Beaufighter Blitz

by Russell Sullman

  Herbert and Trent had survived, but it would be a long time before they would be ready to fight again.

  This would their last trip, or so James had intimated. Rose and White would begin a well-earned rest touring factories and undertaking administrative duties, and there were whispers of a tour of the United States.

  Rose was not sorry. He was ready for a break from operations. The erosive effect of the tension and stresses of the last months had had its effect on him, and while he did not feel now that he was a sufferer of what was popularly known amongst aircrew as ‘The Twitch,’ he certainly felt he needed a rest.

  White, too, seemed a little on edge, despite his attempts to hide it, but the lessening in pace of Luftwaffe activities relative to the earlier months of their tour meant that he managed to behave as if all was well.

  For Rose it had begun with D-Dog’s return to Dimple Heath following their successful pursuit and destruction of Caspersen’s rogue Beaufighter.

  The instinctual seed of guilt and general ‘wrongness’ he felt with destroying the mortally damaged aeroplane, despite the clear and legitimate reasons for doing so left a bitter taste within him, and a part of him on the way back began to wonder fearfully if there had been a mistake.

  That feeling of melancholy had blossomed explosively from glumness into a soul-destroying terror as they came onto their final approach and the burnt-out shell Molly’s car appeared to one side of the runway.

  That landing was the worst of his career, and it was lucky that D-Dog was designed with such a solid and sturdy airframe and undercarriage as Rose tried to get down as fast as possible.

  It was only because of the Beaufighter’s robust design that they did not end up in a smoking heap of torn, charred metal at the far end of the runway.

  White suffered the alarming experience of a sharp braking that, had he not been securely strapped into his seat, would surely have smashed his head severely against the metal coaming of his Perspex dome.

  Yet even as a shocked Rose, clumsy and faint with emotion, was struggling with recalcitrant straps to untangle himself from his cockpit, James screeched to a halt beside D-Dog with Molly.

  Rather than try and talk to him over the W/T, the CO decided Rose would be better served by the evidence of his own eyes.

  The sight of the battered and red-eyed girl horrified him, but she was alive!

  Rose, incredulous and distrustful of his senses, believing that only the worst could possibly be true for them, buried himself into her embrace and hugged her as tight as he could until she complained, her aching body screaming protestation at the rough and unseemly treatment.

  James sat in the car and tried not to look, seemingly engrossed by and glowering at an innocuous dent on the dashboard.

  Later, being driven back by James, Rose and White were fed (two eggs each!), debriefed and stood down, and all those involved were told in no uncertain terms by a nameless Air Commodore from RAF Intelligence that they were never, ever to mention the events of the night to another living soul.

  There had been a week of blissful leave, most of which Rose spent in bed with a very willing Molly at a friend’s Welsh cottage.

  “I say there, are you awake up front?” White’s voice interrupted his reminiscences.

  Rose cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

  “Oh that’s nice, that is. Try to start up a conversation and get your head bitten off instead. Pardon me for trying to be friendly.”

  Rose grinned. “Sorry. I’m not used to being bothered when I’m having a kip.”

  “I’m sooo bored. Where’re all the bombers? We haven’t shot down anything for ages and ages.”

  Rose grinned at the childish whingeing from behind.“Dunno, pal. Be patient, perhaps Lamplight’ll have something for us soon?”

  White harrumphed. “Don’t hold your breath. Jerry’s too bloody scared of gambolling onto our patch. I fancy a cuppa and a fag. What say we head back?”

  Later. “What was that you were saying, old chap?”

  “I can’t believe it. My throat’s drier than Margate beach, I’m dying for a gasper, and bloody Jerry decides he wants to mount a raid. Got no blinking consideration, the selfish bastards.”

  “Stop being such a whinging old bag, you cheeky tart. How’re we doing? What’s the range?”

  “Range 3,000, turn port five degrees.”

  “Port five degrees.” Rose gently adjusted, carefully trying not to over-correct. The bellow of the Hercules subsided to a throaty cough as he eased back on the throttles.

