Battle Climb

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “I told you; I hate sitting on the ground.”

  “I could do with another four hours’ sleep, before I start to worry about that.”

  A faint smile showed on Festner’s face. “You’ll have to ration yourself: one night with Hiltrud followed by two on your own.”

  “You’re just envious.”

  “Sure I am. But you’ll be sorry if you don’t. Your reactions will slow down; and you know what that means.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Hintsch sounded annoyed. He did not like to be reminded about what happened to fighter pilots whose reactions became blunted.

  “Come on, let’s get along to the field and see what’s

  going on. I think I’ll volunteer to do a weather flight.” They gulped the last of their coffee and went out to the

  waiting lorry that would take them to the aerodrome. Siegert, as usual, was there first. “Doesn’t look as though we’ll be doing much this morning,” he greeted them.

  “How about a look at the weather, anyway?” Festner suggested.

  “Let’s talk about that when there’s enough visibility and cloud base is high enough to make it safe to take off. And even if it does improve that much, landing back is not going to be pleasant.”

  “I’m game, any time, “ said Festner.

  Hintsch yawned. “Don’t be so disgustingly energetic, Emil. I’m going to find a deep chair and get my head down.”

  “I wouldn’t risk more than one aircraft, anyway,” Siegert said.

  ***

  “Practice battle climb,” announced Maidment. “You’re all half-asleep. That’ll shake the cobwebs off. Come on, let’s get cracking.”

  The pilots ran to their aircraft. Cloud base had risen to a thousand feet and the weather reconnaissance had reported layers of cloud all the way up to thirteen thousand. Not even dive bombers could attack in this weather. It was a good opportunity to get a full battle formation up without any urgency and practise flying drill and attacks. A steep formation climb, simulating a scramble to intercept the enemy, would carry them into clear weather and do them all good; a useful pipe-opener for his young racehorses, Maidment told himself. Formation flying through cloud was a severe test of nerve and they would have intervals of clear air in which to see who had faltered, and where he could tighten up the formation again if necessary.

  The Spitfires took off in four Vs in quick succession, to sweep round the field while they formed up together, then point their noses up at the clouds when they charged into the centre of the airfield at two hundred feet, and climb steeply out of sight.

  The pilots of the two other squadrons gathered outside their crew rooms to watch with critical interest and no envy at all: they all got quite enough flying without this sort of thing, they felt, and a comfortable chair and the prospect of tea or coffee were preferable.

  The twelve Spitfires burst out of the gloom into the pearly whiteness of filtered light, the pilots who had drifted off station edged quickly back and a moment later cloud enveloped them again. In just over six minutes they were at fifteen thousand feet and scraping ice off their perspex. Here, in a layer five thousand feet between cloud, they reformed into sections line astern, then into echelon and back into Vs. Then soaring up to pierce the next layer of cloud and on up to thirty thousand feet with the cloud tops ten thousand feet below.

  In the thin air Maidment led them in a series of manoeuvres that taxed their skill and concentration to the utmost as they pushed their aircraft and their own abilities close to the limits.

  They could see miles into France; and Maidment, on impulse, said, “We’ll go and see what’s cooking: maybe someone up over there.” He took them in a shallow dive across the Channel.

  Festner, climbing in a wide spiral, caught the sparks of light on several dots to the northward.

  He kept his eyes on them while he went on gaining height. At that distance it was hard to see which way they were moving. Presently they became bigger. He went on up to twenty-seven thousand feet, banking from time to time to put a wing between himself and the sun to eliminate glare. When they were close enough to count, he checked them twice and found there were ten. He still did not know whether they were Hurricanes or Spitfires.

  The last order Maidment had given was to Upton. “Yellow Leader, take your Number Three with you and show him how to weave at tail-end Charlie.” Then, to Taylor, who was again Upton’s Number Two: “Yellow Two, stay where you are.”

  Yellow Three was a new sergeant pilot. Upton led him in a sharp climb back to thirty thousand feet and began a series of snaking turns above and behind the rest of the formation.

