The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘He has another woman somewhere.’ Eileen pushed her hair away from her brow. ‘A younger woman, I think. She takes the brunt these days. There’s still a little left for me, but it’s not that often anymore.’

  She walked to the stove: ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Vincent watched his mother’s back as she filled the kettle and warmed the teapot. She spooned tea-leaves into the pot and paused. Her head sagged forward as she leaned on the stove’s edge. Without turning she spoke: ‘Did he ever touch you?’

  Vincent swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth. ‘No, Mum. Never,’ he lied.

  Her shoulders relaxed. She retrieved two cups from the draining board and placed them on the table. ‘So, my lovely young man, what is it you do in the RAF?’

  ‘For the first few months I helped the armourers, loading and cleaning the guns in the planes.’

  Eileen smiled over her shoulder: ‘That sounds like an important job.’ She poured boiling water into the teapot and stirred. ‘Certainly a bit different from baking bread.’

  She brought the pot to the table and sat down. ‘The first few months?’

  ‘For the last six weeks they’ve been teaching me how to fly the planes.’

  Eileen’s face froze: ‘What sort of planes?’

  ‘Fighters’ – Vincent smiled – ‘Spitfires. They’re the best, Mum. At the end of next week I’m joining a squadron on the south coast.’

  ‘Fighters’ – Eileen poured the tea – ‘fighters.’

  ‘The Germans are banging hell out of our merchantmen in the Channel,’ Vincent continued. ‘I’m going to help stop them.’

  ‘Six weeks?’ she murmured. ‘They taught you to fly a plane in six weeks? Vincent, it takes longer than that to learn how to drive a car.’

  ‘There’s a war on, Mum.’

  29th July, 1940

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Many bandits massing north of Calais. Fifty-plus. Vector one-one-zero.’

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron, one-one-zero. Buster, buster.’

  Andrew pushed his throttle forward. Excitement thrilled up his spine. After days of slogging up and down the Channel without a sight of the enemy, their luck had changed – Bluebird was airborne at the same time as the raiders.

  Folkestone slid away underneath the Spitfires’ wings. The black shapes of the convoy they’d come to protect slunk slowly through the waves, heading south-west. Another squadron flashed over the coast to their left.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Hurricanes at 8 o’clock. Let them have the bombers. Let’s get some altitude for the fighters.’

  The Spitfires lifted into a climb. The Hurricanes, flying level, overhauled them.

  Andrew watched the squat fighters vanish beneath the back edge of his wing then fell to searching the sky ahead.

  Bluebird Squadron levelled out, dropping to cruising speed. Andrew could see the Hurricanes ahead and below – four little V-shaped formations barrelling towards battle. Squinting against the reflective glare of the clouds, Andrew could make out the tiny black dots of the enemy formation.

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Bandits 12 o’clock. More fighters than bombers by the looks of things. Stay in sections until they play their hand. Tally-ho!’

  Andrew glanced up at the fighter cover, but his gaze was drawn back to the 12 Hurricanes. They flew head-on towards 30 or more twin-engine bombers. Suddenly gun-smoke streamed away from the Hurricanes as they opened fire.

  The concentrated violence of 96 machine-guns shattered the spell. The bombers broke formation, swerving out of the path of their attackers. One slumped over on to its back and fell into a vertical dive towards the sea, trailing smoke from its port engine.

  ‘109s coming down now!’

  The German fighters sliced down in a steep dive, firing as they swept past, scattering Bluebird Squadron in its turn.

  ‘They’re going for the Hurricanes, Bluebird. Let’s get after them.’

  Andrew rolled his machine onto its back and pulled into a dive. Ahead, the Hurricanes broke away from the disarrayed bombers as the 109s ploughed into the combat.

  One Hurricane banked into a climbing turn away from the melee. Behind him, unseen below his tail, a 109 skidded into position to open fire. Andrew hauled his Spitfire around until the German filled his windscreen. He squeezed out an un-aimed burst of fire. Strikes blossomed on the 109’s wingtip and the plane broke away, diving for the sea.

  Andrew kicked the rudder and careered after the fleeing German. The speed of the dive stiffened his controls. By main force Andrew pulled the target to the centre of his gunsight. Jabbing the firing button, he loosed two long bursts into the rear of the German fighter.

