The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  The Bluebirds Trilogy

  Bluebirds – Blackbirds – Falcons

  Melvyn Fickling

  © Melvyn Fickling 2017/2018/2020

  Melvyn Fickling has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of these works.

  This omnibus was first published digitally by The Book Conspiracy in 2020.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover art © Peter Larry

  www.melvynfickling.com

  Bluebirds

  A Battle of Britain novel

  Melvyn Fickling

  PART 1

  EVOLUTIO

  Chapter 1

  Innocentia

  1st May, 1920

  Samuel Drew hosed the last of the blood from the concrete floor. In the next room the thwack of meat cleavers parting vertebrae echoed from the walls as the men butchered the recently-killed carcasses. Samuel shut off the tap and looped the hose over its hook. He grabbed his jacket from the locker and, without a word to his fellow workers, strode across the yard to the gates.

  The sun hung low above the dark slopes of the moors and fingers of shadow lengthened along Whitby’s lanes. Children skipped home from the beach, their faces reddened by the spring sunshine and salt breeze.

  Samuel’s step quickened as The Jolly Sailor came into view. He crossed the road and shouldered his way through the pub doors. The smell of yesterday’s brown ale mixed with the resinous scent from the log-fire, freshly lit against the evening’s chill.

  ‘All right, Samuel?’ The landlord polished a pint pot in expectation.

  ‘Yes please, Vic.’ Samuel nodded towards the hand-pull. ‘Bitter.’

  The landlord pulled at the beer engine and the dark liquid gushed into the dimpled glass.

  ‘How was your day?’ Victor placed the pint on the bar.

  Samuel dropped a coin onto the stained wood and took a deep draught of ale. ‘We did bullocks today. Twelve of the bastards. Bloody hard work.’

  ‘Well, Samuel’ – Victor leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar – ‘I could always use a big strong lad like you in my cellar. I’m getting too old to lug barrels around. So, if you ever want to give up the slaughterh—’

  ‘Give up the slaughterhouse?’ Samuel leaned his big frame on the bar, bringing his face close to Victor’s. ‘I love it there.’ Samuel drained his pint. ‘Same again, Victor, and give me a rum chaser. Large one.’

  Victor poured the drinks and picked up the coins. ‘Has your missus delivered yet?’

  ‘That’s woman’s work.’ Samuel’s sidelong look of warning into Victor’s eyes set the barman to glass polishing in silence.

  The Jolly Sailor’s door swung open and two trawlermen strode to the bar in their heavy sea boots. Before the door closed, a chill breeze flowed across the floor.

  ****

  No cooling breeze reached Eileen Drew’s bedroom as she sweated her way into the seventh hour of labour. Worried Eileen was fading; the midwife worked hard to help her patient cope.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Drew. Let’s have another bash at getting the little bugger born.’

  The pregnant woman’s slight frame and slim hips exaggerated her bulging belly. The midwife sensed the approaching wave of the next contraction and bent to examine her patient.

  ‘All right, Eileen. Everything’s ready down here. It’s up to you now. Push.’

  Eileen’s face contorted as the contraction dragged her into a maelstrom of inescapable agony. Clenching her teeth and gasping out her breaths, her spine curved forward in the spasm’s grip, pressing her chin against her chest and colouring her head to crimson.

  ‘The baby’s coming, Eileen. Keep it up. You can’t stop now.’

  Eileen whimpered in despair and her head lolled backwards onto the pillow. Her whine mutated into a deep growl and she thrust her head forwards again, staring in defiance at the lump on her torso.

  ‘Get out! Get out!’ Her cries broke up into a ragged wail as a bolt of pure agony pierced her world of pain. Slumping backwards in a wave of cleansing ecstasy she descended into quiet racking sobs, not knowing and past caring.

  The midwife busied herself with something on the wet bed. Then the disconsolate wail of the baby cut short Eileen’s tears.

  ‘It’s a boy, Mrs Drew. It’s a lovely, healthy little boy.’

  The midwife wrapped the child in a white towel and handed him to his mother. Eileen attempted to hitch herself up the bed, but the other woman’s restraining hand stopped her.