  “Range now 2,000, throttle back, chum, we’re catching up a bit fast. You’re right behind him, 10 degrees above, easy...easy, throttle back a touch more, easy, range now 1,200. See anything yet?”

  “No, count me down, Chalky.” One hand slipped down, almost without thought, to quickly squeeze the bear. He blinked his eyes to clear them of sweat, and peered forwards again.

  “OK, range now 900, 850, 800. Ease back a bit more, chum. 700.” White’s voice had lowered to a whisper, as if the enemy might hear them.

  Rose reduced the throttles further, and D-Dog began to swing, the engines seeming to wheeze in discomfort as the speed rapidly bled off.

  “500, 450, 450, OK, increase by a smidge, we’re not closing anymore.”

  Rose pushed the throttle forward slowly, and the swing lessened. They continued to close, but slower now. “Thank goodness, Doggie wasn’t enjoying that.”

  “Range 500, closing, 20 degrees above, can you see him yet, Flash?”

  “Erm, um, hang on…” yes, high up, a squat shape hanging in the sky. Four flickers of blue, almost invisible but definitely there.

  Rose grunted with satisfaction. “I can see it, Chalky. Don’t lose contact with it, I’m going to close the distance, see if I can identify it.”

  “I won’t even blink, Flash.”

  “Good man.” Rose closed the distance carefully, but remained below the flight level of their prey. He was relying on the deep grey murk into which the sky and land merged behind them to keep D-Dog hidden from the enemy gunner.

  Finally they were close enough, and his eyes urgently passed over the shape of the enemy outline.

  A thin fuselage tapering aft, broad wings, twin engines and twin rudders.

  Not a Whitley nor a Hampden, but something else. Definitely not friendly. His heart punched the inside of his chest with excitement.

  “OK, Chalky, quick, take a gander. Tell me what you can see.”

  Almost immediately, “Blimey, he’s right overhead, isn’t he? Dornier. Pencil-thin fuselage and radial engines by the look of it. A Do 17? Mind out for the gondala, Flash, there might be a gunner. Nothing else in sight behind us. Clear to fire.”

  Rose reduced speed and the dim silhouette of the Dornier began to draw ahead.

  And still no stream of tracer.

  They were wasting time unnecessarily. They had been lucky so far, but any moment they might be seen. “Chalky, I’m going to fire, stand by. Keep us in contact.”

  “You’re all set.”

  “OK, thanks. Here goes nothing…”

  Rose pulled back the control column, pushed forward the throttles minutely, and the Beaufighter began to rise up into a position directly behind and slightly below the enemy bomber.

  Allowing for deflection, Rose aimed just above the starboard wing, and let fly.

  Thunder filled their ears as the guns snarled out their message of venomous hatred, and the Dornier seemed to quiver in agony beneath the tearing onslaught.

  Hits sparkled bright all along the wing and the wing root, and a searing yellow-white tongue of flame suddenly licked out from the engine.

  The Dornier swung desperately to one side, and Rose followed him, pulling the heavy fighter into a turn after the German bomber. More hits sparkled across the enemy’s fuselage, and then the rear gunner finally responded, but the arc of incandescent rounds curved too far to pose a threat to the pursuing Beaufighter.

  But it w
as close enough to make Rose sweat harder as he dragged the fighter after the fleeing Dornier.

  As they dived, the enemy bomber began to pull ahead.

  There was no flame, but he could smell burnt fuel as the Beaufighter shuddered after it, and he pressed the firing button again until the cannons ran dry.

  As it pulled away further with its greater speed, he lost sight of it in the murk. “Chalky, can you see it? I’ve lost it.” his muscles were throbbing and the controls were getting stiffer.

  The Hercules were howling like banshees and the airframe juddered terrifyingly as they continued downwards.

  “I can’t see it, Flash,”

  “OK, chum, the controls’re getting locked up, I’m pulling up whilst we still can.”

  It took some effort, but finally he managed to bring D-Dog back into level flight, and they began a wide orbit.

