Hurricane Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  Yeoman went over to the stove and helped himself to some food from the huge frying-pan that perched on top. The eggs had gone hard, but he suddenly found that he was famished and ate them ravenously, only half aware of the talk that went on around him. One thing did strike him; the informality that existed between the officers and NCOs. It was completely different from what he had been used to, and at first he felt slightly uncomfortable. Then he realized that differences of rank meant little to these men; they were operational fighter pilots, and that fact alone forged a bond between them that transcended everything else.

  There was the sound of an engine and a squeal of brakes. A minute later, the corporal who had narrowly missed being vaporized by German shells during the airfield strafe the day before poked his head round the door, clutching his cap in his hand. He stared at the unaccustomed sight of officers in the sergeants’ domain, seemed undecided about whether to replace his hat and salute, then decided against it and insinuated the rest of his body into the room.

  ‘Transport’s here,’ he said mournfully. ‘I’ve been detailed to drive.’

  A roar of derision greeted this announcement. ‘No fear!’ Callender hooted, ‘we’re not going to submit our little pink bodies to your tender mercies!’ He looked at Yeoman and winked. ‘Henry here has suicidal tendencies, especially when he gets behind a steering-wheel. His progress is usually marked by a trail of broken fences, unsuspecting pedestrians and stray dogs. No thanks, Henry, you can sit in the back and darn our socks. The old master here —’ tapping himself on the chest — ‘is going to see us safely on our way!’

  Henry looked unnaturally pleased. He picked up the pilots’ kit and mooched out.

  On the way, they passed a wizened old man who wished them a cheerful ‘Bonjour!’ His name was Philippe and he appeared, as far as Yeoman could work out, to have two functions in life. One was to stoke up Mémère’s stoves; the other was to crank Ecury’s ancient air-raid siren, a job that had kept him busy yesterday. He wore three or four First World War medals proudly on the lapel of his faded jacket. He was obviously doing his bit for France.

  A battered Morris 15-hundredweight truck stood outside. Shaw, Henry and the two officers climbed into the back and promptly stretched out on some tarpaulins, intent on snatching some sleep — all except Henry, who sat near the tailboard, moodily staring into space and smoking. Callender got into the driver’s seat and Yeoman sat beside him, studying an old road map which Henry had resurrected from somewhere.

  Callender started the Morris and set off with a jerk, heading north-eastwards towards Châlons town. The morning was quiet, with no signs of war and few vehicles on the road, and as the sun rose higher Yeoman began to enjoy himself.

  They passed through the outskirts of Châlons, taking the road that led to Suippes. Châlons had been bombed, but it seemed that the enemy had been concentrating strictly on military objectives such as roads and railways; there was little sign of damage in the town itself.

  Callender kept his foot hard down. The road from Châlons to Suippes was reasonably good, as French roads went, and they passed only a few French dispatch riders and Renault staff cars.

  It was not until they reached the crossroads just south of Suippes that they encountered their first real trouble. Callender careered round a bend, and the next instant there was a chorus of shouts and curses from the back as he stamped hard on the brake, throwing everyone brutally forward.

  The Morris came to a halt inches away from what looked like a metal mountain. It was an enormous French ‘B’ tank, a 30-ton mobile fortress bristling with guns. Callender looked at his shaken companion, his breath exploding in a whistle of relief.

  They climbed out of the cab into the middle of a crowd of gesticulating Frenchmen. An officer elbowed his way through; he wore a black beret and a captain’s insignia, and his shoulder sported the flash of the 1st French Armoured Division. He looked coldly at Callender’s stripes. ‘Il y a un officier avec vous?’ he enquired curtly. Callender jerked his thumb towards the rear of the truck.

  The French officer’s expression grew even frostier as Henry appeared, a cigarette dangling from the comer of his mouth and his tunic undone. He muttered ‘Oh, Christ’ and quickly disappeared. The Frenchman relaxed a little when Jamieson and Wardell emerged. He gave them a crisp salute, which they could not return as they were wearing no headgear. Wardell nodded instead.

