For Rose had taken a chance on him when no one else would. White would now do his absolute utmost to see that kindness and trust rewarded handsomely.
Together, they would stand united with others as one in the defence of Britain.
‘Corky’ Clark and ‘Toffee’ Jones were the most helpful in terms of imparting experience and wisdom to the young Flying Officer and his young ex-skivvy AI operator.
The veteran pair had been in it from the very start, beginning their night fighting as sergeants on the outmoded Mark 1 Blenheim fighters, creaking up into the freezing skies night after night, searching the night skies over London and the Home Counties, their first kill coming on the darkest of nights when they suddenly popped out of cloud to surprise a Dornier.
The surprise had almost been on them as they emerged below and a hundred yards to the front of the slim pencil-thin bomber.
In the end it was the individual reaction time of the crews that made all the difference between life and death, with Jones just cranking up his aged Vickers K gun in the upper turret and pressing the trigger almost in reflex, automatically emptying the entire sixty round drum of .303 bullets into the nose of the bomber, leaving the shocked enemy crew dead and dying in a peppered cockpit following that fearful and vicious three second burst of fire.
With a dead pilot at the controls, the Dornier first reared up, and had then fallen into an uncontrolled yaw that quickly ended as the bomber, together with its bombload and crew smacked explosively into Hackney Marshes.
Clark and Jones were immediately promoted to Flight-Sergeants that very night, and also each received a deserved Mention in Despatches.
The job continued, a spell on Boulton-Paul Defiants, before being introduced to the wonderful magic of the new and secret Airborne Interception AI sets that were being introduced, exchanging their battered, straining Defiants for the new Beaufighters.
In the following months eight more, hard-earned, confirmed kills had followed, as well as the ranks of Flight Lieutenant, and a Distinguished Flying Medal, followed by a Distinguished Flying Cross for them both.
But the long months of night fighting had been hard on them, their lined, drained faces and haunted eyes showed that they had done more than their fair share. With a little luck, they’d soon be rested, for a tour on night fighters was reckoned differently from those on bombers.
The average bomber tour of operations usually amounted to thirty, whereas a night fighter crew, flying only over friendly territory (for fear of the AI system falling into the hands of the enemy), in what was considered as a less risky role relative to flying over enemy territory, had to fly many more operational flights, and Clark and Jones had already successfully completed over a hundred operational trips.
Jones smiled gently at an anxious White. “I was an air gunner, originally. ‘Joined up in ’36 when old Adolf first got that angry bristle in his moustache and up his hairy arse. Started on Hawker Harts, classy kites, they were, and then we converted onto the dear ol’ Blenheim.”
“In fact, the first operational AI’s were fitted to the Blenheim, and we were retrained on the job, so to speak by a group of instructors we called ‘magician’s’, because they seemed to gaze into these two scopes much like the crystal ball gazers down Southend pier. It wasn’t easy at the start trying to understand what showed on the scopes. We had so much difficulty trying to make sense of what we could see that we were all offered the chance of a transfer to another command as gunners, and some of my chums had had enough, and they left.”
Jones took a sip from his cup and tapped his cigarette ash into the saucer beside him. “But not me. I’d been flying with Corkie here for some time, and I knew he needed someone to look after him, poor old sod, so I stayed. Best thing I ever did.”
Clark smiled wearily, “For both of us, Toffee.” He’d given Jones the sobriquet ‘Toffee’ instead of the much more common ‘Taffy’ because: ‘He’s one of a kind, and if he ever got his guns trained on you, they’d stick like toffee. And surprisingly enough, considering his ugly mug, the girls seem to think he’s quite sweet.”
“Yeah, we’ve done OK, haven’t we?” another sip, another flick of the ash, “You should have seen our first interceptions in Blenheims, kept flying around for hours with little to show, saw a Hun twice only. First time we weren’t fast enough, and he just slipped through our fingers, because we just couldn’t match him for speed.”
