To So Few
Page 1
To So Few
A Novel of the Battle of Britain, Summer 1940
Russell Sullman
© Russell Sullman 2014
Russell Sullman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Createspace Independent Publishing Platform
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43 – Prologue Reprise
Epilogue
Author’s Note
To my amazing Mother. I love you.
And to each and every member of the Armed Forces of the United Kingdom; past, present and future.
Thank you.
Prologue
In the cold beauty of the high-vaulted arena of clearest blue, violent death was close…
Quartering the achingly vivid sky, exactly as Granny had taught him to, an endless eternity of just a few months ago, briskly yet carefully, Harry Rose searched for the enemy.
Eyes strained, squinting against the light, throat dry and tight, and heart painfully slamming against his ribcage.
His eyes flicking from one quarter to another, not lingering for even a full second; it was not long before he caught sight of the little group of tiny dark specks, like insects in the slicing brilliance, tracking slowly across the nose of his aircraft.
He glanced quickly to the Hurricane flying faithfully alongside, piloted by his wingman, young Sergeant Morton, tucked close into his port quarter.
Rose cleared his throat. “Sparrow Red leader to Sparrow Red Two, bandits at ten o’clock, we’ll give ‘em a nasty nip on the arse.”
God! He sounded so confident, as if he actually knew what he was doing!
“Give the tail end Charlie one quick burst, then tuck in tight, keep ‘em peeled and no heroics, over,” he licked dry lips.
Say it.
“If I buy it, lad, keep turning, get down low and get the hell out of it, they’ll not have fuel to play with, OK? I mean it, no heroics, over.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, received and understood, out.” Calm and thoughtful, with a quiet voice.
Morton had a smooth, round eager face, bright brown eyes, and looked about ten. A good lad. But if it all went tits up, as it likely might, he might be dead within minutes.
It won’t happen, at least not while I’m alive, he thought grimly. But the little voice inside whispered, but what if you’re dead?
“Sparrow Red Leader to Baseplate, four bandits in sight, I am attacking, over.”
The clipped, cool voice of the young WAAF, miles away, “Baseplate to Sparrow Red Leader, understood.” And then softer, “Good luck and good hunting.” What does she look like, he wondered, and what is she thinking at this moment?
Two against four, stinking rotten odds. The same bloody story all through the summer. Too few of us, too many of them. Always outnumbered, the poor bastards.
He turned gently to starboard, staying well below the height of the enemy aircraft, and taking care to keep the sun and channel behind him, to (hopefully) merge his little formation into the sunlit flickering expanse of water behind.
Any glint of light on Perspex or other smooth surfaces should be missed, with any luck, mistaken for the glittering golden light dancing and shimmering on the wave tops below and behind. There was no chance of getting above them, no matter how much he wanted the sun directly behind his pair of fighters.
The gentle turn guided the nose of his Hurricane into an approach from below and into a five o’clock position on what was now clearly visible as a loosely arranged quartet of faster sleek wasp-like Bf109s.
Oh Dear God. 109s. Was it too late to turn back?
Luckily (or not, perhaps?), the enemy fighters were flying at a leisurely pace, otherwise Rose and Morton would never have managed to close the range in time.
Only four, or were there more, waiting to spring a trap?
He was sweating, nerves crawling with tension as he waited for the enemy to react at any moment, but incredibly, there was no response to their approach, nothing hid high in the sun.
Don’t muff this up, he sternly thought to himself. You’ll get one chance only.
Rose had already set his guns to ‘fire’, and his thumb rested lightly on the button.
With young Morton keeping a keen look out all around them, Rose was able to concentrate carefully on the rapid approach, although he continued to glance in his rear-view mirror and check the clear blue around them, whilst selecting the number three aircraft in the enemy formation as his target.
He licked dry lips once more, “Sparrow Red Leader to Red Two, second pair, I’ll take the number three. You take number four, but keep ‘em peeled. This could be a trap.”
The Rotte of four enemy aircraft bobbed lightly above and before them, thin, almost invisible, trails of grey exhaust streaming behind, gleaming blunt noses pointed purposefully for France, looking forward to a glass of chilled French wine and a good cigar.
Arrogant bastards.
Again, scrutinise the airspace all around, eyes hurting in the aching brightness, he swallowed painfully, trying to work up a bit of saliva, wishing for a cup of tea and still searching with those gritty eyes for lunging enemy silhouettes that would be part of the trap that spelt instant death, despite Morton’s continued vigilance as his wingman.
All clear, still no signs of a trap.
In this high cerulean field of battle, the hunter and the hunted frequently switched roles.
And still the Bf109s maintained their heading. The mad buggers must be asleep, confident in their self-perceived aerial superiority.
