The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘We need to get a landing strip marked out,’ he shouted. ‘We need some posts and flags.’

  ‘Equipment store is destroyed, sir. The whole thing has collapsed.’

  ‘What about the cookhouse? Get tablecloths… knives and forks to pin them to the ground.’

  Two men ran off through the rubble towards the cookhouse. Gerry took the rest onto the runway to help clear away the debris.

  ****

  The orderly ran across the Redhill grass towards Bluebird’s pilots.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Beehive Control at Kenley. They’ve cleared a space for you to land. You’re to fly back immediately.’

  The pilots climbed to their feet and started back towards the planes. Bryan brushed past the orderly. ‘If I ever come back’ – he glared at the man – ‘and you tell me you don’t have any bullets, I’ll knock your bloody block off.’

  One by one their engines coughed into life and Bluebird straggled into the air. Bryan and Andrew took off last, climbing to 3000ft, heading north towards the plumes of black smoke spiralling up from Kenley, eight miles distant.

  Three minutes later they settled into an orbit around the aerodrome, waiting their turn to land.

  Between the craters and the wreckage, a narrow grass strip stood marked out by squares of white fabric pegged to the ground along its edges.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Squadron. One at a time please, gentlemen. Let the previous man get onto the perimeter track before you approach.’

  Circling the field, Andrew looked down in dismay. Three hangars were wrecked and smoking. Half a dozen Hurricanes lay crumpled and burning. Men shovelled earth into the craters that pockmarked the grass. In the field beyond the fence an ambulance crew prised the broken bodies of men from under the wreckage of the two fallen bombers. The war had come home.

  ****

  Gerry stood on the edge of the makeshift landing strip watching Bluebird’s Spitfires land and taxi, waving to those he recognised. When Andrew taxied past, Gerry walked alongside his plane to an empty blast-pen and helped the ground-crew manhandle it into position.

  Andrew climbed down from the wing and shook Gerry’s hand. ‘Welcome back,’ Andrew said. ‘You could’ve chosen a better day.’

  ‘I got here just before the raid’ – Gerry shook his head – ‘Lord only knows what will happen if they come back. The control room wasn’t hit but we’ve lost telephones, water and gas. Nearest phone is in the post office down the road. The controller’s set up shop there.’

  Bryan strolled up sucking on a cigarette. ‘Hello, Yankee’ – he smiled at Gerry – ‘nice of the Germans to send a reception committee for you.’

  An orderly strode along past the blast-pens. ‘Bluebird Squadron, debrief in the officers’ mess in one hour, repeat officers’ mess, that includes sergeants and other non-comms.’

  Bryan pulled a face. ‘There goes the neighbourhood.’

  ****

  Squadron Leader Fenton stood up and the room quietened.

  ‘It’s been a black day,’ he began. ‘The enemy’s new tactics have worked very well. You’ve all seen the damage. On top of that, we’ve got a dozen dead and twice that many injured. Fagan estimates they hit us with well over 100 bombs. All that in a little over five minutes.

  ‘A similar raid has hit Biggin Hill. But fighters broke up the German formations before they could concentrate over the airfield. The bombing there has been described as “inaccurate”.’

  Andrew tensed at the news.

  ‘The Germans have paid a heavy price,’ Fenton continued. ‘Two of the low-level raiders brought down by cable, one by anti-aircraft fire and the Hurricanes are claiming two or three as well. That’s a possible six out of nine gone for a Burton.

  ‘Of the higher bomber formation, Bluebird have claimed five bombers destroyed and two damaged as well as one escorting fighter destroyed. A Hurricane squadron also engaged this formation, so I’m sure those scores will increase. Bluebird end the day with one pilot wounded and one Spitfire destroyed.

  ‘We can hope for one of two things to happen. Either the scale of their losses will deter the Germans from mounting any more two-tier attacks. Or they’ll believe they’ve done enough to knock Kenley out of the war and leave us alone for a while.

  ‘Either way we’re going nowhere else this evening. The army have delivered tents and sleeping bags at the main gate for those whose quarters have been destroyed. Pitch outside the perimeter track and watch out for the red UXB flags.

