Another glance backwards.
There were suddenly more machines. Machines with square edged wings and yellow spinners. Bf109s!
The breathless fear hit him then, like a bucket of ice water flung over him, full in the face. But already his arms and legs were moving, manoeuvring his kite to counter the threat, to face them.
“Cripes!” The word was torn from his lips. He keyed the R/T. “Break! Break! 109’s attacking from above!”
The shining arc of their airscrews was like the gauzy flicker of a wasp’s wings, strangely adding to their malevolence. They were coming down in formations of four aircraft, line abreast it seemed.
And still he was turning. Harder now, gasping in exertion and fear.
More of them were diving down, difficult to count, dear God, so many, and then he was head on with the first group, and he barrel rolled, no time to aim, pressing the gun-button reflexively in the same moment, the swathe of gunfire reaching out at them in a spreading, outward spiralling cone.
If any of his bullets hit them, the damage didn’t show, although they split apart into two pairs.
The 109’s were firing too, but their own fire did not connect, the deadly sleet racing past him.
They did not manage any hits on his machine, whether because of his unexpected roll, or the sudden head-on attack, or perhaps because of both.
And then he was past them, some the 109’s trying to follow, whilst the majority of them continued to the torn bomber formation. He aimed himself at a nearby cloud. With a little luck, they would be unable to catch him in there.
There were others coming. Two more 109s dropped down dangerously close behind him.
Bloody hell! They would catch him before he found the sanctuary of cloud.
I’ve had it!
Nothing but black-crossed machines. No chance to run.
Turn tight again, hard, pull back hard. Tracer and cannon shells creeping after him, trying to nail him down as he turned again.
Any cloud nearby? No. Side-slip, turn.
A German fighter soared past, so close that he saw the pair of wide open blue eyes staring back into his. A grey leather flying helmet, and then he was pulling the other way.
Another flashed before him, no chance of a shot.
He saw a Hurricane with two Bf109s on its tail, and then another two. Turn, you fool! Turn!
I’m going to die today.
The first pair fired and tracer converged on the fleeing RAF fighter, so that big pieces of wing and fuselage flew off. Fire blossomed its evil flower, and smoke poured back, thick and black and final.
It began to fall, but still they continued to fire into it tearing it apart methodically. No parachute.
“Leave him!” Rose shrieked. A Bf109 was close, closing behind. Twist the Hurri, and bank.
The last he saw of the other Hurricane was the sight of it as it disintegrated like wet paper suddenly ripped raggedly apart.
Still no parachute. Now there wouldn’t be one. Just the ugly smear of thick black smoke against the dirty-white canvas of cloud.
Whose was it? Oh.
Goodbye, Desoux.
He felt the thump of hits against his machine, one, two, three, four, five and then he was turning again. Hits crashed into the armour behind him.
Tighten the turn, muscles aching and heart racing. There was no chance at flying in a given direction, for he would be chopped down without mercy. Sanctuary so far out of reach.
Vomit threatened to surface, and he swallowed convulsively.
The world outside was a turning, twisting, tumbling landscape, filled with tracer and silver grey machines. He knew he was not alone, for he could hear the others calling, but he felt as if he were the only Hurricane in the sky, the only target.
He could not aim and fire any longer, all his attention focussed on surviving. He cursed and the next few minutes were ones with desperate weaving and turning, until he felt as if he had been doing this for an eternity, arms and legs shaking with the effort, vision constricted, lungs burning. Eyes straining against the next slashing pass.
By some incredible good fortune, none of the occasional pattering hits on his aircraft proved mortal, and she continued to turn cleanly, the engine continued its reassuring growl.
And all the while, the Dorniers were getting away.
Seconds turned into minutes, endless minutes, and a straining eternity of struggling. How much more can we take? The Hurricane and he were straining against the forces, the Merlin screaming, and the odour of blood was heavy in his nose.
Stick right, kick rudder. Too much! Counter it. More. Yes, better.