  Festner watched the Spitfires approach and wondered what they were going to do. He had not seen an enemy formation over France since early June, when the Dunkirk evacuation was still on. He hesitated to report them, in case he were ordered to land at once. He was thirsting for a fight.

  The Spitfires did not seem to have any set purpose, for they were turning now in a wide circle and gradually losing height. Festner realised that he was well positioned up-sun and that the Spitfire at the rear of the formation was unaccompanied.

  That was Roy Taylor. On this morning’s sortie, B Flight had taken the lead; Red Section of A Flight was therefore in the third V, and Yellow Section had brought up the rear. Since the C.O. had ordered Upton and the inexperienced sergeant to peel off and weave, Taylor had been unsupported.

  Festner switched on his radio, reported briefly “Spitfires... I am attacking,” and dived on Taylor, who was unsuspecting and unprepared. In this weather, no one thought the Germans could have taken off; and anyway the squadron was protected by the two tail-end Charlies. Except, of course, that Upton was carrying out the exercise of showing the sergeant how it was done, rather than seriously guarding the rear.

  Upton spoke to his No. 2: “Hard bank to starboard... get your port wing over the sun... then you can search into the sun without being dazzled.”

  They both banked. It was true that they had effectively shielded their eyes from the sun; but in their present attitude they could not see further down the sky: and Festner, in his steep dive, had slipped out of their line of sight and was in a position where they would have had to be able to look through the floors of their cockpit to see him.

  The other ten Spits had their backs to Festner. He was approaching Taylor from behind and to port, at seven-o’clock to him. All that Taylor could see, in that position, in his mirror, was the sun.

  Taylor felt cannon shells and bullets rain onto his fuselage and hammer at the armour plating against which he sat.

  He instinctively steepened his bank. Shells and bullets tore into his port wing and engine. The cannon shells blasted large holes in the wing, which, in the thin air and now badly damaged, stalled. The Spitfire flicked onto its back and began to spin, with smoke gushing from its engine.

  Upton saw what had happened, gave his wing man a sharp order and led him vertically after the 109.

  The squadron commander took his remaining aircraft into a tighter orbit, keeping the doomed Spitfire in sight. The 109 disappeared in cloud. Three seconds later, Taylor’s body tumbled out of the Spitfire’s cockpit and they saw his parachute open just before he also disappeared in the clouds.

  ***

  Aigres was blanketed in mist and low cloud. The weather had deteriorated soon after Festner took off.

  Le Bar des Sports stood at the southern end of the town’s main street, deliberately positioned to catch the trade of early workers who were tempted to pause for a drink before going out into the fields, or to call in at the end of a hard day to slake their thirst. It also provided a pleasant stroll for people who worked in offices and shops, and for anyone who felt like an airing and a drink of an evening.

  The Pelegrands’ house stood on its own, separated from the others along the street by a patch of ground grandly known as “the municipal gardens”. To start with, the plural was a misnomer for there was just one area of grass, flower beds and trees; among
which a mayor of a decade ago had installed children’s swings and a seesaw. Immediately beyond the house the farmland and woods began. The Pelegrands’ modest garden adjoined both the municipal gardens and the open countryside.

  There were two customers in the bar when the thunderclap of the Spitfire crashing to earth and exploding reverberated through the house. The two customers darted out to the pavement. Hercule Pelegrand hurried to his back door. His wife leaned out of an upstairs window at the side of the house that looked over fields.

  Far behind the house, flames climbed into the thick mist, faintly visible as a diffused glow.

  Hercule went round to the side of the building to stare hopelessly towards the fields and woods he could not see. He heard a cry from Berthe. Looking up, he saw her waving agitatedly at him and pointing into the all-enshrouding mist. Moving to stand directly beneath her, he cupped his hands and asked hoarsely, “What is it?”

  She leaned down. “I saw something come down... a man... a parachute...”

  “Some dirty Boche, I suppose,” he said disgustedly. “Hope he broke his neck.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so... he wore a white suit... overall... like many of the R.A.F. pilots did when they were here.”

