‘At least he got back,’ the armourer growled. ‘We’ve got two poor sods missing this morning already. I’m ready for the ammo, Vincent.’
Vincent stowed his cleaning rod and grabbed an ammunition magazine. Swinging under the wing he passed the fixing strap up to the armourer through the open panel. Vincent lifted the heavy box into place and the armourer secured it.
‘Panels on, lad. Then onto the next one.’
Vincent screwed the blue-painted panel back into place, grabbed a second magazine and shifted along to the next gun.
‘Do you think they’ll invade?’
The armourer peered through the wing past the gun mechanism at Vincent: ‘Do you really want to know what I think?’
Vincent passed up the fixing strap, nodding.
‘Well, once they’ve shot down this little lot’ – he tapped the Spitfire’s wing for emphasis – ‘which, at the rate they’re going, won’t be very long, I reckon Mr Churchill will have a look round for a Plan B.’
‘Plan B?’ Vincent offered up the magazine.
‘Once he’s lost the Army and the Air Force, he’ll be in no mood to lose the Navy. Mr Churchill’s got a soft spot for the Navy. And he won’t want the Germans getting hold of our ships. So, I reckon him and the King will up sticks with the Royal Navy and sail to Canada.’
‘Run away?’
‘Tactical retreat, more like. Panels on.’ The armourer’s face disappeared as he replaced the top wing panel. ‘You see, from Canada he’ll have a better chance of persuading the Americans to join in.’
‘Where does that leave us?’ Vincent bit his lip as he screwed on the lower panel.
‘Did they teach you to use a rifle in basic training?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you have it.’
****
Vincent knocked on the office door.
‘Come.’
Vincent gulped back his nerves and entered the room.
The station commander’s fountain pen scratched his signature on a letter. Vincent stepped forward to stand in front of the desk, snapping to attention.
‘Aircraftman Vincent Drew, sir.’
The commander looked up: ‘Stand easy, Drew.’ He regarded Vincent’s oily face: ‘You’re on ground crew?’
‘Yes, sir. Armourer’s mate, sir.’
‘Must’ve been hard work of late’ – the man smiled – ‘what can we do for you, Drew?’
‘I’d like to apply for pilot training, sir.’
30th May, 1940
‘Quiet please, Bluebird.’
The murmur of voices tailed away.
Squadron Leader Fenton continued: ‘It seems the nation’s prayers are being answered, gentlemen’ – he smiled – ‘I have never seen the Channel stay so calm for so long. In fact, the good weather means even the smallest boats fancy their chances at making a round trip.
‘The Germans are playing true to form. According to the Navy, their 109s are strafing and sinking the small boats as they’re leaving the beaches. In order to discourage this nasty behaviour, Group wants a continuous fighter presence over Dunkirk during daylight hours.
‘So, we’ll take off in sections of three, 20 minutes apart. Exit over Dover and stay low – let’s make sure our boats see we’re there for them.
‘The Germans will be over the beach in numbers, so there’ll be plenty for us to go at. Patrol for 20 minutes or until ammunition is expended. Back to base, refuel, re-arm and back at them again… keep the kettle boiling, so to speak.
‘There are three other Spitfire squadrons running the same relay today, so make sure you identify what you’re shooting at before you shoot at it.
‘My section off first, then Yellow, Red and Blue in that order. Good luck, Bluebird, happy hunting.’
Chairs scraped the floor as the men stood and shuffled out of the hut towards dispersal.
‘Did you notice?’ Andrew said.
Bryan and George walked either side of him.
‘Eighteen pilots in the room,’ George muttered. ‘They’ve got six on the reserve bench for today’s game.’
‘You’d be silly to dwell on it,’ Bryan breezed. ‘Come and look at this.’
The roar of engines swashed across the field as the first section climbed away into the early summer sky.
Bryan walked over to his Spitfire, pointing at the cockpit: ‘Ta-dah!’
On the door underneath the canopy’s rim sat a small painted swastika.
‘Are you sure that doesn’t breach King’s Regulations?’ Andrew chided.
