Rose picked them out against the landscape, a shoal of ten or more, sweeping low, from right to left, over the marshy ground of northern Kent.
The dark shark-like shapes were doubtless one of those hit-and-run flights sent out to attack targets of opportunity wherever they presented themselves.
The low lying sun, crawling on the horizon in this strange world of retreating darkness, caught their surfaces brightly, picking them out perfectly for A ’Flight against the darker land below. The RAF fighters, however, had the darkness behind them, so it was much harder for the Germans to see them.
Six of us to ten of them, he mused. He searched for higher formations of fighters, but there was no sign. Check behind, left, right, above, below. Check the 110s, then around and behind again.
Smoke poured suddenly from Donald’s’ exhausts as he took them into a shallow dive at full boost, lining up for an attack astern on the port quarter of the 110s.
They must surely see them at any moment, and Rose hunched forward in his cockpit, willing his Hurricane faster.
The enemy aircraft grew larger agonisingly slowly, yet luckily they seemed not to have noticed the diving Hurricanes, coming out of what remained of the darkness.
And then objects suddenly fell away from them (bombs?), and the enemy formation split apart. They’d spotted the Hurricanes.
Two pairs of 110s on either flank pulled upwards out of the formation, whilst the centre of the formation remained steadfastly on course.
“Red Leader to Yellow section, we’ll take the four to port, you take the ones to starboard. Keep an eye on those up ahead. They may circle back and take us from behind.”
Denis replied crisply, “Yellow Leader to Red Leader, message received and understood.”
The 110s were still climbing and turning, straining upwards, desperately trying to bring their cannon to bear. These ones weren’t going to try and make a circle, like the wagons in the westerns. They were going to fight it out.
Evenly, Denis called, “Yellow Leader to Yellow section. Spread out. Pick a target.”
The range was great, but Denis fired a long-range burst that brought a shower of hits and a puff of smoke from one of the enemy. It fell back out of the formation, rolled over and dropped away rapidly. Good shot!
A moment later it caromed into the ground, in a blistering gout of bright flame that lit up the grey land below them.
Rose applied right rudder, allowed his Hurricane to drift a little to starboard. Glance behind.
Almost there, light pressure on the button, tracer climbing, too far to hurt him.
And then the machine on the extreme starboard position of the enemy formation was lined up just right, and Rose pressed the button on his spade grip.
Once again there was the familiar blurring, and flashes sparkled convulsively on the port wing of the machine, shredding metal and tearing the engine into shattered, burning metal. Still trying to turn, neither the pilot nor his gunner was able to bring their guns to bear yet.
Suddenly there was another ahead, arrowing in hard towards him.
He cringed back as the approaching 110’s nose lit up. Orange blobs floated up towards him, slowly, almost as if they were hardly moving, then suddenly they grew to the size of oranges, seemed as if they would hit him head on, crumpling him up.
But there was no crash of exploding cannon shells, no bone-wrenching pain, and the enemy fire passing harmlessly above.
Lucky!
Then they had raced past each other,the Me110 a grey flash zipping beneath his port wing, and his Hurricane juddered in the turbulent air, and his target had disappeared.
Rose waited for the order to tighten up the formation, or to separate and find another enemy, perhaps pursue that last one.
Suddenly, Donald’s voice, cutting through the HF incisively, “Yellow section! Bandits closing behind! Get out of the way!”
The central part of the original formation had turned back, and the two 110s were lining up behind Yellow section, although Donald had called out before they had managed to get within effective range, the enemy almost but not quite having trapped Yellow section in a loose closing pincer.
Except the two remaining machines of the original four (did I get one?) of the savaged starboard formation had decided to call it a day. They were pointing out to the sanctuary of the open sea, and running away now, fleeing hard at full throttle. No time to pursue them. They’d had enough, and were out of the fight.
“Break, Yellow section!”
Kick rudder, push on the stick, full boost again, pull up hard.