  The French officer spoke to Wardell in impeccable English. ‘Please accept my apologies, but I must see your identification.’ They all produced their ID cards and he nodded, relaxing visibly. ‘I can see that you are in a hurry,’ he went on, ‘and I am sorry to hold you up. But as you can see, we have a problem here.’ He waved his hand towards the tank. It was one of a dozen or so, jammed nose to tail. In front of them, French sappers were labouring to build a pontoon over a river. In fact, it was more in the nature of a stream, but its banks were almost sheer and it was plain that tanks would not be able to cross unaided. A highly accurate air attack had knocked out the existing bridge.

  ‘How long do you think it’ll be?’ asked Wardell. The Frenchman shrugged. ‘Who knows? An hour, perhaps two. We are heading east, but if you are travelling north I suggest that you take the left-hand fork here and follow the river for two or three miles. You will find a crossing point there. Unfortunately —’ he smiled wryly — ‘it is not suitable for our tanks, but you will have no trouble.’

  He saluted again, then turned to his men as the RAF team climbed on board the Morris once more. Callender reversed for fifty yards, then took the road leading away to the left. As he did so, Yeoman caught sight of an aircraft, flying very slowly at treetop height about a mile away. It was a high-wing monoplane and looked like a Westland Lysander, the army co-operation aircraft used by the British Expeditionary Force, but he couldn’t be sure. He drew Callender’s attention to it.

  His colleague studied the strange aircraft for a second, then swung the wheel hard and sent the Morris lurching off the road. He pulled up in the shelter of a clump of trees.

  Jamieson’s head appeared at the flap behind Yeoman. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Henschel 126,’ Callender replied nonchalantly, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. He looked at Yeoman. ‘We might see some fun and games in a minute. That’s a Hun observation kite, and if he’s this far from the front I’d like to bet he’s spotting targets. I don’t want us to be one of ’em, so we’ll sit. tight for a while. Stretch your legs, if you like.’

  Yeoman got out and leaned against a tree, watching the Henschel. It turned and flew towards them, then banked hard and dropped down behind a line of poplars, the angry hum of its engine fading.

  The minutes ticked by, and Yeoman began to wonder whether Callender had been mistaken. Wardell, who had joined him, read his thoughts. ‘We’ll give them a bit longer,’ he said. ‘It’s my guess they’ll be on their way, all right.’

  Callender saw them first: a dozen black specks in the eastern sky. They were Junkers 87s, the famous Stukas, flying in ‘vics’ of three. The roar of their motors drowned conversation as they circled overhead. Yeoman craned his neck and watched in fascination as the leading flight seemed to check in mid-air, the dive-bombers peeling off one by one and plummeting down towards the broken bridge and the concentration of French tanks.

  Yeoman would never forget the first time he heard a diving Stuka. Every aircraft was fitted with an underwing siren, a clever psychological move designed to strike terror into its victims. It rent the air with a hideous screech, a banshee wail that clutched at Yeoman’s stomach with icy fingers. He watched the first Stuka pull out of its dive, and clearly saw a pair of bombs drop away. A moment later, the ground jerked violently, almost causing him to overbalance, and a terrific explosion battered his eardrums. A vast cloud of smoke and dirt rose from the direction of the bridge. With a sudden shock, Yeoman realized that it was just over a quarter of a mile away.

  A hand struck him violently in the back, achieving what the concussi
on had failed to do. He sprawled at the base of the tree, with Wardell’s shout ringing in his ears. ‘Get down, you silly sod, and stay down! It’s going to get hot around here!’

  He was right. Stuka after Stuka plunged down on the luckless Frenchmen, pounding them unmercifully. A bomb, falling a couple of hundred yards off target, exploded just behind the trees where the RAF men were sheltering, showering them with dirt and broken branches. The rattle of machine-guns joined the already hellish din as the Stukas came in again, racing low above the road this time to strafe whatever was left at the foot of the mushrooming cloud of smoke near the bridge. Then they climbed away, forming up once more into their impeccable formation and flying back the way they had come.

  Yeoman picked himself up, brushing away bits of grass and foliage. He looked at Wardell and indicated the pall of smoke. ‘Do you think we ought to go back, sir?’ he asked.

