Vincent looked over the Spitfire. The paint around the cockpit door was chipped and peeling, the wing root below it worn to the metal by the passage of flying boots. Behind the cockpit, forward of the yellow-bordered roundel, the fighter’s skin bore a cluster of repair patches, unevenly riveted and painted over in a mismatched green. Long streaks of oily soot fingered back from the exhausts, soiling the edges of several small swastikas painted under the canopy. Black stains intersected the wings, unfurling like funereal banners from each of the eight gun-ports.
Vincent glanced at the colour-coded ammo boxes spread out on the grass. ‘That’s unusual,’ he said.
The armourer glanced at him from below the wing.
‘I’m sorry’ – Vincent smiled – ‘I was an armourer before I took pilot training.’
The man nodded: ‘Twice as much armour-piercing as normal, sir. We call it the Hale-storm.’
‘Hailstorm?’
‘This is Pilot Officer Hale’s aircraft. The munitions mix is his idea.’ The armourer replaced a panel and shimmied out from under the wing, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘He says the Germans are installing more armour plate around their aircrew. Makes ’em more difficult to kill’ – the man grimaced – ‘and he does like to kill his Germans, our Mr Hale.’
‘Does it work?’
The armourer shrugged. ‘His section took out a Heinkel the other day. He says the AP stitched it up really nicely before it went down’ – he gave a short bark of laughter – ‘but he was a bit miffed because one of the Krauts managed to bail out.’
Vincent nodded: ‘He does seem a bit of a firebrand.’
The armourer dropped the rag into his toolbox. ‘You have to understand, sir, Mister Hale is a professional. He’s flown with this Squadron since ’35, back when they had bi-planes. There were five originals when we moved to Kenley. Now there’s only two; Mr Hale and Mr Francis. They take it seriously.
‘Some of the pilots that come through here, they think it’s a bit of a lark. Trouble is, the lark doesn’t last very long for that sort. We had one last week, straight out of training, didn’t even stay long enough to unpack. Took off in a brand-new Spitfire and never came back. We still don’t know what happened to him.’
‘No one saw?’ Vincent asked.
‘It’s a fast-moving game up there, sir. All we can do is count them out and count them in again.’ He picked up his toolbox. ‘It’s down to numbers and time now, I’m afraid. Whether we have enough planes and pilots to make it through to November.’ He glanced up at the blue sky. ‘It seems a long way off on a day like today, doesn’t it?’
The distant jangle of a telephone was followed by shouts of ‘Bluebird Squadron, Scramble!’
The crew-chief trotted up: ‘Is she ready to go?’
The armourer nodded: ‘All set.’
‘Mortice!’ Bryan’s shout rasped across the field. ‘Get me a starter battery, damn it!’
The rigger whirled away: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hurry up man, they’re plastering Biggin Hill again!’
Bryan ran to the plane and jumped onto the wing in one fluid motion. Cramming himself into the cockpit he looked out past his cowling.
‘Starter battery!’ he yelled. ‘Where’s my bloody starter battery?’
Two ground-crew bustled up, pushing the starter on a sack barrow. As they busied themselves attaching the cables, Bryan looked across at Vincent. His eyes glittered with unspeakable intent, a brutal and inescapable purpose. Vincent retreated, shaking his head against the sudden pressure of unbidden memories. The Spitfire barked into life and howled to a diabolical crescendo that buffeted his back like rampant mockery as he hurried away.
****
Molly heard Andrew’s motorbike choke to a halt outside and waited for the sound of his key in the door. She stirred soup on the hob as his footsteps creaked up the stairs. A moment later his arms entwined her from behind, squeezing between her pregnant belly and her breasts.
‘I love you,’ he whispered into her ear.
‘You haven’t tasted the soup yet.’ She turned in his embrace and placed a finger over his lips: ‘Please don’t nag me about moving. I heard the bombs today, I heard the guns, I know it’s dangerous. But this is my home, our home. If it all comes to an end tomorrow, wouldn’t you rather I be here with you tonight?’
Andrew kissed her forehead. ‘Biggin Hill is out of action. If they hit Kenley again, we’ll likely be the same. The other airfields can’t be much better. I think we’re close to the end, Molly. Soon there’ll be no safety to run to.’
