Rose could even just hear the thin whistling of the slipstream through the fuselage behind him. He shivered in sympathy for his young operator, and continued to stare fruitlessly through the large clear pane of strengthened glass, but still there was nothing to see, despite the brightness of the moon.
Rose could feel the frisson of anxiety curling and building at the base of his spine in an icy ball, and he licked his lips.
Where the hell are you?
“I’ve got it!” White suddenly crowed triumphantly, “Dead ahead, range four miles, slightly above.”
Thank God! “Thank you, Lamplight, we have contact. Stand by.”
“Good luck, Dagger 3. Give him a round or two up the arse from me. Three would be even better!”
Safety off, throttles as far as they’ll go, airframe shaking like a mad thing, howling through the emptiness, his mouth suddenly even dryer than before.
Keep looking…
A minute or two later, “Range three miles, maintain our current heading, still a little above, wait, he’s turning! Cripes!”
Damn it! He’s seen us! We’re still too far away!
“Keep on to him, Chalky!” turn the grip…
“Turn to starboard by ten degrees, no, no, hang on on a minute, he’s turning to port! Please return to original heading. No, sorry, continue turning to port. He’s losing height.”
He can’t have seen us, despite the moon, surely? “Chalky what’s the range?” Rose leaned forward as if that would help him to see the invisible enemy.
“Just under two miles and closing, we’re turning inside him, oh, he’s stopped turning, still losing height, though, now at angels ten. Course zero-nine-zero.”
“Get me just below and behind him, please, chum.”
Must have been a precautionary turn or jink to shake any possible pursuers.
But it hadn’t worked, thank goodness.
And then he could see it, firstly the two pairs of faint blue exhaust, flaring occasionally, with a shadowy outline slowly formed between and around them.
Keeping formation with the bomber carefully, Rose peered upwards into the darkness. Now he could actually see it, it seemed so much clearer.
Moonlight caught smooth edges, a ghostly outline in the darkness.
Nervously he watched for movement from the gunner, but the almost-invisible thin black tube that was the enemy gunner’s machine gun remained still.
“OK, Chalky, I’ve got him, take a quick peep.” Already he was pulling up the nose to allow for deflection.
Quick, quick, get him before he wakes up…
“Ooh! A lovely fat Heinkel!”
“Stand by, chum.” Rose’s thumb caressed the gun button eagerly, “Firing.”
The monstrous staccato thunder of the cannon reverberated and clattered through the Beaufighter as he gave the enemy bomber a two second burst, the disjointed reverberation echoing through their bones, deafening them, yet the Heinkel continued to cruise serenely through the air before them as if nothing had happened.
One (very) anxious eye still watching for the gunners to respond, Rose pushed down on the gun button again, the harsh clamouring overwhelming his, “Firing.”
The quivering Beaufighter shook even harder than before, the imprisoned image of the dark shape blurring and dancing in his gunsight, a pattern of flashes splattering across the bomber once again, flaring and dying rapidly, and they felt the noisy yet harmless drumming of small torn metal fragments against the aircraft, but luckily nothing large enough to cause them more than a couple of missed heartbeats.
The banging roar ceased as his drums emptied, the mechanism clattering uselessly, and he lifted his finger.
Still the Heinkel continued to float peacefully along as if nothing had happened.
“Damn it!” he fell back a safe distance, even though there was no return fire, yet close enough to keep it in sight. “Chalky old lad, drums are empty, could you change ‘em please?”
Still the hateful enemy continued peacefully along ahead of them, “No rush, I’ll rock my wings if I need you, OK?”
And suddenly a tiny light appeared, flaring star-bright in the blackness, beginning to spread and surge.
“Wait, wait. Chalky?” there was no reply; White must already have begun the tiresome task of changing the four sixty-round ammo drums.
Mindful of his friend clambering around in the darkened space behind him, Rose carefully rocked the wings; that should be enough to get White dashing back to his seat.
Sure enough, “I’m back, have you lost sight of him, Flash? D’you want me to find him on The Thing?” White sounded slightly breathless.
“No, mate, look at Jerry, he’s on fire!” By now, the flames had spread along the whole of the starboard wing, silhouetting the Heinkel’s fuselage like a fat, black slug.
