He sighted along his Vickers machine gun and followed the target. They angled towards them and began to descend, coming closer. He clicked in his RT.
“Target, coming in about four o’clock from behind the clouds.”
The Blenheim surged forwards in response, Chandler advancing the throttles from a cruise to a combat setting. The port wing dipped and they curved to the left, heading towards Dunkirk. It put the approaching aircraft on the tail and turned it into a stern chase. They began to descend, gaining speed.
The two aircraft continued to approach. Griffiths tracked them as they slid out to the right, starting to run parallel to their course. As they got closer, Griffiths was able to identify them and let out a sigh of relief.
“It’s alright skipper. They’re French Curtiss 75’s. It looks like they’re giving us the once over.”
Chandler levelled off and closed the throttle in response. Then the two fighters flicked onto their side and lanced down towards him.
“They’re attacking! Break right!”
There was a few seconds delay as Chandler was caught off guard and then he pulled the yoke back into his stomach and stamped on the right rudder pedal. The Blenheim reared up and skidded to the right, the wing dropping. Griffiths clung on for dear life.
Up front, Morgan was held in his seat by the G-forces of the turn. Arms feeling like lead, he had no chance to get to the flare gun and fire the days colours down the tube on the right side of the cockpit.
The French fighters bore in and Griffiths squirmed inside his Irvin jacket as they were lined up right on him. Feeling like a specimen under the microscope as they drew closer, he started to relax as the trailing Curtiss pulled up and away. Then the leading fighter opened fire.
Tracers flashed out towards them and thumped into the Blenheim. Griffiths heard a massive bang behind him in the fuselage.The French fighter stopped firing and roared overhead, its wings rocking in recognition. Griffiths could only mouth a curse as the Blenheim shuddered in its slipstream and levelled off.
Griffiths tried the intercom but got no response. He tapped the earpiece of his flying helmet and gave it another try. He ducked down out of the turret to find the fuselage looking like a sieve. Wind whistled through the holes and a panel flapped loose on the starboard side. The radios sparked and little wisps of smoke rose from the casing. He gave them an experimental thump but got nothing in return. He looked down the dark fuselage to the cockpit ahead of him.
Chandler was looking back at him, tapping the earpieces of his helmet. Griffiths pointed to himself and gave a thumbs up and then pointed to the radios and gave a thumbs down. He repeated it twice and Chandler nodded his head in understanding before turning back to the controls. Griffiths returned to his turret and looked around.
The two French fighters had reformed on their port wing, slightly back of the tail. The leader edged in closer and pulled his canopy back with his right hand. A bright blue scarf whipped back in the slipstream and flapped down the side of the American built fighter. He pulled his goggles up and Griffiths could make out a long narrow face with a bushy moustache.
He shook his fist at the Frenchman and mouthed an obscenity. The fighter pilot laughed and gave him a Gallic shrug in return which only made Griffiths even angrier. He waved his arms at the French fighters, blood boiling at the near miss.
“Go on, bugger off!” He shouted into the gale.
The French fighters lingered a few more moments and then heeled over, breaking away hard and swooping for the ground. Griffiths watched them go, thinking dark thoughts.
Chandler moved the controls around, getting a feel for anything out of the ordinary. It all seemed taut and responsive. He flicked a glance at the gauges and the engines seemed okay too, which left him with one simple dilemma. To carry on or go back.
Without a radio they could not signal back to base if they needed to. What worried him more was that with no intercom they had no teamwork. There would be no warning from Griffiths if enemy fighters should bounce them, no warning if he should see the ships. If it was just himself, he would press on but Chandler had two other lives in his hands.
He looked at Morgan and then glanced over his shoulder back down the fuselage. There were other aircraft out there searching as well; but one aircraft might make all the difference, he kept telling himself.
