To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  “Ten, sir,” Billy.

  Ten and twelve. Dear God.

  “But plenty of hours on biplanes, too, sir.” Billy hurriedly interjected, “My flying assessments were good.”

  Jerry will sober you up, son, should you live that long. Another young man, but God-willing, at least one with some experience of operational flying. Thank goodness for that.

  Somewhere outside, a Merlin engine coughed, spluttered and crackled, then burst into noisy, throaty life.

  Spitfire or Hurricane?

  “Yes, of course. Brooks, hm.” Donald raised his voice to be heard above the sound of the Merlin. “Gladiators, yes, fixed undercarriage.” He scowled, “I’ve seen some good Hurricanes written off by some careless pilots, and not just the ones who’ve only flown biplanes. I don’t want to lose any of mine, OK? Make sure about the position of your undercarriage when you’re coming in, then, check again. Keep checking your wheels are down. I don’t want any of my Hurricanes bent, understood?”

  Or any of my fine young men, words he couldn’t say.

  Nearby, at one of the air defence machine gun posts, an Army Sergeant raucously shouted vile oaths at his men.

  Skinner smiled inwardly at his CO’s words. You wait until I tell them about the shiny new Hurricane you wrote-off last year when you were grandstanding, Eddie, my boy.

  “Understood, Sir. I’m familiar with retracting undercarriage.” Billy sounded hurt.

  Donald had to raise his voice above the sound of the taxiing Hurricane, his eyes like flint. “Yes. Well, we’ll see, shan’t we?”

  The CO transferred his unyielding gaze to Rose. “Oh, yes, sir, yes indeed.” He hurriedly replied.

  The growl of the Merlin outside gradually receded as the aircraft taxied away.

  Donald’s voice softened. “I don’t want to lose any men or any kites through stupidity or cockiness. I’ll not stand for grandstanding or showing off. There’ll be no aerobatics or beat-ups on my squadron. Bloody behave yourselves.” He looked back at Billy, “You might think you know everything there is to know, and I’m assuming that you’re both well versed in squadron operations, formation flying, tactics and fighter area attacks, and all the rest?”

  They nodded.

  Donald smiled grimly. “Well, you’re both going to have to forget everything of what you’ve learnt about fighting in the air. Those were the old ways. We’ve learnt to do things differently now. So will you. As I mentioned, we’ve learned a few painful lessons, courtesy of Jerry.” And we’ve suffered in the learning.

  Unbidden, the memory of Bolton’s Hurricane falling, falling, just broken, burning pieces, that loud braying laugh silenced forever, and endless, endless waves of deadly enemy fighters.

  His eyes had turned heavy and dark, and the two youngsters shifted uneasily beneath his scrutiny.

  He realised he was staring moodily at them. “The old ways are outmoded, useless. Your section commanders will be taking you up for some instruction, including mock air fighting. I want you both to have some airborne gunnery practice at RAF Sutton as soon as possible, too. God willing we can show you what you’ll need to know.”

  Thank God! Rose thought, relieved. The Training Unit had not given any practical instruction whatsoever in air shooting. He wasn’t sure if he could hit a barn door at fifty paces, and the thought of taking on an enemy machine flown by an ace of the blitzkrieg had given him more than one nightmare, and plenty of unsettled nights.

  Donald picked up a picture that had been perched on the sill. A young woman with a fair bob and dressed in a simple white dress smiled up uncertainly at him, the flush of recent laughter still caught in her eyes.

  He stared intently at the smiling girl, as if burning each detail onto his mind, even though each line and angle was permanently marked in his mind. I still miss you, love.

  He noticed the two young men looking at him quizzically.

  Wondering about him, about the scar and the DFC, perhaps? Well, let them. They’ll find out themselves what it was all about, soon enough, poor little sods.

  His voice hardened. “I want you both to have a lot more hours in these kites before I allow you to become operational.” He saw their expressions, and held up a hand before they could protest. “You have to be a useful part of the squadron, so you’ll have to learn how we do things, and how we work. Think of it as an additional course of instruction. A little bit more training, hm?”

