A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the picture of Cynthia. ‘You never knew any of this,’ he said softly.

  He had told Lucky that Malta had become a very different place by the summer of 1943, and it had. The rubble had not gone – the Island still looked utterly wrecked. But it was now heaving with men and equipment and, particularly, aircraft. Six hundred fighters crammed onto both Malta and Gozo. Six hundred! The fuel shortages were a thing of the past – the only hindrance to movement now was the amount of traffic. Edward’s squadron even had the use of a couple of American army jeeps. Nor were there any more food shortages; the siege for which so many had given so much had been lifted the previous December; the tide in the Mediterranean had turned. And there was drink, too, and nights out in Valletta where pilots and sailors could once more make their way from one bar to another – not that Edward joined in very often. A couple of whiskies in the mess was all he wanted.

  In August they moved off again – this time to Sicily. It had come as a relief; for all the changes, Edward was glad to get off the Island a second time. After the surrender of the Italians at the beginning of September, the Allies moved once more, this time to southern Italy. The Italians might have been their allies now, but there were still plenty of Germans to fight in Italy. Edward’s wing followed the advancing armies to the Salerno beachhead and then, as winter set in, they moved to Capodichino on the edge of Naples.

  Naples. In October, 1943, it was just another city ruined by the ravages of war. Too many houses lay in ruins; the streets were wet and windswept, the gutters full of rubbish and filth, and swarming with wretched, threadbare Italians, starving and scavenging off the sudden influx of Allied forces. The pilots moved into requisitioned buildings in the city. Most people became ill – jaundice, typhus, and, of course, dysentery. Once again, Edward was untouched by disease, the one person whose intestines appeared to be made of steel; and so he continued flying, escorting Baltimore bombers as they pounded the front line forty miles to the north.

  No-one was happy. The Allies were not doing as well as had been hoped, the flying conditions were atrocious, and the cold and rain infected every man in the wing, so Edward was relieved to be posted to Cairo in the first week of the New Year of 1944. More instructing, but this time in the sun. He felt as though he were finally emerging from a very dark cloud, but it was only a brief respite. At the beginning of March he was promoted again and sent back to Italy – to Termoli this time, on the east coast. And there he took command of his own squadron – 629 Squadron, equipped with Spitfires.

  *

  It was funny, Edward reflected, how the memory worked. Some things were so vivid, imprinted with crystal clarity on his mind; while others were a complete blur. He really had to think hard to recall much about those first few months in Italy. But maybe, he wondered, that was because nothing very significant had happened to him. That changed the moment he arrived at Termoli. The events that followed were seared into his memory; they’d been haunting him ever since, intensely so recently.

  The moment he’d stopped in the churchyard at Chilton on that Monday two months before, he knew he had subconsciously embarked on a journey that he would have to follow to the bitter end. He had dreaded going to Malta, and yet now he was glad he had done so. It had been the cathartic experience he’d hoped for.

  And now he knew he had to go back to Italy. He felt exhausted. His week on Malta, the time with Lucky, meeting Andrew Fisher. It had drained him, both mentally and physically. I’m not ready for Italy yet, he told himself. A couple of weeks; he’d rest and recharge his batteries and then he’d go. He wondered whether this time he should tell Simon, but then dismissed the idea. He had to stick to his rules: he would tell Simon when he got back. And then he’d tell him everything.

  But just the thought of it filled him with a terrible sense of foreboding. For too long, dark memories had been held safe in the recesses of his mind. ‘I’m scared,’ he admitted to Cynthia’s photograph one night. ‘I’m scared of what I’m going to find.’

  PART III

  Italy

  Italy – April, 1944

  Edward sat at his desk looking out of the window. Rain streamed down the glass, while waves crashed against the shoreline, white against the grey of the sea and sky. It looked more like Southend than the east coast of Italy.