Sudden tears sprung to Andrew’s eyes. ‘I’m so tired’ – he swallowed back a sob – ‘there are so many of them, every day, so many…’
‘Shush.’ Molly kissed the tears from his cheek. ‘Let’s just forget all about the war and eat supper. Then you can get some rest.’ She smiled. ‘Fresh sheets on the bed tonight, what a treat.’
They ate their soup in near-silent denial of the world outside their walls, holding hands across the table. When they’d finished, Molly cleared and rinsed the dishes while Andrew peeled off his clothes and slid into bed. He was already drifting into sleep as Molly snuggled in beside him. He grunted with pleasure at the warm touch of her skin against his.
‘It’s always darkest before the dawn, my sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘Everything will be all right.’
2nd September, 1940
Bluebird Squadron swooped in to land and taxied to dispersal. Bryan swung out of his cockpit and trudged towards the readiness hut for debriefing. Andrew and Gerry caught up with him.
‘Hell of a morning,’ Andrew said.
Bryan glanced at him and smiled: ‘No thanks, I’ve just had one.’
They entered the hut and slumped into the chairs around Fagan’s desk. He looked up and smiled.
‘What’s the story, gentlemen?’
‘Repetitive.’ Bryan lit a cigarette.
Fagan switched his gaze: ‘Andrew?’
Andrew leaned forward: ‘Control vectored us to a raid coming in over north Kent,’ he said, ‘two-hundred plus, mixed Dorniers and 110s.’
‘How many of each?’
Gerry piped up: ‘Impossible to tell, it got very hectic, very quickly.’
‘Any victories?’
‘Yes’ – Bryan blew out a stream of smoke – ‘we all came back alive.’
Fagan’s gaze returned to Bryan. He cocked an eyebrow but said no more.
Gerry interjected: ‘We must’ve been over…’
‘Margate,’ Andrew offered.
‘Yes, Margate… for about 20 minutes. There were maybe three other squadrons involved. The whole thing was pretty crazy.’
‘And then’ – Bryan crushed his cigarette in Fagan’s ashtray – ‘about fifty 109s showed up so we decided to hoof it.’
Fagan scribbled a few notes on his pad. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. There’s fresh tea on the trellis table.’
The trio walked over to the tea urn. The adjutant stood there, stirring a steaming tin mug.
‘Hello Bryan,’ he said. ‘May I have a word?’
‘Yes, certainly.’ Bryan poured a mug of tea.
The adjutant glanced at the other two pilots.
‘It’s all right.’ Bryan sipped his tea. ‘I don’t mind if they listen. One of them will be taking over if I get my head blown off this afternoon anyway.’
The adjutant nodded: ‘Well, I’ve had a complaint from the armoury stores. Apparently, Bluebird’s armourers are taking far more armour-piercing bullets than they should.’
‘I’ve changed the mix,’ Bryan said. ‘It works better.’
Andrew and Gerry nodded in mute agreement.
‘Yes, but’ – the adjutant looked from one to the other – ‘it’s far more expensive to make AP. Someone will notice the discrepancy.’
Bryan frowned: ‘And just who are we saving the money for, Madge? Hitler?’
‘And what about the tracer rounds?’ The adjutant persevered.
�
�I took them out,’ Bryan said.
‘But, why? They’re essential to help correct your aim.’
‘Not so,’ Bryan countered, ‘we have gunsights for that. New pilots should be trained to use the gunsight, not follow the fireworks. On top of that, tracer tells your target you’re shooting at him.’
‘And from which direction you’re shooting,’ Gerry added.
‘So, I took them out,’ Bryan repeated. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ The adjutant sighed. ‘I noticed you took off with only nine aircraft. You left the new intake behind.’
Bryan’s face hardened. He put his tea down on the table, reached into his flying suit and pulled out his service revolver.
The adjutant lurched backwards. ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’
Bryan leaned forward with a menacing snarl: ‘I’m off to shoot the new boys.’
‘What are you talking about?’ stammered the adjutant, ‘are you mad?’
