James had been ordered to patrol a mile inside the east coast between Felixstowe and Clacton-on-Sea. Unless a break in the clouds occurred, he would be unable to discern landmarks. In the Sector Operations Room at Nesborough there were a controller and two deputy controllers. One of them was in constant R/T touch with him, and, from plots on the big general situation map, or plotting table, in the centre of the room, could tell him when to turn if he were in doubt. The plots, however, lagged behind his true position, because of the time taken in collating and passing on radar information in the Group Filter Room. However, the fighters were now all equipped with very high frequency radio, which gave them greater range and clarity than the old H.F. sets. An accurate plot of a pilot’s position was easily obtained. If he made a voice transmission for five or six seconds it was enough for the sector’s three direction-finding stations to take a bearing on it. These were passed directly by the D/F operator to a plotter at the fixer table in the Ops Room. Each plotter immediately laid off the bearing with a long piece of string which was anchored at each D/F station on the fixer table map. Where the three strings crossed, there was the position of the fighter. With this information a fighter controller could keep abreast of his pilots’ position in the sky.
The anti-aircraft batteries were given the lowest height at which night fighters would be operating and were supposed to set their fuses so that their shells would explode safely below them. Again, this could not be entirely relied upon.
Tonight there was only half a moon. The controller on duty in the Group Ops Room was jumpy. The Y service, which monitored enemy radio transmissions between aircraft and between them and the ground, reported a lot of activity. Radar stations picked up signs of aircraft taking off from France and then fading.
James made his first turn over Felixstowe. He could not see the ground, even though the snow showed fairly well where there were rifts in the clouds.
“Pistol One-five from Stingray. Turn now. Over.”
“Stingray from One-five. Thank you. Out.”
“Pistol Two-one from Stingray. Turn now. Over.”
Big Uwodzicielski was over Maldon, in Essex, and heading for Colchester. He was flying - James hoped he was flying - at one thousand feet above James; who would have been happier if they were both heading north or south simultaneously instead of towards each other. But he had a good wide lateral displacement as well as a horizontal one. There was nothing wrong with Big’s flying, but he did become excited at the prospect of a fight and his R/T procedure and intelligibility were less than perfect at the best of times.
This was tiring work. James watched his instruments closely, he kept searching the darkness. Another Spitfire was on patrol to the north of his line. He heard the pilot report that he was about to turn south.
The radiolocation stations on the east coast should give the controller ample warning of an approaching raid or single enemy aircraft: yet he anxiously looked eastward, seeking the silhouette of a bomber against the light of the crescent moon or its exhaust flames against the surrounding blackness.
Splinters of distracting thought kept needling their way into his mind. Tomorrow he was going to London for forty-eight hours. He would see Nicole. The thoughts came as imperceptibly as she had penetrated into the core of his life. Not insidiously, for there was nothing cunning about the way that she had taken over so large a part of his concern and affection. It had been mutual and spontaneous, for all that it was a gentle, gradual convergence of shared feeling. He was not dependent on her: he insisted always to himself, when he assessed how much she meant to him, that he was dependent on no one but himself. To what extent was she dependent on him? She depended on him for tenderness and whatever stability there could be for a French girl of twenty cut off by war from her parents and in a foreign country; but he knew that beyond that there was little for which she looked to him or anyone else. The better he knew her, the more signs he read of her self-reliance and pride. He was beginning to wish that it were otherwise, that she were not so strong a character and that she needed his support more. He had many responsibilities but that was an added one which he admitted he would welcome.
“Pistol One-five... Stingray. Trade for you. Bandit twenty miles east at same height. Over.”
“Understood, Stingray. Over.”
“One-five, maintain present vector.”
“Staying on two-zero-zero, angels twelve, Out.”
“Stinkray, Stinkray. You have trade for me? Two-one over.”
“Nothing yet, Two-one. Maintain present vector.”
Two minutes passed, with a brief check every thirty seconds. James told himself cynically that this was bound to be another Jerry which he would never see. He thought of Big, wriggling about in his narrow cockpit, jerking his head from side to side hoping to catch a glimpse of the target before he did, hoping the bandit was wrongly plotted and would turn out to be close to his own patrol line.
“Pistol Two-one from Stingray. Trade for you now. Bandit ten miles east, height twelve thousand. Stay at present angels and on same vector.”
“Stinkray... I must go down... over.”
“Two-one. I say again, maintain angels thirteen. Over.”
“O.K.” It did not sound as though Big thought that it was at all O.K. He sounded resigned and irritable.
“One-five. Vector zero-four-five. Bandit changed course. When on zero-four-five it will be three miles starboard, on heading two-five-zero.”
James was not pleased by the 150-degree turn to port. His reply was curt.
“One-five turning onto zero-four-five.”
The coastal searchlights came on; four of them throwing their beams onto the lower surfaces of the clouds over and just beyond the coast.
An anti-aircraft battery opened fire. James saw the shells bursting in and near the beams. He could not see their target.
He heard the controller give Big a change of course and then saw more searchlights to the north of him. Soon there was gunfire there too.
