It was all such a far cry from Debden and Uxbridge. Those had been large, busy fighter stations. At Debden, Edward and Harry had regularly watched squadrons taking off on offensive sweeps over France; had watched them coming back too, oil-streaked and with the canvas that normally covered the gun ports torn away by the firing of the guns. The war had stepped a little closer then; that’ll be us soon, he had thought. From this first taste of life at Debden, and from what he had seen at Uxbridge, he had assumed all fighter stations would be the same: with proper facilities, solid buildings, hangars and decent crew rooms and messes. Perranporth had been a shock. The airfield was still severely lacking the most basic permanent structures. A couple of blister hangars had sprung up, but most of the maintenance work was carried out in drab green marquees. The poor aircrew were expected to live in hastily built wooden huts, while the crew room for the pilots was another large tent, and one that all too often flapped unnervingly in the wind and threatened to be whisked into the sea at any moment. Perched precariously above three-hundred-foot cliffs, the airfield had just a single runway and a perimeter track. Two more runways were being planned – according to Sam and Scotty at any rate – but the ground had still not been properly surveyed; and every morning the ground crew had to check the field thoroughly in case any old mine shafts had suddenly appeared overnight. Edward had thought he was having his leg pulled when this practice was first explained to him. ‘No, seriously,’ Jimmy Farrell had told him. ‘I was driving round the perimeter one morning just after we moved here and I found one.’ Edward had looked at him disbelievingly. ‘I promise,’ continued Jimmy. ‘A bloody great thing – wide enough for you or I to fall down it. I picked up a stone and dropped it down, but I never heard it land. Literally, a bottomless pit.’
It was strange to think he and Harry had only been with the squadron a month; it felt longer. He remembered the sense of excitement they had felt on the train down: wondering what to expect, hoping the others in the squadron would be friendly and welcoming; but most of all the feeling of anticipation, of apprehension about finally flying operational in combat. He knew Harry was as eager to shoot down his first enemy plane as he was. They wondered what it would be like, hoped they had the necessary skill.
They’d not been disappointed by the other members of the squadron. An RAF station wagon had been sent to Truro to meet them and then they had been driven straight to the airfield. Spitfires were lined up haphazardly around the perimeter, but as they drove towards a cluster of huts, two aircraft took off, roaring past them. Harry had turned to him and grinned. We’re going to be a part of this.
The station wagon had stopped outside one of the huts, close by the large khaki marquee. A thin man with a moustache stepped out of the hut and opened the door for them.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ he said, smiling. ‘Pilot Officers Barclay and Enderby? Good to meet you.’ He was, he told them, Flight Lieutenant John Scott, but they should call him Scotty. ‘Everyone does. We’re a pretty informal bunch around here, as you’ll soon discover.’ He was in his late thirties – ‘way too old to fly’; rather, he was the squadron intelligence officer. ‘I’ll be the one grilling you every time you land. Anyway, put your bags down, then let me take you to meet the CO.’ Then he looked at Harry and said, ‘By the way, you’re not the Barclay that opened the batting for Kent, are you?’
‘Yes, at least, I did on a few occasions,’ Harry told him.
‘Well, well,’ said Scotty. ‘Always supported Kent. I’ve seen you bat once or twice. Thought you looked the part.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve played much recently, though.’
‘No, haven’t picked up a bat in ages.’
They followed Scotty into another hut of bare, slatted wooden boards. On the wall hung a round clock, but otherwise the only furniture was a simple table used as a desk and an old wooden filing cabinet. ‘Sam, these are your new pilots,’ Scotty said. ‘Barclay, Enderby – Squadron Leader Ben Sampson.’
Sampson stood up, and shook hands. Like Scotty, he was tall, and older – perhaps as much as thirty, with a large slightly beaked nose and dark, bright eyes and equally dark oiled hair. His handshake was firm. Edward felt as though he were back at school, summoned before one of the masters. ‘Good to meet you,’ said the Commanding Officer. ‘Glad to have you on board.’ Edward glanced at the purple-and-silver-striped ribbon above his breast pocket: a Distinguished Flying Cross. He imagined himself wearing the same ribbon one day. Lifting a couple of sheets of paper, Sampson scanned them quickly then, glancing up, said, ‘So you’ve come from 52 Operational Training Unit, before that Canada. You’ve both been rated “above average”.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Very good. Bet training in Canada was fun.’
