Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  “Oh Harry!” the fingernails on his wrist cut into him.

  He opened the window wide, oblivious to the blast of cold air as it rushed in, staring in despair, “Dear God! Why don’t they warn him?”

  Suddenly the Wellington pilot pushed forward the throttles and they saw it begin to claw for height, desperately, wheels slowly retracting, turning south-westwards.

  But he had forgotten to switch off his lights, and the Wellington, engines screaming, remained brightly lit.

  To their horror, and accustomed to regularly picking out aircraft flying close above the aerodrome at night, Molly and Rose saw an obscure shape, as if by magic, suddenly materialise out of the dark but clear night sky.

  To Molly it looked like a harbinger of death, and her hand slipped into his, gripping him tightly. He could feel her trembling (or was it him?)

  For Molly, the evilly sinuous shape was vague and unfamiliar, but to Rose’s experienced eye it was very clearly a Junkers 88, and he cringed as the enemy nightfighter’s nose glowed silent bright as tracer and cannon shells chased after the desperately climbing Wellington bomber, the belated chatter and sporadic thumping finally crossing the distance to their ears.

  The first burst fell just short, but the second, following close behind, connected, and fire flared and coruscated awfully from one wing as the fuel tanks were hit. It shuddered under the terrible onslaught as if in pain.

  More firing, more streaks of flame, and the bomber’s nose came down for the last time.

  Already the crew were bailing out, one, two, three and four parachutes burgeoning like strange airborne mushrooms.

  Two more left on board, and Rose found he was willing them on. Jump, damn you, jump.

  Come on, oh, quick! Quick! Get out! Jump!

  Burning fiercely, the Wellington was now a flaming and uncontrollable torch that finally tumbled to earth, disappearing behind a low hill, an intense flash starkly outlining the ground between them, marking its final destructive embrace with mother earth, and lighting the night sky for an instant.

  There was a faraway thump! A sullen thunderclap that they felt viscerally radiate up through the soles of their feet, and the bottles and jars on Molly’s dresser jumped and rattled in sympathy with the distant explosion, the tinkling a delicate echo of the distant awfulness.

  There were no more parachutes, no more survivors. The remaining crew members had still been aboard for the crash.

  They had been too low to escape.

  Just the terrible glow and the flares that streamed bright into the sky like gruesome fireworks, the occasional sizzle and crack and rattle and clamour of ammunition being set off by the raging fire.

  Two precious lives, extinguished like a candle flame.

  Silently they stood, horrified and helpless, unwilling witnesses to the sudden end; and as the wrecked aircraft burned, ammunition and flares popping and cracking distantly, intermittently lighting the night sky for a few moments with fresh eruptions and explosions, the sound of the Jumo engines now just a memory as the enemy nightfighter fled triumphantly for home and safety.

  Nothing could be scrambled in time to catch him, and at such low level, the Beaus that were already airborne had little chance of finding him, his radar image on any airborne scope close enough being masked by the overwhelming ground returns.

  At least the bastard hadn’t dropped any bombs this time, or tried strafing the aerodrome.

  Rose could feel her fingernails deeply puncturing his skin, and gently he eased her hand from its tight grip on his arm.

  She was trembling terribly, and he closed the window carefully, and embraced her.

  She was crying silently, now, and he cursed the enemy pilot for re-awakening the old and bitter memories in his beloved.

  She was so very strong, his fearless Molly, but her heart bled liquid pain for the men killed now before their very eyes, their deaths reminding her of the Section of young WAAFs, her girls, killed the previous year at RAF Foxton.

  Could she ever forgive herself for not dying with them?

  He found to his surprise that he too was weeping, bitter tears falling as a tightly compressed and dark ball of anguish crushed him from within, and in those tears he gave vent to the frustration and helplessness of his position and of his inability to protect those men, and for his Molly from what they had just been spectators to.

  Rose thought of Morrow, mind and body exhausted as he strove with his people to catch the bombers that glowed on his screens, able to handle only one fighter at a time as the enemy waves came in, casting a net that had great holes in it through which the bombers slipped.