  Flames burst from under the 109s engine cowling, washing along the sides of the cockpit and back along the fuselage. The plane bucked in its dive, like an animal in spasms of pain.

  Andrew checked his tail, throttled back and pulled out. Banking round he watched the falling torch of wreckage plunge into the sea, spewing out a plume of white foam from the water.

  Scanning the sky Andrew spotted a plane above him. He watched its approach with caution until he could make out the roundels on its underside. The Spitfire drew up next to him and Andrew recognised Gerry.

  ‘Where did everyone go?’ The American’s drawl sounded strange in his headset.

  ‘It appears the bombers thought better of it. Let’s go home.’

  Gerry gave him a thumbs-up: ‘I can confirm your 109 when we get back. I saw it all.’

  Gerry’s Spitfire slid into formation on Andrew’s right wing. Andrew pulled back his canopy to let the slipstream buffet his face while he tried not to imagine fire in the cockpit.

  1st August, 1940

  ‘Hell’ – Bryan shaded his eyes, squinting into the sky – ‘that’ll make it even more difficult to get a comfy chair in the mess.’

  Two Hurricane squadrons circled Kenley, dropping section by section into the glide-path to land.

  ‘The whole place will be overrun with bloody tractor drivers.’

  Andrew hissed a sharp intake of breath: ‘Hold on, Bryan. It wasn’t so long ago you were lusting after one of those Hurricanes.’

  ‘My dear boy’ – Bryan levelled his gaze at Andrew – ‘one’s affection for a bulldog cannot be expected to last when one has raced a greyhound.’

  ‘Hello guys.’ Gerry sat down on the grass between them. ‘I’m on your section this morning.’

  ‘Good grief, Andrew’ – Bryan chuckled – ‘the teacher’s pet has come to play with the naughty boys. Shall we let him stay?’

  Gerry shook his head: ‘Squadron Leader Fenton thinks I might learn something flying with you two. So far all I’ve learnt is that you’re an ass, Bryan.’

  ‘Stop it you two,’ Andrew chided. ‘Let’s enjoy the peace while it lasts.’

  ‘Ass?’ Bryan muttered to himself. ‘Is he talking about a donkey?’

  The last of the Hurricanes taxied in and switched off. Silence settled over the field.

  In the hut the telephone jangled once. The pilots on readiness froze in mid-movement. A head emerged from the window.

  ‘Bluebird Yellow Section scramble. Lone intruder off Eastbourne.’

  Andrew, Bryan and Gerry burst into motion, running for their planes. A minute later three engines choked into life and Yellow Section climbed into the air.

  Andrew finished cranking up his undercarriage as Bryan’s voice cut through the ether: ‘Bluebird Yellow Section to Beehive Control. We are airborne. Listening out.’

  ‘Beehive calling Bluebird Yellow Leader. Vector one-five-seven, angels five. Lone bandit stooging around off Eastbourne. Take a look, will you?’

  Bryan accelerated, Gerry and Andrew tucking in behind him. The fields rolled away beneath as they levelled out at 5000ft.

  Eastbourne appeared, a dark smudge banded by beach, then they were over the sparkling wave-tops.

  ‘Beehive Control call
ing Bluebird Leader. Bandit due east of your position, heading for home.’

  Bryan banked them onto the new course and Andrew searched the sky.

  ‘There it is’ – Gerry’s voice came over the air – ‘dead ahead. But it’s white… why is it painted white?’

  The three Spitfires gained rapidly. Andrew saw they were chasing a white bi-plane with large floats, lumbering along a few dozen feet above the surface.

  ‘Yellow Three to Yellow Leader,’ Andrew called, ‘those are red crosses on the wings, Bryan. It’s a rescue plane.’

  ‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Section’ – Bryan ignored Andrew’s transmission – ‘Tally-ho!’

  The leading Spitfire peeled off into a dive after the bi-plane. Andrew and Gerry flew on straight and level.

  ‘Yellow Three to Yellow Leader’ – Andrew’s voice rose – ‘I repeat, it’s a rescue plane. It’s marked with red crosses.’