The forces on him made his face feel swollen, tried to rip him free of his harness.
His hands felt like claws, cold with fear.
And then suddenly, he was in cloud.
One minute there was just the danger, the bright blue bowl filled with sharks, the next he was in cloud, heavy and grey white, and, oh so beautiful! Survival had appeared unexpectedly, and by chance.
It held him like a babe in arms, softly, and protective. A sanctuary of flocculent wool.
After the last few minutes (which had seemed like hours), he was feeling confused and spent. In the melee, he had lost all sense of direction and now he levelled out the aircraft, saw that he was at ten thousand feet, on a heading of one-eight-zero degrees. Due south.
The enemy had been heading roughly two-nine-zero.
The cloud held him comfortingly, but he knew that at any moment he may pop back out into the open. The Dorniers would be long gone, by now, so he would try and stay in cloud for at least a few minutes. Perhaps he might catch a straggler or a cripple?
He was fearful of the Bf109s (so many!), survival had been in little part due to luck, but there were still too many rounds in his ammo trays to run home now. Too many bombers that would still be on a heading for whatever target they were attacking. They were likely gone…
Damn it!
He pulled back the stick and zoomed back up at full throttle. He popped back out into the clear air five hundred feet higher up.
The sky was empty. He swivelled his head quickly all around, eyes straining, but there was no sign of any other aircraft.
Neither RAF nor Luftwaffe. Of the swarming Bf109s there was no sign.
There were just a few faraway streaks and contrails on the clouded horizon.
He checked his watch. He could not have been in cloud for more than a minute or so, and they had all gone.
So many Messerschmitt fighters, so very many, now none at all.
The R/T still buzzed with the sound of combat, and he gathered that the battle had moved north-west of his position.
He turned on a heading for where he estimated the enemy bombers would be, and pushed the stick forwards. There may be more beneath.
The cloud base was at nine and a half thousand feet, and he levelled out the Hurricane at eight thousand.
A fire was burning in a field below, dirty orange, whether from a crashed aircraft or from a building hit by jettisoned bombs he could not tell.
The minutes dragged by, and he began to think the fight was finished for him.
And then he saw the pencil-thin line in the distance.
The closer he flew, the more apparent the situation. Two 109s were worrying a smoking Hurricane like a rabid dog would snap at a sheep isolated from the flock.
It was twisting, but the 109s had it boxed in. suddenly it had pirouetted magically and was heading back the way it had come.
Rose pushed the kite into a screaming dive, keyed the microphone. “I say, is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” his nerves sang like railway tracks as a train approaches, but he held his course steady.
It was two-on-two now, but the other Hurricane was in a bad way.
“We must stop meeting like this, sir. People will talk!” It was Carpenter, breathing hard.
“It’s only because you’re so pretty. Can I have a go?”
“Be my gue
st, sir. My bloody guns have jammed, so these two gents thought they’d have a go.”
But the enemy were already diving away, out of the fight, back to France. They had been late but finally victorious in their defence of the Dorniers, and with fuel depleted dangerously, there was no time for battle further, and they now left the battered Hurricanes alone.
Against all the odds, they had survived.
But Desoux had not been their only loss this day.
Barsby had been coned by return fire, and his damaged Hurricane had been easy meat for the Bf109s. Carpenter, from afar, had seen it all. There had been no parachute.
Rose was drenched with sweat, and he turned for home, Carpenter on his wing. At least the other Hurricane wasn’t smoking now, but they needed to get back to Foxton at soon as possible. The fight, for them at least, was over.
Their Hurricanes both bore the ravages of the battle, and they had not achieved any appreciable results, but the enemy formation had been broken, and they had survived. Luck had been with Carpenter, too, this day.
They had survived. And in the end, it was enough.
CHAPTER 26
It was dark outside when the orderly clumped his way into the crew hut. The stove in the middle of the room was black and cold and Rose shivered as a gust of cold air blew through the open door into the hut, and pulled the thin blanket higher to cover his face.
