Fuck it! Rose closed his eyes for a moment in pain as he pulled hard back, pushing them up into a steep, soaring climb.
They’d not managed to stop that one. How many lives would that German’s bravery, luck and aggressive tactics cost?
The thought of their failure made him feel physically ill, and in his mind’s eye he saw once more the long lines of dead girls clad in RAF blue.
But what else could they have done? D-Doggie wasn’t a Hurricane, they hadn’t been able to turn inside the turning circle of that mysterious bomber, and weren’t able to get into a good position at any point before the enemy pilot had managed to escape.
He’d been good, alright.
Fuck!
A dejected and lengthy quarter of an hour later, Lamplight called for them, “Dagger 3, we have business for you. Please steer one-eight-zero magnetic, angels ten, range twenty miles, bandit will pass from west to east.”
Ah, one heading eastwards, probably an ‘empty,’ a bomber that had already dropped its load and it was heading for home, now lighter and faster.
OK then. They had been another chance to make good. Better not mess this one up.
“Received, Lamplight, one-eight-zero, angels ten.” Then, “Chalky? Looks like we’ve been given another go, an empty probably.”
“I’m not fussy, sir.”
For ten minutes they followed the vectors fed to them by the GCI controller, losing height and finally settling on a course that would take them out over the North Sea via Cromer.
And then White called out in satisfaction, “Contact! Got it! Bandit three miles ahead, five hundred feet above, same heading.”
“Well done, Chalky! Lamplight, contact established, thank you for your help! Will be in touch.”
“Understood, Dagger 3, good luck!”
With White’s guidance, they rapidly cut the distance between the two aircraft to a thousand feet, and soon Rose caught the fleeting red tell-tale flicker of the enemy bomber’s exhausts, around which the smudged shape of the bomber progressively materialised.
Playing with the controls deftly to slide comfortably into position below and behind, the dark shape above gradually increasing in size as they drew nearer, until they were less than three hundred feet from the enemy bomber.
Rose eyed it nervously, thumb hovering close to the firing button, “Chalky, we’re really rather close now, you can have a bit of a leer now. What do you make of it?”
Excitedly, White swivelled his seat around to look, detaching his harness. “Ooh! Looks like a Dornier, um, a Dornier 17, very thin fuselage, two radial engines, twin tail fins, definitely a Dornier 17, I’d say.”
“Thanks, Chalky, I agree with you. Tie yourself in and keep it in the scope. I’m going to give it two bursts.”
“OK, sir, still got it on the set. Fire away.”
“Firing.” He depressed the button and the cannon thunderously spat out their focussed spray of hate. He was sure of the deflection, but nonetheless Rose pulled and pushed the control column backwards and forwards slightly, see-sawing the gunfire pattern generously across the target.
The flaring light from the guns reflected against the underside of the cowlings, making him squint against the rhythmic glimmer, and the bitter stink and smoke from the cannon crammed into the fuselage and into his lungs.
The raw torrent of shells and bullets from the Beaufighter viciously cut up through the port wing of the Dornier, destroying the port Bramo 323 engine and igniting the wing fuel tanks in a violently flaring, strobing, coruscation of blinding white light that suddenly flung the enemy bomber onto its side.
As the Dornier reeled wildly to port, the self-sealing tanks partially closing off the guttering stream of white fire pouring from them, the rear-facing upper gunner desperately opened fire with his MG15s, and a hose of well-aimed 7.92mm rounds pumped up wickedly towards D-Dog.
Rose lifted his finger, adjusted his aim and fired again, his fire cutting another swathe through the air to batter at the Dornier, an aileron flicking back, angry spots of light where the metal skin of the bomber was burning, striking heavily at the German even as the enemy tracer whirled up to them, whipping off first to one side, then connecting with the Beaufighter, and they felt the heart-stopping thump-thump-thump of bullets striking against the fuselage and wing before the stream passed across and away.
Damn! Heart racing, Rose threw his aircraft into a vicious turn to starboard, yanking back on the control column, and the heavy fighter began to yaw adversely so he immediately corrected and brought the aircraft out of the turn.
