“Victory, Herr Leutnant! Superb shooting! That fucking schwein will never bomb us again! Congratulations!” Rudi crowed gleefully over the intercom. “He never even knew we were behind him, the dozy bastard!”
“Well done, sir.” Mouse rumbled, subdued, alert eyes never leaving the huge expanse of sky behind and around their fighter.
Have to maintain one’s image as a stern Teutonic warrior, thought Bruno, even as a wave of relief sluiced through him, speak calmly; don’t let them see your pleasure, or the strain.
“Thank you, boys. We did it. That’s one more for us, one less of theirs.”
“Nine victories! Nine! Sounds good, Herr Leutnant. Really good.” Rudi cackled, “Almost into double figures, sir! Well done! Continue on for RAF Oulton? Want to make it two for tonight? Get number ten?”
Bruno considered. The defences would be aware they were here now, and the element of surprise had been lost.
Their target airfield would be blacked out now, alerted to their presence, its returning aircraft urgently redirected to airfields outside the danger area.
There might even now be enemy fighters heading their way.
It was unlikely they would get any more luck tonight at Oulton. To risk themselves might be madness, courting disaster on the heels of their victory.
But might the enemy actually expect him to flee for safety after this triumph?
And if so, should they continue on to their target?
Or might the target think this attack was one of a series, and be even now be on a heightened awareness for attack?
So.
What now? An important decision had to be made.
And quickly, if not sooner!
To continue, or to return? Was the risk worth it? Which was it to be? He drummed his fingers on the control column’s handlebar absently as he considered the decision.
In the far distance, flaring pinpricks of light danced and sparkled prettily, reflected dimly by the brooding clouds above them, marking the death and destruction of the enemy.
The bomber boys were out in force, still hitting the British hard, showing the fools that they were beaten.
He made up his mind. “We’ve been lucky, no reason to test our luck tonight, boys.” He looked at his gauges, “We’ve still got enough fuel for a short patrol south west of the Frisian Islands. If we’re lucky, we might pick up one of their mine-laying bombers.”
“But I hate water, Herr Leutnant, whales and U-boats drop shit in it.” the gunner protested.
Good, stolid Mouse.
“Mouse, why didn’t you join the army? The Luftwaffe doesn’t just fly over land.”
The gunner continued to single-mindedly scrutinise the night sky with distrustful eyes.
“Both of my cousins are married to soldiers, sir.” He sucked on a tooth, “Can’t stand either of them.”
Rudi’s interest was piqued. Mouse rarely spoke of home. “You can’t stand them? Why? Because they’re soldiers?”
“No you thick bastard. I can’t stand my cousins. Their husbands are OK.”
The gunner thought for a moment, and then added, “For soldiers, that is.”
Bruno grinned tightly, but his restless eyes were still busily searching the darkness for a hidden enemy, and his fingers and nerves still quivered from the adrenaline.
“I could have a quiet word with the Herr Oberst, my dear Mouse. Get you a nice comfy posting at headquarters perhaps, a nice big desk, a comfortable chair for your bum to shine, and all those pretty little auxiliaries to look after? Think it’s something you could manage, old fellow?”
“With your permission I’ll stay, Herr Leutnant. I’m better with a gun than a pencil. And where would you be without me protecting your arse? Rudi’s as useless as a beer mug with a hole in its base.”
Rudi grunted, “Fuck off, thick man.”
Bruno nodded. “Good. Then it’s settled, you can stay. I feel safer having you there behind me, anyway.”
Rudi was rummaging around busily in his flying satchel. “Fuck me,” he muttered, “You speak such crap, Mouse. I can’t tell where your mouth ends and your arsehole begins, with all that shit flowing out of you. Damn dumb gunner. Shut your trap.”
The words were said without rancour, just move and countermove in an endless game of banter.
Rudi found what he was looking for and he pulled it from the satchel. “All this fighting has given me a bit of a thirst, would you care for a cup of coffee, sir?” He brandished the thermos flask questioningly.
“Ersatz?” Bruno shook his head. “No, that shit gives me wind, but give one to Mouse, his mouth must be bone dry after all that bloody chattering.”
