Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  With a coarse blanket draped over him, Barr was snoring fitfully on one of the camp beds in the far corner of the dispersals hut.

  Barr’s operator, Dear, was sitting beside the table, feet stretched out and head back, but he wasn’t asleep, just trying to relax.

  Barlow had bought a rather battered looking radiogram at a fleamarket in town, and both he and ‘Icy’ Cole were doing their best to get the wretched thing to work, but their efforts seemed to be having little, if any, success.

  In the meantime, the hut’s faithful old wireless continued to warble dance music peacefully behind them.

  “You were pretty fast reloading last night, Chalky.” Rose took a tentative sip from his cup.

  The black coffee was very hot, and he put the cup carefully down onto the table, trying not to grimace, his lips smarting. “Those ammo drums are pretty heavy; I I’d never have done it so quickly. Particularly not in mid-flight in the dark.”

  White shrugged. “You’re forgetting, sir, I’m used to hauling some pretty heavy things about. The canteen trolley bins are the heaviest things I’ve ever had to shift. Compared to those, the ammo drums were a doddle.” He smiled cheekily and winked, “Piece of cake!”

  They were quiet for a moment, listening with amusement as once more the radiogram refused to cooperate with all attempts to bring it back to life.

  After an air test in the afternoon, the pair had shared a mug of tea and a currant bun, and Mandy found them still chatting as they gleefully re-lived their successful combat once more.

  White’s battledress tunic was in her hands, and shyly she passed it to its owner. It now sported his flying badge, the single wing of non-pilot aircrew, with the laurel leaves framing the letters ‘AG’, for an air gunner. Rose glanced with seeming indifference at it, but inside he was pleased with what he saw.

  Rose had no idea what she was like as a typist, but, as a seamstress, Mandy’s needlework was excellent, and the proud new insignia looked good on White’s uniform.

  He still thought it peculiar that AI operators had to wear an air gunner’s badge, particularly since many of them had never fired a gun in anger.

  Personally, Rose felt that all the back-seaters should wear ‘RO’ for radar operator instead.

  As White quietly reminded him, however, “If we get shot down over water, and get picked up by Jerry, we don’t want to spill the beans about ‘The Thing’, do we, sir? Better they think I’m a gunner and we’re part of a Blenheim crew. Wouldn’t do for Jerry to find out about our magic, would it?”

  Rose nodded grudgingly. Hmm, it did make sense to hide the real function of the boys in the back.

  Mandy was thrilled by their success, and the first thing she did was to quickly kiss White diffidently on the cheek. Rose smiled at the memory of their awkward embrace.

  It was impossible to determine which of them had been the more embarrassed.

  “You see?” White held up the little zebra delightedly, “You brought us luck, Mandy! Now you’ll have to give me a kiss every time I fly!” he looked across at Rose and laughed, “Only me, though, mind! Not my boss!”

  “But only when you get a Jerry, Chalky!” With burning cheeks and a fleeting smile at Rose, Mandy fled.

  Rose adjusted the goggles preserving his night vision to scratch beneath one eye. “Mandy seems like a very nice girl. You both should have a meal with us one evening.”

  “Thank you, sir; I’ll have to ask her. She always seems to be off when we’re on, but then, I think you’re sort of in the same boat?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, chum.” Oh, how cold and empty their bed felt when Molly was on duty!

  “I saw you looking at that Hurricane, earlier, sir.” White casually picked at a chip in the surface of the table with his fingernail. “D’you miss flying them?”

  Rose picked up his coffee cup again, and blew gently into it, “It was fun flying them, I’ll admit, the Hurri is a wizard kite, but there’s something else really special about the Beau, and to be honest, it’s actually rather nice having someone with me in the air.”

  He stared into the dark surface of the hot liquid, blew gently on it, whilst not really seeing it. “Sometimes I thought I was going to become cross-eyed trying to look at the controls, the mirror and the sky around the kite, all at the same time. God! My eyes used to ache something fierce, I can tell you. And staring into the sun wasn’t much fun, either, believe me. Still seems a little peculiar not having to check my rear view mirror every couple of seconds or so. You wouldn’t believe how quickly Jerry could creep up on you.”

