The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘This could be interesting,’ he said. ‘Make sure you bring your lucky charm.’

  ***

  Long fingers of gloom seeped across the horizon as Bryan hauled the Beaufighter off the runway and into a shallow climbing turn towards the coast. As the aircraft gained altitude the dusk retreated, driven back by the re-emerging afterglow of the sunset blazing low in the western horizon. The distinctive hook of Portland Bill slid away underneath them and Bryan banked into a long slow turn to port, losing altitude as he went.

  He flicked on the intercom.

  ‘Pilot to operator. I’m going to fly the patrol line at a lower altitude. If they’re coming in at their normal height, we might be able to pick one out against the last of the sunset. Keep your eyes peeled to landward.’

  ‘Understood, Flight.’ Tommy flicked on the AI set and polished the port side of the observation dome with the back of his glove. ‘Looking out.’

  Bryan levelled out at ten thousand feet and eased the throttles back to cruising speed. The minutes ticked by as the faint glow of the dying sun gave ground to the thickening darkness.

  Tommy searched the sky above the night-fighter’s port side with unfocussed eyes, sweeping back and forth at an unhurried pace. A suggestion of movement tickled at his periphery vision. Locking his gaze onto a scrap of darker blackness, he thumbed the intercom.

  ‘I think I see something, Flight. Turn ninety degrees to port and climb. Keep it steady.’

  The fuselage tilted as Bryan made the course adjustment and Tommy swivelled his chair to keep the anomaly alive on his retinas.

  ‘On course now.’ Bryan’s voice lay flat and calm in Tommy’s earphones. ‘What altitude do you estimate?’

  ‘I would guess he’s about three thousand feet above us. I’m switching to AI now.’

  Listening to Bryan report the sighting to control, Tommy rested his forehead against the leather visor and relaxed the aching muscles in his eyes. The chatter of ground returns progressively quietened as the Beaufighter climbed away its altitude deficit. As the spiky interference receded, a strong blip appeared at the top of the trace.

  ‘Contact! I have a contact.’ Tommy took a deep breath and steadied his voice. ‘Turn ten degrees starboard and continue climbing.’

  As their height increased the sunset’s magenta afterglow rallied against the dark and Bryan caught their quarry’s outline against the shimmering blue-black of the heavens.

  ‘I see him, Scott. Not sure what he is, though. I’ll get closer.’

  Tommy lifted his face from the screens and gazed up into the night. After a few moments his eyes adjusted and the black smudge five hundred feet above them broadened out into a distinct silhouette as Bryan edged into position immediately below it.

  ‘What do you think, Scott?’

  ‘It’s a Heinkel, Flight.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought. Attacking now.’

  Bryan allowed the German bomber a full minute to pull away ahead of them and then tilted the nose upwards.

  The Beaufighter bucked as the four cannons in its belly barked explosive shells into the sky. A dozen hits flashed on the Heinkel’s underside before it exploded, splitting open like a rotten fruit, showering incandescent incendiaries and yellow marker flares in its wake like the blooming petals of malevolent flowers.

  Bryan throttled back and banked around as the stricken bomber lurched over into a vertical dive. The broken aircraft twisted grotesquely as it plunged into a cloud layer which muted its garish burning to the eerie glow of a distant furnace: a ghostly, dissipated light that contracted back on itself as it surrendered to darkness.

  Three parachute flares remained suspended in the void, swinging balefully to-and-fro as they followed their mother ship, lighting the now-empty scene of slaughter with incongruous sparkle.

  Bryan circled until the flares too disappeared into the cloud and their harsh golden glow flickered and died.

  ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Night-warden Control.’ Bryan’s voice was clear and calm. ‘Bandit destroyed. Returning to patrol line. Listening out.’

  ***

  Bryan and Tommy clumped back towards the operations hut where the intelligence officer sat, dozing over his blank combat reports, awaiting the crews’ return.

  ‘That worked a treat, Flight.’ Tommy still floated on the exultation of their success. ‘I had him bang-to-rights straight down the middle of my trace.’

  ‘Don’t forget we saw the poor bugger first. I’ll be happier when we can find them blind.’

