Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  “We’re closing the range, still behind. Range two thousand; he’s still above, flying straight and level.”

  Rose relaxed his eyes, trying to defocus them, and almost straight away he fancied that a there appeared to be something moving ahead of them, although with the vibration it was actually difficult to make out anything clearly.

  No wonder the Air Ministry kept trying the Turbinlite idea, this night hunting really was bloody hard work. At least during the day you could see the enemy from miles away.

  Was it his imagination, or…?

  “Chalky, how close are we now?”

  White’s voice was strained, “Fifteen hundred, a little under, perhaps. Can you not see anything yet, Flash?”

  “Maybe,” he replied uncertainly, “Hmm. There is something…,” he squinted, straining his eyes.

  Yes, there. A patch of something that almost, but not quite, disappeared when he looked directly at it.

  Certainly, ahead of the Beaufighter, an obscure patch seemingly somehow different from the surrounding darkness.

  It had to be the bandit.

  Rose carefully eased slightly back on the throttles, and stared hard at the vague shape of the aeroplane flying before them as the vibration of the airframe slackened somewhat.

  The shape was far more distinct now, and he could just make out the faint flicker of a twinned pair of pale blue exhaust flames.

  “I’ve got it, Chalky! You can have a look, old chap, but make sure you keep us in contact.”

  “Where is it? Oh…crumbs, it’s hard to see, isn’t it? I can’t make it out, it’s pretty big, two engines, um…”

  “I’m going to get closer, chum, keep your eye on the ‘scope, don’t lose him.”

  “OK, Flash.”

  “If he’s a Hun, Chalky, I’m going to give him a burst straight away.”

  “Sounds like a good idea…but I still can’t tell what it is yet.”

  A terrifying line of hot red tracer suddenly lanced out towards them, but then fell away below.

  “Cripes!” gasped White.

  Instinctively, Rose punched the firing button, and his cannon and machine guns roared in reply, the harsh hammering surging over them in a deafening wave.

  Neither the enemy rounds nor his own connected.

  He released the button. “Chalky! Did you see any hits?”

  White was still peering through his dome, “I don’t think so, Flash.” A last piece of the sweet was stuck beneath his tongue and he worked to dislodge it.

  Suddenly the other aircraft tipped over to one side and dived straight down, and Rose immediately saw the classic plan view of a Heinkel 111.

  “It’s a Heinkel, Flash,” White called out instantly.

  Tell me something I don’t know. He pushed down after it, “OK, chum, we’re going after it, keep ‘em peeled.”

  And then they were hurtling straight down after the enemy, one eye on the altimeter as it spun crazily down.

  The controls fought him as the heavy fighter gained speed in the descent, buffeted viciously by the other aeroplane’s slipstream.

  Rose’s heart lurched with fear as his sight began to grey and fade and the controls began to stiffen.

  He could feel the blood vessels in is head bulging painfully huge, and he wondered what it felt like when one’s eyeballs popped. He grunted under the strain.

  This is madness, we’re going to lose control any moment, can’t even see the Hun, what if he’s pulled out of the dive, we’ll shoot straight past.

  Oh my God. What if we hit him? I’m pulling out of it…

  Hunched forwards, gasp by painful gasp and inch by painful inch, Rose pulled D-Dog out of the screaming plunge downwards, expecting to see the ground loom terrifyingly before him at any moment.

  And then they were climbing again, and he almost collapsed backwards with relief, numbed fingers stuck to the control column.

  He looked down but saw with saw with both irritation and gratitude that the ground was still quite far below. His heart was booming heavily, and he feared that it would suddenly cease beating.

  Fuck it, I’m losing my nerve…

  “Chalky, you still back there, old bean? Haven’t baled out have you?”

  White’s voice, weak and shaky on the intercom, “Jesus! I think I’ve wet myself!”

  Rose smiled hollowly with little mirth, “You won’t be the only one if you have, old son. D’you have him for me, chum?”

  “Sorry, Flash, the screen’s just full of clutter, nothing.”

