To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  And then a liquid stream of painfully bright tracer sped up from one of the gun pits, stitching holes along the starboard wing of the Dornier, and the little flame Rose had started spread to form a white sheet of boiling fire, that seemed to spread almost instantly across the entire length of the enemy bomber.

  The tracer from that unknown anti-aircraft gunner had hit a fuel tank.

  Ack-ack continues to burst all around it, but the enemy is doomed, with no hope of survival.

  They are far too low to hope for escape by parachute now.

  A hot blob of flame, it suddenly exploded, fragments of fuselage and wing cartwheeling across the ground, like shattered fragments of a broken toy.

  One of the engines, prop still turning, flew through the air, crashing into another fighter pen, this one mercifully empty.

  His Hurricane passed through the roiling black smoke cloud, tiny pieces of smashed aeroplane clattering against the Hurricane, but there was no serious damage to his fighter.

  One down! It didn’t matter that he could not claim it. That had been good shooting by the unknown gunner. He deserved to keep that one.

  His admiration was cut short as one of the Bofors gunners turned his fire onto the Hurricane.

  Malevolent bursts of dirty grey-brown smoke began to sprout all around him, and then that trail of fiery tracer curved around onto his bearing.

  “Crikey!”

  Rose stared at the flame filled hearts of the anti-aircraft fire and waggled his wings desperately, trying to show his roundels.

  “Don’t shoot, I’m British!” he shouted, but it was useless. They couldn’t hear him.

  He felt the tremor as shrapnel punched into the fabric of his fighter, the 40mm Bofors rounds exploding closer and closer, buffeting him by their blast.

  Something thumped hard against the armour plate at his back.

  Good Lord!

  All around, more guns were tracking him, seeing only the enemy and still firing, and desperately he pushed her down, well down so that it seemed to him that he could no longer be flying any higher than about ten feet, his 11-foot propeller skimming just above the earth, and slightly turned the Hurricane to port, passing between the trees at the south-eastern part of the main airfield complex, and out over the other-rank’s married quarters.

  “Shit-shit-shit!” he held onto the spade-grip with both hands, keeping her steady, as the ground-effect made his Hurricane bounce as if he were riding a raft on a river.

  Rose had a vague impression of neat little houses, transfixed by the vision of street-lights, then green tracery of tree tops, whipping past terrifyingly close, the topmost branches level or even above him.

  Within seconds, he was through the other side and safe, pull back the stick and turn to port, away from the main complex of the aerodrome, back into the sanctuary of the sky.

  Best stay low ‘til he was a safe distance from the ‘drome, though!

  Bloody hell! Still alive! My God!

  Thank God the gunners were better against the Dornier than they had been against him.

  It probably helped that it had been larger, slower and damaged.

  For a moment back there, he had thought himself a goner. It was hard to believe that he had been under fire from his own side, could have been killed by them, even harder to believe that he had survived the experience more or less in one piece.

  He sucked air into seemingly-shrunken, starved lungs, turned in his seat to look behind.

  All the other Dorniers had disappeared by now, the sky around him completely clear, leaving behind the wreckage of two of their number flaming on the ground.

  Could it truly have been less than a minute since they had curved into the attack?

  He circled the airfield in a wide orbit, still taking care to stay well clear of the Ack-Ack, as he listened to the sound of Dingo and Granny as they pursued another of the enemy bombers, eyes straining as he looked for more dark green shapes sliding in low over the trees.

  There may yet be more of the enemy, a second wave, perhaps.

  Damn it all, he must have been cracked to fly over the field in the midst of an attack. What were the gunners supposed to do? Stop shooting?

  Idiot!

  Of Sampson and the new Polish NCO pilot, Sergeant-Pilot Cynk, there was no sign.

  He continued to circle protectively for ten minutes, until a jubilant Denis and Granny returned, all that remained of their victim tiny shards of metal scattered around a smoking hole fifteen miles to the east.

  They maintained a combat patrol for a further ten minutes, before a green flare came arcing up, and they were told to ‘pancake.’