Damn it! He checked the controls, “Chalky! Are you OK? Are you hit? Chalky? Chalky! Talk to me!”
White’s voice answered immediately, “I’m OK, sir, don’t worry, how about you? I heard the hits, how’s Doggie? Is she OK?” White was looking out of his little dome, watching as the enemy machine dived steeply downwards.
There was a bright flash, then several more, one after another in rapid succession, before the Dornier finally disappeared from view.
Something felt wrong to Rose, but what the hell was it? “Just checking, chum…there’s a really strange vibration, maybe the port engine’s running a tad rough, oil pressure and temperature are OK, though. I’m going to head for home, get the ground boys to have a look. I’m breaking off the combat.”
White sounded unconcerned, “OK, Sir, sounds like a sensible idea. Old Doggie does feel a bit funny. I can’t quite put my finger on it but I can feel that weird vibration too. I think you hit him hard, looks like he’s going down.”
“Dagger 3 to Lamplight, I think we got a probable, but we’ve picked up a bit of lead from our German friend, and may have received some damage. We’ve broken off the combat and are RTB.”
“Thank you, Dagger 3, understand you are claiming probable and are returning to base, well done and good luck.”
Nursing the unsteady Beaufighter gently, sweating despite the bitter coldness of the fighter’s cockpit, eyes anxiously checking the controls, Rose flew carefully back to Dimple Heath.
Mouth sticky with fear, and nervously maintaining his flying speed whilst his heart battered painfully against his ribs like a trip-hammer, Rose gingerly touched down a very long twenty minutes later, breathing a sigh of relief as he finally taxied into his hardstanding and gratefully switched off his faithful engines.
Shaken, he allowed himself ten seconds with his eyes closed, relief washing over him, before releasing his harness and turning for his exit.
That had actually been pretty dicey at the end, even though Doggie had behaved perfectly well on the flight back to Dimple Heath, the strange, inexplicable vibration had remained.
Kelly and the ground crew were waiting excitedly for Rose and White in front of the fighter. White’s face was pallid and drained, his smile sickly, the livid pressure marks from his facemask standing out darkly.
Lawks! Chalky looks a bit ragged. Do I look like that, too? He looks shattered, poor sod.
The adjutant was exultant, “We just got word, Flash, good news! Sector phoned it in a few minutes ago, a Dornier came down a mile off the coast near Cromer, almost hit a fishing trawler. It was seen by a shore battery and the local coastguard too. There weren’t any other combats in the area at the time and the AA bods aren’t claiming anything either.”
He was beaming with pleasure, “It sounds to me like your probable just turned into a confirmed kill! Subject to approval from Group, of course, but I’d say it’s in the bag, old man. Well done!”
Trying to adjust their weary eyes, Rose and White exchanged a tired but jubilant smile. “That’s great news, sir! I’m sorry, excuse me for just a minute; Chief, could you just check the port engine, Jerry gave us a burst and she felt a bit strange. Thought the port engine may be a bit knackered, but the pressures and temperatures were fine up to the moment when I was switching off.”
Rose raised his voice, “Thanks lads, that’s another one down to you all. Well done! You gave us a fine aircraft. She’ll do us nicely!
”
Already the ground crew were swarming over the aircraft, and whilst the cowlings were removed and the engines checked, they grinned and winked and nodded with pleasure at his words.
“Come with me, lads, let’s get a cup of hot char or two into you and we’ll fill in an after-action report. Heard you also had a bit of a scrap earlier as well? Tell me about it. And I’d like to hear about the Wellington.”
In the darkness, his voice was thoughtful, “Don’t say anything, hush hush and all, but intelligence believe that the Germans might have captured at least one of our bombers, and might be using them as pathfinders for the raids that come after. It’s going to be a bastard of a job identifying something like that. Leave that for the boffins to sort out. God knows enough of our bombers are coming back from raids with damaged friend-or-foe systems.”
