They shot him that afternoon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sedan, the old fortress town on the river Meuse, was the weak link in the French defensive line, and the Germans had known it all along. Here, at the vulnerable junction of the French Second and Ninth Armies between Sedan and Mézières, lay four of the French Army’s weakest divisions, composed of fortress troops and reservists — poorly trained men, with little or no enthusiasm for their task.
Across the river, mercifully unseen, sheltering in the wooded valleys, no fewer than five Panzer divisions were poised to strike, to tear the thin defensive screen brutally apart. Behind the armour and shock troops, the roads leading towards the Meuse and Sedan presented an almost unbelievable sight to the German crews climbing away on their missions in the spreading dawn of 13 May. Packed nose to tail, churning slowly forward, was the mightiest concentration of armour in the history of warfare: fifteen hundred tanks moving in three great phalanxes. The whole column was a hundred miles long and behind it, still deep inside Germany, came the infantry divisions whose task it would be to consolidate the ground won by the Panzers.
The thirteenth, which dawned bright and sunny with a few shreds of mist clinging to the woods on either side of the Meuse, was the day of the Stuka. They came over in small numbers at first, attacking French forward positions on the Meuse and convoys bringing vital supplies up from the rear, operating in formations of six aircraft or less.
Then came the afternoon. On the west bank of the Meuse, the dazed French infantry cowered in their foxholes and stared in fear at the sky, the sky out of which the deadly gull-winged shapes came tumbling like an avalanche, rending the mind with the awful scream of their sirens. There was to be no respite for the battered troops. Even before the roar of the Stukas’ engines had died away, more black shapes came crawling over the eastern sky; horizontal bombers this time, twin-engined Dornier 17s, droning across the river in serried ranks to unload their bombs with deadly precision into the pall of dust and smoke raised by the dive-bombers. So it went on for hour after nightmare hour, with successive waves of bombers pounding the area around Sedan before turning for home in an almost leisurely manner.
High above, silvery midges danced against the blue backdrop as French Moranes and Curtiss Hawks strove to harass the enemy bombers, only to be frustrated for the most part by the swarms of prowling Messerschmitts. From time to time, a black smudge in the sky or the wail of a helpless aircraft falling like a stone marked the end of an air combat.
For the pilots of 505 Squadron, 13 May was a day of utter frustration. While other AASF fighter squadrons were tangling with the enemy over the Maginot Line, they were ordered to fly a succession of patrols over the Air Headquarters at Reims. With the Luftwaffe committed to operations against the French defences, there was little activity further to the rear, and it was not until early evening that the squadron scored its first victories of the day when two pilots from ‘C’ Flight bagged a Heinkel apiece.
The pilots were roused at four o’clock the next morning, and Hillier briefed them on the day’s operations. General Billotte, commander of the French Army Group One, had begged Air Marshal Barratt to send the remaining bombers of the AASF into action against the bridges in the Sedan sector, and all available fighters were required to cover the operation. French fighters would be operating at maximum effort in the area, too, and Hillier stressed the need for accurate recognition. Only the day before, two Hurricane pilots from the Air Component had cheerfully hacked down what they believed to be a Dornier; it had turned out to be a French Potez 63 reconnaissance aircraft.
Yeoman felt washed out. Although he had seen no action on the thirteenth, he had flown four sorties and had spent a restless night afterwards, his sleep disturbed by the continuous rumble of bombing. His eyes felt as though they were full of grit and his neck hurt abominably, making him wince with pain whenever he turned his head sharply.
Callender noticed him rubbing the back of his neck and gave him a word of advice. ‘If you’re having trouble, George, go and see the MO. You ought to know by now that you need to keep your head moving freely in a scrap, or you could end up in the soup.’
Yeoman knew that the advice was sound, but he had no time to act upon it. A minute later, the pilots were running for their aircraft as the order to take off came through.
Yeoman turned his oxygen full on as they climbed away, and the cool breath of the gas made him feel slightly better. He settled himself as comfortably as he could in the cockpit. Like the others, he had long ago discarded both flying overall and tunic, and now flew in shirt sleeves; his harness straps dug into his shoulders as a consequence, but that was a small discomfort he was prepared to tolerate in exchange for keeping his temperature down.
