Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  As soon as he heard Bruno’s shout, and felt the lightening of the night fighter, Mouse opened fire indiscriminately into the darkness below without sighting, spraying the unseen enemy airfield.

  Sweeping down in a wide arc, all four of the falling Sprengbombe Cylindrich 250 bombs landed on the far side of the paired hangars Bruno had targeted, exploding to rip great craters in the open ground between the hangars and the operations block; stones, earth, fragments, shrapnel and airslap blasting outwards, tearing and thrusting rents and dents into nearby structures, the airslap pushing down hard, pulling out and shredding shrubs and trees, flinging nearby vehicles in the air, and dropping an asbestos profiled sheet onto an aircraftsman in the empty hangar as he worked on the dented mudguard of his bicycle.

  In another hangar, the groundcrew working on one engine of a Wellington cowered and fell as the air pressure blast slapped against the wall, the steel frame ringing sonorously, windows and asbestos tiles and concrete chipping and cracking, ground shock knocking them down like ninepins, dirt and dust wildly swirling and soaring as if in celebration.

  Shaken but unhurt, the airmen unsteadily got to their feet and stared at one another in shock.

  Mouse scrutinised the great cloud of dust and smoke and dust expanding, shot through from within with bright flame.

  “You hit the big hangar, sir! You must have destroyed at least one more bomber inside it! You must have! We’ve destroyed at least two bombers tonight! Maybe more!” He was almost shouting, “That hangar was big enough for three or four bombers. It’s a great victory! You must have killed hundreds of the bastards!”

  The air raid siren was belatedly wailing the alert, but the drone of the Junker’s engines was already fading, Bruno making good his escape into the sanctuary of the night.

  Pleased, Mouse dispassionately watched the sullen, flickering flame-lit smoke cloud hanging heavy and low over Driffield, and to one side, the burning embers of the smashed Wellington.

  He himself had emptied his guns onto the area where he thought the operations block was, and he felt satisfied with his efforts. Hopefully he’d accounted for a large number of the enemy. He felt satisfied that he’d blooded his guns this night, and his chest puffed out with pride.

  “Good work, sir! That was an excellent attack. Smooth.”

  “Glorious, simply glorious!” Rudi pumped the air with his fists in excitement, eyes huge behind his goggles, terror forgotten as they regained the safety of darkness, some distance now between them and the enemy airfield.

  Bruno was bathed in sweat and he kept glancing nervously at the sky around them, whilst behind them the damaged airfield and its fire-lit clouds of smoke faded into the blackness behind them.

  “Thanks, boys, that was something incredible, wasn’t it? We certainly caught them with their drawers around their ankles!” he pulled the throttles as far as he could, time to get out of here…

  “They didn’t even shoot back at us!” gasped Rudi in astonishment and heartfelt gratitude. “Why didn’t they shoot at us?”

  Mouse rudely blew a raspberry, “Who cares? Thank goodness for that! They weren’t expecting us at all, sir, you took them completely by surprise! Incredible! We must have killed many, maybe at least a hundred? Two? And in addition to the bombers we must have destroyed in the hangar, we got that Tommy bomber in the air too!”

  Bruno checked the throttle position with his fingers again, eyes still searching anxiously, switching on the window heating panels as the glass began to mist slightly as they recovered, “And now, dear friends, we are getting the hell away, as quick as we can, while they are still wondering what happened. Keep an eye open for their fighters, boys, they’ll be as mad as a mule with a stung arse with us!”

  Time to get out of it…

  Chapter 19

  Bruno finally began to relax when they were twenty miles from the Norfolk coast. Intelligence reports suggested that as a rule RAF night fighters did not fly far from the coast of Britain, so there was a much reduced likelihood that they were going to be intercepted now.

  The others, however, were quite cheerful, and seemed, at least to him, far calmer than he himself was. “Mouse, anything?”

  “Nothing sir, we got away cleanly, it’s been a great mission. A great mission.”

  Satisfied, Bruno pulled back and the aircraft began to climb, watching thankfully as the altitude increased.

