A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  He broke through the cloud again at a little over seven thousand feet, the sudden bright sunshine dazzling. This time he swept the skies steadily, as he’d been told, but he could see nothing. He looked at his watch. Twenty to five. In another quarter of an hour he should be over land. Perhaps there would be a gap in the cloud. With any luck, then he would be able to spot a landmark he recognised. The roar of the engine had become a kind of constant silence. Glancing at the dials in front of him, everything seemed to be working perfectly, but then he thought he heard a catch in the engine. His body stiffened; straining his ears, he hardly dared move, but the whirr of the Merlin sounded constant and smooth. You’re imagining things, he told himself, but he couldn’t help wondering what he would do if the engine seized. Even if he could bale out, there was little chance of him surviving long in that swell – not if nobody saw him do so. He switched on the R/T once more. Nothing. He’d never realised how lonely flying could be.

  The sun had now risen, the day awash with brightness. He glanced at his compass again and then froze, aghast: he’d set the compass red on black. Shit, shit! He was not travelling north, but south, on a completely opposite course. How had he been so stupid? Banking tightly, he checked his fuel gauges – now only a third full, and he was probably nearly eighty miles south of the coast. For a moment, he felt panic overwhelm him. If he baled out and ditched into the sea he would have no chance – not with the cloud and wind as it was, and with no radio contact. Cursing, he cut the throttle to conserve his precious fuel. There was little he could do but agonise over every passing minute.

  Five o’clock. Edward looked at his fuel gauges again – they were all but empty. Below him there was nothing but cloud, a soft, undulating eiderdown of cloud. Shit, he thought. Breathing deeply, he pulled off his oxygen mask, and pushed down the stick, hoping the cloud base would be high enough for him to gain his bearings. He had soon dropped out of the clear and into the cloud once more. It was a strange experience, flying through cloud. All sense of movement disappeared. His dials told him he was travelling at three hundred miles per hour, but the cloud was so dense, he might easily have been standing still. He watched the altimeter fall: four thousand, three thousand, two thousand, fifteen hundred, hoping he was not flying over Bodmin Moor. It had happened to one of the pilots at OTU – they’d flown straight into the side of a hill. His fuel gauges now read empty.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he said out loud. ‘Where’s the bloody land?’ Any moment the engine would splutter and die. Less than a thousand feet above sea level. Perranporth was three hundred above – and the land to the south was higher than that. Christ. He glanced at the fuel gauge again, hoping the needle had miraculously risen but it had not. The cloud now suddenly began to thin – and yes! There below were glimpses of land, frighteningly close. Perhaps, he thought, he should look for somewhere to land right away – while the propeller still whirred in front of him. Losing a bit more height, he levelled out at just five hundred feet, but his relief was brief: moments later he disappeared into another bank of fog. Don’t think about crashing, he told himself, just as the cloud thinned again. He thought he could see Truro. Was it? The view had been too brief, but he was sure he’d seen the cathedral. Yes, it must have been. He straightened his course, banking slightly northwards. Any moment he would be over Perranporth. He would try and make it home.

  ‘Bison, this is Clover,’ he called on the R/T, ‘permission to land.’

  ‘Clover this is Bison,’ came the immediate reply; Edward sighed with relief. ‘Permission granted. Where are you?’

  ‘Not sure. Ten-tenths cloud. I’m out of fuel and hoping for a gap in the cloud.’

  He circled, dropped a bit more height and prayed. His Spitfire was running on nothing but fumes. Now far too low to bale out, he would have to hope for the best if the engine cut; hope he could find a suitable field. He strained his eyes: he could see the faint outline of hedgerows but it was impossible to see exactly where he was. Come on, come on – please God. He banked again, then the fog momentarily cleared and there, like a vision from above, there was the airfield, unmistakably the airfield. ‘Yes!’ shouted Edward.

  Gently banking the Spitfire, he watched more cloud race across the airfield, almost completely obscuring it once more. ‘Bison, this is Clover,’ he called again on the R/T. ‘I can see the airfield and am landing now.’ Ahead, just visible through the rapidly thickening fog, was the faint line of the runway. Below, a patchwork of damp fields, all differing hues of dark green and beige.