  Far below, a flaming white flower suddenly bloomed silently, large and incandescent. It subsided to form a short stripe of vivid fire on the ground.

  “Did you see that?” His voice was a whisper, “Might it be Jerry?”

  White’s voice was stronger now, but shrill. “He must have gone straight in!”

  “Yeah, mate, he must have. I’m sure we didn’t hit him, he must have been unable to pull out, poor bastard.”

  White was silent, then, quietly, “Could have been us…”

  Rose tried to sound strong and confident, but it didn’t work, “But it wasn’t, old man. Ol’ Sir Isaac will have to do with the Jerry crew, he’s not getting us as well.”

  “I s’pose one out of two isn’t bad.”

  There but for the grace of God...

  Chapter 38

  James looked at the fuming Rose, and smiled brightly. White stood in the corner, looking uncomfortable and dishevelled and vaguely lost.

  “Flash, my dear boy. How perfectly awful. I appreciate how you must feel. And I agree with you, it really is not good enough. Not good enough at all.” James nodded sympathetically, but the smile remained.

  Uh-oh. Rose’s tight scowl slipped a little, and he stared at his CO suspiciously. That look was awfully familiar. The old dog was up to something, but what was it?

  The Wing Commander’s smile stretched even wider. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk, looked at it and put it back down.

  Oh God. He’s looking happy for some reason. There’s something coming. Something rather scary. And I just hope that it’s something I can stomach.

  The commanding officer solicitously waved the two young men towards the chairs arranged in front of his desk. White took his gratefully, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.

  James leaned back. Since Cousin Charles’ telephone call earlier that night, he had been deliberating on who to send when the angry young pilot stormed in his office, frothing and raving about ‘bloody searchlights.’

  Problem solved.

  “Yes, I’m very pleased you came to see me about your experience. The thing is, I received a call from AA Command, and it seems they would very much like some crews to visit one of their sites. They would like to do a co-operation thingy, and they asked for one of the best, so you popping in to see me now is an absolute blessing. My best crew. You two can tell those army wallahs what’s what, eh?”

  Oh, my giddy aunt. “Um, what exactly do you mean by what’s what, sir?”

  “Tell the silly buggers what it’s like to fly up there when you can’t see a bloody thing, the wind’s throwing you all over the place, your kite’s icing up, bits of equipment fall off or break down, and all the while Sir Isaac is flitting around like a tart trying to make you prang the kite. And that being blasted away at by AA while you’re up there chasing Jerry is the last thing you need.”

  He sniffed. “I think I’m coming down with something. I could do with a hot drink.”

  Rose looked glumly across at White, but his young operator had fallen fast asleep, and there was no support from that quarter.

  “I’m sure one of the others…” he began.

  “No, no, Flash my dear fellow, I’ve made up my mind. It’ll do you good to spend a night with one of their metropolitan ack-ack positions. Wish I were going with you, too. See it as a little holiday, what? I’ll draw up the appropriate travel orders for you.”

  He picked up the telephone, “Fancy a cup of tea,
old man?”

  Game, Set and Match. Bollocks.

  Rose sighed sadly. Beside him, White slumped further and began to snore softly.

  I’ve been had. Good Lord.

  An army 15cwt truck bearing the arrow-pierced target badge of the 6th Anti-Aircraft Division was waiting for them, parked to the side of the station, just off Station Road.

  Rose turned to look back at the LNER railway station, one he’d visited as a child with his parents. A little boy clutching his teddy bear and awed by the bustling activity.

  The red-brick Victorian building was substantially the same as he remembered, except for the sandbags, missing signs, and the partially-boarded and taped up windows.

  The same, and yet so different.

  A Corporal doubled up to them and saluted, “Flying Officer Rose, Sir?”

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  “Corporals are called Bombardiers in the Royal Artillery, sir. I’m Bombardier McManus, and I’ve been detailed to take you both to your destination, sir.”

  “Right, I stand corrected, thank you, Bombardier. Come along, Chalky, don’t dawdle, man.” Rose waved an arm imperiously.