  His gaze was intense now, the voice harder. “At the end of the week I’ll ask your flight commanders on how you’ve each progressed, and, depending on that, I shall decide on your individual readiness for operational status. I’ll not send you against Jerry unless you’re ready.”

  He glanced out of the window, then back at them. “One last word of warning. If you’re not up to it, I’ll send you back. No duffers on this squadron.”

  If only I could really afford to send back the ones who weren’t ready.

  They looked suitably cowed. Good. Better not to be over confident. There was more to being a fighter pilot than a pair of silk wings, a cocky smile and a fancy scarf.

  He carefully set down the picture frame, as if it were a fragile and priceless, which to him it was (I love you, my sweet!), and leaned forward on his desk, “We work together, and are stronger for it. All for one and all that sort of thing.”

  God! How do I keep saying this? How easily the words slip out, but in reality I’m just a man like either of you. You think I have all the answers, but I have none. Just false assurances for an uncertain future.

  On the runway, the unknown pilot blipped the throttle on his aircraft saucily, and then began his take-off run. The taped windows vibrated.

  “We are currently under-strength, so I can’t afford to keep you away from the war for too long, but I want you better prepared than you might be right now. Learn as much as you can, as soon as you can, because what you’ll learn will likely help keep you alive, and, hopefully, help you remain in one piece. We lost quite a few of the squadron over Dunkirk, so we’re still awaiting more replacements, but they should be joining us over the next few days or so, as I mentioned before.”

  There was a gentle smile on his lips now, “I’ll expect you both to pass on to them what you’re about to learn. Learn well, because one day it might be you doing the teaching.” The smile disappeared, “That is, if you can prove to me that we should keep you.”

  And if you survive, of course.

  Don’t look at me with those trusting eyes, those eager, shining faces. If I have to, I will send you to your deaths, and you’ll not be the first, God help me. Because it’s what I may have to do. Will I have to write to your parents one day, too? I hope you’re able to learn what our hard-earned experience has taught us. If you can learn, maybe you’ll live. If you don’t, there’s no hope at all.

  For you, or for any of us.

  If I could give you more time, I would, but, God help me, I need you now. The enemy is coming.

  There is no more time.

  He shook their hands again, and smiled at them, but his heart mourned the many dead of this war, and the many more of those yet to die.

  Skinner gazed at Donald with compassion, as the two chastened young pilots left the room.

  You poor boy, you’ve already been through the mill. Belgium, France, Dunkirk, what next? You’ve grown old before your time, seen things that no man should, and now you have to go on sending more boys out to fight, and if needs be, die. If I could take your place, bear your responsibilities, I would.

  His thoughts drifted back to another war, another place. Seems so long ago now.

  I, too, have known the hell you are in now. May you live to look back on this time in your old age, so that it is only a bitter faded memory.

  My memories are still crystal clear, even after twenty-odd years, but at least they’re only memories now. We have more hard times yet to come.

  New memories yet to make.

  Donald turned to him with a smile, slowly rubbi
ng his hands. As if wiping away the terrifying enthusiasm of the two boys.

  “Well, Uncle, they seem a promising pair of lads. Brooks has a reasonable number of flying hours, and he’s used to flying fighters, so he knows the score, and although Rose may still be wet behind the ears, that AFC means there’s hope for him. I just hope they’re good students. Fingers crossed, eh?”

  “Don’t worry, sir. Granny and Dicky will set them straight, teach them a thing or three. I have a lot of faith in those two. God help Rose and Brooks!”

  “Quite right, Uncle.” Here was the boy again, “All this jawing’s made me thirsty, how about a nice cup of tea?” He pulled out his pipe, clamped it firmly between even teeth.

  Skinner’s gaze softened. “Certainly, Sir, I’ll give Jenny the nod, tell her to put the kettle on, on my way out. I better go and tell those boys who they’ve got to fly with.” He, too, looked at the photo.

  Skinner put a fatherly hand on Donald’s shoulder, squeezed gently. “Come to think of it, I could do with a cuppa, too.”

  Though I’d prefer something a bit stronger, he thought, and a cigarette or two.

