The usual macabre pleasantries, which provoked the usual polite half-hearted laugh.
He picked up a Daily Mirror: quick glance at Jane, in pants and bra for some unlikely reason; and Reilly ffoul, the wicked squire, thwarted, exclaiming 'Stap me!' He couldn't know it then, but, two decades hence, these and Vera Lynn, the strip cartoon characters so innocent in comparison with what would amuse future generations, and the unashamed sentimentality of 'We'll Meet Again' and 'The White Cliffs Of Dover', would be as clear in retrospect as the headlong rush across the sky with guns blazing or the killing and the bursting bombs, as much a part of these days as the fighting and the hardships. The crassness of Reilly ffoul and the naive titillation of Jane would be as significant a war memory as the battles.
Knight sat between Harmon and Massey, with Moonshine's jaw resting on his knee, stroking his dog's ears with one hand and holding a sandwich in the other. Moonshine's eyes followed the sandwich every time his master took a mouthful. 'Black mail,' Knight growled, and gave him half his bread and ham.
The three of them had been silent for some minutes. At first in a mild stupor after the rigours of the morning. Then in admiration of Cpl. Gates's contours. And finally in a hurry to finish their lunch before the next scramble.
Harmon broke the silence. 'Swarms of the bastards.'
'Where?' Six-gun sat forward with a jerk. Knight incautiously let his hand fall and instantly lost another sandwich to Moonshine.
'I was thinkin' about 's mornin'. Loverly.'
'Jeeze, Bernie, I wish you wouldn't do things like that: I thought they'd crep' up on us.'
'Gruesome little sod.' Knight said severely.
'Yeah, what's lovely about it?'
'The way they're burnin' up flyin' hours they soon won't 'ave any left: no kites, no hours. No pilots, neither, at this rate.' Bernie had killed six Germans already that day and wounded two complete bomber crews.
'That's a hell of a way to figure it. Me, I'd as soon they stayed home, in the bloody Vaterland, or whatever.'
'You're not keen, that's your trouble.'
'You can say that again.'
'You can't miss,' they're such bloody swarms of 'em. Doesn't that make you 'appy?'
'If you knock off any more, Bernie, they're going to have to lengthen your fuselage to get 'em all on.'
'Them bloody erks! All they think about 'ow many d'you get this time? Come back with a few 'oles and they think it's Christmas.'
Blakeney-Smith had arrived to infest the scene. 'That's called getting a vicarious thrill. Human nature. Can't blame the erks.'
He had provided himself with an expensive air-mattress on which to take his ease, and now sprawled on this as though basking in the Riviera sunshine. It was only a question of time before someone on the squadron punctured it, and he must have known it, but such was his imperviousness to dislike or ridicule that he seemed openly to invite unfriendly acts by ostentatiously provoking them. Any day now he was likely to attach a large and impressively pedigreed dog to himself, merely to overshadow Knight and Moonshine. Perhaps his reason for not doing so was the knowledge that one of his comrades would surely feed the dog castor oil and lock it in its master's bedroom. Blakeney-Smith, who was as capable of self-deception as any schizophrenic could be, had no delusions about his popularity.
Dear God, he wondered, what made them so bloody impervious to the gut-freezing horror of incendiary bullets and the long, spinning fall to earth from thousands of feet high in an unnatural element? If God had intended men to fly he would have seen to it that they evolved with wings sprouting from their backs. They were hard types, most of them, with an enviable ability to suppress the horrors which must plague them as badly as they haunted him.
He had taken part in the destruction of two Heinkels that morning, following his leader in the attacks and holding his fire until he was close enough to be sure that he wouldn't miss. Since the start of this madness he had shot down two on his own, a Ju. 87 and a Me. 109. He was always afraid, but most of the time now he was able to overcome his fear. Yesterday he had not overcome it. He had baled out to escape from the fight. Today he was ashamed of himself. Nobody would know it, because the sense of shame made him behave with more than his usual arrogance.
