“I don’t want you to fly by the seat of your pants. If you don’t know where you are, call for a fix or ask for a homing.”
Big was fair-haired and pale and had a naturally cheerful mien, but it could express gloom transparently. Tad, who was rather tall, with black hair en brosse, had no difficulty in looking glum. The cause of their momentary dejection was known to everyone. With the introduction of Very High Frequency radio to Fighter Command, pilots who asked for their position to be fixed had to make a voice transmission. Some counted, some recited the days of the week. Some recited a verse: “Mary Had A Little Lamb” was a favourite. Somebody had taught the two Poles a verse of “Eskimo Nell”, of which they understood hardly a word, and assured them it had been devised specially for getting a fix. Both had tried it on the same day. A loudspeaker in the Operations Room had thrown the W.A.A.F. around the plotting table into paroxysms of laughter or horror. The senior W.A.A.F. officer had heard of it and took umbrage. (The squadron said it was through rage at not being there to hear the juicy verse herself.) She had complained to the station commander.
Wing Commander Wilson had sent for Squadron Leader Addison and the Poles’ flight commander.
James had at once come up with an ingenious defence of his pilots.
“If the Queen Bee and her ‘gels’ didn’t already know all the words, sir, they wouldn’t have known that it was an obscene poem. And if they already knew all the words, there can’t be any question of corrupting the innocent or giving offence.”
“Casuistry, James. Good try, but it’s all balls and you know it.” Wilson, before promotion and posting to Nesborough, had commanded the squadron when Addison was James’s flight commander. He knew exactly where to touch James on the raw. “Bad manners I will not tolerate; even when they’re perpetrated in ignorance. Subjecting the girls to that sort of language was very ill-mannered. Little blame to the Poles; but some. They should have been sceptical. Particularly after that appalling black with Air Vice Marshal Browne last September. They should have known damn well that the squadron persistently pull their legs. So you give them a mild bollocking, Walter. Tell them not to believe everything they’re told; particularly by their own squadron.” Then the wing commander had chuckled uncontrollably.
The chastened Poles had, since then, avoided transmitting for a fix or homing unless in dire extremity: when they nervously counted from one to ten and hoped that they were not unconsciously offending some canon of British etiquette.
They put on their Irvine jackets, picked up their mae wests, helmets and parachutes and made for the door.
The whole room shouted “Skree kark!” Big and Tad beamed. It was James who had discovered that the phrase, pronounced “Skrench kark”, meant “Break your neck” and was the Polish way of wishing good luck. The squadron had taken it up, to the Poles’ delight.
James telephoned the duty controller in the Ops Room to tell him the names and callsign numbers of the two pilots he had detailed.
The controller was a middle-aged volunteer who had flown in the Great War. He had a genial disposition but long-suffering had its limits.
“Good God, James, have pity.”
“They need to practise their R/T procedure, Jonah.” He was smiling broadly as he spoke.
“I need an interpreter when those two are on their own.”
“If you adopt that attitude, their English will never improve.”
“This is going to cost you a drink.”
“They won’t be any trouble.”
The wireless section had fitted a pack set in the crew room. Someone switched it on and pushed the button for the channel which Big and Tad were to use. Everyone settled down to listen, including the squadron commander.
Presently they heard two Merlin engines come to life. Then two voices exchanging short messages in Polish. Finally “Hello Stinkray, Stinkray, here is Bovril Two-one and Two-two. Are you receivink me? Over.”
From the windows, the other pilots watched the two Spitfires disappear into the clouds.
*
Christopher Fenton told himself that perhaps this was carrying fraternal affection a trifle far. It was damnably cold up here and an endless vista of cloud-tops was boring. Also, he had a recurring certainty that Ronnie Brinsden would make an error in his navigation and fly him into a hill when they were supposedly going down through cloud over low, flat country near Nesborough.
