Battle Climb

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  A worried look settled on the girl’s face. “What are you up to?”

  “You needn’t worry about your precious Werner: I’ll bring him back to you safe and sound.”

  “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

  “Go and book us a table for ten-o’clock • tonight at the best restaurant you can think of: I leave it to you. We’ll all just have a light meal at about seven, and a proper dinner when we return. Book it for nine people: I’m afraid you’ll be the only girl. You can order the food, too, to save time: choose whatever you fancy, and we’ll all have the same. But leave the wines to me.”

  “At your service, Cousin Otto... Herr Oberstleutnant. “ Hiltrud sounded as merry as any girl invited to a party where she would be surrounded by admiring men, with the man she loved at her side, the envy of them all.

  ***

  They had brought Hercule back and thrust him through the door into Berthe’s arms. She had caught him just in time, or he would have fallen to the floor. First sight of him had sent her into uncontrollable sobs. Both his eyes were bruised and swollen so that he peered from blackened slits surmounted by cuts encrusted with dried blood. Two front teeth were missing and there were swellings, cuts and bruises all over his face and body.

  The same Gestapo officer who had taken him away had brought him home. “Take this as a last warning,” he had said. “He is lucky not to be shot... or imprisoned.”

  Berthe had tried to persuade her husband to rest in bed, but he had roared at her to give him food and a tumbler of cognac.With that and the best part of a bottle of Burgundy inside him, he had insisted on opening the bar. “We won’t let these swine intimidate us, however deep our grief,” he had shouted, his voice carrying down the road and bringing his friends flocking.

  There was a considerable crowd in the cafe when, at a quarter to nine, Hercule shouted “Silence.” He put a hand behind his ear. The sound of aero engines rose above the number of voices.

  Hercule went to the door, a glass in his hand. He stared up at two Stukas and four Me 109s setting course for England, and gave them a toast: “Death and damnation to you, you barbarians.”

  ***

  Arthur scanned the faces in the saloon bar with anxiety. It was crowded, but there were some favourites missing and he was worried.

  Maidie, who knew what was on his mind, said gently, “I’ll ask one of the boys if the others are coming in... I don’t see any of the girls, either.”

  “Take care, dear: don’t upset anyone. Leave it to me; I’ll ask.”

  Squadron Leader Maidment was pushing his way through the throng, one hand protectively on the shoulder of a very pretty W.A.A.F.

  Arthur greeted them with a beam. “ ‘Evening Ronnie ... and glad to see you, my dear; it’s been a long time.”

  “She’s had a rough day,” said Maidment, “so I sent a car to fetch her over for the night. I’ve decided to get a special licence and marry the girl straight away. You can let her have a room, can’t you, Arthur? Then I’ll know she’s safe.”

  “Of course.” Arthur leaned confidentially over the bar. “We were expecting Clive in by now... and Roy and Tom... and their girlfriends…?” He ended on a note of enquiry.

  “They’re still working, Arthur. They’ll be along later.” Arthur smiled broadly. “That’s all right, then.” He went to give Maidie the good tidings.

  ***

  Von Brauneck briefed his small force.

  “We’ll fly straight to the target. These old photographs I have will help you to identify it, but in any case I’ll lead you there.

  “Werner and I will go in first and blast it with our guns. That will pin everyone down inside. As soon as we break off, Bull and Emil will go in. Remember, cannon only. Keep our machine-gun ammunition in case by some mischance we get jumped by enemy fighters. But pump in good bursts of cannon. While we stop anyone leaving the pub, Major von Hohndorf and Kreft will bomb.”

  Von Handorf said, “We’ll start our dive at eighteen hundred metres and pull out at five hundred. As soon as we’ve pulled up we’ll flatten out, then dive down to rooftop height on course for base. This whole job is going to be like having a very cold shower: in and out as fast as we can.”

  Hintsch looked at the others in turn: their faces showed only concentration, no fear; a flicker of amusement here and there, as they thought how this would surprise the Tommies.