  It could be likened to a game of football where the poor Goalie could be in only one place at a time, whilst the opposing team were each attacking his goal simultaneously.

  It was impossible to save them all. But they would continue to try. They had to.

  For what other choice was there?

  What demons tortured poor David as he fell exhausted into bed each morning? Was his slumber dreamless, or was his sleep haunted by the dead, the murdered men, women and children, that despite his very best efforts he had been unable to save? Were his dreams filled with their screams and anger and pain and blood?

  He pulled the curtain roughly across the window, so hard that the rail creaked complainingly, and then gently led the weeping girl back to their bed.

  He could no longer look at the faraway glare, angrily lighting up the undersides of the clouds, and know that men who wore the same uniform as he lay killed within the scorching heart of that terrible glow.

  Holding her close, Rose pulled the covers over the both of them, over their heads, trying to warm and comfort her at the same time. He held her tightly to him.

  Her trembling soft lips found his and the tender, comforting embrace gradually became something more, a great lot more, as his clasp turned to gentle caresses.

  Molly’s quivering gradually lessened and stilled, and she moaned quietly as they found solace in one another. Her legs parted and he slipped between them eagerly.

  Sudden, violent death was a grim daily reminder of the fragility and uncertainty of life in wartime, a reality that was as unavoidable as dusk and dawn.

  Brutalised by the shock of the sudden and violent death of the Wellington bomber crewmen, they mutually sought the solace of their love as an affirmation of life.

  Rhythmically and powerfully, Rose thrust himself deep into her, and she grasped his body hungrily, opening herself as wide as possible in response to his plunging, desperately pushing herself firmly against him and onto his hardness, joyously receiving him like a flower eagerly opening for the comforting warmth of precious sunlight.

  Hungrily he nuzzled the sweet softness of her slim neck with gentle lips, firm hands holding her body against his whilst remorselessly thrusting himself into her stretched and flowing warmth.

  The distant red flicker and the rattle of bursting ammunition beyond the sanctuary of their bedroom became as nothing, the only sound in their ears the echo of their breathing and the frantic and urgent slap of his body against and into hers, working together in union.

  She gasped and whimpered quietly as the gathering waves of ecstasy broke over her faster, ever faster, and then Rose exploded within her, his body jerking, a constellation of lights bursting and dancing before his eyes as he emptied himself copiously into her.

  Juddering together in their intertwined embrace, Molly and Rose clutched one another tightly, lost together in the rapture of their shared expression of adulation, shutting out the horror of what they had witnessed as best they could.

  It was a long time before Rose finally fell asleep, holding and in turn being held by his precious Molly, still gripped firmly between her smooth thighs, their limbs entangled and bodies warmed intimately by one another, seeking and in turn receiving peace and comfort and purest love.

  Life may be delicate and ephemeral and fleeting, yet true love is infinitely strong, serene and deep, and lasts for
ever.

  Chapter 26

  Molly was on duty early the following day, and she was long gone when he awoke in the mid-morning, just her lingering scent, the stained and rumpled sheets and a note on her pillow:

  Ma chérie Harry,

  Je t’aime, mon homme le plus aimé.

  Meet me for lunch, in the Mess,,1230 hours.

  I can’t wait to kiss you again.

  Until then, my dearest, dearest love…

  Always and forever, yours alone.

  Molly xxx

  He folded the paper carefully. Dearest Molly, wonderful girl, how I love you. You are everything to me.

  Rose buried his face into her pillow, inhaling her fragrance. Downstairs she would have prepared him breakfast before leaving, and he would get ready slowly, dawdling peaceably to the airfield for the briefing.

  He turned over again and stared at the smooth ceiling above, remembering again the awful sight of the burning Wellington as it fell.

  Unconsciously he reached out, fingers resting on the almost dried patch of dampness on the sheets where she had lain beneath him.

  Death was no stranger in the RAF, but it was something else to helplessly watch from the ground a man you might have drunk tea with plunging to their death in a fiery ball.

