Dimly aware that fewer 109s had gone past than he’d counted in the formation above them, Andrew glanced into his rear-view mirror. As he did so, white streaks flashed past his cockpit.
‘109s behind, Yellow Section. Break! Break!’
Andrew lurched his Spitfire away from the white spirals and then followed Yellow Section in a tight turn to starboard.
‘I’m hit!’ Gerry’s voice rang with pain and panic.
Andrew scanned the sky. The lone attacker climbed away to the south, content with his hit-and-run. There was no sign of the fighters they had been chasing.
‘Yellow Three to Yellow Section’ – Andrew forced his voice into steadiness – ‘no more bandits in our vicinity.’
‘Thanks, Andrew. Keep an eye out,’ Bryan answered. ‘What’s the situation Gerry?’
Gerry came back, breathless: ‘Cannon shell hits on port wing and fuselage. There are holes in my cockpit door and my left leg hurts like hell.’
‘Okay, Gerry, we’ll escort you home. Course zero-five-zero.’
The section curved onto the heading and Andrew weaved along behind the others.
‘Right, Gerry,’ Bryan continued, ‘two things: how is your engine sounding; and how much blood are you losing?’
‘My engine is starting to knock a bit. And it looks like plenty of blood to me, but I think it’s a lot of small wounds rather than one big one.’
‘I want you to get ready to bail out. Undo your straps and unplug your oxygen. Check your parachute harness is undamaged and make sure you can reach the D-ring.’
‘Check.’
‘Now pull back the canopy and lock it open.’
Andrew scoured the sky to his left. The bomber formation hung over Southampton, releasing their payloads onto the port. Bomb-bursts appeared amongst the streets and buildings. High in the sky the vapour trails of remote combat swirled their silent dance.
Bognor Regis slid below them.
‘Engine noise is getting worse,’ Gerry called. ‘I don’t think it’ll last much longer.’
‘All right Gerry,’ Bryan answered, ‘throttle back a bit and we’ll take it down to 3000ft. Andrew, give us top cover please.’
Gerry descended in a shallow dive alongside Bryan as the engine’s racket approached a crescendo.
‘There’s no future here,’ Gerry called. ‘I’m bailing out now.’
‘All right, Gerry, remember if the parachute doesn’t work, you’ll have the rest of your life to fix it.’
Gerry pulled out his wireless lead and unlatched the cockpit door. Wincing against the pain, he bunched his legs under him on the seat. Pushing the stick forward he dived out towards the trailing edge of the wing.
The tail flashed past his face and the roar of the other Spitfire’s engine battered his ears as Bryan swooped away.
Buffeting in the wind, Gerry pulled the rip-cord and heard the fabric snap and bustle as it unfurled into the hungry air. Twisting like a big white exclamation mark in the sky, he continued his plunge towards the ground. Gerry looked up as the canopy untangled its final folds and blossomed outwards.
The straps jerked viciously at his groin and the electric pain in his leg stabbed up his back. His head jolted forward with the sudden deceleration, dislodging his flying helmet to tumble down through space between his feet.
Twisting his head, he caught a glimpse of his stricken Spitfire ploughing vertically into a meadow, scattering a herd of sheep into terrified panic.
The drone of engines persisted. Looking up he saw his comrades circling to defend his descent.
The ground rushed up to meet him. Pulling hard on the guy-ropes to miss a copse of trees, Gerry plunged into the furrowed ground. A bright flash of pain sunk him into darkness.
Andrew breathed a sigh of relief to see Gerry safely down.
‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Three’ – Bryan’s voice broke through on the wireless – ‘let’s see if those bombers are still around.’
****
‘You do have beautiful hair,’ Molly said as she combed and snipped. ‘It’s so sleek and fine.’
‘But will you still love me when I’m old and grey…?’
Molly paused in her work, strain flickering across her face.
Andrew retrieved the situation: ‘…or bald?’ He smiled and caught her eye in the mirror.
Molly smiled back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I see you so often. I’m so much luckier than most women.’
