The Morfield Wing was giving top cover, which meant that at the rendezvous they were highest in the stack; at 200 ft. The Poles were flying high cover, while the two other wings gave close escort at the same height as the 15 Bostons which were going to bomb one of the Germans’ major aerodromes.
The Poles began their left-handed wheel and seemed to be thundering head-on at the Morfield squadrons. James watched them with jaundiced mistrust. The air was already turbulent from a multitude of slipstreams. For a moment it looked as though Morfield’s wing leader was going to be forced to pull up in a sharp last-moment evasion of tangling with his allies. But all was well and the Poles swung majestically a few feet beneath. James felt his aeroplane lifted on the tidal wave they created as they rushed close beneath him. Did they have to fly like suicidal maniacs on every occasion? He admired the way they hurled their machines into a fight, but there was no clear reason why they had to take the risk of such close shaves over a mere forming-up. What was the matter: was he getting twitchy? He realised that he had been muttering crossly under his breath, cursing the Poles for this gratuitous display of fine judgment. He had better watch himself.
The Bostons were approaching from the north-east, hugging the ground: elegant, jaunty little twin-engined light bombers, fast and manoeuvrable. James was relieved to see them. Now they could all untangle themselves. A couple of minutes later the whole beehive was heading across the Channel, staying low to fox the German radar. The Morfield Wing sat safely on top of the heap, with room to move if anyone looked like barging into them from below.
Approaching the French coast the entire Balbo began to climb, the top cover wing most steeply of all. France disappeared under Christopher’s wings in a pattern of diminishing fields and woods. At 19000 ft he felt his supercharger activate itself with a thump as extra power surged into the engine. At 26000 ft he saw vapour trails appear at the wings of the wing leader and the front squadron, and a moment later the leader took them down a few hundred feet to rid them of these tell-tale signs of their presence.
The target was in sight ahead and already a swarm of small aeroplanes was lifting off its green surface. The Bostons’ bombs began to burst, spreading small splashes of bright red across the airfield and along its perimeter. More enemy fighters were coming into view from the north and the east. This was what the Circus was for: to bring them to battle. The Bostons, their work done, were turning for home. The close escort wings were turning with them. The FW 190s were attacking. Christopher watched the high cover wing dive on them. The Morfield Wing was wheeling now, biding its time.
Five thousand feet lower, a large cluster of Focke-Wulfs came racing onto the scene from the north.
Get on with it, Christopher silently urged the wing leader. Finger out, or we’ll be too late for the best pickings.
“Tallyho!” and down they went steeply. Some of the 190s split off to dive into the dogfighting that was going on around the Bostons. The rest turned to meet the top cover Spits.
Christopher picked his target and kept his eyes on it as it banked around. He checked once more that his guns were ready to fire and held his thumb over the button, steepening his dive but keeping the target in his reflector sight. The 190 flicked into an opposite bank at the instant that he gave it a short burst. Missed. He turned to follow it, intending to hit it and carry straight on into the mass of aircraft that was milling about at the lowest level of the beehive.
The 190 changed direction again and swung across his path in a steep climb. He could not waste any time on his way down. The Bostons and the other Spits were already outnumbered. He took one instant to glance in his mirror. All clear behind.
Then his No. 2’s sharp “Snapper Red One...behind, under your tail...Break right!”
As Christopher flipped onto his starboard wingtip, tracer rushed past. He rolled out fast and looked around for his target. The 190 had turned into him and was in a shallow dive, using the height it had gained while the other attacked.
Still no time to waste. Silly of the Hun to come at him head-on. Christopher fired...one...two seconds. Pieces broke away from the 190. One wing snapped off half-way along. The severed portion fluttered right in front of .Christopher~ He dived steeply and saw it almost brush his canopy. The FW 190 was rolling unsteadily. Its pilot was trying to climb out. Christopher went on down to join the battle.
At 10000 ft. he was caught in the crossfire of two 190s which emerged from opposite ends of a small cloud and both gave him their attention at the same time. He made a succession of flat turns to left and right with shells and bullets missing him by inches.
I’ve had it if I let either of them hit me with a good burst...I’ll go for the one on my right...give him a quick squirt to teach him some manners...that’s it, he turned away...now to hit him in the works...damn, he’s turned in again...hard right rudder...skid...made him miss...flick roll to confuse him...greying out...where is he now? Christ! I’m going to fly into him...Shoot...look out, one of his wheels is flopping down...God! Nearly rammed it with my canopy...throttle back, stick back...stall turn 180 degrees...there he is, both wheels sagging...nasty amount of deflection needed...he’s going away and at an angle of thirty degrees across my path...that’s it...try a squirt...too much deflection...again...Wham! Bags of smoke and he’s rolling...there he goes, baling out.
Wind rushed through James’s cockpit and a row of holes appeared a few inches in front of him. His right arm felt numb. His aircraft plunged more sharply down. For a moment he was dazed. He tried to bring the stick back but nothing happened. He glanced down. He was not holding the stick. His right arm hung limply down at his side, jammed against the side of the narrow cockpit. The ground was coming up fast. He was in a nearly vertical attitude. He closed the throttle a little, moved his left hand across to the stick and eased it hack. His stomach lurched down as though lead were being poured into it.
