To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Rose looked at him. The man was almost crazy with terror, crouching down, his fingers clenched into white fists, clutching at the dark soil. He was like some wild animal pursued, unkempt and shaking, face flushed and wet from running.

  Sweet God. Do I look like that too?

  His mate was a Corporal armourer, with the sturdy solid build of a weight-lifter. Rose offered up a silent prayer of thanks. If the Corporal had landed on him, he’d have certainly broken a few bones, perhaps worse. What was his name? Quinn, Quirke, something like that.

  The man who had landed on him was the opposite of the corporal, small and slight of frame.

  Thank goodness!

  “Sorry, Mr Rose.” Although a big man, the corporal was soft spoken, and his voice was apologetic. Unlike his companion, he was calm. His nose was bleeding, the smudged red trail creeping down his chin, and spotting his tunic. “Didn’t see you ‘til it was too late. Are you alright, sir?”

  There was real concern in his voice, but Rose was more interested in the sound of German aero engines as they rapidly receded.

  Rose rubbed a sore hip, ran his tongue over dry lips. There was soil on his lips, and he spat again, but there was hardly any saliva. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, which was no improvement.

  The machine guns gradually stopped their chatter, trailing off one by one uncertainly. The Bofors guns had already stopped.

  In the absence of their banging he could now make out the vengeful roar of Merlins.

  The Readiness flight, trying to catch the hit and run raiders, but there was little chance of catching the faster 109s.

  “Yes, quite alright, thanks.” Rose sucked some air in, “Just had the wind knocked out of me. Not to worry.”

  He rubbed his hip, but knew that you didn’t check who was where when Jerry was trying to part your bum cheeks with cannon-shells, you just ran like buggery for shelter. He almost giggled.

  Pull yourself together, Harry. You’re supposed to set an example. You’re an officer. Bloody well act like one.

  These two will be looking to you for guidance, reassurance. Wish that damned dirge-like siren would stop.

  He took another deep breath. “No lasting damage, corporal, not to worry.” His hip really ached. There would be a hell of a bruise there tomorrow.

  He worked to lower his voice. Took another breath. And then another.

  His heart was racing like a train.

  OK, it’s over. You hold the King’s commission, for goodness sake! Get that hysterical note out of your bloody voice.

  Try to be more like Granny.

  No more sounds of enemy aircraft, just shouts, screams, the sound of racing vehicles, and that twice-damned siren. His nose filled with the bitter stench of gunsmoke and burning.

  “Looks like Jerry’s gone.” He steeled himself, carefully stood up and peered over the parapet edge of the slit trench.

  There was no sign of the enemy planes, the Bf109s had disappeared as suddenly as they had first appeared.

  A single, long strafing run and scarper eastwards for home at full speed.

  “The bastards must be well on their way back to Hun land.”

  His companions got shakily to their feet and joined him.

  Just then two (where’s the third?) Spitfires took off, climbing above them, their blue smoke-streaked undersides seeming close enough to touch, and turning rapidly. They’ve no chance of catching Jerry, thought Rose.

  Wish I was with them, though. Always worth a try, particularly if the ack-ack wallahs had winged one or more.

  Already there were men running in all directions, to tend the injured and to put out the fires. Three separate plumes of dark smoke reached upwards from the airfield, dense and oily, like accusatory fingers questing into the clean blue sky.

  The remains of the bowser, blackened and split open, was burned fiercely, casting a pall above them. Further away, the wreckage of a Spitfire was burning in the distance, its tail broken off and untouched by fire. He could hear the sound of the bullets in its guns popping as the fire reached into the ammunition trays, setting them off.

  No signs of any German wreckage, though, curse them!

  Rose thought back sadly to the sight of the Spitfire he had stopped to watch, as it began to take off just a minute or so ago.

  Poor bastard. He’d had no chance at all.

  One moment he’d been racing along the runway, indomitable and proud in his shining kite, the next he lay dead in the glowing hot remnants that were all that was left of his Spitfire.

  The siren finally ebbed and groaned into silence. The enemy did not reappear.