  ‘Stay away from the runways, there will be heavy machinery working all night. Get off base if you can, but remember we will be on readiness from six tomorrow morning. Dismiss.’

  ****

  On a borrowed RAF motorbike, Andrew roared through the country lanes towards Biggin Hill. Taking the dog-leg turn to Leaves Green, he slowed to look across the aerodrome. Small curls of smoke rose from a few craters. A bulldozer choked and spluttered in the fading afternoon light, rounding up the errant earth to fill the holes.

  Further along, splintered twigs covered the road from bomb strikes in the roadside trees. Andrew gunned the engine and sped the last half-mile to the village.

  Three craters bisected the green, half a dozen more marched east, straddling the northern end of Biggin Hill’s runway. People moved around the houses lining the perimeter fence, sweeping up glass and broken roof-tiles.

  Andrew turned left off the main road towards the hairdressing shop. Sitting on the bench at the edge of the green he saw Molly. Relief tingled through his clenched shoulder muscles as he pulled up and switched off the motorcycle.

  ‘Molly!’ he called, ‘are you all right?’

  Molly looked over her shoulder and smiled: ‘Yes. Come and give me a kiss.’

  Andrew hurried over to sit next to her on the bench, lingering a kiss on her lips: ‘I was worried.’

  She pushed a finger onto the end of his nose: ‘Now you know how I feel every day.’

  ‘What are you doing out here?’

  Molly sucked in a deep breath: ‘Watching. I wanted to see them.’

  Andrew put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s too risky, sweetheart. Think of the baby.’

  Molly looked into his eyes: ‘If they win, I will have years to watch the things they plan to do to this country. Today I wanted to watch us fighting back. So, if in the end they do win, I can cherish the memory of our resistance and I can tell our child we did everything in our power to stop them.

  ‘I heard the anti-aircraft guns start up and I came to sit out here. The Germans flew in really low, across the airfield and away over the village. Two Spitfires chased one of them. He dropped his bombs late; he must have been scared. The bombs fell behind the houses over there and a couple hit the green.

  ‘He flew directly over my head. There was a man lying down in the nose, pointing a machine-gun through a hole in the glass. He looked at me but he didn’t shoot. I saw the big crosses on the wings and the bomb-doors were still open.

  ‘The Spitfires were close behind him, firing all the time. I listened to them fly into the distance. I listened until I couldn’t hear the guns anymore. He couldn’t have got away. I think the man with the machine-gun must be dead now.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve been really scared, Andrew’ – Molly placed a hand on his cheek – ‘but I was scared for you, not me.’ A tear squeezed from the corner of her eye. ‘The Spitfires were so fast, so close, the man with the machine-gun had no way to save himself.’

  Andrew kissed the tear from her cheek. ‘Will you leave now, Molly?’ he pleaded. ‘Pack up and go somewhere safe?’

  ‘Look at me.’ She placed her hands on her distended belly. ‘I’m eight months pregnant. I can hardly waddle up and down the stairs, let alone pack and move house.

  ‘I was intending to close the shop after tomorrow, put my feet up for a while and knit some baby clothes. But if I do that after what happened today’ – she gestured towards the craters 200 yards away in the green – �
��it will look like I’m giving up.’ She nodded towards the damaged houses: ‘Those people aren’t giving up, you’re not giving up, so I’m not giving up.’

  20th August, 1940

  A voice called out over the clink of beer glasses: ‘Here, Bryan, they’re playing his speech. Your favourite bloke. Whassisname?’

  The radio volume cranked up and the growling voice of the Prime Minister rasped out of the tattered speaker:

  ‘…gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. All hearts go out to the fighter pilots, whose brilliant actions we see with our own eyes, day after day…’

  ‘Turn that bloody man down,’ Bryan shouted, ‘or I’ll shove the bloody radio right up your prowess and devotion.’

  The volume faded to a gruff grumbling in the background and Bryan turned back to lean on the bar between Andrew and Gerry. Empty pint pots littered the counter in front of them.

  ‘Since when did it become a World War?’ Bryan shook his head. ‘Half the world has left us to it.’ He put his hand on Gerry’s shoulder. ‘No offence, Yankee,’ he said, ‘but the Americans are bastards.’

