To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Grey-white trails streamed back from the wings, hammering from in close, and the enemy began to smoke almost immediately from the starboard Jumo engine. Pieces of aircraft broke off, and then Sampson was over and curving around for another attack.

  Rose remained circling over the plodding convoy (from a safe distance), in case of further attack, whilst Granny pursued the two fighting aeroplanes as they dwindled into the distant muck. Thankfully the naval gunners had ceased firing, but he kept his distance, nonetheless.

  Sampson attacked again, and more smoke issued from the engine. This time it was denser, marking the path of flight of the escaping bomber. It was difficult to see the two aircraft as they melted into the cloud, but the lines of tracer fire lit it up from within, so Sampson still had him.

  Then there was a flash, as if from an explosion. Rose watched anxiously. Had Sampson strayed too close? Or had the Junkers paid for his courageous foray over the channel?

  After a few seconds, an aircraft reappeared. First, all Rose could see was a splash of flame, trailing back a long line of fire, a bright flare, carving a parabola in the poor light. It was impossible to see who it was, but then, “Got him!”

  No screams of delight, just two words, filled with satisfaction for a job completed.

  Sampson’s Hurricane reappeared, close behind the burning Junkers.

  The Junkers 88 had checked in its upward dash, flipped over, and dived down towards the waiting sea. Before it hit the surface of the water, there were two further flashes of light, close together, as something (Distress flares? Ammunition?) on the bomber exploded.

  The second explosion tore the raider into pieces, the separate fragments slowly fluttering down to burn momentarily on the sea before they were extinguished. There were no parachutes.

  Joining with Granny, Sampson returned victorious. It was his first victory.

  “Slipper Leader to Slipper Three. Well done, But I think we ought to have a word with each other when we get back.” Granny was obviously not amused at Speedy’s risky flight through the ack-ack, even though he had managed to down the enemy bomber in doing so.

  Rose watched the two as they returned together to the convoy. Below them, he could see tiny figures lining the decks of some of the vessels, perhaps cheering?

  How did it feel to kill them, Speedy? Are you experiencing the same mixture of exhilaration, fear and horror?

  Or are you just glad that you’re still alive? Whatever else you are feeling, at least you will be glad that you’ve struck a blow against the foe, and proven to yourself that you are a fighter pilot. Sometimes, it’s hardest to convince oneself of that.

  It was fast approaching dusk when they emerged from the debriefing hut where they had seen Skinner, and the airfield’s intelligence officer, the Spy. He had been particularly fastidious today about submitting the action report.

  Rose had drunk a glass of water, and despite talk of a jolly drink at the Horse and Groom, what he really craved was a hot, sweet cup of tea.

  Then he noticed the lovely girl outside.

  Molly was waiting for him, and Granny turned, tipped Rose a wink. Molly watched them as they walked towards her, a trio of fine young men, one of whom was that extra bit special to her.

  His once-white, immaculate flying overalls were now stained and worn-looking, and he seemed to have mislaid one of the rank badges from his left shoulder strap. His eyes were tired, but his obvious pleasure at seeing her was both pleasing and touching.

  Granny slapped Speedy on the back.

  “Come on, Speedy. I think we ought to have a little talk about your endangering HM equipment. If the Navy had managed to shoot you down, you’d have to spend a year filling in forms and attending courts of enquiry. At least you got that Jerry, so it ain’t all that bad. I think I should stand you a pint, and the boys will be in there. I daresay they’ll be waiting for you!”

  Sampson turned to Rose, “Come on Harry, and, er, you too, Flight-Officer.”

  “We’ll just be along shortly, Speedy.”

  Granny and Sampson walked away, and he stood there looking at her. He was conscious that he did not look his best, and he desperately wanted to wash the grime and tiredness from his face. But she didn’t seem to care.

  She reached out her hand shyly, and he took it in his.

  They were quiet for a moment, just looking at each other, enjoying what each saw, the slight, weary young pilot, and the lovely girl in the powder blue uniform.