  One slashing destructive attack, over in a handful of seconds and then quickly back over the Channel, to Schnapps and safety and congratulations.

  “Come on, Johnny, boy. Best nip back; otherwise the Chiefy will have our guts for garters.”

  The Corporal turned to Rose. “Sorry sir. Permission to return to duties, sir?” He looked closely at the young officer. His chin and neck were streaked with blood and dirt. “You sure you’re alright, Mr Rose, sir?”

  Rose nodded irritably. “Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’m perfectly OK.”

  He didn’t feel it. Felt bloody awful in fact. He brushed forlornly at his uniform. He looked more like Granny, now.

  “You two had better get back. Get the MO to have look at your nose, though. Alright?”

  “Yessir.” They scrambled out of the trench and ran towards a small truck parked nearby. It was completely unscathed. Hope my Hurricane escaped, he mused as he watched them pile in and drive away towards the big M2 hangar.

  Rose rescued his cap from the corner of the trench, shook it clean, pushed it onto his head, and pulled himself out, looking back at the cluster of airfield buildings.

  And suddenly he remembered Molly.

  Merciful God!

  Molly! He started to run. His hip ached jarringly, but he ignored it.

  Oh God! Please let her be alright!

  The fear hammered a fresh tattoo in his heart as he watched an ambulance clatter its way away from the headquarters building.

  Please God, help me!

  Please keep her safe for me!

  There were fresh reddish brown scars in the brickwork of the buildings where Luftwaffe guns had ripped into them, and many of the windows, including those of the Watch Office, had been shattered to leave gaping holes that stared emptily across the aerodrome.

  He ran to a clutch of excited pilots, the shards of glass crunching beneath the soles of his shoes. More than one of them had cuts from flying glass, which left red trails down their cheeks and hands.

  They turned to stare at the gasping apparition with the dirt-streaked face.

  “Bloody Hell, Flash!” It was Farrell. The pilots had decided Rose, now an ‘Ace’ pilot, and with a smart and beautiful girlfriend, would be known as ‘Flash Harry’, or Flash for short.

  “What happened to you?” like Rose, he was shaking and pale.

  “Fell into a trench,” Rose said shortly. He pointed at the departed ambulance. “Have you seen Molly? Who’s been hurt?”

  Denis clapped him on the back. “Christ! Thank God you’re OK, mate. Thought you were a goner!”

  He turned to the others, “Saw old Flash running up the field racing with a Hun! Still beat him, but must have been close!” he laughed wildly. “Never seen anyone move so fast, looked like he had a fucking 109 right up his arse!” he explained, then thought for a moment. “I think there’s a line to shoot there.”

  Rose gripped his sleeve fiercely with one shaking hand. By now he was frantic with worry.

  “Please! Tell me! Have any of the girls been hurt?”

  Farrell rolled his eyes. “You randy old stoat! We’ve just been hit by some bloody Boche bastards, and all you’re worried about are girls!”

  Denis saw the worry in his eyes, squeezed his shoulder gently. “No¸don’t worry, mate. It was a couple of the ground crew boys and poor old Grant,” he said quietly, mentioning
the name of one of 97’s flight commanders. “He caught one in the guts as he was trying to get to his Spit.” He shook his head. “There’s not much hope for him, I’m afraid. It’s a bad wound.” He wiped his eyes angrily and looked at the burning Spitfire, “I dunno who that was.”

  Amazingly, tears glistened silver in his eyes. “He had no chance at all, poor sod.”

  But Rose wasn’t listening any more. He could see an ordered line of girls standing together near one of the grass covered shelters.

  And she was there with them, slim and neat in powder blue.

  “Thank you, God.” He breathed gratefully. She looked so calm and in control, as she talked to her girls, and he felt proud in her and in them. No hysteria there.

  So, at last, you know now yourself what it feels like to be under fire, my love. I can see you weren’t found wanting, you look so calm an efficient. You’re every inch the girl I thought you to be.

  He began to limp to her, and then thought better of it.

  Wouldn’t do her authority much good if he draped himself all over her. Not in front of her girls. She saw him and smiled slightly, shielding her hand from the girls with her, she gave him a thumbs up.