  ‘Yes’ – Gerry – nodded ‘some of them are. I’ve met some of those.’

  ‘Good.’ Bryan drained his glass. ‘Three more pints of bitter, steward.’

  ‘But…’ Gerry waggled a finger at Bryan.

  ‘But what, Yankee?’

  ‘But… if the shoe was on the other foot, would you go to fight a war in America?’

  ‘No’ – Andrew piped up – ‘there’d be no need. America can’t be defeated; it’s too big and too powerful. They wouldn’t need us.’

  Three pints arrived in front of them.

  ‘Russia could do it.’ Bryan took a swig. ‘Russia could conquer America.’

  ‘In that case,’ Andrew reasoned, ‘we’d probably get involved because they’d have to go east through Canada.’

  ‘Unless,’ Gerry murmured, ‘they came west across Europe.’

  Contemplative silence settled over the trio.

  ‘Hey,’ Bryan called over to the steward, ‘how big is my mess bill?’ He turned to Gerry: ‘Did you know when your mess bill reaches £100, the Air Ministry expects you to get killed in action as a patriotic gesture to cut overheads? It’s harsh, but fair.’

  Chapter 20

  Grando

  24th August, 1940

  Vincent’s shoes crunched in the shingle. He walked along the path between perfectly manicured lawns down to the water. Patients sat around in groups, talking and playing cards in the late afternoon sunshine. Their idle chatter drifted along with him. Vincent came to the railings and looked out over Southampton Water.

  Barrage balloons blotted the blue sky, drifting like tethered pigs over Southampton to his right and Portsmouth, closer on his left. Three merchant ships chugged up from the Solent, seeking a night’s refuge in Southampton’s docks.

  A low howl, faint in the distance, drifted up the channel. Portsmouth’s air-raid sirens wound into their moaning dirge.

  Vincent squinted into the blue dome above the port where anti-aircraft shells climbed to blossom in puffy flowers of white smoke. In between this drifting aerial garden he could make out the shapes of bombers – 50 or more stacked in layers into the sky. The AA stopped and a single intercepting squadron dived through the bomber formation.

  The ghost of a black wing flashed across Vincent’s memory and a phosphorus-white explosion cracked behind his forehead…

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ The voice prised Vincent’s eyelids apart. He looked up from a prone position on the spiky gravel. A patient stood over him.

  ‘What happened?’ Vincent asked, rubbing his forehead to ease the throbbing.

  ‘Looked like you stumbled’ – the man smiled with reassurance – ‘did you hit your head?’

  ‘How long was I out?’ Vincent hoisted himself off the ground.

  The man helped him up. ‘No more than a second or two’ – he examined Vincent’s forehead – ‘I can’t see where you knocked your head. Probably best to get a doctor to look at it anyway.’

  ‘No…’ Vincent caught himself and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Yes… Yes, I will. Thank you for helping me.’

  A low, thunderous rumble rolled across the land. The man looked away to the east where smoke from exploding bombs curled into the air.

  ‘Portsmouth is getting a real beating, poor sods,’ the man said. A flash of flames glittered in the sky and a black smoke trail spiralled towards the sea. ‘Ha, take that you bastards.’

  Vincent watched, waiting for a parachute. ‘That’s a Hurricane.’

  25th August, 1940

  ‘They’ve bombed London, Yankee.’ Brian flipped a copy of The Standard into Gerry’s lap. ‘Put that in your book.’

  Gerry unrolled the paper, scanning the front page.

  Bryan slumped into a deck chair next to him. ‘They knocked seven bells out of Portsmouth in the afternoon’ – he shrugged – ‘fair game I suppose – it’s a military target. But the middle of London?’

  ‘I can’t write about this,’ Gerry protested. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  Bryan levelled a look at him. ‘Not much of a journalist, are you?’ he said. ‘You were on station when they bombed the aerodrome, so you know what it’s like. Make up the rest.’

  Gerry returned his look in silence.

  ‘Good show’ – Bryan nodded – ‘I’m glad the penny’s dropped.’

  Andrew walked back from checking over his Spitfire.

  ‘Ah, Andrew,’ Bryan called. ‘Good news. Mortice has agreed to our little experiment.’