  Pensively, he took another cautious sip, his goggles steaming up, “Mm, that’s better. We were fighting against the bombers by day, defending Britain with all we had, and now that the Luftwaffe has switched to bombing primarily by night, flying with you, I’m part of that defence again. It’s an enormous honour to be part of the main airborne defence again. You and I, a very essential part. Last night we proved just how important the night fighter defence is for Britain. We saved some lives, chum.”

  Reassured that his pilot wasn’t going to desert him for single-engine fighters, White relaxed a little. “Last night was the greatest night of my life, sir. I want to do it again!”

  Eyes still closed behind his dark goggles, Dear shifted comfortably on his chair. “Don’t you worry, my old son, Jerry hasn’t finished with us yet. You’ll get your chance.” With a sigh, he sat up, rubbing his neck. “I must say that the Hurricane is a fine-looking machine. What did the Turbinlite flight commander want? I saw ol’ Toby sidle up to try and seduce you, Flash.”

  Rose had stopped earlier in the day to look at one of the Turbinlite Hurricanes. It had appeared quite strange in black, like meeting an old friend after an absence of some years, yet those shapely, graceful lines were also heart-breakingly familiar.

  Standing there, staring thoughtfully at the single-engine fighter, his head bursting with memories, not all of them good (and some actually bloody frightening), he was approached by Squadron Leader Tobias Black, the Turbinlite flight commander.

  “I say there, Rose isn’t it? Fancy a spin? I hear you’re a bit of an old hand on Hurricanes?”

  “Hullo, sir. Yes, flew them last year, got shot down, though. Hence the gammy leg.”

  Black’s eyes took in Rose’s ribbons. “Gave ‘em a bloody nose at the time, though? Eh?” He waved one hand at the Hurricane. “Would you like to try a night flight, old man? We’d welcome having someone with your experience on an interception. Truth to tell, we could do with someone with a spot of combat experience.”

  Rose thought carefully for a moment, considering the suggestion, and then shook his head. “I could do it by day with ease, but I don’t think I could manage at night. I think I’ll stick with the Beau for now. But thank you for the offer, sir.”

  Black’s moustache seemed to turn downwards in regret as he tried to hide his disappointment. “Fair enough, old man. If you change your mind…?”

  Rose nodded agreeably, “Thanks, sir, maybe another time?”

  White was irritated by what he perceived as an underhand attempt by the grotty Turbinlite brigade to poach his pilot. But he bit his tongue and said nothing, contenting himself instead with a murderous scowl at Black’s back.

  Dear, however, had no such qualms, “What a fucking cheek! Impertinent bugger! I hope you told him to piss off!”

  “Well, it’s not quite the done thing when one is speaking to one’s senior officer, dear boy.” Rose smiled sagely, “Could lead to disciplinary thingies and other unpleasantness, it could quite bugger up one’s future prospects. I did, however, thank him most politely and declined gracefully.”

  Dear stood and scratched his crotch vigorously, “I should bloody well hope so! Well, I think he had a damned nerve asking. I can’t stand poachers.”

  Barr hiccupped and the bed creaked precariously as he changed position. “No, I’d rather not, miss, don’t like the colour of your knickers,” he mumbled thickly, eyes still c
losed, and then the snoring resumed.

  They all stopped what they were doing and looked at him bemusedly for a moment. To Rose, staring through the goggles, Barr looked like a beached whale wearing thick socks.

  He sniggered.

  Barlow pulled thoughtfully on his luxurious moustache. “That sounded quite interesting. Wonder who she was. Can’t say that I’ve ever seen a pair of knickers that have put me off.”

  Cole piped up, “The colour doesn’t matter, surely? I don’t understand what he’s flapping his gums about. The important thing is getting them off.”

  Barlow patted his operator kindly on the head, “Don’t worry, Icy, you just try and get this damned radiogram thing to work. Leave talk of knickers to the big boys, OK? When your balls do finally drop, come and see me and I’ll explain it all to you.”

  ‘Icy’ Cole looked at his pilot with disdain. “Piss off, you silly sod.” He turned back to his mysterious twiddling within the radiogram.

