‘I’ve heard there are a few in training. But I believe I’m the only one on operations.’
‘Ok’ – the man licked his pencil – ‘I’ll put 30.’ He wrote a few words. ‘Now, when do you normally take off?’
The pair reached the chairs grouped on the grass outside the readiness hut. Gerry motioned for the man to sit down. Andrew and George put down their reading matter and Bryan lit a cigarette.
‘We have a control system to tell us when to take off,’ Gerry explained. ‘When they detect a raid, they call on the phone and tell us where to intercept it.’
‘Detect?’ the suited man frowned.
‘It’s called Radio Direction Finding. They bounce radio waves off the incoming planes and observe them on a screen.’
‘Fascinating’ – The man scribbled in his pad – ‘and this is a British invention?’
Gerry nodded.
The man leaned forward: ‘Have you been in combat—?’
‘Yes, he has,’ Bryan interrupted, ‘and he nearly got his ass shot off.’
Gerry smiled: ‘These are some pilots from Bluebird Squadron’ – he gestured towards the suited man – ‘and this is Mr Renton, war correspondent for Collier’s Weekly back in the States.
‘In answer to your question, yes’ – Gerry turned back to the journalist – ‘I’ve been in close combat with a pair of 109s, and, as Bryan suggested, I did pick up some damage on my Spitfire.’
Renton narrowed his eyes: ‘Were you scared?’
‘I’m scared all the time, Mr Renton,’ Gerry said. ‘I don’t necessarily see that as a bad thing.’
Renton turned his body to include the other pilots: ‘When do you expect to beat the Luftwaffe?’
George snorted a burst of laughter. ‘We don’t.’ He leaned forward in his deckchair. ‘No force outnumbered this badly has the right to expect anything of the sort.’
Renton’s pencil scurried across the page. ‘So, why do you carry on fighting?’
‘We’ve heard what they’ve done in France,’ Andrew said.
‘The Germans are fighting a total war,’ Gerry continued. ‘Negotiated surrender terms will mean nothing to Hitler once he has control of this country. This has to be a fight to the death.’
‘Yes,’ Bryan intoned, ‘a fight to the bloody, unpleasant death.’
Gerry stood up: ‘Would you like a look round a Spitfire, Mr Renton?’
The two men walked away towards the dispersed fighters.
6th August, 1940
‘The squadron leader will see you now, Drew.’ The adjutant nodded towards the office door.
Vincent stood and went through, snapping to attention before the desk. The adjutant followed him in, moving to stand at one side of the desk.
‘Stand easy, Drew.’ Kingfisher’s squadron leader regarded Vincent over inter-woven fingers. ‘I’m told you failed to take off with your section this morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The adjutant says your ground-crew found you unconscious in the cockpit after the others had taken off.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s it about, Drew?’
‘I believe I had a seizure, sir.’
‘A seizure?’
‘Yes, sir’ – Vincent nodded – ‘I had a couple when I was younger.’
‘You realise how bloody dangerous this is, don’t you, Drew?’ The squadron leader leaned forward. ‘A ruddy great Spitfire parked in the middle of the runway while its pilot has a fit.’
‘Yes, sir. It hasn’t happened for nearly five years, sir.’
The adjutant spoke up: ‘Drew had a bit of a close shave with a German bomber on his first operational patrol. By all accounts it’ – the adjutant paused, striving for delicacy – ‘had a profound effect on him.’
The squadron leader chewed his lip: ‘Listen, Drew, we can invalid you out of the service. You could go home and not worry about any of this anymore.’
‘The diagnosis, sir?’
‘It would have to be “Lack of Moral Fibre”.’
Vincent flushed: ‘But that’s not true, sir. I want to fight. I want to make my mother proud.’
The adjutant leaned forward again: ‘I could talk to the medical officer. Maybe a short stay in hospital… an assessment… something like that.’
The squadron leader nodded: ‘Yes, let’s try that. All right, Drew, go back to your quarters and wait for instructions. Don’t leave base and don’t go anywhere near a plane. Dismissed.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Vincent wheeled and left the room.