  ‘Who’s Mortice?’ Gerry asked.

  Andrew sat down with his friends. ‘It’s one of the riggers,’ he said.

  Gerry looked at Bryan: ‘Mortice?’

  Bryan grinned. ‘It’s not his real name,’ he whispered.

  Gerry’s confusion mounted: ‘What sort of experiment?’

  ‘Glad you asked, Yankee, it’s nice to see you’re sharpening up a bit.’ Bryan patted Gerry on the knee. ‘You know those eight machine-guns you lug around the sky for His Majesty The King?’

  Gerry nodded.

  ‘Half of them are loaded with ball, the other half are split between armour-piercing and incendiary. Well, sometimes we put lots of bullets into bombers just to watch them fly serenely off into the distance. So, I reckon the Germans are fitting a lot more armour-plating in their crates these days; the ball is just bouncing off.

  ‘So, Mortice has agreed to load four guns with armour-piercing, two each side, inboard. These hit the bandit’s fuselage and cockpit. Next one out on each side has the Incendiaries. These hit the fuel tanks in the wings. The outside pair are ball. These hit the engines. Guns are harmonised for 350 yards, so if you open fire at 250 yards the spread is near-enough perfect.

  ‘And don’t write that in your book ’cos they’ll only censor it and put me on a charge.’

  ‘What’s going to happen about London?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Oh, I expect Winston will bomb Berlin,’ Bryan said, ‘probably very soon. I imagine he’s been waiting for an excuse.’

  26th August, 1940

  ‘Come in Sergeant Drew, take a seat.’

  Vincent sat down. Dr Robinson regarded him for a moment then looked down to the open file on his desk.

  ‘We’ve been watching you very closely, Vincent,’ he said. ‘The only noteworthy observation is your persistent nightmares. But that’s not necessarily so unusual in this place’ He looked at Vincent over his glasses. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I feel I’m wasting time. I need…’

  ‘What, Vincent? What is it you need?’

  ‘I need to protect my m
other.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘By shooting down bombers. What they did to Portsmouth the other day, they could do the same anywhere. They could do it to Whitby.’

  ‘I’m in a difficult situation, Vincent.’ The doctor leaned back in his chair. ‘Your medical records show no history of seizures, which means you didn’t mention them when you joined up. But if I believe your story that you suffered them as a child, and if I believe a seizure prevented you from taking off, it automatically makes you unfit for flying. If I don’t believe your story, then what you did is probably grounds for a dishonourable discharge for LMF.’

  ‘You could say it was a one-off’ – Vincent’s voice stretched tight – ‘that it’s unlikely to happen again.’

  A long silence hung between the two men.

  ‘All right, Vincent’ – the doctor nodded – ‘it’s highly likely we don’t have enough trained pilots to win this battle as it is and, despite everything else, you are still a trained pilot. Go back to your room, I’ll let you know if I can organise a posting.’

  30th August, 1940

  Florence Lloyd meandered along the Eastbourne sea-front in the growing warmth of the late morning sun. Soldiers lounged against the sand-bagged defences, helmets pushed back from glistening foreheads. She smiled at them and they nodded.

  The undercurrent of tension in their faces reminded her. The invasion defences, the tank-traps and the sand-bags were almost invisible to her now, fading to grey in her daily scenery. But the weight of mortality in a soldier’s eyes as he waits for war was not so easy to assimilate into routine.

  The whisper of the sea-breeze took on a faint rasping edge. The intruding noise deepened in tenor and acquired an uneven undulation. She looked up and stumbled to a halt. Strewn across the blue sky, black lines of bombers, layer above layer, advanced on Eastbourne from the south. Above and around them flocked the smaller silhouettes of their escorting fighters.

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  From the town behind her the first sonorous thumps of anti-aircraft fire buffeted through the air. Clusters of mushroom-coloured smoke erupted in the sky amongst the raiders. A shell burst close under one of the black shapes and a finger of fire belched from its wing. Dropping away from the formation in a lazy side-slip, the fat black fuselage disgorged three fluttering objects. Two snapped open into white canopies, slowing and swaying on the wind. The third twisted and writhed like a wind-sock, plunging towards the sea.