The Breaking Storm (Innocent No More Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  “He don’t speak at any time.”

  “So he’s going to say even less at four o’clock in the bloody morning.”

  “Right.”

  It seemed to Thomas that he would be well-advised to keep a light hand on his pilots. Too many of them had been in the habit of flying singly or in a pair to take to any tight control when it came to fighting.

  He led them up a few minutes later, still without orders.

  Twenty miles north they saw a raid coming in.

  “Red One. Is squadron of bombers low, angels eight. On top, is fighters. 109s. Many. Two squadrons, maybe. Over.”

  “Thomas. Red and Blue Flights, with me into the fighters. Green Flight, break up the bombers. Control, attacking formation of forty plus on course for the field. Over.”

  “Control. Roger. Over.”

  The field had its solitary, modern Bofors and four Vickers on old cartwheel mountings, Great War style, and a selection of Lewises and Brens, shoulder held. They would at least show willing if attacked.

  “Thomas. Buster. Over.”

  Buster was the command to push the throttles through the gate, gave the pilots absolution for over-revving their engines and shortening their lifespan.

  Control at the field heard every word. They sent a warning to Wag that he should expect business when the squadron landed.

  “Green One. Bombers are Dorniers. Over.”

  “Thomas. Tally-ho. Over.”

  Dorniers, known to the newspapers as the ‘Flying Pencil’, were thought to be the least effective of the three medium bombers possessed by the Luftwaffe. They were, it was said, a little slower and less agile than the Junkers 88 or the Heinkel. Twelve or more of them were still a problem for four Hurricanes.

  “Red One. Mes coming down. Over.”

  “Thomas. Meet them. Over.”

  The problem had not occurred to Thomas when attacking unescorted bombers, but he was on his own. Every other pilot had a wingman. It would be wiser to leave a man at home each day, keep their numbers even. The Mes were diving hard, far outpacing the climbing Hurricanes, it would be a passing fight initially, a single burst and a hard turn back into the scrap.

  The Huns were growing bigger and bigger as they came closer. Thomas picked out one who would be his target and quickly lined up nose to nose, watching as he became a spinner taking up his whole gunsight and all of his concentration. There was a screen and a black dot of a head as well, holding a hard line, a collision course.

  He licked his lips and forced his thumb off the button. It was too soon, the target too small. He twitched his nose as if to lift away, saw his opponent fall for the feint, starting to climb, showing his belly. A three second burst, the bullets chewing into the engine and the underside of the cockpit. He banked and flicked the rudder and dropped hard into a dive – he had been too long on a straight course. Tracer passed over him from the quarter and he looked as he evaded and then turned into the man firing.

  They passed each other at twenty feet, a combined speed of six hundred miles an hour meaning they were gone before either could react. Thomas heaved into a hopeful Immelmann turn, reversing his course but there was only blue sky in front of him. He spotted the bombers, their formations broken up, and headed towards them, turning his head all the time, trying to watch his own tail.

  There was a Dornier breaking away, turning to the northeast, showing its wings clearly as he barrelled in. He waited until he could see the face of a gunner trying to pull a machine gun round. A longer burst, hitting under the wing roots and cutting into the fuselage up towards the pilots’ seats at the front of the cabin. The Dornier dropped its nose and started a spin and he pulled away. It was probably dead, certainly out of the action. He saw a single Hurricane on the tail of another Dornier, side-slipped until he was behind and higher, in place to cover his pilot.

  Flames broke out on the bomber and an engine stopped, the prop standing out where there had been no more than a blur.

  “Green Two, leave him. He’s dead. Over.”

  Chas turned away, looking for more trade. His Dornier exploded behind him, the flames reaching a bomb bay full of incendiaries.

  The sky was empty, nothing to be seen other than a distant bomber limping home.

  “Thomas. Squadron return to base. Over.”

  He caught up with Chas, flew home with him as his wingman.

  “Claims for five bombers and three Me 109s. Confirmation for two in total.”

  “It happens too fast, Idiot. Closing speeds of more than five hundred miles an hour mean you’re lucky to see your own target let alone watch anybody else.”