The enemy bomber was sinking, the nose dropping tiredly.
A streaming pennant of flame lighting up the thin trail of smoke curving downwards behind it.
Suddenly, a single stream of tracer, burning red luminous beads of hatred that seemed to stretch up towards them, but the glowing line gradually falling away to one side, to disappear below into the thin cloud.
The Heinkel was diving now, port wing burning too, the light gleaming from the Perspex of the windows in the side of the fuselage near the wing root and the gunner’s position, the angle of the dive steepening sickly as they watched.
The swastika on the tailplane stood out starkly against the bubbling bottle-green of the Heinkel’s paintwork, but the ravenous flames soon scoured it away.
The conflagration spread further now, everything from the leading edges of the wings back were burning, the bomber sinking, deeper and deeper.
“Strapped in, Chalky? Good. Let’s follow it down.”
He pushed the nose of D-Dog forward. The Heinkel was diving faster and faster, pulling away from them, and he eased the throttle forward to follow it down. Even then, despite their acceleration, the bomber was pulling away from them.
But as the Beaufighter passed through the trail of smoke, Rose smelt the stench of its death, the choking stink of the smoke mingling with the awful, nauseating smell of burning German metal.
The bomber was doomed, no chance of escape from the all-consuming fires that now enveloped it.
“Sir, Flash, best not get too close, he probably still has his bombs on-board. Best keep a respectable distance. He’s done for, anyway.”
As soon as the words had left White’s mouth, the falling bomber suddenly ballooned explosively, the eye-searing flash blinding, seeming to fill the sky before them.
Fragments of the Heinkel spun out and back, and Rose flinched, resisting the urge to duck, as the Beaufighter, bucking and swinging, passed through the expanding hellish-bright cloud of flame and fury and sundered pieces of bomber, but providence was still with them and nothing large enough to cause them a serious problem came close.
Heart thumping, mouth wide in effort, Rose hauled at the controls desperately, pulling the fighter upwards through the boiling tumult of fiery air.
The hail of fragments pattered against the fighter, and White’s screen flared bright and then died as the aerials on the port wing were shorn off completely by a twisted fragment of the Heinkel’s port engine.
“Blimey!” the expletive was ripped from White’s mouth (and he did duck) as part of the breech-block from the wretched rear gunner’s ineffective machine gun smashed against the Beaufighter’s Perspex dome, the impact cracking it, but their continued good fortune somehow prevented it from shattering as the spinning block whirled away and disappeared behind the Beaufighter.
Unable to say anything for a moment, Rose shakily turned D-Dog in a gentle circle, watching in awe through his oil and smoke-stained canopy the broken pieces of the bomber cascade down, the detached and burning wings slowly twirling downwards, like bent and battered sycamore leaves amidst the falling, slow spreading blossom of fire and metal and human beings.
A pair of parachute flare
s, part of the Heinkel’s load, floated serenely down, following the tumbling wreckage, and lighting up the rapidly dissolving cloud of dirty smoke.
White found his voice first, and he quivered, “Oh my God. Oh my God! Dear God, Flash, how come we didn’t go for a burton just now? How did we come through that?”
“Damned if I know,” croaked Rose, licking dry, metallic tasting lips. “I thought we were done for when the bloody thing exploded. We flew through the fireball.”
“Fuck me. I almost pissed myself, Flash. Is she OK?”
Below, the fragments of what was left of the Heinkel spattered for the last time across an empty field.
Rose carefully checked the controls, but the Beaufighter, at least as far as he could tell, was as right as rain. The engines were running smoothly and she was handling nicely, but his canopy was dirty, oil-hazy and smoke smeared, and he felt suddenly exhausted, the energy and tension draining quickly from him.
“Yeah, Chalky. She feels fine. Sweet as a nut.”
Thank you, Lord. Shocked but grateful by their good fortune, Rose grasped the little bear for comfort.
“Flash, my set’s sulking, it’s gone u/s. I think something took a wallop when Jerry blew up.”
He wiped his forehead. “What? Nothing at all?”
“Not a peep. Dead as a Dodo.”
