The sharp, whirling smithereens that hit him were closely followed by more cannon shells from the pursuing Junkers, one of which caught him high in the chest, exploding catastrophically outwards against his sternum, the racing hot fragments ripping through him and propelling torn slivers of his internal organs and spinal column out forwards towards the cockpit, the impact spraying the inside of the compartment with blood and ricocheting bits of metal, wire, glass and ‘Icy’ Cole.
Those deep lungs with which he had lustily belted out songs at any and all possible opportunities were torn out like so much offal from within him, but it no longer mattered to him, because by that time he was very dead.
With a visceral ‘CRAAACK!’ the rear third of the battered Beaufighter flexed, twisted and suddenly broke off, taking with it the eviscerated corpse of Cole, and Barlow was alone, fighting to keep a very badly vibrating and juddering C-Cindy in the air, desperately trying to feather the starboard engine, and finding the remnants of the aircraft he was trying to fly were completely uncontrollable.
C-Cindy was finished.
It was time to go, but he was pinned back by the centrifugal forces, and couldn’t reach the release lever of the upper hatch.
“Icy, get out! GET OUT! We’re finished!”
Unseen and unknown to him, the torn rear third of the fighter and his operator spun lazily away earthwards.
“BALE OUT!” Desperation fought bubbling panic and Barlow let go of the control column and undid the safety harness clumsily, before pushing down the seat’s backrest and turning with difficulty onto his stomach so that he could push open the doors and lift himself into the exit well.
“Bale out, Icy,” he coughed to clear a tightening throat, “FUCKING BALE OUT! BALE OUT!” his muscles were straining, trembling with effort, and his mouth gaped wide with the sheer effort.
The doors were so heavy that Barlow was still trying to keep them apart to climb through when C-Cindy slammed into the ground, disintegrating devastatingly into a thousand flaming pieces, the larger parts of her wreckage being pushed deep into the soft, rich soil, the massively expanding fireball incinerating what torn fragments remained of Barlow, and lighting the night sky and everything all around for an instant, like some great photoflash.
Rudi crowed with delight at the sudden flare of light on the ground below, and Mouse hooted, “Got you, you fucker!”
Less than three miles from where the main part of C-Cindy had fallen, the embers of her fifth and final victory fizzled and glowed cherry-red in the middle of a field, the Heinkel bomber pulverised first by the crash and then almost instantaneously shattered by the devastating explosion of the bombs she had carried.
Mouse grunted with satisfaction as he surveyed the Beaufighter’s crash site, “Well done, Herr Leutnant. That’s one bastard who’ll not shoot anymore of our boys down ever again. Nobody got out, we killed them.”
“Watch out for more of them, boys. I don’t want a surprise. Did either of you see where the Heinie went?” Bruno’s voice was bitter with the acid of self-loathing.
If only I’d acted faster…
“They hit the ground behind us, Herr Leutnant,” said Rudi miserably, the sight of the falling Heinkel still fresh in his mind’s eye. “I can see the point they hit.”
“My fault, Rudi,” Bruno shook his head, and thought of Anja. Was there anyone waiting for the crews of either of the two aeroplanes that had just been destroyed?
“We know the swine are hunting our bombers, I should have realised it might have been an enemy night fighter. Do either of you know what it was?”
“I thought it was a Heinkel when I first saw it, too, but it looked a bit more like a Blenheim when we were behind it, I think, sir. Definitely radial engines. Did you see a turret on top of the fuselage?”
“Rudi may be right, Herr Leutnant, I need to check with the Intelligence Officer when we get back.”
“Orders, sir?” Rudi looked expectantly at Bruno. He could feel that treacherous twitch just starting in the toes of his left foot. Stop that.
“There may be more of those schweinhund around, or on the way.”
Anja’s sweet face surfaced again in his minds-eye, “I think it would not be very sensible to continue. We’ve accounted for one of their fighters and we might have useful intelligence. We’re going back.”