  ‘Try not to move too much, Mrs Drew. The baby has torn you quite badly. I’ll clean you up as best I can tonight and the doctor will come tomorrow. He’ll sew you up then, dear.’

  3rd July, 1922

  The two boys cycled in silence up the hill. The hedgerows stifled the thin summer breeze and the high sun jabbed its heat between the branches. They pedalled the last mile along the narrow road, sustained by the prospect of the corned beef sandwiches and barley water they carried in their saddlebags.

  Andrew Francis, the eldest by a month, pulled away in front. Perspiration plastered his black hair across his forehead, forming a bar over his intense brown eyes. Standing in the pedals, he zig-zagged up the road to kill the gradient.

  Peter Ellis trailed behind, his front wheel wobbling from side to side. He carried too much weight and his close-cropped ginger hair glistened with sweat from his exertion.

  Andrew stopped at the top of the rise. A wide farm gate cut a break in the dense hedge. Beyond it the flat agricultural face of Norfolk stretched to the horizon.

  Peter shuffled to his side, pushing his bicycle. ‘I hate that hill. My bum hurts.’

  Andrew climbed onto the farm gate to survey the pasture beyond. A tall wire fence bounded the bottom end of the field. Beyond the fence lay a wide grass track circling Bircham Newton airfield, their final destination.

  Over to their right a small flock of sheep grazed the rough grass, raising their heads to monitor the boys with blank eyes. Andrew jumped into the paddock. Keeping a watchful eye on the sheep, he opened the gate while Peter ferried the bicycles through. Leaning their bikes against the hedge, the boys collected their picnics and set off towards the distant fence.

  A faint drone intruded overhead. Both boys stopped, shading their eyes and scanning the sky.

  ‘Look’ – Andrew pointed – ‘DH-5s.’

  Peter peered at the tiny shapes in the vast blue vault. ‘Sopwith Camels.’

  Andrew sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘DH-5s.’

  ‘Nah, Sopwith Camels.’

  ‘DH-5s. Definitely’

  High above, two biplanes reeled in a mock dogfight. Side-slipping and barrelling, the pilots’ battle spiralled earthwards. As they descended, the aircraft became clearly visible, the strange stepped-back top wing marking them out as DH-5s.

  ‘See,’ Andrew said, ‘I told you.’

  The machines’ dull olive outlines stood stark against the crystal blue sky. The wide roundels on their wings stared like the eyes of swooping owls. The pilots, engrossed in their game, were locked into each other’s moves like dancers.

  Rooted to the spot, entranced by the roar of rotary engines, the boys stared. Sheep blundered past them in a panic-stricken stampede to nowhere, splitting around them like a river around a rock. The sun blazed and still the planes dropped from the sky.

  ‘Stop!’ Andrew’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Stop, it’s too low!�
��

  One of the protagonists pulled up with throttle wide open. His engine note rose to a squeal as his aircraft levelled out, climbing away from the paddock.

  Already committed to a barrel-roll, the other machine lost more height before coming right-way-up. The engine screamed in protest as the pilot slammed open the throttle and pulled hard on the stick. The plane swooped through the air in front of the boys, larger and noisier than they could ever have imagined. Clawing at the last few feet of altitude the machine levelled out, its fixed undercarriage striking the grass with a jolt, bouncing it back into the air. The plane skimmed the fence and climbed away over the airfield with thick black fumes trailing from the straining engine.

  Andrew’s pulse pounded in his temples and his knees twitched with the need to run. His stomach lurched as he imagined the plane ploughing into the earth yards from where he stood. He watched the machine join its circling companion. He breathed deeply, the tension draining from his clenched muscles. Despite the sun, the sweat on his brow was cold.

  ‘Did you see that, Andy?’

  Andrew blinked at Peter. He tried to answer but only a croak escaped his lips.

  Peter slapped him on the shoulder and took off across the paddock towards the fence. ‘C’mon, I’ll race you.’

  Andrew shook himself out of his daze and sprinted across the grass, too late to overtake his friend.

  ‘Ha, ha. I beat you.’