The squadron leader watched the door close. ‘Make sure he doesn’t come back to Kingfisher, will you?’
8th August, 1940
Bluebird Squadron laboured in a steep climb due south to the coast. As they levelled out at 18,000ft, faint radio chatter drifted onto the wireless from a battle already in progress:
‘…hello Sandpiper Yellow Section, 110 behind you…’
‘…damn it! Close up, Peewit Red Two and watch for the 109s on your left…’
‘…Magpie White Two, where the bloody hell are you…?’
‘…attacking now, Sheldrake Squadron, loosen up a bit…’
‘…I don’t know Blue One, but there are some bastards up there at 9 o’clock…’
‘…tally-ho, tally-ho, Sandpiper Red Leader, attacking now…’
‘…yes, I can see him, glycol leak I think, he’s getting out, yes, he’s bailed out, he’s all right…’
Andrew strained his eyes at the sky ahead. The backdrop of cloud looked innocuous in its white innocence until a pin-prick of orange light burst into brief effervescence, curving a slow path down towards the earth. Around the spot where the flames blossomed Andrew could distinguish black dots against the firmament, whirling like angry insects chasing one another’s tails.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. They’re mixing it up dead ahead. Looks like fighters only, I see no bombers. Go in as sections and choose individual targets. Good luck.’
The squadron drifted apart as each flight of three planes jockeyed for their own space. The black dots grew into wheeling fighter planes and Andrew searched for the best way into the melee.
‘Tally-ho, Bluebird!’
Bryan and George banked away to the right. Andrew banked left, heading towards a 109 and his wingman as they turned across his path. At full deflection he squeezed out a burst of fire that slashed the air behind the enemy as they flashed past. Andrew pulled into a climbing turn to avoid retaliation. Glancing into his mirror he glimpsed a twin-engine 110 side-slip past his tail, harried as it went by a Hurricane.
Andrew eased back and dropped in behind the Hurricane to protect his tail. Fire from the Hurricane’s wings raked the German fighter’s fuselage. It flopped onto its back and dived towards the ground. The Hurricane peeled away to the left; Andrew peeled away to the right.
A yellow-nosed 109 reared into view, rushing headlong towards him. Muzzle-flash sparkled from the German’s wings. Andrew instinctively stabbed the firing button as he barrel-rolled under his enemy.
Banking away in a steep turn, Andrew spotted Bryan’s Spitfire below him, circling above the cloud layer with a 109 on his tail.
Andrew dived towards them and pressed transmit on his wireless: ‘Bluebird Yellow Leader, you have a bandit on your tail!’
‘I bloody well know that!’ Bryan’s voice was compressed with the strain of his tight turn.
Andrew dropped into the turn behind the German, checked his mirror for danger, then concentrated on hauling the jinking black shape into the centre of his sights. Andrew thumbed the firing button sending a three-second storm of ordnance into and around the 109. The German turned violently to starboard. Andrew clawed after him, unleashing another three-second burst.
Strikes flashed along the enemy’s tail and he side-slipped out of sight into the cloud. Andrew dived after him, throttling back to avoid a collision in the murk.
Moments later Andrew barrelled
out of the cloud-base into empty sky, 3000ft above the water. He flew a wide circle, searching for any sign of a crash. The sea’s serene surface offered no clues.
Brighton’s dark mass sat like a scar on the English coast a couple of miles distant. Andrew banked north and flew for home.
****
Bluebird Squadron straggled back to Kenley in twos or threes. Andrew watched his comrades circle the field and swoop in to land. The faces of the pilots walking past him bore the brutal imprint of fear and fatigue.
Bryan appeared, flying helmet in hand, sucking hungrily on a cigarette. ‘Thanks for slapping that 109 off my arse, Andrew,’ he said. ‘He was a tenacious little bastard.’
‘I sent him home with a few holes in his tail.’ Andrew smiled. ‘Is George back yet?’
Bryan’s face darkened and he said nothing.
‘What happened?’
‘Two 110s latched onto him.’ Bryan flicked away his cigarette butt. ‘I got some hits into one of them, but I couldn’t shift them both.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘His kite burst into flames.’