“But I haven’t fired my guns yet, Herr Leutnant,” griped Mouse.
Shut up, you miserable devil, Rudi glanced outside, eyes searching for more of the enemy, wiping his face with shaky hands, and flexing his twitching toes nervously.
Bruno’s voice was grim, “Next time, Mouse; patience, have patience. I’ve had quite enough for tonight. We allowed Tommy to shoot down one of our bombers right under our fucking noses.”
He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, breathing in the bitterness of failure, despite their success, “In the end, the responsibility for their deaths is mine. I’m not very happy at all, and I’ve had more than enough. We’re going home, and I want you to continue to keep a sharp lookout.”
Thank God, thought Rudi gratefully, looking back at the fading glow of the destroyed Heinkel below as they turned onto a heading for home.
That could have been us. A few more seconds and it would have been. He breathed out slowly.
But, in the end, it wasn’t. And that’s what matters.
The silent enemy coastline, dark and hateful, passed beneath and then behind them, and the Junkers dropped down low over the water once again, Mouse staring at the receding coastline with sullen eyes.
But as England disappeared behind them, Rudi breathed easier. They had scored and survived. And, even better, were now on their way home again.
It was a good night.
Thank God.
Chapter 36
June came, and the weather remained unsettled, one night clear and bright, but dirty, wet and windy the next.
A grim and deeply saddened B-Flight operated under-strength for a week, only five crews covering their area until the replacements for Barlow and Cole arrived, but it was enough, because enemy activity had tailed off.
The Luftwaffe was girding their loins for a prolonged campaign fighting in the second front to the east, and many more squadrons and units were being transferred, leaving fewer to continue the campaign against Britain. It was a quiet period, with fewer intruders.
The new members of the flight finally arrived, another Norwegian crew, a pair of RNAAF Loytnants by the names of Caspersen and Fosse.
Unlike the crew of Alstad and Axelsen, the newcomers were serious, asking questions about equipment and operational tactics with a quiet intensity.
And they didn’t take part at all in the high-jinks of the mess. Rose and the others left them to it. Their land was occupied, after all.
Some of the Poles and Czechs he’d met were pretty intense too. Fun probably took a far lower priority to revenge.
On more than one occasion, B-Flight spent a lot of time on the ground for the whole period of duty as no major attacks developed, the only flying being training flights when conditions permitted.
Even the patrol aircraft waiting at immediate readiness remained impotently on the ground, buffeted by rain and wind and useless.
On such nights, even the Luftwaffe would not fly, and only the occasional raider slipped across the water to raid coastal targets or mine the approaches.
The braver ones tried further inland, knowing the aerial defence was severely compromised by the weather, but even then, the same dangerous conditions affected them as well, and Sir Isaac continued to claim a handful of them.
The brilliant crew of John Cunningham and his trusty operator Jimmy Rawnsley of 604 Squadron would risk it all and test conditions in the air in almost all weathers.
Only when he felt it safe would Cunningham call his colleagues into the air.
For that incredible man, they were his valued and precious crews, the men he protected so zealously. He would not risk them unnecessarily.
The indomitable 604 pair had little interception luck with the few raiders that there actually were, but they managed to demonstrate that the Beaufighter, in well-trained and expert hands, was a real (almost!) all-weather interceptor fighter aircraft that could be used in conditions that were less than amenable.
On the better nights the enemy bombers continued to come over, but the numbers were fewer than earlier, far less than in late 1940 and early 1941.
The Lutwaffe crews were growing a bit cannier, too. Gone were the nights when some enemy bombers flew over Britain with their navigation lights showing; and more of the pilots flew lower than before, the unwary ones finding high ground or electricity lines and becoming Sir Isaacs’s grim trophies.
Enemy gunners, too, seemed to become even twitchier, and more of the defending fighter crews found themselves facing streams of what Rawnsley would later describe as disconcerting torrents of what looked like ‘flaming tomatoes.’