  Rose regarded the ground below doubtfully. “See anything, mate?” at exactly the same instant an intensely bright line of fire spread brilliantly on the ground below.

  “I’ll say! Did you see that, Flash? I think they were incendiaries! They must have been dropped low down to be spread out like that!”

  His hand clenched for a moment around the little bump in his flying suit. Luck had not yet deserted them. They had delivered enough of a blow to cause the ditching of incendiaries that would burn no British cities tonight.

  A second, larger streak of flame suddenly bloomed on the ground, punctuated by a series of pulsing explosions as the enemy bomber ploughed at full throttle into the ground and was blown apart by its own bombload.

  White whooped with excitement, and Rose felt a fiercely primal thrill.

  The attack had not been his smoothest, and the damage had appeared minimal, but they’d inflicted enough of a blow to bring down the enemy after all.

  Over the last few months , on more occasions than he could count on the fingers of both hands, an apparently undamaged (despite a hammering from their guns) and diving enemy bomber (more often than not a Heinkel 111), would disappear into the murk of darkness never to be seen again.

  Rose was sure that at least one of those must have crashed, but there had been no sign of destruction, so without proof these bombers could only be officially classified as ‘damaged’ or ‘probable.’

  However, this time there was no ambiguity, and their success was proven by the shattered mess the Dornier made as it smeared itself across the land below them.

  “Can you see any parachutes, Chalky? Did anyone get out?” his hand was trembling, and he clenched it into a fist.

  They’d got one more, one less to bomb the innocent.

  Thank you, Lord.

  “I hope not, Flash. Can’t see any. I think we got ‘em all. This Nazi-bashing is hard work, really satisfying though. I’ll reload if you wouldn’t mind flying straight and level for a few minutes.”

  “That gunner was a rotten shot.” White sniffed, but Rose could hear the strain in the youngster’s voice, “Got any sweets, chum?”

  Epilogue (2)

  The crystal clear water gurgled quietly beneath them, and the girl kissed him on the cheek and snuggled closer.

  In the far distance, the snow-mottled slopes of the Bavarian Alps reared majestically up into the sky, their white peaks glittering pale against the sky.

  “Are you feeling well, my love?” she asked him diffidently.

  Her husband shifted slightly where he leant against the wooden rail, his eyes watching the busily racing water beneath the bridge they stood on, the fresh air cool and beautifully fragrant from the forests.

  “You needn’t keep asking, you know. I’m perfectly fine.”

  His voice was still weak, as his body gradually recovered from the terrible wounds he had suffered in that last awful duel in the dark.

  Bruno was thinner now, still gaunt weeks later, the proud uniform hanging off him, although he had a better colour on him now, and he hardly needed to use both the crutches anymore.

  “I know, but I can’t bear the thought that you almost died.” She sniffed.

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I made it back.”

  “I’m not crying, there’s still a bit of a chill in the air. I think I may be getting a bit of a cold.”

  His arm tightened around her, despite the stinging pain from his back and legs. He tried hard not to wince as his injured body protested.

  “Mm. If you say so. I do love you, little snowdrop.”

  In answer she made as if to kiss him once more on his cheek, but he turned and his lips met her for a prolonged moment.

  When they parted his eyes came to rest on the white church of St. Sebastian in Ramsau, and he wondered if Anja had been christened in there.

  Bavaria was his most favourite place in the world, even more so because his Anja was born here.

  His flying career was over, at least for the immediate future, perhaps forever.

  Anja commiserated with him when he shared the news with her, of course, but he saw the heartfelt relief naked in her dark eyes.

  The ensuing weeks had been a blur of treatment, operations, and pain, unrelenting pain, all made just bearable by the unadulterated joy that being with Anja brought him.

  He thought back to his last meeting with Rudi.

  Unbelievably, the two of them working together had somehow managed to successfully fly the savaged and dying Junkers back, by some miracle carrying out a successful wheels-up landing on the beach at Texel in the West Frisian Islands.

  Rudi could remember very little of the return trip, the memories, such as they were, guiding Rudi through a fog of mind-befuddling pain.

