Those that were lucky, that is.
There was a rumour going around that the senior officer of AA Command, General Pyle, had ordered his gunners to fire at everything and anything that might be hostile; or, in other words, they were to throw everything but the kitchen sink every night at the enemy.
If it flew over London, friend or foe, the anti-aircraft boys would shoot at it. But Rose could sympathise. When the safety of the city was under threat, it was better to shoot first. But it didn’t make life any easier for the nightfighters.
“OK, Chalky, you’re right, the searchlight beams are getting closer, it’s coming our way, best keep an eye on your set, chum. We’re quite far out, I’ll throttle back and we’ll make a wide circle away. Let’s see if we can intercept them once they’re clear of the AA limit. We’ll approach again from the north, so, with a bit of luck, the bastard will cross in front of us from right to left.”
After informing sector control, Rose and White circled around once, the thin weaving fingers of light dancing ever closer as they waited.
For a moment as they turned, Rose fancied that he saw the momentary gleam of metal in one of the beams of white, but it disappeared instantly, leaving him wondering if he’d seen it all.
“Lining up on the approach, Chalky.”
“Standby, nothing yet…”
The last of the beams wavered aimlessly, and then went out, and the sparkling of anti-aircraft fire also ended, leaving only the distant fires burning on the ground and the remote glitter of AA to break the veil of darkness.
Come on, come on. “Chalky?”
“Got him! Crossing directly in front of us, descend to angels ten, turn onto one-two-zero, range five miles.”
Throttles hard forward and with his heart banging and pumping painfully within his quickly tightening chest cavity, Rose pulled D-Dog after her prey. Check the guns are ready to fire? Yes, all set, good.
“We’re closing fast, Flash, range just under four miles, directly ahead of us now, still descending…”
Rose crinkled his nose, for he could smell the bitter stink of smoke, and something else. Burning metal.
Granny once mentioned of how the odour could be bad enough to make one physically vomit. It was something he himself had experienced since. The smell was sickly, a disgusting stench. “Chalky, old son, I think he’s damaged, I can smell smoke. He’s burning. Range?”
“Just under three miles, maintain heading, still closing pretty rapidly, throttle back, port five degrees. Bandit still going down.”
And then he could just see the thin trail of smoke, a pale finger faintly visible against the darker sky just to starboard of the Beaufighter’s line of flight, and looking forward along it he could make out a faint glimmer, which began to resolve into a murky glow as the distance lessened.
“OK, I can see something ahead, but keep giving me directions.” The Beaufighter was fighting him a little, engines grumbling as she floundered uncomfortably at the slower speed. The glow had resolved into a small spill of flame that was maundering back from one wing of an aircraft that now appeared before D-Dog.
Rose assumed position just below and a thousand feet behind the enemy bomber. He checked the altimeter. They were at seven and a half thousand feet now, and still descending.
They didn’t have a lot of time for the intercept, soon the enemy aeroplane would be swallowed up by ground returns.
“Chalky, take a squint, what do you see?”
“Crumbs! Looks like a Heinkel, I think. And it looks like it’s been chewed up a bit by AA.”
It was true; the Heinkel was not looking its best.
The enemy aeroplane was still flying in a straight line, gradually losing height, with the port Daimler Benz sporadically leaking incandescent droplets of burning metal, and the propeller was windmilling. Great rents, tears and punctures dotted both wings and the fuselage, with the upper rear gunner’s machine gun pointing impotently upwards.
Was it plunging for sanctuary, or were they all dead abroad, and the aircraft was in a shallow dive to oblivion?
White’s voice, anxious and raised, urgently reminded him that time was of the essence. “Finish it off, Flash, before Fritz wakes up and give us a nasty dose of hate.”
The range was now closed to a range of two hundred feet. The pungent smell of burning metal, rubber and acrid smoke filling his nostrils like acid, choking and bitter.
One last check for deflection. The jumping, vibrating airframe wasn’t making it easier.
No more time. Kill it. Kill them. “OK, Firing.”