He had had pride and self-respect once, even though he had run away from school because he couldn't stand the incessant beatings; but perhaps that was as much from anger at injustice as from the pain. He had unflinchingly accepted all the other discomforts which were the privileges of an expensive British education: ordered to box for his house, he had used his fists toughly and not dared to back away; on the rugger field he had tackled hard, regardless of grazed skin and broken bones. Although he had taken up skiing because it was fashionable and costly, he had soon put his heart into it and earned the praise of instructors who didn't waste it on the unmanly.
But every test of courage demanded an effort from him, whereas his companions could apparently take them unhesitatingly.
He needed his drink. He needed his women. He needed his fast car. There was a fissure in his store of courage and resolution, and he had to make himself oblivious to it.
Anne Holt sat in a garden chair, tanning her limbs in a bathing suit. She had been out there all morning, with a pair of binoculars, listening and watching. Every time she heard a Hurricane she turned her field glasses towards it. Whatever the direction of the wind, and the fighters' take off, they would pass over the house on their way to the Channel coast.
Sometimes they were too high for her to read their squadron markings, but if she could see those she could identify Peter Knight's individual letter.
She was a very pretty girl, with honey-blonde hair and big, lustrous blue eyes; four or five inches over five feet tall, graceful and full-busted. She played a useful game of tennis and had won good show jumping prizes. Boys had always run after her and men began to in her sixteenth year; at ski resorts they pursued her as though she were an adult. Now, at twenty, her conscience was uneasy: most of her girlfriends were in uniform, or nursing, or doing secretarial work in armament and aircraft factories. Her own contribution to the war effort was small: some work at the hospital, helping at a troops' canteen, and doing odd jobs at the air raid warden's post. She knew it was a weak contribution, but joining one of the women's Services or training as a nurse would take her away from Peter.
Her father owned a light engineering company and had offered her a job for the duration; the factory was turning out components for aircraft, tanks, and armoured cars: but if she spent the whole of every day indoors she would not be able to keep an eye on the aerodrome.
She remembered all the young men from the R.A.F. station whom she had known who were now dead, wounded or prisoners of war, and lived in dread for Peter. As long as she had these long hours of freedom she could at least have some idea of his comings and goings.
He had been taking her out for four months, now, and she believed that their friendship would endure. At first she had wondered if she were making too much of it, but if she had had any doubts left they were dispelled by what he had told her the night before.
She had always enjoyed male company; sought it, like any other girl; been as ready to kiss and be friends as any ardent young man could wish. But although she fended off straying hands and turned aside invitations to bed, when Peter kissed her she longed for him to touch her breasts or put his hand between her thighs.
She knew that, if he didn't, it was not from innocence or lack of desire. Like every officers' mess, R.A.F. East Malford's had its regular peace time camp followers: the mess tarts; gay, uninhibited girls of the easiest sort of virtue, who were invited to every party and dance and knew what was expected of them. When asked to spend a night in London or a week-end in Brighton they were delighted; if it was only a quick tumble on a picnic rug some Saturday afternoon, they were more than compliant.
They were the good sports, the pretty bits of crumpet, the generous sleepers-around who eventually married dull,
solid citizens: consoled by memories of a few years of fun with wild young men who flew for a living and lived for the moment. Some of them occasionally found husbands among these: no one held their past over-generosity against them.
Anne knew that Peter had taken his share of what was on offer. She was often more than a little resentful that he didn't shew more enterprise towards her. After all, those other girls had only liked him. Some of them may have been fond of him. But she loved him.
Ten
An air battle was shockingly different from Webb's preconception.
For Cunningham, it was a breathtaking astonishment.
The first impact of combat passed in a flash and left both of them feeling completely abandoned. Neither of them had been prepared for the blinding speed at which everything would happen.
They had taken off in a state of some euphoria. When the scramble came they knew that they were about to be com mitted to the most frightening experience of their lives, but the sick tension passed immediately they were caught up in the helter-skelter rush for their cockpits.