  His room was cold too, and he turned up the collar of his battle-blouse. A gust of wind shook the window and it rattled loudly. Outside, a jeep rolled past, hitting a puddle and sending a fountain of spray across the road. Edward turned back to the blank piece of paper on his desk, and tapped his pen thoughtfully. Dear Mr and Mrs Tomlinson, he began then stopped again. Dammit, he thought, leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

  It was evening. Two hurricane lamps already lit the room, while on the chest of drawers on the far side of the room, a candle flickered. As squadron leader, Edward had been given his own room in this requisitioned house on the seafront – and on the first floor, too, with views over the sea and a small balcony. He had never really imagined having his own squadron, but although still a few months short of his twenty-third birthday, he was not the youngest squadron leader in Italy by any means. Experience was what counted, and, he supposed, leadership. In the six weeks since he’d taken over, he seemed to have done all right; he’d had no complaints from above, at any rate. In truth, he didn’t feel there was much difference between being squadron commander and a flight commander: there was just more admin now.

  Nor had he had much opportunity to make the most of the perks of his position. His room, while large, was cold, and since arriving back in Italy after his stint instructing in Egypt, the weather had been consistently dreadful. He’d not been out on his balcony once. After a few days of bright sunshine at the end of March, it had managed to rain almost every day, although this had made little impact on the amount of flying. At the airfield, just over a mile away on the edge of town, a temporary runway had been laid with pierced steel planking – or PSP as everyone called it – an American invention and a panacea for all conditions. And since most of their operations were low-level stuff, there was less dependence on weather conditions; cloud base had to be at almost zero feet to stop them flying.

  Sometimes, Edward couldn’t help but marvel at the change since those days on Malta at the height of the siege. The Allies had almost complete air superiority now – the roles had been spectacularly reversed. He’d barely seen an enemy plane since arriving back – just a pair of Focke-Wulf fighters a week before – and so this meant that the old Desert Air Force, still supporting Eighth Army as it had done all across North Africa, was able to keep an almost constant stream of fighters in the air. They operated in wings these days, whole squadrons at a time flying over the front line, waiting to be told to attack an enemy gun position, or strafe a column of enemy trucks, or shoot up a farmhouse where a German sniper was causing particular trouble. The ‘cab rank’ as it was known; there were even ground controllers scuttling along the front in armoured cars coordinating between the troops and the pilots in the air.

  For Edward, the novelty of this massive show of strength had long since worn off. Perhaps the cab-rank system was effective, but it was also extremely dangerous. Flying at low altitude meant there was little chance to bale out, and while there were now few 109s hovering about waiting to pounce, the Germans had highly efficient anti-aircraft gunners. No matter how experienced the pilot, a shard of shrapnel or a stray bullet could end his life in a trice. Mortality rates were higher even than on Malta, but they were also flying so much more. Squadron Leaders were not expected to fly as much as the rest of the squadron, but even so, Edward had flown almost every day. He’d lost four pilots in his first month: three killed and one so badly wounded he would never fly again. And another one today – Edward had seen him come down himself as they’d tried to bomb German tanks near Ortona. Pilot Officer Stan Tomlinson, who had joined the squadron just a few days after Edward. A good pilot and an eager, likea
ble, fellow. Flak had got him, blasted a hole through his rudder and elevators, and he’d lost control and hurtled into the ground.

  A knock on his door.

  ‘Yes?’ called out Edward.

  Danny, the Adjutant, came in, holding up a bottle of wine. ‘We’ve just got hold of new booze supplies,’ he said. ‘Care for a bottle?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Edward, gesturing to Danny to sit down in the armchair the other side of his desk. It was certainly the most comfortable room he’d been in since joining the RAF. The house had come fully furnished, complete with beds, tables, chairs, and even the ornate leather-topped desk he was using now. He’d often wondered who owned it; who the family were and what had become of them. Italy seemed to be seething with displaced persons.

  ‘Stan’s parents?’ Danny asked, pouring two beakers of wine.

  Edward nodded. ‘The worst job in the world. Anyway, where did the wine come from?’

  Danny shrugged. ‘Didn’t like to ask. It’s jolly good stuff, though. Nothing like as rough as the last lot.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Edward. ‘Not bad. Thanks, Danny.’

  The Adjutant stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it – you’re sure you won’t let me do it for you?’

  ‘No – thanks, but I feel I should, really.’