Rudi barked a laugh at that, sharp and stiff with strain.
Behind them, Mouse just grunted, although Bruno was sure he could feel the gunner grinning.
Bruno pulled the heavy Junkers fighter into a smooth sweeping turn, ignoring a complaining Rudi as hot black coffee slopped over his gloves and onto his flying overalls.
“Put down that cup Rudi, you hound, and give me a course for the West Frisians. We’ll patrol for a quarter of an hour or so, then back for schnapps, a creamy coffee and bed. For you two at least. Me, I’m going for a nice long bath and then a good fuck in town to celebrate.”
Rudi laughed, “Yes sir, Herr Leutnant.”
Mouse just grunted again.
The sound of the Jumo 211J engines faded to a whisper, and then was gone, leaving behind it the blistering pyre, already guttering and dying, the twisted and glowing remnants all that remained of an RAF bomber and its three man crew just moments earlier.
Three plucky RAF flyers, veterans of many missions over occupied Europe, dead this night in an instant of awful fire and destruction, their memorial to be one more victory bar added onto the end of the painted score line steadily growing on the rudder of Bruno’s Ju88C.
Chapter 1
Pilot Officer Harry ‘Flash’ Rose DFC, AFC, MiD, RAF, drew back his fist and punched the Group Captain squarely on the nose, spreading it across the senior officer’s face in a satisfying splatter of gloriously vibrant red ruin, and knocking the Groupie violently back into his chair.
“I say, my dear boy, are you quite alright?”
Rose sighed and opened his eyes, dragging himself away from the delightful fantasy of thumping the droning old windbag square on the chops.
The aforementioned old windbag was leaning across the large desk, nose whole and unharmed, and Rose was surprised to see genuine concern in those watery eyes.
“Oh dear. My dear fellow. Are you feeling quite well, young man? Would you like a glass of water or something? A nice hot cup of sweet tea, perhaps? Yes?”
Rose forced a smile onto his face, “No, thank you, sir. That’s quite alright.” He pushed the gratifying vision of the blood-spattered face regretfully from his mind.
It wouldn’t do at all to bash a senior officer in the chops, no matter how boring, particularly here, in the heart of the Air Ministry itself.
The Group Captain settled back onto his chair with a deep sigh, like a large blue-grey balloon deflating sluggishly, the straining chair complaining sharply.
“Thank goodness for small mercies. When you closed your eyes, I thought you were having a funny turn. Are you sure you’re quite alright, old man?”
Rose figuratively kicked himself at his obvious lack of attention, and for drifting into that rather satisfying but shameful daydream.
“Yes, sorry sir, just felt a bit tired, long day, and all that.” He looked out of the taped-up window, the view of the cold clouded sky outside partially obscured by the dirty grey barrage balloon sullenly floating low overhead. It had been given a name by the locals (what was it, Maggie? Aggie?), but Rose had already forgotten it.
It was late January 1941, some months since he had been shot down the previous year, and he was eager to get back up where the action was.
Yet there was a stir of fear that eddied unsettlingly within the inner recesses of h
is soul.
“It’s as I said, Rose, you may not be ready to go back to it yet, why don’t you wait a little longer, hmm? What if you had one of those funny turns in the middle of a dogfight? Hm? Wouldn’t do, would it? Old Johnny Hun would have you on a platter.”
Dear God. “Send me back, sir, please?”
“The MO said that you may not be ready for it, yet, Rose. To be honest, he had some strong reservations, and so do I. I know that you’ve been passed fit for flying, but your eyes took a while to recover. And that injury to your leg was quite bad, too. I’m not convinced that you should be up there in a Hurricane or a Spitfire quite yet.”
Under his breath, Rose cursed. I should have left the damned stick at home with Molly.
Molly. The thought of his beautiful bride made him relax a little, and he smiled involuntarily with pleasure.
The Group Captain smiled back at him with relief. “There, I knew you’d understand. Why don’t you come back and see me in a fortnight, old man?”
Blast it! “Please, sir. I’m going crazy here on the ground. You know how desperate the demand for pilots is. Send me to Wick. I’ve a friend who’s the CO of a Spitfire outfit there.”