‘The King?’ Bryan rounded on him in mock dismay. ‘When the King has shot down a bloody 109, he can start telling me what to do.’
Bryan climbed into his cockpit for final checks. Andrew and George walked on in sombre silence towards their own machines.
****
Dover dashed away under their tails and Andrew glanced up at the white flash of the chalk cliffs receding in his mirror. Ahead a trail of small ships dotted the course leading to the rolling smoke over Dunkirk.
Some boats plied west to England, packed with soldiers, their faces upturned to watch the fighters streaking overhead.
Halfway across the water Bryan’s voice broke the silence: ‘Let’s get a tad more altitude Yellow Section, we don’t want to get bounced at this height.’
The three planes lifted their noses and the boats sank away below.
Andrew could make out several large vessels standing off the coast. The beach appeared black with soldiers.
‘Eyes peeled, Yellow Section. Andrew, watch our tails.’
They levelled out, Andrew weaving back and forth, scanning the sky. The beach approached, the blackness resolved into men standing in lines snaking out into the water, small boats pressed against the sand, taking on their human cargo.
‘Bandits at 3 o’clock’ – Bryan’s voice glittered with anticipation – ‘Ju88s. Tally-ho!’
A pair of twin-engine bombers raced towards the beach from right to left. Bryan led the section into a banking turn to port as the bombers tore past their noses.
‘Hold your fire until they’re away from the beach.’
Andrew straightened out, resting his thumb on the firing button. Black objects fell from the underside of the German planes and they bucked higher in the air. Andrew eased his stick backwards as the bomb-blasts wobbled his tail.
The bombers split up, one banking right over the docks, the other banking left over the sea. Andrew clung onto the seaward plane, closing the distance. The German pilot flew straight and level. No fire came from the rear gunner…
‘Straight and level.’
Andrew flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror. Two black shapes closed on him. He hauled the stick back and to the right. His Spitfire stood on its starboard wing, tilting the coastline across his vision. Tracer whipped by over his left shoulder and two loud bangs reverberated down his port wing.
He held the turn until the distant English coast wheeled into view. Levelling out he pushed the throttle into full boost, running for home.
Blinking away the sweat, Andrew peered into the mirror with dread. Sunlight flashed on a canopy as the two 109s peeled away from the chase and headed back to France. Slumping under a wave of relief, Andrew throttled back to cruising speed.
He switched to transmit: ‘Bluebird Yellow Three to Yellow Section. Where are you, Yellow Section?’
The wireless remained silent.
Ahead and above, Andrew spotted a single Spitfire. Wary of flying alone he pushed his throttle to catch up. A thin, white stream of coolant trickled away from underneath the other plane.
Andrew glanced at his compass. The damaged Spitfire flew due north, a course that would miss the east coast completely.
Andrew gunned his throttle to pull up along the other’s port side. He didn’t recognise the lettering on the fuselage; the plane wasn’t from Bluebird. Edging closer, Andrew gazed across at the pilot.
The man slumped forwards in his seat
, his head resting on the Perspex amidst a dark smudge of smashed skull and gore. The slipstream flapped through the top of the shattered canopy, streaming blood along the cockpit’s length like a rippling banner of scarlet anger.
Andrew’s prop-wash tipped the ghost fighter into a shallow, curving dive towards the sea. Andrew peeled away, setting course for Kenley.
****
Andrew ran his fingers around the ragged holes in the wingtip. The rigger standing with him whistled in appreciation.
‘You been getting up close and personal, sir?’
Andrew squeezed a wan smile onto his face: ‘I got jumped by two 109s.’
The rigger squinted at the damage: ‘Machine-gun bullets. Lucky they weren’t cannon-shells. Cannon-shells would have your wingtip right off.’
Bryan and George taxied into dispersal. Andrew wandered over towards them as Bryan slid back his canopy and shut off his engine.
‘Andrew, old son.’ He clambered out of the cockpit. ‘How very nice to see you again. Did you go to a different party?’
‘You could say I followed the wrong girl home, yes.’
‘Well, me and George had a lovely time, didn’t we, Georgie?’
George joined them and the group walked towards the dispersal hut for debriefing.