As they turned for his service car, the chief walked up to them, “Sir? A quick word if I may? The engines are OK, there’re a few bullet holes, though there’s no serious damage, but there is a bit of a hole outboard of the engine and the port leading edge and aileron looks a bit dented, probably down to bits of Jerry hitting you? ‘Course, it would’ve buggered up the airflow. Anyway, that might explain why she felt wrong to you. Oh, and one of armourers noticed that a bullet had hit the barrel of one of your cannon. If you’d fired it again a shell might have gone off inside the barrel. Could’ve made a bit of a mess of the kite. And, er, of you as well, of course, sir, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.” He added hurriedly, “We’ll get it replaced straight away.”
The Chief looked back at the Beaufighter fondly, “Looks like it really was your lucky night, sir.”
He suddenly grinned widely like Alice’s Cheshire cat, his tea and nicotine-stained teeth almost invisible in the gloom.
“And very well done, Sir. That’s another of the bastards who won’t be coming back to our shores any time soon! Don’t worry about the kite, we’ll work as fast as we can, and should have her ready in about ninety minutes or so.”
I’m going to fall asleep on my feet. He blinked his gluey eyes blearily. “Very good, Chief. Thanks.”
There was a very good chance that by the time the damage and other issues with dear old Doggie had been sorted out, the Flight would be on half hour readiness, and (with a little luck) they might not need to go back up again tonight.
God willing. Fingers crossed.
Rose smiled his thanks as the Chief turned away, and fumbled with stiff fingers for the little pink bear in his pocket before turning back to Kelly and White.
The hairs on the back of his neck had risen, and his limbs were trembling in reaction to the stress from the combat and the flight back, and he wasn’t sure if he could speak without his voice quavering. Poor Chalky looked washed out.
They were lucky to be alive. If he’d fired the cannon again, it might have brought them down!
Even if it hadn’t, he himself sat pretty much directly above the cannon’s gun ports, and he could have been injured or killed. And if he’d been killed, Chalky might have died too.
Rose felt relief wash over him again.
Lady Luck again. Thank you.
Lady Luck flouting Sir Isaac’s intentions again! He wiped his stained face with one stiff, gloved hand.
They’d lost one, but they hadn’t lost, not really, because it had been the Dornier crew who had been the real losers in tonight’s struggle against the Black Knight. His thigh and calf muscles were trembling uncomfortably, and he felt he could sleep for a week. He yawned.
I need a strong cup of tea and to sit down for a minute or two.
Strangely, his eyes were wet with tears.
I’ll have a little rest. Just for a minute or two.
Chapter 17
A couple of hours later, suitably reinforced with strong sugary tea, the after-action report safely filed, and with the level of readiness relaxed as there was no more enemy activity apparent in their sector, Rose and White were sitting down in front of the stove in the dispersals hut, exhausted but thoroughly warmed and highly satisfied with their busy night’s contribution.
Furthermore, Rose was comforted to see the hand he was holding his cup of tea with was still once more, no sign of a tremor at all now.
Kelly had just telephoned from his office, having discovered that one of the enemy crew from their Dornier had survived, and he suggested to Rose that they might want to visit him.
Rose responded curtly that he did not have anything useful to say the enemy crewman, but that he would be more than happy to form a part of a firing squad for the bloody man.
The others looked startled, and even he was surprised at the harsh words that came from his lips. He clamped his mouth shut, lest he say anything else.
Kelly sensibly had no more to say after that, gently putting the phone down at the other end.
Rose finally managed to order his faithful operator to go to bed, but remained in dispersals himself, grabbing an hour’s troubled snooze, because he had a breakfast date later with the most beautiful girl in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force.
In fact, the lovely girl was the most beautiful woman in the world.
And nothing would make him miss that rendezvous, for no matter how tired he was; he intended to keep their date, come what may.
With the difference in their ‘working’ hours, it was one of the few times they could share when both were on duty, and each and every second he could spend with the wonderful girl he loved so very much was precious.
She was the one who brought him joy and calm.
Molly tapped a piece of crisp fried bread on the side of her plate and pouted sorrowfully, “Oh, Harry, I wish I could go home with you, but something’s come up and I’ve got to be here for a while.”