He shook his head at the memory. “The second time we seemed to be doing some impossible speed as we caught up with him, but it turned out that we were coming at him almost head on, and he was past us like a blur. No chance of catching him.”
Clark nodded solemnly, “Don’t even know what type he was, he was gone so quick. I turned after him immediately, but the Blenheim is no fighter, whatever anyone says, and by the time we were heading the right way the bugger had dived away and gone. I guess we were lucky he didn’t hit us.”
Thinking back to his collision with the Bf109 the previous year, Rose could not agree more. He’d been incredibly lucky to survive that one.
“They taught us about that in training. I guess they learnt a lot from the experiences you chaps have had.” White agreed quietly.
“Yes, they did, but the controllers can give you a lot more information from the ground as well, now, so if you lose it during an interception, you can often ask for help from the GCI people. Chances are a lot better now than they were six months ago. We had a lot less help before. ”
“Then, when we converted onto the new Beaufighters, it was like the game had changed, and I still reckon they’d tweaked some of the AI stuff, too, because suddenly we were faster and the sets seemed so much clearer. It was pretty hectic because we were training and operations were still taking place, both at the same time. And then that 604 flight commander, Cunningham, got a Junkers in November. You know, the one who’s famous in all the papers for the carrots he eats and his so-called Cat’s Eyes, all bollocks, of course. The truth is that he’s not only a phenomenal pilot but a damned good shot too. And his operator, Jimmy Rawnsley, is an ace with the AI. Carrots have got fuck-all to do with it, believe me, but you can’t tell the public that, ‘cause then Jerry’ll suspect we’re using something more, and if they look harder, they’ll maybe find out we’re using AI. Can’t have that, can we?”
He yawned and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Well, after that, it was as if we’d broken through some barrier, because the squadrons started to get kills, even a mediocre pilot could intercept and find a Hun in the darkness if he persevered.” Jones waved at Clark, “he’s an excellent example of that.”
“Fuck off, Toffee,” replied Clark good-naturedly.
“It’s strange,” Rose said, “When we first got to fly the Beau, we were a bit apprehensive, there were stories that the aircraft was a real beast to fly, and we actually lost a pilot in training.”
A laughing boy from Liverpool with a fanatical love of motorcycle racing, dead in an unguarded instant.
Gone but not forgotten. At least not by his friends or his loved ones.
Clark’s face was grim. “The Beau is no monster. She’s not the easiest kite to fly, I’ll give you that, and you need to keep an eye on things and watch out for the swing, but balance the throttles, manage the torque, treat her with a bit of care, respect her, and she’s a beauty. I think the Air Ministry needs to look at the training program.”
Toffee looked at his pilot glumly, “And at some of the instructors.” He did not elaborate further.
Clark nodded. “Last year wasn’t one I’d care to repeat in a hurry. We had some of your lot here, day jobs, and every evening there were fewer and fewer of them. I once sat down next to one at breakfast, a Hurricane pilot just like yourself, Flash. We’d had a bit of a rough night, so I was a going to have a pop at him, but when I turned to him all I could see was someone who look as if he’d died and been mummified for about a hundred years or so. He was all in, sleeping at the table, dead to the world.”
>
He grimaced, “Sorry, terrible description. At least with us, it was only our own AA that was shooting at us. We weren’t able to find Jerry in the darkness.”
He picked at a tooth with one fingernail, looked at it, and then wiped it on his trouser leg, “The day jobs based here at the time weren’t keen on our landings and take-offs because of the landing lights. After all they were going through in the daytime, we were showing Jerry where they could lob a bomb or two at night.”
“Yeah,” Toffee’s eyes took on a faraway look. “They kept on going up, and kept on dying. They must have been shit scared, but they just kept on going. And all the time there was this dread eating away at me. I was so terrified that we were fighting and dying for nothing, that we’d not be able to stop the invasion.”
Rose was surprised and reassured to hear that others, like him, had shared the insidious fear of defeat. It wasn’t something one talked about easily.
