind wandering as he flew towards France, thinking of the good times they had spent together, wishing he had been able to help Martin by intercepting his attacker, praying that he would not die in the same way. Martin had not been the only one who had failed to return from the previous day’s sortie, but at least the two other pilots had been seen parachuting down, and it was hoped that they were still alive. Now just one flight of six planes could be mustered due to the missing pilots and the number of bullet-ridden planes, but one flight seemed to be enough.
As they approached the coast of France, David tried to focus his attention on what lay ahead. This could be his opportunity to avenge Martin, or if he was too distracted, his last flight. As the six planes scanned the skies for enemy aircraft, they were amazed to find themselves virtually alone after the crowded skies of the previous day. Only three enemy aircraft were sighted during the patrol. Two were shot down and, as the other limped away home over France, David found himself wondering, for the first time, what the German pilot might be going through. He was in the same situation that Martin had been in, crippled and hoping to make it home. Yet David did not find himself sympathising with the pilot, only hoping that his plane would not make it, that he would die as Martin had, that it would go some way towards avenging his friend’s death.
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