Rose felt (heard?) a bang as something thumped heavily into the fuselage behind him. His Hurricane jerked, settled back normally. Pray that the ‘something’ that hit her hasn’t done any major damage.
Please God.
Grey smoking lines streaked past, not ten feet from the cockpit.
“Break! Break!”
Now whipping around in a sharp, screaming turn, the forces gripping him and pummelling him, the greyness threatening to enfold him in its caress.
Nothing in the mirror, look up, directly through the canopy, and there they are, two thin birds of prey following Denis down.
“Yellow Leader! Two bandits on your tail!”
The sight of smoke streaming back suddenly from Denis’ fighter, and then he rolls sharply, drops away.
Check behind, all around, nothing in the rear-view mirror.
All clear behind.
They might be able to get away if he didn’t get after them immediately.
Flash of light, burgeoning, expanding glaringly.
God! Was that Dingo Denis?
“Got you!” a high pitched scream of triumph.
Granny, crowing victoriously over the HF, and one of the two that had been trailing Denis was no longer there, just a tumbling, flaming torch that smashed into the ground below, scattering fragments of metal everywhere.
The remaining 110 was climbing, now desperately turning for the sea.
Try and cut him off.
Where are the others? Red section had disappeared completely.
The Messerschmitt 110 was below and before him, passing from left to right, the landscape below a barely noticed blur. Concentrate on it, he instructed himself.
But don’t forget to watch your tail.
Open the throttle wide. Don’t let him get away. Watch out for the gunner.
No sign of Denis’ Hurricane. Was he gone or had he managed to get away? How had they managed to get so close to hit him? He must be even more tired than I am.
The 110 was travelling flat out, each second taking the hateful enemy intruder closer to safety.
Bank steeply to starboard, follow him down, cork-screw to port and check the turn when wings level.
Nothing behind, the distance ahead decreasing rapidly.
The Luftwaffe flyer was on the horns of a dilemma, should he head for the sea, and offer a straight-flying target? Or should he turn and jink, evade the British bullets and lose his advantage of speed gained, and thus allow more hunters to close with him?
He chose the straight and level option, try and flee, hope that speed was enough for salvation.
Adjust the aim to allow for his speed, press down the button, and eight guns roar, the sound sweet music to his ears as he drops it down onto the enemy machine.
The enemy gunner swings round his gun, a string of tracer reaches back like some evil silk from a spider’s spinneret, trying to ensnare him within it. Stomach turns to a solid ball of ice as the line of tracer arches closer.
Concentrate on him.
Centre the dot. Half a ring. Press.
He had judged perfectly, for his first, tentative burst splattered viciously against the port engine, ripping the Daimler-Benz DB601 engine into fiery ruin. Flame gouted back like acidic vomit, searing and unforgiving.
Then he had to pull hard to port in a climbing turn, the smoke belching from the burning engine hiding him from the rear gunner, and preventing
accurate return fire.
The 110 was slower now, losing height, so there was no need for emergency boost to keep up with it. He curved around tightly into his second pass. The Me110 was slowing now; smoke billowing in irregular gouts, like a message in Morse code, telling a sorry tale of destruction and death.
He closed, so close that the wingtips of the enemy fighter were intersecting with the reflector sight’s edges. Smoke obscured so much and he prayed for good fortune.
The enemy was ruined. There was no way that the 110 would survive a trip across to France, but still he pressed the button, and once more his guns poured fire into the luckless German fighter.
His bullets splashed across it, from nose to tail, scraps and shreds of metal flying from it, the hits sparkling a bright pattern of destruction and death.
Kick rudder left and right to spray the German fighter with death. Tiny shattered pieces of metal spattered the Hurricane harmlessly.
The stench of cordite, mixed in with hot metal and smoke, was suffocating, and Rose’s empty stomach churned.
And then there was just the pneumatic hiss as his guns finally fell silent. He had used up all of his ammunition.