Rose punched and held the button, and the machine and cannons thundered deafeningly for a full two seconds until he lifted his thumb, still feeling the harsh vibration resonate through his bones.
The Heinkel wobbled, and then began to slide gently into a turn to starboard, shedding pieces of itself as it went.
Maintaining a safe distance, Rose emptied another burst into the enemy bomber.
Hits sparkled bright along the fuselage and wings as the Heinkel’s turn steepened, and there were one, two, and then a third, larger explosion, the final dazzling detonation ripping the port wing completely off just inboard of the port engine.
The boiling fireball expanded hugely, dissipating almost immediately, but the sudden flash momentarily stole his night vision away.
Rose quickly pulled the fighter away into a climbing turn to port as the Heinkel’s separated wing and engine, vomiting a wildly twisting shimmering spinnaker trail of burning fuel droplets, whipped back towards them.
It passed behind and below D-Dog in a terrifying blur, missing the Beaufighter by a generous distance, although to Rose it seemed to twirl past by a far smaller margin.
Another, much smaller piece of metal hit them with a bang! just missing the propeller blades and glancing off against the underside of D-Dog’s fuselage, but causing no damage to the Beaufighter whatsoever, just to their nerves.
“Bloody hell! Are you, OK, Chalky?” Rose called, blinking his eyes rapidly to regain his night vision. The image of the wing, lit from behind by the flaring explosion, blown off and twirling towards them still embedded on his retina.
“Crikey, luvaduck! That was a bit close!”
Rose craned his head around to look back, but his eyes hadn’t fully yet recovered, and he could see nothing. “Did we get him, then, Chalky?” immediately cringing inwardly at the absurdity of the words, even as he spoke them.
“Dunno, can’t see him, I can’t see anything yet.” White began to giggle hysterically at his pilot’s ludicrous question, partially in nervous reaction, and Rose joined him.
There was no way that the enemy bomber could have continued to fly minus its port wing. Success, again.
Thank you, dear God.
Rose lifted his goggles for a moment to wipe his tears, then reached out his gauntleted hand to lightly touch Molly’s photograph.
Just then, a smear of flame flared harsh on the ground far below.
“Oh my God!” breathed White, “he just splattered into the ground! We got him!”
“Well, he was a bit dented beforehand, Chalky, we’ll have to give the AA boys a half-credit, at least. At least Sir Isaac will be happy.”
The fire was still burning on the horizon, and if anything, seemed larger than before, dampening Rose’s sense of relief and the feeling of success. “I wish we’d managed to get him before he’d dropped his bloody load, though, Chalky.”
“Me too. But at least he’ll never do it again, Flash. And your Lady Luck was on our side tonight.”
“Yours too, my old chum. Make a note of the time and place, would you, then just check on the ammo drums, and in the meantime I’ll get on to control. Maybe we ought to give the credit to the gunners? He did look a bit beat-up when we found him. I think they were all dead inside, y’know.”
“Not on your Nelly! You know how happy the boys are when we’ve had a spot of luck! Every time we get one it’s their reward for all the hours of hard wo
rk we, I mean they, put in! They’ll be so happy and proud they helped to crack another nut! Even if we only get a half-credit, it belongs to them!”
Rose nodded, slightly ashamed, it was true, “OK, Chalky, fair point, mate. Thank you for reminding me, it’s not something I should have to be reminded about.”
He thought back to one of the first flying and fighting training sessions Granny had given him on arrival at Excalibur Squadron the year before, and how heavily his dear friend emphasised that it was the groundcrews that shared the responsiblity for success.
And dear Granny should know, for he had been one of them, a Halton brat, before the war.
Hundreds of hours of toil went into getting the aeroplanes up and in keeping them flying.
An aerial victory was one of the few rewards for a very hard, barely recognised and thankless job performed regardless of conditions by a highly dedicated band of men and women, often in the open air, unsung heroes each and every one.
The proud ribbons on his chest were there in large part due to the taken-for-granted grind of those who kept them flying.
With one last look at the red-hot flaming remnants below them, Rose levelled out the Beaufighter and turned his eyes up to the Heavens for a moment.
Thankyou.