  Poor, terrified Rudi, now promoted to Oberfähnrich and himself wearing a Knights Cross around his neck in recognition of saving Bruno’s life, looked like a hunted animal when they last met at dear Mouse’s funeral, the gunner’s flag-topped coffin forlornly followed by his medal-bearing and weeping cousins, their Wehrmacht husbands, and the rest of his family and friends.

  Rudi was an instant propaganda hero, his startled face plastered across the newspapers and with a posting straight into pilots flying training. It was an opportunity many would have envied, but not Rudi.

  The Eastern front was beckoning, and poor Rudi looked grey and haunted at the thought of further combat and danger.

  At one time, Bruno would have been jealous of him.

  But no longer.

  Bruno closed his eyes and nuzzled Anja’s hair. Perhaps later he would envy Rudi the chance to fight on the Russian Front, but at this moment in time, he felt nothing more than relief.

  There may never be another opportunity for him to fly a fighter on combat operations, the wounds too severe to allow him back onto flying duties, yet it was only with mild surprise that he found he didn’t really care.

  He needed nothing more than what he already had, and although his body ached from his injuries, his mind was at peace.

  He was happy to remain on extended leave in beautiful Bavaria, attended to by his very own loving nurse.

  The damned war could wait. At least for now.

  Rose pushed back the gate that led to their front door, and stopped for a moment, enjoying the sight of the autumnal flowers still scattered randomly between the paving slabs of the front path in glorious and lively abandon, the bright morning sunlight illuminating them so they glowed vivid as if lit from within.

  It was a delight to see them at this time of the season, a delicate promise of the future as another year of war waned.

  Rose inhaled their sweet fragrance with pleasure, and adjusted the heavy satchel on his shoulder.

  Elsie had chased after him and quietly passed it to him as he left the Mess following breakfast, and it was bulging, heavy with fresh rolls, cheese, butter and eggs.

  “For you and Mrs Rose, sir,” she had breathed shyly, for the girl was completely different from the troublemaker who had endlesslly tortured Molly with her unfailingly regular infractions, now the (almost) fully-recovered and newly-promoted
WAAF Sergeant was always smart and immaculate in her uniform, proudly bearing the vivid ribbon of her very well-deserved Military Medal.

  The inveterate pest once notorious as ‘Jankarella’ was gone forever, and Elsie was now known by one and all as ‘Dickie’ (apparently shortened from ‘Boudicca’).

  The station was immensely proud of their fighting Viking princess, and even the grizzled Station Warrant Officer treated her with something approaching respect.

  Rose stopped and bent down suddenly on impulse and gently picked a delicate blue flower, holding it up carefully between forefinger and thumb.

  He didn’t know what it was (Molly would, because she knew everything), but its simple beauty caught his eyes and his joy at seeing yet another colourful dawn was enhanced by the knowledge that his tour was done.

  For once he could afford to truly enjoy the simple pleasure of being alive, and there would be no more operational flying and fighting for White or himself.

  James, now wearing the four rings of a Group Captain (great things were being planned for RAF Dimple Heath as part of a Bomber Command expansion programme in early 1942, the rumour mill heavy with suggestions of it becoming a heavy bomber squadron base for the newer four engine bombers coming out, with James the new Station Commander), with the ribbon of an OBE now proudly alongside his DSO, had been there to congratulate them on their latest victory.

  He was waiting for them, legs braced, as they taxied into dispersals, his new spaniel cowering behind his legs.

  With a wide smile and a warm handshake, James proudly confirmed to Rose and White that their operational tour was finished, they were done, and that they were to get a month of leave, beginning immediately, before their new postings arrived.

  There had even been mention of a possible tour of the United States.

  Rose would keep his fingers crossed, but could not dream of going without Molly. Already his mind was busy pondering how to get Molly onto detached duty so that they could go away together if the opportunity did come.

  For the immediate future at least, each day would be one of gentle administrative duties and peace, whilst each night would be filled with Molly’s sweet embrace.