Rose put down his cup of Camp coffee and wiped his lips, trying manfully to keep his eyes open, “Why? What’s happened, my darling?”
“Some of my girls are up on a charge, and I’ve got to have a word with the WO of the Service Police.”
“The SPs! Oh dear, what’ve they been doing now?”
“It’s silly, really. This morning two of them on duty in Maintenance were invited to share a meal with some of the airmen from Technical Section, and they were all sitting down for some reconstituted egg on toast when the SPs caught them.”
Rose laughed, but inside, a part of him was irritated at the monolithic stupidity of regulations and procedure.
How completely absurd!
“On what charge? Eating reconstituted eggs? I can understand how it could be considered a crime to have to eat the bloody stuff, but– “
Molly put down her piece of bread, “Honestly, Harry, why are men so obtuse?” she scolded, “My girls were put on a charge for sharing supper with their oppos, their shift counterparts. It happens every day, it’s not really counterproductive to service discipline, in fact I believe that it helps strengthen it and I’m going to have a stiff word with the SP Warrant Officer.”
Rose smiled wryly. “Ooh-er. I better wish him good luck, then. Just assure the poor fellow that they’ll be paragons of virtue from now on, and perhaps he’ll let them off, the little angels. Oh, and don’t kiss him, whatever you do, even to get one of your girls off a charge, remember you’re mine.”
Molly grimaced helplessly and cast her eyes to the heavens. “You cheeky brute. Paragons of virtue? Little angels, you say? Some hope, one of them is Elsie Dyer. Might as well try to stop the sun from rising.”
Rose stopped crunching his overdone slice of fried bread.
“Oh my God.” He shook his head sorrowfully, “Elsie Dyer? Oh no. Oh dear. Oh Molly. Cripes.”
“I know, but what else can I do? She’s one of mine, and I’ll always be there for her.” After ‘failing’ her girls the previous year at RAF Foxton, she could no more abandon one of them than she could stab James with a bayonet.
Elsie Dyer, known to one and all throughout the station as ‘Jankerella,’ was the female nemesis of the station’s SPs.
>
If amassing punishments were an Olympic sport, Elsie would be a Gold medallist many times over.
Whenever there was a WAAF up on a charge, there was a better than even chance it would be Elsie Dyer, being punished for having her hair hanging below her collar, cap at a jaunty angle like a Clippie, wearing non-issue silk stockings rather than the thick Lyle Grey stockings, sometimes no stockings (and even no knickers at all according to popular rumour), or some other minor, piddling transgression.
Elsie was a semi-regular fixture in the kitchens on ‘Jankers’, peeling potatoes in punishment for having commited some infringement or other, and some of the men swore blind they could tell when she was on Jankers by the cut of the chips.
The problem was that she didn’t take well to service discipline, and Molly was at her wit’s end in trying to control the girl (or at least to keep her out of trouble).
“Perhaps you can get a ‘Confined To Camp’ order for her?”
“Oh no! you must be joking! Can you imagine Elsie confined to camp? I couldn’t bear it! Just think of the infringements she might make! She’d drive me mad! I’d much rather she was outside doing whatever naughty things she does. The less likely she is to doing them in here if she spends some time out there! I’d rather get her an admonishment or dismissal of charge.”
“How about dismissal from the service? Get rid of her altogether?”
“Oh no. No, I couldn’t do that. She’s actually quite a nice girl, just a bit scruffy and more than a bit fond of the boys. But she’s essentially a good little worker.”
“Talking of scruffy, how did Granny always get away looking the way he did at Foxton. I’d have thought he’d have been on a fizzer every day?”
“Everybody loves Granny, he’s so irreverent and chirpy to everybody. I think he’s quite hard to dislike, even when he’s being rude or outrageous.”
Molly smiled warmly as she thought affectionately of their friend, “And to be honest, I think all the SPs loved him too. You saw how AVM Park was with him? If the AOC doesn’t put him on a fizzer, who else is going to?”
Beaufighter Blitz Page 18