Slipstream

by Alan Judd

  To Nigel, Susan and Stephen Judd

  Chapter One

  Frank Foucham winced at the flash of light. It was only the afternoon sun catching the stream where he had cast his fly but he couldn’t help it. Nor could he stop the trembling in his arms that followed. His hands were not obviously shaking but the tiny rapid quivering of his muscles was enough to vibrate the tip of his rod. He lowered it into the long grass and clasped his hands hard. The shakes came only now and again but if Phil, the squadron doctor, saw him spill his beer in the mess he might take him off flying.

  He kept his eyes on his fly, which was still on the water. It was an Infallible, a wet fly, which meant that it would gradually sink. He would have preferred a dry fly, or at least some grease to keep his line afloat, but there was no chance of finding either. He had been a keen angler since his first boyhood trips with his stepfather, back home in Canada, but now, here in wartime England, he no longer minded whether he caught anything. You were almost never alone in the air force and he treasured these rare periods of solitude, content to be in the presence of the unknown, loving the quiet mystery of dark pools as much as – perhaps more than – solving it.

  The flash of sun on water recalled others he had seen that morning, distant flashes from the greenhouses and windows of northern France 15,000 feet below. And later those other flashes, less pure white, mixed with red and yellow and sometimes a puff of black smoke, as rockets from the low-flying Typhoons found targets on the German airfield. One, a Focke-Wulf 190, was on the runway and had almost got off the ground when it burst into flames and skidded into others parked nearby. That made a bigger flash, with much more red and a great revolving pall of black smoke.

  It was just after this, as Frank tipped his Spitfire left to get a better view, that he saw the other flash, the one like the flash of sun on water, very brief and pure white, on his right quarter.

  At the same moment his headphones were filled by Patrick’s voice. ‘Foxtrot Alpha One break right!’

  He heaved on the stick, banking and turning so tightly that he felt the flesh of his neck bulge and the blood begin to drain from his head. For a long second he hung vertically and seemingly motionless on the propeller, his engine roaring and straining, while the white flash mutated into the cockpit window of an FW190, closing fast. It had already opened fire, tracer rounds streaking just below him. For every one that glowed there would be nine unseen. He had a vivid glimpse of the German plane’s yellow propeller spinner and the immaculate black eagle on its fuselage, then he was alone, twisting and climbing into an empty sky.

  It was anything but, of course.

  He looped upside down out of his turn to see below him a mêlée of Focke-Wulfs and Spitfires wheeling, soaring and plummeting above the spiralling smoke from burning aircraft and camouflaged corrugated hangars on the airfield below. The remaining Typhoons, their job done, headed low and fast for home, pursued by the black puffs of exploding anti-aircraft shells, leaving several of their squadron burning fiercely in the woods.

  The Focke-Wulf did not pursue Frank through his upward spiral, knowing he could be out-turned by Spitfires and trusting to his superior acceleration to get away. He had judged well; by the time Frank saw him again he was out of range and climbing like a demented bee. Frank gave him a burst, half in acknowledgement, half as a sop to his own pride. If it hadn’t been for Patrick’s call the German would have had him, deservedly.

  Below Frank the scrap was in full spate, the sky now teeming with Focke-Wulfs where there had been none moments before. The British attack had achieved surprise, with the Typhoons going in below the treetops, and it was unlikely that any Germans had got off the ground. The Focke-Wulfs were probably from Évreux-Fauville, a formidable lot only a few minutes’ flying time away. Frank’s face was hot, his palms sweating, the muscles in his arms trembling. He broke left and tipped his wings to get a better view. A Spitfire flashed across his nose, the pilot’s goggled face turned towards him in horrified surprise. Shaken by the Spitfire’s slipstream, he heaved on the stick and banked left again. Three thousand feet below he saw the Dodger in Foxtrot Alpha Four chasing a smoking Focke-Wulf as it dived to get away. Unable to close but still within range, the Dodger was firing short bursts, clinical, controlled, concentrating on his kill. Concentrating too well; behind and above him, gaining fast, were two more Focke-Wulfs. Don’t chase the damaged down, Patrick was always telling them, look out for your own tail.