‘It turns out those 88s burn very nicely when you stoke ’em properly.’ Bryan flashed a fierce smile towards Andrew. ‘One chap even bailed out on us. But the poor dear didn’t quite have enough height for his parachute to open.’
‘Are you all right, Andy?’ George asked. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘I got bounced and shot up’ – Andrew’s voice caught at the edges of his throat – ‘my own fault. It won’t happen again.’
Bryan put his arm around Andrew’s shoulders: ‘As long as it’s them today, it won’t be us until tomorrow, old boy. Let’s go tell the boffins what we’ve been up to.’
****
Molly ran down the stairs and flicked on the shop light. She smiled to see Andrew’s face pressed up against the glass. Skipping across, she opened the door.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ She kissed his lips. ‘I wasn’t expecting you tonight, come in.’
‘Bryan’s taken a car-full to The Crown for a celebration.’ Andrew followed her up the stairs. ‘He bagged another one today.’
‘You should be over there with them,’ she chided. ‘They’ll think I’ve got you under my thumb.’
‘I needed to see you, Molly’ – he laid his palm on her pregnant belly – ‘I wanted to tell you I love you.’
‘I know you do—’
Andrew cut her short with a finger on her lips. ‘I got shot up today. I was a few seconds away from being killed. I let them creep up on me. Two of them. I saw them just in time, just before they opened fire.
‘And on the way back across the Channel’ – he closed his eyes for a moment as the image of the ghost pilot drifted across his vision – ‘I tried to remember the last thing I’d said to you. I tried to imagine how you’d remember me.’
Molly leaned into his chest and hugged him close. He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. ‘I came to promise you I’d be more careful, that I’d always try to come back.’ He smiled. ‘When you answered the door just now it was a simple joy to see your beautiful face. One day you might answer the door to someone else. You might answer the door to the officer they’ve sent to tell you what happened to me.’
Molly shook her head in mute denial.
‘Will you promise me something, Molly?’
She nodded through fresh tears. ‘Anything, darling.’
‘Will you promise to forgive me?’
Chapter 13
Trajectus
3rd June, 1940
The port of Montreal receded in its wake as the Duchess of Atholl steamed seawards down the St Lawrence River towards Quebec City. Gerry strolled along the passenger deck past large groups of uniformed infantry, sprinkled with a few blue-clad officers and men of the Canadian Air Force. Reaching the prow, he pulled his jacket collar closer around his neck to ward off the freshening breeze.
‘Mister Donaldson?’ A young man in a Canadian Aircraftsman uniform stood before him. ‘The senior officer wants to see you, sir, follow me.’
The young man led Gerry off the deck and down the steps to a corridor lined with cabin doors. Stopping at one, the young man knocked, waited a moment and swung the door open, gesturing Gerry inside.
The man sitting at the desk smiled and rose to shake Gerry’s hand.
‘Hello, Gerry. My name is McIntosh.’ He sat down. ‘Wing Commander McIntosh. Take a seat, son. I understand you’re a strange bird.’
‘I’m an American’ – Gerry offered – ‘if that’s what you mean.’
McIntosh laughed: ‘Well, son, quite a few Americans have joined us, but none of them, except you, is on this boat. They’re all in basic training and if they get through that, they’ll go for flight training.
‘What sets you apart is your flying hours. You have more than the average Air Force pilot. Why waste time teaching Grandma to suck eggs? We need to get you into a cockpit as soon as possible so you can start making a difference.
‘So, you’ve been given a commission.’ He pushed a package across the desk. ‘You’re a pilot officer.’
Gerry pulled back the tissue paper to reveal the folded uniform.
‘There’s a mistake, sir,’ he stuttered, ‘the wings on this tunic say RAF—’
‘No mistake, Gerry’ – the older man smiled again – ‘when London heard about you they wanted you for their own. The sooner they get an American into combat the better.’
‘Combat?’ Gerry’s voice snagged with excitement. ‘I thought I’d be a flying instructor stationed in the wilderness somewhere.’