  He pulled back gently on the throttle, then moving his left hand onto the control column, he raised his right to pull back the canopy, ducking as he did so to avoid knocking his head with the handle. The blast of fresh air buffeted his face, and he lowered his goggles as he felt his eyes begin to smart. He was now almost over the airfield. Edward glanced at the altimeter: good, six hundred feet. Cutting back the throttle further, he felt the great roar of the Merlin soften until it was merely throbbing gently, and banking, turned in a wide loop, his weight falling against the side of the cockpit. He felt his harness cut into his shoulders, and looked down at the faintly emerging airfield below. He eased the stick upright and the aircraft gently levelled, lined up perfectly into the wind, the single runway directly ahead of him. Lowering the undercarriage, he heard the wheels drone down from their position in the wings until they had locked tight. And at that moment the engine died and the propeller snapped to a halt. But the Spitfire was still gliding towards the ground.

  With the huge nose slanting upwards, his view ahead was completely blocked, but he could see the grass either side of the runway rushing up to meet him. He glanced at the air speed indicator: eighty miles per hour, seventy, then a slight jolt as the wheels touched the ground. Thank God. The Spitfire rolled, rushing past the hastily erected blister hangars, the array of parked aircraft, and rows of wooden huts and tents. Only as he approached the end of the runway did he finally apply a bit of pressure on his brakes. Rumbling onto the perimeter track, he turned a couple of hundred yards then came to a halt. Edward sighed, closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the bucket seat. Then, with shaking hands, he unbuckled his flying helmet, and ran his fingers through his hair. Some men were running towards him, but for a moment he sat still, in the calm, quiet, space of the cockpit, breathing deeply. Then he shakily hoisted his feet onto the seat, and clambered out.

  Edward began walking slowly towards the crew tent. Minutes before, he’d wondered whether he would set foot on the ground again; on landing he’d felt suddenly listless and drained of all energy. But now his spirits were rising once more. He’d made it back; the fear he’d experienced had already been consigned to the past. And so as he walked into the tent and saw the other pilots sitting there, he grinned sheepishly. He could not help himself. Harry waved, and Edward was about to walk over to him when Jimmy walked in with Scotty.

  ‘Eddie!’ said Jimmy, clapping him on the back. ‘Glad you got back all right. I was a bit worried when I lost you. What happened? Last thing I saw you were diving after a 109.’

  ‘I think I got him, too,’ he said, then noticed Jimmy raise an eyebrow at Scotty. ‘At least, I fired a fairly long burst at him,’ he continued, ‘and then I lost him in cloud, but when I came out again, there he was, streaming smoke. I was just about to attack him again when he went into the sea.’

  ‘Give him a half?’ said Scotty, turning to Jimmy.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Jimmy. ‘He certainly wasn’t smoking much when I hit him. Well done!’ he said, clapping Eddie on the shoulder once more. ‘Off the mark. And you made it back, despite the atrocious weather.’

  Edward smiled. ‘Only just – I ran out of fuel the moment I landed.’ No point in telling him about the mistake with the compass.

  ‘Sounds like perfect timing to me,’ said Scotty.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Jimmy, then said, ‘Come outside just a moment, will you?’ Edward followed. The wind cut across the airfield. Jimm
y rubbed his chin, then said, ‘Look, you did really well – really well – but there’s a couple of things. Firstly, you need to keep a slightly better lookout. It’ll come, I promise you, but you didn’t even see that 109 come at you. If his shooting had been a bit better, you could have been in serious trouble.’

  Eddie nodded. ‘He did catch me off guard a bit.’

  ‘You can’t afford to let that happen again, Eddie.’

  ‘No – no, I won’t.’

  ‘And never, ever, follow a plane down. You were lucky – I managed to get the guy who was about to hit you.’

  ‘Which one . . .?’ Eddie let the question trail. Jimmy looked at him. ‘Exactly, Eddie.’ He tapped his eyes. ‘Use these a bit more. If you follow aircraft down, especially when you’re outnumbered like we were, someone will do the same to you, and Bam! Before you know it, they’re coming down on top of you and you’ve lost height, speed, and any advantage. And finally, you need to get a bit closer before you open fire. See the whites of their eyes – that means at least two hundred and fifty yards. I’m not saying you didn’t hit him – maybe you did – but you’ll struggle to knock anything much at the kind of range you were firing from.’