  Andrew uncorked his bottle of barley water, gulping a draught down his parched throat. ‘You cheated.’

  Peter opened his mouth to speak but the biplanes roaring in to land drowned his words.

  The boys clung to the fence cheering and waving as the first plane swivelled off the runway and taxied along the perimeter track. Moments later the second machine bounced in to land and followed it on to the perimeter. The pilot leaned out from the open cockpit and gunned the engine in short bursts, steering with the rudder. Andrew whooped in salute as he taxied past. The airman glanced over, his face wet with tears.

  ****

  The two boys cycled down the hill side by side, the whirr of their free-wheeling bikes set a backdrop to Peter’s constant chatter. Andrew remained quiet, distracted by what they’d witnessed, still shaken by the sheer brutal proximity of the lumbering biplane so close to destruction.

  ‘…exciting if it crashed!’ Peter’s words dragged Andrew back from his musing.

  ‘What? Crashed? It would have killed the pilot.’

  Peter flushed under Andrew’s angry gaze. ‘I hadn’t thought of it, Andy. I just didn’t think…’

  They cycled on in silence.

  Wells-on-Sea lay motionless under the sun’s drumbeat. The inshore trawlers lined the stone-walled quay in rows. Their crews sat fixing nets in the sunshine; no catch would be made with the weather so high. Nearing home, Andrew and Peter picked up their pace, the sea breeze ruffling their hair as they pedalled along the coast road.

  The bakery at the edge of town sat squat beneath the sultry summer sun. Men dressed in white moved about in the gloom, firing the ovens for the evening’s bread-making. Open windows belched more heat into the afternoon’s simmering haze. Andrew lived close by the bakery, so both boys skittered to a halt and Andrew dismounted.

  ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean to shout at you back there.’

  ‘That’s all right Andy, I know you’re serious about aeroplanes and everything. I’m sorry too.’

  Andrew smiled. ‘See you tomorrow? How about gilly-crabbing?’

  Peter beamed. ‘All right, call for you at ten. I’ll get some fish-heads on the way. See you then.’

  Peter cycled off and Andrew pushed his bike up the lane. Swifts wheeled and flashed overhead in fleet mockery.

  4th July, 1922

  Peter arrived on time with a hessian sack dripping fish-blood onto the doorstep. When Andrew answered his knock, he held open the bag in triumph.

  ‘Wotcha’. I got six plaice heads and one cod.’

  ‘Well done, Peter. Let me get my stuff.’ Andrew emerged a few minutes later with his crab-line under his arm, fastening his sheath knife to his belt. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  They walked the few hundred yards along the road to the harbour. Arriving at the quayside, they knelt by the edge and bent to prepare their lines.

  ‘They gave me the plaice but I nicked the cod,’ Peter said, laying out the glistening heads on the rough hessian.

  ‘So you should get the honour of chopping it into bits.’ Andrew passed over his knife and watched Peter set about his slippery work. ‘Be careful, mate. It’s sharp.’

  Peter grunted acknowledgement and continued to hack at the fish head.

  Andrew stared down at the water. ‘I want to be a pilot.’

  Peter didn’t pause in his butchery. ‘I knew you did,’ he said without looking up, ‘yesterday just put the tin lid on the whole thing. You should’ve seen your face on the way home, you looked like a love-sick sissy.

  ‘I want to be a train driver myself.’ Pausing his dissection, he looked into Andrew’s eyes. ‘Did you know the train leaving here on a Friday goes as far as London?’ Genuine awe coloured Peter’s voice. ‘My Dad took that train when he left for France.’

  Peter held Andrew’s gaze for a moment longer, then dropped his head to his task. Peter rarely mentioned his father.

  ‘I’m not sure he’d take a train anywhere if he knew you were driving it,’ Andrew joked.

  Peter smiled, waggling a slimy finger in Andrew’s face. ‘You’ll see. One day I’ll take everyone to London.’

  19th July, 1924

  The blue dome of the Minnesota sky rolled from horizon to horizon, unsullied by a single cloud. Gerry Donaldson and his father stood at the edge of the meadow’s rough grass next to the sacks of insecticide.