The Hurricanes climbed to ten thousand feet, heading eastwards to Verdun. As they approached the fortress town, a dozen blunt-nosed fighters joined them, holding a ragged formation a mile away to starboard. Yeoman identified them as Curtiss Hawks, nimble little radial-engined machines that had already given a good account of themselves in the air battles prior to the German offensive.
The whole formation turned gently over the fortress town, following the Meuse as it curved northwards. Ahead, in the distance, the river and the countryside to the west of it were obscured by drifting smoke, punctuated by the occasional twinkle of a shell-burst.
Suddenly, the French fighter leader broke away and dived across the front of the Hurricane formation, rocking his wings. A moment later, the rest of the Hawks went into a shallow dive. Looking down, Yeoman picked out six large, twin-engined aircraft flying a couple of thousand feet lower down. They were French Amiot 143 bombers, ungainly, outdated machines with fixed undercarriages. The situation must be bad, Yeoman thought, if the French were sending ancient crates like those into action.
The Amiots flew on in perfect formation, with the French fighters on either side. The Hurricanes stayed up above, the flights stepped up in echelon, weaving gently from side to side. There was no sign of any enemy fighters.
The Hawks broke away from the bombers and climbed steeply to port, curving round to protect the tails of their charges as they began their approach to the target area. The Amiots cruised on serenely, as though on parade. They were uncamouflaged, and the metal finish of their wings glittered in the sunlight.
Then, as Yeoman watched, the illusion of peace was brutally shattered. He blinked as a vivid orange flash enveloped the tiny metallic cross that was the leading Amiot. When he looked again the bomber had vanished, obliterated by the explosion of its own bombs. The remaining Amiots flew on through a storm of shell-bursts that erupted suddenly across the sky, holding their course. A second bomber faltered and dropped out of formation, turning over on its back. With sickening finality it fell into a ponderous spin. Two parachutes broke away, standing out like tiny white pinheads against the brown landscape.
There was a warning shout over the radio. An instant later, the Hurricanes scattered in all directions as twenty Messerschmitt 110s came hurtling down out of the sun. The enemy fighters continued their headlong dive, and the flak died away as they closed with the bombers. The Hawks had seen them coming, and the French fighter pilots turned to meet the threat.
‘Maintain formation! Do not attack! I repeat, do not attack!’
Hilliers precise voice restrained the British pilots, who were itching to join the battle that now spread out beneath them. It was just as well. Fifteen more Messerschmitts came diving hard out of the east, and were on top of the Hurricanes almost before the latter had time to react. Yeoman, who was clinging grimly to Rogerson’s tail, heard a sudden loud bang and saw a hole appear in his port wing. He turned steeply in the opposite direction, cringing in fear, and tried desperately to locate his attacker. He cried out as pain seized his neck in a vice, and felt sweat break out on his forehead. He kept on turning; it was the only thing to do. With a supreme effort, fighting the pain, he managed to swivel his head. The Messerschmitt slid into his fie
ld of vision, closing rapidly from the port quarter. The German was firing in short bursts, the battery of cannon and machine-guns in its nose twinkling.
Suddenly, a cloud of smoke enveloped the 110’s starboard engine. The enemy fighter half-rolled and dropped away beneath. A Hurricane ripped past, and Yeoman recognized the code-letter on its fuselage; it was Callender, who had saved his skin just in time.
Another 110 appeared in front of Yeoman, weaving uncertainly from side to side, its crew clearly visible under their long glasshouse cockpit canopy. Yeoman kicked the rudder bar, his thumb hard down on the firing-button, and raked the Messerschmitt from wing-tip to wingtip as it skidded through his sight. Its twin-finned tail broke away and whirled past him; the remainder dropped like a stone. He caught a glimpse of the German gunner trying to struggle clear before the 110 vanished.
