Hurricane Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  Yeoman grabbed his flying helmet and climbed stiffly into the cockpit. An aircraftman helped him to strap in; another stood by with a trolley-acc, ready to start the engine. ‘A’ Flight was already thundering away, their task to patrol the airfield while ‘B’ Flight went after the enemy bombers.

  The four Merlins started with a crackle. The sweating airmen dragged away the trolleys and chocks and the Hurricanes of ’B’ Flight began to taxi, Yeoman keeping a careful eye on Shaw’s aircraft immediately on his left. A minute later they were airborne and climbing hard towards Charleroi, over which the pilots could see ack-ack shells bursting.

  They crossed Charleroi at ten thousand feet, still climbing. A lot of smoke was coming from the area around the railway station, in the south-east outskirts of the town.

  They spotted the enemy suddenly, away to the left: nine Dornier 17s, heading east at about the same altitude as the Hurricanes. A careful look around; there was no sign of any fighter escort.

  Rogerson’s calm voice came over the radio. ‘Line abreast — line abreast — go!’ The four Hurricanes fanned out, their pilots opening the throttles. The Dorniers must have seen them, because thin black trails streamed back from their exhausts as they crammed on power.

  ‘Number Two attack — Number Two attack — go!’

  Yeoman selected a Dornier. Mesmerized, he watched tiny glowing pearls arc towards him from the bomber’s rear gun position. The pearls dropped harmlessly beneath him, falling towards the Belgian countryside.

  The distance between the two aircraft narrowed, and now the enemy gunner had his range. Tracers floated towards him, then zipped past his cockpit like angry hornets. Yeoman swore. His windscreen was icing up and he was looking at his target through an opaque film. He fired and missed. A slight correction, and his next burst shattered the Dornier’s glasshouse cockpit. The return fire ceased abruptly.

  He closed right in and systematically shot the Dornier to pieces, clinging grimly to the bomber as the enemy pilot tried desperately to escape. A sudden white trail from the bomber’s starboard engine turned black, shot with vivid flames. An instant later the engine blew up.

  Yeoman drew off and watched the Dornier’s death agony. A black bundle fell away, tumbling over and over. Out of the comer of his eye, Yeoman saw the white puff of a parachute.

  The Dornier’s starboard wing folded up in a shower of sparks and debris, tearing off at the root and whirling away. The wreck of the bomber rolled over and went down vertically, trailing a sheet of blazing fuel. It hit the ground a few miles south of Namur and blew up.

  Yeoman turned away, descending to five thousand feet in a bid to clear the ice that now threatened to obscure his vision completely. He pulled back the canopy with difficulty, for the runners were frozen, and revelled briefly in the blast of air that entered the cockpit.

  The icing cleared gradually, and he headed back towards Charleroi. He felt no elation at shooting down the Dornier. It had been a completely impersonal act. He was almost too tired to care.

  He was the first of ‘B’ Flight to land back at Charleroi. Rogerson and Shaw came in a few minutes later and congratulated him; they had both seen his Dornier go down. Callender had apparently been hit in the engine and had made a successful forced landing beside the Charleroi-Namur railway line. He turned up a couple of hours later, none the worse for wear, but swearing fluently and at great length because his bomber had got away. Rogerson had shot down two bombers and Shaw one. All in all, it had not been a bad afternoon’s work.

  Later, after stand-down, Rogerson borrowed an old Renault belonging to 85 Squadron and took Yeoman to look for ‘his’ Dornier, the bomber that had fallen closest to Charleroi. After a ten-mile drive they found the wreckage scattered around a huge crater in a meadow beside a stream. It was still smouldering. Some Belgian soldiers had already collected the charred and fragmented remains of the crew, for which Yeoman was heartily thankful. The sole survivor, he learned, had broken a leg on landing and was in hospital in Namur.

  Rogerson picked up a souvenir: a fragment of tail-fin, two feet square and displaying part of a swastika. It was the biggest piece of wreckage they could find.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Blenheims had never stood a chance. At seven o’clock that morning — 12 May, a beautiful Whit Sunday — they had taken off from their base at Plivot, a few miles away from 505 Squadron’s usual airfield of Châlons, and had set course north-eastwards towards Belgium and the bridges at Maastricht. There were nine of them, and they all belonged to 139 Squadron. Since the disaster that had overtaken 114 Squadron the day before, they were the Air Striking Force’s sole remaining medium bombers.