Or even openly, for that matter.
Toffee smiled warmly, “I’m glad that you’ve joined us, mate.” He turned his smile on White, “You an’ all, Chalky, old lad.”
Clark barked out a laugh suddenly and they looked at him in surprise, “When we got the new Beaus it wasn’t just the aircrews that felt the change, the groundcrews were a bit overwhelmed as well, and as for the WAAFs!”
He shook his head, “You know little Maisie, the stores clerk, used to be the driver for the crew bus? She used to love standing near a Blenheim when the engines were being tested, something about the way it made her feel as if she were flying?”
Dear and Barr, reclining comfortably beneath a miasma of cigarette smoke, guffawed together at the memory.
Rose tilted his head to one side in interest, “So, what happened?”
“She tried it wth a Beau, and of course it’s a different kettle of fish with those Hercules engines. So there she is, hanging on for dear life to the rudder with both hands, hat, shoes, and hairclips gone, hair about to go the same way, and then, before you can say ‘Blow me down,’ the next moment the slipstream’s caught her, pulled her off, and there she is, actually cartwheeling arse over tit, if you’ll pardon the expression, through the air, skirt flapping around her shoulders like some weird parachute, legs kicking (nice smooth legs they were, too), and I swear she must have achieved an altitude of fifteen feet before she came back down to terra firma! She’s lucky not to have broken something! The groundcrews there said she’d earned her wings so we nicked an ‘AG’ flying badge from Foster on A-Flight and we had an impromptu ceremony.”
Rose chuckled, “No! I don’t believe it! Was she OK?”
“She was alright, thank goodness, just a little shaken,” Jones lowered his voice, “I was there, so I saw the whole thing, and let me tell you, that was one hell of a blast she was riding because I think it blew her drawers and stockings right off as well, and I should know, because I got quite an eyeful! Gave me quite a shock, I can tell you!”
There was laughter and a chorus of shouts, “Fibber!” “Line-shooter!” and “I don’t believe it!”
Jones looked annoyed with himself, and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“Look, I shouldn’t have mentioned it, dunno why I did now, so please don’t tell anyone about it, lads, because she shouldn’t have been there, and if she gets found out she could be up on a charge, endangering RAF property or some such bollocks. Besides, she’s mortified about the whole experience, that’s why she stopped driving the crew bus. Couldn’t face us every day after something like that. She knew I’d seen her lovely juicy pink bits, and she still blushes when she sees me. If she knew that you know about it, she’d be horrified, she’d really hate it, so please, please don’t say anything. OK?”
Rose tried to dispel the image from his mind, feeling embarrassed on behalf of the cheerful young WAAF.
Jones looked around beseechingly, “Just keep it under your hats, fellas, OK? Please?”
Barr nodded, “Don’t worry, Toffee, everything remains here, we won’t breathe a word, right chaps?” he looked around sternly.
They all nodded, eyes averted, and quietly murmured their acknowledgement and agreement.
Barr looked at Jones censoriously, “Just don’t repeat the story again, OK, Toffee? She deserves better.”
Maisie was a nice girl, and very popular on the station. No-one on B-Flight would ever embarrass the pretty young airwoman.
Barr breathed out a long stream of cigarette smoke, and settled back with a satisfied sigh, “Good, that’s settled, then. More tea, anyone?”
Chapter 9
Rose awoke with a jerk from his restive drowsing, heart clamouring and tongue plastered to his palate, as the telephone in B-Flight’s hut rung jarringly. His hand struck the empty mug at his side and knocked it to the floor.
The mug made its landing with a dull thunk! But thankfully, it did not break. It did, however, make White jump, the youngster looking like some strangely futuristic half-human hybrid feature dressed in heavy flying kit and with his eyes hidden behind dark goggles.
They turned blearily to look expectantly at the operations NCO. With his own set of night goggles on, it was difficult for Rose to see that worthy seated in the shadowed gloom at the operations desk.
