'On engaging three Me. 109s I used the last of my ammunition. I therefore broke off and was returning to base when I met a Heinkel making for France with one engine feathered. There was very little fire from its guns, so I knew that the crew were either dead or wounded or short of ammunition. I therefore flew alongside and edged in until my propeller was cutting into the fuselage. By this means I severed the tail unit and the aircraft immediately went into a steep dive and crashed near Dover.'
Herrick's dry remark was 'The Engineer Officer won't be pleased about damage to your prop, Lotty.'
'That bloody plumber he has plenty more in the stores.' Lotnikski dismissed all engineers and storekeepers with scorn.
He seemed to have formed a habit: for, later in the day, the I.O. wrote on his behalf 'When the C.O. ordered us to make individual attacks I decided to save my ammunition for defence against 109s. I approached a Do. 17 from directly astern, fired a short burst at 50 yds, and killed the rear gunner. I then sliced through the e/a's fin and tail plane with my propeller. It went out of control and the three surviving crew baled out.'
All his combat reports now contained such hair-raising statements as 'I engaged four Me. 109s', 'I held my fire until I was fifty feet below the e/a and fifty yards astern, whereupon I put a four-second burst directly into the bomb bay and the e/a blew up' 'Having used all my ammunition and my engine having stopped and caught fire, due to earlier attack by 109s, I aimed my aircraft at the nearest Heinkel and baled out just before they collided.'
Dunal fought with bitterness also, but to him the Germans were vermin rather than vandals. Many of his friends had been infected by admiration for the Fascists and Nazis: in contrast with the political instability and cynicism in France, at least these regimes seemed to have purpose and patriotism.
He flew with dash more than recklessness. He would like to survive the war and return to a new France and true civilisation.
More sensitive than his Polish comrade, he was a lean, fierce, lonely man, more cut off from the rest of the squadron than Lotnikski, because he was more fastidious.
At the end of a hard day of battle Lotnikski's face looked as crumpled and rough-textured as a convict's clothes; whereas the Frenchman's ascetic features, eyes red-rimmed from the strain of searching and sighting, wore the bleak expression of a suffering artist.
When he had taken the last of their combat reports, Herrick telephoned the Medical Officer: whatever could be done for them would have to be done with tact, but he knew he wouldn't sleep that night if he didn't do something about it.
Eleven
The civilian population of East Malford contrived to lead some social life despite the hard times.
Ernie Foster and his wife Marion were entertaining in their bungalow on the outskirts of the village.
Marion had taught in a girls' school until her marriage and was looked upon as an intellectual by her friends; she also sloshed oil paints heartily on to canvas and had an artistic reputation. Ernie had gone straight from school to the humdrum routine of an insurance office, where he now earned £400 a year. Ineffectual lawn tennis and even worse cricket were his contributions to the life of the community, with some inept amateur dramatics and work for the Conservative Association in the winter.
They lived smugly in a well-planned little home, where only an unexpected pregnancy would have upset their applecart. Their guests were two young married couples, both of whom had come on bicycles to save petrol. Everyone was riding bicycles these days.
The two male visitors were fellow toilers in the City. One of them had conscientiously volunteered for each of the armed forces more than once, but been rejected on account of a heart murmur. He, like Foster, belonged to the Local Defence Volunteers, forerunners of the Home Guard.
The other man was an architect who had actually been embodied in the RA.F. for three months, as a member of the Volunteer Reserve, but released to a reserved occupation: he now designed military installations. He had not resisted when he was invited to leave the cockpit of his Hurricane for a drawing office.
There was plenty to eat and drink. The Fosters grew their own vegetables, kept poultry and made wine and beer. Their party was interrupted at midnight by a violent eruption of blinding light which leaped past the edge of the blackout curtains and was followed by a tremendous explosion, which rocked the bungalow and sent glasses flying. The front door rattled and a window shattered.
Amid screams of alarm from the young women, everyone rushed outside. The sky was lit by leaping flames against which a dense column of oily smoke climbed into the still air.
