'All right, sir; until Jumper gets back.'
Connie brought their lunch out and there was a stir of interest. Anything to take their minds off Webb, who had established his popularity, and Jumper for whom they all had such affection.
The other two squadrons had had a bad time that morning. Jerry was back with a vengeance.
And, by God! Here he came again.
Knight flew for the rest of that day with a strange sensation of light headedness. He had been angry many times, frightened many times, determined and aggressive many times; but this feeling of emptiness in his stomach combined with dizziness of the head was new. It had nothing to do with hunger, for he had eaten four thick beef sandwiches at lunch time. He had slept well for three successive nights, so his brain should be clear and rested, yet he felt as though he were permanently on the verge of greying out.
It was a subconscious anticipation of the mental and physical exhaustion which, itself, produced these symptoms. Subliminally, he was aware that, by the end of the day, he would be feeling as worn out and ragged as he had been before the bad weather gave him a rest. So he suffered from a mild manic depression. He was faced once again with the demands of six or eight scrambles every day, daily casualties and all the misery of death and injury among his friends.
Webb...Jumper…Wilkins...some whom he had known only for a short time but who were as closely knit to him as old friends. Blakeney-Smith still survived He had been flying in the same section as Webb when the boy was shot down. He was Jumper's Number Two when Jumper bought it. And there was that strange affair this morning of his claim for an unconfirmed victory after an alleged chase across the Channel. All this weighed on Knight's mind.
Scramble came after scramble, and each time they made contact with the enemy. Sometimes the fight was over in a few minutes and the Germans turned back to prepare for yet another raid. Sometimes a sortie lasted for an hour and some one didn't come back to East Malford. Knight's resentment and his bitterness against this incessant death and destruction smouldered all through the day.
The squadron was on its fifth scramble. Knight, with thoughts of Jumper Lee and Roddy Webb forcing their way through his concentration, knew how tired and nervy he must have become.
The enemy was everywhere. Where did the sods all come from? One minute there wasn't one in sight, and the next they were thick enough to walk on.
The R/T was crowded with warning cries and yells of triumph.
'I got another …'
'Behind you, Green Two ...'
'Break right, Six-gun, break right ...'
And while this accompaniment dinned in his ears his eyes were darting from side to side, to his mirror, to his reflector sight. His hands and feet were never still as he made constant small adjustments to ailerons, elevators and rudder. His thumb jabbed at his gun button.
Swarms... myriads... hordes... fleets... Heinkels… Domiers... screaming Stukas... 109s... llOs... Hurris... Spits... collision... ack-ack... some clot in a Spit shooting up a Hurricane...a 109 flying right into the cone of fire from a clutch of llOs.
Thoughts, sensations, rational, coherent, jumbled... decisions... noise... his own guns, the enemy's, his friends'... explosion of bomb load or petrol tank... flashing succession of visual impressions, smoke, flames, debris, parachutes…
Suddenly Massey's voice, instantly recognisable despite the microphone distortion. 'Someone help, for Chrissakes...'
A needle through his spine, his brain tingling. 'Where are you, Six-gun?'
'Over Ashford... Angels twenty-two… Three 109s… '
'Coming.'
An almost vertical climb, and there they were; five thousand feet above. A frantically weaving Hurricane, three Messerschmitts darting and swooping. He shoved the throttle through the gate, his aircraft trembled and the engine shrieked. His eyes stared fixedly at the dogfight overhead.
He looked beyond it and saw a glitter of reflected sunlight. He was in luck: one of the boys was up there, at angels thirty, and he'd whip down on the 109s any second now. But he was just circling lazily... Must be another 109, giving top cover... looking out for someone like him going to Massey's help.
One of the three on Massey's tail had seen him and broken off. Here he came. Flames… din of bullets striking his Hurricane… his thumb pressed hard down… his own stinking cordite filling the cockpit… a burst of crimson and orange, wrapped in grey-black… The Me. 109 tumbled past, Knight's shooting more accurate than the German's. That left only two to dispose of. And the one sitting up there, watching.