He got in another burst at a 110 that fleeted across his nose, and then his guns jammed. With a pair of Messerschmitts turning hard to cut him off, he realized that it was high time he made himself scarce. He pushed the Hurricane’s nose down, opened the throttle, and dived hard across the river. Another painful look behind revealed the two 110s turning away in the direction of the Sedan bridges, where their colleagues were shooting the last of the hapless Amiots out of the sky.
The Luftwaffe had been active that morning. All along the route from Sedan to Châlons, columns of smoke rose from towns and villages which had been the targets of German bombers. Châlons itself had taken a battering; whole areas of the town were burning, and the sector around the railway station seemed to have suffered badly.
Yeoman’s anxiety grew as he approached the airfield, over which hung a heavy pall of smoke. The Luftwaffe had paid a visit during 505 Squadron’s absence, and the surface of the airfield was pitted with craters. He dropped his wheels and flaps and flew low overhead, surveying the ground. The only clear strip seemed to be on the northern edge of the field, between the canvas hangars — or what was left of them — and a deep ditch that ran along part of the boundary.
He made a steep approach, touching down with plenty of room to spare, and taxied back towards the hangars, weaving occasionally to avoid a crater. He shut down the engine, draining the fuel from the carburettors, and walked stiffly towards the operations hut, leaving his fighter in the care of a fitter and rigger.
The air reeked of high explosive. Henry, the bored corporal, told him that dive-bombers had attacked the airfield only a quarter of an hour earlier. Two airmen had been slightly injured, but apart from that there had been no casualties.
Yeoman suddenly felt ravenously hungry. Henry produced some bread and jam, and the pilot sat outside and wolfed it down, watching the other Hurricanes returning in ones and twos. He counted them as they came in to land, feeling their way cautiously among the craters. Two aircraft were missing, and most of the others were damaged.
Callender came over, humping his parachute. The seat pack was in shreds where a 20-mm shell had ripped through it. Fortunately, it had not exploded. ‘Nearly lost the family jewels that time, George,’ Callender grunted. ‘Any idea who’s missing?’
‘I counted everybody in except two,’ the other replied. ‘By the way, thanks for getting me out of that spot of bother. Did you see the 110 go down?’
‘Yeah, he made a hole in a wood. Did you have any luck?’
Yeoman nodded. ‘Got a 110,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see him hit the deck, but I don’t think there was much doubt about him; he didn’t have a tail anymore.’
Callender clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good show! That’s something, at least. Christ, what a cock-up! Jamieson’s had it; I saw him go down into the river. Those poor bloody Frogs really copped it; it was like watching a turkey shoot.’ He kicked a tuft of grass savagely. ‘Somebody ought to have his neck wrung when this show’s over. We’re running this damn war on a shoestring. The Huns hold all the cards. They’re pushing their armour through like nobody’s business. God knows what’s going to happen when they really get moving; from what I’ve seen, the French have got precious little to stop them with.’
The other pilots drifted over, forming a sweaty cluster around Henry’s tea-urn. Wynne-Williams had been nicked by a bullet on the forearm, and went off to have the wound dressed. Yeoman noticed that everyone kept a watchful eye on the eastern sky. Some of the pilots seemed to be in an advanced state of nerves; one man trembled so violently that he was unable to hold his mug without spilling the tea. He stretched out his own hands surreptitiously, glancing around covertly to see if anyone was watching. To his surprise, he was able to hold them rock steady. Somehow, the fact came as a comfort to him. He felt better than he had done all day.
There was little to do now but sit in whatever shade was available and await further orders. Fitters, riggers and armourers laboured under the sweltering sun, patching up and rearming the battle-scarred Hurricanes. Once a formation of aircraft cruised overhead, flying south-westwards; they were too high to identify, but there were a lot of them and everyone relaxed visibly as they flew on.
The hours went by, and still no call came for further action. Every half-hour Hillier telephoned Air HQ, requesting instructions, but the response was always the same; the squadron was to remain at readiness until further notice.