  As they swept down to attack an enemy armoured column advancing towards Tongeren, fifty Messerschmitts had pounced and cut them to pieces. Only two out of the nine had returned to base, both of them badly shot up.

  The morning had gone well for Joachim Richter. From dawn onwards, Fighter Wing 66 — together with three other Luftwaffe fighter wings — had been ordered to patrol the Aachen-Maastricht-Liège triangle, covering the bridges over the Meuse — the bridges across which General Hoeppner’s 16th Panzer Corps was pouring into the Low Countries, the armoured columns spreading out over the drab Belgian plains.

  Richter’s first victory had been almost ridiculously easy. His flight bad been patrolling the line between Liège and Maastricht when suddenly three Belgian Air Force Hurricanes had appeared ahead of them, diving towards some unseen objective. He and two others had gone down after them. One burst was all that had been needed; the Hurricane had exploded in mid-air, its wreckage joined by that of its two fellows. It was doubtful if the Belgian pilots ever knew what had hit them.

  Fifteen minutes later, north-west of Liège, they sighted the Blenheim formation. The British bombers were flying in tight vics, and held their course steadily as the Messerschmitts came curving down behind them. It was a massacre. Richter fastened himself on to the tail of a Blenheim and opened fire, seeing his 20-mm shells punch great holes in the bomber’s green-and-brown camouflage. Within seconds the aircraft was ablaze from wingtip to wingtip. It reared up vertically, then fell sickeningly away into a spin. It slammed into a wooded hillside and blew up with a terrific explosion.

  A terrific free-for-all developed as a squadron of Messerschmitt 110s arrived, queueing up in turn to harry the surviving Blenheims. The bombers were chopped out of the sky one after another. Richter marvelled at the tenacity with which the pilots held their course, right up to the end.

  It was a jubilant crowd of fighter pilots who landed half an hour later at Norvenich, Fighter Wing 66’s new base half-way between Cologne and Düren. Almost everyone had scored a victory, and they had suffered no loss during the morning’s operations so far. Even Major Hartwig went so far as to slap Richter on the back in recognition of his two successes. Mölders had been right, the young pilot reflected. It was hard to believe that only two days earlier he had been almost ready to commit suicide.

  Nevertheless, he knew that he didn’t yet quite belong. He was conscious of the fact as he sat in a deckchair at dispersal, watching the other pilots of his flight playing skat. He had made the mistake of telling them that he had never played cards in his life; ‘the devil’s picture-book’, his mother had always called them, and he had never had reason to doubt her. The others had just laughed, shrugged their shoulders and ignored him. It wasn’t a very nice feeling. Maybe when he had a few more missions under his belt things would change.

  A gangling, fair-haired youth wearing a first-lieutenant’s badges wandered over and flopped down in a deckchair next to Richter. His name was Franz Peters, and he already had half a dozen enemy aircraft to his credit — including a pair of Wellington bombers, shot down over the Heligoland Bight in December 1939. He looked at Richter and grinned.

  ‘Well, Jo, how’s the war going?’

  Richter smiled back. ‘Pretty well, as far as I can see. We’re making progress all over the place. How long do you thin
k it’ll be before we have the whole thing wrapped up?’

  Peters shrugged. ‘My own reckoning is that we’ll be on the Channel coast in about a fortnight,’ he said. ‘I think that when that happens, the French will throw in the towel.’

  ‘And we’ll be in Tommyland inside a month!’ Richter exclaimed.

  Peters shook his head doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that. A lot of people think the Tommies will sue for peace when we get the upper hand, but I don’t know. They’ve still got a fair stretch of water between them and the rest of Europe — and don’t forget they’ve got one hell of an empire behind them. No, you’ll see — when Tommy’s up against it, he’ll get the gloves off, and then watch out! It’ll be no picnic from then on.’

  Peters swatted a fly that settled on his knee. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong — we’ll win in the end. All I’m saying is that this war’s going to go on for longer than anyone imagines, and I’m not complaining; flying Emils is a lot better than working in a town clerk’s office, which is what I was doing eighteen months ago!’