Andrew sunk his face into his hands.
‘I saw him bail out,’ Bryan said.
Andrew brightened: ‘That’s good news.’
Bryan levelled his gaze at Andrew. ‘He didn’t get out for a fair while. The fire was ferocious…’ he trailed off.
They walked in silence to the readiness hut for debriefing. As they entered, the telephone jarred into life on the desk. Fagan scooped it from its cradle and listened. Squadron Leader Fenton approached the desk, watching him with an intent gaze.
‘Understood, thank you.’ Fagan replaced the receiver and looked up. ‘The army picked up Pilot Officer Anders just south of Lewes. They’ve taken him straight to hospital in Haywards Heath.’
Fenton raised a questioning eyebrow and Fagan answered with a subtle shake of his head.
The squadron leader walked over to Andrew and Bryan. ‘You’re both off the flying rota until tomorrow afternoon. I want you to visit George in the morning.’
9th August, 1940
Bryan’s Humber slid into the car park outside the hospital. He and Andrew climbed out, straightening their uniforms. They entered the hospital and approached the prim receptionist.
‘We’ve come to visit George Anders,’ Andrew said. ‘The army brought him in yesterday. He’s a pilot.’
The girl blinked and dropped her eyes. ‘Please take a seat, I’ll get the doctor to come speak with you.’
After a few minutes a white-coated doctor approached. ‘Hello, gentlemen’ – he shook their hands in turn – ‘you’re in luck, George has just regained consciousness. Normally I wouldn’t allow any visitors at this stage, however considering the circumstances—’
‘Circumstances?’ Bryan’s question hung in the air.
‘Follow me.’ The doctor led them down a tiled corridor, stopping outside a door with obscured glass. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper: ‘Pilot Officer Anders has suffered major burns to a large portion of his body, mostly his hands, arms, chest and face. The skin is largely gone from these areas. You’ll see they are covered with a black substance.
‘This is tannic jelly; it shrinks the tissue around the burn and reduces fluid loss. It also takes some of the heat out of the burn and makes it slightly less painful. His condition is very serious. There’s little we can do except wait and see what happens over the next 48 hours.
‘His mask protected his mouth to some degree so he can talk. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing his goggles.’
The doctor opened the door and ushered them in: ‘Two minutes only, please, gentlemen.’
They entered a small private room where a single bed stood against the wall. A nurse sat next to the bed. On a small table she had a dampened sponge in a bowl and a bottle with a dropper. The blinds were down, making the room dim. A strong chemical smell filled their nostrils, undercut with the faintest odour of burnt toast.
George lay spread-eagled on the bed. Black jelly lathered his arms and chest. The fingers on his clawed hands looked stubbier than they should. His forehead and cheeks had a liberal covering of the jelly. The skin around his mouth and nose shone scarlet between large blisters. His eyes glimmered with a dull, unblinking milkiness. His stillness spoke to the agony of movement.
The nurse reached over with the dropper, dispensing relief into his unseeing eyes.
‘Who’s there?’ George wilfully restrained his voice against the back-drop of his pain.
‘It’s me.’ Andrew stepped forward to the end of the bed. ‘Bryan’s here too.’ He bit off the natural urge to ask “how are you?”.’
‘I’m sorry about this, chaps’ – George’s voice remained deliberate and careful – ‘it’s all a bit of a shambles. I’m beginning to think I should’ve stayed in the bloody crate. Might have been easier.’
The nurse picked up the damp sponge with her forceps and dabbed George’s mouth. His tongue flicked greedily at the moisture left on his lips.
‘Don’t talk that way, old man,’ Bryan murmured. ‘The doctor’s just explained everything they’re doing to get you better. You’re in the right hands.’
‘It’s such a shame,’ George continued. ‘I loved flying that plane. I’ve seen more beautiful things from a cockpit than I had any right to wish for. And now I can’t fly’ – he lifted the remains of his hands fractionally off the bed – ‘and I’m blind.’
The doctor opened the door behind them. ‘Gentlemen, I must ask you to leave now. My patient needs to rest.’
They turned towards the door.