‘Yes it was,’ said Harry. ‘Blue skies almost every day.’
Sampson smiled. ‘And at Debden? You trained on Hurricanes. How many hours?’
‘Forty-seven,’ said Harry.
‘Forty-seven and a half,’ added Edward.
‘A slender advantage,’ he smiled, looking at Edward. ‘Well, you’ll be on Spits here. Not much difference. A bit more power – bit more of a lady, but you’ll quickly get the hang of it.’ He sat down, brought his fingers together, eyed them carefully, and said, ‘We’re a fairly quiet sector here, down in the toe of Cornwall. Convoy patrols, a few long-range sweeps. Occasionally we get called up to chase after some intruder, but for the most part we don’t get too much excitement.’ Edward felt his spirits drop. ‘But believe me,’ the CO continued, ‘that’s a good thing for men like yourselves. You may not know this, but 324 was in the thick of it for much of last summer. New pilots would come and go before you had time to blink. Here, it’s a bit less frenetic. There’s a few of us still here from those days, and we’ve learnt a few things about fighter combat. We’ll try and help you, train you up a bit.’ He smiled again, and as though suddenly remembering something he had meant to do earlier, reached for a small wooden cigarette box. ‘Smoke?’ Edward and Harry took one each, and Scotty, who had been leaning against the wall stroking his moustache, suddenly stood up and produced a match. ‘Look, I know what it’s like,’ Sampson continued. ‘You’re straight out of OTU and you’re itching to have a crack at some Germans. But just because you can fly fighters doesn’t mean you’ve become a fighter pilot. There’s a whole load of stuff you need to know that you’ll never learn during training. Lots that none of us knew before last summer. So we’ll take it a bit steady to begin with – nothing too strenuous. We’ll get you up in a Spit, and some of us more senior chaps will show you a few of the ropes. You know, there was a saying during the Battle of Brit that if you survived your first three weeks, your chances of surviving much longer were greatly improved. I happen to still believe that’s true. So listen to what you’re told, watch out for the old wind here – it can blow a bit I’m afraid – and concentrate all the time when you’re flying. Then in a month’s time you’ll be old hands.’
And four weeks later we’re still here, thought Edward. Sam had been right, they were better pilots; and as Harry had pointed out, with every flight so their number of flying hours was improving; that had to be a good thing. Yet he still could not help his feeling of disappointment: with the airfield, with the almost total lack of action. In his imagination, he’d pictured it differently.
Now, perhaps, his luck was about to turn – that is, if Jimmy ever turned up. He glanced at his watch. It was now ten to four. He wondered whether he should go in and knock on his room. Give it another five minutes. Jimmy was one of the Battle of Britain veterans Sam had mentioned on their arrival. So too was Dougie Ross, and both were now flight commanders. Edward and Harry had been placed in Jimmy’s ‘B’ Flight, along with an assortment of pilots from around the world. Eric was a Canadian, Jean-Hilaire was French; Stan Wheeler was from Australia, while Mickey McDonald was a New Zealander. Others were from England and Scotland, but there was no common thread. A true mishmash, as Scotty was fond
of reminding them.
He liked Jimmy, though, and knew that he was lucky to have him as a flight commander – lucky to have Dougie and Sam as well. Experienced men; men he respected greatly. Only a couple of years older, Jimmy was still just twenty-one but looked younger, despite his long career with the squadron. Short, with dishevelled, strawberry blond hair, and a square, open face, he barely needed to shave. And he wore his experience lightly; there was none of Sam’s gravitas about Jimmy. Moreover, he looked after his flight – always stuck up for them and made sure they all worked together. As a flight, they tended to stick together socially as well. Edward was eternally grateful that he had Harry there with him, but Jimmy had made it easier to get to know the others. He was grateful for that.