  The Idiot was sympathetic but could not change the rules.

  “Without ground confirmation, I can’t give them. Chas has a Dornier confirmed. Jan a Me 109. The rest are claimed and can be given as damaged.”

  Thomas shrugged.

  “What of our losses?”

  “Marcin definitely dead. His fuel tank blew, seen by Shorty and David. Dick and Terence both seen to jump. Parachutes opened. They might make it back, Thomas.”

  “They might not as well. Rod, we need three planes and replacement pilots if possible.”

  “Will do, Thomas. Message from HQ that we should await orders. We will be wanted to cover a raid by a squadron of Battles from the field this side of Sedan. We will be given a rendezvous and will provide high cover as they head north toward the canal – which canal, I ain’t sure – and attempt to bomb bridges.”

  “Sounds hopeful, Rod?”

  “Not a chance, Thomas. Battles are incapable of dive-bombing. They will have to go in low and straight. Perfect targets for ground fire, assuming the Mes let them get that far.”

  “Their problem. We’ll do what we can. No signs of any raid coming for the field?”

  “None. Nothing within distant sight even.”

  “Busy attacking the armies, I presume. What’s the position with transport?”

  “Two lorries came in with ammunition while you were up. Both had special tracer, so Peters listened to you. They are loading with spare stores – blankets and greatcoats and winter gear generally. The roads are blocking up with refugees from Belgium. Thousands of them getting out before the Germans can reach them. They had enough last time, it seems. The French speakers, the Walloons, are taking to the roads more than the Flemings, so they say, because the Flemings are pro-German. But there’s no love lost between the two parts of Belgium, never has been, so you can’t trust what one lot says of the other.”

  The word to take off came an hour later, time to ensure that all ten of them were ready to fly.

  “David, how’s your ear?”

  “Sore but clean, Thomas. That bugger of a Quack soaked the dressing in carbolic cream!”

  “Stings a bit, mate!”

  David tried to smile but the movement hurt his ear.

  “Still three Flights, Thomas?”

  “No sense trying to change formations without trying the new ones out, Tex. Hopefully, there will be replacement bodies and planes in tonight.”

  They found the Battles waddling along at eight thousand feet, exactly to time and place, and formed up at twelve thousand to provide the cover they so badly needed.

  “Battle Leader to Cover. Is that the canal at five miles, two o’clock?”

  Thomas stared and saw a waterway with bridges and what looked like half the German army streaming across. There were guns emplaced in the fields on either side.

  “It’s a canal and it’s got bridges and Germans on them. No tanks that I can see.”

  Thomas assumed that the tanks had gone first. Cutting the bridges would leave them short of petrol. He also wondered why the Battles did not seem to know the exact location of their target.

  “Red One. Is Mes, 110s, at distance, coming in, diving. One o’clock, angels ten. Over.”

  “Thomas. Squadron attack. Over. Battles, did you hear that? Go now. Over.”

  “Battle Leader. Roger. Good luck. Over.”

/>   Thomas glanced below to see the Battles cocking a sedate wing and dropping into a shallow dive, aiming for the nearest two bridges, six and six. The ground was erupting in gunfire.

  There was no more to be done for the bombers other than to keep the fighters off their back.

  The diving Me 110s were faster than the Hurricanes and were closing in rapidly on the Battles. They suddenly sheared off, not fancying flying into their own ground fire, banking away and climbing, slowly, the bulky aircraft shifting from one manoeuvre to another almost sulkily.

  “Thomas. Buster. Tally-ho. Over.”

  They dived in hard, avoiding head-on attacks on the heavily armed nose.

  “Got him!”

  “Red Two break!”

  “Burn you bastard!”

  “Shit, bailing out!”

  “Red One, on your tail, break left. I get him.”

  Thomas tried to make sense of the jumble of brief shouts while picking out a target and coming in hard onto the twin rudders and firing into the rear gun and then along into the cockpit. Tracer cut over his port wing and the Hurricane shuddered under hits. He hauled hard to the right and then cut left, under the 110 he had just killed and which was dropping very slowly away from the fight, pilot slumped over his controls. His attacker pulled away and into a climb, was gone before Thomas could turn into him.