  Gratefully, they landed and taxied towards dispersal, before aligning their aircraft into a rough T-shape arrangement, noses pointing inwards, then switched off and jumped gratefully down from their cockpits.

  Rose felt as if he had been connected to an electricity mains point. His body was trembling both with excitement and nervous reaction to the experience of combat and of being fired upon by the airfield defences.

  Despite that, however, he felt pleased with himself. True, he had not managed to score a victory, but he had helped in the destruction of one, and more important, he had prevented the bomb-load hitting its intended target.

  Best of all, Molly had waved at him from the ground as he was landing.

  He hadn’t worn his flying boots, and inside his shiny black shoes, his feet and socks were soaked with sweat. He walked forward tiredly to the laughing Denis and Granny. It seemed they had, in addition to destroying one, they had badly damaged another.

  Whilst they talked, a small, triple-hosed fuel bowser was brought up and pushed in between the Hurricanes. Whilst the hoses were being deployed from their long, stamen-like, metal movable tubes, anxious groundcrew rushed up and busied themselves over the aircraft.

  It was extraordinary how they all suddenly appeared from nowhere and swarmed over the fighters like an army of worker ants.

  One erk moved quickly from machine to machine, unscrewing the fuel cap on the port wing, just outboard of the fuselage. Once the refuelling had been done, he would then check the oil tank.

  Armourers scurried forwards with a flat-bed trolley loaded with belts of .303 ammunition, the fitters checked over the aircraft, and radio technicians cursorily examined each of the TR 9D radio transmitter/receivers.

  Granny lit a Players cigarette and offered it to Rose. “Here, Flash take a drag on this. It looks like you could do with it.”

  Rose smiled and shook his head, “Thanks, Granny, but I’m OK.”

  Granny nodded towards Rose’s machine. The fuselage had been rent by a number of pieces of shrapnel. “Looks like you had a warm reception from Jerry, chum.”

  “Bloody hell, I’ll say! I was chasing that Dornier,” he waved at the mass of still-smoking wreckage near the watch office, “And the flippin’ Ack-ack started having a go at me!” he could still see the dirty puffs of smoke sprouting around him, and he shuddered.

  Denis clapped him on the shoulder, “Well thank heavens they didn’t get you, mate, otherwise that would have been an end to what is going to be a long and distinguished career!”

  Rose grinned, delighted at the compliment.

  Granny stared over his shoulder. “Uh-oh, here come the ladies.”

  Skinner was driving towards them, and Rose was surprised to see the slight figure of Molly with him.

  Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone with pleasure and excitement, and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, careful not to catch him with the brim of her helmet, and conscious of the groundcrew gathered around the Hurricanes, even though no-one seemed to be looking at them.

  “Thank God you’re alright, Harry! I saw you come after that Dornier and bring it down! It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”

  Rose coloured, half-pleased, half-embarrassed by her words, and aware as Denis and Granny exchanged amused glances with each other.

  He coughed self
-consciously, his voice gruff. “Ahem. Well, to be honest, I think it was the gunners who got him really, Molly.”

  She looked absolutely breath-taking, and he felt like taking her into his arms and squeezing her tightly to him. Two bright spots of pink burned on her cheeks.

  “Only after you’d damaged him. You’d have got him anyway, you had him dead to rights. I couldn’t believe they were shooting at you. I thought they were going to get you, too! When you disappeared behind the trees, I thought they’d shot you down!”

  Skinner laughed and clapped Rose on the shoulder. “I found Molly at a gun-emplacement having a go at the gunners. What she didn’t say about the army’s abilities in aeroplane identification! Little fire-cracker, I can tell you! Poor buggers didn’t look like they knew what had hit ‘em. I think the Corporal in charge was crying when I managed to bring her away. I’ve already remonstrated with her about being out of the shelter during a raid! Anyway, I’m glad you came out of that little lot safe and sound, Flash. We thought you were a goner! You’re a crazy bugger, and no mistake!”