  White shook his head and grinned as he followed them to the truck.

  They watched with interest as the truck passed through this extended eastern part of the Metropolitan sprawl, comfortably ensconced in the cab beside the Bombardier, as he skilfully guided the vehicle north along Whalebone Lane on the way to the Eastern Avenue.

  All too soon the journey was over as they quickly reached their destination, a Royal Artillery Heavy AA gun site in a hilltop position on Boyn Hill, situated close to the boundary of Hainault Forest, almost a kilometre to the north of the Eastern Avenue. The truck turned onto a smaller access slip road that led via a guarded gate into a neatly arranged small army camp.

  McManus nodded to the sentry as they were waved through, “Here we are gents, the ZE1 gunsite. You’ll find the CO in the office.”

  The neat arrangement of concrete and brick structures included an administrative block, shelters, stores, ordnance stocks and barracks.

  Beyond the camp buildings were the 4.5 inch guns, two sets of four guns in pits with holdfasts, each set in a semi-circular open fan-shaped eastward inclined ground formation. Each set of four guns incorporated a partially-sunken command post.

  The seven acutely angled barrels reached up like a deadly forest of huge metallic thorns, patiently awaiting the chance to sting their enemy.

  An eighth gun was being worked on by its crew, the barrel depressed downwards. Rose shivered involuntarily at the sight.

  It was just one of the twenty-three batteries that formed the north-east sector of London’s Inner Artillery Zone.

  The Royal Artillery had ensured that there would a warm welcome waiting for the Luftwaffe.

  As the two young flyers stepped down from the truck, McManus pointed towards what Rose imagined to be the Headquarters building, “If you could just see the Sarn’t Major, sir? He’ll get you to the OC.”

  “Hulloo there! Gentlemen! I say, hullo there!”

  They turned towards the shouted hail as behind them the truck eased its way away to the motor transport pool. A painfully-thin army officer was striding towards them from outside the building McManus had directed them towards, beckoning them over.

  “How d’you do? I’m Martin, the Battery CO. welcome to ZE1. You must be Rose and White? Or is it White and Rose?” he smiled disarmingly and stuck out his hand. The youngsters stared at the middle-aged officer with interest.

  Martin wore the three pips of an Army Captain on his shoulders, and on his chest were the faded ribbons of the Military Medal with a bar rosette, War Medal, Victory Medal, Efficiency Decoration and a Croix de Guerre avec palme.

  In contrast to the tarnished bronze oak leaf spray of his Mention in Despatches, a second, much shinier, bronze oak leaf was sewn onto his battledress beneath the ribbons.

  This officer had been decorated again since the Great War.

  Martin noticed their interest. He smiled grimly, “We had a little bit of excitement last year, quite rousing, even had a Messerschmitt fighter crash here last year. A 109. The RSM was quite outraged, made him spill his tea!”

  White cleared his throat, “You’ve seen quite a bit of action before, then, sir?”

  The captain nodded, “I was in the last spot of nastiness as a Linseed Lancer.”

  White looked mystified but Rose had heard the term before, “A stretcher bearer. My father said they were the bravest men on the battlefield. The truest of heroes.” The MM and bar on Martin’s chest revealed his courage.

  “I’m not sure about that, but we might have been the ones with the brownest trousers!”

  Martin’s eyes twinkled merrily. “It was one of the roles available to Conscientious Objectors, and it was either that or the Mines. But, as you can see, I’m a bit happier to take up arms this time around. Besides, I hear you two have seen a bit of excitement as well. I’m glad to have you both here. Let me show you around, introduce you to my chaps, and then we’ll nip along to my office to have a hot cup of char. Have you ever tried a nice mug of real gunner’s char? No? You’re in for a treat then!”

  It was with more than a little relief the following morning that Rose gently closed the railway carriage door and settled back into his seat with a grateful sigh. He looked across at White, who stared back at him through exhausted, shadowed eyes.

  He knew his own face mirrored that haggardness of White’s.