That was not the only sensation in his stomach. A throbbing pain was spreading through the lower part of his body. In contrast with the dull ache that had suddenly taken the place of numbness in his arm when he pulled out of the dive, the sensation around his navel and the lower ribs on his right side was piercing.
His eyes dimmed as though a grey blanket had been thrown over his head. His brain registered only the intense agony of his body and the necessity to pull out of the dive without stalling.
He levelled out and his head slowly cleared. He became aware of bursts of tracer from astern. Gripping the stick between his knees he shoved the throttle forward, then the stick, to dive towards a bank of cloud close ahead. He looked at the altimeter and saw that he was at less than 3000 ft. He kicked the rudder bar from side to side with tracer still flicking past. When he moved his legs his lower body felt as though it were being torn asunder. When the cloud enveloped him he reduced the angle of dive and concentrated on the altimeter with his head reeling and surges of agony pulsing through him. He felt sick and short of breath.
At 800 ft he came out of cloud and nearly rammed another Spitfire. It was one of the squadron.
He heard a voice feebly in his headphones. “Blue Two to Red One...are you O.K.?”
He fumbled for his transmitter switch. “Been hit...right arm U/S.”
“I’ll stay with you.”
It was only another few minutes to the nearest part of Sussex. The other Spit stayed just ahead. It kept fading from view, then, blurred, coming into focus again.
“Red One...are you O.K.?”
“Won’t be...a...smooth...landing.”
He heard Blue Two calling Flying Control and warning them. The air traffic controller in the watch tower ordered all other aircraft to clear the circuit until James had landed.
Straight in approach...all over the place...waffling like a wet hen coming in to roost...hold the stick between my knees...chop the throttle...flare out...wait for the bump...bounce like a kangaroo...wings rocking crazily...wait for a wingtip to hit the ground...almost...and again...another mad leap into the ai
r...another ...
The M.O. ran from the ambulance and scrambled onto the port wing while the Spitfire was still taxying. He leaned through the open hood. As soon as the aircraft stopped, he began to unfasten James’s helmet and unplug the R/T lead.
“Can you manage your straps, sir?”
He spoke close to James’s ear but there was no reply.
James opened his eyes, then shut them quickly as though this would keep the pain away.
He was aware of someone moving. Opening his eyes again he saw his mother leaning over him. His father’s face took shape over her shoulder. They both smiled. It was all right, he told himself. He knew every shade of his parents’ expressions and the way they looked reassured him that he had suffered no permanent damage.
“Hello...Mummy...Dad...How am I?”
“Nurse will be along in a second. They told us to ring as soon as you come to.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Since day before yesterday.”
He heard the door open. His parents moved away and two strange faces looked down at him.
“I’m Doctor Greene.”
“Hello, Doc. What’s the damage?”
“You were hit in the right forearm. The bone’s broken, but it’ll set as good as new. They got you in the tummy, as well. But you were lucky. The bullet went right through your side without doing any drastic damage.”
“Good show. How long ...?”
“We’ll have you out of here as soon as we can.”
“When...flying?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fit to fly again as soon as you’ve had some convalescent leave.”
“What news...squadron?”
“That can wait until tomorrow. You’ll be having visitors. For the time being we just want you to rest and sleep as much as you can.”
*
His two flight commanders stood fiddling with their caps and looking awkward. Henderson fumbled for words.
“We all appreciate how much you’ve done for us, sir. We were a goddam shower when you took over.”
“What happened on that last show?”
“Wizard. We didn’t lose anyone and we got eight confirmed One-nineties.”
“What about the others?”
They told him about the other squadrons on the wing: three pilots shot down, a dozen of the enemy destroyed. It pleased him to hear that his boys had done best.
His parents came every three of four days. He and they both had letters from North Africa. His father said “Christopher sounds cheerful again. He seemed badly down in the dumps after that push of Rommel’s at the end of May.”
“He was, and no wonder. Stopping Rommel getting through to Alam Halfa isn’t the only thing that’s bucked him up. Being made up to flight lieutenant and deputy flight commander has made him frightfully chuffed.”
His mother smiled. “He’s had a good leave in Cairo, too. Alison Meynell wrote to say he was looking well, despite having desert sores — whatever they are...sound horrid — and he spent a lot of time with a girl she introduced him to.”
James exchanged a look with his father and laughed. “I’ll bet he did.”
But there wasn’t much to laugh about really, with Nicole so long out of touch.
“No news of Roger?”
“Not a word. Beryl and Denis are very worried.”
“But Devonshire told them he was safe and well. If he could escape back to England, Roger’s bound to turn up soon.”
“But when Flight Sergeant Devonshire came to see them, he said Roger was staying because the Resistance were planning something important and he insisted on being in it. He may have been...hurt.”
For “hurt” read “killed” thought James.
“Well, old Roger’s a clot. His job is flying a Halifax, not playing at cowboys and Indians.”
