To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  A squadron of Spitfires, curiously enough, themselves from battered Manston, caught them out over the sea, and sent one of the bombers flaming into the sea.

  Rose saw the smoke of Foxton from a distance, and pushed the throttle ‘through the gate,’ despite his low fuel state.

  The airfield was cratered, although it was still possible to land. One of the hangers was a burnt out shell, whilst another had lost its roof. The equipment store had been demolished, and the ops block, armoury and sergeants mess had all received varying amounts damage. In one of the fighter pens, an aircraft burned silently, and smoke drifted over the airfield, like a malevolent cloud.

  Although it looked terrible, Foxton had come off lightly in comparison to the other fighter fields. But Rose could think only of Molly, and an icy chill of fear settled over his heart.

  “Excalibur Yellow Two to Felix, request permission to pancake.” His voice cracked. Even from here he could smell the airfield burning.

  “Felix to Yellow Two, permission granted.” From below, two green flares came arcing up.

  Instead of circling, he pointed his nose towards dispersal’s, and with trembling hands, lowered his undercarriage and flaps, reducing the throttle to skim rapidly down onto the grass, bounced once, twice (what a terrible landing!), and braked as soon as he got to the dispersal area. Two Hurricanes were already there. Granny and Cynk’s.

  Good. They’re back.

  Baker and Joyce were waiting for him, faces pale but with welcoming smiles.Thank heavens they’re alright, at least!

  Baker saw the bullet holes and pursed his lips tightly, shook his head slightly.

  Joyce was clambering onto the wing when Rose hastily un-strapped himself, pushed back the hood, and tried to get out of the cockpit. He was stopped and pulled back by the still-connected leads of the oxygen and the R/T.

  Angrily, he disconnected them hastily and pulled off the flying helmet, left it perched on the control-column.

  “Any luck, sir?” Joyce asked at him. His cheeks and face were black.

  “What happened, Joyce?”

  “Jerry called while you gentlemen were away, sir. Some damage and some of the lads in the hanger copped it when the bastards came over.”

  “Oh no! How many have we lost?”

  “Don’t know for sure, yet, sir, but over twenty. I think.”

  “Oh God! They hit you all while we were chasing around somewhere else. Bloody Hell!” the air was hot and dusty, the smell of burning thick in the air. Somewhere, rounds of ammunition were popping. “I’m sorry, lads.”

  Baker came up, sucking his hollow tooth. “Best thing, sir. They’d ‘ave caught the squadron on the ground, ‘coz there weren’t no warning.” His voice was gentle, “They’d only ‘ave shot up the old girl if she’d been ‘ere, and there’d ‘ave been no chance to take-off.”

  He nodded his head sagely, “Better you was up there already when they come callin’. Anyway, it’s good to see you back safe and sound, sir. Glad to see you’ve been busy too. ‘Ope you gave the bastards a touch of their own medicine?” he asked hopefully, his eyebrows raised.

  Rose looked around desperately. He had to find Molly. “Oh, yes. Got a Dornier. Crashed and burned near Manston! She was running sweet as a nut, as usual. Thanks, boys. Look, I have to go…””

  They beamed with pleasure at his news of the victory and the compliment for them.

  Joyce raised a finger. “Oh, Mr Rose? Flight Officer Digby called dispersal’s a quarter of an hour ago. Asked if you’d ‘phone her at the signals office when you got back?”

  “She called a quarter of an hour ago? Was she, er, OK?”

  Joyce nodded firmly, “Yes, sir. Right as rain.”

  She was alright! Thank God!

  Joyce’s face crinkled again. “In fact, she said that if you hadn’t got one, we was to re-arm you and send you straight back up!”

  He could feel the relief coursing roughly through his limbs, and he laughed. “OK, Joyce. I’ll come back and see how the repairs are coming along later on. Probably have to go up again. But, thanks again.” He patted the fuselage. There were a line of holes horizontally stitched through the roundel. “She was wonderful up there!”

  “Well done, sir. But I’d not ‘phone from dispersal’s yet, though. Best wait a minute or two. I think Mr Smith’s in there, um, talking to that foreign fella.”