  God help us, but it never gets easier.

  CHAPTER 5

  Rose had been told by Skinner to meet with a Pilot Officer Daniel Smith, who was, apparently, the section commander for A’Flight’s Yellow section.

  Billy had found his section commander straight after the interview with the CO, as Dicky came out of the Mess. Ffellowes was to be his (Brook’s) section commander.

  The same could not be said for Rose, however, and after a series of fruitless trips to the main store, the latrines, one of the blister hangers, and then the cookhouse, he was finally redirected to some of the fighter pens at the far end of the field, situated near a large copse of trees.

  Beyond them, smoke curled peacefully from the chimney-stack of a farmhouse outside the airfield perimeter.

  Nearby, a Fordson 15 cwt truck loaded with a khaki clutch of soldiers slowly trundled its way back to the guardhouse. It was one of two vehicles that were part of the airfield defence detachment immediate response section.

  The other was a Morris truck with a pair of dustbin-like turrets, mounting machine guns. Wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of that, he mused, cautiously eyeing the grim faces beneath the helmets.

  The fabric at the bottom of his trouser legs were damp with the still-present morning dew, whilst his once beautifully polished shoes were now wet and covered with bits of earth and grass.

  There were three Hurricanes lined up in adjacent blast pens, sturdy and exciting, and one of the three had its engine cowling pulled back with an airman on a ladder hunched before the big Rolls-Royce Merlin II engine, his hands disappearing inside the workings of the engine.

  Another airman stood beside the wing root of the fighter, standing ready with some tools.

  A third ‘erk’ was perched precariously on the tip of the fighter’s black nose cone, which had been removed from the aircraft and placed on the ground before it. He was polishing a small nondescript metallic object industriously. An overpowering stink of dope, grease, oil and glycol clung to the air about them.

  The metallic clatter and cheerful voices floated on the morning air to him as he walked towards them.

  They did not see him approach, and he listened with interest as the lanky, dark-haired mechanic working on the engine told a dirty joke whilst still tinkering with the complex innards of the engine.

  The internal workings of the modern monoplane fighter engine were a confusing near-mystery to Rose, and, despite attempts during training to teach him the basics by well-meaning and kindly teachers, he remained the worst of students, and would most likely permanently ruin any aero-engine he was allowed to tamper with. The most generous of engineering officers were usually reduced to raving incoherence by his difficulty with even the most fundamental points.

  He still found it hard to believe that he’d satisfied the requirements of his tutors. They must be desperate.

  Thus, with this woeful lack of understanding, he marvelled as the mechanic worked skilfully, never seeming to falter as he tightened something one moment, then adjusted another next.

  For some moments he stood and watched in mystified fascination.

  The airmen finally noticed him, and they sprang to attention. Except, that is, for the dark-haired and lean mechanic on the ladder, who casually glanced at him momentarily, then returned to the business at hand, without any sign of acknowledgement.

  Bewildered and annoyed by the rudeness of the discourteous mechanic, Rose waved the other two to rest, and asked, “I say, could you tell me if P/O Smith is around, at all?”

  “Who wants to know?” The unhelpful answer seemed to emanate from the bowels of the Merlin, as the man continued to labour industriously, refusing to look at Rose.

  “Quite why that involves you, airman, I don’t know,” answered Rose firmly, “However the fact is that the CO has asked me to report to him. I’m to fly with him today.”

  Firm, be firm, you’re an officer! They’re supposed to be respectful towards you!

  “Perhaps if you’d just direct me to him, airman?” He irritably wiggled his cold toes in the wet socks.

  The mechanic finally turned around and looked at him, hard.

  “Ah. You’ll be Rose, then.”

  Really, the bloody man had little respect for rank! Rose could feel his little authority slowly sliding away from him. He hadn’t experienced such blatant disrespect before.

  “Yes, Pilot Officer Rose to you, airman.” He emphasised the rank. “Do you have any idea where the hell I can find Smith?”