  Frank put his nose down and opened the throttle, shouting ‘Alpha Four break now, break now!’ into his radio. Alpha One vibrated as she always did in a dive, not dangerously, but as if quivering with excitement. He closed on the nearer Focke-Wulf’s rear quarter at over 400 knots, adjusted his sights, counted three more seconds and pressed the trigger. At that moment the Dodger broke right and climbed steeply, either spotting his pursuers or in response to Frank’s call. The Focke-Wulf did the same and Frank’s cannon shells passed inches below its tail-plane. But the farther Focke-Wulf made the same mistake as his quarry, concentrating too hard and breaking right to pursue the Dodger. As he turned, he briefly filled Frank’s sights, two white plumes trailing his clipped wingtips, his markings clear.

  Bits flew off him as Frank’s cannon shells struck behind the cockpit. There was no burst of flame or smoke but the entire aircraft shuddered as if in an unsteady camera frame, then began an almost leisurely roll to the right, nose down, showing its yellow underbelly. Frank steepened his dive and gave it a long burst, his shells exploding into the fuselage. As he broke away it went into a spin and the cockpit cover flew off. For an instant he could see the pilot struggling to get out. He would have no chance.

  Frank levelled out at under 3000 feet. He was over woods and fields, miles from the airfield, with no other planes now visible save for the last moments of the plummeting Focke-Wulf, spinning and smoking. It hit the ground with a wide flash and a plume of thick black smoke. Frank began a long, turning climb, watching for anything behind or above. His hands were clammy and sweat trickled down inside his goggles. A tremor in his legs made him feel he wanted to kick out or get up and run around. It was sickening to see a fellow pilot, even a German one, atomised in an instant of heat. But there was also the elation that always followed a kill, the thrill of victory in mortal combat, the sense of potency. It was like being back at school and scoring a goal, only here you were on your own with no one to cheer you, just that coiling black smoke to mark an extinction that could have been you.

  At 10,000 feet he circled, looking for the target airfield. It was marked by flames and smoke miles to the north now, with just two or three dark specks circling above like distant crows. Huns, probably, since the scrap was over. The Spits must have been low on fuel and Patrick would have told them to break for home. Frank was Patrick’s wingman and they’d be wondering what had happened to him. He had enough fuel to get home provided he didn’t run into trouble. It was always dangerous, returning without a wingman. The enemy, thoroughly aroused by the poking of their nest, would be hunting in pairs for returning marauders, especially damaged ones. Frank checked all his systems. He was undamaged, but still vulnerable. There was broken cloud at 20,000 feet, not much, but any cover was better than none. Forty gallons meant he had enough fuel to gain height. He resumed his climb, heading west in order to give the airfield a wide berth before setting course 323 degrees for home. Foxtrot Alpha One’s Merlin engine note was reassuringly steady. Frank loved his aeroplane.

  Chapter Two

  Frank taxied to Dispersal, revved the engine to clear it, then switched everything off and sat motionless, savouring the silence before the ground crew clambered up around him. His head still rang with noise and vibration and he could smell the hot fumes, but for half a minute the healing balm of silence sprea
d from within, like consciousness of grace. Even the shouts and exclamations of the mechanics, startlingly clear after the distortions of the radio, did not at first dispel it.

  He had picked up the Dodger on the way back, finding him limping along at 230 knots and 15,000 feet, a tell-tale thin dark vapour-line of burnt oil behind. Frank was at 20,000 feet and just within sight of the coast of France. He approached the Dodger in a long shallow dive, well off to his right so as not to alarm him. When he was parallel and sure of being seen and identified, he moved in close. There were no flames but the Dodger’s engine cowling was streaked with oil and holed near the rear. He flew level, however, and his prop was regular. Not wanting to give their position away by breaking radio silence, Frank tipped his wings and held up his thumb, wriggling it from vertical to horizontal. The Dodger’s goggled face grinned and he held his thumb up. Frank dropped back and climbed to 17,000 feet, playing guardian angel all the way back to the Kent coast. By the time they reached the airfield the Dodger’s oil vapour was thickening ominously and he was feathering his engine. He turned it off and glided down to a perfect landing.