  “I’ll bet he is!” Poor Cynk! He’d know better after Granny gave him a bottle.

  He felt like singing joyfully.

  Molly was alright! Thank you, God!

  She’s still alive!

  And so am I.

  Thank you.

  He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly to him.

  Molly’s face was dirt-streaked, and her lovely eyes were watering from the smoke. “Oh, Harry! You might have called to tell me you were on your way! I could have slapped on a little war-paint! I must look a state!”

  “You look bloody marvellous!” He kissed her forcefully, “Thank goodness you’re alright! I was so worried!” At first, he thought she was trembling, then he realised it was him.

  “Why Harry, you’re so sweet when you’re worried!” She was touched by his concern, and surprised at his trembling.

  “No, I mean it. I saw the damage, Joyce said some people were killed, and I was terrified.”

  “Now you understand how it feels when someone you love goes in harm’s way.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He looked doubtful.

  “Why do you think it might be different for us on the ground?”

  “Well, because you’re a girl, and war should not be for you.”

  “Why do you think I’m wearing this uniform, stupid? I’m as RAF as you too, y’know. Why shouldn’t I serve, take the risks we’ve come to expect of you and others like you?” she sniffed, “I’m glad to share the danger with the man I love.”

  “War is not for women,” he said pompously.

  “What rubbish. Tell that to the Germans who’re bombing the cities.”

  “I want to protect you.”

  “How do you think it must feel to be hiding in a shelter when you’re up there fighting?”

  “I don’t know what to say, it just seems wrong to me. I want to protect you, not have you near danger.” He scratched his head. “But you’re a girl, and it’s not right.”

  “I’m glad you’ve noticed! But what’s it got to do with anything?”

  He was stumped. “Anyway, it’s not right.” He repeated.

  “Yes, I know. You said so.”

  “Will you promise to be careful for me?”

  “Only if you promise to come back to me every time you take off.”

  He kissed her lightly. “Absolutely.”

  “OK, then. That’s agreed. Now give me another lovely big hug. Oooh…yes, that’s it. You’ve made me feel so much better. Hey! Oof! Be careful, otherwise I’ll have to go and see the MO for cracked ribs! I’ll have to get bombed more often! You’re extra nice when you’re concerned.”

  She smiled prettily, “and I think that you’re going to bruise my leg if you continue to press that thing of yours against me. You’ll get your chance soon enough, naughty boy, not long to wait.”

  He grinned sheepishly and adjusted his hips. “Was there any danger?”

  “We just managed to get to the shelter. Two of my girls fell down the steps in their rush to get inside. They were lucky, though, they’ll be fine.”

  Rose was triumphant. “There, what did I say? You see? It’s too dangerous.”

  “Be a love and be quiet and hug me. Mm…that’s lovely. As usual, you’re talking a lot of nonsense. I think we should be quiet now. I think I’d like it if you kissed me, so I think you’d best do so, Pilot Officer.”

  “Yes, please, Ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Thursday, August the 15th was a fine day over much of Britain.

  It was the day when Feldmarschal Herman Goering decided to throw his Norwegian and D
anish-based air fleet, Luftflot 5, into the battle.

  Attacks would be carried out all along the southern and eastern coast of the United Kingdom, from Scotland down to the south. These attacks would mean that 11, 12 and 13 Group would all now be involved in intercepting and engaging major raids.

  Close to midday, 60 Stuka bombers with a heavy fighter escort attacked Lympne, Hawkinge and Manston. Even though they inflicted extensive damage, they suffered a very bloody nose at the hands of 54 and 501 squadrons.

  An hour or so later, the aircraft of Luftflot 5 came streaming in from the east, their targets being airfields of the north. They too, inflicted much damage, though not on their target airfields, with Luftwaffe losses being serious, whilst the RAF fighters engaging them suffered no losses at all.

  Luftflot 5 would not attack Britain again by day. They had been taught a harsh lesson by Fighter Command, one they’d find hard to forget.