  He was looking forward to it. He had not been pleased to spend the whole afternoon on the ground; he had smoked his pipe so much that his mouth felt raw, he had become bored with playing cards, irritated with trying to read a magazine, fed up with throwing a ball for the three squadron dogs. Now, at last, there would be some action. And a good dinner to look forward to, at the Geschwader Kommodore’s expense.

  And, of course, Hiltrud.

  He had not had the opportunity to speak to her when she brought the Oberstleutnant to the fighter airfield, to which von Hohndorf and Kreft had flown their Stukas shortly before; so that no time would be wasted on making a rendezvous. Von Brauneck had bustled out of his car in his most businesslike manner, smiling thinly to reassure all concerned that the mission was going to be dead easy; but brisk with it, not disposed to squander precious last minutes on chit-chat. Hiltrud had caught his mood and stayed demurely at her distance. Hintsch and she had exchanged glances over the fifty metres that separated them, and given each other a quick wave, but that was all.

  Hintsch felt more than ever like the champion knight of old, to whom he had mentally likened himself a few days earlier: his lady was actually there to see him set off and would be there to welcome him on his return. It was enjoyable to be able to show off now and then.

  Kreft had, for once, no reservations about the timing and planning of the operation; but he had a considerable one about the nature of the target. In the first place, it revolted him to bomb a non-military objective; for no specious argument could convince him that the Angel Inn was one: there would certainly be as many civilian deaths as military ones. The airmen would be accompanied by girlfriends, not all of them W.A.A.F.s, and the pub no doubt did not exclude the ordinary civilian population. In fact they were probably drawn there more than ever so that they could mingle with the fighter pilots and show their admiration. Secondly, he deplored the wilful destruction of an ancient and beautiful building.

  Apart from that, he admitted that von Brauneck’s perception of the opportunity to kill a large number of the Longley pilots with the least possible risk was intelligent. And he had taken a long time to recover from the surprise of those deadly rocket-launched parachutes and cables that morning. Any plan that allowed a means of avoiding those, the balloon barrage and anti-aircraft defences, was a good plan as far as he was concerned.

  Voss shared his pilot’s feelings about the nature of the target, although he was not at all bothered about flattening a Sixteenth Century building. In addition, his superstition was aroused by the whole unconventional nature of the affair. He very much disliked flying the few miles to the fighter airfield before taking off. It seemed all wrong. He was used to being sent on his way by his own immediate comrades and his own ground crew, not these strangers. And he was going to be uncomfortable with the strange formation they were to adopt. He had never before heard of two Ju 87s on a job like this: a Kette was the right thing. No good would come of breaking up a Kette. And they were going to fly in line astern instead of in V or echelon, too. The fighters would fly in two pairs, one Rotte in the van and one directly above: he didn’t care for that either: they needed eight fighters for decent protection, whatever the Geschwader Kommodore said about it being so safe at that time of evening.

  But there was one compensation for all his discomfiture and foreboding: he was going to dine as the guest of Oberstleutnant Baron Otto von Brauneck this evening. That would be something worth putting in his letter home tomorrow.

  He followed Kreft into their aircraft with more thought of the delicious meal that awaited them than of the tar
get that lay unsuspecting thirty-five miles away.

  ***

  They were patrolling at eight thousand feet; a comfortable height that put no strain on the heart or lungs, a height at which the Spitfire performed comfortably, and a height from which they could see as far as they needed to.

  There was not even a convoy on their patrol line for them to bother about. The only irritant was that they had to make this dusk patrol at all, when they would much rather be in the mess or the Angel. But they would be excused the early stand-to next morning, and profit by an extra hour in bed: that was worth a lot, these days.

  Upton turned his head to the right and gave a friendly nod to Roy Taylor, who raised an acknowledging hand with the thumb up: yes, they had only ten more minutes to go and then he could lead them home. He looked to the left and lifted a hand to Tom Dellow, opening and clenching it twice to indicate “ten”. Tom nodded, and grinned behind his microphone. Soon be over: then to the Angel to meet their girls and swallow three or four pints of good bitter.

  They reached the western end of their patrol line and Upton led his section round in a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

  As they settled down on their new course, he looked all round and up and down, as he kept doing every few seconds.

