“Which we are, sir.”
“Yes, but no need to tell our allies that fact.”
“Sounds almost duplicitous, sir.”
“Does, don’t it? They’re only Frogs. Don’t worry about it.”
“Do we still expect the Germans to head towards the Channel coast, sir?”
“Yes – they are not planning to take Paris this time, according to intelligence received. That means they must head through western Belgium, Flanders again, and towards the sea and then south westerly down to Calais. You can expect to be on the flank of their attack – tanks and infantry supported by air. The lessons of Poland and Norway seem to be that they will use their bombers as close support to the ground forces, almost as artillery. Get the bombers and you will do a lot of good. Means low-level work mostly.”
Thomas thought that was practical.
“What are the plans for cooperation with the French squadrons, sir?”
“None. Nothing has been organised at squadron level. Everything is at general officer level, and very vague. We are to ‘assign targets and sectors’. What that means is anybody’s guess. I will try to radio targets to you, but half the time reception will be so bad you won’t get the messages. We haven’t even been able to agree on radio channels so we don’t interfere with each other. Fly all the hours you can when the attacks start and destroy bombers as a first priority. More than that? If I can, I will tell you. Major Curtis and his people will probably send information to you – use it. When you pull back, head west where possible. If France falls – which seems more likely than not – then we need every pilot we can get hold of in England. If you come across any Frog pilots trying to make a fight of it, give them the message that they will be welcome across the Channel. Especially, they have a number of Czechs and Poles, as we do – make sure they know that they will be given planes to fly in England.”
Thomas took the word to the squadron.
“We will be fighting soon. Don’t rely on the French. If we get split up, head for the coast and get back to England. Don’t go south, hoping to regroup in France – there won’t be a France.”
Chapter Five
The Breaking Storm
“Up, Thomas! Out of bed! They’re attacking into Holland and Belgium and rolling through Luxembourg. Massive air raids reported. Peters has ordered standing patrols over the field while we wait for targets to be assigned.”
“Got it, Rod. What’s the bloody time?”
“Four o’clock. It’s light on a beautiful summer day.”
“Balls! Man the airfield guns. Let me clean my bloody teeth. Mouth tastes like a vulture’s crapped in it!”
“Serves you right! This French beer is good for nothing other than a hangover.”
Rod left the room for a couple of minutes, returned unwholesomely wide-awake and active.
“I’ve ordered tea and coffee and toast to the ready room. The squadron is moving.”
“Good. Word to the hangars that I want all guns loaded with special tracer. Double the gate guard. Nothing to enter without papers. Deliveries to be searched before coming in. We don’t want bombs behind the milk churns.”
“Done it, Thomas.”
“Christ, I hate blokes who can be efficient at this time of day!”
They ran to the ready room. Thomas swore to himself when he found five of the pilots there already, fully dressed and sat with tea and toast. He had wanted to be first into the room.
“Well done, lads! No time to hang about in bed.”
He waited another couple of minutes, gulping down tea. The rest of the squadron trotted in, all ready to fly. He debated toast but his gut did not want food forced upon it.
“Jan, your Flight to a standing patrol over the field for one hour. Go to fifteen thousand and keep an eye out to the north. Be ready to land and refuel at any time. I expect orders for a full squadron sortie.”
Jan nodded and ran out to his plane, his three pilots at his shoulder with nothing said.
Thomas watched from the door, saw the planes waiting, the ground teams in their places, one mechanic to each giving the windscreens a final polish.
“Anything more from HQ, Rod?”
“Stand by.”
“Typical. Tex, take over from Jan and then you, Hank.”
Three quarters of an hour later HQ radioed that there were bombers coming in from the north, attacking airfields in their path.
“Couldn’t get any more vague, could they? Jan to come down and refuel. Rod, act as ground control, same as we did for exercise. Cancel standing patrols. Take off as a squadron at soonest.”
Thomas addressed the pilots before they took off.
“We don’t know what’s going on so I’m taking us up to fifteen thousand to have a look around. Anything I see we will attack. Hold in your Flights. Return to base to refuel and rearm as necessary, at Flight commanders’ discretion or my order. I will call who is to go for what, but after the tally-ho, Flights are free to pick their own targets.”
He did not wish them good fortune – they needed open eyes and skill, not luck.
The squadron climbed slowly, conserving fuel, watching the sky.
“Bloody Hell, Thomas!”
“Thomas. Radio discipline, please. Squadron attack, bombers at three o’clock, angels eight. No visible fighters. Over.”
There were five separate formations of bombers visible, the nearest no more than five miles distant, holding a tidy formation and heading towards a Belgian airfield. They were about thirty miles inside the Belgian border.
Thomas led them in a shallow dive, called ‘tally-ho’, self-conscious as ever at using the silly but official codeword. He glanced to either side, saw his Flights pushing the throttle through the gate to close as fast as they could.
