Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  “Dagger 3, we’ve lost contact, I’m afraid. We had you both, but when you went up, the bandit went down.”

  “What, both of them? You lost them both?” asked Rose in surprise.

  The controller sounded equally startled, confused, and just a touch mortified, “Pardon me? Dagger 3, both of them? What do you mean, both of them?”

  Rose’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Apologies, Lamplight. I thought you knew. We intercepted two aircraft, the second being a bandit. He was a Junkers 88, We are claiming the bandit as a probable. We hit him pretty hard.”

  “Well done, Dagger 3, good shooting, congratulations! Do you need to refuel and rearm?”

  “Thanks, Lamplight. I’m just going to stooge around for a little while longer. Might get lucky. Will advise when we return to base.”

  “Dagger 3, understood.”

  Rose sighed. “Chalky? Lamplight lost him too, I’m afraid. I’m going to circle for a while on the off chance, we got lucky, might do it again. Please change the ammo drums, chum. We’ll hang around for a quarter of an hour or so, just in case.”

  “Right you are, sir. I’m going to unstrap. Waggle your wings if you need me back at the Thing.”

  “Thanks, Chalky. I’d prefer you to keep your oxygen mask on though, chum.”

  “The tubes and leads always get in the way, sir. Don’t you worry, I’ll be done in a tick. Talk to you in half a mo’.”

  I’ll check again with Lamplight, thought Rose to himself, whilst behind him White unlatched the first ammunition drum and transferred it into the storage tray.

  “Dagger 3 to Lamplight, any help?”

  “Sorry Dagger 3, we’ve nothing for you. No custom I’m afraid. No sign of yours, either.”

  “Oh well. OK, understood Lamplight, thanks anyway.”

  Frustrated, Rose swore quietly. Had they got the enemy kite or had it managed to get away?

  It was just possible that the enemy had recovered from their attack? What if he was still out there, curving around behind them, maybe?

  He turned the Beau gently, searching the night outside with anxious eyes, and mindful of his friend clambering around inside the narrow, shadowed interior of the fuselage behind him with weighty sixty pound ammo drums clasped in his gloved hands.

  Damn and blast! “Chalky, you there? Are you done yet chum?”

  “Not quite, sir,” White gasped heavily, “Done three, but I’m just about done in. I’m sorry sir, but I felt a bit worn out after the third one, and got a bit breathless,” White took a deep breath, “so, I thought I’d have a quick sit down, just for a few seconds.”

  “That’s quite enough, my old lad, leave it, please. Strap yourself back in. Three’ll do very nicely. Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “I knocked my head a bit when we pulled up, but I’m OK, sir, don’t fret.”

  “Oh God, Chalky! Why the bloody hell didn’t you say something you, silly sod?” Rose’s blood turned cold, White didn’t sound at his best.

  “Strap your arse back in your seat right away, Chalky, I’m heading for home, hold on, chum.”

  “Sir, stop being such an old bag. I’m OK, don’t worry, please. We should stay on patrol for a little while longer. We might have the chance to get another one. Let’s stay for a little longer, please?”

  “Shut up and do as I bloody say, you impertinent sod. I’m not fucking asking. We’ve done quite enough for the minute, we’re going back .””

  “I’m strapped in, sir. And I apologise for calling you an old bag, your senior master pilotship, sir. I should have had more respect and said ‘old woman’.” Grumbled White.

  Despite his concern, Rose sniggered, because the disrespectful bugger sounded like he was OK. He felt an overwhelming surge of affection for his young operator.

  “Thanks, Chalky,” he said softly, almost to himself, as he turned the aircraft for home.

  Please God let him be alright. It was strange, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to fly without him now.

  An anxious thirty minutes later, a hugely relieved Rose was sitting with White at dispersals over a steaming cup of tea.

  The senior base medical officer, Squadron Leader David Thomas, was waiting for them when they landed, and after asking a few questions, followed by a quick physical and neurological exam, he declared the young man fit, but requested that they do no more flying that night, just to be on the safe side.