  To starboard, six shadows flitted over the sea, heading for the coast of Kent.

  At the same moment, Taylor spoke: “Bandits . two-o’clock... low…”

  Upton: “I’ve got ‘em... see them, Tom? Looks like two eighty-sevens and four one-o-nines.”

  Dellow: “I see them.”

  Upton: “Echelon starboard, echelon starboard... Go.”

  Dellow slid to the right, under Upton’s belly, and tucked himself in on the right of Taylor and just astern of him.

  Upton called base. “Locust... this is Yellow Leader... Six bandits about five miles south, heading north. Over.”

  “Yellow Leader from Locust... Nothing plotted... they must be very low. Over.”

  “Locust... Yellow Leader... Yes, right down on the deck. Tallyho. Out.”

  Upton to his section: “I’ll go for the leading eighty-seven... you take the other one, Tom... Roy, clobber the Number Two one-o-nine in the top pair.”

  Taylor: “O.K., Leader.”

  Dellow: “I’ll follow you down, Leader.”

  The coast was immediately beneath the three Spitfires. The enemy formation would cross it in less than a minute, now. In another minute, Upton thought, they would reach R.A.F. Longley, if that was where they were going.

  Upton stooped into his attack with the setting sun behind him and Dellow close on his starboard wing.

  The fuselage length of a Ju 87 was only four feet more than the wing span of a Me 109: so Upton knew that when the Ju 87 in front of him, crossing from right to left, half-filled his reflector sight ring it would be approximately at two hundred and fifty yards range. He watched the target grow rapidly, and awaited his moment with total concentration.

  Four of the German aircraft were climbing steeply: they had crossed the Channel hugging the water to escape radar detection, and now they were making height as rapidly as they could so that the Stukas could reach the level from which to begin their bombing dive. Von Brauneck and Hintsch, in the lead, stayed low, at the level from which they would make their opening cannon attacks on the target: they had climbed from twenty to a hundred feet, but the change was indiscernible to the Spitfires which were high above them.

  The Stuka’s angle of climb made it more difficult for Upton to allow the right amount of deflection.

  He fired. The De Wilde incendiaries ripped into the port side of von Höhndorf’s cockpit canopy and killed him instantly. The Stuka nosed into a steep dive as the weight of its dead pilot, when he slumped against his straps, pushed the stick forward. Upton glimpsed the radio operator trying to struggle out.

  A fraction of a second before Dellow opened fire, Kreft saw the fiery strikes glittering against the Stuka in front of him and turned wildly to port, his aircraft skidding to starboard as it climbed. Dellow fired a one-second burst, then turned and banked to follow his target.

  Von Brauneck and Hintsch had neither seen nor heard the attack: they were too far below to hear and concentrating too deeply on their own task to see. They were also unaware that a Spitfire was diving on them.

  Hintsch, first-class fighter pilot that he was, veteran of the Spanish Civil War and the campaigns in Poland, the Low Countries and France, made one final check around the sky at the instant before he crossed the English coast.

  He saw a Spitfire no more than three hundred yards from him, slightly above and beautifully positioned to attack. The sun’s glare caught him full in the eyes. He was dangerously low for a hard, banked turn; but he did everything automatically: with his eyes still closed, so quick was his reaction, he pulled his nose up and simultaneously banked and turned.

  As he did so, he yelled “Break port!” for his leader’s benefit.

  Dellow lifted his thumb from the firing button, swore, and kicked round to port in a steeply banked turn, losing sight of his target.

  Von Brauneck, thirteen years older than Hintsch and not so highly tuned by three or four operational sorties a day, was too slow.

  Dellow’s turn brought the leading 109 into his sights. Its wingspan extended three-quarters of the width of his reflector sight: a hundred and fifty yards’ range. He fired, and his bullets raked it from nose to tail. Smoke belched from the engine, the nose dropped, then the port wing tilted down more sharply as von Brauneck, severely wounded in his right arm, shoulder and body, lost control. The Messerschmitt spun violently three times and, as Dellow flew over it, it hit the ground and exploded.