This is like a separate, small, secret war, James was thinking. There is more self-justification about it than efficacy. Fighter Command is trying to justify ordering us up night after night to flog the air, and we are trying to justify our existence by a token acceptance of the validity of the whole concept. I’m here, and Big’s there, and someone else is further south of me, and we’re each chasing around in circles in our patch of sky, giving a great display of briskness. If Churchill drops in on the Ops Room at Command or Group H.Q. he will be impressed. The ack-ack boys and the chaps on the searchlights are probably impressed. Political leaders have never been famous for keeping their troubles to themselves: they involve us all in their bafflement and ambitions. They bully our commanders, even air marshals, generals and admirals.
He was experiencing a spate of sour resentment, but it was short-lived. Other matters grabbed his attention.
Big had been told to change to another frequency, on which he would have the sole attention of one of the deputy controllers. It was a simple matter of pressing one of four buttons. James was relieved that he would no longer be interrupted by Big’s exchanges with the controller, which would, he knew, become increasingly garbled.
“Pistol One-five, bandit should be two-o’clock to you, about a mile.”
“Thank you, Stingray.”
He would be lucky to spot exhaust flames at three hundred yards; and then only provided the Hun was in a clear patch of sky.
The clouds parted and he emerged into an area where the moon shone temporarily unmasked by higher clouds. He thought he could see a flickering reddish glow moving south-eastwards a few hundred yards to his starboard front. He turned a little to reach it more quickly. Two searchlights shifted from east to west and he saw an object gleam silvery where they intersected. A flurry of shells burst around it.
Damn those gunners and damn the controller and the ack-ack liaison officer at his side. The guns were supposed to be silent when a fighter was as close as this to a target
.
A dozen shells burst in quick succession near enough to James for their blast to tip his Spitfire first onto one wingtip and then the other, to toss its nose high, and, a fraction of a second later, shove it down; to swing its tail from side to side; to make it switchback, yaw and sideslip, sometimes two or all three together. It lasted for six or seven seconds. He banked away from the searchlights, the bursting shells; and the enemy. He climbed five hundred feet to distance himself further from the gunfire.
A cloud hid the moon. Another cloud, below him, blotted out the searchlights. The sudden change from brilliant light to deep darkness made him momentarily blind.
Not blind enough not to see a stream of tracer almost clip the top of his canopy and his wings. From habit he glanced at his rear view mirror. It reflected only the night. By day, he would have made an immediate tight turn to try to position himself on his enemy’s tail. Whatever was shooting at him now must be a Heinkel, Dornier or Junkers and less agile than his Spitfire. He would have no difficulty in turning inside it and placing himself wherever he wished. The thought took no more than a second.
He was not in a mood to do the conventional thing. Aerobatics at night were crazy. But he was a good enough pilot to have no doubts about his judgment. He had practised slow rolls and barrel rolls often enough when night flying and never had any difficulty in knowing which way up he was. His instruments had never let him down. Another fraction of a second passed.
James went into a barrel roll. I’ll let Jerry pass me, he thought, and I’ll have a good view of his exhausts as he does so. Then I’ll get him.
Several streaks of closely bunched tracer fire coruscated past at the very moment when he began his manoeuvre. He could hear the thud of cannon: the enemy bomber must be very close.
He had rolled to the right. His lower wing, the starboard one, shuddered under a tremendous impact. The whole aircraft shook as it was thrust aside. It seemed to hang for a moment and then it began to drop. As it fell it began to turn slowly onto its back.
James saw the artificial horizon topple. He felt the aircraft lose speed. If it went into an inverted flat spin he would never get out.
Close ahead of him he saw exhaust flames. His mind was clear and alert. That was a single-engined aircraft... unless it was a twin which had lost an engine... the flames from its exhaust were gyrating slowly... they went from sight.
He trusted to his bodily sensations to help him emerge from this predicament. He knew that he ought to bale out, but what if his aeroplane crashed onto a house? He slid back the canopy. He could feel the straps of his seat harness biting into his shoulders. His head seemed congested with blood: it was beginning to throb. He moved the stick and the Spitfire sluggishly floundered into a rolling motion, still dropping. He kept its nose down and pressure on the stick to resist the drag of his starboard wing. Looking out at it, he could see that several feet had been torn off its tip.
“Stingray, this is Pistol One-five... homing, please... I’ve been in a collision.”
Ten seconds later the homer at Nesborough gave him a bearing for base. He began now to wonder if he would get there. His artificial horizon had stabilised but the Spitfire was shuddering spasmodically, it was reluctant to answer the controls. He feared that a control cable would part while he was making his final approach and too low to bale out. He feared that another piece of the wings, tail unit or airframe might fall off.
What had happened to the aircraft which had flown into him? It must have been the Jerry, and it must have lost an engine when they collided. If it had gone down, would he be allowed to claim it as a kill?