  Roused by the ground crew, Frank unharnessed himself and pushed back his cockpit canopy. For a few seconds more he still carried the silence within him, like a full glass of water. Always, even after a successful mission with reason to celebrate – another kill – he was reluctant to re-engage, to spill the water. And always, the moment the glass was smashed, he thought no more of it.

  A tractor was towing the Dodger’s plane off the end of the runway, fire engine and ambulance in attendance. Frank could just make out the Dodger’s squat shape and characteristic gesticulations. Uninjured, evidently. That was no surprise; it was possible to imagine the Dodger not existing at all but impossible to imagine a lesser, maimed or disabled Dodger. It seemed his body could barely contain his energy. Like him or loathe him, he filled a room, was a quick and adept pilot, daring in combat to the point of foolhardiness, impulsive and unpredictable. He owed his nickname to his ability to dodge trouble both in the air and on the station, where he often sailed pretty close to the wind. Frank envied him his confidence and was pleased to have been able to shepherd him home.

  In the debrief afterwards the Dodger was exuberant. ‘Did you get him? Did you get the bastard who got me?’

  ‘I got him. The film will confirm. But I got him.’

  The Dodger slapped him on the shoulder, his grin showing nearly all his large, widely spaced teeth.

  ‘Good old Moose. First I knew of it was a bloody great bang and I could see bugger all, oil all over my goggles, half my instruments gone. Talk about flying blind, all I could do was heave up and away till the fog cleared. Marvel I didn’t fly into anyone. Christ knows what happened to the bastard I was chasing. Sure I hit him. Did anyone see?’

  Tim, the lanky Kiwi, thought he might have seen him go down but couldn’t be sure. Nor was anyone else. The squadron hadn’t lost anyone and had accounted for two Focke-Wulfs, including Frank’s, plus a possible, so the atmosphere was cheerful. The Typhoons had suffered badly, though, losing two to flak, another to the Focke-Wulfs and a fourth caught by the explosion of the third. It was too often the way with low-level attacks on defended targets: they might work but they were always costly. Someone thought another Typhoon had fallen prey to two Focke-Wulfs near the end of the scrap but someone else reckoned he had intercepted them, allowing it to escape. An argument began.

  Patrick held up his hand. ‘Cut it. Leave it to film and body count. We’ll find out later.’ There was immediate silence. They sat on their fold-up chairs, looking at him. He was seated at the table with the station intelligence officer. The wing commander was elsewhere. ‘Now, before you all cut along for nosh, one more thing.’ He lit another cigarette, taking his time. Patrick never hurried, never raised his voice, never needed to. He spoke with a calm assurance that was assumed by those with no experience of it to be due to his Eton schooling. He missed nothing and pulled no punches, but was never less than polite. ‘We nearly lost two pilots today through basic errors, errors you all know to avoid. Dodger, because you were too intent on your prey even after he was obviously hit and out of it. You didn’t look behind you. It’s basic, elementary. You’d have hit the ground before he did – if he did – if Frank hadn’t saved your bacon. And Frank, right at the start because you were hanging around sight-seeing, looking at the pretty pictures on the ground instead of looking out for Jerry. You should have seen those 190s before I did. They came from your side and damn nearly caught us all napping. Save daydreaming for your fishing and keep your eyes peeled, all the time. That applies to everyone.’ He looked at the young faces around him, silent and solemn now. ‘Apart from that, well done everybody. It was a good score and we gave the Typhoons time to do a proper job on the airfield, which they did, poor buggers. A good show. Well done.’

  There was bacon and eggs in the mess, smelling better than it looked or tasted. The Dodger sat next to Frank, held up his single thin rasher and snorted like a pig. ‘You saved mine. Guess you’re entitled to this.’ His Mancunian voice carried along the table, prompting dismissive remarks about the bacon.

  ‘Keep it on account,’ said Frank. ‘Save mine next time.’

  The Dodger held his rasher up to the light. ‘So bloody thin it’s transparent, look. Like fag paper. Rizla Red, that’s all it is.’

  Afterwards, the Dodger, Tim and a couple of others remained at the table and resumed their analysis of the scrap. Frank took his tea over to the armchairs, where Patrick was reading a paper. ‘I should have given you my bacon,’ he said. He so respected Patrick, so wanted to please him, that he was often nervous about speaking to him. ‘You saved mine.’