  ‘They’re all bastards…’

  Bryan opened fire, a great swathe of bullets slashed into the water next to the float-plane, churning the sea to maelstrom. The bi-plane wallowed left and right to evade the attack.

  Bryan’s second burst bracketed the aircraft. Black holes and rents peppered its white body and wings. The bi-plane’s nose sagged and its floats hit the waves. The machine somersaulted twice, wrenching its wings into tatters, and landed on its back in the water.

  Bryan flew low over the sinking flotsam, dipping a wing to examine it as he passed.

  ‘Yellow Leader calling’ – Bryan’s voice held a peculiar flatness – ‘regain formation, Yellow Section. We’re going home.’

  Andrew and Gerry banked down to take position behind Bryan. No one broke the silence on the flight home.

  The three Spitfires circled the aerodrome and Bryan led them down to land. Each pilot taxied to their station in dispersal and shut down their engines.

  Bryan walked to the readiness hut for debriefing; Andrew and Gerry trailed after him.

  The stifling air in the hut hung heavy over the trio as they sat down before the intelligence officer’s desk. Fagan, a slight and thoughtful man, looked up over his spectacles at Bryan: ‘Any contact?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bryan nodded. ‘Control directed us onto a lone raider. We caught up with him about ten miles off Eastbourne.’

  Fagan nodded as he typed. ‘Did you identify the raider?’

  ‘It was a Heinkel float-plane.’

  Gerry couldn’t contain himself: ‘It was a Red Cross rescue plane.’

  Fagan held up his hand to silence Gerry. ‘Any other markings?’

  ‘Yes’ – Bryan glanced at Gerry – ‘a ruddy great swastika on its tail-plane.’

  Fagan looked at Andrew and then Gerry. Both remained silent.

  ‘Did you engage?’

  ‘Two three-second bursts from dead astern. The raider hit the sea and sank very quickly.’

  ‘Can you confirm this?’ Fagan looked up again at Andrew and Gerry.

  ‘Yes,’ Andrew said, ‘that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘Well done, Hale’ – Fagan smiled – ‘another confirmed kill.’

  2nd August, 1940

  Vincent checked over his Spitfire with the rigger.

  ‘Everything is sound. This little lovely has been out on a few patrols already so I’m sure she won’t be springing any surprises on you, sir.’

  The man strode away to the next fighter and Vincent stood alone surveying the aircraft. He walked back to the readiness hut battling with conflicting emotions. The thought of flying into combat for the first time filled him with dread. Under the dread lay a desperation to get it behind him, to prove to himself he could do it.

  He slumped into a deckchair and breathed deeply to calm his fluttering heart.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Kingfisher Squadron, get off the deck!’

  Vincent leapt to his feet. The voice came from the field rather than the orderly in the readiness hut.

  The squadron leader sprinted past, struggling into his flying jacket as he ran. ‘Kingfisher, scramble!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘They’ve dropped us in it this bloody time!’

  Vincent gazed into the sky beyond the airfield. A large bomber formation cruised towards them at about 15,000ft.

  Vincent grabbed his flying jacket from the back of the deckchair and ran into the melee of pilots and mechanics.

  Climbing into his cockpit he glanced back at the approaching formation. A sudden lurch of terror gripped his throat. There wasn’t time! They’d be blown to hell before they could get off the ground.

  Gunning the Spitfire’s spluttering engine, Vincent swallowed his panic and taxied away to the runway. The first flight of six raced across the grass in front of him, lifting into the air.

  Vincent looked around in desperation. He formed up with four other members of ‘B’ flight, but couldn’t see the leader. Craning his neck, he caught sight of the missing plane. The propeller windmilled on the power from the starter battery but refused to catch.

  Vincent’s panic forced a whimpering moan through his throat. He screwed his head round to the approaching raiders, trying to calculate where they would release their bombloads in order to hit the aerodrome. It couldn’t be long.

  Gritting his teeth, he fought the desire to take off alone and fixed his gaze back on his leader. The reluctant engine coughed plumes of blue smoke and fired up. The mechanics pulled away the chocks and the Spitfire lurched forward towards the waiting flight.

  Vincent twisted his head round to check the bombers. They flew directly overhead with bomb-bays closed. Their target lay elsewhere.

  The flight surged across the grass and bucked into the air. With undercarriages locking into place they curved away to port in a steep climbing turn to the north.