And then another clap of thunder... more smoke and flames in a hideous firework display... fatal pyrotechnics twenty-two thousand feet above the earth. Two 109s still, but no Hurricane. Good-bye Six-gun... you poor old bugger... No more 'Catch!' No more lazy drawl and endless good natured leg pulling, and getting drunk together. But only one surviving 109, after all Six-gun must have got the other with his last burst: it was going down steeply in flames,… over on its back… no pilot baling out. That would have pleased Six-gun. Now for the last of the bastards. And the other one, the one up there at thirty thousand feet, watching it all.
Hafner, seeing him come, turning cautiously to put the sun behind himself, preparing for one swift attack that would be the end of this Englishman, caught sight, for the first time, of his identifying letters: YZ-E! Gott sei dank, he had got his chance after all.
But be careful: there was that other Hurricane five thousand feet above, always watching. It had watched the fight which had just ended. Why hadn't it joined in? Perhaps this was what it was waiting for: one Messerschmitt and two Hurricanes, and itself with a height advantage.
He didn't care. He wasn't afraid. He was ready for his enemy. For Knight. For single combat to the death: not his, but Knight's.
Knight, eyes on the nearer Messerschmitt, turned to look, as he thought, at its fellow which was keeping well out of the fight. Then, as the latter banked, he saw the outline of a Hurricane's wings. A sledge hammer hit him in the stomach, and he knew who must be flying it.
He ignored the German. He fastened on his true enemy, the real destroyer of Six-gun Massey; and God knew how many others: Webb… Jumper... he could go on remembering the names of those who had flown with Blakeney-Smith, put their trust in him, and been deserted.
Hafner drew off a little way, climbing warily, sun behind him now, slowly gaining height; but never taking his eyes off Knight, except for an occasional suspicious glance above at the other Hurricane. Wily dogs, these Englishmen. They must be talking to each other on the radio... planning to attack him simultaneously from two sides. But why was the higher Hurricane going away now? He glanced again towards Knight, who was shewing no more interest in his Me. 109. While Hafner watched, Knight had increased the distance between them. It looked as though he was going to form up with the other Hurricane. Hafner turned towards them.
Knight saw Blakeney-Smith begin to dive and he guessed what the coward intended: there was cloud ten thousand feet below, and he was going to hide in it. But, to reach it, he had to descend steeply across Knight's flight path. With a shallow dive, Knight could intercept him. He had eased his throttle back, but now he opened it wide again and leaped into pursuit.
Hafner, left far behind by now but still as determined as he was baffled, followed. Surely Knight wasn't going to refuse combat and skulk out of harm's way in that cloud bank? He pushed his throttle right open and the Me. 109 thundered after the enemy.
Four thousand feet to go. Blakeney-Smith was almost in safety. But... suppose it wasn't he? That didn't matter… whoever it was had left Massey to die unaided. Knight sat rigid in his cockpit, braced. The controls were stiff at this high speed. His head was clamped in an invisible vice. Only his thumb on the firing button felt as though it still had any independence of movement.
It was a struggle to move his limbs, but the slightest shift of any of the control surfaces produced violent changes in the aircraft's attitude.
The wind
screamed and the engine roared. Knight's heart was racing, the blood pounding in his temples.
He was catching up. The other Hurricane had to fly right across him; it had no other way in which to reach the shelter of the clouds.
Four hundred yards. They were converging. Two hundred. Wait... make sure... not of identity, but of lethal range… He could see the identification letters now. He had been right.
His thumb pressed bard on the firing button.
Converging lines of tracer leaping away from his wings. Vivid flashes when his bullets struck home. The target shuddered, reared up with its nose pointing skyward, away from the clouds and their promise of sanctuary, Then it fell sideways on to one wingtip. And exploded.
Knight had kept his thumb on the gun button for twenty seconds. He had run out of ammunition after ten. His guns were clattering away harmlessly now, the ammunition trays empty.
Sweat filled his eyes. He shoved his goggles up and dashed a forearm across his face.
Hafner was closing for his kill
He saw Knight deliberately destroy the other Hurricane and for a moment it was as though he himself had received that blast of gunfire, as though it were his own machine which exploded, he was so astonished and shaken.