Chapter 35
Bruno circled the Ju88C carefully as the last of the daylight drained away into the encroaching darkness. Further up it would be so much brighter, but at the lower height that they were at the Junkers would be concealed by the dusk against the sea.
Rudi and Mouse kept up a vigilant scrutiny of the sky around them, the distant east coast of England just visible as a shadowy grey line on the horizon.
Beneath them the darkening sea roiled and lurched sickeningly, and Bruno’s stomach churned with it, reminding him why he usually ate little before an operational mission. That would teach him to be such a greedy pig.
“How much longer, Herr Leutnant?” moaned Rudi beside him. “I don’t like the look of that sea down there.” Hs friend was peering nervously through the Perspex.
Neither do I, my friend, neither do I. Even the Junkers was harder to control this low down, brisk and rough, as if complaining about their altitude.
“Soon, Rudi, very soon, don’t fret. It’s almost time. Are you ready with the course?” It still felt wonderful to feel the Ritterkreuz hanging gloriously from his neck. It was difficult not to reach up every other minute and touch it, caress it.
A fresh young aircrew had arrived on the base whilst he’d been in Berlin with Anja, and the way in which the newcomers stared at him had been both embarrassing as well as extremely gratifying. Mouse had winked at Rudi and begun the first of many tall tales of their operations.
The base was quieter now, with fewer groundstaff and aircrews, and many of their friends had mysteriously disappeared whilst they’d been away. The staffel was greatly depleted, and the Herr Oberst grimly tight-lipped.
It was obvious that his crews were being transferred for the coming offensive in the east. Security was poor, and the imminence of the attack was common knowledge.
Upset that his fellow gunners would be fighting without him, Mouse demanded a meeting with the Herr Oberst, demanding to know when they, too, would be transferred to the new front.
For Bruno the allure of combat was not now as golden as it once was, and he was appalled by the possibility of being separated from his beautiful young fiancée, whilst Rudi, nerves slowly fraying, quailed at the idea of flying over vast empty plains in sub-zero temperatures.
The far-reaching frozen steppes weren’t his idea of a desirable battleground.
Luckily, the Herr Oberst wouldn’t even entertain the suggestion of a transfer to the big build up on the borders of the USSR.
“You’re my best crew,” He’d bellowed in red-faced outrage at the gunner, “I’m not losing you bastards as well! Piss off out of my office, Mouse, you bloodthirsty little fucker, and get me a Tommy tonight!”
Mouse sulked for the entire afternoon in his room, but his good humour returned when they were kitting up in the crew room.
Bruno’s own mood improved immensely when he noticed the slight figure waving from near the base hospital, and he’d patted his breast pocket, knowing her photograph was there, capturing the wistful look in her eyes, the ways her lips always seemed to be smiling.
Dear God, I love her. I love her so much it bloody hurts. The depth of his feelings still surprised him.
Bruno shook his head to clear it; this close to the enemy coast, less than one hundred percent concentration on the job before them was unacceptable.
“Course, Rudi.” Spoken harsher than he’d intended.
Uh-oh, thought Rudi, someone’s got a wire brush up his arse, better be on my best cockpit behaviour. Before he could speak however, Mouse urgently shouted out from behind them, “Achtung, achtung! Aircraft! A thousand feet above and behind.”
Bruno and Rudi both turned as one to gaze frantically through the canopy at the shadowy cruciform shape just visible above them.
“Is it an enemy nightfighter?” asked Bruno, muscles tensed painfully, and ready to turn into the other aircraft.
“No, Herr Leutnant, sorry, it’s one of ours. Looks like one of the smelly Heinie one-eleven mob.”
A flash of inspiration struck Bruno, “Forget the course, let’s follow the Heinkel, and see where it’s going.”
Rudi was hesitant, “Are you sure, Herr Leutnant?” he had visions of being dragged along into the gun zone of a large city.
“Yes! Let’s see where they go! If it’s an attack on an airfield or military installation we could mount a follow up attack after he’s dropped his bombs. They wouldn’t expect us to strafe them so soon after the bombs hit!”