  Wardell shook his head. ‘What’s the point? There’s damn all we can do, anyway. If we meet any more Frogs we’ll stop and tell ’em. Right now, we’d better get moving. That smoke cloud is a gold-plated invitation for any Hun who happens to be stooging around looking for trouble.’

  More explosions cracked out as they returned to the truck. The shells were going off in the burning French tanks throwing debris high into the air.

  Callender opened the driver’s door, then stopped with one foot on the running board. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, ‘where’s Henry?’

  They looked round. There was no sign of the morose corporal. No one had seen him since they climbed out of the truck. Wardell looked anxious. ‘Let’s search around,’ he said. ‘He can’t be far away.’

  He was right. A sudden crackling of undergrowth stopped them in their tracks, and they looked on in amazement as a white-faced Henry emerged from the bushes, holding up his trousers. He was covered in weeds and clods of earth.

  ‘Caught with his pants down! Oh, lord!’ Callender collapsed against the truck bonnet, helpless with laughter. Henry looked indignantly at the grinning faces around him, then climbed into the truck without a word, still holding his pants, his braces dangling behind him. Shaw sat down opposite him. ‘Never mind, Henry,’ he grinned, ‘you’ve just proved something. Bombs are a good laxative.’

  The corporal glared at him, his thoughts plainly obvious. Flight sergeants ought not to abuse admin corporals who handled personal documents — that was what he was thinking, with a fair degree of malice.

  They drove on through Vouziers towards Mézières, encountering more congestion on the roads as they went. Their route took them through the reserve areas of the French Second Army, and the lanes were crammed with army units all heading eastwards towards the river Meuse.

  A few soldiers waved and cheered as they drove slowly past — a process hindered by the fact that Callender insisted on driving on the left-hand side of the road wherever possible — but Yeoman noticed that most of the French troops seemed sullen and almost totally lacking in smartness. In fact, he had never seen anything so slovenly and poorly turned out, and said as much to Callender. Many of the poilus who trudged past seemed not to have shaved for days; uniforms were baggy and ill-fitting, with personal kit slung anyhow. Their transport was dirty, too, and antiquated. A lot of equipment was horse-drawn, and even the horses looked dejected.

  Callender explained that the majority of the Second Army’s troops were reservists, many of them in their forties, and from what he had seen of them during his six months in France their morale was appalling. He told his companion that not all the French Army was of the same low calibre; some units were very good indeed. Yeoman hoped he was right.

  They had a heartening glimpse of the other side of the French military picture a few miles south of Mézières, when they were forced to pull sharply off the road to let two squadrons of Somua tanks race past. These were fast, 20-ton fighting vehicles mounting a high-velocity 47-mm gun. They were followed by half a dozen truck- loads of colonial troops, stem, dark-faced men from Madagascar who carried long knives in addition to their rifles and who would give little quarter to their enemies. Shaw summed up the RAF party’s feelings:

  ‘I’m glad that bunch are on our side.’

  The congestion on the roads grew steadily worse as they moved north. It took them over an hour to get through Mézières; the narrow streets were jammed solid. A French convoy was passing through, and most of the population had turned out to cheer it on. On the other side of the town they picked up a dusty British dispatch rider whose motor-cycle had broken down. He was on his way to Nivelles, ten miles north of Charleroi; he had been through the rear areas of both the Second and Ninth French Armies, which adjoined one another, and his impression had been one of complete chaos.

  ‘They’ve got no organization,’ he told them, ‘and their communications are hopeless. I was in Verdun for a couple of days before the balloon went up, and I’m not kidding — all the troops were working in the fields. Nobody seemed to be worried about anything.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll bet they got a hell of a shaking up yesterday morning. Anyway, thanks for the ride. I’ll be glad to get back to the BEF, I can tell you.’

  By the time they reached the Belgian frontier it was already well into the afternoon, and they were all famished. The frontier posts were still fully manned, and the gendarmes broke into friendly smiles when they saw the RAF uniforms. They all went into the nearby guard hut, where the Belgians brought out bread, cheese and wine and insisted on sharing it with the RAF men. Henry, still maintaining a stony silence, made himself the hero of the moment by producing some tins of bully beef, which the Belgians ate with relish.