The orderly placed his hand on Rose’s shoulder and shook it gently.
“Four thirty, sir. Rise and shine.”
“OK. Thanks,” Rose slurred. He had been awake for at least fifteen minutes; the sounds outside as aircraft were readied, dragging him from a bottomless slumber.
He felt as if he’d been mummified.
“Tea’s on its way, sir.”
“Right.”
His mouth and eyes were sticky and he wiped his face tiredly with one hand, bristles scratching against his palm.
The orderly made his way around the hut, shaking the occupants of the other camp beds in the hut. There were mumbled responses from the pilots.
Outside there was the sound of a Merlin as it coughed and spluttered. The ground crews would be preparing the aircraft for the approaching dawn and the new day.
He sat up, watched blankly as a drop of water wended its way down the fogged pane of glass, adding to the clear trails already there.
How hateful dawn readiness is, he thought, and yawned widely. He was loath to leave the cosy warmth of his little huddle of blanket.
“What a bind,” muttered a dark shape from across the room. Granny. He broke wind explosively and coughed.
The others moaned, and the orderly, grinning, retreated hastily for the door.
“Phew!” Carpenter swung his legs out of the cot, “Best brush your teeth, Granny. Just got a whiff of your breath and it’s flipping chronic!” Despite the cheery words the NCO pilot sounded exhausted.
“Whose side are you on, you smelly beggar?” Denis pulled on his trousers. “Where’s my bloody gas mask?”
“It’s not me, you swine, it’s the bloody drains,” complained Granny.
Rose ran his tongue over his furred teeth, swallowed dryly. His neck was stiff and his shoulders ached abominably.
I need a cup of tea.
The rest was automatic. Climb out of warm but uncomfortable bed, eyes closed, muscles creaking and tired. Pull on outer clothes, fabric and wool, unpleasantly stiff and cold against his skin. Mae West over the whole ensemble. Then the scarf, tied carefully around his neck. He fancied he could still smell Molly’s scent on it.
The thought of the girl raised his spirits, dispelling some of the cranky gloom of his fellows and the melancholic mood of the pre-dawn darkness.
He patted his flying jacket pocket, made sure he had the little bear and the photograph safely tucked away.
Walk outside, inhale deeply of the chill, moist air, full of the rich fragrance of countryside, the sweetness of it hanging like honey. He shivered miserably.
Nevertheless it was a refreshing experience, after the noxious odour inside of the hut, despite being mixed with the multiple and varied smell of airfields and aircraft. He stretched arthritically; almost fell over as Granny pushed against him playfully.
Then on to his Hurricane, where it was sitting quietly in a small gathering of the sleek Hawker fighters, ahead of him, in the darkness. He quietly squelched his way over the damp grass to it.
There was the ‘clang!’ of tool on metal, and a ‘plumber’ cursing softly.
A quick chat and a joke with the ground crew, who had already been awake for hours readying his kite for dawn readiness, and then he checked his parachute.
As expected, it was waiting patiently on one tail plane, ready to be thrown on at a moment’s notice.
He patted it (Hope I don’t need you today, dear friend), then jumped (Careful! Don’t slip!) onto the port wing root.
Canopy closed against the moisture still heavy in the air, proud line of four full and three half swastikas on the side of the cockpit denoting his confirmed and shared score of victories. He looked at the line, trying to remember the Rose who’d first arrived at Foxton, innocent, inexperienced, and very, very anxious.
He had played with the idea of painting Molly’s name on the side of his aircraft, but had superstitiously decided against the idea.
Brace feet and push back the canopy, check the cockpit. Gloves and helmet ready, oxygen and R/T leads already connected. He lifted the helmet, checked the reflector sight carefully, and replaced the flying helmet again.
Careful glance at the instrument panel.
Petrol tank full.
Tail trim wheel neutral.
Airscrew pitch, set.
Directional gyro, set.