Or as dead as the Heinkel crew, Rose thought, and frowned at his poor humour.
“OK, chum, I think we’ll head back. I was an idiot to follow the bloody thing down. Next time we’ll observe from a safe distance. Without your set we’re about as useful as a chocolate teapot. And, anyway, I’d be a lot happier if the boys gave her a quick once over.”
“Sounds good to me.” White replied, “I need to pee and I could do with a nice hot, sweet cuppa. I’m parched. Maybe a bite to eat?”
Oh, the resilience of youth, thought Rose, holding up one tremulous gauntleted hand, conveniently forgetting the fact that both he and the youth trembling in the back of the Beaufighter were not all that far apart in years.
He looked at Molly’s picture, dimly lit by the cockpit instrumentation.
Thank God. I survived the odds again tonight, my darling, and I’ll be able to hold you in my arms once more, all being well. If our set’s damaged, then perhaps they’ll stand us down for tonight.
Rose looked out, but they were alone in the night sky, survivors.
Thank you, God.
Chapter 28
Immediately after lunch (finished off delightfully by a hurried but extremely enjoyable and very passionate kiss with Molly in a hasty rendezvous behind the kitchens), Rose went to find White.
It was a kiss which left Elsie the Jankers Princess (an inadvertent witness) goggle-eyed and open mouthed as she sat disconsolately on a chipped wooden stool, peeling knife in one grubby hand, hidden away behind a huge pile of potatoes, a cold and muddy pail of water beside her.
As arranged earlier, Rose met White beside one of the B-Flight maintenance sheds.
The young AI operator still looked faintly bashful and uncomfortable whenever he received salutes from NCOs and airmen, but it made Rose glow with pride.
“So, Chalky, you cheeky blighter, what did you want to see me about?” he asked jovially, lips still tingling, Mmm.
“Got something to show you, Flash.” Despite his initial reticence in using Rose’s name, it now came a little more easily to White’s lips. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Inside the twilight recesses of the shed were a number of offices, and a large workshop area. Rose’s nostrils caught the odour of dope, thinners, grease, oil and a multitude of other unidentifiable smells.
To his surprise White led him out through the other side back into the sunlight, towards a pair of Beaufighters.
To one side of the fighters was a little gaggle of WAAFs dressed in grimy overalls, gathered around a Hispano gun barrel on mounts, cleaning out its bore with a large, long-handled bottle-brush and chattering happily.
There was a piercing wolf whistle from one of the girls and White blushed bright scarlet and threw the WAAFs a half-hearted wave.
Rose looked at the girls with interest. “Friends of yours, old chap? Did we come here to see them?” he shook a finger reproachfully, “Mandy might not be very happy.”
“Oh no, Flash, they’re old friends. Of Mandy’s, too. When I was still an aircraftman they used to look after me.”
“Oh? Some boys have all the luck.” Rose’s lips quirked upwards suggestively.
White blushed again, “Oh no. No, not like that. The girls would share their tea and biscuits with me. Always saved me a couple of custard creams. That’s all. Nothing else.”
Rose looked at him doubtfully. “If you say so, old chum. I believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”
“No, I mean it, honest!”
Rose winked at his young friend. “Methinks the Operator doth protesteth too mucheth.”
White rolled his eyes and shook his head, “You talk such nonsense sometimes, Flash. Utter bollocks. Behave yourself.” He sighed, “Act your age, sir.”
“Bet you can’t even remember their names.” Rose scoffed.
White sniffed scornfully, “’Course I do. Candy, Sandy, Pandy and Randy.”
“Good Lord. Candy, Sandy, Pandy and, er, Randy? Are you pulling my leg? You’re not making it up, are you?”
“Of course not! Their names are actually Candida, Alexandra, Pandora and Iris, but they prefer Candy, Sandy, Pandy and Randy.”
“Iris? Then why on earth is she called Randy?”
White grinned, he had very fond memories, but damned if he’d tell Rose, though. “Don’t ask.”
Rose glanced at the girls. “Is she the brassy blonde?”
“Good grief, no. that’s Sandy, er, Alexandra. Her father’s the Earl of somewhere or other. Randy’s the little brunette.”
