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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Jealousy?”

  “To an extent. Inevitable. Don’t worry about it – it never leads to anything.”

  The first afternoon patrol picked up an outbound raid, Stukas laden with their single big bomb slung underneath and waddling slowly in level flight. They had an escort, sat higher and well to their front, a minute distant from the Hurricanes as they made a single pass through the dive bombers before running hard from the Me 109s as they came down. Thomas waited till they were at three thousand feet before ordering the squadron to turn on their overtaking pursuers. Three Hurricanes went down in the dogfight but they took four Messerschmitts with them and damaged several others.

  “Lost Percy, Paddy and Walenky, Rod. Call for more pilots and planes, if you can get through. Percy definitely dead, very in fact; the other two jumped, might be within twenty miles of us – could be they’ll walk it by tomorrow.”

  “What happened to Percy?”

  “Went head-to-head with a 109. Neither chickened out. They fell still locked together.”

  Idiot came to Thomas to discuss the claims.

  “Four Stukas downed and seven damaged. Three Messerschmitts plus Percy’s last stand – I could have phrased that more elegantly, thinking on it – and six damaged.”

  “Within reason accurate, Idiot. Did they mention that the Stukas all jettisoned their bombs? Cancel that raid and their target can be thankful to us.”

  “I don’t think they regarded that as important, Thomas. Two of them said that you got a 109 - that makes you ten confirmed in the RAF.”

  “Lucky. I’m on borrowed time, Idiot. I’ve had more than my share.”

  “Down to eleven of us, Rod. Three Flights and too many flight lieutenants. Awkward formation.”

  “Two Flights of four, Jan and Chas rotating as your wingman in a section.”

  “It will work. Gives those two a bit of a break as well.”

  “You need one, Thomas.”

  “I know, but I can’t. Some poor sod has to be the leader and I’ve grown up with it. Remind me, what are the names of the new boys?”

  “Adrian and Jeremy. You keep forgetting them, Thomas – do make an effort, you can’t just call them ‘thing’.”

  “I know – but they are so forgettable!”

  “They’ve got a production line at Cranwell – feed in schoolboys and churn out little pink flying officers. Been the same for years. The Navy does it at Dartmouth. The Army doesn’t have to bother at Sandhurst – most of its intake are already bland nonentities. Too dim for university; inadequate for the City - which I’ll admit is hard; left with no alternative to the armed forces.”

  “It might explain much, Rod. I must eat before we go up again. What are they serving?”

  “Whatever you want by the look of it. There’s a chef – not a mere cook – stood behind a bloody great buffet and ladling out or cooking up anything you want.”

  Thomas chose soup and bread, had been sat with it for two minutes when a plate with an omelette and a small steak was slapped down in front of him.

  “Don’t fly on empty belly, Thomas.”

  “Christ, Jan…”

  “Eat. Is good for you.”

  “Yes, Nanny.”

  He heard the quiet voice behind him a little later.

  “Rod, is what, ‘Nanny’?”

  Rod explained, tactfully.

  “Ha! If Nanny is because little boy need looking after!”

  Thomas raised a hand in apology and cleared his plate. Annoyingly, he felt better for the food.

  “Red One. There is a Feiseler Storch aircraft. Low and slow, Thomas. It carries an officer, inspecting the front. Over.”

  “Thomas. Kill it. Over.”

  He watched as Jan throttled back almost to stalling speed and overtook the crawling Storch, putting a burst into it as he passed. It was difficult flying with the risk that firing the guns might tip the Hurricane into its stall.

  “Red One. Got him. Burning bright in field. Over.”

  “Thomas. Good work. Rejoin. Over.”

  Red Flight was returning before he gave the order but Jan liked things to be tidy.

  They saw nothing else on that patrol, made up for it on the next when they found a formation of at least sixty bombers, Dorniers and Heinkels, going out accompanied by swarms of Me 109s.

  “Thomas. Tex break up the bombers. Red One, go through the 109s to your port and into the bombers. In sections with me, ahead. Tally-ho. Over.”