Ronnie had never made a serious error in navigating throughout the nine months they had been together at Operational Training Unit and on the squadron. But instruments could go wrong. It could even be that his compass was inaccurate at this very moment and he was heading on quite the wrong course. They could end up in Southern Ireland or German-occupied Belgium. Tom Doyle had never taken a wrong bearing. He was a first rate wireless operator. But there was always a first time.
Why was he thinking like this? It had never happened on an op. He worried about lots of things, then, but never about his observer or his wireless op.
He looked around. The sun, such as it was in February, lit the cloud tops. A soft, liquid effect which reproduced the snow on the ground beneath and made him shiver.
Vigilance. He scanned the sky. No need, this morning. They were flying safely over England and Jerry couldn’t get off the deck to come and molest them: Met said their weather was worse than here, today. He could relax his vigilance in a way that he never could over the North Sea. Never knew when or where a 109 or a 110 or one of those blasted Ju 88s might appear. Then there were the E boats, which ranged far from their home waters and the first you knew of their presence was a rakish form sliding out of a patch of sea mist, a welter of 37 mm shells making tracer trails as they came at you. And those bloody flak ships, with their forest of bigger calibre guns, which were the wary watchdogs of every convoy.
Down there, in weather like this, the horizons contracted. Up here he should feel free and safe. As long as his crew had their fingers out and the instruments were not lying.
What’s the matter with me? I don’t usually have any trouble in adapting myself, digesting whatever the day brings, taking everything as it comes; whether it’s Jerry shooting the daylights out of my aircraft or a stroke of luck with a girl I’ve been fancying. Must be the prospect of seeing James, the one person I’ve always been able to be really uninhibited with. Perhaps I’m loosening my grip on emotions on which I’ve been keeping a tight hold. After all, it’s been no picnic these last six months; and I haven’t had a good jaw with James for three months.
“Where are we, Ronnie?”
There was no hesitation. You could always rely on Pilot Officer Brinsden to come back smartly with an answer. Not only that. They had a private joke in the crew: Ronnie Brinsden always affected to give them total precision of time and place. He did it now.
“Twenty-three miles due north of Nesborough now.”
Christopher laughed. “That means somewhere between twenty and thirty, I suppose. When do I begin my let-down?”
“In six and a half minutes from... now.”
“I’ll make a note of that. And expect you to tell me to start going down in about fifteen minutes’ time. All right?”
“Not all right. Six and... a quarter, now.”
Sergeant Curran, in the gun turret behind the flight deck, said “Two Spitfires, Skipper, four-o’clock, high.”
“Weather down there must be better than we thought. Probably James and one of his chaps hoping to bounce us. Stand by for evasive action, chaps.”
“Probably come to show us the way, Skipper: they must have heard about Ronnie’s navigating.”
Christopher had turned to starboard and looked over his right shoulder.
“They don’t appear to be coming this way.”
“Skipper,” there was a different note in Curran’s voice, “I can see three big aircraft just above cloud over there.” He paused. West Countrymen were not apt to commit themselves rashly. “Heinkels.”
Christopher knew that Curra
n’s caution was not prompted by any subservient desire to please or to ingratiate, but he felt an unreasonable resentment. It lasted only a second or two. He had not expected to run into Jerry today; up here; when his defences were down. He remembered his earlier uneasiness and his irritation then with himself because it was unreasonable to be fidgety.
“The Spits will deal with them.”
He envied the Spitfire pilots. He envied them for the graceful, deadly instruments of vengeance that they controlled and for their freedom of the skies which seemed to him much more real than his. They could roll and loop and spin, whereas he must traverse the sky sedately, with the occasional indulgence of a climbing or diving corkscrew when attacked. At the low level at which he had to operate, there was little opportunity even for that. He watched the Spitfires close with the Heinkels.
Sneak raiders were common enough. They came over, usually singly, on cloudy days, broke cloud when they calculated they were near some particular target, dropped their bombs and darted back into the clouds to hide again. What were these three doing? Evidently they had not seen the fighters, which were up-sun.