'My God!' Foster exclaimed indignantly.' A plane crash. It might have landed on us.'
A voice from the night called roughly 'Never you mind about that, mate. It's a bloody mile away. Nowhere near your perishin' 'ouse. And what about the pore sods inside it, eh?'
Marion uttered a yowl and groped for her husband's matchstick arm. Foster's indignant chunter was cut short by the owner of the rough voice, who appeared in the light falling from the open front door and revealed himself to be an air raid warden.
And close that door and drew them curtains. Wot yer tryin' ter do - shew 'Itler where to drop his bombs, then? You get them curtings drawn and that ruddy door shut, and look lively about it.'
As Foster and his friends told the air raid warden shrilly, this was the sort of thing they were fighting against; Nazi hectoring. They would attend to the blackout in their own good time. Not only did trains not run to time, these days, but one couldn't do as one wished in one's own home.
'And,' Marion added defiantly, 'the glare from that burning aeroplane and all these fires where the Germans have dropped their bombs are slightly brighter than the forty watt bulb in our hall.'
'Anyway,' Foster told the warden, 'it would be more to the point if you did something about these German spies who are all over the place, instead of persecuting British ratepayers about the blackout.'
'Listen, mate...'the warden began aggressively.
'That's right,' one of the guests cut in. 'I heard only the other day about a man who was in a railway carriage with a nun; and when he looked down he saw she was wearing size twelve boots. Of course he called the guard, and some soldiers arrested the nun on the spot: and she turned out to be a man, a German spy who'd been dropped by parachute.'
'I've heard the same thing,' Marion agreed vehemently. 'And they can prove a man's a spy who's been parachuted in, by taking his shirt off: there are the marks of the parachute harness on his chest and back.'
'Don't you worry about all them rumours,' retorted the bellicose warden. 'They're getting as good as they gives: there's a Scotch regiment down the Isle o' Wight, see, and the Jocks don't like Jerries; they give all of 'em as bale out a taste of cold steel. Right in the guts. That'll teach 'em to drop spies in nun's clothes,' he concluded with somewhat elusive logic.
He was interrupted by a scream from Marion. In the flickering glow from the burning aircraft she was a figure of stark accusation and warning, pointing a trembling finger down the road in horrified silence.
Turning to follow her direction, the others saw a tall man plodding towards them, wearing a flying helmet. His face was streaked with grime and blood and he swayed as he trudged up to the gate. He leaned on the gatepost and groaned 'Ich bin verwundet...I...I…am…vound…wounded...' He swayed and fell to the ground.
There were shouts from the men and cries of alarm from their wives.
Foster ran inside and dashed out again wearing his L.D.V. armband and carrying a pre-1914 Martini-Henry rifle which he pointed uncertainly at the wounded German airman, who had by this time been hauled to his feet.
The warden pushed the muzzle aside. 'Pack it in, mate. I reckon you're a lot more dangerous with that thing than what he is. Pore buggar.' He took the dazed enemy by the arm and pulled him towards the front door. 'Come on, you lot, shut the door behind us then: look lively. Careful of the blackout.'
'Oh, my God!' squealed Marion hysteri
cally. 'The blackout: after this!' Then, as it registered that the sanctity of her home was about to be invaded by the hated foe, she shouted 'You're not bringing him into my house...'
'Oh yes, I am, Missus. And I'm going to telephone the Police and tell them to send a car to fetch 'im.'
'I s-say,' said Foster magnanimously, 'get the chap a drink. After all, we can be civilised about this. Look at him: he's only a kid. Can't be more than twenty...Er...Mein Herr…er wie viel jahre…er…haben sie?'
The prisoner, who was on the point of collapse, appeared not to hear him,
The ex-R.A.F.V.R pilot reminded the well-intentioned Foster sternly that his question was against the Geneva convention: rank, name and number only; asking his age was forbidden.
The warden startled them all by giving a loud and very vulgar guffaw.
'What,' asked Marion frozenly, 'do you find so amusing?'