The squadron was flying fifteen aircraft. Maxwell led, with Sergeant Wilkins as winger, while one of the other recent arrivals criss-crossed at the rear: weaver, arse-end Charlie. Webb, hugging Knight's starboard wing, with Dunal on the left, felt securely guarded. Ahead he could see Lee leading Cunningham and Blakeney-Smith. Behind him, in his mirror, were Poynter, Lotnikski and the other Pole, a sergeant; and Harmon with 'Bishop' Viccar and Massey.
At the start all had been as he had anticipated; a few crisp orders from the section leaders and flight commanders; a lot of buffeting from other people's slipstreams and concentration on holding station; sweating preoccupation with engine revolutions, rate of climb, the precise position of his wingtip in relation to his leader. And the exhilaration that at last he was doing what he had joined the Air Force to do.
Then a lot of unanticipated events. First there was a burst of what sounded like machine-gun fire in his earphones and a voice said 'Shutup, Bish,' and he remembered that Vieau did impersonations.
Another voice piped up 'Please sir, may I be excused?'
And from Massey: 'You, Sister Anna, will carry the banner...'
All silenced by the C.O.'s 'Tighten it up, chaps. Turning starboard...Turning starboard...Go.'
The silence broken by a grim 'Here come the buggers.'
Followed by Maxwell's unemotional 'Number One attack…Number One attack...Go!'
Cunningham watched Jumper Lee slide down and to the left and followed him. Webb saw Knight break to the right in a downward flowing curve and bared after him as the section reformed from V into line astern.
They were both bewildered when they first saw their section leaders' guns firing; flame licking back over the wings, smoke trailing behind. Then they were in the smoke slicks themselves. Something was rattling against wings and fuselage. They didn't know what was happening. Each tried to follow his leader: they were flying into ejected cartridge cases and belt clips, metal hammering on cockpit canopy and engine cowling; they thought they were under fire and flinched. They held their thumbs ready over the firing buttons, but no sooner did a bomber flash into the sights than it was gone again. Another - and it was lost in a split second also. Where had the enemy gone? Why was aiming so difficult? This wasn't like shooting at a towed target, or even like camera gun dogfighting with an instructor. A gutpulling turn, standing on the wingtip, the blood draining from the head, eyes going dim...greying out...a sudden blackout.
Recovery. An empty sky.
It had all taken less than two minutes.
Webb was drenched in sweat. He looked at his altimeter and was amazed to see that he had lost five thousand feet.
He felt giddy and confused. He had flown at 350 m.p.h. into the midst of more than a hundred aircraft. He had blacked out; and when his head cleared he was alone.
He remembered Lee's word: four seconds to get shot down; in panic he zig-zagged tightly and searched in his mirror for the fatal Hun In The Sun of the Air Ministry posters. There was nothing there.
He levelled out and looked around, looked down. A few aeroplanes weaved against a background of broken cloud. Above and on all sides vapour trails shredded away. Three or four miles away a fire burned in the sky and beyond it another. Far below, two parachutes caught the sun.
He felt the humiliation of failure. They would think him a fool or a coward for losing contact.
He tore round in a circle; a mile to the north there was another orbiting fighter. A Messerschmitt? He flew unhappily towards it with a lump in his throat and his heart thumping. The other pilot had turned head-on. How quickly everything happened. He began to count…when he reached ten, he would fire; his thumb was on the button.
It was another Hurricane and both altered course to pass within fifty feet of one another. Webb saw the letters on the other fuselage: Cunningham recognised him at the same instant and they flew home together.
Would this damned invasion never be launched? Richter mopped his face with a handkerchief and eased his damp collar away from his neck. What prevented the Navy and the Army from crossing that narrow strip of water? Why must they wait so irresolutely for the Luftwaffe to make it safe for them? They were all paid to fight and to take the same risks; why didn't the soldiers and sailors earn their pay, like the Luftwaffe had to? If they didn't care for the odds against them by daylight, they could invade at night.
He had had enough of this charade. Five times today they had escorted bombers on massive raids. Each time the Red Indians, the Hurricanes and Spitfires, had appeared from nowhere as though by magic. It was like a boar hunt in which the boars drove off the huntsmen .He thought it was a good, manly simile. He enjoyed boar hunting and admired the wild, vicious beasts he killed.