The Spitfires opened fire simultaneously. Six lines of tracer streaked the sky between each of them and its chosen target. Christopher and his crew had never seen British fighters in action. They had seen many Beauforts shot down by Messerschmitts and they recognised this as a typical fighter engagement: a quick pounce, a burst of fire from the closest possible range; an eruption of smoke and flames from the target, probably from one of its engines; or the pilot would be killed and the aircraft would dive into the sea.
Two of the Heinkel 111s plunged towards the clouds with fire gushing out of them, the Spitfires still shooting in short bursts. The machine-gunners at the upper rearward-facing guns in the bombers were returning the fire in long bursts. The Heinkel 111 had a gun on each beam amidships. These were also in action. The starboard gunner in the left-hand Heinkel was shooting at the Spitfire which had attacked the right-hand Heinkel. The port gunner in the latter was shooting at the Spitfire which had attacked the left-hand Heinkel.
As the two Heinkels disappeared into the clouds, leaving billows of smoke above them, a puff of white smoke spewed out of one of the Spitfires and it pulled up sharply, followed by its companion.
The third Heinkel 111, which had been leading the formation, was coming straight towards the Beaufort, skimming the cloud tops, disappearing now and then in wraiths of grey vapour, only to reappear glinting brightly as it reflected the sun’s rays.
The Beaufort crew’s attention was divided between it and the Spitfire which had been hit. Oily black smoke as well as white glycol smoke was now forming a trail behind the Spitfire. Sparks were cascading from it. Small flames stabbed through the smoke and sparks. The Spitfire rolled onto its back and its pilot fell from his cockpit. The Spitfire flew on in a steepening curve towards the cloud tops. The pilot’s parachute opened.
Full attention on the Heinkel now. It out-gunned the Beaufort. There was a moveable 7.9 mm machine-gun in its nose, a fixed one in the wing for the pilot to fire, and a 20 mm cannon firing forward from a gondola under its belly. These were in addition to the dorsal and beam guns, which could not be brought to bear on the Beaufort as long as it stayed ahead of the Heinkel. The Beaufort had two .303 machine-guns in its nose and two, which could not fire forward, in its dorsal turret. Their speeds were virtually identical.
The one cannon in the Heinkel was worth more than all four of the Beaufort’s guns, for it could destroy an aircraft from six hundred yards - and more - while machine-guns were effective at only half that range.
Christopher knew that it would be prudent to dive into cloud and avoid combat. There were many reasons why he should do so. He had a duty to safeguard his aircraft and his crew. He owed caution to his C.O. and flight commander, who knew that the real purpose of this flight was to visit his brother and not to carry out a navigation exercise; he ought not to abuse the privilege.
On the other hand, was it not also his duty to damage or destroy enemy aircraft as much as to damage or destroy enemy ships, whenever he had the opportunity? A specious argument, he admitted. Particularly as the Spitfire was overhauling the Heinkel. But how much ammunition did its pilot still have? Spitfires and Hurricanes were good for only 14.8 seconds’ firing. He had probably used more than half that on his first victim. Still, there should be enough left to finish off a second one.
If he added his fire to it, though, there would be a virtual certainty of shooting the brute down. Wouldn’t there?
Be honest, he said to himself: you can’t stomach the thought of pulling out of the fight. Sergeant Doyle had left his wireless station to man the nose guns. He had to make a quick decision: into the clouds, or fight?
He could feel months of resentment and frustration welling up to make him rebellious. He had made up his mind to go to a fighter squadron; had flown eighty hours on Hurricanes at flying training school: and been switched, against his will, to twin-engined machines; to torpedo-carrying Beauforts. The sight of a Spitfire was always a twist of the knife in the wound. To see one in action had brought back all his longing to be flying one. The clouds were close beneath. There would be no disgrace in seeking shelter in them. But his hands and feet simply would not respond to the voice of prudence.
Whatever hesitation he may have had was banished. Tracer from the Heinkel’s cannon licked past. It came in big daubs of colour: green, red, yellow; more menacing than the smaller, glittering flecks of tracer from a machine-gun.
He kicked on hard right rudder without using aileron and the Beaufort made a flat skid to starboard. The cannon shells passed wide to port and slightly below.