God in heaven! That took courage. He shared instinctively in Knight's thoughts and feelings, knew that his terrible moment of revenge must be followed at once by remorse; who was Knight, who was any man, to play the part of God? He sympathised with his enemy, understood his motives, his outrage, the self-discipline that his action had demanded. But now it was his own turn to kill. What Knight had done was his affair and had no bearing on what was going to happen to him now.
Hafner had overtaken the Hurricane, and when Knight altered course a little to adjust his aim, had placed himself between Knight and the clouds. There was no escape for the Englishman. He must fight.
The Messerschmitt bored in and the Hurricane turned defiantly towards it.
Knight knew that he must play for time; edge towards the clouds and hide there as long as his fuel lasted, or dive right through and streak for home at ground level. The German could not possibly stay long: he would not have enough petrol remaining. All he had to do, all he could do, was pretend to take the German on in a dogfight, but make sure never to get in his sights.
They stalked each other. They lunged and parried. They looped, rolled, stall turned and dived. Three times, Hafner knew he had been manoeuvred into a position in which his adversary could fire at him; but nothing happened. So he knew, that the Englishman had no ammunition left. He had Knight at his mercy; if he could out-fly him.
He did not, for a second, feel any triumph. He could not kill this man who had ignored him (bravely and with seeming contempt) to do what he believed was more important than engaging the enemy. Knight had deliberately thrown away his power to protect himself. He could not, with honour, take advantage of it.
Angry and disappointed, wishing that they could have ended this conclusively, Hafner winged over into a tight turn southward and set course for home.
Peter Knight came back to East Malford to find the rest of the squadron waiting with such ostentatious unconcern that he knew they had not expected him to return.
He remained in his cockpit, taking a grip on himself. He could find no excuse for his cold blooded and rational act. If he had killed Blakeney-Smith in a fit of wild fury, he might have been able to persuade himself that he did not know what he was doing. But it was not so. All the same he knew that he would never confess what he had done. He knew that, in time, he would have no regrets.
He climbed down and turned, to see Harmon walking towards him from his Hurricane, having apparently landed only a couple of minutes earlier.
Harmon stopped and looked at him expectantly, but didn't ask his usual 'How many?'
'They got Six-gun, Bernie.' Knight was surprised by the steadiness of his voice.
'I… heard him call. What happened?' Harmon's voice gave nothing away: neither sympathy nor regret; nor anything else.
'Three 109s 'on his tail. I couldn't get there in time. We did get one each, but they chopped him... Two of them attacked together and Six-gun bagged one just before they blew him up...’
'That's a bit of a bugger, isn't it? He was a good type. I wish I could have given a hand...'
Herrick was waiting to debrief them. Knight was reluctant to make his report. He said: 'Go ahead, Bernie. I'm in no hurry.'
'As you like, chum.' Harmon turned to the I.O.
In a dull voice Knight announced to the rest of the pilots: 'They got Six gun,' then he went on towards the C.O., who was standing a few paces apart, with Poynter. They both looked grim. He repeated what he had said.
Maxwell went white around the mouth. Poynter's head ticked two or three times and he exclaimed 'Bloody hell!' The squadron leader said quietly 'They've found Jumper, Peter. Not much left of his aircraft. Knight knew that meant that there was not much left of Lee, either.
Knight nodded and went back to give his story to Herrick. Presently Harmon finished, but stayed standing near the Intelligence Officer. 'O.K., Pete,' said the latter. 'When you're ready.'
Knight cast his thoughts back to the moment when the enemy had first been intercepted. His recital went smoothly until he came to tell of Massey's call for help. 'He was five thousand feet above me, with three 109s attacking him. I climbed steeply and one of the e/as broke off to engage me. I fired at it head-on and it caught fire and went down out of control. The other two continued to attack Massey, and before I could get to them they caught him simultaneously from both sides. His aircraft exploded. But he had shot one of them down. It spun out in flames.' He hesitated. Looking away from Herrick for a moment, he became conscious that Harmon was still there, eyeing him curiously. He wished the fellow would go away.
Harmon put in, noncommittally, 'I can confirm that.'