  Then he turned to Denis, his face serious,. “Well done on the Dornier, Dingo. I’m afraid that A-Flight will have to get back onto immediate readiness once you’re re-armed and re-fuelled. Looks like there may be a lot more business for you very soon. Some of the other fields have taken a pasting, far as I can make out. Manston got it bad, I believe. No chance of a hot meal either, I’m afraid, but I’ll get them to send over some bully beef sandwiches and tea as soon as.”

  He put a hand to Molly’s elbow. “Come on, young lady. Time we left these chaps to get on with it. You need to get back to your girls, and you really must stay with them in the shelter this time!”

  He looked doubtfully back up at the sky. “We may get some, um, more company quite soon.”

  Suddenly there was the throb of an engine and a sleek shape skimmed low over the airfield. A Bofors gun began to bang away, but stopped almost as soon as it had begun.

  “Silly b-,” Skinner bit back his words, one eye on Molly, as Cynk took up his Hurricane into a vertical climb. He sighed and shook his head. “Ah well. He seems pretty pleased with himself. Must be good news.”

  Rose touched her hand for a brief instant, before she was shepherded away. Despite the presence of the others, he had understood her unspoken message, had felt her love and her concern.

  “Still no sign of old Speedy.” Granny had voiced their unspoken concern.

  Denis stared at the Polish NCO’s Hurricane as Cynk landed and taxied towards them. “Yes, but he might have landed elsewhere.” His voice was harsh. “You’ll have to excuse me, boys, but I think I shall have to have a word with our dashing young sergeant.”

  Granny shook out another Players cigarette, and made as if to light it.

  Denis shook his head.

  “Aw, fer Christ’s sake, Granny, put it away can’t you? If you light that, you’re likely to send us all up into the wild blue yonder, without our kites.” Dingo waved at the fuel bowser, and the faint but just visible green haze of 100 octane fuel vapour that hung low over the Hurricanes. Wait for the gas to disperse, at least, can’t you?”

  Granny made a face to Denis’ retreating back, shook a fist. “Just because I let you share my Dornier! Get your own next time!” He pushed the cigarette back into the packet disconsolately. “I’m parched. Where’s the bleedin’ tea?”

  CHAPTER 31

  There were twenty Heinkel 111 bombers, flying stolidly three miles ahead and to port, four thousand feet further down. Unfortunately, they were not alone.

  Weaving on either side of the formation were a number of Me110’s, describing circles as they strove to keep in formation with their charges, whilst further up, tiny dots at the same height as Excalibur showed the trailing Bf109s.

  There were not that many of them, though.

  Rose squinted, counted the 109s.

  There were only six apparent to him. He counted again, but came up with the same number. They must already have met with RAF fighters, for indeed, an almost-invisible trail of smoke was being drawn along by one of the Heinkels, and as it drew closer, the formation looked less ordered with less of the usual Teutonic meticulous precision.

  Only six. Still enough, really, if the hammering in his ribcage meant anything.

  Donald’s voice, deceptively soft over the crackling R/T.

  “Red Leader to B-Flight, you go for the Heinkels, we’ll take the 110’s. Watch out for the the 109’s. Tally-Ho!”

  Rose glanced quickly over the instrument panel as the five Hurricanes of B-Flight nosed downwards, pointing themselves like manned spears at the plump, evil shapes of the enemy bombers.

  The Me110s continued to weave circles in the sky, almost as if they were playing tag with one another.

  Surely, they must have seen us, wondered Rose.

  B-Flight swung into line-astern, and then the 109s above pounced.

  “Red leader to A-Flight, Tally-Ho, chaps!”

  Sunlight catches the canopy of one of the falling 109s, so that it gleams like a falling star. What a sight this could be were it not for the evil in the enemy’s heart.

  Somebody in B-Flight (Fellowes?) calls excitedly as his bullets rip into the fuel-tanks of a Heinkel, and a violent, searing-white explosion wipes the bomber from the sky.

  Rose concentrates on the diving Bf109 before him, as it steadily expands.

  Tracer leaps up from the tangled mass of bombers now, reaching indiscriminately at the fighters, regardless of the markings on their wings.

  At last, the Me110s become aware of the danger, but instead of trying to block the diving Hurricanes of A-Flight, they huddle into a defensive circle, one on either side the now disorganised bombers.