‘All set?’ said Jimmy, suddenly bounding down the steps. Edward nodded. ‘Those girls were fun last night,’ Jimmy continued. ‘Wonder whether they’ll be around tonight. Old Harry seemed to have booked his ticket with Dorothy – crafty dog.’ He walked briskly round to the side of the hotel, whistling slightly. The very first streaks of dawn were lighting the sky away across Perranporth. They reached the Humber station wagon, Jimmy stepping into the driver’s side. ‘Let’s hope it starts okay,’ he said. It did, almost immediately, and then they were off, streaking through the narrow lanes at an alarming speed, the narrow beams from the headlamps offering no more than a few yards of light ahead.
At the airfield, the ground crew were already there. Faint lights glowed through some of the maintenance tents, while occasionally clangs and shouts were carried on the wind. The crew-room tent was flapping loudly. ‘Quite a breeze,’ said Jimmy, looking up at the sky. ‘At least it’s coming at us and not across us.’ Edward followed Jimmy into the dispersal tent, where a bleary-eyed telephone orderly was waiting.
‘Put me through to Portreath, would you?’ Jimmy told the corporal. Edward waited, listening. ‘Hello,’ said Jimmy. ‘We’re all set. Any news of our Condor?’ He paused. ‘I see . . . all right . . . no, of course.’ Handing the receiver to the orderly, he looked at Edward, said ‘Come on,’ and ran out of the tent. ‘Slight change of plan – we need to get cracking.’
Seeing the two pilots running from the tent, their crews immediately fired up the waiting Spitfires, the roar of the engines carried by the wind. His heart racing, Edward snatched the parachute and helmet from the wing, and struggled to put his legs through the right straps. ‘All right, sir?’ said Hewitson. Edward nodded, then leapt up onto the wing root and hoisted himself into the cockpit. Jimmy was already beginning to move out – how had he managed so quickly? – and with fumbling fingers Edward frantically clicked the Sutton harness into its catch, and attached the R/T and oxygen leads. He breathed out heavily, waved at his ground crew, then moved off.
A crackle of static in his ears, then Jimmy’s voice. ‘Eddie, Portreath have reported perhaps a dozen bandits fifty miles south-west of Lizard. We’re to forget the Condor today and go after this bunch instead. Follow me closely.’
‘All right,’ said Edward. He hoped he had sounded calm. The cockpit felt suddenly close and cramped, his breathing heavy. A strong gust of wind buffeted the plane and Edward felt it rock. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. It was only shortly after 4 a.m., and as they turned at the far end of the runway and faced west, Edward prayed he would not lose sight of Jimmy once they were in the air. From short distances he could make him out reasonably clearly, but it would be a short while yet until the sky was bright enough to see much beyond a hundred yards or so. He saw that Jimmy had his navigation lights turned on – good. Keep sight of those. Jimmy thundered down the runway. Edward followed, opening his throttle so that the whole aircraft shook vigorously. Moments later he was in the air, watching Jimmy’s wing lights bank gently and turn south.
‘Bison, this is Clover,’ Edward heard Jimmy say. ‘Heading 180 degrees. What’s our vector, over?’
‘Maintain course, 180,’ came the measured voice of the controller from the sector station at Portreath. They headed out over a blacked-out Cornwall, climbing through swathes of hurrying cloud banks, then the land receded and they were out, high over the sea, climbing through heavy turbulence to twelve thousand feet. Edward heard Jimmy call the controller once more. ‘Now twenty miles south of Lizard,’ he said.
‘Clover, this is Bison. Head 160 degrees,’ replied the controller. ‘I’m afraid the screen is blurring, so it’s simply going to be up to you to find them. But they’re only about twenty miles away, heading south-west towards Brest, doing no more than two hundred knots. Your R/T signal is fading. Good luck. Over.’ We’re on our own, thought Edward. Looking down towards the Channel, he saw it was almost entirely covered in thick cloud. But at twelve thousand feet, the sky was wide and clear, and waking to the new day. Away to the east, the pale horizon was rising, with the first peak of sun, a golden tip, rapidly lighting the sky. A sudden break in the cloud, and as high as they were, Edward saw the white tips of the waves below.
‘Keep scanning the skies,’ came Jimmy’s voice through his headset. ‘We should come into range soon.’ Edward did so, sweeping his eyes slowly, back and forth, up and down, as Sam had told him during their first flight together. ‘No sudden movements,’ the CO had warned, ‘or you won’t be able to focus properly. Keep it measured at all times.’ But he could see nothing; it was like the escort duty. Once again they were alone in this vast sky.