  An orderly appeared with breakfast; sausages, rolls and butter, jam, and two flasks of coffee. They ate ravenously, with the appetites of healthy young men at the peak of physical fitness. Peters produced a silver flask from his hip pocket, winked, and offered it to Richter. The latter refused and Peters laughed, pouring a measure into his own coffee. ‘It helps to keep the corpuscles going,’ he said.

  They were just finishing their last mouthful when the alert went up. Deckchairs went flying as the pilots ran for their aircraft. It was the same routine: patrol Maastricht at fifteen thousand feet. This time, the whole wing was airborne, and as they flew towards their patrol sector the pilots saw more formations of Messerschmitts, stepped up between ten thousand and twenty thousand feet, all heading in the same direction. It looked like being quite a show.

  *

  It was nine o’clock. Squadron Leader Hillier smoothed out the map that was spread on the wing of a Hurricane and looked at the pilots who were clustered around him. His face was grave.

  ‘The situation,’ he said, ‘is bad. The facts are these: Jerry is pushing armour as fast as he can over two main bridges across the Maas, here —’ his finger tapped the map at the spot where the borders of Holland and Belgium met — ‘at Vroenhoven and Veldwezelt. It is imperative that those bridges be destroyed, but all attempts to knock them out so far have failed.

  ‘The French Air Force and our own bomber boys are going to have another try this morning. Fighter cover over the target area is to be provided by 1 and 73 Squadrons and ourselves. The other two squadrons will try and prevent the Huns from getting through to the bombers, and our job is to deal with any that do.

  ‘One word of advice — if you are hit in the target area, try and get clear before baling out. The whole area around the bridges is stiff with flak, and dangling on a parachute in the middle of that lot will be pretty unhealthy. Any questions? Good. That’s all. Good luck.’

  Yeoman was beginning to feel as though he had been born in a Hurricane’s cockpit. There was an embryonic feeling about his presence there, surrounded by the familiar dials and levers, the rubber tube of the oxygen equipment and the tight grasp of the seat harness. It gave him a deep sense of security; he made his mind up that if he were hit, he would do all he could to stay with the aircraft and get her down in one piece, rather than bale out.

  He had slept soundly the night before, despite sporadic bombing in the vicinity, and felt a lot better as a result. All his uncertainties and fears had vanished; he felt part of the team at last.

  The twelve Hurricanes climbed steadily over Namur, flying in echelon formation, the fighters making a fine sight as they rose and fell gently on the warm currents of air,. The aircraft on Yeoman’s left was flown by Shaw, who gave the young pilot a mock salute as he glanced across.

  They followed the Meuse, curving gently over Liege where the river swung away towards Holland. There was a moment of alarm as six fighters arc’d down from the south, but they were French Morane 406s. The Moranes waggled their wings, then turned away and vanished in the haze.

  A minute later a shoal of aircraft passed beneath them, flying north at about five thousand feet. They were hump-backed, twin-engined machines with twin fins and rudders and slender, tadpole-like fuselages. Yeoman was puzzled for a moment, then Hillier’s voice came over the R/T: ‘Relax, everybody, they’re Breguets. All right, split up now. “A” and “B” Flights upstairs to seventeen thousand. “C” Flight, hold your present altitude. Orbit Tongeren.’

  From a height of over three miles, the whole panorama of the battlefield was spread out beneath them. There was a lot of smoke coming from Maastricht and the area around the junction of the Meuse and the Albert canal. Hillier’s comment about the flak had been no exaggeration; clouds of it hung across the sky, and as shells burst close to the circling Hurricanes Yeoman realized with a sudden shock that the enemy advance had already progressed further than anyone had thought possible.

  A terrific air battle seemed to be raging over Maastricht. Yeoman could see tiny black specks dancing like midges over the town, and two or three black smoke-trails slashed across the sky like ink marks. Hillier, unmoved, ordered them to continue circling. The squadron of Fairey Battles earmarked for the attack on the bridges would be going in soon, and he was conserving his strength to protect them.

  The flak Yeoman could see was directed at the luckless French Breguets, which were attacking enemy columns and being shot to ribbons. Up above, Morane fighters and a handful of RAF Hurricanes were fighting desperately against a swarm of Messerschmitts.

