The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘All right,’ Bryan snapped, ‘Drew’s had some combat experience with Kingfisher Squadron. Put Townley and Huggins in a section under him.’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’ The adjutant smiled.

  ‘It’s a sorry waste of Spitfires,’ Bryan muttered.

  7th September, 1940

  ‘This is either very good news or very bad news,’ Gerry said.

  ‘Shush’ – Bryan opened his eyes and darted a look at Gerry – ‘you’ll jinx it.’

  ‘It must be nearly 4 o’clock’ – Andrew yawned – ‘the light will be fading soon. They’re not coming today.’

  Bryan flashed his look at Andrew.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Gerry sucked his teeth. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling about this.’

  ‘Will you two please shut up?’ Bryan hissed. ‘You’ll bloody well jinx it.’

  Behind them a telephone jangled in the hut. Bryan buried his face in his hands.

  A head poked through the window; ‘Bluebird Squadron, scramble. Patrol base at angels twenty.’

  ‘Bugger!’

  ****

  Vincent glanced at his altimeter. The squadron levelled out at a little over 20,000ft and fell into a wide turn to port, circling the airfield in four vics of three.

  Vincent glanced over his right shoulder; Townley sat snug behind his wing. Over his left, Huggins meandered back and forth, watching for trouble.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Two-hundred plus bandits with escort heading towards Biggin Hill and Kenley. Maintain orbit.’

  Vincent closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. ‘Two-hundred,’ he thought. Fear danced over his skin and tickled at his entrails. He opened his eyes and checked over his instruments.

  ****

  The adjutant strode across the grass to the dispersal hut as the air-raid siren wound into action, its desultory wail rolling across the airfield. He walked through the open door to see Fagan seated behind his typewriter, hands clasped in front of him as if deep in prayer.

  ‘Come on, old man,’ the adjutant chided. ‘We need to get to the slit-trench, sharpish.’

  Fagan opened his eyes and regarded the adjutant from beneath his creased brow. ‘That won’t do us any good this time.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve just come off the phone to control.’ Fagan polished his spectacles absently. ‘The observers have called in a raid of over 300 bombers crossing the Kent coast between Folkestone and Dymchurch. Two-thirds of them are heading this way.’

  ‘Strewth…’ The adjutant removed his steel helmet and sat down.

  ‘They’re out to destroy the fighter bases once and for all, Harold. We’re about to get well and truly clobbered.’

  ‘Is this it, then,’ the adjutant asked. ‘Has the invasion started?’

  Fagan nodded: ‘But it’s unlikely to be any further concern of ours, my friend.’ He opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker whisky and two glasses: ‘I was saving this for something else, as it happens.’ He poured two generous measures. ‘Never mind…’

  The adjutant accepted his glass and took a sip. ‘It’s a shame, really. The boys were putting up such a fight. They deserved to win it.’

  ‘I don’t know if they ever had a chance.’ Fagan swirled his whisky. ‘We’re losing over a hundred every week.’ He picked up a report from his desk: ‘As of today we have 700 pilots to fly 600 planes. They’re making fighters quicker than they’re training pilots. Soon we’ll have spare planes with no one to fly them.’ He drained his glass and poured a refill. ‘It’s difficult to argue with the mathematics.’

  The adjutant leaned forward to accept more whisky: ‘Well I hope the Germans are decent to them when they get here. None of those lads wanted a shooting war.’

  Fagan smiled: ‘None of them except Pilot Officer Hale.’

  ****

  ‘Bluebird Leader to Beehive Control. We cannot see your bandits. What’s going on?’

  ‘Beehive Control calling, stand-by please, Bluebird Leader, continue orbit.’

  ‘Shiny-arsed bastards,’ Bryan muttered, scanning the airspace below him with suspicion. Minutes ticked by.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. Raid is heading north. Vector zero-one-five, maintain angels twenty. Buster, buster.’

  Bryan shook his head in dismay and relief: ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. The bastards are heading towards London. Let’s get after them.’

  Vincent pushed his throttle through the gate and his seat vibrated in sympathy with the straining engine. One minute… two…

  ‘Christ Almighty’ – Bryan’s voice crackled through – ‘Bandits at 2 o’clock. Loosen up and attack their port beam in sections. Let’s get in amongst the bombers before the escorts see us. You’re spoilt for choice, Bluebird. Tally-ho!’