The dusk settled into darkness over the green outside the shop.
‘We just have to get through another ten weeks.’ Andrew smiled. ‘If we can hold on that long, we’ll have a whole winter to prepare. They won’t have a chance at beating us next year.’
‘In six weeks we’ll have a baby.’ Molly sighed. ‘A new life for an uncertain world.’
She finished combing and took the towel off his shoulders: ‘There you are, sir. You’ll look your handsome best for George’s funeral.’
13th August, 1940
The nurse looked in through the open door: ‘I have a visitor to see you.’
Gerry winced as he hiked himself up in the bed: ‘Thank you, nurse.’
Adjutant Day entered the room carrying a large box which he placed on the table under the window.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Gerry said.
‘Ah hello, Gerry’ – Day waggled his finger – ‘please call me Gordon, this is no place to stand on ceremony.’ He pulled off his gloves. ‘I heard you got roughed up a bit, what happened exactly?’
‘I got caught out in a tail-chase. Picked up a couple of cannon-shell hits and brought some shrapnel home in my leg.’
‘And how is the leg?’
‘They’ve dug out most of the bits. They plan to go in after the rest tomorrow. Then they’ll keep me here for a while to make sure there’s no infection amongst all that bruising. If all goes well, I’ll be back in action in a week or so.’
‘Excellent’ – Day nodded – ‘I’ve brought you a present from the Ministry.’
He opened the box and pulled out a brand-new typewriter and a sheaf of paper.
‘Remember our chat in my office?’ Day placed the typewriter carefully on the table. ‘It appears this is the ideal opportunity to start writing down your experiences. Let the American people know what’s happening over here.
‘I understand your interview with Renton in Collier’s Weekly has stirred some interest in America. We’d really like to keep up the momentum. Get American public opinion more on our side.’
‘Is this why I’ve got a private room?’ Gerry asked.
Day smiled and shrugged.
‘I told you I didn’t come here to get special treatment.’
‘Gerry’ – Day sat down on the chair by the bed, his voice more serious – ‘we’ve allowed you to do what you came here to do. There are many in the Air Ministry and in Parliament who wanted you wrapped in cotton wool and placed as far away from the front-line as possible.
‘I know you came here to fly and fight, Gerry. That much was obvious to me when we first met, and I have done all I can to resist pressure to move you away from the combat zone.
‘But you must realise how close you came to disaster yesterday. A few inches to the right and those cannon-shells would’ve hit your cockpit and your fuel tank. We would’ve been sending the bits we could find back across the Atlantic to your parents.
‘Surely you can appreciate what that would do to Winston’s drive to get America more actively involved. The isolationists could just point at your grave and say ‘we told you so’, ‘we don’t want to get sucked into your foreign war’.
‘So, use your hospital time to write the pamphlet. Once they have that, they will be less concerned about what happens to you. Agree to do this and I think I can persuade them to let you go back to Bluebird Squadron.’
Gerry remained silent.
‘I’ll leave it with you, Gerry.’ Day stood to leave. ‘I’m genuinely pleased you’re not badly hurt’ – he smil
ed – ‘I was once a pilot. It was all rather more sedate back then. But I know how it feels.’
Day touched the peak of his cap and left the room.
14th August, 1940
The Oxfordshire countryside rolled past the Humber. Bryan took the turn off the main road for Faringdon.
‘We should be spot on time,’ Bryan said.
Andrew nodded, staying silent.
They drove through the town and parked on the road outside the church.
All Saints’ stood in the centre of its ancient graveyard, surrounded by the lush summer foliage of the trees. The squat central tower supported a white-painted flagpole from which flew the red and white Cross of Saint George.
Bryan took a deep breath: ‘We need to win this war, if only to keep the Germans out of places like this.’
They crunched up the shingled path to the church doors. Removing their caps, they entered and walked down the tiled aisle between the stone columns. Choosing a pew half-way down they sat behind the already assembled congregation.