  Messerschmitt 110 and 109 fighters came in low over the waves in the early afternoon, and strafed a number of airfields, causing many casualties, particularly at Manston amongst the vital, irreplaceable groundcrews.

  10 and 11 Group were now to receive an increased workload, as a large number of south-eastern coastal towns were attacked.

  RAF airfields were to receive further attention too.

  Rose and the rest of A-Flight were at immediate readiness when it began.

  The tannoy suddenly screeched metallically, “Scramble A-Flight!”

  Rose’s heart lurched painfully as the fitter fired the starter cartridge to start the Merlin engine in a sudden rush, it coughed out a cloud of blue smoke, and began to bellow throatily, the roar blending with the other Hurricanes to either side, music to his ears.

  Signal chocks away, check the ground crews are safe, push throttle wide open, bugger which direction wind is in, just get off the ground, lickety-split.

  Quick as you can, each second precious.

  Quick check of the knobs as you bump along, switch on the R/T.

  Watch out for the others, no time for the niceties of a pre-war check list. But then, how many times had he checked everything already in the long crawling minutes as he had sat waiting for this sudden rushed moment?

  Hands trembling with fear and excitement, as the ground rushed past in a blur, and then fell away below.

  Up, up, into that beautiful pale blue sky, sun streaking through the canopy onto him, but no time to enjoy it, concentrate on Dingo as the flight climbs up.

  “Turnip to Carrot Leader, vector one-twenty, Buster.”

  Reflector sight on, wheels up.

  “Carrot Leader to Turnip. Received. Vector one-twenty, buster. What angels?”

  Switch on R/T, twist the catch to ‘fire.’

  “Turnip to Carrot Leader. Angels one.”

  Angels one! One thousand feet?

  Low-level raid indeed! Almost bloody ground-level!

  Even over the R/T, Denis sounded just as surprised, “Carrot Leader to Turnip, please confirm, Angels one?”

  “Turnip to Carrot Leader, confirmed. Vector one-twenty, angels one.” The tone of the controller’s voice seemed to imply ‘of course,’ as if he did not care to be questioned.

  “Christ! Jerries! 11 o’clock low!”

  Rose squinted ahead, but at first he could not make out the camouflaged shapes against the darker ground and trees.

  Where the hell are they?

  Then he saw them, ten pencil-thin straight shapes, broad wings, sliding silently over the landscape, a couple of hundred feet below them, and the sun suddenly catching their glazed noses, canopies and propeller discs. They were still some distance away, but the distance between them was rapidly decreasing.

  They were Dornier 17s, and they were on a course straight for the station A-Flight had just left.

  The most important question was, had they come alone, or were there any fighters up there, hidden high above them?

  Rose glanced up and around, but the sky above was clear. He followed the others down as the flight curved into a head-on attack.

  Might they be able to attack without any rude interruptions?

  “Tally-ho, lads. Break the bastards up! Only one chance! Make it count!” Denis’ voice was high-pitched.

  The closing speed was phenomenal, and Rose had only a few seconds in which to allow for deflection, push down the nose, and press the gun-button.

  Smoke trails twisted their way towards the Dornier on the port side of the formation. The enemy bomber rushed past like a dirty grey streak, but not before he thought he had seen some puffs of smoke where his bullets might have hit.

  Pull the fighter back in a tight loop, barrel roll right way up and level at the high point of the loop, push forward the stick to dive back the way he had come. Black spots dancing before the eyes as he fought against the forces that pummelled him, and strove frantically to pick up the enemy bombers against the ground below.

  For a moment all he could see was another Dornier skidding away to starboard, breaking up and trailing a thick cloud of smoke, and losing height.

  Then as he looked again, he saw that the enemy formation had split, but there were at least four, no, five bombers still on a bearing for Foxton, already visible before them as a sprawling bright rectangle of green.

  Full boost, playing catch up. If he lost the game, his friends on the ground would pay the forfeit. He banged his thigh with his throttle hand as he willed his Hurricane on.

  Come on!

  Tracer streaked silently up towards him from one bomber, floating slowly up to rush past above the glass of his canopy. Side-slip, take avoiding action, don’t lose ‘em.