‘If I’d taken them up this morning against 250 bandits, they would all be dead by now. So, if I go and shoot them, we’ll have the same conclusion, except I wouldn’t have wasted three Spitfires getting there.’
An orderly stuck his head round the door: ‘Bluebird Squadron to readiness, please.’
Bryan holstered his revolver. ‘Excuse us, Madge,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a war not to lose.’
Chapter 22
Hostia
6th September, 1940
‘What time is it?’ Andrew’s deckchair raked back at full recline.
Gerry looked at his watch: ‘Nearly 1 o’clock.’
‘Why is it so quiet?’ Andrew leaned forward and struggled out of the deckchair, slapping his legs to restore circulation.
‘Maybe we beat them?’ Gerry said.
‘Ha!’ Bryan barked. ‘We can never beat them. We can only make them believe they haven’t beaten us.’
‘Why would they think that?’ Andrew said. ‘You’ve seen the state of Biggin Hill, our own field is hardly any better. How long can we carry on feeding the meat-grinder?’
Bryan lifted his head. ‘The airfields don’t matter.’
‘How so?’ Gerry asked.
‘As I’ve said before, as long as we can put up a couple of squadrons to meet the bombers every time they come,’ Bryan explained, ‘they’ll postpone the invasion.’
Andrew sat down. ‘But surely those squadrons need airfields.’
‘We need fields,’ Bryan conceded, ‘fairly flat with decent grass. England is infested with those. Everything else can be shunted around in trucks. Hell, I reckon we could operate two or three squadrons from The Mall if we had to.
‘In fact, we’re only in this mess because London is so close to the Channel. If Newcastle was the capital of England, we’d hold them off for years.’
‘Where’s Newcastle?’ Gerry asked.
‘Exactly, Yankee. Exactly.’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen.’ The adjutant walked towards them. ‘I need to steal Gerry for an hour or so, official business. There’s an officer from the Air Ministry here to see you, Gerry.’
Bryan and Andrew watched the two men walking away.
‘As long as control has nothing building on radar,’ Bryan said, ‘I suggest we take the two new boys for a spin.’
****
The four men stood in a loose circle in front of the Spitfires.
Bryan cleared his throat: ‘The Germans seem to be taking an afternoon off. So, we’re going to take you two on a survival course. You…’ He pointed at one of the new pilots.
‘Sergeant Townley, sir.’
‘…Townley. You’ll fly as my wingman. And you…’ He pointed at the other pilot.
‘Sergeant Huggins, sir.’
‘…will fly as wingman to Pilot Officer Francis.
‘We’ll be flying two sections of two in a finger-four formation’ – he held out his hand, tucking his thumb underneath his palm – ‘the middle two fingertips represent the section leaders, the outer two fingertips are their wingmen.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Townley interjected, ‘we didn’t learn this in flight training.’
‘No, Townley,’ Bryan said, ‘I don’t expect you did. This is the formation the Germans have been flying all summer. They’ve used it to shoot down countless Spitfires and Hurricanes whose pilots were engrossed in flying line-astern or line-abreast… just like they taught you in flight training.’
Townley nodded silently.
‘Right, let’s go.’
****
The four Spitfires climbed away from Kenley, the new pilots jostling into the unfamiliar flying formation.
‘Bluebird Leader to Beehive Control,’ Bryan called, ‘four Spitfires airborne on familiarisation flight, heading north-west. Not, repeat, not available for interception. Listening out.’
****
The adjutant opened the door to his office, ushering Gerry inside.
‘Hello, Gerry. It’s very good to see you again. How is your leg?’
Gerry recognised Gordon Day. ‘Hello, sir. The leg’s doing fine, thank you.’
Day smiled: ‘Take the weight off it, son.’ He indicated the seat across from him. ‘I’ve come to find out how the writing is coming along.’
Gerry eased himself into the chair: ‘I have a couple more chapters to go, I’ll be finished soon.’
‘Chapters?’
Gerry smiled: ‘There’s too much for a pamphlet, it’s kind of grown into a book.’
Day leaned forward. ‘And what do you expect to put into the last couple of chapters?’