Yet the Messerschmitt still flew on. The fire had turned into a wan streamer of long flame, but it had lost its earlier violence.
Oh, it was losing height all the time alright, but still it continued to fly, straight and true.
Rose was filled with the urge to destroy, to kill this trespasser against his land. But his bite was toothless, his fighter now an empty threat.
Once, twice he pressed the gun button hopefully, but he knew it was a futile action.
The enemy was done, his battle lost, but the fire still burned in Rose’s belly. He wanted to send it, for to him his foe was an it, evil and nameless, flaming into the ground.
The rear machine gun lolled, like a marionette with its strings cut, and now he could see that the long glasshouse canopy had been shredded into a charnel house and splattered red by his bullets.
Aboard the enemy heavy fighter, all life had been extinguished by his guns.
Slowly, instincts screaming, like a feral cat creeping into a backyard, he eased into formation, moving nearer. Watch that gunner, he might turn in a split second and hammer the Hurricane with his machine gun.
Except that there was no longer any danger, because the gunner had no head. All that remained was a body, hanging forward in its straps, still clutching the MG15 machine gun.
He felt like giggling, and stifled it with a gloved fist.
With no head, the gunner could no longer sight on him, and so was no longer a threat to him, as he had been just minutes earlier.
The giggles still bubbled upwards. What the hell was wrong with him?
Bullet holes had scarred the entire length of the Me110, scouring away the paintwork with the life from the occupants of the big aircraft. There was little glass in the canopy now, and what there was, was painted a horrible patchy fluid red of lost dreams and terrible harm.
And the foulest thing was that he was glad.
The coast was close now, but the heavy fighter would never reach it.
It slipped lower and lower now, faltering, as if it were battling on, even though it no longer had the energy to continue the struggle, like a punch-drunk boxer hanging from the ropes, refusing to admit defeat.
The blur of trees and hedges and marshy ground below drew nearer, and Rose pulled into a gentle climb, his eyes never leaving the 110.
And then there was no more height, and the Messerschmitt skidded into the ground, smearing itself messily across the landscape it had come to destroy. A destroyer no longer.
The dead men were immolated in the bright flare of the explosions that rent the fragmented wreckage, a Valhalla of sorts, for fighting, flying men.
The sea swept towards him, and he curved around in a gentle, climbing, arc, to level off at a thousand feet.
The flight was forming up, and there were two plumes of smoke that marked the lost machines of brave men.
Granny tucked himself in comfortably beside him. He had his hood pushed back, and had a pattern of bullet holes stitched across his fuselage roundel.
“I saw yours, Flash. And the one you damaged. That makes you an ace, confirmed. Did you see mine go down?” he laughed, “that makes sixteen, confirmed.”
“Yeah, Granny.” He was still breathless, “Bloody good shooting. I saw you get the one who shot up Dingo. Did he get out of it OK?” Anxiety fluttered inside him, “Is he OK? Where is he?”
“He had to take to his umbrella, but he got out OK.” As if reading his mind, he added, “Don’t worry, Flash, he’ll be fine. I kept an eye on him until he landed. He landed near a road, and there was a car coming, and he’ll probably cadge a lift. Probably be back at home before us, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Hope so.”
“I know so. I bet he’ll end up in a rich widow’s house or something.”
Rose’s heart rate began to reduce in tempo, although the adrenaline was still jolting through his system
“Let’s go home, Granny. I’ve had enough. And my guns are empty.”
“Me too. I need some ammo, but I could really do with is a nice cuppa and a fag.”
Three thousand feet higher up, to the west they could see another two Hurricanes.
Donald sounded reassuringly cheerful. “Come on you pair of reprobates, form up.”
“Received and understood, Red Leader. We got one each. Dingo got one too. They got him but he got out OK.”
“Good show, lads. That’ll teach the buggers to try to sneak in and pinch our bums in the night.”