  When Danny had gone, Edward looked back down at the letter. I’m so sorry to have to be writing this to you. Stan was a wonderful chap and extremely popular within the squadron – the life and soul of the Mess. We will all miss his singing in the bar and his enthusiasm and constant cheeriness. It has been a hard few weeks with poor weather, and he did much to keep up spirits.

  He was also a gifted pilot and in the short time he’d been with the squadron had become a much relied-upon member of ‘A’ Flight. I was nearby when he died, and hope I can assure you that he would not have suffered in any way. He will be greatly missed, but he died doing important and valiant work, and you can feel very proud of his achievements.

  Yours sincerely,

  Squadron Leader Edward Enderby

  He took a large drink of wine, then read it through again. Slightly patronising? And was it personal enough? He sighed, then folded the paper and wrote out the envelope. It will have to do, he thought, then looked out his window once more. Soon it would be summer. Just a few more weeks; everything would seem better then.

  The next day, 9th April, the squadron was given a different task. They would be escorting some bombers on an attack on Bologna, a task usually left to the American fighter groups. But there was more.

  ‘We’d like you to have a look at something for us, Eddie,’ Wing Commander Templeton had told him at the morning briefing. ‘Come and have a squint at this map.’ Edward had stood up and followed him to the large map of Italy hanging on the Operations Tent wall. ‘So here’s Bologna,’ Templeton pointed out, ‘and here’s the River Reno running south.’ He was tall and thin as a rake, with a dark moustache that made him look older than his twenty-five years. Not as dominant a character as Butch had been, but no less effective for that. Edward liked him; there was no side to Dick Templeton. He was fair, listened to what others had to say, and treated all the squadron leaders on equal terms, regardless of age or experience.

  Dick ran a finger down the map. ‘And here it forks. The Reno continues to the south-west, while the River Setta carries on almost due south. And as you can see, there’s a whole load of bloody huge great mountains in between.’

  ‘So the two river valleys are the main arteries to the north,’ said Edward.

  ‘Exactly. There are major roads running alongside them, both completely metalled, and the one running along the Reno is one of the few major routes through the Apennines. Of course, north of Bologna you’ve got the open plains. Flat as a board, so no major difficulties for the enemy there. But there are not many roads through the mountains, so if Jerry wants to move trucks and tanks and what have you south to the front, he’s almost certainly going to be using these roads.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Once the Baltimores have done their stuff over Bologna, I want you to leave one section with the bombers and take the other two down to have a peek at these valley roads. One section can sweep down the Setta Valley, the other down the Reno. And if you see any movement, give them merry hell.’

  Edward had briefed the squadron before the flight. Green section was going to continue escorting the bombers, while he would take Blue section along the Reno Valley and Red section would sweep along the Setta. ‘You know the form,’ he had told them. ‘Hit the deck and shoot anything that moves. One sweep down the valley – in and out. And if there’s a lot of cloud about, make sure you keep within sight of each other.’

  ‘All right,’ said Edward.

  Dick patted him on the back. ‘Thanks, Eddie. And you never know, you might see some sun up there above the clouds.’

  Five hours later the squadron was circling at 22,000 feet above Bologna. Edward looked down over the front of the huge elliptical wing of his Spitfire and saw the forty-odd South African Baltimores a few thousand feet below spread like a grid over the city as they began their bomb run. Puffs of flak dotted the sky, but the bombers kept their line and unwaveringly droned on over the city. Moments later he watched the first clouds of smoke silently burst four miles below.

  It was over in just a few minutes. They’d been lucky – low cloud had covered the ground much of the way, but there had been a gap just south of Bologna that had extended right up to the city. Edward watched the Baltimores plough on north of the city, then wheel for the return journey to Foggia. Edward led the squadron around in another wide circle. Above them the sky was wide and clear, as Dick had promised, the sun glinting across his canopy and along the wing as he gently banked. Ah yes, thought Edward, this is better.

  Now, as Edward turned the squadron west of Bologna, he fumbled in his boot for his map. The cloud was thickening again, the city disappearing from view.