  The Army dispatch rider spoke some French, and with his help the others managed to make sense out of what the Belgians were saying. They all thought one story in particular was incredibly funny. The day before, a detachment of gendarmes had arrested a couple of nuns who had been seen walking towards the frontier and behaving in what might be described as a furtive manner.

  Following orders, two of the gendarmes had taken the nuns into the frontier post and ordered them to strip. The two elderly women had peeled off everything until they stood trembling and naked, their scrawny arms crossed over their wrinkled chests, eyes closed tightly as though to blot out the vision of their martyrdom. Nothing suspicious had been found on their persons, and the two gendarmes — both of whom were staunch Catholics — had been mortified with shame and confusion as they allowed them to dress again.

  A good hour later, someone discovered that one of the nuns had left behind the bag she had been carrying. No one had thought to look inside it. It contained a Luger automatic, some fuses and detonators, and a pair of wire-cutters.

  Not all the rumours, it seemed, were false.

  They continued their journey, feeling a lot better with something in their stomachs. They kept a weather eye open for enemy aircraft as they drove northwards, but apart from a pair of high-flying machines which they could not identify they saw nothing. The Allied air forces were absent from the sky.

  On this second day of the enemy offensive, 11 May, it had been the turn of the Air Striking Force’s Blenheim medium-bomber squadrons to suffer. That morning, the Blenheims of 114 Squadron, based near Soissons on the banks of the Aisne, had been preparing to take off for an attack on the bridges at Maastricht when their airfield had been heavily bombed. The British aircraft had been caught on the ground, and the squadron practically wiped out.

  Shortly afterwards, nine Fairey Battles of the tiny Belgian Air Force had also tried to get through to the bridges. Six of them were shot down by intense flak before they got anywhere near the target, and the puny 100-pound bombs of the other three failed to do any damage.

  That afternoon, for the first time, the French bomber force was ordered into action. General d’Astier, still beside himself with frustration, finally received the desperately awaited call from GHQ, ordering him to ‘put everything to work to slow up the German columns in the direction of Maastricht, Tongeren and Gembloux, and
not to hesitate to bomb towns and villages in order to obtain the required result’.

  The order came not a moment too soon, for d’Astier’s colleague at Chauny, Air Marshal Barratt, had pitifully few resources left. It was, however, a forlorn hope. The most modem French bomber was the twin-engined Leo 451, and only ten were available to take part in the attack. They went in with a strong fighter escort and only one bomber was shot down, but the bridges were undamaged and all the other bombers were so badly hit that only one could be made airworthy within the next twenty-four hours.

  Yeoman and his colleagues arrived at Charleroi-Gosselies airfield shortly before four in the afternoon to find the place stiff with aircraft, most of them British. There was a squadron of Gloster Gladiators and two squadrons of Hurricanes — No. 85 from the BEF’s Air Component and No. 505. Hillier and his pilots had flown into Charleroi at noon and had already been in action twice, claiming a pair of Dornier 17 bombers and three Messerschmitt 110s for no loss to themselves.

  The Hurricanes that awaited the newcomers were brand-new machines with three-blade Rotol propellers. They had originally been intended to replace the Gladiator Squadron’s ageing biplanes, but had been allocated to 505 Squadron instead to make good its losses — much to the disgust of the Gladiator pilots.

  Yeoman and Callender sought out their flight commander, Flight-Lieutenant Rogerson, who told them to get something to eat and then join the rest of the flight on ‘readiness’. They lay beside their aircraft in their shirt sleeves, flying overalls and tunics having been discarded in deference to the heat, and tried to snatch some sleep.

  Yeoman had just lapsed into a fitful doze when the drum-roll of bombing shook him awake. He scrambled up just as Rogerson dashed past, yelling ‘“B” Flight — after me!’ There was no sign of any Huns, but there was a lot of noise coming from somewhere to the south of Charleroi.