Then the glass of the canopy. Yes, it had been beautifully polished, each speck of dirt carefully removed, and then carefully rubbed dry.
In the air, a dirty speck could be mistaken for an enemy aircraft in the heat of battle, adding confusion where there would be no shortage of same.
Good. The boys had everything set up perfectly.
As per usual. Thanks, lads.
Doubtless one of them would pass a cloth over the Perspex again.
Then, as was his custom, he sat on the leading edge of the wing, offering his ‘plumbers’ a cigarette from the packet of Players he kept on him solely for them, and they chatted again for a few minutes.
Then it was back with Granny and the others to the Readiness hut.
The trees at the edge of the airfield and the hangars were still indistinct, dark shapes looming, and the sky was still deepest royal blue, although he thought he could already detect a faint line of grey on the horizon. The sound of rustling of leaves reached him faintly, as a whisper of wind twitched the trees playfully.
Rose shivered again, pulled up the collar of his jacket, wishing he could have a wash and brush his teeth.
With a bit of luck, someone should have lit the stove in the readiness hut. There’d be some chance of a bit of warmth, perhaps.
He rubbed his cold hands vigorously together, brought them to his mouth and blew warm air on to them.
Granny spat on the grass, coughed, blew his nose and spat again.
“Got a stinking headache, Flash.” He had drunk liberally the night before. As usual. Granny searched his pockets, “Think I should have a fag.”
Rose shook his head. “Be the death of you, chum.”
Granny grinned grimly. Waved a tattered cigarette. “Not these, old son. I think my old mate Adolf will oblige in that department.”
They stepped into the hut, nodded to the tubby orderly (Dobbs?) manning the telephone, and pulled a pair of chairs close to the lit stove.
Squadron-Leader Donald was already there, sleeping peacefully in the armchair behind the orderly. He would be leading the readiness flight today, Denis taking Yellow section, with Granny and Rose as his number two and three, respectively.
They dozed for half an hour, as the little stove valian
tly crackled the cold away.
Rose opened his eyes as the sound of a car pulling up came to them from outside the readiness hut, and a few seconds later an airman came in carrying the container with their breakfasts.
Probably congealed, thought Rose. Never mind. What I need is a nice hot cup of char. Sweet and hot. The hotter the better. Despite the pleasant warmth of the hut, he still felt the cold deep in his bones.
The airman began laying out the mugs and thermos. There was something lumpy, grey and oily and unappetising on a plate, as well as some thick slices of bread.
Taking a mug gratefully, Rose brought it to his lips, and took a mouthful of the hot sweet brew. It burnt his tongue, but the warmth took off the deep chill he had been feeling, and he took another sip.
“Here, Flash, get this into you.” Granny passed him a slice of bread thickly smeared with bright yellow butter.
“Thanks, Granny.”
Rose slumped back into his chair, and let the warmth from the stove play over him. He took another sip. The tea was hardly the nicest he’d had, it was already quite stewed, but at least it was hot, and that was exactly what he wanted. He took a bite.
Behind him the telephone suddenly jangled hideously, the half-expected discordance startling him, so that the tea slopped hotly onto his leg, and his breakfast went flying. He cursed as the fluid burnt his leg, whilst all around the others stared at the orderly, frozen into still-life as he spoke on the phone.
The orderly jumped up and shouted shrilly, “SCRAMBLE! A-FLIGHT SCRAMBLE!”
Rose could feel the strange, sinking sickness already, as he ran for the door, spitting out his bite of bread.
How he despised that blasted bloody awful telephone! Bloody, bloody, fucking, bastard thing.
Behind him, his slice of bread had landed butter-side down, on the muddy floor, following the rules of physics that customarily govern all flying pieces of buttered bread.
As usual, it was Granny who saw them first.
“Bandits, nine o’clock low. Heading two-seven-zero.”
“Tally-Ho!”
They were Messerschmitts, not the Bf109s, but the bigger, twin-engined 110s, the much vaunted ‘Destroyers’ Rose had first fought.
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