The German squadron had a single bomber just to the front of the formation, presumably its squadron leader. Thomas dived and banked and turned to place himself above and slightly behind, throwing the defensive fire off. The Junkers 88 held its line, refusing to try to avoid him. Machine guns from several planes started to converge on him as he snaked and closed and opened fire at point-blank range, filling the cockpit with his first burst. He saw the glass shatter and the plane flip over onto its side, then into a vertical dive, falling out of the sky. He gave a boot on the rudder, banked hard and turned as tightly as possible, expecting fighters to be on him, but there was nothing close to his tail, no escort at all. He picked out a second Junkers, head to head, bored in on it and opened fire, hitting from the nose through the cabin. Again, it made no attempt to avoid him, stayed steady to give its own gunners a stable platform. It fell as the pilots died.
He passed through the formation in seconds, climbed to turn above them. There was smoke and he could see five separate planes going down. Parachutes bloomed as he watched. He spotted bombs exploding in the fields, presumed that some of them had shed their loads to give themselves speed to escape.
“Thomas to Red One. Location. Over.”
“Red One. On you tail. Over.”
He stared over his shoulder, saw three of the four behind him. The radio crackled and he picked up other voices, his pilots having waited for him to break radio silence.
“Green One, going home. Out of ammo. Over.”
“Blue One. Re-joining. Over.”
“Red Three. Where are you? Over.”
“Thomas. Red Three, go home. Over.”
“Red Three. Roger. Over.”
The raid was distant, also going home at full speed, a much smaller squadron than had started out.
“Thomas. Red One and Blue One. Return to base. Over.”
Thomas and Red Flight landed last, joined the pilots besieging the Idiot with their reports. He counted planes and men, found all present, one of the Hurricanes being wheeled into the hangar behind them, its pilot sat down and receiving medical attention.
“What’s the score, Quack?”
“David with a hole in the ear, half-moon cut out. Bleeding like a s
tuck pig! Oops! Not appropriate, David! My apologies.”
Thomas could not follow that comment, remembered then that David was a Jew.
“Can you stop the bleeding?”
“Of course I bloody can! Give him five minutes and he can go and change his top clothes. He’ll need a clean dressing. He’ll be ready to fly inside the hour with liquid and a bite to eat inside him.”
Thomas presumed it was David’s Hurricane inside the hangar – his cockpit must have lost glass at minimum. He joined the queue to report, claiming two.
“Didn’t see any other kills, I’m afraid.”
“Is because you was at the front, Thomas. I see you both – behind in the cockpit then nose to nose, fill him up from the front. Both go down straight. I got one what took fire and damage one, Idiot.”
“Thanks, Jan.”
Feliks also confirmed Thomas’ two and claimed one of his own.
Between them, they thought there had been a formation of about twenty attacking and they had killed thirteen and damaged six. None had seen hide or hair of a fighter.
They were ordered up an hour later, given specific coordinates and arrived over a smashed detachment of the Belgian army in time to see a raid of Stukas disappearing in the far distance, their work done.
Thomas took them high and saw nothing.
“Red One. Thomas, can see something moving low and slow, north two miles. Over.”
“Thomas. Red Flight go for it. Over.”
Thomas thought his own eyesight was good but Jan’s was phenomenal – he could pick out and identify specks that Thomas could hardly see.
He watched and listened as the Flight split into two sections and dived and fired. There was an explosion at ground level, a plane’s fuel tank going up as it hit the ground. Smoke began to rise a little further distant, suggesting two aircraft down.
“Red One. Thomas. Is two Henschel, army cooperations. Over.”
“Thomas. Well done, Red One. Can you see any army? Over.”
“Red One. Nothing. Is ahead, spying out for Stukas, maybe. Over.”
“Thomas. Return to me. Over.”
A soft kill, perhaps, but a very useful one.
They patrolled for another fifteen minutes then turned back for base. Thomas glanced at his watch.
“Leader to Base. Sandwiches and hot drinks for our return. Over.”
“Ground Control. Roger. Over.”
They flew four more patrols in that first day, picking up one raid as it happened and getting into the middle of a squadron of Dorniers, again with no fighter cover.
“Turkey shoot, Thomas. Never seen nothing like it.”
Thomas relaxed over a pint, late in the evening, the sun down and further flying impossible.
“They must have read the textbooks, Hank. You remember that Italian bugger – can’t remember his name - who claimed it was impossible to stop bombers from getting through? He said that a bomber had more guns and far more ammunition than a fighter. All the bombers need do is fly in formation, straight and level, and their massed machine guns must beat off any fighter attack. There was a Frog said the same thing.”
“You think they might have been wrong, Thomas?”
“Looks like it. Provided the fighters use their mobility and hit from close with aimed fire, bombers can’t do much to them. If the silly sods try this business of opening fire at four hundred yards, it might be different. That’s giving all the advantage back to the bombers.”
Rod appeared.
“Group Captain driving in, Thomas.”
“Bloody hell! Don’t need brass after a busy day.”
Peters entered the mess, apologising for disturbing them, waving the pilots down as they stood.
“Making a quick circuit of the squadrons, Stark. You have claimed twenty-two bombers and two Henschels on the day. Reports from the ground say you are not exaggerating – your claims are accepted. Two other squadrons are claiming much the same sort of numbers. The other pair of Hurricanes put in for five between them. The three of you who did so well all use the open formations of Flights, either threes or fours – seems much the same whichever. I have ordered the other two to follow your example, but they have no practice in the system. The Blenheim squadrons are also claiming heavily. The Frogs say they got some. Nowhere did the Huns use fighter escorts – and we don’t know why. They must have learned the need in Poland.”