  He glanced at his panel, saw he was heading north, undesirable in a damaged plane. He banked and climbed while he frantically looked in all directions. He was a good five miles from the bridges and further from the running fight. He could see the specks of the Battles, slowly diving into the ground fire. None of them rose again while he watched. He spotted bomb bursts on the banks of the waterway and in the nearby fields. None of the bridges were hit. As he turned away he saw one Battle fall in flames and hit the end of a bridge, its bombs blowing as it crashed.

  Throttle full open, he returned to the squadron, circling at a distance from the guns. He counted eight. Hank was missing – he had thought it was his voice shouting that he was bailing out.

  “Thomas. Did anyone see any Battles escape? Over.”

  “Red One. Is two. Angels two. Heading south. Over.”

  “Thomas. Take us down to cover them at angels five. Over.”

  The Battles were wallowing, hit hard and unlikely to get home. The single gun of one was drooping to the side, gunner collapsed in his seat. The other had holes in the wings and fuselage and was struggling with a fitful engine.

  “Escort leader. Battles, suggest bail out at border. Will send transport. Over.”

  “Battle leader. We prefer to fly home, thank you. Over.”

  Thomas had done all he could. It was unlikely that either plane would manage another twenty minutes in the air, but he had no power to give them orders.

  The leading Battle began to lose height, drifting slowly downwards and crabbing to the side. The engine cut out, suddenly stopping and the plane staggered onto its port wing and curved down and round and into the ground. Its petrol tank blew as it hit.

  ‘And then there was one’.

  Thomas said nothing aloud.

  They watched over the limping bomber until it reached its base and managed to land and move to the hangars.

  Ten minutes later they landed, very quietly.

  “Claim one Me 110, Idiot. Lost Hank. Eleven Battles down from twelve. Target almost untouched. Bridges still operative.”

  “I see Thomas’ Me, Idiot. I got two.”

  The remainder of the squadron claimed six Mes, five of them confirmed.

  “Is easier than 109, Idiot. They can’t turn hard or change from dive to climb quick. Just don’t get in front of them cannon.”

  “What happened to Hank?”

  “Blew him tail off. From side. He jumped. Might be got down. Plenty bloody soldiers underneath.”

  It seemed unlikely they would see Hank again.

  “We need another pilot, Rod.”

  “I’ll send the demand in, Thomas. Should be here by the morning. Word is that there are new planes in plenty. Still Mark Ones though.”

  “Anything is better than sod all. Chas, you are now Blue One. I’ll get your rank confirmed as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, boss. Flight’s a bit thin, Thomas.”

  “For today, fly as my wing man. When the new bodies come in we will have to reshuffle. Can’t have you at the sharp end and three green hands behind you.”

  “Be a fraction nervous-making, boss. Specially if they just come out of that Cranwell place.”

  “Too right. Wag, how many planes can I have for one hour?”

  “Is that Australian humour? Sod all! You had the spare planes when you went out. Every bloody one of you has got bullet holes, apart from the ones who had cannon shells explode up their arses. Two hours to check every plane and decide which can fly – if any. Bugger off and let me get on with the work.”

  “Gentlemen, I think we shall take an early lunch. Chas, Jan, Tex - sit down and sketch out the shape of your new Flights. Rod, I’m off to the radio room to get a message to Peters.”

  The Group Captain was available in his communications room at HQ.

  “Stark, just the man! I want you to fly escort to another squadron of Battles. Those bridges have to be hit.”

  “No planes, sir. I’ve lost four pilots today – one dead, three bailed out – and my remaining planes all have damage. I literally have nothing to fly at the moment. I will inform you as soon as I have anything in airworthy condition. As for sending more Battles, sir – a waste of men. They won’t get through. The bridges are surrounded by light and medium ack-ack. Hundreds of guns, sir. None of the Battles were shot down as such – they were all hit by ground fire. There were no heavy guns there, sir, nothing bigger than forty mm, I would think. Heavy bombers from fifteen thousand feet, sir, protected by two or three squadrons of fighters, might be able to get through.”