  ‘This is Barley Leader,’ he called over his radio. ‘Green and Red sections follow me down to the deck.’ He dived down, out of the clear and into cloud, so that his Spitfire was enveloped by a white nothingness. His altimeter told him how quickly he was losing height, but it always made him nervous, flying blind in an area full of mountains, so he tried to maintain a westerly course as they dived, keeping north of the foothills. Where the hell is that cloud ceiling? His ears clicked and popped as they continued to lose height. Either side of him he could see his wingman and Blue Three, flitting through the cloud like spectres. Six thousand, five thousand, four thousand. Come on, he thought.

  They cleared it at just over two thousand feet. Edward looked at his map again, lying awkwardly with its creases ruffled on his lap, his mind racing as he tried to latch onto a recognisable landmark. He spotted a road that led back east towards Bologna and followed it until he saw a large river snaking ahead of him. Ah, good, he thought. Must be the Reno. Banking gently, he led them south. He guessed the fork was less than ten miles away, and in just under two minutes there it was, green mountains rising either side.

  ‘This is Barley Leader,’ he called again over the R/T. ‘OK, Red One, have you got the Setta?’

  ‘I’ve got it, Barley Leader.’

  ‘Right, then let’s split.’

  He led his section down, so that the hills and mountains either side of the valley loomed above them. Just two hundred feet above the river and flying at three hundred and fifty miles an hour. The road hugged the river and Edward spotted a small town. A glance at the map – must be Mazzola – then he saw traffic just a short way beyond: a column, dark, grey trucks and transporters – yes, there were two tanks. In moments they were over them, men scurrying from the vehicles and diving off the road. Edward lined himself above, inched forward the stick and pressed down on his firing buttons. Bullets, cannons, and tracer from both hurtled from his gun ports, tearing into the column. His Spitfire roared over them at fifty feet, then he heard a noise from the engine – just a light knock –
and the plane immediately began to splutter and groan. Shit, shit, he thought. ‘This is Barley Leader, I’ve been hit,’ he said, as he eased the stick into his stomach and tried to lift himself out of the valley. The enemy column was already way behind. His headphones crackled. Chatter in his ears from the others. How bad? What was it? ‘It’s the engine,’ he told them. No chance of nursing it back to Termoli: had they been twenty-five miles away, the normal range they were operating in, well, perhaps; but they were now more than two hundred and fifty miles north. ‘You head on back,’ he told them. ‘I’m going to try and get some height then bale out. Over.’ He hoped he had sounded calm. ‘Jesus Christ, oh Jesus bloody Christ,’ he said as he switched off the R/T and looked at the dials in front of him. Oil pressure falling, manifold pressure dropping too: confirmation of what he already knew – a dying aircraft. A deep, grinding sound was coming from the engine, and he was losing power – but he was climbing, up out of the valley and into the hills and mountains between the two rivers. How high did he need to be to bale out? For a moment his mind was blank. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think what he was supposed to do at all. His heart was pounding in his chest, his whole body trembling. He looked out, down below at the mountains and thought how inhospitable they looked. I don’t want to go there, he thought. The cockpit of his plane felt safe, familiar; yet he knew he had to leave it and plunge headfirst into an unknown sky.

  The engine spluttered again and he watched the speed drop off further. Any moment the engine would seize and the aircraft fall out of the sky. I haven’t long, he thought, and glanced at his altimeter. Fifteen hundred feet. Try and get to two thousand. The needle inched higher, then a puff of smoke belched from the cowling in front of him. ‘You’ve got to do it,’ he told himself. Trembling fingers. He tried to fold away the map, but couldn’t, so stuffed it into his boot scrunched up like a ball of waste paper. Radio plugs, oxygen leads. He lifted his hand to the rubber knob inside the top of the canopy, then held it there for a moment. Do it! he told himself. Edward closed his eyes, felt his hand tighten around the knob and then he pulled. Instantly, the canopy flew off, crashing into the radio mast behind his head and tumbling behind. He unclipped his harness, pushed the stick over and felt himself lift out of the seat, but as he began to slide out of the aircraft his parachute caught on something. Now the Spitfire had begun to dive, falling almost vertically. Frantically, Edward felt behind him, heard something tear and he was tumbling free, the ground hurtling towards him. Far away, he heard an explosion, a flash of light in the corner of his eye. The ripcord, the ripcord. He grabbed it with his gloved hand, yanked, and closed his eyes. Please, he prayed.