To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Behind the goggles he squinted at the sudden glare, allowed the range between the aircraft to increase. The distance had closed to almost nothing, and he fancied he could feel the heat from the flames.

  Out of control, the 109 rolled further to port, when the tail unit, already weakened, snapped off to whip past Rose’s Hurricane. It was more than fifty feet away as it whirled past, but it gave him a good scare. It seemed to him that he could have reached out and touched it as it gyrated wildly past.

  If it had hit him, he too would have gone down too. In its death throes, the Messerschmitt may still have been able to wreak its revenge on its killer.

  Deprived of the stabilising forces provided by its tail unit, the 109’s nose dipped suddenly, but forward momentum carried it along its path of flight, and it flipped forward end over end, into a series of somersaults, pieces breaking away.

  All control of the aircraft was lost, and it began to spin wildly, falling away. Pinned to his cockpit by the tremendous forces, there was no way that the German pilot, if he still lived, would be able to escape from his aircraft.

  Subject to these unbearable forces, the wings suddenly bent back and then sheared completely off.

  Rose watched as the wreckage of the rapidly spinning, burning remnants of the Me109 disappeared below. It was hard to believe that such a beautiful and potent aircraft could be converted to flaming debris so quickly.

  Cutts and the other Messerschmitt had disappeared, but there would be other aircraft still around. A quick glance behind showed a Hurricane turning towards him about five hundred yards distant.

  “Bloody good shooting, Yellow Two. There’s no doubt about that one.” It was Denis in his D-Dolly. He formed up with Rose, his Hurricane smoke and oil streaked. Some of the fabric on the fuselage had been ripped back, exposing the wooden dorsal section formers within.

  “Thanks, Leader. Any luck?” Rose looked at the now far distant convoy, faint and ghost-like in the haze. Palls of heavy grey black smoke hung ominously over the just visible, muted, silvery dots that were the barrage balloons above the clump of ships on the horizon. The underside of the low hanging dark smoke cloud glowed red from the fires that burned below it.

  The fight of the last few minutes had taken him far from the naval battle below, which, at least for the time being, had finished. How on earth did I get so far away from it in such a short time?

  “Yeah, got one, mate.”

  The German bombers had escaped whilst Rose and the others had been facing the 109s. At least he and Denis had managed to score.

  Another quick all-around check revealed a seemingly empty sky. The rest of the 109’s appeared to have beaten a retreat as well.

  Denis’ voice sounded weary, even over the VHF. “I got a Stuka for certain, and damaged a 109. I was going after the two Huns that were chasing Cutts. I’m out of ammo, though. At least you got one of ‘em. Did you see where they went?”

  “Dunno, Red Leader,” he gasped. Suddenly he felt like a wrung out sponge, dried out and empty of feeling, “I lost them when I went after that wingman.” He marvelled at the steadiness of his voice. I should have pulled Cutts’ nuts out of the fire. But if I’d followed the 109 leader, the wing man would have nailed me.

  Denis seemed not to have heard. “They got the new boy, curse them. Flamer straight down, no ‘chute.”

  Without thinking, Rose brought up his hand to check on Genevieve. Yes, she was still there, tucked away safely in his tunic pocket. She was definitely gaining a lot of combat experience (and keeping me safe at the same time! Thank you, Molly). He realised that he could not even remember the new pilot’s name. He had been a Sergeant-pilot who had arrived only the day before. There was just the vague memory of a round faced young man, cropped blond hair and rosy cheeks, a ready grin, asking what time dinner was.

  Had he died instantly, or…? His mind shied away from the thoughts of the painful and horrible death that the boy may have suffered at the end.

  Damn it.

  His mind returned to the events of the previous day. Sinclair and his flight had cornered a He 59 Luftwaffe red-cross rescue plane, twelve miles east of Boulogne.

  They shot it down into the sea, despite the fact that there were many German fighters in the area.

  Then, they had fled, leaving the enemy fighters circling empty-handed over the burning pieces of metal.