  As the dregs in their cups turned cold, no bombers to intercept, and with only the two patrol Beaufighters turning drearily on their airborne beat, the state of readiness was relaxed.

  And then the phone rang.

  They all stiffened, even Rose and White, even though they would not fly now until the following night, expecting a late scramble for a last minute raider (Von Plop had made an appearance earlier, skilfully bombing an empty field beside the airfield before heading for home at high speed and low level).

  The phone call was from the senior intelligence officer of an RAF bomber base, calling to ask if one of Dimple Heath’s fighters had intercepted a Junkers that had been attacking one of their Wellingtons.

  It turned out that the Wellington crew witnessed D-Dog’s entire attack, and confirmed that the Junkers went down vertically, fuselage and both engines burning, a flaming torch spiralling out of control and shedding pieces after D-Dog’s attack. The bomber’s rear gunner and navigator both confirmed the victory and extended an invitation to their rescuers for a pint (or ten) and a flight in a Wellington.

  As usual, Dimple Heath’s grapevine was faster than the telephone lines and a jubilant and gloating crew chief knocked on the door to offer them his congratulations and to confirm that their latest victory swastika had already been painted on the side of D-Dog, followed in turn by the apologetic Intelligence Officer requesting their amendments to the combat report.

  At last they were left alone and Rose sat back with a fresh cup of tea, White snoring like a tractor on the camp bed beside him. He would keep an eye on White for an hour or two, then wake him and send him to his bed, before meeting with Molly. She would be coming in early this morning to share breakfast with him.

  Sharing his operational fried egg with Molly was one of the best parts of a night on operations, even though the local farmer regularly provided the couple with fresh eggs for their own kitchen.

  For Rose, sharing his flying supper/breakfast with Molly was something extra special, and his friends would leave them alone on these rare occasions, and eat their own eggs at a different table.

  Molly, not wanting him to deprive him of his prize, ate slowly and took smaller pieces, but somehow, she always ended up with most of the rich yellow yolk.

  Seeing those tired eyes light up with pleasure as she ate his egg made her want to weep with love and pride.

  With their successful combat against the Junkers, and the bonus of having saved the Wellington, Rose and White would have more cause to celebrate this morning.

  With another ‘kill’ they’d finally broken the dry spell, thank goodness! Rose was beginning to fear the enemy had found a way to avoid detection.

  And dear Chalky had gained his fourth kill!

  The lad was the one who deserved all the luck, with his decency, quiet courage and endless bubbling enthusiasm.

  His young friend had gone far in so short a period, and with one more kill, he too, deservedly, would be an ace.

  Mandy would be pleased.

  But not as pleased as the young operator would be, if what Molly had shared with him was true.

  Apparently, White was promised a kiss for every kill he scored, although as far as Rose could tell, during their dry spell of the last few weeks, White had not been deprived of such favours in the slightest. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  Rose took a last sip of the sweet dark brown liquid, savouring it for a moment, and noticed the sky was lightening ever so slightly in the east, heralding the coming of the dawn. The Beaus still on patrol would be returning soon.


  He yawned jaw-achingly and stretched out with the last of his strength.

  There was still a little while to go before breakfast, and he was totally exhausted after the events of the night. He’d close his eyes for forty winks.

  A nap would leave him feeling at least semi-refreshed before his early morning flying supper with Molly. The rumble of the returning fighters would rouse him as they came in to land.

  Feeling as helpless as new-born kitten, Rose nestled further back into the chair and tipped his cap forward over his eyes.

  Instantly, he was asleep.

  At the same time on the other side of the North Sea, Bruno von Ritter was celebrating with Rudi and Mouse.

  They had successfully intercepted a mine-laying Whitley bomber and shot it down into the sea, and he was certain that the Ritterkreuz would be hanging proudly around his neck any day now.

  Stein has a bit of catching up to do, he thought smugly, and with more than a little satisfaction, not knowing that his rival was overdue from patrol.