  “Can’t be done, Stark. Bomber Command won’t release its heavies for Army cooperation.”

  “Then your bridges will not be broken, or burned, sir. Battles certainly can’t do the job and I doubt Blenheims could either.”

  “How certain are you, Stark?”

  “Absolutely, sir. The ground fire was heavier than I had ever imagined. We drove off a squadron of Me 110s, inflicting losses on them. They are nowhere near as dangerous as the 109, sir. They can’t turn.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.”

  “I need to replace a flight lieutenant, sir. I want Chas to be made.”

  “Who? Surely not! All right, Stark, if he’s the best man for the job, but hide him from the newspapers!”

  “He’s a good pilot and well-liked, sir. A bit older than most and steadier with it. He’s the right one to choose. Shorty Hyman is too wild and David is too reserved, too quiet for the job. The three Poles still don’t have the English needed for quick radio communication. They will make the grade in a few months, if they get that long. It must be Chas, sir, and he is my first choice in any case. He has made five kills, sir, and has some damaged.”

  “You want me to put him up for a gong?”

  “He ought to get the DFC, sir.”

  “I’ll send his citation in – with a strong recommendation. He ought to get it. I don’t much like the idea, Stark – giving him ideas outside of his place, that’s what it is! What happens if he wants to stay on after the war?”

  “Cheer him on, sir. One thing you can be sure of, he’ll get anywhere by merit only. When he makes squadron leader, it will be because he’s too good not to be promoted.”

  “No good will come of it, mark my words, Stark. No place for darkies in the RAF.”

  “He can fly, sir. That’s all. I’m not asking for him to marry your daughter.”

  “That will do, Stark. You forget yourself! You need four pilots and planes for the morning. You will get them. Inform me as soon as you can put six planes in the air.”

  The receiver went dead with no farewell or pleasantries.


  “How to make friends, Thomas!”

  “Sod him, Rod. I need pilots and Chas is good.”

  “I know, but you could try for tact.”

  “Why? I am here to fly my squadron, not to kiss arse.”

  “So I noticed.”

  Chapter Six

  The Breaking Storm

  Thomas staggered out of bed to the sound of his alarm clock. It was still dark, just the faintest tinge of light in the east. He managed a thorough wash, overdue he suspected as he sniffed his armpits; days sat sweating in a cockpit had done his personal hygiene no favours. Not as bad as Spain on occasion, but still undesirable, particularly in the boss, the exemplar to the whole squadron. A teeth clean and rapid shave and he was almost human, swearing as he dabbed at the cuts with toilet paper.

  He made his way downstairs and into breakfast, taking pains to stroll rather than hurry. He had to show confidence, even if his pretence would not be believed. Two scruffy figures in stained and torn dressings were wolfing down a fried breakfast, did not notice him as he approached.

  “When did you get in, Dick? Welcome back. And you, Terence.”

  “Half an hour ago, Thomas. I landed in woodland and had to force my way out. Terence was waiting in the field to the side. Saw me coming down and walked across. We were both bounced at the same time, shooting up a pair of 109s when their wingmen got behind us. Anyway, we walked a mile or so at the edge of the forest and saw a bloody great column of Germans in the distance so we dived under the trees for the day. Made it through the woods on a track we came across and found a highway heading south. Sat up on the edge of the road - no more than a country lane in reality - and waited for dark. Got to a village and there was a pair of Belgian coppers with bikes, blocking the road. They wanted to arrest us for being foreign.”

  “Did you shoot them?”

  “Should we have? Thought that would be a bad idea. They had some grub with them, just bread and cheese for their suppers, so we pinched that and their bikes and made them take their boots off so they wouldn’t run after us too fast. Threw the boots over the hedge for them to find. Must have pedalled twenty miles before it got light. We ate the bread and cheese and laid up under a hedge for the day then got on the bikes again and made it to a French army position by the middle of the night. They pointed us in this direction and we got here after another couple of hours. The Frogs had no transport of their own. Didn’t have much at all. Half of them weren’t even fully uniformed. Old men and not there to fight a war, Thomas. If they are defending us, then we’ve got problems.”