  Thank God she was alright!

  “Good Lord! Whatever happened to you, Flash?” Skinner appeared as if by magic, and peered at him in surprise. “Not your usual dapper self. Is that one of Granny’s tunics?” he poked Rose’s grimy sleeve doubtfully.

  Rose sighed, brushed his uniform again.

  “Hello, Uncle. No. I jumped into a slit trench with a 109 close behind. He didn’t manage to get me with his guns, so he tried burying me with stones and grass. Almost got hit by a piece of ack-ack shell casing, as well. Then an armourer decided to land on me, dented me a bit. That’s why I’m a bit dirty.”

  “Probably black and blue, as well I shouldn’t wonder. Some of those armourers are big lads. Built like brick shit houses.” Skinner murmured. “I think you ought to go and check your leg with the Doc.” He waved his arms vaguely. “No bombs, though, thank goodness. Could have been worse.”

  Uncle must have seen me limping, thought Rose. “I will, Uncle. Just as soon as I’ve had a word with Flight Officer Digby.”

  “Glad to see you’re alright, dear boy,” Skinner went on, “although…I remember the first time the old Hun strafed my airfield. It’s old hat to me y’know. It was back in 1917, and this flight of Albatros’ thought they’d come over and take a pot shot at us.” He laughed at the memory. Nerves of steel in this old boy. “Never ran so fast in all my life, I can tell you…”

  Rose looked longingly at Molly, as Skinner happily burbled away. Wish I could hold you, he thought. The past few minutes had left him dazed and grateful to be alive. Ground war isn’t at all to my liking.

  Molly dismissed her girls, and began to walk towards them. Then she noticed the state of Rose’s uniform, and her eyes widened.

  “Harry! Oh my God! What happened to you?” She ran up to them, took his stained hands into hers. She fixed Skinner with a hard stare. “Hello, Uncle. What have you done to my Harry?”

  My Harry. She had said it aloud before them. How wonderful it sounded. I shall never tire of hearing you say that, my love.

  Skinner held up his hands and shrugged. “Not guilty. But he’s not yours, Flight Officer, may I remind you, and that he belongs to the RAF. As do you. However, to answer your question, I’m innocent, M’Lud. Your naughty young man fell into a slit trench. Seems alright, though by the size of that smile on his silly face.”

  She looked anxiously at him. “Oh my God, Harry. Are you alright? Oh, Harry!” she looked as if she might burst into tears.

  Diplomatically, Skinner sidled away.

  Hm. Suppose I could play the wounded hero a little.

  “Oh, it’s really nothing, Molly.” He said self-deprecatingly. “I was very worried about you. I was so scared.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the little pink bear. “Here. You must hold on to her. She’ll continue to bring you luck, and keep you safe for me. Take her back, my darling. She’ll protect you. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

  “No, Harry! You must keep her. She’s taken care of you, and that’s all that matters to me! Please, keep her with you?” tears finally spilled onto her cheeks, and his heart ached.

  “I was so worried! I was safe with my girls in the shelter, we’d just been warned, but all I could think of was you out there and unprotected! I was scared you might try to take off in the middle of it all.”

  He wiped her tears away, leaving dark streaks of dirt from his fingers on her cheeks.

  “Please don’t cry, Molly. I can’t bear to see you cry. Look, OK, I’ll keep her. What matters is that we’re both alive, thank God.”

  Both still alive! Thank you, God!

  Rose pushed Genevieve back into his pocket, groped around for his handkerchief, and wiped the stains from her face.

  “It won’t do for your girls to see you cry. Where’s my tough little Flight Officer?”

  Her nose was pink, her lashes matted with tears, cheeks smeared, and she was painfully, heart-achingly beautiful. She smiled, becoming still more beautiful.

  “Thank God. Thank God you’re alright. That’s all I ask for.” She looked up at the sky. “That’s all I ask for. Keep him safe for me. Please.”

  Finally, not caring that he was covered with powdery dirt, or that everyone must be able to see them, he took her in his still trembling arms, and hugged her tightly to him, his lips hungrily finding hers. Bugger the regulations!