Would these mad English men never give in? Were they bound in some suicide pact which kept them hurling themselves and their machines at each assault, out-numbered though they were? The Poles had fought bravely enough, but went under in five weeks. The British had held them off for months and shewed no sign of weakening.
He had lost three of his boys today. Helbig was dead: dear Franz with his springing ballet dancer's step and his fawn-like face with pointed ears and wicked eyes. A face full of invitation which had driven Richter insane with lust, although he knew that the invitation was not for the likes of him, but only for the girls who went so willingly to the young oberfeldwebel's bed. His eyes lit on Keiling. Pathetically immature to be an officer, he thought. What thoughts lay behind those dreamy blue eyes, so large and long-lashed? What fears and doubts rioted in that head, under the tight flaxen curls? Here was a prize specimen of the Herrenvolk, with his milk-white skin tanned to a golden hue like the skin of an apricot, and with the same soft down; pale golden hairs on face and forearms.
Damn the British! They would not take this boy from him.
Then he thought: Damn me; I haven't spoken to him for twenty-four hours.
Oberleutnant Richter rose from his chair, causing a disturbance among his pilots, who automatically came to their feet. He called 'Keiling! Come on, let's see if you can do better than yesterday.' He turned to his second-in-command: 'We'll stay in the circuit. If any orders come through, notify me at once by radio.'
'Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.' Leutnant Brendel, the stocky, hirsute deputy commander of the Staffel, saluted and wondered why the Old Man was taking so much trouble over this raw new member of the outfit. Evidently their losses were worrying him. In a pinch Richter trusted nobody but himself, rated no one's skill higher than his own. Brendel supposed that henceforth he would take most of the training of the new pilots into his own hands.
Hafner, who never seemed to tire or to lose his high spirits, voiced the thought that was in all their minds: 'Can't be long now before we're released. How about a quick raid on the town?'
Ihlefeld yawned . 'God! Erich. Not again tonight? I'm tired. Let's stay in the mess. We're on dawn readiness tomorrow.'
'That
's right,' agreed Brendel. 'An early night for you boys: in bed by eleven. And I mean alone!'
'Puritan,' scowled Hafner.
Pilot Officer Lotnikski had enjoyed his day. He did not care whether he lived or died. He had nothing to live for. He had lived twenty-five years in Poland; then, a year ago, came the barbarians to lay his country waste. They took from him everything he valued and left him only his life.
His father was killed in an air raid on Warsaw, his mother by German shells which fell on their country home. His elder brother 'died in an armoured car and his younger under the tracks of a German tank. His sister, nursing in an officers' hospital had been thrown into a German military brothel and committed suicide. The girl he was engaged to had saved her life by betraying a Jewish friend to the Gestapo.
He hated the Germans as a nation and he hated them individually. They were the ultimate in corrupting influence, bestial behaviour and perversion of people's minds. He killed them emotionally, conscious of the slaughter in a different way from Bernie Harmon.
On some days the sorties he flew were only standing patrols but today every time he had gone up it had been because contact with the enemy was certain.
His combat reports reflected his attitude. Herrick, listening to him and setting down his words in better English than Lotnikski could muster, was worried; Lottie couldn't last at this pace. The man was crazy. The M.O. would have to do something; sedatives perhaps, for he knew advice would be wasted.
'I followed Blue Leader in an attack on a Do. 17, getting in two short bursts, the first from 150 yds, the second 50 yards. My leader had silenced the rear gunner and I fired into the port engine and cockpit. The e/a exploded directly beneath me and I was thrown on to my back. This made me lose visual contact with Blue Leader and Blue Three.
'I then made a full deflection attack on another Dornier, opening fire at 100 yds, and killed the pilot. Making a second attack, I hit the starboard engine. On my third attack I stopped this engine and the aircraft lost height. In order to preserve ammunition I made a dummy head-on attack, and the gunner or navigator who had evidently taken over the flying stalled and went into a spin from which he did not recover.
Summer of No Surrender Page 11