  Originally Rose had thought it an unfair victory, but Granny had explained how the big floatplanes were more often than not flying with a heavy escort, and always seemed to be in areas of military significance, spying. Churchill himself had declared the big flying-boats to be hostile aircraft, despite the large red crosses.

  Besides, a rescued pilot was a pilot that could shoot you down tomorrow. That was why Churchill had declared them to be legitimate enemy targets.

  Rose had understood the importance to the enemy of the spy planes, and now, with another loss, it did not seem wrong at all.

  When you fight, Granny had said, you fight to win. Total victory or nothing. “It ain’t a game, Harry. And being dead ain’t much fun. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Winning was the only thing that mattered. Otherwise, there’s no point.

  His heart was still hammering painfully. The edges of three bullet holes showed on his starboard wing. He could not even remember being hit.

  Copeland. Ah, yes, that was his name. Sergeant-Pilot Copeland, the new boy on the squadron.

  Just a young boy, killed on his first mission. Rose had hardly spoken to him. How many more would there be before it was all over? Would he himself be one?

  RIP, Copeland. God bless.

  And RIP the poor chaps in the convoys. Why on earth are they still sending them out? What are they thinking? It’s not worth the lives lost or ruined.

  But whatever the machinations of those hidden away in safe, secure offices, I’m still here, surviving once more.

  Thank God.

  Scrapped with Bf109’s, definitely got one, damaged another, but better still, I managed to avoid getting shot down myself by some stroke of good fortune, and I’m still alive to tell the tale!

  Still alive. Thank God.

  But, like Granny had said, the best fighter pilots are not just good, but also lucky.

  Still alive, and still lucky.

  For today, at least.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Balloons,” said Molly dreamily.

  “Hmm?” responded Rose languorously, voice muffled, from beneath his cap.

  Molly leaned over him and grasping the peak of the cap, tipped it up. He squinted in the bright sunlight, his lips stained green by the stem of grass that he had been squeezing between his lips.

  “I said, Balloons.” She repeated in a low, deliberately throaty voice.

  One eyelid raised slightly, and he frowned. What was she talking about?

  “Balloons? What about them? Do you want one? Shall I get you one, Molly? What colour? Tell me?”

  “Not that kind of balloon, simpleton,” she scolded. “I meant barrage balloons.”

  This time he opened both eyes, shading them with an upraised hand and stared at her in bafflement. “You want me to get you a barrage balloon, sweetie? I would, truly, but aren’t there regulations or something that stipulate that any old Tom, Dick or Harry can’t take them as a present for their sweethearts? I don’t think I could fly one of those things. I mean, I could get in awful trouble, and you’d not want that, would you?”

  He was all wide eyes and innocence, “Say you wouldn’t, do.”

  “You’re so silly,” she sighed, “Heaven’s preserve us.” Molly rolled her eyes in mock exasperation.

  She was sitting beside him on the thick grass, her long legs folded neatly beneath her.

  She placed his cap on her head, and looked across the adjoining fields.

  On the far side, the farmer was early collecting his grain sheathes.

  The tall stalks had been scythed down, and then gathered into loose piles at reg
ular intervals around the field. The farmer had then harnessed his horse; he would tie a rope around each pile, and then use his horse to pull it to a hay stack. It was back-breaking work on this hot day, but the farmer and his work hands had not stopped even once for the last hour.

  Rose raised himself onto his elbows. “Honestly, it’s easier to steal the station commander’s Gladiator then it is to nab a barrage balloon, my dear.”

  “Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “You can be so dim, sometimes. I wanted to call your attention to the balloon they were putting up over there.” She pointed with a slim, well-manicured finger.

  Rose sat up. The two of them were lounging on the side of the low hill that bordered the road that led to the airfield.

  In the distance a barrage balloon shone silver as it slowly emerged from behind a line of trees, obscuring the windmill behind.

  The balloon swayed gently in the light breeze, and they could hear the peculiar whistling notes where the wind caught its cables. As with many of its fellow brethren, it seemed to sprout two cauliflower-like ears, one above, one below; the stabilising fins.