  ‘Kingfisher ‘B’ flight calling, where are you, ‘A’ flight?’

  ‘Hello, Kingfisher ‘B’ flight, we’re due north of base, angels four. Climbing like bastards. Pull your finger out.’

  Kingfisher Squadron climbed at 3000ft a minute towards the enemy formation. The bombers lay in front but still above the climbing Spitfires. Kingfisher ‘A’ flight flew at full throttle boost and black streams of oily vapours swept away from their exhausts.

  ‘Kingfisher ‘B’ flight. Full boost, chaps, we don’t want to miss the fun.’

  Vincent throttled back, pushed the small red boost lever fully forward and opened up the main throttle once more. The aircraft leapt forward, jarring him back into his seat. The engine vibrated with noise and black smoke from Kingfisher ‘B’ flight joined the trail of their comrades.

  Reaching the height of the bomber formation the squadron closed up.

  ‘Mandrake Control to Kingfisher Squadron. How far are you from contact? Listening out.’

  ‘Kingfisher Leader to Mandrake. What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? I’ve had contact with these bastards since they showed up at my airfield unannounced. I can see them. Get off the air and learn to stay awake, stupid clots.’

  Kingfisher Squadron levelled out at 16,000ft. They flew behind and to the starboard of the bomber formation. Vincent beheld the enemy for the first time. One hundred bombers, stepped up in ten ranks of ten from front to rear; 5000ft above the bombers he spotted the vapour trails of at least twenty escorting 109s.

  ‘Kingfisher Leader to Kingfisher Squadron. That’s a bloody hornet’s nest of rear-gunners down there. So we’ll take ’em head-on. Stay tight, Kingfisher. Buster, buster.’

  Black smoke belched from the exhausts as the squadron pushed their engines once more into boost. As the Spitfires overhauled their target, the bombers receded over Vincent’s left shoulder. He judged they’d gained about three miles when the wireless crackled to life again: ‘Kingfisher Leader to Kingfisher Squadron. Throttle back, prepare for attack.’

  A moment later the leader led the squadron around in a steep turn to port. Vincent slipped the safety off and rested his thumb on the firing button. The horizon filled with ugly black shapes
punctuated by sparkling canopies careening towards him at incredible speed. He jabbed the firing button without aiming and his machine vibrated with the furious recoil of eight machine guns.

  From the corner of his eye Vincent caught the leading Spitfires breaking left and dropping below the first rank of bombers. Vincent held the firing button for a second longer.

  The Perspex nose of a Heinkel 111 loomed, a helmeted figure threw his arms across his face. Vincent wrenched the control column to the left and back, kicking full port rudder. Blackness crashed down on his vision and a huge jolt reverberated down the airframe from the tail.

  The crushing weight of gravity pushed him further into the cockpit, dragging down the flesh on his cheeks and compressing his blinded eyes back into his skull.

  Shudders wracked through the Spitfire as it stalled at the top of its uncontrolled turn, hung for a moment in space, then dropped into a sickening spin. Vincent’s vision returned to see the countryside carouselling from left to right.

  He pushed starboard rudder to stop the spin and let the plane dive to increase airspeed before wrenching back into level flight.

  Panting, he checked his tail in the rear-view mirror. It looked intact and the air was clear behind him. He scanned the sky searching for the bomber formation and the battle he’d dropped away from. They had moved on out of sight. Flying straight and level in the empty sky, Vincent became aware of a clinging wetness on his legs and a pungent stench filling the cockpit.

  Chapter 16

  Ignis

  5th August, 1940

  ‘What’s going on over there?’ Bryan murmured.

  Andrew raised his head to see Gerry deep in conversation with Squadron Leader Fenton and a civilian in an ill-fitting suit. Fenton shook the suited man’s hand and strode away.

  Gerry and the stranger walked towards the readiness hut. As they got closer their conversation drifted over on the gentle summer breeze.

  ‘…came in through Ontario, took a flight test and joined right there. Shipped over on a troop liner and arrived in Liverpool about seven weeks ago,’ Gerry said.

  ‘How many Americans are flying with the RAF?’ The stranger spoke with an American accent. He held a pad of paper, making notes as they talked.