  Patrick shook his head and proffered his cigarettes. ‘You’ll do the same for me.’

  ‘Sorry that I—’

  Don’t be.’ He held up his lighter for Frank. ‘Why don’t you push off for the rest of the day? Go fishing. You like fishing, don’t you? No more ops planned. We’re stood down. The other lot are on standby. Take Roddy’s bike.’

  Roddy had gone down during a scrap over Calais a few days before, spinning helplessly with half his port wing shot away. His possessions had been cleared from their hut with the usual prompt and discreet efficiency but his bike was still outside.

  ‘Have it,’ continued Patrick, ‘have it as yours. It wasn’t really his, anyway. He inherited from Ian. Or maybe what’s-his-name – Bruce, the South African. Before your time, anyway.’ He exhaled forcefully. ‘Not that there’s much for a fly-fisher here in Kent, is there?’

  ‘A few. Brown trout. Nothing big but just enough for a bit of sport.’

  ‘We should move the squadron to Hampshire. You’d have the Avon, then. Mainly coarse fish but there are some decent trout to be had on mayfly. Even a few salmon below Fordingbridge. Better still the Test, of course. Beautiful river, the most perfect chalk stream.’

  Patrick’s range of accomplishments never ceased to surprise. He had learned to fly at Oxford, won a blue as a half-miler and seemed to know a bevy of senior generals, admirals and air marshals.

  ‘I didn’t know you fished.’

  ‘Used to. Get back to it one day. Can’t think of anything better than a day on the Test, right now.’ Patrick yawned. ‘Well done this morning, anyway.’

  ‘Sorry again about the sight-seeing.’

  ‘We all do it. Need each other to remind ourselves. It’ll be me next time. Just make sure you tell me. Go and catch a fish.’

  On his way out of the mess Frank saw a letter from his mother on the round table in the entrance, obvious immediately by its Canadian stamp and her hand. It was a short account of home, the farm, his father, his brothers and sisters, the puppy he hadn’t seen, nothing of herself and at the end a brief but telling wish that all was well with him. It was clear she hadn’t got his last, sent some time – weeks, perhaps, he had lost track – ago. Her restraint was eloquent of her concern and reproach. He pushed the letter into his
tunic pocket, intending to reply that evening. He would fish first.

  Chapter Three

  Roddy’s bike was an ancient black Hercules, heavy-framed with pitted handlebars, three-speed gears, no lights and a warped leather saddle. The tyres were pumped up. Frank remembered Roddy on it, pedalling slowly, his blond head bent low over the handlebars. He was a quiet man, an equable Londoner, always carrying a book. Frank had no idea where he went on his bike, apart from using it to get around the airfield. Perhaps he rode off into the country to read, seeking silence, like Frank. He’d joined the squadron a week or so before Frank and had lasted about six, therefore. They hadn’t spoken more than half a dozen times.

  When Frank mounted the bike, his tackle slung in a kitbag over his shoulder and his rod tied to the crossbar with string from the station office, he discovered why Roddy used to ride so slowly and with such apparent effort. It was stuck in top gear and no amount of fiddling with the cable would move it. The rear wheel would have to come off and the hub be dismantled. He would put up with it for now and do that another time, as Roddy had no doubt intended. And perhaps Bruce before him, and whoever it was before Bruce. No one really owned anything on the airfield; if you used something regularly you acquired a temporary and informal title to it, until you were gone. Best known and most coveted was what was known as Martin’s motorbike, a much-abused BSA 250cc whose temporary owner was anyone who could be bothered to tinker with it enough to keep it going. No one now remembered who Martin had been.

  It was not far to the Beult, the nearest fishable stream, and Frank enjoyed his meditative progress through the elm-lined lanes of Kent, a welcome change from flying at 300 knots a few feet above them. The Beult, a small stream, was low that summer. He had already fished the most accessible reaches, with ready permission from the landowners who were pleased to indulge a pilot. But with the water now so low, there was only one stretch that would do, a slow bend with deeper pools shaded by willows, hidden from the lane by an orchard. Unable to discover the landowner, he had fished it several times without permission.