He heard Tom Doyle open fire, saw tracer curve away from the twin front Vickers, smelt cordite smoke which drifted into the cockpit.
The Heinkel turned head-on at the Beaufort. Christopher skidded to port while Doyle kept firing in brief, frequent bursts. He saw tracer bullets thudding into the Heinkel’s nose. Doyle, with practical good sense, was trying to kill the air gunner in the ventral gondola. Some of his bullets spattered against the starboard engine cowling.
The Spitfire had killed the dorsal gunner with a one-second burst at less than a hundred yards. It was now raking the port engine with bullets. The Heinkel passed the Beaufort on its starboard side, close enough for the air it disturbed to rock the Beaufort. The Spitfire pilot emptied his guns into the Heinkel’s port engine, which caught alight with leaping flames and coiling smoke. Its crew started to bale out.
Christopher turned back onto his original course. He had registered that the Spitfire’s identification letters showed it belonged to James’s squadron. It was only now that it came to him, with a jolt, that it might have been James whom he had seen take to his parachute.
The Spitfire came close alongside and Christopher turned to look at the pilot: who was waving to him and, although hidden by goggles and oxygen-and-microphone mask, was recognisably not his brother. He wished they had a common radio frequency so that he could speak to him. Instead he made what he hoped would be seen as amiable and congratulatory gestures, then tried to indicate that he was about to descend through cloud. The Spitfire pilot gave him a final wave and dived steeply away, to disappear shortly. Doyle gave Brinsden a fix, Brinsden gave Christopher a course correction and distance from Nesborough. Soon the clouds enveloped them as they slanted down towards Suffolk.
They had not achieved much. Perhaps they had helped the Spit type by distracting the ferries’ attention a bit. So why had he done it? Christopher wondered. Why had he taken the risk, exposed his crew and aircraft to injury - perhaps death - and damage?
Because I’m me, I suppose, he told himself; but without much pride in it: the risk really had not been warrantable. He felt much better for it, though. A load had been lifted, even though it was a load he could not properly identify. His crew seemed to have enjoyed it too. Despite his informality, he kept strict intercommunication discipline when they were on
ops. On a .joyride like this, he allowed some laxity. There was a lot - for them - of chatter going on on the intercom. He joined in, ragging Tom Doyle because he had not shot out one of the Heinkel’s engines instead of opting for self-preservation and an attempt to silence the air gunner behind its cannon.
*
James had been listening with the rest of the squadron’s pilots to the messages by radio-telephone between Big Uwodzicielski and Tad Brzk, and between them and the controller. As usual, the Poles’ early exchanges with Operations had amused them. Between themselves, Big and Tad spoke Polish; which, James said, was probably even funnier if one could understand it.
The weather reconnaissance was not strictly necessary and had been ordered to break the monotony of sitting about idly in the crew room. James had given the two Poles the task because he made a point of making them feel useful; and by sending them aloft in such poor weather he was paying their flying ability a compliment.
“Hello Stinkray, here is Bovril One-two... no, is Two-one, I am sayink again, is Two-one. We are angels eighteen, above cloud. Very nice sun. Is big clouds to wschod from here. Over.”
“Bovril Two-one from Stingray. Say again word after ‘clouds’. Over.”
There was a pause, while Big evidently recalled his words.
“I say again big clouds to wschod from here.”
“Big clouds where?”
“Wschod... sorry, sorry... is east.”
“Understand east. How far and what sort of cloud?”
“Maybe twenty miles is cu-nims.”
“O.K. Scull around for half an hour.”
There was a rapid, puzzled-sounding conversation between the two pilots. James looked more amused than concerned.
“Jonah’s asking for trouble.”
“Hello Stinkray. What you want for we are doink? What is this skilling around please?”
“I said sculling around, Two-one. Never mind. Just fly around for twenty minutes.”
“Understandink we fly around.” Big’s voice sounded dubious. There was some more Polish. James went to the Ops. telephone.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 20