Rudi bit his lip, turned to look at Bruno, “But what if he’s going to bomb a city?”
Mouse laughed, but not unkindly, “Don’t worry, Rudi, Mouse is here to protect your tender little pink bollocks. I won’t let them hurt you!”
Rudi glowered, but said nothing, peering at the chart in his hands. Big stupid turd.
Just as Bruno began to pull back the control column to climb the Junkers, Mouse called out again, “Achtung, Herr Leutnant! Another aircraft behind, twin engine, another Heinkel, I think. Same course and height as the first.”
Unusually, this time the burly gunner didn’t sound too sure of himself.
This now left Bruno with a dilemma. Follow the first one or the second? They were both on the same heading, might be the same target, a big city after all? The idea of flying through the hellfire of the AA-blasted airspace above cities like London did not appeal to him in the slightest. Should he go back to his original plan?
“Herr Leutnant, the second one-eleven, I’m not sure about it, it looks a bit strange…”
Bruno looked back at the second shape, dimmer now that dusk had changed to night. “What do you mean, Mouse?”
“It just looks…wrong. I don’t know what it is. Can we get a bit closer, sir?”
The enemy bomber continued to sail blissfully through the night sky before them, unaware of the Beaufighter closing the distance between them.
The RAF fighter pilot excitedly keyed his intercom; “I can see it now, Icy; you can leave the set now, have a wee peep, my old fruit, and confirm. I’d say it’s a Heinkel 111. I’ll hold position at five hundred, just under the tail.” Barlow checked quickly to make sure for the hundredth time that the guns were set to ‘fire.’
“Oh, golly gosh! I agree! It’s a one-eleven! Quick, give it a squirt!” Cole’s enthusiasm was understandable, the last month having been frustrating and unproductive for them.
Four times in that period, they’d lost a hostile contact, and on the one occasion, even though they had managed to get an enemy bomber in sight, it had dived away at a speed they were unable to match. Each time had been like a kick in the teeth, leaving each of them acutely depressed.
Unbelievably, this time their luck had held.
Eagerly, unaware of the Ju88 slowly rising close behind the tail of their Beaufighter, C-Cindy, Barlow fired, and a cluster of vividly glowing fireballs ripped out to pass painfully close to one side of the enemy bomber.
Cursing foully but holding his thumb on the button and still keeping it depressed, Barlow adjusted his aim to play the stream of fire across the Heinkel’s dim shape, hits on the enemy registering brightly, and brief rents of fierce flame suddenly streaming back brightly before going out.
Pieces of aeroplane continued to fly off as the RAF fighter smashed at it with its storm of metal, and then suddenly the Heinkel drunkenly tipped over onto one wing and the tilt turned into a sideways slide, Barlow turning after it as his drums of ammunition finally ran dry.
A piece of flap and the rudder twisted messily off the Heinkel, and it began to tumble as the desperate pilot lost control.
Both propellers had stopped turning under power now, windmilling, and there was no chance of salvation available anymore to the terrified young German aviators.
But the Junkers 88C had finally closed to less than two hundred feet behind the victorious Beaufighter, and now it was Bruno’s turn.
He and his crew were sickened by the sudden destruction of the bomber as they frantically moved into position.
Jaw clenched in fury and eyes burning with liquid fervour, Bruno opened fire on the shadowy shape of the fighter before him, but it was just too late to save the lives of their bomber brothers-in-arms.
The yells of triumph in the Beaufighter were abruptly cut short as glowing German cannon shells suddenly ripped a fiery path into the RAF aircraft, shredding the Beaufighter’s tail plane into tattered, flapping ruin.
Barlow fought desperately with the yawing aircraft as a second burst of fire splattered against the British fighter. The starboard engine began to vibrate, sparking, the glowing innards clearly visible as covers ripped away.
Cole’s AI set suddenly blew up with a flat Bang! Whilst he was still recoiling in shock from what had happened to cause the aircraft’s loss of control, the shattered set now peppered him with piercing shards of metal and glass, and he cried out in shock and fright and pain.
Beaufighter Blitz Page 33