  “Oh. It looks like a nice one. Very shiny…urm…and, uh, bulbous.” He looked at her. “But not as nice and shiny as you, my lovely Molly.”

  She tilted her head, and a swathe of lustrous hair escaped from beneath his cap to swing delightfully, catching the light.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she repeated tartly.

  “Oh, no. No flattery intended, believe me. I’m only speaking the truth. You are very lovely. Very lovely indeed.” His voice caught as he looked at her. It was true. When he looked at her, it was so very difficult to look away again. At her full, soft, red lips, her high cheekbones and dark, almond shaped eyes. Her teeth gleamed momentarily and he thought longingly of licking them.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said again, lightly, “You are such a silly boy.” She leant forwards and kissed him gently on his lips.

  Mmm. Lovely.

  “But at least you’re a moderately nice silly boy.” She took his right hand between hers and squeezed. Gently, he squeezed back.

  “Someone will catch a packet if they keep the thing there,” she said thoughtfully, eyeing the balloon professionally, “If they put it too close, they’ll damage the windmill.”

  Wonder why Jerry would target a windmill, Rose wondered.

  Seeing the question in his eyes, she explained. “When I first joined the WAAF, those were the things that were my bread and butter every day.”

  Rose looked at her with interest, “Really? Tell me?”

  “Well, there were fifty or so of us girls in the company. We were one of the first balloon companies.”

  “Balloon companies?” Rose was all agog. His eyes looked huge, the dark shadows beneath them making them appear even more so.

  She looked at him, to see if he was being facetious, and seeing that he wasn’t, she continued.

  “Yes. Number 20 RAF (County of London) Company of the ATS, to be precise. Just before the WAAF was formed in June, last year. It was decided that we would be affiliated and sent to one of the balloon centres. That involved making balloons, or patching up those that had been damaged by the elements. Weather really can be quite cruel to the poor old balloon, and electricity in the air sometimes sets off the hydrogen they contain. How would you like floating around in all sorts of weather?”

  She adjusted Rose’s cap, peak lower over her eyes, “Of course, we didn’t get the ones that were shot down. All the effort of patching them up and getting them in the air, and then, after all that work, someone comes along and shoots it down.”

  She glowered pointedly at Rose, who blushed, remembering the wretched runaway balloon he had helped to shoot down whilst training with Granny in his first week on the squadron. Hell’s teeth! Did she know everything there was to know about him?

  “A couple of the girls went into the Skyrockets,” she continued, referring to one of the new force’s dance bands.

  “Our first uniforms were berets and overall, and it was damn hard to be a credit to the Air Force in those. Not very fashionable, either.”

  Rose smiled wickedly. “I’m sure that you looked lovely, but I can definitely say that you look absolutely terrific in your blues.”

  And he made a show of examining her trim uniform and gleaming buttons. She looked like a fashion catwalk model even in her air force outfit. A little voice murmured something in his mind that she’d look even better without them but he quashed the thought immediately.

  He was quite sure that if she stood naked before him he would pass out or that his heart would shudder to a stop in wonder.

  But the thought of her naked was most delightful, and was not a vision easily dispelled. It lingered pleasantly.

  Molly sniffed haughtily, “Yes, well. What did I say about flattery?” She stared down her nose at him, but the effect was ruined by Rose’s cap tipped over her eyes. She looked ridiculous.

  Achingly beautiful, but absolutely ridiculous. Beautifully ridiculous.

  “Anyway, we did all sorts of admin type jobs before they sent some of us to a balloon centre in Essex. Now that was fun, and the girls there were a jolly bunch. Sometimes we spent a few days with balloon squadrons in London’s docks or on barges on the Thames.”

  She looked at him severely, “Did you know one of those things,” she waved vaguely at the distant balloon, “Needs over a thousand yards of fabric?”

  Bewildered, Rose mumbled, “Crumbs!”

  “Oh yes! Over six hundred pieces of fabric in each of the things!”

  Rose tried to look suitably impressed.