‘OK, there they are,’ reported Jimmy. ‘Eleven o’clock, slightly below.’
Edward strained his eyes, squinting into the early morning light. He could see nothing. ‘Message received and understood,’ he replied, his heart quickening once more. He scanned the sky again. Too fast – calm down, he told himself. Then suddenly there they were, tiny black dots, buzzing together. ‘I see them!’ Edward exclaimed.
‘All right, good,’ said Jimmy. ‘Follow me closely, switch your gun button to “fire” and when I give the word apply emergency boost. Clear?’
‘Clear.’ Hurtling towards the enemy planes at over three hundred miles per hour, the distance was rapidly closing.
‘Buster,’ called Jimmy, so Edward applied the boost and saw thick black smoke puff from the exhaust stubs. The engine roared angrily and the airframe shook, but the Spitfire lurched forward with a marked increase in power. Time seemed to have speeded up. Edward recognised three Dornier bombers and five, then six, Messerschmitt 109s, three of which had split from the group and were turning to attack them.
‘Don’t go for the bombers,’ Jimmy told him, his voice still steady and calm. ‘Just aim for the fighters and watch those two turning wide. If it gets too hairy, get out of there and head for home.’
Edward followed. He realised he had no idea what to do. They’d fired at towed targets during training and he and Harry had practised dogfighting on numerous occasions, but it had been nothing like this. For a brief moment, his brain seemed to seize, and he was simply a spectator, watching with numbed fascination as the enemy aircraft – their shapes familiar but somehow more menacing now that they were real – manoeuvred to open fire. Then he heard gunfire and saw Jimmy attacking one of the 109s, which flipped over and fell away, white smoke following in its wake. A loud crack shook him and tracer hurtled over his canopy. ‘Jesus!’ he shouted, and then the underside of a Messerschmitt, pale grey and streaked with oil, roared just a few feet above him. And as it passed, Edward saw that his mirror had been torn clean off. A bullet had ripped it clean away. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt short of breath. He could hear his laboured gasps into the rubber oxygen mask. Christ, Christ! he thought, then swivelled his head frantically around him. The bombers were already far away – how did that happen so fast? – but another 109 was turning again, preparing for another attack. Then he saw a further Messerschmitt diving away from him, so he turned the Spitfire on its back and followed it down. A thin line of vapour – or was it smoke? – trailed behind the diving fighter. It was still some way off, but with a large bank of cloud approaching, Edward pressed h
is thumb down on the small, round gun button, and felt the shudder as he opened fire. The Messerschmitt disappeared, and seconds later Edward, too, was plunging into thick cloud. Five hundred miles an hour! He could scarcely believe it. The engine was screaming from the strain of the dive. A glance at the altimeter – three thousand feet already. Time to pull out. He grimaced, clutching the control column, praying he could climb out of the dive in time. A second later he burst through the cloud, the breakers on the sea clearly visible, now just over a thousand feet below. But there was the Messerschmitt, almost straight ahead, now pouring smoke and gliding uncertainly towards the water. With both hands, and with clenched teeth, Edward held the stick towards him, his Spitfire shaking and groaning, but at last it began to level out, the horizon rising once more. Thank God, he thought. Speeding over the crippled 109, he quickly banked and turned back, but as he began lining up to attack, the Messerschmitt crashed into the waves with a fountain of white spray. When he looked again, the sea had closed and there was no sign at all that the aircraft had ever existed at all.
Had he shot him down? He wasn’t sure, but it occurred to him that he had witnessed the death of another man for the first time in his life.
He was now heading south, and glancing at his fuel gauges, noticed with a sense of alarm that he had already used half. That brief engagement with the extra boost had swallowed up more than he’d expected. Circling, he guessed he was some sixty miles south of the Devon coast. There was no sign of Jimmy. Edward called him on the R/T, but heard nothing but a deafening roar of static. Setting himself a course for the Cornish coast, he hoped he would soon reach land once more. But what height should he fly? The cloud base was lowering rapidly, but if he tried to stay below, he risked not having enough height to bale out should anything go wrong, so he began climbing again, steadily, conserving fuel as much as possible. Perhaps in the clear he would spot Jimmy.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 8