  He did not know it yet, could not know it, but his rival Nachtjager pilot and crew lay dead in the burnt out remnants of their Junkers, pieces of exploding cannon shell from Rose’s guns embedded in his corpse.

  There would be no Knight’s Cross for Stein, after all.

  Chapter 24

  One late afternoon, not long after Rose and White’s interception of the German night fighter, the flight were driven down to see ‘Lamplight’, the Ground Control Interception station dealing with their sector, to see first-hand how things in the AI war worked from the ground.

  They arrived at dusk in a rutted and muddy field in the middle of nowhere, where all there was to see in the gloaming were a rather shabby collection of wooden huts, a nondescript brick building at the edge of the field, and a motley assortment of vehicles which included some grimy Bedford, Matador, Crossley and Dennis trucks.

  In the midst of it all was a dilapidated trailer, covered over with a muddy canvas sheet, and a rather strange rotating, metal-framed structure set to one side.

  No defences were visible, although there were a small number of army sentries present, and their identities were carefully checked, verified and recorded.

  As their papers were examined, Rose tried anxiously not to look at a huge chained guard dog which fixed its gaze on him, and he furtively moved to stand behind Barr.

  The evil-looking beast had a mouthful of sharp yellow teeth, rabid eyes, looked horrifyingly ravenous and seemed very eager to make his acquaintance.

  In the last of the waning light, and closely escorted by a pair of alert looking armed soldiers acting as their guards, they struggled across the glutinous mud to the metal walkways between the vehicles that led to the trailer.

  Barr, ever elegant, and expecting the GCI station in a far more salubrious location, lost a shoe and both he and it had to be rescued by Trent.

  Slipping cautiously under the grubby mud-spattered canvas sheet, guided by torch light, they silently clambered up to emerge in a large and shadowed room.

  The controller himself was seated behind a great flat console-like structure, in the centre of which was situated a large vacuum tube with a phosphorescent screen containing a rotating trace, onto which had been marked a section of the British coastline for which the station was responsible. B-flight would shortly learn this scope was formally termed the ‘Plan Position Indicator’.

  A loudspeaker on the wall crackled softly.

  There were a large group of people, airmen and airwomen packed into the dim room, well wrapped in regulation and non-regulation mufflers and other heavy clothing against the cold, with conversation limited and terse.

  At first glance it was like a soup kitchen without the soup or the despair.

  The controller, a tall, thin squadron-leader, looked up as they walked in, and Rose was surprised to see that he knew the man well. Knew him very well, in fact.

  The thin, ascetic, face beneath the woolly cap also registered momentary surprise when he saw Rose, and then he smiled delightedly, “Flash, my dear fellow!”

  Rose held out his hand, “Good God! Hello, David, or should I say sir?” seeing the bemused expressions on the faces of his colleagues, Rose explained, “Folks, this is Professor David Morrow. Squadron Leader Morrow and I trained together as pilot and operator.” He smiled ruefully, “Last time I saw you we were both Flying Officers, though.”

  It wasn’t the first time Rose had seen such a rapid promotion. Dear old Stan had been a Sergeant-Pilot one month, and a Squadron-Leader in command of a Polish fighter squadron the next; whilst dear Granny also achieved something similar the previous year, Pilot Officer to Squadron Leader in a matter of months.

  Despite Smith’s rapid rise in the ranks, however, his sartorial skills still needed a lot of improvement.

  The ex-university tutor and Rose’s one-time airborne intercept operator nodded, with no sign of his previous absent-mindedness apparent, “Yes, I was commandeered and kicked upstairs to command this station, and we’re the ones who guide you onto the Nazi bombers. Because I trained as an operator the powers that be thought it would help me in the job. I’d love to be up there with you too. Flash, how’s the tour going so far? Any luck?”

  “I’ll say!” he laid a hand on White’s shoulder. “This is Sergeant ‘Chalky’ White, he’s my AI operator now, and so far we’ve managed four confirmed.”