  He tried to slow the frantic beat of his heart, to still the tremble which remained, making it appear as if the fighter were flying through unsettled air.

  The fighter shuddered alarmingly, and Bruno tried harder to hold the control column firmly.

  Damn it! Get a grip on yourself!

  “What the…?” there was surprise in Mouse’s normally even voice. “Herr Leutnant? We just passed behind a large aircraft!”

  “What? Mouse, give me a proper report, damn you!”

  “Sorry, sir, unidentified large aircraft behind, heading away on an opposite course.”

  Even as Mouse was speaking, Bruno had levelled out and was hauling the aircraft around back the way it had come.

  Dear God, that was the second near-collision in the space of less than an hour! Luck truly was smiling on them this night!

  Might they get yet another of the enemy this amazingly wonderful night?

  “Thank you, Mouse. Keep an eye open,” He grinned humourlessly, for the words were unnecessary. Nothing could creep up on them from behind with Mouse protecting their backsides!

  “Rudi, eyes open, let’s see what it was…”

  One minute turned into two, and then, “Herr Leutnant! Aicraft above and to starboard! My God, it’s big!”

  Bruno leaned forward to look better, “What is it? A Wellington, maybe?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, big, bigger than a Wellington, four engines? Yes, four engines, single vertical stabiliser.”

  “Four engines? A Kondor, perhaps?” Certainly, the long-range Focke-Wulf Fw 200 fitted Rudi’s description.

  “Maybe, sir…” Rudi sounded uncertain.

  “Hmm. Alright, I’m going to approach it, can you see a gondola?”

  “Um, not sure, wait, oh I can see it better now, let’s see now.” Rudi cocked his head, “Well, I don’t see a gondola, sir.”

  His hands had somehow become rock steady, and he carefully drew underneath the large shape, noticing the rear facing gun turret for the first time. Kondors don’t have those. He was sure of that. They were lucky not to have been seen by the gunner, but then, luck had walked hand in hand with them since they’d left Gilze-Rijen.

  Working the controls carefully, Bruno expertly maintained position beneath and just behind the four engine bomber, studying the underside of the enemy aeroplane carefully through his clear canopy.

  “I agree with you, Rudi, I don’t see one either. I don’t think it’s a Kondor. It looks familiar, but I can’t think what it is.”

  “With your permission, sir?” without waiting for a reply, Mouse continued, “I seem to remember that the British have a four-engine bomber. Might it be one of those?”

  Rudi punched one fist into an open palm, “Oh God! Of course, the Short Stirling!”

  Mouse sounded smug, “Some of us go to the aircraft recognition lectures.”

  Both amused by Mouse’s comments and annoyed at his own ignorance, Bruno cursed himself.

  It didn’t look good to be less well informed than his men. “Well then, it’s settled, we’re going to add him to tonight’s score. Ready? Standby.” And then he had a thought, “Mouse, you saw it, do you want a shot?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” Mouse asked in surprise.

  “I’m going to pull ahead a little, he’s on a steady course, so I want you to shoot up his nose section, kill the pilots.”

  “Herr Leutnant, he has a nose turret, he could shoot at us while you’re getting into position.”

  “Well, shoot the gunner first, then. He’ll be looking ahead, not below. Now stop talking, we’re almost ba
ck at Tommyland again. Fire as soon as you can. I’ll go down to increase your accessible arc of fire.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Rudi grimaced. What on earth? If Mouse didn’t get the enemy gunner quick, there was a good chance that they’d be the ones floating in the water in the next few minutes.

  “And thank you, sir!” Mouse was a lot less concerned.

  Bruno pushed the fighter into a gentle descent to port, pulled the throttles gently, and the Junkers began to pull ahead on a divergent course.

  Rudi hunched apprehensively into his seat, closed his eyes and began to pray.

  Mouse was ready, and as soon as the front of the Stirling entered his sights he pressed his triggers, “Firing now…”

  The machine gun clattered wickedly behind them, and a bright line of tracer played across the nose section and inboard part of the port wing. He vaguely remembered being told that the inboard fuel tanks were the only ones on the new bomber without a self-sealing capability.