  Vincent’s mouth dried out. Ahead of him the sky filled with black shapes, stacked up row upon row through a full mile of airspace.

  Drawing level with the raiders, the first section of Spitfires banked right and rushed at the bomber stream’s flank.

  Vincent pressed transmit: ‘Red Leader to Red Section, attacking now.’ He pulled into a starboard turn and levelled out; the section moved to line-abreast. The lumbering black shapes loomed larger in their gunsights.

  An unknown voice cut through: ‘Look out, Bluebird! 109s coming down now!’

  An orange flash to his right caught the corner of Vincent’s eye. Townley’s Spitfire burst into flames, the roaring fire engulfing the cockpit as it fell away. Two grey-painted fighters dived past and curved away over their kill.

  Vincent stabbed the firing button and held it, spraying un-aimed bullets into the mass of enemy bombers in his path. To his left Huggins opened fire and his plane wallowed around with the recoil. His port wing struck the rear of a Heinkel, dislocating the bomber’s tail and sending his Spitfire cartwheeling into the cockpit of the next plane in the formation.

  Bombers flashed by, above and below. Vincent’s gritted teeth vibrated in harmony with his chattering machine-guns. Then white lights stabbed him in his eyes and the explosion behind his forehead swaddled him in blessed silence…

  …a distant rattle teased at Vincent’s senses. It broke through the whistling in his ears and blossomed into the roar of his engine.

  Vincent hauled back the throttle and the engine coughed into idleness. He eased back on the stick and the suburban rooftops swung down from his windscreen, giving way to blue sky and clouds as he pulled into a gentle climb. He glanced at his altimeter, it read 13,000ft.

  Gripped by a sudden lurch of panic he threw his fighter into a twisting turn, screwing his neck around in a febrile search for danger. He was alone.

  Out to the north the grey smudge of massed bombers advanced across the clouds towards the London docks, their path marked with the smoking pyres of downed planes. Vincent stared wide-eyed. One of those columns of smoke was Townley; one of them was Huggins.

  Vincent swung round and headed south-west, away from the battle, away from the hornet’s nest of German fighters buzzing around the bombers, away from the terrifying proximity of imminent, fiery annihilation. He dived for home.

  ****

  Vincent dropped in to land, the first from Bluebird Squadron to return. He taxied in and climbed from his cockpit, an orchestra of hammers pounding in his forehead.

  The armourers pounced on the plane, unlatching panels and hauling out the empty ammunition belts. ‘Any luck, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Vincent became aware of the slick of sweat on his face and the nausea squirming in his belly. ‘There were so many. It was impossible to miss them.’ He paused and bit his lip. ‘I lost my section.’

  Vincent turned away to hide the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. He hurried towards the dispersal hut, urgent with the need to file a report and end the day so he could close his eyes and leave it all behind. He wiped his cheeks and entered the hut.

  ‘Good Lord!’ T
he adjutant stood up, wobbled and sat down again. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Back to re-arm and refuel, sir,’ Vincent replied.

  Fagan squinted at him over his glasses. ‘Where are the bombers?’

  ‘They’re over London, sir.’

  ‘London?’ The adjutant’s voice croaked with disbelief. ‘300 bombers are attacking London?’

  Vincent nodded.

  Fagan cleared his throat and pushed his whisky glass away across the desk: ‘I’d better take your report.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Vincent’s cheeks twitched. ‘I lost my section…’

  This time he couldn’t hide the tears.

  ****

  Andrew and Molly lay in silence in the darkened bedroom. The window faced north towards the capital and the open curtains admitted the soft red glow throbbing from the horizon like a demonic sunset. Molly rested her hands across her distended belly.

  ‘How can anyone decide to do something like that?’ Molly asked. ‘London is full of good people, people who never asked for war, and now they’re being killed in their own homes.’

  ‘We were told they were coming for us,’ Andrew murmured. ‘We were circling around Kenley waiting for them and they just sailed by, heading for the East End.’ He hugged her closer. ‘Why did Winston have to attack Berlin? Why can’t he stick with bombing their invasion barges? Maybe this is just a revenge attack. Maybe tomorrow they’ll come and finish us.