“There’ll be some sandwiches coming shortly, gentlemen.” The duty sergeant cautiously replaced the receiver amidst a volley of catcalls and shouts.
Barlow began to sing softly along to the music playing gently from the wireless. Barr and Clarke were already in the air, and being third crew on the roster, Rose was eager to get up there and begin his second operational tour.
“Sir?” White’s voice was deferential.
Rose turned to him. “Yes Chalky?”
“What do you think of good luck charms?”
“I had a friend who kept a penny coin sewn into his hanky. He kept it in his underpants and would never fly without it. Seemed to work for him.”
“Do you have one?”
Rose grinned, fondly remembering the day the girl had given him the little teddy bear.
“Actually, yes, I do carry one myself.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and involuntarily placed a hand over the bump in his flying suit. He’d never dream of flying without Genevieve. “I’ll bet all the others have one, too.”
“Does it work, do you think?”
“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?” Don’t tempt fate, you silly sod…
“I asked, sir, because, erm, Mandy gave me something to help keep me safe.”
“Oh?”
In reply, White reached into the large map pocket on the left side of his Sidcot suit. “Don’t laugh, sir, but she gave this to me,” he held up his hand, and Rose saw that he was holding a little furry stuffed toy, a zebra.
Molly, you clever little thing! So that’s what you meant when you said you’d given Mandy some advice. “Hm, looks like she’s taken a shine to you, chum!”
White cautiously tucked the little toy animal back into his pocket and then smiled blissfully, “She’s wonderful, sir. She’s so kind and – “
The scramble bell jangled, making them jump again, and the NCO leapt up from behind his desk, “Flying Officer Rose and Sergeant White in D-Dog, scramble, scramble!”
White was a blur, leaping up like a greyhound from its traps, and was at the door and gone while Rose was still heaving himself out of the sagging armchair, cursing as he fought to free himself.
He almost lost his balance and stumbled, banging into the table and coffee slopped onto the floor, muttering an apology, he lumbered past it and somehow cleared the door frame to plunge into the darkness of the airfield outside, the good-natured raspberries and hoots of his friends chasing after him.
Already he could hear the crackle and grumble as the groundcrew started Dog’s engines.
Luckily he knew exactly where D-Dog was parked and he ran as fast as was possible in the blackout, but, when he almost tripped over some
unidentifiable object in his path, he remembered he was still wearing his goggles, and lifted them from his eyes and covered the remaining distance quicker, with one hand protectively over his right eye and finding his way to D-Dog with his left.
Cripes! It’s hard enough just getting to D-Doggie in the darkness! Hope its better when we actually get up there!
It was important to preserve his night vision, but in the end he gave up and uncovered his right eye as well. It was dark enough outside not to impair his carefully protected night vision.
At last he was scrambling up the ladder and onwards into his dimly lit cockpit. The weak red light did nothing to interfere with his night vision, yet was just enough to his prepared eyes to illuminate the cockpit and controls sufficiently well.
Behind him, Rose could hear White settling down in his own compartment, and, as he prepared himself, he checked the controls once more.
You can never be too careful. He could almost hear Granny’s voice and he smiled with fondness despite the tension taut in his belly.
Thank goodness the controls were arranged so sensibly and well. So unlike the semi-chaotic arrangement found in the Blenheims on which he’d trained.
OK, wriggle onto the seat, stop that metal clip digging into your bum, get into a comfortable position and quickly run through the check-list…
Engine readings and instrument settings normal?
Instrument lighting and gunsight dim enough?
Control surfaces?
Yes.
Outside, the powerful engines snarled and bellowed their bellicose refrain reassuringly, seemingly eager to get into the hunt like leashed hounds.
Fifteen minutes later D-Dog was thundering powerfully upwards through the darkness to achieve the fifteen thousand feet of altitude required of them.
It was preferable to begin an interception with altitude in hand to allow them to have the advantage of height in an interception, and the extra speed available in a dive might prove useful if needed.
Beaufighter Blitz Page 10