  Or was that on the new Halifax bomber?

  Whichever it was, there was no reaction from the bomber as Mouse’s three second burst ripped wickedly into it, a pattern of hits sparkling and flaring brightly on the nose section and wing roots of the great bomber.

  As soon as he Mouse’s gun fell silent, Bruno jinked and then pulled into a diving turn to port, curving the big fighter into a wide turn, “Mouse, keep an eye on it, I might need you to guide me back in, what’s it doing?”

  His gunner craned his head around to keep an eye on the bomber as the forces of the turn pulled at him.

  “Nothing, nothing at all, sir,” he said in disgust, “I’m sure I hit it but I’m not sure I did any damage. It’s still on course, no change in height or heading.”

  Bruno positioned the Junkers carefully a safe distance behind and below the Stirling. Certainly there appeared to be no damage done, but then he noticed the faint trail streaming in a thin, pale cloud behind the bomber.

  “You hit it, Mouse! There’s a vapour trail streaming back! I don’t know why your tracer didn’t set the bastard alight. Rudi, would you like a go?”

  “Herr Leutnant, will you stop messing about and shoot the Englander down? I want to go home!”

  “Alright Rudi, keep calm, man. I’ll get a bit closer then we’ll hammer him with the cannon…wait! What the hell’s that?”

  Something flew back from the bomber, falling away, rapidly followed by a second. Bruno leaned forward to watch the objects fall away. What were they? Another of the mysterious objects flew back, just as the first suddenly bloomed into the shape of a parachute.

  The crew were baling out!

  Bruno noticed that the enemy aeroplane was slowly losing height. “Mouse, you did it! The enemy’s losing height! It’s going down! You must have killed the pilots and front gunner. Good shooting my friend!”

  Mouse gazed at the four parachutes that fell behind and disappeared astern into the darkness. “Four got out, sir. The rest of the crew must be dead, after all.”

  In morbid fascination, Bruno and Rudi watched as the massive four-engine RAF bomber started to slide into an ever-steepening descent. “Well, we did get another one then, my friend, this wonderful night!”

  “Can we go home now, please?” asked Rudi plaintively.

  “Oh God! Patience, Rudi. Just a moment longer, it’s so big, I want to see it hit!”

  Rudi turned away with a grunt of disgust and began to rummage in his satchel, he would have some coffee as they waited. And it might help to calm him.

  “Don’t pour it yet, Rudi, I’m going down. We’re pretty close to the English coast.” Already the coast was visible as a dark line ahead.

  With a sigh Rudi sat back, casting anxious glances out of the canopy surreptitiously. Surely they’d done enough for one night? It had been a dream mission. The English coast was so close! Too damned close!

  And still the Stirling bomber was descending, the only sign of damage the dispersing hazy plume of petrol spewing from its fuel tank. How is it that the blasted thing wasn’t alight?

  And then suddenly there was no more height, the long plunge was over, and the Short Stirling crashed nose first into the waves just offshore. One moment it was whole, a huge dark weapon of war that had flown against their countrymen and dropped bombs on them not long before this very evening; and the next it was shattered and torn asunder by the impact.

  In the darkness the crash was a vague disturbance, a pale spray and fragments being flung forwards, amongst them one engine cartwheeling just seen; the sights abruptly extinguished by a long streak of boiling white flame, the eye-aching light equally suddenly snuffed out, leaving only disturbed boiling water strewn with tiny floating pieces of burning wreckage, lighting the great airborne stain of steam and dirty, oily smoke.

  Bruno shivered involuntarily as he contemplated the final resting place of at three or more of the enemy. But at least they had been dead, or so a part of him hoped.

  Dear God, might they have yet lived? Might they have been conscious in those last moments before the bomber hit? Knowing that what remained of their lives was measured in scant seconds, knowing and yet being unable to do anything about it.

  Again he shivered. No, the others would not have parachuted from the bomber had their crew mates been alive. There can’t have been any survivors still aboard the huge bomber as it hit the sea.