  The mechanic eyed him with distaste. “Oh, you’ll find him in hell one day, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, coolly. “But not today, I daresay you’ll find him a sight nearer than that right now.” He hawked and ferociously spat a glistening blob on the grass to the side.

  Good Lord! Rose’s feet were uncomfortable, he was tired, and he wanted to sit down. He’d chased all over the airfield to try and find Smith, and now to top it all off, some half-witted moron was being extremely insufferable and unhelpful. He was beginning to feel very prickly, and why the hell were the other two grinning like idiots?

  “Look here, I don’t like your tone. So if you can’t…” His voice tailed off as a terrible suspicion began to dawn.

  Awful comprehension.

  Rose’s face reddened.

  “Oh, I say. Are you…I mean to say, you’re not P/O Smith, are you?” he blurted out incredulously.

  The mechanic threw his tools into the nearby toolbox, with a discordant clang that made Rose’s teeth ache, and jumped down from the ladder.

  “Yes. I’m P/O Smith. I was told by Uncle you’d be looking for me. Well, you’ve found me. Took your own sweet time about it, though. I’ve been waiting bloody ages.” He turned to the groundcrew. “Could you finish off here, please, lads?”

  He reached up for a battledress tunic carelessly draped over the wing behind him, and shrugged it on. Like his shirt, it too, bore the stains of his labours. Rose caught sight of an angry red scar on Smith’s forearm before it was covered up with an oil-stained sleeve.

  In addition to the stains, the tunic was also decorated with RAF wings and the tightly striped ribbon and rosette of the Distinguished Flying Medal and Bar, as well as another ribbon, somehow strangely familiar, and the General Service Medal ribbon.

  Rose was awestruck. The man had been decorated twice already, and commissioned recently as well! He must have absolutely bucket-loads of experience, had to be an ace, yet he looked little older than Rose himself!

  Pilot Officer Daniel Smith, Distinguished Flying Medal and Bar, Croix de Guerre avec palme, RAF, known as ‘Granny’ to one and all, was twenty-four years of age, had been part of Air Marshal Barratt’s AAF (The air component of the British Expeditionary Force) during the phoney war, had then fought in the disastrous French campaign as the German Army rolled over the low countries, being shot do
wn twice, and ending the disastrous campaign in the smoke-stained skies over Dunkirk.

  He held his hand out to Rose. It was patterned grey-black with grease, black beneath each oily fingernail.

  Without hesitation, and still slightly taken aback, Rose grasped it firmly, and they shook hands.

  The master had received his apprentice, and now he looked him over critically.

  Smith looked at Rose’s AFC ribbon, then back into his eyes. “The CO has asked me to show you the ropes, including some flying training, Rose. Show you the form, so to speak.”

  “Please, call me Harry,” answered Rose automatically. He was still in awe of Smith. The war was less than a year old yet, this man had already earned a DFM and bar!

  Bloody hell!

  Rose blushed, wincing inwardly at the thought of how he’d spoken to Smith just a few moments ago.

  The dark, brooding eyes bored into his, as if searching for weakness, the pitiless eyes of an eagle, of a hunter. There was no softness there, and the thin, tight face was equally without softness. The fires of war had forged hard steel from this one, turned him into a killer and a warrior.

  “You’re to be in my section, Rose, and you’ll fly as my number two for the moment, so in the air you’ll always be Yellow Two. The third member of the section has not been allocated yet, but we’ll probably get someone who’s going to arrive sometime tomorrow. This morning I’m going to go over the basic rules we have here on Excalibur squadron, about flying, etc., then we’ll see what you’re like in the air. I’ve read your assessments. The CO has placed you in my charge so that I can make a fighting man of you. And a fighting man you’ll be, if I have to kill you to do it, because if I have to fly with you, you’re going to help me stay alive.”

  He wiped ineffectually at his sleeve. The grease stain remained stubbornly resistant to his half-hearted efforts, instead seeming, if anything, to spread further. Rose had never seen such a poorly turned out officer, and he tried not to stare.

  “If I don’t find you to acceptable standards, though, I’ll have you off the squadron. I’m not flying into combat with some rubbish pilot, gong or no gong.” It sounded like a challenge.