  ‘We lost four pilots today, Molly, three killed and one bailed out badly wounded. Only two-thirds of the men who took off at 4 o’clock this afternoon came back at five. We’d spent the morning sun-bathing.

  ‘Fagan and Madge were drunk when we landed. They’d cracked a bottle of whisky and sat there drinking, waiting for the bombs to blow them to pieces. It’s all becoming a complete shambles.’

  ‘In four weeks, you become a father’ – Molly snuggled into his side – ‘that’s all we’ve got now. It’s just you, me and our baby. We’ve just got to carry on.’

  10th September, 1940

  ‘How is Molly?’ the adjutant asked as the two men strolled between the Spitfires at dispersal. ‘She’s a remarkable woman, Andrew, she does you proud.’

  ‘She’s looking forward to having the baby, sir,’ Andrew said. ‘Just under a month, now.’ He cast a wistful eye across the sky. ‘Who knows what the poor child will find when it gets here.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing they’re doing over London,’ the adjutant said, ‘but it does mean they’ve left us alone for a few days.’ He gestured at the teams working on runway repairs. ‘Fagan tells me most fighter aerodromes are back in action, landing strips patched up and squadrons on standby.’

  ‘What about the invasion?’

  The adjutant pursed his lips. ‘I’ve been trying to work this out,’ he said. ‘Attacking oil storage tanks and docks looks like a useful strategy on the face of it. But refineries and docks don’t oppose invasions. If I was in charge, I’d split my bomber force in two, send one to attack our airfields and the other to pound the defences around the Channel ports.’

  ‘So, they’ve given up the idea of a landing?’

  The adjutant shook his head: ‘No, I don’t think they’ve completely given up on invasion.’ He regarded Andrew squarely. ‘But I suspect someone in charge has given up the prospect of beating Fighter Command any time soon.’ He took off his cap and scratched his forehead. ‘Maybe they believe we’ll sue for peace to protect our cities from their bombs.’

  ‘Could that happen?’

  ‘Ha!’ The adjutant barked a laugh. ‘Winston has already told them we’ll never surrender. I’m sure he’d carry on shouting his defiance from underneath the very ruins of Westminster Palace.

  ‘Look, Andrew, I don’t want to give you false hopes, especially a man in your situation. You must realise the bombers will keep coming over, every day they’re able, right through the winter. Your job won’t get any easier for a long time yet. But you should have some faith that your wife and child will be safer than you think, at least until the spring.’

  ‘I dream of holding my baby sometimes,’ Andrew said, ‘but I know I have no right to expect…’ he trailed off, reaching for his cigarette packet.

  The adjutant let the silence hang for a moment; rolling out platitudes to combat pilots had worn thin weeks ago. Instead he changed the subject. ‘Bryan’s promotion came through this morning, he’s officially squadron leader.’

  ‘That’s good news.’ Andrew lit his cigarette.

  ‘Is it?’ the adjutant asked. ‘I’m not really so sure.’

  ****

  Vincent sat outside his tent as a gaggle of pilots spilled from the officers’ mess and converged on the big, black Humber parked outside. A rigger walked along the line of tents towards him, carrying a bucket of steaming water. He paused by Vincent, following his gaze to the source of the shouts and laughter drifting through the failing light.

  ‘Looks like the posh lads are off on the piss,’ he said.

  Vincent remained silent, chewing his bottom lip.

  The rigger set down his bucket and squatted on the grass. ‘My name’s Maurice’ – he nodded across the field – ‘the posh lads call me “Mortice”.’

  Vincent looked up: ‘I’ve heard the squadron leader talk about you. He seems to like you.’

  ‘He’s not a bad sort, as his sort go,’ Maurice said. ‘He’s a top pilot and he knows his stuff when it comes to shooting down Germans.’

  Vincent’s eyes followed the Humber as it lurched towards the station gates: ‘He reminds me of my father.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘No. We weren’t’ – Vincent paused – ‘c-close.’

  Maurice looked away across the field: ‘You had a rough time the other day.’

  Vincent nodded: ‘I lost my section in three seconds flat.’