  Then he frowned to himself. What was he thinking? They were the enemy, and had likely killed many of his countrymen themselves! It was an honour to have killed them, damn it!

  “Two tonight, Herr Leutnant, double kills! It’s been an incredible night! What a trip!” the normally impassive gunner actually sounded quite cheerful!

  But he was right, it had been an incredible trip. Everything had gone perfectly, just as well as he could have wished.

  “Perhaps we ought to go home, Herr Leutnant?” Rudi’s spoke solicitously, “Or shall we go on a trip to see more of the English coast at night? Do we have enough fuel?”

  Bruno belatedly realised he was still circling the crash site, perilously close to enemy territory. Hastily he pulled the aircraft onto a course for home, their airfield in Holland.

  “I’ll forgive your impertinence, Rudi,” he said coolly, “but stop being such an old woman. It’s been a good night. You should be pleased.”

  “I’ll be pleased when we’re sitting down to a nice hot cup of celebratory coffee, ersatz or not, Herr Leutnant, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ll notice we are on a course for home, stop moaning so, you old misery. What’s our score now? Have either of you been keeping count?”

  “My wonderful leader, of course! Tonight makes twelve! I wonder how many we destroyed in the hangars. Three or four perhaps? Will they let us count those, do you think?”

  Twelve enemy bombers destroyed, confirmed! Let Stein suck on that, the dog!

  The sound of the Junkers 88C night fighter diminished into the distance, its jubilant and weary crew in a mood far brighter than the dying, glowing embers that were all that they left behind them of the men they had just killed.

  Chapter 20

  Rose stared through the windscreen glumly.

  Bored, bored, bored.

  Apart from the backs of his flying boot-clad ankles, upon which a painfully thin stream of warm air from the heating tube played rather diffidently, he was freezing and hungry and they had not yet been called upon by the GCI controller.

  Worse, the escape hatch behind him must have something accidently caught between it and the fuselage, because an icy draught of air curled up through the cockpit and kept wafting horribly across his forehead, making his eyes water and his head ache. He jiggled the goggles around to protect his forehead.

  Bored.

  It was almost an hour and a half since they’d taken off on patrol, and whilst a ‘customer’ had been selected for each of the others on patrol, there’d been nothing left over for them to chase.

  It was surpris
ing, because the night was clear, with a luminous bomber’s moon glowing bright and round upon them.

  Bored.

  For about the tenth time in an hour, he called the controller. “Dagger 3 to Lamplight, anything for us?”

  “Lamplight to Dagger 3, sorry, nothing doing. No customers at the moment.” Even the controller sounded fed up. The last thing he probably needs right now is idiot Beaufighter pilots calling him every few moments.

  He sighed and wiped his icy forehead.

  Bored.

  Stifling a yawn, Rose switched to intercom, “Are you sleeping, Chalky?”

  “I would be, sir, if you didn’t keep gabbing on about the good old days when you were a lad!”

  Rose grinned, and shook his head. Impertinent little puppy; conveniently forgetting that he’d been rather like that himself not so very long ago.

  White actually sounded quite chipper and not even the slightest, teeny-weeny bit drowsy or bored.

  How does he do it? It’s indecent.

  I hate him, cheeky wee bugger.

  But of course, he didn’t. Not really.

  Well, perhaps just a tiny little bit.

  Bored-bored-bored. And fucking frozen.

  It had been almost a month now since their first trip together as a crew, and although they’d bagged three on operations since then, the two Heinkels and the Dornier had remained the only confirmed kills they’d achieved so far.

  There had been chases and combats aplenty since, but all that they had been able to manage in the time since those early combats had been one enemy bomber badly frightened, three damaged and two probables.

  Both of the latter enemy bombers had received a good pummelling by their guns, and both had dived away quite steeply at an angle from which they’d quite likely never recover. But without any combustion, and unable to follow the steeply diving enemy bombers in what were most likely uncontrolled dives, there had been no indication of the seriousness of damage they’d suffered.

  The only way of knowing would be the sudden flash of a stricken enemy smashing into the ground or sea below.