  “My God! Where, exactly?”

  “Just beyond the fence…”

  Hercule lumbered towards the gate in his garden fence. He had gone only ten yards when he almost fell over a recumbent body in white flying overalls. But the man was not dead, for he was supporting himself on one elbow and shaking his head dazedly.

  “‘Ullo,” said Hercule Pelegrand, “ça va? O.K.? You are... not ‘urt?” From tourists and from troops who had frequented his bar since war began he had acquired a small knowledge of English.

  Taylor looked up. “I’m all right.” But his face was nearly as pale as his overalls and he trembled uncontrollably. “Where is this?”

  “What?”

  “Où… am... suis-je?”

  “Eh, bien, vous parlez français... alors, ici…”

  “No! Non... no... je ne... parle... beaucoup… où… am I?”

  “Aigres, monsieur. This is Aigres.”

  Taylor knew it well enough on the map. He began to struggle to his feet and Hercule gave him a hand up. “I must hide my parachute.” He wriggled out of the harness and Hercule quickly gathered in the silk.

  “Allez,” said Hercule.

  “Where? Où?”

  “Quick... vite... quick... we go to my cave... ‘urry...”

  Cave? Taylor’s head was spinning with the horror of having to bale out and of the blind descent through cloud which had seemed interminable and which he thought would end by smashing him against a rooftop or the ground which he would not see approaching.

  His landing had jarred him, but he had no broken bones or sprains, though many bruises. It was shock that made him tremble. Cave sounded good.

  He followed Hercule, shambling dizzily as fast as he could behind the vast back and huge bottom in its sagging-seated trousers. Hercule stopped suddenly and lifted a big wooden trapdoor in the ground. Taylor, swaying on the edge of the hole, smelled the fumes of wine and beer. Cave must mean cellar, then. Hercule threw the parachute into the cellar and motioned to a ladder. “Vite... quick... les Allemands will come... to... look... soon…”

  Taylor went down the ladder fast, slipping and sliding he was trembling so much. Pelegrand followed him. Taylor heard the trapdoor slam shut.

  A few minutes later, in the bar, Berthe looked over the heads of the customers, who had resumed their drinking, and raised her eyebrows.

  “Nothing to see,” grumbled Hercule. “Must have been one of the Boches: the R.A.F. would not come over in such weather... what could they expect to see?”

  The street door opened and their self-invited guests of the day before stamped in.

  The senior of the military policemen said, “In case you want to know, that noise you heard just now was a Spitfire. One of our lads shot it down. We don’t know yet if the pilot was still in it.” He paused. “If he was not, and turns up anywhere around here, we hope none of you will be so foolish as to try to hide him. Unless, of course, you positively want to be put in front of a firing squad.”

  TEN

  No one was blamed for the loss of a Spitfire and its pilot. Aggression was the epitome of the R.A.F spirit. It was perfectly legitimate for a squadron commander, given permission by his station and group Operations controllers to carry out a battle climb, to enter enemy territory and seek to destroy.

  No blame attached to Upton or his No 2, either, for they had been given no warning that the coastal radar system had picked up an enemy aircraft in their area; and they had been doing their job conscientiously: it was the luck of war that a 109 had been lurking where no one could see it.

  Nor was Taylor criticised for being bounced in those peculiar circumstances.

  The weather continued bad for the rest of the day. The main topic on Maidment’s squadron was whether Roy Taylor had been able, in the poor visibility in which he must have come down, to evade capture. And, if so, what chance he had of being recovered. It was too early in the German occupation of France for a properly organised escape network to have been set up. In the last days of the fighting around the Channel ports during the British evacuation of France, there had been occasions when a Miles Magister, which was a two-seater light monoplane used for training and communications, had been landed across the Channel to fetch a shot-down fighter pilot home. A Tiger Moth could do that sort of job, also. Squadron Leader Maidment and Clive Upton felt guilty about what had happened to Taylor.

  “I’ll probably get a rocket from some chairborne warrior at Group for going across to have a look around,” Maidment said.