“Different Groups not talking to each other, sir? Perhaps they had other work for their fighters – escorting unarmed transports, perhaps?”
“No idea, Stark. We must assume they will have escorts tomorrow. Fly a defensive standing patrol from first light. Be ready to go out as soon as we can get reports of targets. You have been awarded an immediate DFC, Stark, and citations have gone in for your three Flight Commanders. Put your ribbons up.”
The Group Captain produced the strips of coloured tape and stood back, waiting for applause, seemed surprised that there was no more than a quiet lifting of glasses.
“We’ll need more than ribbons tomorrow, sir. If you could supply some twenty mil cannon as well, they might be more useful.”
“They are testing Hotchkiss and Hispano at the moment, Stark. It will be some months before they come into service.”
“Better late than never? Might be. Can you get more of the special tracer across to us, sir?”
“Explosive rounds? They are to be used for specific targets only, Stark.”
“I can assure you, sir, that I specify what I want them to hit every time I fire them.”
“Stark, we are not the Huns. They are.”
“Thank you for the explanation, sir. Did you hear that, Jan? I hope you know which is which now.”
Jan drew himself up and bowed.
“Thank you, Thomas. All is now clear. Is bloody English sense of humour? Don’t understand you people.”
“Don’t worry, mate. Just you keep on shooting straight like you did today.”
Jan achieved a smile.
“No worries, Thomas! Got that right, did I, cobber?”
“Dead right, mate. Have another beer?”
“Too bloody right, mate!”
The Group Captain was not amused.
“I hadn’t realised you were Australian, Stark.”
“Grew up in Queensland, sir.”
“It might explain much, Stark.”
Thomas took a bow.
“Also of interest today, gentlemen, we have a new Prime Minister. You may have heard that there was a debate on the Norway campaign which ended up in attacks on Chamberlain’s competence and a vote which he won narrowly, much of his own party going against him. He resigned today and has been replaced by Churchill.”
“By Churchill, sir? Good. He will do a better job and he won’t surrender. If it had been the Appeasement mob then we would have been sold out inside the month. Have they shot Mosley yet?”
“Not that I have heard, Stark. Politics is hardly our business. I must get back to HQ. The word seems to be that the Germans are making headway in Belgium. Still aiming for the Channel coast, of course. I will radio through all I know during the day tomorrow. It may be that squadrons to the west, towards the coast, will have to fall back, but you should be safe here.”
Thomas escorted Peters to his car, came back to Rod.
“You heard what he said, Rod?”
“About Churchill? Just another bloody politician but at least he ain’t an old woman. Peters thinks we’re safe here? No need to prepare to withdraw?”
“Yes. Sanguine, ain’t he? Get the lorries loaded up and ready to pull out. Can you get hold of any more transport?”
“I’ll load up anything that comes in with ammunition. Might be able to commandeer something locally, if you don’t mind the Frogs complaining.”
“There’s a good chance we won’t be here, Rod. They can try complaining to the Hun, if they want.”
“But, they are all to the west of us, Thomas.”
“Apart from the bugger
s to the north, south and east. If you believe the brass, Rod…”
“I know, but the Ardennes cover the north and east and they ain’t going to come out of the Vosges and south of the Maginot Line, no matter what fairy tales you hear. For the while, we have to be on safe ground here.”
Thomas could not be convinced – common sense said that if the brass could make a cock of it, they would. He grabbed another beer.
“It’s still the same as the Great War. The generals ain’t very bright and they surround themselves with jolly good chaps who know nothing but are sons to the right people. Look at Gort – got the job because he’s the sixth viscount and he was outstanding as a company commander. Not very good when he made major; useless in command of a battalion; a menace with a brigade – so they made him a general and gave him the BEF. If they had left him as a captain with a company, he’d have won another two VCs by now; as a general he’ll lose an army. Incredible man – one of the bravest fighting men ever – but refuses to think because he knows there’s nothing new and worthwhile – he’ll just stick with the tried and true. ‘Up Guards and at ‘em’ – the head-on assault, that’s all he understands. ‘Give ‘em the jolly bayonet, boys – there’s nothing that cold steel and British spirit won’t defeat’. What a dickhead!”
“It’s late, Thomas, and you need your sleep. Up at four o’clock. Bedtime now.”
“You don’t defeat tanks with a bayonet, Rod.”
“Sleep, Thomas!”
“Rod – anything on the radio?”
“Wait for instructions.”
“I hear and obey. I shall wait for as long as it takes to drink a cup of tea. I’m not being caught on the ground to keep those fools happy.”
He decided to take a slice of toast as well; he had been hungry before they landed on the previous morning.
His pilots were not pleased at rising with the summer dawn.
“Who runs a bloody war at four in the morning, Thomas?”
“It’s not my fault, Dick – don’t blame me. Open your eyes and drink your tea. How’s Terence?”
“How do I know? He won’t speak to me at this time of day.”
The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2) Page 9