  The pneumonic rattle of an aeroplane engine scarred the silence, swelling in garish volume. The crop-sprayer’s biplane circled the farm once and swooped in to land, the engine note dropping as the pilot cut the revs and taxied in a long arc, coming to rest in front of the pair.

  The pilot cut the engine. ‘Hey, Mr Donaldson,’ he called. ‘My crew are trucking in with the petrol tank an’ all, but they shouldn’t be long. Do you wanna make a start loading the hopper?’

  ‘Call me Bob.’ Gerry’s father stepped forward, reaching up to the cockpit to shake the pilot’s hand. ‘Do you have time for coffee and a cookie before we get to work?’

  The pilot’s smile cracked open his grimy face. He unhooked the straps and eased himself out of his seat. ‘I sure do, Bob. I sure do.’

  Gerry watched the two men walk towards the farmhouse and turned back to regard the strange machine before him. This had to be better than cookies.

  Gerry reached out a hand to touch the closest wing-tip, revelling at the smoothness of the tight, shiny fabric under his fingers. Rubbing away the grime of engine oil and pulverised insects revealed the fading yellow paint beneath. He walked his fingers across the wing’s surface to the smooth profile of a rounded wooden strut, one of six attaching the lower wing to the upper. With his other hand he plucked at the diagonal bracing wires. Bobbing down, he wondered at the concave underside of the wing with its hinged panel on the rear edge. Still on one knee, he gazed up at the nose of the plane, admiring the half-exposed engine with its sinuous exhaust and the twisted sweep of the laminated propeller.

  The pilot’s laugh in the distance alerted Gerry to his father’s return. He sauntered away from the aircraft as the two men approached, swigging coffee from tin mugs. Throwing out the dregs on the grass, they both tied cloths over their face and each hefted a sack onto his shoulder.

  ‘Move away, Gerry,’ his father warned. ‘Stand up-wind, son, this stuff’s not for breathing.’

  The men boosted the sacks up to the edge of the rear cockpit, emptying them into the makeshift hopper bolted there. The pilot pulled a lever by the front cockpit and some of the powder ran from beneath the fuselage. Nodding in satisfaction, he shut off the fl
ow and went to get another sack. Four more sacks followed before he judged the load sufficient. As the airman lashed a tarpaulin over the hopper his three-man crew pulled up in their truck, tooting the horn in greeting.

  Bob Donaldson gave directions to the two flagmen about the fields which required treatment. The third man unhooked the fuel tank, retrieved the hose from the truck and walked over to check the plane.

  Gerry breathed in the twin scents of oil and aviation fuel with a short thrill of excitement.

  The pilot climbed into the cockpit, jiggling the controls to make the hinged panels on the wings and tail waggle up and down; the mechanic trotted around the machine checking their movement. Walking back to the nose, the mechanic grabbed the tip of a propeller blade and braced himself, waiting.

  ‘Let’s go!’ The shout came from the cockpit.

  The mechanic flipped the propeller down and around, spinning his body away from the plane. The engine coughed, kicked and roared into life.

  The pilot pulled his goggles over his eyes and gunned the engine while the buffeting slipstream lashed his hair into a swirling mess. Wheels rolled into motion and he swung the plane around, accelerating across the meadow.

  Gerry squinted his eyes against the momentary fury of the backwash tugging at his shirt. Then he sprinted after the plane. For a few moments flying machine and boy careened through space in unequal harmony until the crop-duster left the ground. Gerry stumbled to a halt, captivated by the sway of the plane as it settled into its cushion of air. Standing alone in the centre of the paddock, open-mouthed, he watched this man-made bird claw its impossible way into the sky.

  Chapter 2

  Signi

  7th June, 1930

  Bob and Mary Donaldson sat on the porch overlooking the yard. Outside the barn Gerry worked hard stripping down the tractor for the third time, searching for whatever caused the machine to keep stalling. The family had not long finished supper but Gerry refused to rest; he was determined to find the fault. His parents sat with their arms around each other, watching their son work on the vehicle.