The darker the night and the poorer the visibility, the higher Rose flew. More than one British Beaufighter crew found themselves terminally meeting with the earth when caught by high ground in a low-level pursuit.
Such ‘packed’ clouds were a regular danger for the crews of both sides in this nocturnal war.
By mutual agreement, White and Rose decided that they would not descend below two thousand five hundred feet in a chase.
At least it was warmer now, the freezing conditions having lasted through much of April and almost into May, and the piles of snow which had interfered with flying were now only a less-than-fond memory, and, as enemy incursions lessened, there was even more time to practice, and more time to spend together with loved ones.
June when it came was more wet than not, the spring flowers and grass in their little cottage garden growing defiantly in the soft drizzle; and it gave Molly an excuse to cuddle up to Rose whenever the chance arose, though none was needed by either of them.
The happily newly-engaged young couple of Mandy and Chalky White occasionally dined with Rose and Molly at their cottage, and they enjoyed a night out at the ‘Black Bull’ together, but the difference in their ranks left Mandy shy, tongue-tied and overwhelmed in Molly’s rather senior presence.
Besides, the two young lovers craved each other’s time more than anything else in the world, for each second together was the most precious thing in the whole world.
This suited Rose and Molly perfectly, allowing the pair to enjoy as much of their available time together, too.
To Rose’s dismay, Molly’s half stripe arrived at the beginning of the month, and she was now a Squadron Officer.
The dark-haired girl smirked smugly whilst waving her newly augmented fabric bracelets of rank beneath his nose, and Rose groaned in frustration and disgust.
His own single rank ring of a Flying Officer seeming terribly insignificant by comparison.
“I’ll never catch up,” he grumbled gloomily, but with more than a little grudging pride as well.
With her increased rank, Molly’s responsibilities increased, and she became even busier than before. The opportunity came for WAAFs to learn to fly, but seeing the stricken expression on Rose’s face when she mentioned it, the naked fear for her in his eyes, Molly said no more, kissed him gently, and quietly tore up the application form in her office with a sigh for what might have been.
Their love for one another continued to deepen, the tenderness and love soothing the stresses that came as part and parcel with both operational flying in wartime and with being in love with an operational wartime flyer.
With the warmer days and when it was dry, they would lunch and, when chance permitted, love in a discrete and beautiful meadow, and Rose revelled in the wonderful sight and smell of his beautiful wife in the midst of nature in bloom.
Concerned about the effect of Rose’s amorous intentions on her uniform, Molly would undress completely first, and for a moment he would savour the beauty of her body, for even the cruel scars of Foxton could not mar her perfection.
In his mind’s eye was a library of images, Molly lying on her back on the striped rug, sun-dappled beneath the great oak tree, the sun catching the golden glow of her curves, her darkly erect nipples, the light softened by her thick waves of midnight hair and the vivacity of her smile, the bright glisten of the hot sunlight on the perspiration of her upper lip and chest, long-limbed and elegant as a gazelle, the joyful radiance in her eyes.
And those breath-taking images were multi-dimensional, for the taste and smell and sound of her were caught up within them.
It was a time he would remember for many years, a time of serenity and simple happiness encapsulated within him and undisturbed by the dangers and stress he experienced every day.
It was his inner Place Of Peace.
Being with Molly was the best treatment, the way in which he healed inside, her mere presence beside him calming and serene.
What a wonderful thing love is, he would reflect again and again, as the annals in his head continued to grow wonderfully in size.
The loss of Barlow and Cole hit B- Flight and RAF Dimple Heath hard, not least because of their popularity but also as Barr’s command was reduced to five crews and aircraft until the new Norwegians arrived.
Despite the reduction in enemy sorties, however, the flight was still regularly in demand, and the pace seemed almost unchanged.
In early June, Squadron-Leader David Morrow MBE RAF, senior GCI controller and ex-operator, on an invitation from James, visited RAF Dimple Heath for an afternoon party.