  There were eight Messerschmitts coming to towards him in their pairs.

  Thomas weaved as he made a feint towards the mass of bombers and then pulled back into the diving fighters, pushing the throttle forwards but not through the gate. A closing speed of six hundred miles an hour meant that only the luckiest – or best – of shots would hit. The two formations passed through each other, one Me suddenly tumbling, his tailplane gone.

  “Shit, is lump of wing buggered off.”

  “Shoot them next time, Jan. Go home. Low. Over.”

  Thomas looked around him, made his decision.

  “Adrian, Jeremy, go for the bombers.”

  Thomas banked hard and dived, throttle through the gate, and came up behind a 109 lining up for an easy shot at Jan’s limping Hurricane. He put a short burst into the cockpit and pulled away – he could not justify remaining as escort.

  “Thanks. Is treetop home.”

  “Get the beers in. Over.”

  It took more than a minute to rejoin the action, time to watch his new pair obey his orders two miles to his front, making beam attacks on a Heinkel apiece and then plunging into the middle of the pack of bombers huddled together for mutual protection. Every dorsal and upper gunner shot at the pair, their misses finding each other and doing more damage than the pair of fighters could ever have managed. As he tried to join in Thomas saw the bombers scatter, three going down in company with the two shattered Hurricanes. Wherever he looked there were bombers turning away, running for home. There was also a mass of Messerschmitts, presumably annoyed at their failure to protect their charges and chasing hard in his direction. He tucked a wing down and dived hard.

  Looking around in the dive he estimated fifteen fighters closing on him and wanting blood. He pushed his nose down harder, the speed climbing beyond anything he had experienced before, the needle close to four hundred. The stick was stiff, unwilling to let him pull the nose up. There was a shuddering that seemed to be coming from the wings. He glanced to either side, expecting to see the canvas on the wings starting to shred away.

  At four thousand feet he knew he had to pull out. If he ripped the wings off, he was dead. If he carried on, he would bury himself in a very deep hole in the French mud.

  He heaved on the unwilling stick, brought the nose up slowly – it would not rise faster. The fields were coming closer and emptying – he could see a herd of cattle starting to run as they reacted to the growing engine noise. The force was pushing him down in his seat, hurting his eyes; he managed a look to either side and behind, could see nothing close.

  ‘Bastards are probably circling at five thousand, waiting for the bang.’

  The Hurricane was coming level, engine screaming – he had over-revved it for far too long. He throttled back further and dropped to fifty feet, glancing towards the sun and setting a rough course for the field. There was an expanse of forest to his front – the chateau was four or five miles on its other side.

  His head was turning by ingrained habit, left and right, up and as far behind as possible. He picked out a pair of 109s coming down in a curve to get on his tail.

  He spotted a road going through the forest. It was straight, he thought, and led towards the field, going across a pair of broad and shallow valleys in the woodland. He hoped his memory for the land was accurate and pulled down below treetop height, his wings narrowly fitting into the space between the pines. He would be able to take no evasive action – survival depended on the Germans being unwilling to fly through woodland at twenty
feet. He thought he had a fair chance of coming out alive.

  Quick glances suggested the pursuers had climbed to two or three thousand feet, expecting to pick him up on the other side of the forest, if he made it that far.

  He passed one bridge, a few seconds later dipped fifty feet into the other valley and then up over the shallow rise and down again. He dropped another ten feet, the trees whipping past him in a blur. He opened the throttle on the plane, ignoring the risk that it might have already been abused too far. The road passed out into sunlight in front of him and he picked out the pair coming down in their dive, side by side and pulling in to get on his tail.

  There was a single small village, he recalled, with a tiny church and little else to distinguish it. He needed to hold it to his right to make the most direct line to the field. He eased the plane onto the line, hardly banking at all, fighting the skid and loss of control. He pointed his nose straight for a tall hedgerow, aiming to hop over it and then drop even lower. A burst of cannon fire narrowly missed his tail. He wondered whether he could risk an Immelmann, reversing his course into the chasing pair; they would probably be expecting it – the manoeuvre was standard now.