  Eddie felt his cheeks burning. ‘Sorry, Jimmy.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ said Jimmy. ‘I was just the same – honestly. That’s how we learn. Now you know what to expect. It’s just that you can’t afford too many mistakes. The one you went after was probably even more new to it than you – and now he’s not going to have another chance, is he, because he’s sitting at the bottom of the Channel.’

  Harry was sympathetic. ‘At least it’s only your pride that’s been hurt.’ He smiled, then passing him his mug of half-drunk tea, said, ‘Here, have some of this and stop worrying.’

  Edward took the mug gratefully. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. Next to them, the canvas marquee sides flapped noisily in the wind.

  ‘And you’ve got half a kill,’ added Harry after a short pause. ‘And you’ve seen some action at long last. I’m very glad you’re back, though. I don’t mind telling you I felt a bit worried. Jimmy was back way before you and what with this weather . . .’

  ‘I was a bit worried too, to be honest,’ admitted Edward. ‘Bloody scared, actually.’ He looked around, then leant in closer towards his friend. ‘Truth is, I set the compass wrong and started flying in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Eddie – no wonder you took your time getting back.’

  ‘When I realised – well, it was a horrible feeling. I kept thinking I was going to end up in the sea. I thought: after all that training, I’m going to drown before I’ve had a chance to do anything. And then I started to feel angry. Nothing I could do, of course. Just had to hope for the best. Fortunately, luck was on my side.’

  ‘You won’t do it again, though.’

  ‘No – I don’t think I will.’

  Harry put his hand on Edward’s leg and patted it gently. ‘Well, I’m jealous that you’ve seen an enemy plane before me, but I’m extremely glad it wasn’t me trying to find Perranporth in the fog and with no fuel.’ Another heavy gust of wind shook the marquee. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘unless this cloud lifts, I don’t think there’ll be any more flying today. Spared for a day from escorting that bloody barge. I never thought I’d be grateful for bad weather.’

  The wind worsened during the morning, so that the pilots were all ordered to help the ground crews pin down the aircraft. Slinging guy ropes over the fuselages, they were then pinned to the ground using what looked like outsize metal corkscrews. One man was knocked out cold as the wing of a Spitfire rocked with a violent gust and smashed him on the top of his head. ‘Who’s bright idea was it to build an airfield on the top of a North Cornwall cliff, anyway?’ muttered Hewitson as they restrained Edward’s own aircraft.

  But the winds dropped later in the day, and the sky cleared – enough, at any rate, and by late afternoon, ‘A’ Flight was called upon to continue escort duties. ‘B’ Flight, however, were spared and stood down just before seven.

  ‘A night out, I think, don’t you?’ suggested Jimmy as they clambered into the truck to take them back to the Droskyn Castle Hotel.

  ‘What about the girls?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Well, perhaps they’d like to come too,’ replied Jimmy. ‘I know just the place in Truro. A lovely spot where they’ve still got plenty of beer and whisky.’

  Nearly midnight, and the Humber was bouncing along the narrow, high-hedged roads of Cornwall. Everyone was singing, raucously and with varying degrees of tunefulness. ‘When somebody thinks you’re wonderful, what a difference in your day! Seems as though your troubles disappear like a feather in your way.’ It was the Frenchman, Jean-Hilaire’s, favourite song of the moment, and one that he played over and over on the gramophone that lived permanently in the crew tent. He claimed it was as good a way as any to perfect his English. The entire flight had managed to squeeze themselves into the station wagon: three in the front, and seven in the back, including Dorothy and her friend Jean. Eric, as the only man in the entire squadron who refused the temptations of alcohol, sat next to Jimmy, who was driving, and warning him about any particularly sharp corners or potential hazards ahead.

  ‘Encore!’ shouted Jean-Hilaire, and they all began the song again.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ said Dorothy suddenly.

  ‘Stop the car!’ yelled Harry.