The two sturdy Hurricanes were now behind and below the fast moving Bf109s, and their curving line of approach had brought them together perfectly, despite the higher speed of the enemy aeroplanes.
Incredibly, they hadn’t been sighted during their careful approach (Thank heavens!), and now the range was close enough to fire worth a damn. The window of opportunity was a small one.
Better make it count, just going to get the one free shot.
A last glance at the pale undersides and dark dappled flanks of the bandits, quick check on deflection, press the trigger – fingers crossed!
One second…
The Hurricane juddered, the image of the enemy aircraft trembled before him, and an acrid stench of cordite filled his nostrils.
As soon as he saw the glittering casings cascading back from Rose’s Hurricane, Morton opened fire on his target as well.
Rose’s aim was good, and ‘his’ Bf109 flew straight t
hrough his burst of fire, but his only reward was a scintillating cluster of sparkling hits, a panel of metal detaching lazily from one wing and a single puff of gushing smoke.
Two seconds…
The enemy aircraft he was targeting sailed serenely through the tight spray of bullet rounds, outwardly unscathed, continuing along its line of flight. No reaction whatsoever from its pilot.
Damn it all!
His heart was hammering inside him so painfully that he thought he would have a heart attack. He lined it up again, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking behind and above, finger mashing down savagely for another short burst.
Three seconds…
Morton, however, had had better fortune, and his bullets splashed the underside of the German fighter and chewed the tail plane of the fourth enemy machine into ruin.
As pieces of the tail were ripped away, the smoking Bf109 wobbled unsteadily and then began to skid sideways out of formation, dropping away, beginning to flat spin, cartwheeling out of control.
You jammy little bastard! Talk about beginner’s luck…
Unbelievably, Morton had scored, one down confirmed, three to go.
Four seconds…
At last, with thick smoke pouring from their exhausts, less than five seconds after Rose had opened fire for the first time, the leading pair of Bf109s increased speed to climb rapidly away.
Morton gave them a hopeful, hurried burst but without result as the range swiftly widened. Thankfully, his success did not entice him into breaking formation to chase the enemy fighters. Faithfully, his Hurricane remained tucked in close to Rose.
Bollocks, thought Rose savagely, edgily lining up on the third Messerschmitt again.
Amazingly, it continued on course along the same heading (the bastard must be dozing!), and he squeezed the trigger yet again.
This time the enemy machine began to smoke and the Bf109 began to roll, to dive and turn away, but the young Leutnant from Bremen, badly injured by Rose’s first, seemingly ineffectual burst, was unlucky, and he turned his aircraft with faltering hands straight into the path of Rose’s guns.
Puffs of smoke and glittering flashes erupted and splattered along the length of the stricken German fighter, as Rose’s bursts dashed messily across it, tearing devastation into the enemy machine as it passed before him.
The Bf109 shuddered beneath this third onslaught, first the propeller blades and then the big Daimler Benz engine ripping free of the fuselage, a big chunk of metal whirling dangerously away, the side of the sliding, turning fighter seeming to collapse beneath the onslaught.
A flickering ribbon of flame, instantly thickening, surged back from the ruined fuel tanks to engulf the ruined fuselage, now dropping straight downwards; but the enemy pilot was already dead, killed instantly in that devastating final third burst from Rose’s machine-guns, dreams of glory turned to blaze and death and devastation.
A thick black plume of smoke behind marked the vertical fall of his victory, whilst Morton’s, ‘kill’ augured into a freshly ploughed field far below.
But there was no time for looking at the tumbling, disintegrating enemy.
They had been lucky, incredibly lucky, the cards could have fallen differently, but would Lady Luck continue to remain with them?
Already Rose was desperately searching for the other pair of Bf109s – Damn it! Where the hell were they? One minute they were there, and then just so much empty sky, stained only by the pyres of their two victims.
I’m getting careless. Damn it. But at least we’ve evened the odds.
Unconsciously, he touched the little pink bear in his tunic pocket. They’d been lucky, he knew, incredibly lucky, but now there would be the reckoning.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, I can’t see the leading pair of Jerries, d’you see the blighters, over?” he craned his neck around to check behind.
Run or fight? Please God, let them have buggered off for France…
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, sorry, I lost sight of them, sir.” Morton responded awkwardly over the R/T.
For goodness sake! Probably watching his first victory go down, Rose thought crossly to himself.
But then, it was hard to blame him after getting his first victory.
It was difficult to stay focussed after the first one, the urge to watch the vanquished fall so very strong, to marvel at the sense of success, but it was those few seconds of inattention that killed. He would have to give the boy an ear bashing once they’d got back safe and sound.