  They embraced for a long moment, each grateful that the other had survived, whilst around them Foxton recovered from the enemy attack.

  It had been the first Luftwaffe incursion against the airfield, and it would not be the last.

  CHAPTER 23

  Rose took off soon after dawn, deciding his Hurricane needed an air-test. The clouds to the east were painted like streamers of red and gold on blue, as the sun began its slow upward traverse of the heavens.

  His Hurricane bumped along the grass, tucking in his wheels the moment he left the ground, and climbed at full throttle, his nose pointing skywards at a sharp angle.

  Let ‘em look at that, he thought with exhilaration as his Merlin roared.

  As he passed a thousand feet he levelled off and circled the grey, shadowed airfield anxiously, checking for low-flying aircraft.

  A section of 97’s Spitfires had already taken off, when the first flush of dawn had lightened the eastern horizon. It was improbable, but the Luftwaffe may try for a dawn attack.

  However, there were only the three Spits high above, no other aircraft, and no sign of the enemy.

  With a last look at the watch office (might she be there, or would she be asleep?), and another quick glance at her photograph, carefully taped beside the altimeter, he pulled back on the stick, pointing his aircraft at the heart of a particularly thick mountain of cloud. The retreating darkness still cast a cloak of semi-darkness below him.

  The 1030 hp of the Merlin thundered through the air, propelling the 31 foot long fighter higher and higher. Rose’s eyes flicked from the instruments to the sky around, enjoying the freedom of the space that surrounded him, whilst not allowing his guard to drop for one second.

  He had become used to the beautiful but unfaithful sky, knew that the empty loveliness hid mortal danger. But he loved it still (even if he did not trust it).

  With so much cloud about, a squadron of Messerschmitts or even those newer He113’s could easily be hiding up here, waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting pilot. Granny said that he’d never seen one and he didn’t believe they really existed, but Wally and Billy had recounted a duel in which they’d fought together against two He113s, so they must exist, after all.

  The morning was calm, little up or downdrafts, so little turbulence that the Hurricane seemed to cut effortlessly along.

  He hit the base of the cloud, still climbing. Before him appeared the coastline, the water beyond shi
mmering a burnished silvery-gold in the post-sunrise light.

  Much of the countryside below was covered with drifting wraith-like early morning mist, partially obscuring the fields. Here and there, the sun would catch the surface of a body of water, and it too shone silvery-gold against the drabness of the land.

  He could just make out the faint shapes of the thin needles that were the distant pylons of the East Coast Chain Home station at Barhamwood, the two pale sets of masts pointing like skeletal fingers into the lightening sky.

  The powerful sound of the Merlin was soothing, and he began to hum tunelessly. He shifted his shoulders in the narrow cockpit, settling his parachute straps into a more comfortable arrangement, squirming so that his buttocks sat more comfortably on his parachute.

  The sun glinted, promising a painful glare, and he kept glancing towards it carefully.

  What was it they used to say?

  Beware The Hun In The Sun.

  Unconsciously he stroked the red gun button on his control column with his thumb. The sun was still fairly low, so the likelihood of attack from that quarter was relatively low.

  Best to be careful, though.

  Granny had sniffed at him from behind his morning paper, and warned him not to ‘Bugger about where the Huns could take a pot. No need to go over the North Sea looking for trouble.’ He’d turned the page and broke wind. “Stay near, you tart.”

  Denis grinned at Rose. “Sounds like someone loves you, Flash.”

  Granny had blown a raspberry through the newspaper.

  Rose smiled fondly beneath his face mask.

  The old devil had sounded almost as if he cared. Who’d have thought?

  He stole a quick look at Molly’s picture. It was wonderful to have people who really cared.

  As he continued to climb, he glanced at his oxygen connection, ensured that it was on and connected properly, checked flow. Granny had told him enough times about being careful with his oxygen.

  Wouldn’t do to pass out from hypoxia and splatter oneself against the pretty landscape.

  He felt strangely invulnerable with Genevieve tucked carefully in his pocket and Molly smiling serenely at him from the instrument panel.