Rose looked back at the girls. ‘Randy’ noticed him looking and she blushed bright pink and looked down shyly.
“That’s Randy?” he exclaimed in surprise, “But she looks sweet and as quiet as a mouse! Are you sure?”
“Am I sure, he says!” The young operator sneered.
They stopped beside the closer of the two Beaufighters, and White nodded amicably at the bored-looking sentry standing beside the operator’s hatch. “Hello, Jim, I take it he’s in there? OK to go in?”
The sentry saluted. “Yes, Chalky, er, sir, go right ahead. He’s in there, doing his tinkering. He never lets me in, though, even though I’m his blinkin’ security detail.” the airman grumbled with exasperation.
Chuckling, White nimbly ducked under the fuselage and disappeared up the ladder. Nodding to the sentry, a curious Rose followed him inside, into the operator’s compartment. At the top of the steps, he turned awkwardly to face the rear of the aircraft, taking care not to bang his head on the various boxes, panels and oil tank attached to the inside of the fuselage, crouching uncomfortably, despite his own slight stature, unable to stand up straight in the drab green-painted compartment.
A figure dressed in a set of blue RAF overalls was bent down in front of the AI set, squeezed in to one side of the four keel-mounted legs of the swivel seat. Despite the hinged Perspex dome being in the open position in addition to the lower escape hatch, it seemed stuffy and cramped in the confined space.
“Come on, Stan, show us what you’re working on.”
“Wotcher, Chalky! Come to see how the other half lives? How’ve you been? I hear you’ve been giving Jerry a bloody nose or two?”
The specialist AI technician, three stripes on his sleeves, looked around with a huge smile, eyes bright. Straightening as much as was possible in the limited space, he held out an oil-stained hand and White grasped it and pumped it warmly.
“Busy as always, eh, Stan?”
“As always, chum. You know how it is. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
The electronics specialist Sergeant noticed the young Flying Officer standing behind White and trie
d to straighten to attention, but Rose stopped him with one raised hand. “At ease, Sergeant, don’t mind me. Carry on, please.”
He shifted his position slightly, one of the bolts securing the flare gun pressing uncomfortably into his shoulder.
What an awfully poky little place this is, he thought to himself.
A sturdy work light hung from a stanchion, its thick black cable snaking down and out through the hatch, brightly lighting the interior of the space.
“I bought someone to meet you. Stan, this is Flying Officer Rose, my pilot. Sir, Flash, this is Sergeant Stanley Hale. He knows absolutely everything there is to know about these electronics, and more. He was in France last year with a British Expeditionary Force radar unit. Stan’s the one who makes ‘em tick!”
“Really?” Rose regarded the dark-haired young man with the friendly face and the ready smile with interest.
Here was one of the most essential components of without which B-Flight’s operations were impossible.
If it weren’t for the AI sets, there would be far fewer enemy bombers being brought down. Luck was an essential factor, of course, but with the help of science, defence in depth was both possible and a reality.
This electronics specialist and others like him were the one who made Britain’s protection and the night fighting war a real and functional possibility.
Hale nodded, “Yes, sir. You flyers do treat my lovely bits of kit quite roughly, but, all in a good cause. It’s a bit delicate, needs a lot of love. Very easy to get it damaged, you know. The equipment gets jarred during flight, shaken in the landings, mis-aligned, burnt-out by power surges, it’s a wonder the thing works at all, and don’t even get me started about damp on my aerials!”
He scratched his chin reflectively, “I’ve just been to sort out your kite, D-Dog, isn’t it? Pretty straightforward, really.” Hale beckoned them forward. “Here. Let me show you, Mr Rose.”
White and Rose peered into open topped metal box. The young sergeant indicated a nondescript grey cylinder, about the size of a tin of peaches, with a variety of wires sprouting circumferentially from it.
“There was a power surge in the R3102A when the aerials sheared, um, that’s the receiver unit, sir, and the thing is, it provides the power supply to the Type 48 indicator unit. That’s why the whole thing died on you. Just one of those things, really. I changed the variable inductor, burned out I’m afraid, and a few other little bits and bobs. It’s as good as new, now.”
Beaufighter Blitz Page 28