It was a very pleasant affair for everyone, and as Millie came with him, their two wives had a very enjoyable time catching up.
After a quick word with James, Morrow managed to wangle a ride with Rose on the first patrol that evening, leaving an extremely anxious and irate young operator behind on the ground, his only contribution to the flight being one to quickly re-familiarise Morrow with the AI set and ‘cockpit’ procedure, and to ensure he was properly attached to everything he was supposed to be properly attached to.
Rose refused his request to stay aboard for the trip as there would be no seat and safety harness. He wouldn’t allow White to stand precariously behind his seat. He was far too important to risk.
“You’re far too valuable to me, Chalky. I daren’t risk you,” was all he’d said firmly to prevent further discussion.
It had been difficult to see the small slim figure, made even smaller by distance, standing disconsolately at the door to their dispersals hut, but Morrow was a dear friend to all of them, and if it weren’t for him, the odds would be stacked so much more heavily against them. The least that they owed him was to practise the art for which he had been initially trained.
Morrow’s eyes betrayed his excitement despite his attempt to remain phlegmatic, and Rose could hear his breathing quicken as they lifted into the early evening sky from RAF Dimple Heath.
At eight thousand feet, ten miles out from the east coast, the sky was still clear, even though it was already dusk below.
They themselves would enjoy light for a few moments more before the low red sun dipped below the horizon of their viewpoint.
“I must say Flash, I’d forgotten how grand it is to be flying so high above the earth.”
Rose smiled at Morrow’s ebullience. “Yes, David. If you weren’t so important on the ground, this is where you should be.”
As he spoke, Rose expertly quartered the sky as Granny had once taught him. It wasn’t often he needed to check the airspace around his aircraft so minutely (and to be honest the only enemy fighters at this late hour of the day would most likely be the larger Junkers 88s or Dorniers).
The night sky was a big place, so much more so when you couldn’t see very much.
Already the light was fading, and he looked hopefully for the moving dot of an enemy bandit with his peripheral vision, but there was nothing.
“See anything?”
“’Fraid not, Flash, just lots of empty sky.�
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“I’m going to call home, David.” Rose switched from intercom to radio, “Dagger 3 to Lamplight, got anyone for me to play with?”
A woman’s voice, “Hello Dagger 3, standby, nothing at present, please orbit Beacon at angels twelve.”
“Understood, Lamplight.”
The voice was pleasant, “We’ll try and find something for you, Dagger 3. Standby, please.”
“We’ll have to wait, David.”
“Flash! I just saw something glint off to starboard, two o’clock, above. D’you see it?”
Rose looked, watching for a moment as the small shape gradually move to port. It was two thousand feet above them.
“It’s OK, David, it’s another Beau. He’s orbiting the Beacon just like us. I think it’s the Norwegian boys. I’m going to have to talk to them about that. You picked him up quite easily. It’s really not good enough. They ought to know better.”
Inside he marvelled at his words. Who was this stern RAF officer? Where was the anxious young boy who alighted from the train at Foxton less than a year ago?
“Is the line private, Flash?”
“Oh yes, we’re on intercom only, old son. Why?”
“I wanted to tell you about the girl. Ask your advice.”
“Girl? What girl?” Oh Lord, what on earth was David wittering on about?
“You were talking to her just now, Flash. You know, Lamplight. She’s a young Assistant Section Officer, one of my young understudies, used to be one of my students. I enrolled her to work on the GCI unit. Very nice girl, incredibly clever, blonde.”
The saucy old dog. “David! I can’t believe it! What about Millie?”
“What? What about Millie? What’s she got to do with this? Oh! Dear Heaven! No, it’s not like that! You cheeky devil! D’you think I’m some dirty old man? She’s only twenty, for pity’s sake! I love Millie.” Morrow declared reproachfully, “I’d never be unfaithful to her, and I’m surprised at you for asking!”
Beaufighter Blitz Page 34