  ‘Can I give you some advice?’ The rigger smiled. ‘Don’t dwell on it. Worrying only queers your own pitch.’

  Vincent nodded in silence.

  ‘Right!’ The rigger stood, picking up his bucket. ‘I’ve got three smelly armourers who are gagging for a wash.’

  The grumble of the Humber’s engine faded in the distance.

  ****

  ‘My eyes are dim I cannot see, I have not brought my specs with me…’

  The raucous singing reverberated inside the Humber as it wound its way down the lanes to Leaves Green. Gerry and Andrew squeezed in the front passenger seat next to Bryan, the adjutant and four other pilot officers crammed together in the back.

  ‘Ow!’ Gerry squealed. ‘Be careful with the stick-shift, Bryan.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, old man,’ Bryan shouted above the cacophony. ‘You’ll have to learn English.’

  Another verse rolled around: ‘There was Yank, Yank, having a cheeky wank in the stores, in the stores…’

  The car barrelled past Biggin Hill’s gates and snaked into the village. Bryan pressed on the horn as they passed Molly’s hairdressers. They shuddered to a halt outside The Crown and the singing reached a big finish: ‘In the Quar-ter Mas-ter stooores…’ and the revellers bailed out into the car park.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait everybody,’ Andrew called out. ‘Let the squadron leader spearhead the attack.’

  Bryan led them through the doors into the smoky beer-laced fug: ‘Eight pints of bitter, please.’ Bryan squeezed his way to the bar.

  A group of pilots grudgingly shifted along to make room.

  ‘Cheers, lads.’ Bryan squinted at their insignia. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sandpiper Squadron, flying Hurricanes out of Biggin.’

  ‘Ah’ – Bryan waved to the barman – ‘and get a round in for these fine young tractor-drivers will you?’

  Andrew reached over, handing pints back across the crowded heads. ‘Let’s raise a glass to Squadron Leader Bryan Hale,’ he shouted. ‘Long may he reign over us.’

  Molly pushed her way through the door and paused, smili
ng at the scene. Wary of jostling elbows she shimmied her way through the crowd to Andrew’s side.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ She smiled up into his face.

  ‘Molly, sweetheart’ – he bent to kiss her forehead – ‘I was hoping you’d hear us.’

  ‘Hear you? You made more noise than the German air force.’ She smiled. ‘Would you get me an elderflower cordial, please?’

  She watched Andrew squirm his way to the bar and tugged Bryan’s sleeve. ‘Congratulations, Bryan.’

  Bryan turned. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ He looked her up and down: ‘My, you’re… blossoming.’

  Molly blushed: ‘I need your help, Bryan. It’s our wedding anniversary on the 30th. I’m putting on a little surprise party here at the pub. Will you make up some excuse to get him down here?’

  Bryan nodded: ‘Certainly. Leave it to me.’

  ‘It’s secret, don’t forget.’

  Andrew arrived at the bar and ordered Molly’s cordial.

  ‘Who’s the loudmouth?’ a pilot next to him asked.

  Andrew looked around: ‘Oh, you mean Bryan? He’s just been promoted to squadron leader so he’s a bit cockier than usual tonight.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a very high opinion of Hurricane pilots. He called us “tractor-drivers”.’

  ‘That’s just a joke he’s fond of. He doesn’t mean it really. We all see the work you do down in the bomber stream. It’s hairy stuff. We lost a pilot to a collision only the other day.’

  ‘Beam attack?’

  ‘Yes, it was actually.’

  The Hurricane pilot hunkered down on the bar. ‘Very dangerous way to approach it,’ he said. ‘Think about it. Flying across the middle of a bomber formation? Like a cat running across a busy road.’ He tutted. ‘Suicide.’

  ‘So, better to attack from astern?’

  ‘No’ – the pilot shook his head – ‘you’re travelling too slowly in relation to the rear-gunners, they can easily get a bead on you with their pea-shooters.’ He swilled the rest of his beer. ‘Frontal attack is the only way to go’ – he grinned – ‘straight at them and straight through them. Breaks ’em up a treat.’

  ‘Another pint for this gentleman, please barman.’ Andrew turned back to the Hurricane pilot: ‘Isn’t that even more dangerous?’