The senior officer looked unconvinced, so Rose added defiantly, “He could look after me.”
It would be wonderful to see dear Granny again. His friend had written again, still bemoaning the fact that he was so far from his extended network of girlfriends and his favourite drinking places.
Behind his desk, the Group Captain positively bristled, “Good Lord, no! I can’t have you flying around over the North Sea. You’re not ready for that sort of thing!”
He scowled mildly at Rose. “No, no, no! What if your engine conks out, and you come down in the sea? What then, hey?”
Oh God, what’s the old fart wittering on about now?
Rose tried not to sound defensive, and kept his voice carefully level, “I’m not quite sure what your point is, sir?”
“Good grief, Rose. With dodgy eyeballs you might get lost, report your position wrongly or something. And with a gammy leg, how could you swim? And that’s assuming you can swim. No, Wick is out of the question, I’m afraid.”
The Group Captain waved vaguely at Rose with one careless hand. “You’ve already done a lot; some would say you’ve done more than enough. Why don’t you try ground duties for a few months? How does that sound? Eh? We’ve got a couple of positions available here at the Ministry? I could do with a good assistant, myself. I could find something useful for you to do? You could do some really helpful work here at the Ministry.”
God forbid! It was grey and miserable here, he thought, like a damned mausoleum.
Rose tried not to let his dismay show, keeping his face carefully expressionless, fingers gripping his knees tight.
The Group Captain beamed proudly at Rose. “You should be very proud of your record, young man. Twenty years of age, an experienced fighter pilot with seven confirmed kills to your name already and goodness only knows how many damaged and probables.”
He nodded approvingly, and tapped the desk with a gnarled finger.
“You were certainly in the thick of it, Rose. Damn good show. I can see you’re no slouch.”
Rose cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. “Actually, sir, with respect, it’s actually eight confirmed victories.”
Although, if truth be told, it really ought to be nine. But who’s counting?
The Bf109 which Rose inadvertently collided with in that last, explosive combat, unofficially his ninth ‘kill’, had not been confirmed as definitely destroyed, instead being classified as a probable.
Sergeant Morton, his (very) young wingman in that fearful final dogfight (and now a recently promoted Pilot-Officer with a very well-deserved DFM, flying together with dear ‘Granny’ Smith from an airfield in the north of Scotland), was incensed by the rejection, as it was he who had seen the smoking enemy fighter crash after the collision, and confirmed the victory.
But the powers-that-be in their wisdom would not permit it, and Rose’s official score remained as eight confirmed kills.
He hardly mattered, for he was alive and well (sort of) and happily married to his incredible and lovely Molly.
And in reality, the only thing that really, truly, mattered was that the German onslaught had failed, Der Fuhrer’s Sealion invasion plans in tatters, and Britain remained unconquered and free.
They’d repelled the invaders, albeit at a bitter cost, and the Germans had tasted the choking ashes of failure for the first time in this whole bloody awful war.
The Group Captain’s shaggy eyebrows climbed in astonishment. “Good God! Eight, you say? Even better! I’m sorry, dear boy. I was never all that good at arithmetic, bit of a duffer with sums, unforgivable, ought to have checked, please do forgive me.”
He pointed to Rose’s chest. “However, there’s no question of your extraordinary accomplishments, Rose. My, you’ve a goodly collection of ribbons and things beautifully arranged there beneath your wings to show for it already. The Distinguished Flying Cross, an Air Force Cross, a Mention in Dispatches, and, um, what’s that other ribbon? I don’t recognise it?”
At the end of Rose’s colourful row of medal ribbons, arranged neatly beneath his silken RAF wings flying badge, was one with vertical blue and black stripes.
Rose thought affectionately of the courageous, outrageous and appallingly fragrant big Pole who meant so very much to him.
“It’s a Polish medal, sir, the Silver Cross of Virtuti Militari. Means Military Virtue, apparently. I flew alongside the CO of one of the Polish Squadrons at Duxford last year. He served as a Sergeant and then a Pilot Officer with Excalibur squadron. He’s an incredible chap. He recommended all of the pilots on Excalibur for the medal, insisted we receive it. A very fine officer and airman, sir, very fine indeed, and I’m very proud to say that I also consider him a very dear friend.”