Carpenter was missing, and had last been seen chasing a 110 south. Donald had also got one for sure, and damaged another with the new boy, Sergeant Jenkins. That meant four shot down for sure, perhaps one or more probable, out of ten bandits, for the loss of one Hurricane. It had been a good interception, and the German dawn attack had been foiled.
Not a bad little score for the morning, and it had been nice to be attacking rather than defending, although Rose still wondered why the Germans hadn’t adopted one of their usual defensive circle formations.
With the immediacy of danger temporarily gone, although the brightening sky could still hide dangers, the energy seemed to drain out through the soles of his feet in an instant, leaving Rose feeling suddenly tired and shaky.
I need some sleep, some peace. Place a hand over the pocket, feel her picture there. Beside his heart. I do so need you, Molly, my love. Just a few days now.
Oh God, when will they stop coming over?
Rose cast an eye wearily at the columns of smoke, now behind them. He had killed at least two men this day, gained his fifth confirmed individual victory, and yet the morning was still young.
Had those men watched the sun rising as they had speeded on to their target? Had they wondered if it would be their last sun-rise?
They must have felt so strong, flying side by side in those big powerful fighters.
They would not know that they had only minutes of life left to them, before he had tossed them into death with a pitiless hail of bullets, and sent them into that cold, cruel darkness.
Without thinking, he patted his pocket, eyes automatically searching for a hidden enemy, reassured by the bear’s bump.
But I’m alive.
I’m still here to see the sunrise.
Thank you, God. You’ve given me the gift of one more glorious dawn over my country.
Still alive.
CHAPTER 27
The 8th day of August, 1940, was a day of unsettled and wet weather interspersed with intervals of brightness. There was cloud over the Channel, but not enough to put off the bombers.
Another convoy, it had been decided, would have to be pushed through. Presented with such a tantalising target, the Luftwaffe were not shy in taking up the challenge.
It would have an effective balloon barrage, and fighter support.
The morning
saw a number of raids.
The main attacks were by a formation of Ju 87 dive bombers and Bf109 fighters. It was met by Hurricanes and Spitfires.
A second, similar raid, just after midday, and consisting of the same enemy aircraft types, was met by RAF fighters again.
Both times Excalibur were unable to intercept, leaving them seething and frustrated. It was always galling to see the enemy, yet not be able to engage.
Raids in the afternoon, where there was less cloud, were enough to cause the convoy to scatter, and thus offer easier targets to the enemy bombers, resulting in losses.
A third main raid, the biggest of the day so far, was detected in the late afternoon. This one consisted of over a hundred bandits. The convoy, split up after the previous attacks, was vulnerable, the defensive balloon barrage no longer as protective a shield as before.
This time, Excalibur Squadron was there. Fighter Command had ensured a presence throughout the day, and they were ready for attacks as they developed.
Because of the continuity of a convoy fighter escort, the squadron had been able to get into that extraordinarily unusual situation, an advantageous position and height at just the right time.
A-Flight had been cruising at twenty-five thousand feet, the Hurricanes wallowing uncomfortably in the thin air, when they caught sight of the first elements of the big raid. Immediately, Donald ordered the six Hurricanes of B-Flight, eight thousand feet lower down, into the attack.
Already the high escort of enemy fighters, flying at eighteen thousand feet, were visible as a cloud of midges. B-Flight should be able to inflict some damage before the German fighters came down.
The Junkers were about to begin their attacking run when the Hurricanes of B-Flight screamed down out of the sky and lanced painfully into their flank, like a pack of wolves slamming into a herd of sheep.
Except, of course, these sheep were armed with an aft-firing 7.9mm MG15 mounted in the cockpit. From his position above, Rose watched his friends smash into the dive-bombers, like a battle-axe smashing into the armoured breast plate of an enemy, rending the neat ordered lines asunder.
Tracer formed a fine, delicate criss-crossing cage that caught one Hurricane and set its engine aflame, and it fell away. In response, though, the score was heavily in B-Flight’s favour. They were taking a toll of the enemy machines.
To So Few Page 31