  He sat up, saw her clothing neatly folded on the chair beside the bad, reached out and pulled a pair of her ‘blackout’ knickers out to hold up against his mouth and nose, but they were freshly washed and there was nothing on them but the smell of soap.

  Rose threw them back onto the pile of clothing in regret and went for a wash in the bathroom.

  After leisurely eating his powdered egg omelette (Molly, bless her, could make even powdered egg taste delicious with herbs and spices) between a couple of fresh slices of bread, Rose locked the front door and made his way to RAF Dimple Heath on the creaky bicycle borrowed from the station.

  This evening they would be flying again.

  Despite the lively freshness of the morning, it was just possible to catch the hateful smell of the burnt out Wellington on the breeze, and Rose covered his mouth as he wound Molly’s college scarf around his neck.

  He didn’t look in the direction of the crash. There was nothing there that he wanted to see. The crash site was not visible from where he was, but he knew a thin, dirty trail of smoke would still mark it. To look at it would be acknowledge the death of friends.

  The long faces of the villagers he met showed that there had been other witnesses to last night’s attack by the enemy intruder.

  Mrs Humphreys from the Post Office had tears in her eyes and she hugged him tightly for a moment.

  “Be careful up there, Harry,” she whispered to him, placing a paper bag heavy with fresh macaroons surreptitiously in his hand. Her son was with the Royal Artillery in the North African desert and she had ‘adopted’ the young couple.

  Rose smiled at her reassuringly and patted her hand kindly.

  “Don’t you worry, Mrs Humphrey. They won’t know what hit ‘em, I’ll repay them in kind.” It felt as if his face would crack with the effort.

  He and his bicycle were lucky enough to get a lift in the late milk lorry, and were dropped off at the gates in a manner more sedate than his usual journey with Molly.

  The scheduled meeting was for eleven, and he arrived just in time, a little out of breath.

  Barr grinned smugly at him from an easy chair, and Rose was surprised to see Wing Commander James facing them all.

  “Good God, Flash, where’ve you been? Thought you weren’t coming. I was going to send a couple of SPs to fetch you.” he grumbled.

  “Sorry, sir, I hadn’t realised what time it was.”

  “Yes, well, not to worry, you’re here now, old man, don’t dawdle, take a pew, there’s a good fellow.”

  Rose slipped gratefully onto the seat next to White, who smiled blissfully at him.

  Hm, looks as if someone had a good night. Hope the cheeky bugger got enough sleep.

  James sat back against the table, checking first that the battered edge wasn’t sticky or splintered or otherwise hazardous to his backside, flipped open a packet of Players and separated a cigarette from its fellows.

  His face was tired and grim “You all know about the attack last night. It’s the first time Jerry caught one of us at our most vulnerable.”

  He tapped the cigarette on the table top, lit it, and stuck it in his mouth.

  “The IO doesn’t believe it was Von Plop, the MO was completely different this time. No ineffectual bombs just a fast and accurate interception and then scarper sharpish. ‘Course, ol’ Plop may just have got lucky, but I don’t think that was the case.”

  He blew out a cloud of smoke, and Rose fondly remembered for a moment his Polish friend and those bloody awful cheroots which he insisted on smoking endlessly. At least James’ smoke was more fragrant.

  “The Air Ministry are discussing options for improved defence, and the Adj and I had a talk. We’re going to place trained observers at a perimeter five miles from Dimple Heath, and arm ‘em with flare guns. If they see a raider they’re to fire off red flares and phone the aerodrome. That way we should have some warning. I’ve submitted the idea for consideration. God knows how well it’ll work, if at all.”

  Barr coughed, “It was Jonty Craig’s crew, last night, in the Wellington.”

  James nodded. “Yes, poor old Jonty. And Sergeant Brennan was still in the rear turret. Extraordinary man. He could drink a yard of ale in about six seconds or something, bloody incredible. Saw it once, made me feel quite ill.”