  “I can’t tell you how good you look, Molly, but you do.”

  The skin at the corners of her lips creased as she smiled faintly, and she looked away. He loved the gentle way she smiled, the way she would look away when embarrassed. She always did that.

  “You’re a very silly boy, you know. I feel positively ancient when I look at you. I can’t imagine why you’re so interested in me?” She reached out with her other hand, and gripped his sleeve playfully. “Anyway, you are in the Royal Air Force, you know, even if you are a dreadful child, and you still don’t have any idea about dress regulations. So, come on, where’s my blessed salute?”

  Rose flipped up a casual salute, tried to click his heels. As he was wearing his flying boots, there was only a dull clump and Molly laughed a single peal of laughter that brought joy to his heart and another smile to his face.

  He placed his hand over hers where she held him. He could smell her scent, and was conscious of the fact that he reeked of battle.

  “Are you free now, then? Will you come and have a drink with me? If you can, of course.”

  “Yes, please. Of course I will, Harry. Always.” He flushed with pleasure as she put her other hand in his, and he held on to her hands tightly, to his lifeline.

  CHAPTER 19

  The following day was one with very much improved weather.

  The Navy had been hoping to take a large convoy of ships, CW8, through the Straits of Dover unnoticed by German observers, but the improvement in conditions dashed their hopes. The light haze was not enough to prevent attacks or to even make them difficult.

  All three of the German armed services took part in the assault on CW8 that day.

  The Wehrmacht gratefully made use of their coastal battery big guns based around Cap Gris Nez to shell the motley and unwieldy collection of vessels.

  The Kreigsmarine sortied forth their light coastal forces, the powerful E-boats rolling out of the wretched waters of occupied France to attack repeatedly with torpedoes and cannon, like hyenas snapping incessantly and painfully at the heels of a bulky and outraged bull elephant.

  Up above, with the improvement in visibility, came the air attack. Massed ranks of Junkers 87 dive-bombers wheeled and dived above the ships, and left the convoy trailing smoke and burning wreckage.

  For the crewmen of those besieged vessels it must have seemed like an unending hell, as bombs and shells rained down from the heavens, and torpedoes cleaved the waters, all around them, to split hulls and extinguish lives.

  Existence became a weary, umending story of waterspouts and explosions, the whine of ricochets and the clatter of gunfire.

  This time the Stukas had come with a substantial fighter escort, and the defending 11 Group squadrons fought hard to cut their way through to the gull-winged dive bombers, but cut through they did.

  A’ Flight arrived on the scene of carnage to be bounced immediately by a force of Messerschmitt 109’s. Once again, the Luftwaffe had supplied their bombers with a strong escort, yet once again, the sharp eyes of Granny Smith warned them of the impending doom just before the trap could be completely sprung.

  Unable to reach the Stukas, the flight broke up into individual aircraft fighting lonely and desperate fights that mirrored the dogfights that were going on all around the area.

  Rose had glanced once into his rear-view mirror, the desperate warning still ringing in his ears, as he hauled the control column back, back into the pit of his stomach.

  His Hurricane twisted around violently to starboard, and
he opened the throttle with a jerk. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he saw the swarm of monoplane fighters just a few hundred yards above and behind. His chest knotted with tension and dread, the tension making it feel as if an ice-cold stone had been placed inside his chest cavity.

  As the Hurricane formation exploded apart, so too did that of the enemy.

  The Germans split up into pairs, each choosing a different Hurricane to pursue.

  “Keep turning, Yellow section.” Granny gasped over the R/T as he too hauled his aircraft into a violent turn.

  The same bloody thing, every bloody time. Why do we keep on getting bounced?

  As he began to climb away, he watched some of the enemy fighters begin to turn after him, the control surfaces catching the sun as they, too, manoeuvred hard.

  Despite the fact that he was turning, and the 109’s streaked past below, the image of one of those fighters was burned into his mind. Even as he tightened his turn, grunting and cursing to himself, the darkening of vision encroaching, Rose was able to admire the deadly beauty of the trim little fighter, with its neat, sleek design and grey and blue paint work.