A woman seated in the front row turned to look at them. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, got up and walked towards them. Both pilots stood as she approached. She gestured them down and sat on the pew next to them.
‘Are you from George’s squadron?’ she asked.
‘Yes’ – Andrew reached out to shake her hand – ‘Andrew and Bryan. We’ve flown with George since Egypt.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘he told so many stories about his friends every time he came home.’ She smiled. ‘I’m his mother.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Anders,’ Bryan murmured, ‘if only it were under different circumstances.’
She dabbed at her cheeks again. ‘I understand he managed to bail out but they couldn’t save him. No one told me until after…’ Her voice tangled on her emotions. ‘…until after he had passed. I would’ve given anything to talk to him one last time.’
Bryan leaned forward and took her hand: ‘The last time I saw him, Mrs Anders, he was speaking about you. You can rest assured he loved you very much.’
She fluttered her hand in front of her face, unable to contain her emotions. Nodding her mute thanks, she went back to the front pew.
The organ struck up a solemn chord and the black-suited pall-bearers entered, a shining oak coffin resting on their shoulders. The slow procession moved down the aisle and the bearers placed the coffin on trestles under the pulpit. The chief pall-bearer placed a laurel wreath and lilies on top of the casket.
The organ transitioned into the first hymn. Andrew held his hymn book open but couldn’t read the words through the sting of his tears.
The final chord reverberated around the stone walls and the vicar motioned everyone to be seated. He climbed the steps into the pulpit and gazed for a moment on the coffin below him before raising his face to the congregation: ‘This year Britain has become our last stronghold. A fortress defended with small aircraft flown by these strange, unknown young men.’ His glance flicked over Andrew and Bryan. ‘But are they unknown? Look at them and you will realise you do know them. They are our sons, our nephews, friends of our sons and daughters. Each a vibrant spark of God’s beloved humanity. All of them welcome in our houses and at our tables.
‘Cast your mind back a few short years. We watched them in those summer days when our stronghold was nothing but their playground. They picnicked on the village greens amongst the sweet bird-chatter. They laughed and played on the beaches, kicking the water with bare toes. And later they watched and then loved the young girls dressed in coloured frocks like the most wonderful of God’s flowers.
‘Now the flowers have faded to khaki and the bird-chatter is stilled under the clattering machines of war. These young men have stepped forward, separated in their blue, to become the winged warriors at the end of the trails that track the vaults above our heads.
‘George has gone, but he is not so far away that he cannot still see England’s face. The woods he played in, the fields he crossed, the town where he grew up and the prettiest flowers that remain unpicked.
‘He has flown on English air to a new world. But he can still see the world he knew just a few days past. And, in our hearts, we may yet see his frozen trail looped white across the heavens. For the air was his kingdom and he was a shield for those who lived under his wings.
‘His brief life has been given up as a ransom, that we might one day be free again. He has given up the richness of days not yet lived, the chance to hear his child’s voice and the solace of true love to ease his years of frailty. All this lost in a moment of willing sacrifice.
‘No thanks we may give him can weigh sufficiently against what he gave. But the clouds in our English skies can entwine with our eternal remembrance and together we may bind a wreath of honour that is worthy for his grave.’
****
The pall-bearers lifted the coffin and walked in step back down the aisle. As they passed, the occupants of each pew filed out behind the procession. Andrew and Bryan stood still, the church emptying behind them.
‘We should attend the burial, Bryan.’ Andrew looked into Bryan’s red-rimmed eyes.
‘No,’ Bryan whispered, ‘I watched him being cremated, I can’t bear to see him being buried as well.’
Chapter 18
Bilis
15th August, 1940
Bluebird Squadron levelled out at 30,000ft. Andrew glanced down at the flat white carpet of cloud below, gleaming in the bright sunlight. Above, the sky throbbed with an intense blue, broken only by remote wisps of cirrus. Over to the east the clouds broke up, revealing glimpses of the North Sea and the Dutch Islands. Squinting against the haze, Andrew could make out the graceful curve of the Norfolk coast. The crackling wireless broke through his thoughts.