'I was just thinking, Missus: why don't you take this young feller's shirt off and look for the marks of the parachute 'arness?' He had to release his prisoner and lean against the wall in a paroxysm of mirth.
The German, unsupported, crumpled at the knees and measured his length in the neat little hallway of the Fosters' bijou residence.
'Wizard! Really super controlling, Duffy.' Knight, in an attire whose unmilitariness would have shocked the Luftwaffe, beamed at the duty controller.
Squadron Leader Duff, who had been a fighter pilot in 1914-18, beamed back. He didn't even mind everyone in the Operations Room hearing this young junior officer address him so familiarly.
The girls around the plotting table and the two who sat with him on the dais overlooking it were watching Peter Knight with open admiration. There were several reasons for this. One was the basic mating urge: every W.A.A.F. tried to get herself invited out by a pilot; by an officer pilot if possible, and if not, by a sergeant. If aircrew ignored her she strove for a date with any officer. There was a scoring system in this highly competitive game.
Knight, jubilant, was a sight to draw any girl's eye as he stood on the controller's dais. He had come straight to the Ops Room from dispersals, after debriefing by Herrick, to thank the controller personally for his indispensable help in shooting down an enemy aircraft at night for the first time.
There was a close relationship between the fighter pilots and their controllers, and any disparity of rank was ignored. Knight would never have dreamed of calling Sqdn. Ldr. Maxwell anything but 'sir'; but Sqdn. Ldr. Duff was always 'Duffy'. It was a tacit acknowledgement of the fact that pilots fought while controllers stayed safely on the ground, and the former didn't have to respect anyone who was not risking his life.
Duff had a son the same age as Knight; a navigator in Bomber Command. He felt that he had a special affinity for young men like this. What a piratical, swashbuckling young devil this one looked. His turnout would have outraged the diehard, ex-Army, Royal Flying Corps senior officers of Duff's day; but in this war the lads wore whatever was practical and comfortable; and uniforms were expensive, not to be worn out thoughtlessly. They had to make some concessions to uniform: Knight, like most of them, confined it to an old tunic; with the top button undone after the new Fighter Command custom. That and a battered Service Dress cap with the stiffening taken out. His black flying boots and long white polo-necked jersey were RA.F. stores issue, but looked more suitable for beagling than visiting the Ops Room. His grey flannel trousers, tucked into boots, shewed an oil stain or two and a patch over one knee where he had tom them climbing out of his cockpit.
'I kept losing him. And those ruddy searchlights: I wished I had my sunglasses. But it was a lot of fun. A change from day ops. No 109s around.'
Duff listened with sympathy to the staccato comments. He remembered his own nervous condition twenty odd years ago, when he used to bring his Bristol fighter safely back after a running battle with the enemy.
Peter Knight, he thought, was like a hefty, handsome young stallion. Unconsciously so. But the smiling girls recognised it: he wasn't shewing off up here on the dais, he was much too nice a type for that, but his stance and every movement were expressions of virility. One kind of excitement prompted another. Duff knew; he wasn't so old.
'The first I saw of him, Duffy, was his exhaust flames. He was about a mile ahead then. I opened the taps and crept up on him, a hundred feet below, so I could see him against cloud. Then a bloody searchlight came on and caught me instead of the Jerry. That really brassed me off, because the rear gunner spotted me at once and began shooting. I was up to within two hundred yards by then. And blind! I jinked a bit and presently the searchlight went out. I suppose you told 'em to. I'd been so dazzled that I couldn't see anything. That was when you gave me a couple of vectors and put me in contact again. But he nipped into cloud and I hung around, thinking I'd lost him, waiting for him to come out.'
'That worried us, too,' the controller told him. 'There was another hostile around and another Hurricane chasing it. We thought the airspace was getting rather crowded.'
'I'm glad you didn't tell me! Anyway, next time I saw him he was right in .a searchlight cone. I went in to fifty yards before I opened fire. The rear gunner couldn't see me.'