  His very instincts screamed at him to reverse his turn and chase after some of the other 109s, but he knew that if he followed his instincts, he would be lost. The greatest safety lay in trying to out-turn the enemy. He could be out-performed in the vertical, but he held the edge in the horizontal turning fight.

  As Granny had said before, “If a 109 tries to turn with you, it’ll stall and fall out of the fight. Then he’s at your mercy. If you’re ever unfortunate enough to have one up your arse, for Christ’s sake keep turning. It’ll get you out of trouble. Scout’s honour.”

  In his rear-view mirror he could see the pair that were slipping in behind him.

  Oh God! He could feel his insides turning to jelly. He braced himself, his testicles shrivelling to ice.

  No! I’m not going to die, not today, he railed himself defiantly.

  The enemy leader opened fire, and his nose and wings twinkled prettily, belying the true lethalness of the lights.

  The fire from his cannon and machine guns zipped past the Hurricane, close, but far enough away to show Rose that the Bf109 could not turn with him. He was safe from them, at least for the moment, anyway.

  Thank goodness.

  Keep an eye out, though, for others slashing through the fight.

  Those cannon shells were explosive, and just one could do a lot of damage to P-Peter.

  Rose kept the stick pulled hard back, right into his stomach. Arms and legs moved without conscious thought, just as Granny had taught. Two weeks of operational flying had given the polish to what he had learned, and what now came automatically. Even as the cold sweat came, he kept calm, and kept his head.

  Automatic responses that helped to extinguish the heat of his fear.

  Turn. Keep turning. Slight adjustments. Oh, God, keep me safe!

  Steady pressure on the rudder. Keep the nose pointing at the horizon.

  That’s it. Just keep on turning. Just like Granny showed you.

  Keep looking around.

  Jerry can’t keep it up.

  But can I?

  Eyes stinging, mouth open and gasping. Keep the nose pointing at the horizon.

  With its higher wing-loading, the Messerschmitt was unable to match the Hurricane. It could not match him in this turning fight.

  Watch out for others…

  More shots streaked past ahead, fiery flecks, closely followed by another Messerschmitt, which had tried to hit him in a slashing pass, but the shot was a difficult one, and unsuccessful.

  It was difficult to line Rose’s Hurricane up for a shot whilst he was turning so hard, and the attempt almost proved more dangerous for the attacker than the attacked. As the enemy fighter shot past, tantalisingly close, Rose spasmodically pressed his gun-button, knowing that there was little chance of a hit, for the German had already shot past.

  His guns remained silent, and he realised that he had not slipped the safety catch off in all the excitement.

  He cursed and berated himself foully, although he knew there would have been little chance of a hit. He was breathing hard, resisting the effects of the turning on his body.

  As Rose turned high above, one of the destroyers escorting the convoy received a direct hit from a Stuka; it curved out of position, and immediately began to settle in the water.

  Fully engrossed in personal survival, Rose did not even notice the death-knell flash amongst the distant grey huddle of ships to show the successes of the Stukas.

  One of the two 109s behind had disappeared (where’s it gone?), but the other was still following him.

  However, with his tighter turning advantage, Rose now found himself creeping up behind the other plane and slowly closing the circle. The pursuer had imperceptibly turned into the pursued.

  Pressed back into his seat, he gazed up at the 109, once again admiring its shape. It was an attractive aircraft, in a waspish, dangerous kind of way.

  Keep turning. He was banging his knee with his fist as he urged his faithful Hurricane to close with the German kite. His heart was thundering monstrously, and his face was fixed in a grimace as the terrible forces pressed him back into his bucket seat.

  Automatically he continued to check all around, continuously swivelling his head, to ensure that another enemy plane was not positioning itself to make an attack from the side or from behind.

  So far, so good.

  The Luftwaffe pilot in front, not unmindful of the danger, but scared to break out of the turn, continued to turn with him. Amazingly he had not yet stalled.

  Keep turning. Almost there! Granny was right!