  ‘He was definitely a firelighter.’ Tommy’s buoyant mood refused to deflate. ‘All those flares and incendiaries. Exactly like the squadron leader said.’

  ‘Yes, Scott. I believe we finally made a bit of a difference tonight.’

  Friday, 29 November 1940

  ‘So, what should we do to celebrate your first kill, Hale?’ Carson shuffled the cards, squinting against the sting of tobacco smoke curling up his face from the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

  ‘Let’s catch the milk train to London.’ Moss picked up each dealt card as it skidded across the table towards him. ‘As soon as we land tonight, scrub up, get changed and drive to Andover. Get the first train into Waterloo and we can be in Covent Garden for a late breakfast. What do you think, Bryan?’

  Bryan pushed a shilling bet out onto the table. ‘I suppose it could be more fun than hanging around here wearing sunglasses and eating carrots.’

  ‘Capital. That’s a plan, then. See you and raise.’ Carson pushed out two coins in front of his cards. ‘Don’t you have a girlfriend in London?’

  ‘No’ – Bryan folded his hand – ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ***

  C-Charlie shuttled back and forth on the patrol line, both its crew scanning the blank purple vault for the faintest flicker of movement. Bryan tracked the waning afterglow with incremental hikes in altitude, climbing to preserve the last vestiges of daylight he needed to trap the intruders they hunted. Wheeling round at the western end of their patrol line, Bryan glanced at the altimeter and then out at the blanket of darkness around them.

  ‘Pilot to operator, we’re at eighteen thousand feet. If any firelighters have come in, we’ve missed them. So, it’s back to staring at the magic box for tonight.’

  The Beaufighter banked into its easterly leg and Bryan became aware of a small mushroom of light invading the darkness far off in the north-east.

  ‘Can you see the glow at 11 o’clock, Scott?’

  ‘Yes, Flight. London is taking it again.’

  Bryan cursed under his breath and hit the transmit button.

  ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Night-warden Control.’

  ‘Hello C-Charlie. Receiving you.’

  ‘There’s nothing doing out here, request permission to break off patrol and move north-east. We suspect there is trade over London.’

  ‘Hello C-Charlie. Negative, I’m afraid. Blackbird’s orders are to cover approaches to Liverpool and The Midlands. Maintain patrol.’

  Static whirled in their earphones as Bryan and Tommy gazed helplessly at the point of light on the horizon that bore witness to the flames that were devouring dreams and curling bodies into ash.

  Saturday, 30 November 1940

  ‘It’s bloody hopeless.’ Bryan’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel as the Humber careened along the deserted Salisbury Road heading towards Andover. ‘Did you see hide or hair of any bombers?’

  ‘Not a sausage,’ Carson mumbled around a stifled yawn.

  Bryan glared at Moss in the rearview mirror.

  ‘No,’ Moss intoned. ‘Nothing.’

  Bryan thumped the wheel with the heel of his hand. ‘What’s the point of hauling guns around in an empty sky?’

  Moss shrugged in case Bryan was still watching him.

  ‘Ours is not to reason why…’ Carson sighed. ‘Can’t we just enjoy our day off in London?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Bryan breezed. ‘We watched it getting bombed last night
while we flew in circles somewhere else and today, we’ll look for a pub that’s still got windows.’

  ‘Good.’ Carson said. ‘You need to take the next right for the railway station.’

  ***

  Carson and Moss had already fallen asleep as the train pulled into, and then away from, Basingstoke. The strengthening dawn light had delivered an embarkation of commuters.

  ‘May I sit here?’

  Bryan looked up into the face of a young woman.

  ‘Yes, please do.’ He shimmied up the seat to give her room.

  ‘Your friends look exhausted.’ She sat down, handbag in lap.

  ‘We work nights and we haven’t been to bed yet.’ Bryan smiled, nodding at the other two. ‘These impetuous youths wanted breakfast in London.’

  ‘Oh, are you on bombers?’

  ‘No, not really… similar, though.’