‘Hello Beehive Control, Bluebird Leader calling. We are at angels three-zero. Many bandits in sight, heading north. Will engage.’
‘Well done, Bluebird Leader. Good luck. Beehive listening out.’
Black dots advanced through the sky from the south, squadrons stepped up over squadrons. The dots resolved into three distinct groups, each containing over 100 bombers advancing across the Channel about 10,000ft below Bluebird.
High above the bombers their escort fighters threw off long white vapour trails. Each bomber group had its own umbrella of about 50 fighters, squadrons of nimble 109s and slower, twin-engine 110s.
Several miles stood between them, but Bluebird was closing fast. Andrew could make out other British fighters climbing to meet the intruders in groups of 12 or 36.
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. Line astern in flights.’
The squadron reassembled in two lines of six with their flight leaders flying next to each other about 50 yards apart. In this formation they entered the battle-zone.
Spitfires and Hurricanes already engaged the two furthest bomber groups. Squadrons broke up and individual fighters darted in to take snap-shots at the lumbering raiders. Two German machines slid into shallow dives towards the earth. White parachutes blossomed from one of the stricken bombers.
Bluebird approached the nearest bomber formation from its front port quarter, still 10,000ft higher than the target. Above the bombers Andrew picked out a screening squadron of German fighters.
‘Bluebird Leader, going down now! Tally-ho!’
The squadron leader flipped his fighter upside down and screamed into a vertical dive, each member of the squadron followed one after the other.
Andrew pushed the joystick hard over to the left, bringing the starboard wing up at right angles to the horizon. Kicking the port rudder to prevent the nose from rising, he brought the starboard wing all the way over until his machine hung upside down. He pulled the stick and dived after the others.
Their speed mounted, creeping towards 400 miles per hour. The squadron tore through the milling fighter screen and opened up on the bombers.
Lining up his sights ahead of a Dornier, Andrew opened fire at 300
yards. His tracers spiralled past the front of the enemy. ‘Too much deflection,’ he muttered to himself.
Pushing the stick further forward Andrew took his craft beyond the vertical and negative gravity dragged his head towards the Perspex dome of the canopy. Blood forced its way into his temples as he fired again. Through the advancing red mist Andrew saw his fire striking the Dornier’s engine and wing, fragments flying off into the slipstream.
He hauled the stick back and to the right, flashing past the German’s wingtip. The gravity reversed, pushing him down into the seat. Blood flooded away from his head, darkness and quiet descended around him.
Andrew’s head lolled as he blinked back to consciousness, momentarily unaware in his own world of strange silence. The noise of his engine tugged at his hearing, pervading by degrees from a painful distance.
A black shape flashed across his vision snapping him back to the moment. He swerved to follow it. A Spitfire. Checking his mirror, he banked away to his right. Another Spitfire spun past, tracing a vortex of flames and smoke to the sea, the pilots arms flailing out of the opened canopy.
Andrew snapped his head back to the front. Dead ahead a 109 curved upwards in a climbing turn. As it slowed at the top of the turn, the fuselage hung across Andrew’s windscreen.
A large ace of spades decorated its bright yellow cowling. A black cross sat halfway towards the tail and forward of the cross, emblazoned in white, the number ‘13’. The pilot’s head twisted towards him.
A sudden wave of rage crashed over Andrew. He stabbed the firing button. The Messerschmitt flew through his stream of bullets, hits splashing off the fuselage and tail. The German rolled on his back and pulled into a dive. Andrew followed.
Screaming down towards the sea, Andrew fixed his target in the gunsights and fired another long burst. Pieces broke away from the 109 and flames burst from under its cowling, streaming back along the wing-roots.
Andrew’s helpless fury heightened. He pressed the firing button and held it down. The shuddering of the Spitfire’s eight machine-guns vibrated tears into his eyes. A section of the 109’s wingtip detached and the flaming fighter flipped into a violent spin.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 18