  Tighten the turn further. Is it safe? Yes.

  Reflector sight? Yes. On.

  Guns? On.

  Good.

  Tighter! Keep turning.

  The Merlin was roaring powerfully. Don’t fail me, please.

  The 109 crept ever closer into the crosshairs.

  Help me, God, please!

  After what seemed like minutes, but in truth could not have been more than scant seconds, Rose had pulled around and was finally able to sight on his one-time pursuer. He wanted slightly more lead, but fearful that the German may finally awaken to the danger, he pressed the gun-button once more.

  This time he had slipped the safety catch off, and his machine-guns spat fire out at the 109 before him.

  Hits registered as his bullets clipped the port wingtip, close to the huge black cross outlined in white. There was a sudden puff of smoke from his bullet strikes.

  Another one second burst ripped into the fuselage, and started the Daimler-Benz DB601 inverted V12 engine smoking.

  Startled by the sudden impacts, the German pilot finally realised the folly and danger of continuing the turn and dived out of the fight, disappearing with thick dark smoke and debris streaming back from his exhaust stubs and wing.

  The 109 could out-dive him, and he let it go, his eyes already searching for another target. He tried to moisten dry lips with an equally dry tongue, grateful and slightly surprised at having successfully out-fought one of the dreaded Bf109s that he had secretly feared for so long.

  Did Dad feel like this when he’d flown against the German Jastas?

  Another aircraft screamed past, climbing steeply, buffeting Rose, and he instinctively tried for a deflection shot, but his burst failed to connect, which was just as well, as the other aircraft turned out to be another Hurricane. A pale, terrified face looked back at him as it swept upwards.

  “Cripes, watch out!” Rose cried involuntarily, although it had been his shooting, his bullets clawing out at a friend, and his heart was thumping painfully, erratically.

  He’d almost shot down Cutts!

  Almost immediately, a second aircraft streaked past. This one was a Messerschmitt, and it too was firing at Cutts’ Hurricane. On the R/T he could hear Denis shouting for Cutts to turn.

  Rose was about to
follow, when a thought suddenly struck him. Granny always warned that where there was one, there was likely to be two (at least).

  Was Cutts being chased by a pair of Huns? And if he were, where the hell was the other one?

  Damn it! He was about to throw the Hurricane into a violent manoeuvre, half-expecting to feel the crash of projectiles into his aircraft, when a second Messerschmitt skidded past, already manoeuvring, rocking the Hurricane.

  The second German pilot, the wingman, obviously climbing at full throttle, had noticed him too late, and had been unable to draw a bead on him.

  Thank God they had not seen him earlier.

  Now the German was curving around, contrails streaming from wingtips, ailerons working as he tried to turn, but in his eagerness to fight his reactions were poorly thought out. Instead of adequately protecting his leader, he merely became an easy target for Rose’s guns.

  Rose was amazed as the slightly foreshortened plan view of the Bf109 appeared in the lower half of the ring of his reflector sight. Like the first, it too was painted a silvery grey and blue.

  It was a sitting target! Was it a trap?

  No, nothing behind.

  Too far in front. Fuck it! Fire anyway.

  Turning after it, he fired a long burst that tracked forwards as he followed the curve more tightly.

  The Messerschmitt floundered as Rose’s bullets smashed into it. Hits sparkled like short-lived harbingers of doom along the rear fuselage and starboard wing root. A cloud of what looked like dust or powdery debris (flakes of paint?) plumed back from the enemy aircraft. One strut parted from the tail plane to whirl away in the slipstream.

  Mirror. Keep watching your tail.

  One eye fixed on the one in front, the other feverishly scanning the immediate surrounding area for more enemy fighters. Or so it seemed.

  Too many 109’s around. I’ll be cross-eyed after this.

  His target rolled to port, and Rose hammered another endlessly long four second burst into it. Wing panels and ailerons flew off, and the airscrew had begun to slow down and windmill, a searing streamer of flame, bright yellow shot through with vivid orange, jetting back from the wing-root.