  He shook his head at the memory, “Anyway, the station WO will be arranging training and a roster. Should be better prepared this evening. The Control Tower will also make sure to remind the landing aircraft to switch off their landing lights until the last minute. Furthermore, we’re setting up a light from one of the Turbinlites to use as a searchlight. Hopefully, if Johnny Hun comes back, we might be able to use the light to put him off at least. Point it into the bastard’s eyes. Problem is, the light may attract other Boche, and that wouldn’t do.”

  James stubbed out the cigarette on a stale half-eaten sandwich, sitting forlorn and curled in a saucer. “If you have any ideas, please come and see me or the Adj. These intruder raiders are a damned nuisance,” James sighed sadly, “and a damned costly one, too.”

  He looked at the sombre faces before him. “Any questions, chaps?”

  White held up a hand, “Sir? Perhaps when we’re taking off and landing the operators could keep a bit of a lookout whenever it’s possible? Still belted in, though, of course.”

  James nodded approvingly, “Good idea, Chalky. I’ll have a word with the other aircrews as well. Every little helps as the old woman said when she widdled in the sea.”

  White blushed and looked down.

  James clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Now, a spot of good news. I’ve been informed that His Majesty has most graciously approved the award of a Bar to your Distinguished Flying Cross, Flash, old chap.”

  Rose sat up in surprise and shock, “Who, me?” In his astonishment, he didn’t see the blaze of fierce joy and pride wash over White’s face.

  “Yes, you, my dear fellow, congratulations, totally undeserved, of course. Can’t understand it. They must be all bloody barking at Group. Definitely don’t approve, not at all, and I’ve written to Winston to complain about it.”

  Amidst the catcalls and back slapping, James called out. “Shush, you rowdy shower! The glory doesn’t all belong to Flash. There’s worse to come, I’m afraid, far worse, it seems this young blighter here,” and he pointed at White, “has been awarded a DFM at the same time. Very well done, Chalky!”

  He had to shout amidst the fresh eruption of cheers, “Bloody disgrace, if you ask me, don’t know what the RAF is coming to!”

  Dear God! White gaped wide in stunned and overwhelmed disbelief, hardly aware of the shouts and the congratulatory claps on his back.

  The D
istinguished Flying Medal? For me? The room seemed to whirl dizzily around him as he took it in.

  James was still talking, something about a Bar for Barr (!) and Dear’s DFCs as well, amidst fresh bouts of shouting, but White hardly heard him.

  Scant weeks ago he’d been cleaning latrines and oil trays, and now he’d been awarded the DFM. His world had turned on its head! He felt faint with amazement.

  White had promised himself that he would ensure his saviour from the latrines received a Bar to his DFC, and he’d succeeded!

  But in the process of doing so, he had somehow earned a medal himself!

  He thought of the fair haired girl with the throaty laugh, kind eyes and those lovely, soft lips.

  Oh My God! I’ve got to tell Mandy!

  And then Rose was before him, the smile bright and filled with pleasure, his voice low and sincere, “Well done, Chalky!” he clasped White’s hand warmly. “You more than earned your DFM, chum, and I owe the Bar to my DFC to you, too. Thank you.”

  White tried to speak but found that he couldn’t, his throat clogged with emotion. Rose was thanking him, yet it was to Rose that White owed a massive debt of gratitude. He’d tried to repay Rose for his kindness, and his efforts had resulted in accolades for them both.

  Smiling slightly, James indicated to Rose to join him with a subtle movement of one hand, and leaving his shell-shocked Operator to the ministrations of the others, Rose made his way to the Wing-Commander.

  They shook hands, and James congratulated him again.

  “I must admit, sir, I’m really shocked, it’s come as a real surprise!”

  James shook his hand. “The powers that be may be a pain in the bum most of the time, Flash, but despite all their faults, they do appreciate the difficulties, dangers and stresses that are involved in nightfighting. Your four confirmed were gained through a lot of effort, and the awards you’ve both received are very well-earned.”

  James looked at him for a moment, gauging his mood. “I’ll be honest with you, Flash. I have a confession to make. Nobody else knows this, and I’m not proud to admit it, but I actually kept Chalky off the operational list of observer operators.”