Over there, on the Meuse, General Heinz Guderian’s Panzers continued to rumble across the pontoons into the bridgehead established the previous evening, while further north the 6th Panzer Division pushed through a second breach in the French defences at Monthermé, and in the Dinant sector the 7th Panzers under a young and talented general named Erwin Rommel poured into a third bridgehead. The French threw all their available bombers into an all-out effort to stem the tide, and they were slaughtered. They were shot to ribbons by the flak and the Messerschmitts, and by noon there were no reserves left.
At Reims, Air Marshal Playfair, the commander of the Advanced Air Striking Force, had been jealously guarding the pitiful remains of his light bomber squadrons. Now, with the French bombers out of action, he had no alternative but to commit his battered reserves to the fight. He did so with a heavy heart, for he knew that it would be a one-way trip for many of his young crews.
By one o’clock, 505 Squadron’s labouring ground crews had managed to make eight Hurricanes airworthy. Half an hour later, the squadron was ordered to take off and rendezvous with a formation of Battles over Reims. Hillier split his available machines into two flights, leading one himself and assigning the other to Rogerson.
They picked up the Battles on schedule and set course for the target, the eleven light bombers flying at eight thousand feet and the Hurricanes four thousand feet higher up. The formation cruised steadily on, passing ten miles to the south of Mézières. Below the aircraft the ground was partly obscured by cotton-wool tufts of fair-weather cumulus, but the horizontal visibility was still perfect. The broad ribbon of the Meuse was clearly visible, with the dark patch of Sedan nestling among its wooded surroundings.
Apart from the occasional slender column of smoke, there was little sign of the battle that must still be raging on the ground. Yeoman, lulled by the drone of the engine and the whirling disc of the propeller in front of him, had to shake himself hard to get rid of a sense of euphoria. He had a strange feeling that nothing bad could possibly happen in such a setting, with some of Europe’s loveliest landscape unfolding below. Surely, anyone looking down on it, whether British, French or German, could harbour nothing but friendly thoughts towards his fellow men?
‘Red Three, close up!’
Who was Red Three? He couldn’t remember. Funny how the rest of the formation was wandering about the sky. It must all be Red Three’s fault.
‘Red Three, close up for Christ’s sake!’
His oxygen mask was dangling loosely by its strap, slapping against his chin. Slap, slap, slap. It was funny. He giggled.
The voice came again, insistently. ‘Red Three, are you in trouble? Red Three, are you in trouble?’
He wished he coul
d remember who Red Three was. The bloody idiot was messing everything up. Then another voice broke in: ‘George, check your oxygen. Check your oxygen!’
George. Now there was a name he recognized. The voice that had spoken it sounded familiar, too. What was the other word it had mentioned? Oxygen, that was it. You needed oxygen if you were up high. But he wasn’t up high, he was only at … funny, he couldn’t read the altimeter. It was blurred, shrinking and expanding in front of his eyes.
He raised his hand to brush away the mist, and his fingers touched the dangling oxygen mask. Somehow, his dazed brain flashed a message to his fumbling fingers and he clamped the mask across his face. There was something else he had to do, but he needed another hand to do it, and both his hands were already occupied, one with the stick and the other with holding the mask. He tried to fasten the mask in place, and failed. He wrestled with the problem, sweating with the mental effort. Then he hit on the answer. Wedging the stick between his knees, he reached down and groped for the oxygen tap. He found it at last and hung on to it grimly, willing his fingers to turn it.
The instrument panel swam into focus once more as Yeoman gulped down the life-giving gas. He was trembling and felt sick. His voice sounded weak as he spoke over the R/T: ‘Hello leader, Red Three calling. Sorry about that. I think I’ve got some fumes in the cockpit.’
A glance at the instrument panel showed that everything seemed to be functioning normally. There was no time to speculate on the nature of the fumes, for that instant a chain of flak bursts erupted across the sky ahead of the formation. The Hurricanes flew on through the tufts of yellowish smoke. More shells burst around them, the crunch of the explosions plainly audible over the noise of the engine. It was the closest Yeoman had been to flak, and he found it a frightening experience. He felt helpless in the face of these unseen shells.
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