‘Well,’ Gerry began, ‘we were just discussing this outside. We figure as long as fighters are showing up to intercept the raids, the Germans will hold off risking an invasion. So, we just need to string it out until the end of October. It will be seen as a great victory’ – he smiled – ‘and the American public love a winner.’
Day pushed his glasses up and pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘What if the Germans send across all their bombers escorted by fighters? And while you’re up there flying the flag, they send across a couple of hundred transport planes, protected by more fighters. The transports are loaded with paratroopers who drop onto our airfields and capture them while you’re still in the air. What happens then?’
‘Paratroopers?’ Gerry sat stunned.
‘We have agents who tell us such plans are being discussed at the highest level in the Wehrmacht.’
Gerry blinked: ‘So it’s over?’
Day reached into his pocket and pulled out a square of paper, handing it to Gerry. ‘The Home Forces HQ at the War Ministry has issued a Preliminary Alert No.3.’ Day sighed. ‘They believe invasion is probable within the next three days.’
Gerry stared at the paper in silence.
‘I’ve been instructed to retrieve the materials you’ve written so far, so they’re safe and can be of some use to the War Office. Just in case—’
‘I understand.’ Gerry nodded.
‘I’ve also been authorised to offer you a transfer to a staff position, away from combat duties. If you accept the offer, you’ll leave with me today. I understand they have a speaking tour of the US in mind.’
Gerry looked down at his feet. ‘You’re welcome to take the manuscript as it stands, sir. Given the circumstances, it makes perfect sense. But I’ll be staying here to finish the final chapters.’
****
‘All right, Townley,’ Bryan called, ‘imagine I’m the nasty German who wants to shoot you down. Give me up to the count of three, then come and get me.’
Townley watched Bryan’s Spitfire side-slip and bank away to the left.
‘One… two… three…’ He pulled into a left turn to follow, craning his neck in desperation to find his adversary in the empty blue dome.
‘Look in your mirror, Townley.’
Townley jerked his head up to see Bryan’s propeller boss just 20 yards behind his tail.
‘How much throttle hav
e you got on?’
Townley looked down and cursed, pushing the throttle forward. He raised his eyes to an empty mirror.
‘Count to three, then come and get me.’
‘Damn! One… two… three…’ Townley pulled into the hardest turn he could manage. A fuzzy mist crept over his vision as the g-force pushed down on his eyeballs. Still nothing in the sky apart from the other two Spitfires circling above, witnessing his humiliation. He kicked his plane into a roll, reversing the turn to the opposite bank, pulling hard to minimise the circle, eyes straining at the empty sky.
‘That’s better, Townley’ – Bryan’s voice snapped into his earphones – ‘look in your mirror.’
Townley’s eyes flicked up. Bryan’s Spitfire crept into view from under his tail to sit 20 yards behind him in the arc of the turn.
‘All right, lad. Straighten up and reform on me. Andrew, let’s see what your man Huggins can do.’
****
‘They’re useless, Madge’ – Bryan took a swig of his pint – ‘complete stiffs without a bloody clue about dog-fighting.’
‘They’re all we’ve got,’ the adjutant said. ‘It must be getting the same way for the Germans, mustn’t it?’
‘Doubt it,’ Andrew said. ‘They’ve been putting their show together since ’33. I’ve never come across a bad German pilot.’
Bryan nodded his agreement.
‘You can’t leave them on the ground indefinitely,’ the adjutant said. ‘It makes no sense. The Air Ministry will go loopy if this gets out.’
‘Don’t I have some sort of duty to protect the men under my command from needless danger?’ Bryan asked. ‘It’s not the charge of the bloody Light Brigade, you know.’
‘It’s not far off,’ the adjutant said. ‘I reckon you need to shoot them down at a rate of three-to-one to turn this thing around. You can’t do that with pilots on the ground.’
Andrew leaned forward: ‘Put Townley and Huggins in a section under me. I can look after them.’
‘No, Andrew’ – Bryan shook his head – ‘you can’t play Bo-Peep to these idiots. You’ll end up getting killed as well.’
‘I don’t know.’ The adjutant sighed. ‘Something has to be done.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 22