  ‘My husband is on bombers. He’s a rear gunner.’ She looked past Bryan and through the train’s window at the naked trees dashing past. ‘Funny to think of him coming home and going to bed at the same time I’m setting off to work.’

  ‘Do you worry about him?’

  ‘Sometimes’ – she glanced into Bryan’s eyes – ‘but I know he’ll do his best to come back to me. He’s a good man and I love him very much.’

  ‘Have you been married long?’

  ‘A little over two months.’ She held her chin slightly higher. ‘We married as soon as he finished his gunnery training. We only had one night before he got posted away to his squadron.’

  ‘That must’ve been difficult.’

  ‘Yes’ – she blushed and giggled – ‘mind you, I think he hit the target on his first mission.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She stifled her giggles with one hand and patted her belly with the other.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Bryan twigged. ‘The pattering of tiny feet?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Her blush deepened. ‘Isn’t it terrible? You’re the first person I’ve told and I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘It’s Bryan.’

  ‘Hello, Bryan.’

  ***

  The train clanked to a halt in Waterloo and Bryan mouthed ‘Good luck’ to his travelling companion as she disembarked and became lost in the crowds. Carson and Moss slumbered on, and for a brief moment Bryan considered abandoning them and taking a train to Balham. The moment passed and Bryan kicked their shoes.

  ‘Wake up, girls. Time for breakfast.’

  The three men walked up the platform and through the ticket barriers. The chill of the morning air, amplified by the cavernous station and the cold stone floors, pinned their breath in the air behind them, like drifting clouds of disconsolation.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ Moss blinked against his tiredness.

  ‘Down to the River Thames and then along the bank until we get to a bridge, Westminster is the closest.’

  Bryan ducked down a narrow street and dog-legged over another road to a lane that led down to the bank of the Thames.

  All three of them stopped in their tracks as the river vista opened up before them. Across the water to their left, huge plumes of smoke wheezed from burning buildings in Whitehall, individual columns snaking together, conspiring to blacken the sky. Orphan fires punctuated the scene, north and east, and behind them the skyline floundered under a roiling conflagration centred on Blackfriars.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ Moss’s brittle voice betrayed his genuine shock.

  Bryan put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Last night’s raid is what happened here. And it happened while we were arsing about over Hampshire and Dorset.’

  ‘This is unstoppable.’ Carson shook his head at the extent of the destruction.

  Bryan slapped him on the back. ‘Well, we’ve been given the job of stopping it.’

  They stood for a moment in silence and Moss began shivering with the cold.

  ‘Come on’ – Bryan started off – ‘breakfast won’t hunt itself.’

  They dodged between the riverside path and the alleys in between warehouses until they reached Westminster Bridge. Climbing the wide stairway, their eyes were drawn to the grimy bulk of the Palace of Westminster. Although draped in smoke from nearby fires, it showed no sign of major damage. They crossed to the north bank amidst the flow of office workers, many of whom wore anxious masks of concern, uncertain if their destination would be intact when they arrived.

  Coming off the bridge beneath Boadicea’s imperious gaze, they walked past the silent Saint Stephen’s Tower towards the edge of Parliament Square.

  ‘We need to head north,’ Bryan said.

  But the junction to Parliament Street was roped off and guarded by policemen. The trio approached the barrier, squirming through a press of frustrated office workers. Behind the police line, in the middle distance, the Cenotaph stood swathed in smoke from a nearby building that still curled spirals of flame from its upper floor windows.

  ‘Any chance we could cut through?’ Bryan asked the nearest police officer.

  ‘No. We’re waiting for the lads from bomb disposal.’ The man chuckled: ‘Unless you’ve got a screwdriver handy and you think you know the difference between a dud and a time-delay.’

  ‘Thank you’ – Bryan tipped his cap – ‘it seems I forgot my toolbox.’

  They doubled back to the river and dropped down the steps next to the impassive warrior queen onto Victoria Embankment. Fire tenders lined the road and their hoses snaked across the walkway, looped over the wall and disappeared into the cold, grey water of the Thames. Here and there a collapsed wall had flung a few errant bricks across the road, but the generous width of the riverside promenade meant it remained largely unobstructed. Stepping over the leaky hoses, the three airmen made their way past the worst of the destruction.