  “You see?” Barlow shook his head and looked at Rose sadly. “See, Flash, old man, total lack of appreciation. Kindness is wasted on dumb animals, chum. They just don’t understand it. You have to be firm with the blighters.”

  He pointed at White, “If yours ever gets a bit lippy, just beat him with a stick. That’s what I should have done. Too late now, he’s turned feral. See the way he turned on me? If I wasn’t made of sterner stuff, I’d have been scared shitless.”

  Rose grinned at him in the darkness, “Thanks for the advice. Jolly useful, I’m sure. Much obliged, I’ll bear it in mind.” He glanced at his operator and White returned his smile.

  Jones, Clark’s operator, stirred in front of the stove. “I’d like to see you find Jerry in the dark without your dumb animal.”

  Wisely, Barlow remained silent, eyes down turned and not meeting Jones’ baleful gaze, instead apparently absorbed with the unfathomable problems of the radiogram.

  White asked a little shyly, “So which do you prefer? What colour do you think is the nicest?”

  The snoring stopped suddenly.

  “Why, young Chalky! Talking about knickers? Didn’t think you knew anything about ladies undergarments!”

  White blushed bright red as Barr sat up with a creak of springs, and coughed hoarsely. “I need a fag. Anyone got one? Take it from an expert, Sergeant, colour doesn’t matter.” He put one stockinged foot on the floor, and then the other. “The important thing is getting the size of the drawers right.”

  Barr scratched his backside and coughed again. Dear tossed a cigarette onto his pilot’s lap.

  Barr examined it carefully, “Fucking hell, what’s the point of me nicking your fags if you only keep the crappy ones? Anyway, going back to the matter of knickers, If it’s too small it’ll squash your crotch, turn your balls into pancakes and the cloth gets caught in the crack of your arse. Bit like a cheese wire, doncha’ know. It’s a well-known fact that German troops wear ‘em tight so that they can goose-step like that.”

  The B-Flight commander sniffed, rubbed his nose vigorously, and then yawned noisily, “Too large is far, far better than too small. Having bags of space is always better for one’s own precious bag of balls. Personally, I’d get your pilot to stretch it well for you first. That’s what Trevor does. Isn’t that so, old boy?”

  Dear reached for his pipe. “Good Lord. Must you tell everybody, Billy?” He looked around, “Normally I’d stretch ‘em myself, but there is a war on. Can’t do everything. Only human, y’know.”

  White looked at Rose in bemusement.

  Cole stopped his twiddling for a moment and turned, “I’d heard that the tightest ones were best. Apparently the tighter they are, the more blood they push into your brain. The best crews have operators with the tightest knickers, y’know.”

  He pondered for a moment, eyed Rose and White, “But the smallest tackle, apparently,” he added helpfully.

  The blackout curtain swished back to let in a breath of ice-cold night air and a harassed looking orderly with a covered tin tray, “Sandwiches, gentleman. And there’s some hot soup on the way.”

  He set the tray carefully down on the table and blew onto his mittened hands.

  “Oh, Lor’. What flavour is it tonight?” Asked Barlow suspiciously, alarm written on his face.

  The orderly thought for a moment, face scrunched up in concentration as he tried to recollect. “Um. Split pea, I believe, sir.”

  Barlow rolled his eyes and groaned in disgust. “Oh, Lor’!”

  Cole beamed. “Marvellous! My favourite! I love pea soup!”

  Barlow looked ill, “Are you sure?” he asked the orderly with an unsteady voice.

  The Beaufighter was a superb fighter, but it had a number of idiosyncrasies, and one of these was that wherever an unpleasant odour emerged within the fuselage of the aeroplane, even if from the rear compartment, it invariably found its way forward and finished up in the cockpit, slowly bathing the pilot in an asphyxiating cloud of noxiousness.

  If Cole managed to get hold of the soup, it would burble tempestuously through his system, and any resultant unfortunate emissions would ebb and flow to eventually accumulate in Barlow’s office.

  It would definitely add an additional experience to any interceptions in the next hours.

  “Icy, I forbid you any soup, that’s an order!”

  Cole eyed his haughty pilot, tapped one finger lightly against his front teeth, eyebrows raised. “That’s strange, Flying Officer Barlow, I thought Flying Officers couldn’t give orders to other Flying Officers?”