  “But that’s our job,” Upton protested. “I’m a clot for not seeing that blasted one-o-nine. I feel I wasn’t the best possible example of an alert tail end Charlie!”

  “If we get word Roy is all right, being hidden by the French, I’ll nip across and fetch him back somehow,” said Maidment.

  “Is there any chance that we will get word, if he’s being sheltered?” asked Upton.

  “I gather there are ways and means, known only to the Intelligence types; and not for discussion.”

  “How soon could we hear, sir?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll hear soon enough if he’s been caught.”

  “Could the Navy pick him up?”

  “I shouldn’t think they’d be able to get ashore in that area, with the place crowded with the enemy hoping to try an invasion.”

  “We’d have to do it by daylight,” Upton said, consideringly. “If there was a full moon, or even close to it, we should be able to land all right in something like a Tiger or a Maggie; but even then there’d be the risk of breaking the undercarriage.”

  The squadron leader said: “A quick dart at first light would be best, with a Spitfire escort.”

  “I think I ought to do it, sir: Roy was flying in my section, and I was supposed to be keeping a look out.”

  “Sorry, Clive: if anybody does it, I will.”

  “I can escort you, can’t I, sir?”

  Maidment laughed. “That’s up to your flight commander: I rather think I’d like more than just one escort! I was thinking of at least a section. After all, a Maggie is pretty slow and it would be no piece of cake protecting one. I’d borrow something bigger, like a Master, if I thought there was any chance of finding a landing field big enough.”

  The problem was clear. A Magister had a maximum speed of 132 m.p.h. and a cruising speed of 123 m.p.h.; which meant that a Spitfire trying to keep pace with it would stall. So an escort would have to keep circling the Magister: thus, while a pair or a section did that, others would have to circle overhead. The advantage of the Magister was that it was much faster than a Tiger Moth but landed at 42 m.p.h.

  In the Angel that evening, Lois was glum; and drowning her sorrows with quick gulps of gin and orange: which, in turn, pro
voked her to cast her eyes around for a replacement for the missing Pilot Officer Taylor.

  When Upton went up to the bar, Arthur Goldsmith asked, without concern, for he was sure no one had been fighting that day, “Where is Roy, then?”

  “He’s not coming, this evening,” said Upton discouragingly.

  Arthur glanced across the room, then remarked, “Lois doesn’t look too bright. Roy all right, is he?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Arthur watched Upton walk away and his mind was full of doubts, but he knew better than to ask questions. He had heard the Spits take off that morning but they had disappeared into cloud before they had left the airfield circuit and he had been unable to count them. He had heard them return, but not seen them. There had been no other activity at the airfield all day. The pilots were showing the benefit of a day’s rest: they looked as though they had made up their lost sleep and the weary lines had gone from their young faces. But Clive, he thought, didn’t look too good, nor did some to the others of the Spit boys.

  Ann said quietly to Upton, “I thought Lois was going to faint at the plotting table this morning when we got the news about Roy.”

  Upton, who did not want to appear unsympathetic, could not hide a grin. “Pity we were keeping R/T silence while we were over there, most of the time, or she could have built up to it with a maximum of drama. But she seems to be bearing up well enough.” He looked pointedly to where the bosomy Lois was being consoled by Timber Wood, his old friend who -had been with Ann the first time he met her.

  “Timber will take good care of her.” She smiled at the sudden concern that showed on Upton’s face. “Oh, don’t worry: I only went out with him twice... and I handled him all right. One just has to be firm with types like Timber.”

  “I don’t think firmness is really one of Lois’s dominant characteristics.”

  Ann, eyes twinkling, put her head close to his and whispered: “A firm ‘yes’ rather than a firm ‘no’, I would think.”

  Tom Dellow, who had been one of the experienced pilots left behind that morning so that two newcomers could be taken on the practice battle climb, had the least sympathy for Taylor’s predicament. “If he’d fallen in the sea, like other people, he could have swum home in the mist: his Mae West would have kept him up. Piece of cake.”