  At the northern edge of the bomb strikes they found Charing Cross tube station open. They cut through the station and up the hill to The Strand. Ducking up a side road they stumbled on a small café on the edge of Covent Garden.

  Bryan led the way into the eatery. The salty smell of fried bacon hung in the warm air, pricking saliva into the mouths of the hungry men.

  ‘Do you have any bacon left?’ Bryan asked.

  ‘A little.’ The man behind the counter winked.

  ‘Then we’ll have three bacon sandwiches and three mugs of tea, please.’ Bryan placed some coins next to the till and joined the other two at a table by the window.

  ‘Everything’s carrying on as normal.’ Moss gestured at the people passing by outside, seemingly unconcerned and unhurried. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I don’t know’ – Carson shrugged – ‘safety in numbers, perhaps?’

  ‘More likely denial,’ Bryan said sadly. ‘Ponder on it too much and you end up like a rabbit in the headlights.’

  The café owner brought over the sandwiches and teas.

  ‘Not meaning to pry’ – Moss opened his sandwich to sprinkle in some pepper – ‘but is that what’s happening with your girlfriend?’

  Bryan pursed his lips: ‘She wants me to transfer to a training unit. Somewhere that’s safe.’

  ‘You should do it.’ Moss spoke around a mouthful of breakfast. ‘With your experience, they’d take you at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Carson grasped his sandwich in one hand and reached for his mug with the other. ‘Now we’re ironing out the tactical kinks, there’s very little danger in what we do.’ He swilled a mouthful of tea. ‘If we do our job properly, the bandit need never know we’re there until it’s too late, and there’s nothing on earth those cannons can’t rip to shreds. I’m staying on night-fighters for the duration, my friends. It’s a cushy number.’

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ Moss asked him.

  Carson shook his head as he crammed the last of his sandwich into his mouth.

  ***

  They left the café and strolled along the road.

  Bryan looked at his watch: ‘Pubs open in a few minutes. I know a n
ice little drinker on the other side of the plaza.’

  They cut through the backstreets, zig-zagging their way until Covent Garden Apple Market opened out in front of them, the main building hid coyly behind its piles of sandbagged protection.

  Something climbed a sonic tone above the traffic hubbub seeping up from The Strand and the hairs on Bryan’s neck raised in warning.

  ‘Listen.’ He stopped and raised his hand to quell the questions of his companions. ‘Aircraft.’

  The noise swelled and three Messerschmitt fighters barrelled over the roofline from the east at two hundred feet in a vee formation. Harsh against their pale blue undersides, the dark lumps of bombs nestled, one under the fuselage and smaller ones under each wing.

  They flashed over the plaza and were lost to sight for a moment behind the buildings, before reappearing in a long climbing bank to starboard. Their bombloads, flying free, terminated their unseen trajectory in a series of muffled detonations away to the west. An occasional rifle report echoed from the stonework as sentries around the plaza loosed off pot-shots at the raiders. Unperturbed, the German fighters completed their turn and throttled up for the southwards dash for home.

  ***

  Bryan sat on a stool in The Lamb and Flag, swinging his shoe against the bar and staring into the depths of his pint.

  ‘What’s the point of bombing Leicester Square? How does that advance their war effort?’ Moss furrowed his brow. ‘Why risk three pilots to knock in a theatre’s windows?’

  ‘Why creep up and murder civilians?’ Carson scratched his head. ‘That’s a better question.’

  ‘That, gentlemen’ – Bryan straightened his back and flexed his shoulders – ‘is the nature of our enemy. The intentional murder of civilians seems not to trouble him.’ He swilled down the remains of his ale and signalled the barman for another round. ‘I’d like to think none of us would do such a thing. But I suppose there’s only so much turning of the other cheek that any nation can stand.’

  Moss shook his head. ‘But we’d never purposely target civilians?’

  Bryan put down his empty tankard and picked up a full one. ‘I fear there may not be any other way to win this war.’

  ‘Explain.’ Carson cheeks were reddened with alcohol.