The scene came back clearly. It was only an hour old and still raw in Knight's memory. He had hesitated for a moment before jabbing the gun button. He was looking straight into the face of his enemy. The rear gunner, dazzled by the searchlights, couldn't see the Hurricane; but his eyes seemed to look directly into Knight's own. His face looked frightened and he seemed little more than a schoolboy. For the first time the war had become personal for Knight. His stomach muscles bunched and he felt ill for a few seconds. This was different from a whirling daylight battle with the sky full of aircraft. Then, all he ever saw was the shape of a helmeted head, the bulk of a body's outline. Now he was, it seemed, within touching distance and the German in the rear turret appeared as close as a man would be at the other end of the bar counter in the Mucky Duck.
He wanted to shew clemency. He had the illogical thought that if he fired a warning burst aimed away from the Heinkel the tail gunner would plead with his captain to land and surrender.
For ten seconds Knight prolonged the life of that German gunner. Then he killed him with a three-second burst from less than fifty yards.
He broke to the right and upwards, and turned in again. His target was cork screwing violently, striving to evade the searchlight beams. He raked it with long bursts of accurate fire, shattering both engines and ripping away part of one wing.
He saw three survivors jump out and watched their parachutes open.
Any news of the crew?' He asked Duff.
'Yes, as a matter of fact we've just had word. The pilot landed near the village: blundered into a bit of a party at someone's house. He's in hospital now, with a few broken bones and mild concussion. The other two were picked up on the far side of East Malford.'
'I'll go over to the hospital in the morning and see how he's getting on. If he's fit enough, I might bring him back to the mess for a drink. It'll do the blighter good to see a spot of R.A.F. morale.'
'You needn't think he'll write home and spread any pro British propaganda, Peter!'
Anne sat up late, listening to the wireless and playing the gramophone. Listening also for the unsynchronised drone of German bomber engines. Knight had telephoned to say he couldn't leave camp that evening; she knew what it meant.
All evening there were intermittent take-offs from, and landings at, the airfield; but she knew this was only routine night flying training going on.
Faintly came the hum, now and then, of heavier aircraft high overhead. British bombers, she recognised, on exercises or making raids on Germany and occupied France. Not many of them: the R.A.F. was fighting a defensive battle just now; it was nearly all Fighter Command's show. Their party, as they called it.
Then it came. She couldn't explain to herself how it was, but she divined that this time the Hurricane she heard climbing away from East Malf
ord had been despatched on an interception. The snarl of its engine sounded more vigorous than the others, as though it were in a greater hurry. It was climbing steeply too; she could tell that from the engine note and volume.
She was convinced it must be Peter. He wasn't the only pilot on night duty, but her anxiety and love drove her to this certainty.
The music played on and she did not heed it. She fidgeted. Fetched herself a glass of cold milk from the kitchen refrigerator. Went stealthily out of doors to scan the sky, taking care neither to disturb the blackout nor wake cook. The maid lived in the village. Anne's parents had gone out to dine and play bridge.
She gazed at the sky and felt lonely. She wondered what she would do if a German parachuted on to their lawn. She was frightened of Germans. She had met any number of them in Austrian skiing resorts; big men, tall and heavily boned; masterful and loud. She had read newspaper stories (false as well as true, had she known it) of their atrocities all over conquered Europe.
Anti-aircraft guns were blazing away somewhere; she could see their flashes as well as hear their bombing. British fighter pilots, Peter among them, were up there in the black sky now, hunting the German bombers. Some of the enemy were bound to be shot down. Some of the crews would take to their parachutes. They had to land somewhere. Why not in East Malford? In the garden of her home?
And what about the invasion? Everyone said Hitler was ready to launch it at any moment. The Germans had thousands of paratroops: suppose they were to be the vanguard of an invasion? They would drop by night. They would land at places like East Malford, which had an R.A.F. airfield; and some of them would drift wide of their objective. She glanced fearfully around the shadowy two acres of lawns and shrubbery that surrounded the house.
Summer of No Surrender Page 12