  “But it’s Split pea, man! Split pea makes you fart incessantly like a damned motorised bellows”, Barlow wailed despairingly. Cole smirked.

  The telephone suddenly jangled, and the grin slipped suddenly from the orderly’s face as he snatched up the receiver. “B-Flight Dispersals?”

  He listened for a moment and the scratching of his pencil was loud in their ears. He put down the receiver abruptly and stood. “Four aircraft to angels fifteen, scramble, scramble, scramble!

  Dear God! All four of us! A-Able and B-Baker aren’t even back yet! Must be a big raid coming in.

  Involuntarily Rose’s hand went to check the bump that the little teddy bear made in his pocket.

  White was straight out of the door immediately, but Rose was slower and was caught up in the jostling rugger scrum that was the stampeding mob of aircrew.

  Cole grabbed a sandwich from the tray on his way out, yelling at the orderly, “Put the soup near the stove, Corporal, keep it warm, and don’t let the other bastards eat it all!”

  And then he was sprinting for his Beaufighter, arms, legs and heart pumping, pulling off the goggles and gasping at the sharp coldness of the air.

  Four squat, tough Beaufighters crouched silently on the hardstandings nearby, as if ready to spring.

  The night was quiet, but not for much longer, for the powerful Hercules engines would be started up when the crews were in their fighters, and their coughing, spitting and thundering would soon rip apart the still serenity of the night.

  Chapter 11

  Forty minutes later, they were still circling their beacon, griping and champing impatiently at the bit as they waited their turn (and it came slowly, oh, so slowly!) with the GCI controller.

  The other three crews had already been vectored onto contacts, and D-Dog, being fourth, was last in line.

  To their disgust and chagrin, Barlow and Cole had lost their bandit, were now on their way back, and would rejoin the ‘cab rank’ at the back of the queue, behind Rose and White, to await their next chance for another opportunity.

  “Lamplight to Dagger 3, we have some business for you, please vector one-seven-five, confirm angels. Acknowledge.”

  Hurrah! It was their turn! “Dagger 3 to Lamplight, confirm course one-seven-five, angels fifteen.”

  “Lamplight to Dagger 3, climb to angels seventeen, course one-seven-five confirmed.” The incoming bandit must be pretty high, if they were being told to climb higher.<
br />
  It was generally accepted practice for the interceptor to be positioned at least at a fixed height greater than the bandit being intercepted, to allow for the advantages associated with height over an enemy which might be relatively faster when in level flight.

  There was an almost unbroken layer of cloud below them, and Rose was grateful for the presence of White in the fuselage behind him. Without AI an interception even in broad daylight would have been a difficult, near-impossible task.

  However, there were rumours of a RAF pilot flying an unmodified Hurricane over occupied Europe at night.

  According to the rumour-mill, this incredible character had already achieved much success, accounting for a number of Luftwaffe bombers, flying and fighting over enemy territory all alone and unsupported. Personally, Rose believed the stories to be pure propaganda.

  The thought of flying a Hurricane in the dark over hostile enemy territory gave Rose the screaming willies.

  Whereas now, here at the controls of a potent Beaufighter at night, together with White over friendly Britain, he felt calm and cool and ready.

  “Dagger 3, bandit will be crossing in front of you and below, vector two-six-zero, range fifteen miles.”

  Oh Lord, he was close, concentrate on turning the aeroplane, calculate his course, ease back on the throttle, let him catch up and pop down behind him…

  “Dagger 3, vector two-seven-five, range three miles, bandit at angels fourteen.”

  “Understood, Lamplight, thank you. Course two-seven-five, descending to angels sixteen.”

  Then, “Chalky, anything?”

  “No, sir nothing.”

  “Lamplight, any changes in the bandit’s course?”

  “No, Dagger 3, bandit now ahead and below, course unchanged.”

  A minute, then another. And another. “Chalky?”

  “Nothing…wait…um, uh, yes - contact!”

  Heart racing a little faster now, eyes staring into the blackness of the void.

  “Contact lost, contact lost. Sorry sir.”

  Bugger. “OK Chalky, keep trying, chum.” Damn, what a stupid, stupid thing to say. What else would White be doing?