  He suddenly snatched at the stick and banked hard, missing a barn by inches. Its thatched roof had been almost invisible behind the hedge. One of the chasing pair hit into the wall and exploded into flames. Thomas continued his bank and climbed, pushing his engine hard and praying it would take even more of a thrashing. He turned in hard, hopefully onto the remaining man’s tail, found he had been anticipated – the Me had climbed away on a reverse bank, was a mile or more distant.

  The field was in sight and he headed for home.

  “Thomas. Ground control. Pancake. Over.”

  “Ground. Affirmative. Over.”

  “Wag – I have treated the engine cruelly and power-dived at four hundred and more. The wings might be a bit dodgy. Did Jan get back?”

  “He’s in, minus a yard of wingtip. You’ve got a tear in the canvas on the port wing. Holes in the rudder as well. I will need to strip the engine. Best thing is to write her off – I haven’t got the facilities to do all that she needs. I want a supply of spares anyway.”

  Thomas stretched – he had had a tense few minutes. As he did so he glanced about the barns, saw empty spaces. He counted just six Hurricanes including his own.

  He looked outside onto the hard standing. There was one plane there, the armourers working the reloads.

  “Best talk it over with Rod, Thomas.”

  He picked up the sympathy in Wag’s voice, knew that a lot of his pilots were not coming home.

  “What’s the bill, Rod?”

  “Jan and Chas have made it back in damaged planes. Terence, Adrian and Jeremy are definite goners. David and Dick are in the sickbay; neither will fly this month. Feliks and Jim are unharmed and their planes will fly this morning. Walenky walked in an hour back. He didn’t see Paddy. None of you saw Tex – he disappeared.”

  Thomas tallied the results, realised he no longer had a working squadron.

  “One Hurricane ready now; one more inside the hour. Six pilots, including me.”

  “That’s it. The Idiot is waiting for your report.”

  Thomas walked across.

  “Jan says you shot a 109 off his tail, Thomas.”

  “Yes. Claim that. Nothing else. I spent the rest of the time getting out from under a dozen of them. Came through the forest. Adrian and Jeremy got three bombers between them. That’s about it.”

  The Idiot questioned him for a few minutes, getting detail for the broad picture in his report, went off to write up the end of the squadron as a working unit.

  “I’ve got Peters on the radio, Thomas.”

  “Thanks, Rod.”

  Thomas managed a run to the radio office.

  “What’s the position, Stark?”

  “Two planes and six pilots, sir.”

  “Lost?”

  “No, sir. Remaining. Fit to fly. I have two wounded to go out as well. Bloody disaster. We came across the better part of sixty bombers and as many escorts. Broke up the raid and shot a very few down. Damaged twenty at least. Three pilots certainly dead. One other shot down yesterday and missing still. One simply gone, unseen, and the last just walked back after bailing out yesterday.”

  “Will you be able to fly six planes by the end of today?”

  “Unlikely, sir. We took considerable damage, sir. Add to that, four of the planes are past their one hundred hours and all are at their fifty. Wag is increasingly unwilling to pass them as safe to fly.”

  “I will have to confirm this order at higher level, but assume you are finished, Stark. I will get a Dominie up to you for the pilots, wounded and yourself included, at soonest. Pack the squadron up and instruct your adjutant to head south of Paris and across to the Channel coast, probably Normandy. They will be evacuated. On confirmation, destroy the damaged planes and fly the airworthy pair back to England, Croydon will be best. You are finished in France. So, incidentally, are most of the other Hurricane squadrons. Air cover will be flown from fields in Kent.”

  The butler was not surprised – all of the news had been bad.

  “It would be sensible for myself and my lady wife and family to join the lorries, sir. A German occupation force might not be friendly to an Englishman here, sir.”

  “Do so. What about the gardener?”

  “He won’t come, sir. He is French now and won’t stand out.”

  “His choice. Bring anything you can to live on.”