  No time for fear.

  An unusual feeling of confidence and harmony as the wings of the Dornier slipped into place between the range bars of his reflector sight.

  The enemy gunner was good, thump-thump-thump as the enemy guns punched hot lead into his fighter. She faltered, but kept right on flying.

  He replied with a one second burst, but he had not judged deflection carefully in his haste, and the torrent of bullets passed beneath the twin tailed machine to fall harmlessly away below.

  He squinted, murmuring to himself, but he was conscious that the station was close. He jabbed on the button again, Molly’s nearness driving caution from his mind.

  The clean, sharp lines of the bomber blurred as the vibration from the guns rattled along the structure of the Hawker fighter.

  Enemy gunner still firing, fortuitously not close this time, whilst the De Wilde bullets sparkle as his gunfire splatters against the port wing of the bomber, ripping the engine cowling away, and the enemy pilot started to turn, port, jink to starboard, then reversed back onto course.

  Check behind.

  Still no enemy fighters.

  Details of the enemy aircraft were imprinted on his mind even as he jockeyed into position.

  Not grey as he had thought, but a deep bottle-green paint scheme above and pale blue beneath, yellow stripe just before the tailplane.

  Rose’s Hurricane bucked as he passed through the German aeroplane’s slipstream, and he fought to control her.

  The trees below seemed to reach up for him.

  Oh shit! Ground’s too close, get clear!

  Rose rolled to port, stick back and into a steep turn, wings feeling as if they were perpendicular with the ground, but not before he saw the Dornier turning ponderously to starboard, an evil clutch of bombs falling slowly from its belly like some horrid offspring, to explode harmlessly well short of the target, violent fountains of soil erupting on the airfield’s perimeter, ripping apart the fence and empty ground.

  Check all around, no enemy fighters yet!

  Unbelievable! Where were they?

  Surely the Germans had not come without an escort?

  Oh well, don’t look a gift horse and all that.

  Rose pulled back into the attack, his Hurricane sweeping smoothly around to continue his pursuit of the Dornier. None of its fellows were visible an
ymore.

  The bomber no longer carried any bombs, but the German pilot persisted in continuing his attack run, still a danger to those on the ground, as he still had machine guns on board, which were firing at targets below.

  Quick look, still no other fighters or bombers visible, follow him down at zero feet.

  Snapshots of all around. Before them, made tiny by distance, a khaki ambulance speeding helter-skelter beside the squadron hanger, rushing like a tiny scurrying beetle.

  An airman in blue, legs pumping as he races on a bicycle towards the watch office, flurries of dust where strafing German bullets reach for him, unsuccessfully trying to pluck him from the saddle.

  Sky now pocking with puffs of dirty brown smoke with fiery red cores as the ground defences opened up on the bombers.

  To one side, near the buried, protected fuel tanks, ugly geysers of earth and grass shot upwards, as another raider planted his load, causing no damage except for tearing a line of ugly craters across the smooth grass. Visible now as he struggled for height, bracketed by ack-ack.

  Smoke curled from a fighter pen to starboard, fire licking an upturned elliptical wing. At least one fighter had been caught by this low level raid, then. Please let the pilot have been saved…

  ‘His’ enemy bomber close in front now, fire carefully, and try not to hit anything on the ground.

  Aim carefully, for your family is down there.

  Short, sharp bursts, one-two-three, and flame curls back in reward.

  Thump! Something unpleasant bangs into a leading edge. Has the gunner found the range again, or is that a piece of Dornier? Might it even be Ack-Ack?

  “Shit-shit-shit,” he mutters to himself, unaware he is chanting the words, like some incantation, to himself.

  The Dornier loses even more height, slipping towards the hangers. Beneath, its shadow races to meet up with it, like an eager friend rushing forward with a warm embrace.

  Puffs of smoke shoot up beside the fighter pens at the western end of the field as the other enemy opens fire with all of his machine guns.

  A vivid orange flower, near the MT pool, opens its ugly petals as a bomb from another of the raiders slams into a QL fuel tanker.