Startled, Knight asked quickly: 'Where are you?'
'Ten thousand feet below, a mile behind, and pedalling like stink to join you.' A faint, mocking grin flickered momentarily at the corners of Harmon's mouth.
Knight licked his dry lips. 'Did you... did you see another… another aircraft about five thousand feet above Six-gun and the three that were attacking him?'
'Yes, I did.' Harmon paused, looking hard at Knight 'It was a 109. Obviously doing top cover. I saw you go after him.'
Knight felt his face burning. Herrick urged 'Go on, Peter. What happened then?'
'I... I decided to go for the other... 109. The one which, as Bernie says, was about five thousand feet above...'
'Why?' asked the I.0.
'To make sure of getting him.' There was no hesitation about his reply. He felt cooler now, and this time it was he who stared Harmon down. 'I reckoned the nearer one would follow me, anyway, and I'd get a crack at it later. I went through the gate, and the second e/a - the higher one - began a steep dive for cloud cover. He crossed right in front of me and I gave him a long, full dejection burst. He caught fire and blew up. The remaining e/a immediately attacked me. As I had no ammunition left, I was forced into a dummy dogfight until I could dive into cloud or he had to break off through lack of fuel or ammo. In fact, that is what he did: he suddenly broke off the fight and scooted home.' He looked at Harmon again. 'I thought you said you were trying to join me: what happened to you?'
'My engine had been shot up a bit and I had a sudden drop in revs and oil pressure. I lost speed badly, and had to dive to come out of a stall. I saw you tangle with the last 109, and I saw him break away; so I knew you were O.K. and I got back here as fast as I could.'
Knight drawing a deep breath, said 'Well, that's about it, then, Spy.'
'O.K., Pete. Thanks. Well done.'
'I can confirm the second 109,' Harmon said offhandedly. 'I saw Pete give it a long burst, and it blew up.'
'Fine,' said Herrick.
The two pilots walked away, towards their aircraft, ostensibly to inspect damage and speak to their ground cr
ews.
Harmon put a hand on Knight's arm. It was a most unusual gesture for him. He loathed physical contact as a rule: they both did, except with nubile girls. His voice was quiet and strangely kind; kindness was not a conspicuous feature of Berni Harmon's nature. He sounded reassuring, in a way which came oddly from him. 'Don't feel bad about it, Pete. I was going to get that bastard myself. Morally, he was as much my kill as yours. We both had the chance, and we both took it. You got there first, but my intention was exactly the same as yours.' This was a long speech for Harmon. He shook Knight's shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at him. 'If I didn't get him then, I'd have got him the next time, by God! I never trusted the sod from the start. I've watched him. I saw him let Six-gun get it; and Christ knows how many others I didn't see. He deserved what you did. Now forget it, Pete. Forget it.'
'I'll have to. It was a bloody awful thing to do...'
'It was a bloody awful thing for that shit to make you do. For Christ's sake forget it.' Harmon was angry, and, for the first time in Knight's hearing, venomous. The shock of hearing him speak with such contempt and hatred of a dead comrade took away some of Knight's self-loathing.
'I'll forget it, Bernie. I wish to Christ I could forget Six-gun as easily. Or Jumper. Or young Webb... Or... ' He fell silent; the sad litany was too long.
Knight woke with a headache. Grumpily he pushed his batman's hand away.
Admonishingly, Tuttle said 'Toime ter git oop sir. It's 'alf past foive.'
Moonshine scratched at the door and was admitted.
For a moment all seemed normal, until Knight remembered why he had drunk so heavily the previous evening. But his hand was steady as he took the cup and saucer. And he had suffered no nightmares for killing Simon Blakeney-Smith.
Anne had cried bitterly before he left her, early, and went back to the mess to be with his own kind. Seeing her weep for the first time gave him a confused sensation of misery and tenderness. She wept for Jumper... for Six-gun... for Roddy Webb. She had even shed tears for Simon Blakeney-Smith. And he knew that she cried most of all because she was thinking that it might have been he who was killed or wounded; that it might be his turn today or tomorrow.
Summer of No Surrender Page 19