  The Comte had left little behind by way of valuables, Thomas thought; the rooms were bare, bright patches on the walls showing where paintings had hung.

  “Yes, sir. I have keys to the locked cellars – although my master might not have been aware of that fact. I also have the combination to the safe concealed in the wine cellar – which would also surprise him. I doubt he left too much, sir, but I shall ensure that it does not fall into the hands of Germany.”

  “That, sir, is your patriotic duty.”

  They laughed and shook hands, a breach of etiquette perhaps, a mere butler shaking with a gentleman.

  The Dominie arrived – not piloted by his father, to Thomas’ relief – and they made space for David and Dick to sit in some comfort while the four who were to go out piled in with their cases and bags. Jim and Feliks taxied their Hurricanes out to run escort until the Dominie was in safer airspace and then to head for Croydon.

  The Dominie refuelled at Le Bourget and took off for Croydon itself, there being no point in the pilots remaining in France.

  “Home in luxury, Thomas?”

  “Tells you how short they are of fighter pilots, Chas. They wouldn’t be treating us like this if we weren’t necessary to them. They’ll leave a staff car at the chateau for a couple of days in the hope that Paddy and Terence may walk in, so Peters said, though it seems certain that Terence fried.”

  “What comes next for us?”

  “Leave for a fortnight, I would hope, Chas. Then, with luck, the squadron will be reformed and will train up. It’s well possible that they will spread us out to give experienced men to new squadrons instead. They must need squadron leaders and flight lieutenants who know one end of a gun from the other. I don’t know what they will do. Neither, I expect, do they.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Breaking Storm

  “Well, Stark, how would you sum up the last few days?”

  “From the squadron’s point of view, sir, not successful. Allowing for enthusiasm and exaggeration, the squadron killed at least sixty of the Luftwaffe. We lost, however, far too many trained men. We have figures of nine known dead and three wounded and two missing, seen to have parachuted, and one simply disappeared, unseen. We came back with six pilots, including me, and two Hurricanes. As far as a military campaign is concerned, sir, it is a wholehearted disaster; we came home defeated.”

  Stuffy Dowding sat back in his chair, face giving nothing away. He had flown in
the Great War, knew how pilots could die - or simply disappear, unseen in the chaos of a squadron fight.

  “What should we have done, Stark?”

  “Copied the Germans, sir. The RAF should be acting in support of the Army. Every heavy bomber should be in use over Belgium, targeting bridges and railways and armoured columns and supply depots. As it stands, the BEF will be cut off from France and will have to be evacuated, mainly because the tank columns have been given free rein from the air. We have fought a defence, sir. The RAF should have been aggressive.”

  “Partly true, Stark. Under no circumstances can the needs of the RAF be subsumed to those of the Army. We have our own strategic role to play. That said, the bombers could be put to better use at the moment. They won’t be – the reasons do not matter to a squadron leader.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dowding achieved a smile.

  “I am glad you agree with me. You have been awarded a second DFC. Well earned. You and your five survivors will take one week of leave before being re-assigned. Your squadron will be remade, but not with you in command. Who do you recommend?”

  “Jan Palach, sir. More than capable. Chas McPherson will be but needs a month of training on the administration side. Feliks and Walenky both need to improve their understanding of English ways of doing things – they tend to expect things to work to order rather than persuasion. Jim James is too green by six months, at least. The three could be promoted to flight lieutenant, sir.”

  “The paperwork can be done by a good adjutant. Jan and Chas can both be made squadron leaders. The other three promotions are granted.”

  “Thank you, sir. They are deserved.”

  “Good. I want you to take over another squadron – a makeshift affair. Some wounded pilots returning to duty; three back from France, their squadron chopped worse than yours; a couple of Gladiator pilots who have been quickly converted to Hurricanes; a pair of French air force Poles; two Battle pilots who were on the same course as the Gladiators; three men who have been eased out of their squadrons in England – competent pilots who didn’t fit in, possibly for good reason. Four of the pilots are sergeants.”