“We let Henri know you’d been wounded.”
“I know. I had a letter from him. He’s had no word of Nicole either. He said he’ll try to come and see me, but leave isn’t easy just now.”
“Perhaps he’d like to come and stay when you come home on convalescent leave.”
James made no comment. He did not really feel that he wanted Nicole’s brother around the place. It would only sharpen his awareness of her absence.
Just being at home gave James a feeling of being in the midst of shining plenty. His wounds still hurt. It was irritating, with his right arm in a sling, to be unable to do up his own buttons and shoelaces. He ate better in mess than his mother could feed him on the meagre rations. The exterior paintwork of the house was two years overdue for renewal. The village shops looked shabby and their shelves were poorly stocked. But still there was this comforting sense of peace and plenty merely because he was at home.
His parents found it difficult to disguise their satisfaction that he was — by whatever means — out of the fighting for a few weeks. His aunt and uncle, Beryl and Denis Hallowes, generously hid their concern for Roger and showed their pleasure at James’s recovery. He encouraged them to talk about Roger although he could give them no specific assurances. They felt, he knew, that simply because he was in the same Service and a senior officer, what was more, a pre-war one, he spoke with authority even though common sense told them that all he could offer was optimism and some logical reasoning.
He had his own troubles apart from the worry over how long he would be grounded. The squadron could not be left for several weeks with a temporary commanding officer. Henderson had been acting for him for a few days, but before the end of his first week in hospital someone else had been posted in to take command. When he was passed fit to fly again it would mean going to a strange squadron. He would badly miss his present one which he had transformed in a short time from a sulky, demoralised, draggletail rabble into a happy, confident, smart and unified, formidable instrument of destruction.
Fighter Command would have to find stop-gap employment for him. He would be fit for ground duties long before his arm was fully usable. He did not relish a return to staff work, even though he knew he would not have to endure it for long. Nor could he accept returning to Morfield while somebody else commanded “his” squadron: a situation, anyway, which Command would not create. So what would they do with him? As he always did, he had strong views of his own about this. Like all fighter pilots, fighter leaders in particular, he was often caustic about the quality of controlling on an interception. Some of the Ups. Room controllers were very good, the majority were adequate; there was still too large a minority of duds. A successful interception demanded understanding co-operation between controller and pilot. With the introduction of the technique of close control, ground controlled interception, from new radar stations — called, therefore, G.C.Is — with the controller working directly from a radar screen, great accuracy was possible. James felt that there was important missionary work to be done by someone of his experience. Some of the controllers were grounded fighter pilots, but there were still too few of these. He would like to have a hand in improving the overall skill of the controllers; and, at the same time, learning about their difficulties. If, that was, he did have to spend time on the ground before returning to a cockpit. It seemed inevitable but he was eternally optimistic that he might avoid it.
A few days after he began his leave his mother was called to the telephone. Daisy, the housemaid, bustled into the drawing-room. “It’s Mrs Hallowes, Ma’am. Ever so excited, she sounds.”
James followed his mother into the hall. He knew from the first exchange of words what the message was about.
*
It was four days before Roger was allowed to go on leave. There were hours of medical examination and treatment of his wounds. More hours spent on an interrogation, politely described as a de-briefing, which he thought would not have been miscalled an inquisition. On the second day of this long procedure, Creamy Devonshire was summoned and re-questioned about the statement he had already made some weeks before. Then there was a visit to the Headquarter
s of’ the Free French Forces and a lengthy talk with a tall, cold, impeccably correct general. When he left de Gaulle’s office he told himself that he would not care to be caught out by the general in any misdemeanour, military or moral.
Devonshire was as perky as a terrier reunited with its master.
“You’ll be coming back to the squadron, then, Rodge.”
“I hope so.”
“I told the C.O. you was on the way ‘ome. Said I didn’t want to be re-crewed. I’m filling in, like. Only done two ops. since I got back. You know there’s a new rule about tours, don’t you? We’ve only got to do thirty ops., then we’re finished.”
“You’ll be almost tour-expired by the time I’ve done a refresher and become operational again. Any news of the rest of the crew?”
“Yeah. They’re all safely in the bag. Stalag Luft Some-number-or-the-other.”
“I’m glad they’re all right.” It was some salve to his conscience.
“How was Viviane when you left?”
Roger looked at him but did not reply, then turned his head away.
Devonshire waited in silence for a moment. “Christ, Rodge. Didn’t go for a Burton, did she?”
Roger nodded without speaking.
“Muckin’ ‘ell. I’m sorry, Rodge. She was a good kid.”
“Give my regards to all the types when you get back. Are you going back this evening?”
Devonshire looked hurt at the abrupt dismissal of his sympathy. “I got a pass, didn’t I? I thought you and I could have a bit of a beat-up. Celebrate, like.”
“Yes, of course.” But what was there to celebrate, with Viviane dead? His only thought now was to return to operations with the least possible loss of time, to avenge her death and to make amends for his own loss of courage.
“That big do you stayed behind for. How did it go? Was that where you got wounded ruin?”
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 68