A feeling of physical and mental weakness overcame him. He began to laugh. His body shook with laughter and with the vibration of the Spitfire. He was losing control of himself. His laughter was becoming hysterical, manic. He stopped abruptly. If he didn’t get a grip on himself he’d prang and write himself off. Stop being a bloody fool, you fool. Calmness returned. The beacon came in sight. The air traffic controller in the control tower spoke to him.
“Obstruction on the flarepath, Pistol One-five. Spitfire crashed on landing.”
He could see the brilliant white flood of the Chance light on its vehicle half-way along the string of mobile flarepath lights.
“Can you go round again while we move the wreckage. One-five?”
“Make it quick. Who was it?”
“It was Pistol Two-one.”
Revelation came to James.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes, he walked away from it.”
I hope I shall, thought James.
He watched a lorry, identifiable only by the thin beams cast through the slitted masks on its headlamps, drag Big’s crashed Spitfire aside.
The Spitfire lurched and swayed when its narrowly-set wheels touched the snowy grass. It swerved and one wheel lifted. It tilted dangerously and James braced himself for the tip of his port wing to snag the ground and drag him into a ground loop. It slumped back onto an even keel.
A surge of anger and depression swept through him. He wouldn’t be going on a forty-eight-hour pass tomorrow now. There would be a court of inquiry into the accident; and courts of inquiry could not be postponed.
He damned his luck. He damned Flying Officer Uwodzicielski. He damned everyone in the entire fighter control system. He damned the whole crass business of sending single-seat fighters up, especially in murky weather, to try to intercept raiders at night.
Tight spasms of anger, resentment, misery, frustration and the backlash from intense fear pulsed in his mind and nervous system.
More than ever he felt the need for Nicole. He felt also that, in a way he could not define, he had lost his grip on the little amount of security and continuity a man could expect to retain in a war. Something had slipped from his grasp and he was not quite sure what it was. He hoped it was not his confidence.
He taxied the Spitfire away from the flarepath and had a vague sensation of being disembodied and of being transported far away in time as well as in place. For some reason in which he could see no logic he had a sharp mind’s-eye image of Christopher and himself, in short trousers, pelting along the beach at home on Hayling Island, each holding a skein of string with a kite at its end; each trying to launch his before the other. They used to take a lot of trouble with the kites they made, and the secret, they discovered, was in the tail. Get its length right and its weight, and it would soar aloft and stay there. Get them wrong, and it would slip and dart and describe small rapid circles and then come crashing down.
James had the impression that all the elements of his life had been upset, what was steady had become capricious, the calculable had turned mystifying. The whole balance of his being had been disturbed and made as erratic as the rogue kites of his boyhood.
*
Big Uwodzicielski, lugubrious, chastened and apologetic, was getting on James’s nerves. James had been late going to bed: largely because he, Big and several of their friends had kept the bar open while they conducted the usual hilarious inquisition into the event. Nothing was allowed to show a tragic side in the R.A.F. Narrow escapes from death were traditionally a cause for irreverent amusement. Big, after a crestfallen and humble start, had cottoned on to this. Even so, although he was carried along by the mocking spirit of the gathering, he was tortured by an underlying fear that he would be grounded.
James, talking to him privately, did his best to reassure him.
“The court of inquiry won’t blame you, old boy. It’s stupid to send Spits up on interceptions at night at any time, but in weather like that it’s asking for trouble. What browns me off is that there were two Jerries there and they both got away.”
“But I prang you, James.”
“We were both perfectly entitled to change height in order to make a successful interception. We were both completely justified in leaving our patrol lines when we saw our targets. We evidently both spotted the same Jerry and nobody - neither of us, nor Ops, nor the guns, no
r the searchlights - knew exactly where we were.”
There had been a discussion with Tug Wilson and Walter Addison: who had to maintain a certain reserve until more could be said officially; but James felt certain that neither Big nor he would be blamed.
That had not ensured him a peaceful night’s sleep, however. As he told himself, his nerves were jangling like the bells on the station fire engines. He relived the episode in a nightmare and woke feeling unrefreshed and morose.
After breakfast he telephoned Sous-Lieutenant Nicole Girard at Air Ministry.
“Don’t tell me something has gone wrong, James.”
Her voice, as it always did since their reunion five months ago after more than a year apart, brought him an incomparable feeling of joy, excitement and, contrarily, tranquillity.
“‘Fraid so. I’ll have to put my forty-eight off for two or three days.”
“You are all right?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just a court of inquiry. I have to give evidence.”
Alarm came into her calm tones. “Is that like a conseil de guerre?”
“A court martial. No, it’s quite different. It’s just an inquiry into an accident at which I happened to be a witness.”
Now he detected suspicion and no diminution of her alarm. “James, are you telling me the whole truth?”
“Mais, comme to est suspicieux, toi. I can’t tell you any more on the telephone. But I promise you I’m all right. Except that I am so angry and disappointed.”
“Moi aussi. So when can you come to London?”
“The inquiry will start this morning. It should finish by tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll rearrange my off-duty time. Call me at the flat or here as soon as you know when you can come.” She lowered her voice. “James, come as soon as you are free. It doesn’t matter at what time. Promise?”
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 26