  No time to wonder at the craven behaviour of the big twin-engined fighters, for the Bf109 was in front of him.

  It turned after a Hurricane that was harrying a Heinkel, seemingly unaware of the presence of Rose so close behind.

  Rose pressed the firing button, and suddenly bullet-strikes puff starkly against the side of the Messerschmitt.

  Quick glance into the mirror…

  Fuck! More 109s screaming down! Where the hell did they come from?

  Key the R/T. “Break! Break! Yellow Two to A-Flight, Bandits above and behind!”

  No time to follow his 109, and he slammed the Hurricane into a viciously steep turn.

  All around, Hurricanes are taking avoiding action, and the Bf109s overshoot, splitting into two formations of two, continue their dive before straightening out.

  A single Hurricane dances inside the spinning circle of Me110s, as if it were at some crazy ride at the fair, where the only prize can be survival.

  The second pair of Bf109s climb in a wide turn in front, and Rose lined up on them, adjusted the stick minutely, pressed once again on the firing button, and once more the airframe vibrates in sympathy with the thundering of its Brownings.

  Bullets splatter in a wide swathe across the trailing 109, and white smoke gouts from beneath the engine cowling. A large chunk of aileron flashed past, and Rose carefully lined up for another burst, when suddenly tracer flashed past in front of him, angry and burning.

  Shit! Someone behind!

  No time to think or wonder, as reflexes take over.

  Stick back hard into the stomach, harder, grimace as the forces pummel him.

  Black spots dance before his eyes.

  He must have overshot, follow him down. Anger burned like acid in his mind, and the redness overtook him.

  Aileron turn, down. Forget the others, have to get him.

  Bastard!

  Far below, two aircraft, the 109s that had a go at him?

  Disappointment. Just a pair of Spitfires (Where did they come from?) pursuing a 110, already burning brightly like the torch at the ’36 Berlin Olympics, falling, falling, dying.

  So where did he go?

  Search the landscape below him, the sky above, but apart from the Spits and their prey, there is
only a single pair of Heinkels, made tiny with distance, high-tailing it eastwards into the distance. Damn! No chance of catching them and the 109 seemed to have disappeared altogether.

  Pull carefully out, ease back on the stick, muscles straining.

  The Hurricane pulls out, whilst high above, far above, tiny shapes continue to whirl about.

  Three palls of smoke on the land below, another Spitfire turning far ahead.

  Still alive, thank goodness, though with little to show except for perhaps a couple of damaged.

  The Spit settles onto a course towards him. Shit! Better make sure he doesn’t think I’m a Jerry!

  Begin a gentle turn, show your roundels, but be careful. Bugger may need spectacles.

  Wait. That profile…doesn’t seem like a Spitfire after all…

  Behind the goggles, his eyes widened.

  Uh-oh.

  That’s no Spitfire…it’s a bloody Messerschmitt!

  His heart was beating fit to burst, but he kicked rudder and he hauled back on the control-column again, so that the Hurricane twisted around to point directly at the approaching enemy fighter again.

  Hide behind the reassuring bulk of the engine, not close enough yet, but he fired his guns anyway. Perhaps the sight of the oncoming tracer would put the enemy pilot off his aim. Side-slip and jiggle.

  Fiery balls of tracer zip past overhead, seeming to be just inches from the perspex of his canopy, and he screwed shut his eyes, jaw clenched, hands tight on the paddle-grip, holding her firmly on this flight into likely oblivion.

  A second of heart-wrenching terror and then the Messerschmitt has passed above him in a great buffeting rush of sound and air, apparently as undamaged as he.

  He banked around into a tight turn, fighting through the disturbed air of the 109’s slipstream.

  The Messerschmitt was speeding away now, not even bothering to re-engage Rose.

  Rose straightened out and ripped after the other at full throttle.

  Not so fast, matey! Glance in the mirror.

  The enemy pilot ahead was heading south in a dive, and the advantage meant that he was steadily pulling away from Rose’s game but slower Hurricane.