  “Goodness me!” Morrow smiled at White, “Very well done, young man! I envy you! Wish it was me up there, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, Chalky! Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, hey? Flash, my dear boy, if my memory serves me properly, you had eight to your name already when we were in training, which means you’ve managed twelve confirmed all told, now. Am I right, old man?”

  “Yes, sir, you’ve got a great memory as always. I think we’ve you to thank for that, though!”

  Morrow winked at him, and faced the group. “It’s what we do. And we wanted to share it with you, so you realise that we’re doing our best for you,”

  He indicated the large scope before him, “We have the Nazi buggers’ positions on this screen when they enter our airspace, and my people plot their locations as they move across the screen, relay them to the boffins over there,” fingers waved casually to a knot of individuals clustered around navigating and calculating machines, “And they calculate speed and course for us. That way we know where they are going. Those others,” another languid wave, “determine the bogey’s height from the scope they’re operating. Combining speed, direction and height allows us to direct you on to them. These good people keep monitoring each bogey carefully, and we relay the info to you until we bring them together with you, and then when you have them on your AI sets, Bob’s your uncle.”

  Barr whistled, “Blimey, it’s a bit complicated!”

  Morrow took out an empty pipe and tapped the mouthpiece on his scope. “Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe it. If we bodge it, we lose it and so do you. It’s an exact science, anything less and no coconut. And of course, we have the same problems as you, for example, the equipment occasionally misbehaves, or if the bogey is too low, we lose it in the ground returns. But be assured, we do our bloody best for you. There’s no trade at the moment and there aren’t any practice interceptions quite yet. Just a matter of time, though. Should be something along soon. The enemy pathfinders, the ‘firelighters’, are usually the first, so that they can mark the targets for those following behind. They usually nip over around dusk.”

  Rose looked at his ex-operator with compassion and understanding.

  Merciful God, what a load to carry! Rose and White were responsible for a small part of their sector, but poor Morrow bore the full responsibility of every interception! It was he who had to actually guide each night-fighter into position behind the enemy bombers.

  One of the two Norwegian crewmen which had replaced Clark and Jones on the roster held up a hand, “Sir, how do you distinguish between us and the Luftwaffe?” Ro
se tried to remember his name. Peter? No, Petter, Petter Alstad, yes, that was it.

  The young Norwegian pilot was pale, tall and thin with a ready smile and blond, almost white, cropped hair. Petter and a small group of his Norwegian Army Air Service friends had ‘appropriated’ one of the Royal Norwegian Naval Air Service’s He115N floatplanes, and flown it from the floatplane base in Sola to the UK.

  Originally a Gloster Gladiator pilot, Alstad had followed the same route as Rose from single-engine fighters to twin-engine ones.

  Morrow put the empty pipe back into his pocket. “Good question. As you know, there are a number of mysterious boxes in our aeroplanes, and one of those performs a special function that tells us who you are. It’s called Identification Friend or Foe, or IFF for short. That way, we can differentiate between you and the bandits.” IFF was an arrangement whereby interrogation by Chain Home systems created a response signal that allowed a ‘friendly’ to be identified as such.

  “I did wonder,” Remarked Dear dryly, “Because we do seem to be vectored onto the odd Whitley or Wellington. Are you sure it works all the time?”

  Morrow’s brow darkened, “As you might well be aware, there may be the occasional hiccup in any device, just as an AI set on a Beaufighter can get ‘bent’. Flying is a rough business, and being thrown around in stormy weather over the North Sea isn’t always terribly helpful for a delicate piece of technology, neither are the effects of hits or near hits by flak. You’ll appreciate of course that machinery installed in a combat aeroplane will not always be asked to operate under the most ideal of conditions. Quite a few of our bombers have been handled a bit roughly by the Hun, and it does tend to make the aeroplane a bit shop soiled. It is unrealistic therefore to expect the IFF device to work perfectly each time.”

  Morrow’s eyes were cold in the gloom, “We always do our very best for you, please do be assured of that.”

  Looking abashed, Dear bobbed his head apologetically and said nothing more.