The Group Captain nodded sagely. “Ah yes, Squadron Leader Cynk. I’ve heard of him. I’m rather glad he’s on our side, I must say. A bit of a lunatic, but a real lion in the air, by all accounts.”
Rose smiled fondly to himself.
Cynk had been an Usher at their wedding, kissed everyone and anyone, cried copiously during the ceremony, drank like a trooper and disappeared halfway through the reception with one of Molly’s WAAF bridesmaids, both reappearing some time later looking more than a little dishevelled but blissfully satisfied.
At the time, an outraged Molly pursed her lips in censure and glowered menacingly at Cynk, receiving in return a cheeky wink and a kiss blown her way from the unabashed Pole, although the already glowing bridesmaid flushed an even brighter pink and looked away in embarrassment.
An incredibly courageous and unflinching warrior in the air, certainly, but a legend with the ladies as well, a reputation well know and earned. Astonishing, really, considering the gallons of scent the big Pole doused himself with and the odious smell of his cigars and cheroots.
“Well, I can’t offer you a flying position on an operational fighter squadron, I’m afraid, Rose. I’m not convinced that you are quite ready to dogfight against Goering’s finest yet. I’m sorry.”
Rose’s heart sank with despair. It felt as if the floor had given way beneath him, but a treacherous part of him felt a disloyal prickle of gladness.
But how could he sit in some safe, cushy job when others were fighting and dying? What kind of man would that make him? And how could he look Molly in the eye? Harry Rose, scared of losing her, and terrified that he might be less than she deserved.
She deserved a hero, not some craven coward, hiding in the shadows whilst others faced the danger.
The older officer snuffled, “And no, I’m not questioning your ability; your record speaks for itself. Your courage and ability are in no doubt. The thing is, we’re conducting fighter strikes into Nazi-held territory, and I think that if you were shot down, escape and evasion would be a bit of a problem for you. And old Jo
hnny Boche might torture you for secrets by concentrating his dastardly efforts on your poor old leg.”
He sniffed again and withdrew a creased handkerchief from his sleeve. “No, I’ll not do that to you. You deserve better. You’ve suffered enough for you country, dear boy.” He blew hard into the hanky.
Molly would be so glad if he remained on the ground, but the dispirited Rose felt tearful, “I need to do something, sir. Please, is there nothing?”
Even to his own ears he sounded desperate, and Rose cringed inwardly in embarrassment and shame, and his eyes and face grew hot as he fought to control his emotions.
The Group Captain carefully tucked away the hanky and looked hard at him for a moment. Then he gave a long low sigh through his nose, and nodded slightly to himself, as if in satisfaction.
“Yes, she said you’d be like that. You wouldn’t take a cushy posting, whatever I offered. Oh Lord. Alright then, if you’re so dashed keen to get back up there and give Jerry a punch on the nose, then I suppose there is something that I can offer you.”
Hurrah! War, here I come! A frisson of hope danced straight up his spine, and a bolt of fear flared just as quickly back down it.
She’ll hate me going back, but what can I do? She’s such an incredible woman, amazing in every way. She deserves someone special. How can I sit back when others are fighting? I must be worthy of her…
And then there came the artful voice of caution.
Be careful what you ask for. Wait until you know what it is before you start celebrating…
The Group Captain scratched his chin and peered at the sheets of paperwork chaotically cluttering his desk.
“Now where did I put it…?”
Rose shifted in anticipation, and found himself leaning forward expectantly, his stick falling to the floor unheeded.
He gazed at the jumble of papers. Good grief, he thought in astonishment, how did the man make sense of the bedlam of his desk?
“Um, can I help, at all, sir?” We’re going to be here all ruddy day, he despaired.
The Group Captain snatched up a crumpled sheet of paper from the horrendous display of disarray with an exclamation of triumph. “Hah! Got you! I knew you were there!”
Beaufighter Blitz Page 2