  The huge breakfast they had eaten earlier, golden scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms and thickly buttered fresh bread, washed down with more of that appalling hot sweet tea, felt like a solid weight wrapped around his middle, and he adjusted his position.

  “Crikey, Flash, I’m pooped. If that’s a normal night in AA Command, they can bloody keep it. And I can still hear those bloody guns in my head.”

  White groaned, looking as pale as his name. “I think I might be a bit concussed from all those bloody explosions!”

  Rose rubbed his face with both hands, bristles rough against his palms, desperately wishing for a hot bath and clean bedsheets. His head, too, was pounding.

  “Me too, chum. I’ve got a cracking headache, and those mugs of gunner’s char have made my blinking teeth ache, too. Wish I’d brought my toothbrush. Never drunk anything so sweet in my life. I’m surprised my teeth haven’t dissolved.”

  “Mine feel like they’re covered in tar or pitch or something ‘orrible. I’m not quite sure that they’re all still there!”

  They cringed together as the guard’s whistle lanced painfully though tender ears into their dazed minds, and the final banging of doors resounded achingly through their concussed skulls.

  Martin had been the most considerate of hosts, his men friendly and considerate, and the two young Flyers first received a VIP tour of the site after arriving, sat at the guns and peered gormlessly through the gun sights, after which they’d enjoyed a deliciously rich chicken stew dinner and fresh baked bread (“One of the perks of being so close to Warren’s Farm!” Martin had smiled), before settling down for the evening’s show.

  There had been no invitation, though, to look at the mysterious circular arrangement of wires that was the site’s GL Mat. With sentries posted, it was off limits.

  There had been little activity until just after dusk, when the first of the night’s raiders approached from the north east.

  The guns had cracked and boomed and bellowed ceaselessly throughout the endless night, the relentless clamour battering and pounding constantly at the two young airmen as they squirmed in a trench outside the Command Post.

  One particular gun, nicknamed ‘Whalebone Annie’ by the soldiers, was particularly ear-splitting in its reports. Rose would have sworn the damned thing was twice as noisy as its brethren.

  Despite the awesome quantity of high explosives and metal being hurled upwards, they were lucky and less of it found its way back down onto them.

&nbs
p; They were lucky, for it was widely known that the shrapnel was a greater risk to civilians than to German aircrews.

  Martin appeared a few times, invited them for tea and buns in his command post, but they could see his mind was on his duty, and so they left him to concentrate on directing his guns, cowering instead in a trench for an extremely stressful hour.

  Their only company during this time were a small team of anxious looking young ATS girls, one with a twitching eye, dwarfed inside their greatcoats and faces hidden beneath steel helmets, shouting instructions above the firing of the guns into microphones, ably working together to operate one of the gunsite’s Kerry Predictors.

  Martin had explained its use, but it had all gone over Rose’s head, though White seemed to have grasped the basic concepts and procedures.

  The guns fired non-stop, huge flames shooting from their muzzles as they fired, the stench of burnt cordite and smoke, choking and thick, dust and dirt swirling around them. Small pieces of shrapnel rained down incessantly all the while.

  Finally unable to withstand the relentless and endlessly deafening CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP! of the guns battering at them, the two of them left the girls to their dangerous task and retreated to an empty office in the semi-subterranean southern Command Post,

  Despite the reassuring thickness of the brick gun base which formed the wall of the office, they each found a table to crawl beneath.

  In the early hours, as the first pink blush of dawn lightened the eastern horizon, the all clear could be heard sounding out over the city, and the smoke stained and weary men and women of the unit were stood down for breakfast.

  Like Rose and White their eyes were red rimmed, lined faces greasy and slack, totally exhausted, both mentally and physically.

  Breakfast had been welcome, the milk, eggs and butter a pleasure (and wholly earned by the gunners, felt Rose fervently), marred only by a single distant explosion that seemed to mock them.

  Martin flinched only slightly, a spoonful of stodgy porridge halfway to his mouth, tired eyes distant.

  “That’s the UXB boys,” he explained, and wiped his chin, “Poor, brave bastards. They work all day and all night. Hope they were clear when it exploded.”