  ‘What, now?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Quickly!’ shouted Harry as Dorothy began clutching her hand to her mouth. Jimmy slammed on the brakes and the Humber screeched, swerved and hit the side of a stone wall, the car grinding and scraping against the rock until it finally came to a halt. There was a brief moment of silence then Jimmy said, ‘Right, out you pop then, Dorothy.’

  Edward immediately began laughing. Soon his stomach ached with laughter, and every time he’d just about recovered he thought of Jimmy saying that, and started laughing again. Harry was laughing too, as were the others, while Jean stood with Dorothy, now doubled up by the side of the road. When everyone finally recovered, Jimmy and Eric had a look at the damage. In the dark it was hard to tell exactly how severe it was, but the fender looked to be badly mashed. Everyone stood around smoking, senses dulled and lethargic, their energy suddenly spent. After yanking the fender free from the wheel, they piled back in and set off again, but the Humber was far from well; a strange knocking sound was coming from the engine, and Jimmy announced that the steering was not as it should be. ‘So I need you to be extra vigilant, Eric,’ he added, his lips clamped round a cigarette.

  ‘It would be ironic,’ said Harry, ‘if we were all to die now, don’t you think? I mean, Eddie managed to make it back with no fuel and an unhealthy amount of fog, but I bet our odds of making it in one piece back to the Droskyn Castle are significantly less.’ No-one disputed Harry’s observation, not even Jimmy, but a short while later they turned into the familiar hotel driveway and crunched to a halt on the gravel. Despite the danger, half the pilots were already sound asleep, Dorothy included.

  When Harry and Edward reached their room, they both stretched out on their beds still fully clothed.

  ‘You know what? I don’t think we’re going to die,’ said Edward. ‘I think we’re going to be all right.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Harry.

  ‘This morning, I really thought I might. But you and I, Harry – someone’s keeping a watch over us. You’ll see.’ This time there was no reply, but the deep and heavy breathing of one already asleep.

  Cornwall – May, 1995

  Edward was humming When Somebody Thinks You’re Wonderful to himself as he drove towards Perranporth. A few miles ahead he saw the long strip of beach, misty from sea spray, but to the left the land rose steeply. Incredible, he thought, how perched they’d been up there. Having finally reached the town, he climbed up the hill towards St Agnes, along a road thick with vivid yellow gorse. He could not see the airfield, but sens
ed it was somewhere beyond the high hedgerows. A sign to ‘Perranporth Aerodrome’. Edward turned right, the road narrowing further as the hedgerows grew higher until he eventually reached a bedraggled entranceway marked by a wooden sign, and lined either side by thick clumps of brambles. Mounting apprehension had accompanied him on this last part of the journey. In his mind he could remember it vividly, but he had not been back once since the squadron had moved further down the coast to Portreath – and according to his logbook, that had been on 6th December, 1941. Over fifty-three years! The world had changed so much in that time. He could hardly expect Perranporth to be any different. Turning in, he drove carefully around the potholes in the ruptured tarmac, and followed the driveway until he saw the whitewashed control tower. A few cars were parked behind, so he pulled in beside them.

  He sat in the car for a moment, hands still clutching the steering wheel. There were moments when he seemed to be able to disengage his mind, and think about what he was doing in a more rational and pragmatic light. And during such moments this journey of his seemed so ridiculous, so pointless. What on earth was he hoping to find?

  Shaking his head, he got out of the car. Come on, he thought. Cornwall’s the easy part, then he mumbled, ‘Some good times.’ His legs felt wooden and stiff, so he stretched, rubbed his knees, then walked over to the control tower. The place seemed curiously deserted and quiet. Three light aircraft were parked up on the grass in front of the tower, but he could not see any other planes. Outside an open door on the ground floor was a sign saying ‘Reception’. Stepping gingerly inside, Edward saw a single desk cluttered with paper and flying magazines. Local flying charts and fliers vied for wall space. From another room off to the side he heard voices, so clearing his throat, he said, ‘Hello?’

  A middle-aged man in a baseball cap appeared. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m Brian, can I help?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Edward began. ‘I flew here during the war and was wondering whether I might have a look around?’