‘Chaps’ – George’s voice cracked with pain and emotion – ‘don’t let my mother see me this way.’
Chapter 17
Vastatio
11th August, 1940
‘Died as a result of wounds,’ Andrew murmured ‘That makes it sound easier than it was.’
‘You and Bryan must go to his funeral’ – Fenton laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder – ‘to represent the squadron.’
‘Thank you, sir. It would be a privilege.’
‘By the way, I’m asking Gerry to join your section permanently.’ Fenton smiled. ‘Look after him for me.’
12th August, 1940
Andrew and Bryan surveyed the airfield through the early morning mist. Drizzle moistened their faces.
‘Do you think they’ll stay at home?’ Andrew asked.
‘It’s not bad enough for that,’ Bryan replied. ‘The summer is slipping away and they’ve got a job to finish.’
Gerry walked back from checking his Spitfire. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said, ‘I’m really sorry to hear about George.’
‘It’s a bloody awful numbers game, Yankee.’ Bryan sighed. ‘God alone knows how many Germans are warming up their engines right now, how many more numbers will come up today.’ Bryan placed a hand on Gerry’s shoulder: ‘But thank you. He was a good man.’
Andrew and Gerry watched Bryan walk back to the shelter of the readiness hut.
‘I’m sorry…’ Gerry began.
‘Don’t worry’ – Andrew smiled at him – ‘Bryan’s right. It’s as much about luck as judgement up there. Come on, let’s get out of the rain.’
****
Bluebird Squadron reached 20,000ft in flight formation.
‘Bluebird Leader calling Beehive Control. Any trade? Listening out.’
‘Beehive calling Bluebird Leader. Much trade forming in Cherbourg area. Proceed to coast. Continue climb. Beehive out.’
The altimeter needle rose lazily to 27,000ft. Andrew noticed nascent vapour trails furling away from his wings. They grew in density, swirling like banners, as the aircraft crept higher.
‘Bluebird Leader calling Beehive Control. We are now angels three-zero. Bluebird Leader listening out.’
‘Beehive calling Bluebird Leader. Orbit present position and wait for further instructions. Beehive out.’
The squadron banked into a lazy turn to port. As their noses came round to
the south-west, Andrew spotted more vapour trails heading towards them from across the Channel. The squadron leader spotted them too.
‘Bluebird Leader calling Beehive. Bugger orbiting, I see your trade heading our way. Bluebird out.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Fifty plus bandits to the south, probably 109s and there’ll be bombers coming along after them. Those fighters have got the drop on us for altitude. Keep your eyes peeled. Tally-ho!’
The expected bombers emerged from the haze, tiny dots against the fuzzy sky. Andrew guessed they were flying at half his altitude, estimating 100 machines – Dorniers and Heinkels. He glanced down and spotted two Hurricane squadrons circling in wait for the bombers about 2000ft below him. Over to his right another Spitfire squadron at the same altitude barrelled in the same direction.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Form in sections, line astern. Tail-end charlies, get weaving.’
Andrew dropped in behind Bryan and Gerry. He let his plane lag behind a little, then increased the throttle and banked alternately port then starboard, searching the sky above and behind for enemy fighters.
The vapour trails above him stayed stubbornly straight, drifting into the sun’s glare. Andrew held his right hand over his eyes, peering through the gap between his fingers to keep track of the enemy fighters.
The wireless crackled with excited chatter as the Hurricanes joined battle with the main bomber force. Andrew resisted the urge to look down and stuck to his dazzled vigil. Sweat streamed from under his flying helmet, dripping from his chin.
The vapour trails curved into semi-circles. Squinting through his fingers Andrew sensed the Messerschmitts peeling off into a dive.
He jabbed the transmit button: ‘Look out, Bluebird aircraft, 109s coming down now.’
Andrew stopped weaving and followed the rest of Yellow Section in a tight turn to port. The three aircraft formed a cartwheeling defensive circle. Seven or eight 109s flashed through the centre of their circle and more barrelled past outside it, all hammering away with machine-gun fire. Bryan hauled his Spitfire onto its back and screamed down after the Germans. Gerry and Andrew followed.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 17