If they got back safe and sound.
He desperately continued to search the sky for any sign of the German fighters, gently rocking his fighter from side to side, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, lips like dust.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, OK, keep looking out for those bandits, and bloody well done on your Jerry, over.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, Received, thanks sir, bet they’re not all as easy as that!”
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, dead right chum! Keep your peepers open, over.”
Morton had opened the distance between them, but remained close enough to support him.
Rose was sweating copiously beneath his oxygen mask, and he desperately wanted to scratch his cheek, “Sparrow Red Leader to Base Plate, scratch two Jerries, D’you have any more trade for us, over?”
That’s enough, time to return, don’t push your luck…
“Well done, Sparrow Red Leader. Please stand by.” Voice still calm, but she sounded pleased. Had she lost someone, did the fires for vengeance burn hot in her heart as well?
Nothing to see, just empty sky, Where are the buggers?
They must have run for home.
Dear, sweet God, please let them be high tailing it at high speed for the French coast…
“BREAK! BREAK!” Morton’s desperate scream of warning was like a sharp knife slicing through his innards and he instinctively hauled his Hurricane into a straining starboard turn, tight, tighter, muscles straining and his face set in a grimace, teeth clenched and vision greying.
Fuck-fuck-FUCK! They’d almost been killed because he’d allowed them to get bounced!
‘THU-THU-THUMP!’
Three strikes, crashing close together, merging into almost one bowel-weakening sound, and he fought to control the machine momentarily as three rounds smashed through the machine guns in his Hurricane’s port wing, punching through to the other side, thankfully without immediate apparent catastrophic structural damage to the wing.
At least it didn’t fall off as he continued his hard turn outwards, but he could feel the bumpy drag caused by the damage.
Or was it his nerves jangling?
And then the tracer was whipping away below him as he out-turned the plummeting pair of Bf109s. The wing might break off, but if he didn’t get out of the way of that enemy fire, he was done for anyway.
Morton’s Hurricane had broken away to port and now he too was turning tightly, Perspex flashing, as the shark-like enemy fighters zoomed through the airspace the Hurricanes had occupied scant seconds before, battering him by the closeness of their passage.
His heart was hammering and his muscles ached, vision greying.
They didn’t get us. Lucky again!
Thank God for young Morton.
Thank God.
The Bf109s had dropped away, too far, but were climbing up and away again, slick as lightning, already turning to line up into position for another slashing pass at the Hurricanes, this time from below.
Where the fuck was Morton? He searched desperately, ease back, and turn to port. Neck twisting painfully, bones creaking.
Oh. There he was. Closing rapidly from port.
The Germans would want to split them apart, but Morton was closing the distance again, was already reforming with him.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, straight at Jerry, fire when you see the whites of their eyes. Stay close.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader,” the boy was panting hard, and his voice was strained, “Yes, sir!”
The enemy were two dark dots now, racing upwards from below towards them, nose-to-nose, tracer and cannon fire already reaching out towards them, smoke trails twirling up at them.
Rose cowered behind the deceptively comforting protection of his Merlin engine as the two formations drew closer to one another.
He pressed the gun button again and his guns roared a final time, and the Hurricane shuddered around him.
A Bf109 loomed huge before him for a heart stopping instant, a dark streaking blur; was that smoke…?
And then there was a neck-wrenching blow, and suddenly the Hurricane staggered nauseatingly in mid-air, and was then flung over and was falling. The stick flopped uselessly in his gloved hands.
Time slowed, and through the top of his canopy he saw with shocked, disbelieving eyes his propeller, tips bent sideways, and turning end over end lazily, curve slowly away and disappear out of his field of vision.
It was over. The fight was over.
Time to go…
Rose reached against for the quick release lever for the canopy, fighting the forces that gripped him. With an effort he grasped the lever, and pulled hard.
It didn’t shift as he urgently heaved on it.
He tried again, but no luck. His stomach lurched painfully.
No!
There was another bang and a juddering (or was it his heart hammering?) as his falling Hurricane was raked again. The instrument panel shattered, spraying him with shining fragments, and vibration in the tumbling ruin of his beloved Hurricane worsened.
He was about to bang the sides of the canopy to try and dislodge it with his elbows when something smacked his leg to one side, knee cap cracking painfully against the side of the cockpit, pain lancing upwards into his hip.
There was a dull ‘whump’, and suddenly flames, painfully bright, were licking around the edges of the cockpit. He could smell his aircraft burning, and he desperately reached again to dislodge his canopy. He was gasping now, unable to speak, eyes wide behind his goggles, muscles straining against the sides of the canopy, but still it wouldn’t shift on its runners.