  Upton turned as tightly as he could, greying out, determined to break up the pair of 109s that had kept company with the Ju 87s. His head cleared and he saw a figure catapulted out of the rear cockpit of the Stuka he had shot down. The aircraft hit the sea and flung up a towering plume of water. Immediately after, the radio operator, still trying to pull the ripcord of his parachute, followed it and disappeared from view: killed, Upton had no doubt, by the impact.

  His aircraft shuddered under the rattle of machine-gun bullets hitting it somewhere behind him. He held his turn, and Siegert and Festner, both striving to turn inside him, both suffered, at the same instant, from the 109’s inherent fault: in a steeply banked, tight turn, the wing slats opened automatically to prevent a stall. But they tugged at the ailerons and upset the pilot’s aim. Streams of tracer swept past Upton. He threw his Spitfire into a quick barrel half-roll, pulled the stick back firmly when he was on his side and ruddered into a steep dive, aileron turning as he went after the other Stuka.

  Taylor meanwhile was also chasing Kreft, but Hintsch had started to climb to protect him; with Dellow pelting after him. Siegert and Festner, having momentarily lost sight of Upton by overshooting him, had half-rolled and dived after him.

  Siegert fired at Upton again. Upton once more went into a barrel roll, aileron turning as he did so. Again, Siegert overshot him. But this time he flew right into Dellow’s sights, diving past Kreft’s Stuka and Taylor’s Spitfire. At a hundred yards’ range, Dellow had a sitter: a two-second burst shattered Siegert’s engine and sent the 109 plummet-ing down in a helpless glide. Dellow kept climbing, but glanced down in time to see Siegert’s parachute flutter open.

  Now there were two Me 109s and one Stuka left to outfight the three Spitfires.

  Hintsch fired a burst at Taylor and peppered his port wing. They were, all six of them, two miles inland by this time. Festner opened his throttle fully and leaped ahead of his two comrades: if Werner was so busy with the protection of the remaining Stuka, he would take over the task of strafing the target. He went thundering down towards the Angel Inn. A crowd of people came rushing out of its doors to stand outside gazing at the sky. Festner remembered the instructions to keep everybody indoors by firing at the pub with their cannons. He aimed at the crowd that had gathered in the garden and fire
d. His shells hit the road beyond the pub garden and a car parked there burst into flame.

  One second later Festner was on fire himself. Not only his aeroplane, but his clothes and his flesh. Petrol poured into his cockpit and oil and glycol drenched his windscreen and canopy. He was blind when his 109 hit the ground and he was blown to small pieces. Taylor, who had done it, corkscrewed up and looked for the others.

  Hintsch saw Taylor break away from his victim and go into a climbing turn. There were just Kreft and himself now, and the other two Spits. were almost within range. He looked away from them and back at the climbing enemy who had just killed his best friend. A sea of upturned faces in the garden of the Angel, the car park and the village street, looked up to watch the battle. Hintsch fired, and flames came from the engine of Taylor’s Spitfire; but it continued to climb. Taylor stopped turning and the Spit zoomed up under its own impetus, the engine dying. At the peak of its climb, Taylor rolled it upside down and dropped clear. His parachute landed him right in the garden of the Angel.

  Upton pounced on the last remaining 109 when it lost speed under the recoil of its guns and in its turn. His three-second burst hit it in the tail fin and elevators. He fired again, another burst, shorter this time. His bullets carved into the starboard rear side of the fuselage.

  Hintsch felt all control taken from him and knew that his tail control surfaces had been shattered, his aileron controls cut. He began to unfasten his straps and was still standing, half-out of his cockpit, when his Emil, which had brought him safely through so many combats, broke in two, the whole tail unit fell off, and, trapped immobile by the tremendous centrifugal force, he was whirled to the ground and smashed and spread like a trodden-on poached egg across an orchard just beyond the Angel.

  Kreft put his Stuka into a sixty-degree dive, his stomach churning with nausea. The faces turned up to look at him, scores of them, were a blur. He cursed von Hohndorf and he cursed von Brauneck, but orders were orders; and however repugnant, duty was duty: it was his duty to obey.