McIntosh shook his head: ‘As I understand it, you’ll be met by RAF officers in Liverpool and taken for immediate conversion to fighters. From there you’ll go to operational flying in southern England.’
4th June, 1940
Andrew flexed his shoulders into his flying overalls and sat down to pull on his fur-lined boots.
Bryan walked in and yanked open his locker door: ‘Did you hear what that bloody chump had to say on the radio this morning?’
George took the bait. ‘Which chump are you talking about?’
‘Winston bloody Churchill’ – Bryan rounded on him – ‘the biggest chump of all.’
‘Careful, Bryan,’ Andrew chided. ‘Winston might consider that treason.’
Bryan ignored the reproach. ‘He said that we’ll “fight them on the beaches”.’ He held out his arms in supplication. ‘Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the army had just spent the best part of last week fighting them on the bloody French beaches. And we got our arses kicked.’
Andrew stood up and stamped his boots home. ‘Winston’s got a job to do. Just like us. We can’t be seen to be giving up.’
‘Hitler can keep the beaches in France for all I care.’ Bryan ground out the words through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll get nowhere near the bloody English beaches if I have anything to do with it.’
12th June, 1940
The telephone jangled and a few moments later the orderly stuck his head out of the hut window: ‘Yellow Section Scramble!’
Bryan, Andrew and George sprinted to their Spitfires. Engines coughed into life and the fighters taxied to take-off. As they manoeuvred, George’s plane lagged and the propeller slowed.
‘Yellow Two here’ – George sounded annoyed – ‘my oil pressure has just dropped to zero. It’s looks like I won’t be coming out to play.’
‘Got that, George,’ Bryan answered. ‘We’ll see you at tea-time.’
The remaining pair roared down the grass runway and climbed into the summer sky.
‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Beehive Control. Yellow Section are airborne. Listening out.’
Climbing steadily, Andrew tucked his fighter behind Bryan’s starboard wing and began
the routine scanning of the sky. They reached 10,000ft and the controller’s voice cut through the static.
‘Beehive calling Bluebird Yellow Section. Vector one-one-zero. Patrol Maidstone angels twelve. Lone bandit heading east.’
Bryan accelerated and increased the climb. Andrew stayed with him.
‘Beehive calling Bluebird Yellow Section. Bandit should be crossing your vicinity now.’
‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Beehive. I see him. A big fat Heinkel. Tally-ho!’
Bryan banked to starboard into a shallow dive. Following him, Andrew spotted the target, 500ft below and one mile away, heading due east.
‘Stick by my wing, Andrew.’ Bryan’s voice held a steely tension: ‘Watch my tail.’
The two fighters screamed down behind the bomber. Andrew saw Bryan open fire, squeezing out three long bursts before banking away to port. The bomber flashed across his windscreen and Andrew loosed a brief spurt of fire.
As they wheeled for another attack, black smoke trickled from the bomber’s port engine. The German pilot jinked in a desperate zig-zag across the sky, disrupting return fire from his top and side gunners.
Empty cartridges streamed from underneath Bryan’s wings as he opened up with another sustained burst. The two Spitfires flashed over the top of the German bomber and peeled away to port racing ahead of their target.
‘Damn it,’ Bryan cursed. ‘I’m out of ammunition.’
‘I still have plenty,’ Andrew answered. ‘Keep an eye out for trouble while I have a go at him.’
The Spitfires curved around in front of the bomber. Bryan continued to orbit while Andrew peeled off to attack the bomber’s port side. Waiting as long as he dare, he fired a short burst; his bullets ripped across the trailing edge of the wing and peppered the side gunner’s position.
The bomber dipped into a steeper dive as the North Kent coast rolled underneath, flattening out at sea-level. Andrew followed it down, jinking from left to right to avoid haphazard fire from the dorsal gunner.
Andrew closed the distance with a burst of throttle and fired from astern. Bullet-strikes sparkled along the top of the fuselage and the gunner fell silent. Andrew roared over the bomber, climbing away in a slow bank.
The Heinkel’s tail hit the crest of a wave, then another. It propellers ploughed into the surf and it lurched to a halt, settling into the water.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 13