  The voice of ‘C’ Flight commander, Flight-Lieutenant Rose, crackled over the radio. ‘OK, we’ve got contact with the Battles. Turning in with them now.’

  ‘All right, stick with them. “A” and “B” Flights, climb like hell. Let’s get stuck in!’

  The eight Hurricanes turned and raced towards the tormented stretch of sky over Maastricht, their throttles wide open. Yeoman felt a wild sense of exultation; everything was crystal clear, just as it had been on his very first air combat. He was flying number two to Flight-Lieutenant Rogerson.

  It was the latter’s call that warned them of danger. ‘Look out, there’s a bunch of the bastards high to starboard, turning in.’

  ‘OK, got ’em. “A” Flight, turn to meet them. “B” Flight, continue climbing. Watch the sun.’

  For long moments the radio was silent Then a barrage of voices broke in:

  ‘Red Two, close up, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Watch out, there’s more of ’em up top.’

  ‘Red Two, break — a 110 behind!’

  ‘Got the bugger!’

  ‘“B” Flight, for God’s sake get a move on!’ Rogerson’s flight was a couple of thousand feet above the mêlée now, and he brought his four Hurricanes curving down out of the sun. A Messerschmitt 110 fell past Yeoman, minus its tail. An instant later he flinched as an aircraft came at him head on, but it was a Hurricane. It flashed beneath him and vanished. A 109 streaked across his nose and he loosed off a short burst, but it was hopelessly wide of the mark.

  An avalanche of 109s came tumbling down on their tails and they scattered wildly, hauling their fighters round to meet the new menace. Out of the comer of his eye, Yeoman saw Shaw’s Hurricane suddenly disintegrate in a cloud of blazing debris, its wings peeling back like the skin of a banana. The shattered fuselage continued its flight for a second, rolling over and over, then dropped away below.

  A 109 came at Rogerson from the port quarter. Yeoman stood his Hurricane on its wingtip and turned to meet it, firing as he came. He saw his bullets strike home on die enemy fighter’s fuselage, then it was gone in a flash. He hauled the Hurricane round, the ‘g’ pushing him deep into his seat, and went after it. He caught sight of it a thousand feet below, in a shallow dive. As he plummeted in pursuit he saw the 109 turn eastwards, heading for enemy territory. With any luck, he would be able to cut it
off.

  Joachim Richter had felt the hammer-blow of Yeoman’s bullets somewhere behind him, and had felt his guts momentarily twist with fear. Now, as he turned towards the sanctuary of the Meuse, he saw the Hurricane arrowing down towards him and knew that he wasn’t going to make it. There was only one thing to do, and that was turn and fight.

  He turned steeply towards the Hurricane just as Yeoman opened fire, sending the Englishman’s shots wide. The Emil juddered appallingly as he continued the turn in a desperate effort to get on his adversary’s tail. The controls felt sloppy, and with sudden brilliant clarity Richter knew that he didn’t stand a chance.

  A wisp of smoke rose between his legs, and paralysing fear seized him. He was sitting on top of the fuel tank. He was going to burn. The smoke grew thicker, blinding him. His frantic, groping fingers found the cockpit canopy release and the smoke poured out, streaming away behind. He had no idea where the Hurricane was. To hell with it. He had to get out, before the fuel tank went up and vaporized him.

  He unfastened his seat harness and tried to lever himself out of the narrow cockpit. Something tugged at him, pulling him back. It was as though the Emil wanted him to die with her.

  The Hurricane had pulled alongside. Through the smoke, he saw the pilot looking at him. The Englishman raised his hand, as though in salute.

  He placed both hands on the canopy rail and pushed hard. The smoke was growing thicker all the time and he could feel heat against his legs. He put one foot on the instrument panel and gave a last, despairing heave.

  The tearing hand of the slipstream caught him, hurling him along the side of the fuselage. The dark shadow of the tailplane passed over him. He was spread-eagled in space, clawing for the ripcord of his parachute. He couldn’t find it. Panic choked him for an instant, then he forced himself to look down and search for the metal ring.

  It was exactly where it ought to be. He caught hold of it and pulled. A huge fist knocked the breath out of him and his parachute deployed with an enormous crack. He looked up in alarm, thinking for a moment that something had torn, but the silken umbrella was in one piece.