  She released his hand and looked at her palms, “My hands were like pincushions. I abhor needlework at the best of times, you know, and we had to use herringbone pattern with a single thread or one of those big oily sewing machines for the bigger tears in the material.”

  He widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows in an attempt at awed wonder.

  “Hell on the dungarees, you know.” Rose had visions of truckloads of girls in dungarees speeding madly through the countryside, towing colossal sewing machines behind them, the way army tractors were used to tow artillery pieces.

  He tried not to laugh at the mental picture.

  Not knowing a single thing about needlework, he asked, “Um, wouldn’t the needle make the thing leak?”

  “You poor, sweet boy, you don’t know anything, do you?” She patted his cheek kindly. “Never mind, Molly will take care of you.”

  He perked up at that. “Oh, jolly good!”

  She waggled a finger at him in admonishment, attempting to scowl, “Don’t get any ideas, buster.”

  Rose pouted, but to be honest, he was so comfortable in the easy relationship that had formed between them that the implications of a physical relationship terrified him.

  He was still a virgin, and although he was desperately keen to change that, Rose wanted so desperately to please her, and the thought of performing poorly when the time came made him go hot and cold in consternation.

  “So why aren’t you still driving a balloon around, or running around with a needle and thread, or, um, something?”

  “You’d rather I still was, do you?”

  “Oh no, sweet Molly. Just wondering.”

  “I decided I had had enough after a particular incident, and asked to be transferred.”

  “Oh?”

  “We used to be sent inside each completed balloon…”

  “A sweet Jonah into the silvery whale…”

  “Hm. Quite. Erm…oh, bother. You’ve made me forget now. Ummm, where was I?”

  “Sorry. You were about to venture forth into a balloon.” He stared dreamily at her. Even if she wore a barrage balloon she’d look divine.

  “Ah yes. We-ell, once we had made a balloon, or patched one up, we had to paint the whole thing with dope on the inside. Just to make sure it was airtight.”

  “Sounds very sensible.”

  “Well it w
as my turn, so in I went with a couple of tins of dope and a paintbrush. While I was in there, the girls forgot about me and they all trooped off for their usual eleven o’clock glass of milk.”

  “Milk? D’you mean elevenses? A cuppa?”

  “No, milk. Supposed to counteract any effects the dope may have, apparently. Then, while they were there, the CO decided to have a practice air raid, so off they all trot to the shelters. Meantime, good old Molly is still going great guns with her brush inside her balloon. I didn’t even notice the passage of time. Next thing I can remember is waking up with the girls dragging me out by my feet from the innards of the damned balloon. Had a stinker of a headache for days afterwards. After that, I decided that my association with the dear old silver beastie was at an end. Time to seek new climes, and all that.”

  “Thank heavens they rescued you,” exclaimed Rose, fervently. “I’d not have met you otherwise.”

  “And would that have been so terrible?”

  “Oh, Molly, lovely Molly, of course it would have been. I cannot imagine life without you. I know I don’t say so, but, er, you mean very much to me.” With one finger he traced the line of her cheek down to her chin. “You mean everything to me. I think you are wonderful.”

  Pleased, she said, “Do you really mean that?” even though she could see his sincerity.

  “Molly, I’ve never said a truer word. When I’m with you I feel so comfortable. I feel truly at peace when I’m with you. You are like my sanctuary from the world.”

  He sat up,” I know that you really care about me. And the thing is, I really care for you. When I’m not with you I don’t feel whole. You are so lovely, so perfect, and I feel so free with you. I don’t feel as if I have to shoot lines or be anybody but myself. You are the tranquillity and beauty in my life.” Goodness! Where did that come from? He was surprised at his outburst.

  She looked away, her eyes bright. “Oh, Harry. You are such a lovely boy.”

  But, of course, he wasn’t. He was a man, a sweet, wonderful, gentle, quiet and strong man. So different from all the men who had tried to impress her in the past, so full of themselves, both in the RAF, and before, when she had worked as a fashion model.