He could not face the thought of having to abort and go back. Having no radios was a more than reasonable excuse but he imagined the accusing stares in the mess. He had no doubt what Winwright’s reaction would be. It was the squadrons first mission, a rush job from Wing, he would be expected to deliver success. No matter the reason, if he turned back now, he would be putting up another black.
Morgan came up into the cockpit from the nose. Chandler lifted the right side of his flying helmet as his navigator leaned in close and shouted above the blare of the engines.
“What are we going to do?”
“Morg, you know the intercoms out. What do you think?”
“Press on you mean?”
“Yes! Should we chance it? There might be more trigger happy French about and we’ll get no warning from Griffiths next time.”
Morgan looked down the length of the fuselage. He could see the young lad constantly moving. His eyes must have been looking in a hundred different directions back there. He glanced forwards again over the nose, the wide expanse of the ocean spread out before them.
“Let’s give it a go,” he said, his voice sounding more positive than he felt. “I reckon about another five minutes before we turn north east to skirt the Belgian territorial airspace! Heading three zero degrees!”
“Get forward in the nose and keep your eyes peeled. We’re going to need a slice of luck today.”
“Roger, skipper.”
Chandler took up the new course and scratched off one of his nine lives.
Half an hour later, they were coming towards the end of a run along their search area and had seen nothing other than a few fishing boats and a coastal steamer. The brief was to patrol back and forth along a fifty mile stretch and then run for home. Other aircraft from England were out their searching as well; he was just an ant among many ants but Chandler felt driven to deliver a result. His fears of thirty minutes previous had evaporated with the clouds. He glanced around at a sun chased sky, a blue bowl spread out before him.
It was as if they were all on their own as they cruised along with the Scheldt on their starboard side. Ahead was The Hague, and beyond that, Amsterdam. The coast carried on curving north until the Ijsselmeer before heading east towards Germany. He tried to think himself into the role of the German Cruiser. Hugging the coast did not make much sense to him. Close in shore the water would be shallow and would restrict their movement. A big ship like that would be further out.
“We’re looking in the wrong place,” he muttered to himself. Out there, out at sea; that was where they should be. One wide sweep and then he would turn for home he decided. He performed a leisurely turn to the left and headed for the open ocean.
In the nose, Morgan glanced at his watch and then looked over his shoulder. His eyes were sore from peering through the binoculars, the reflections off the water burning into his skull. He pressed them to his face again and took another sweep of the horizon. Something to his left caught his eye, a splash of colour against the dark water, a smudge. He rubbed his face and looked again. Satisfied his eyes weren’t playing tricks, he went back to Chandler.
“Something ahead on the water, skipper. Must be a fair size for me to spot it this far out.”
“All right Aaron, we’ll take a look. Hang on to something, I’m going down fast.”
Chandler waited until Morgan was back in the nose and then rocked the wings to give Griffiths an idea something was going to happen. Advancing the throttles he shoved the nose down and headed for the water. He kept a firm grip on the yoke and felt it bucking in his hands, the controls stiffening as the speed built up. Levelling out at two thousand feet he
angled away from the sighting, keeping it about twenty degrees off the nose so he could come at it more obliquely.
Chandler could see it was a ship all right, heading west. It must have been going some speed because the surface of the water was all churned up behind it. Morgan kept the binoculars glued to his face, his elbows braced to try and keep them steady while the Blenheim jolted through the moisture rich air. As it drew closer, Morgan started taking in details.
There were two funnels amidships with three gun mounts at the rear and two up front. The hull was long and sleek with a clipped bow and a single mast stuck up jauntily behind the bridge. He started flicking through the pages for the Kreigsmarine in the Janes book. From the dimensions and profile he was very quickly through the bigger ships and amongst the listings for the destroyers before he found what he was looking for. Happy with his choice he went up to the cockpit. He shoved the book in front of Chandler and stabbed his finger at the page.
“That’s it skipper. A 1936 Destroyer I reckon. It’s got the clipped bow and shorter funnels so it doesn’t fit the 1934 jobs.”
“Not the Cruiser we were looking for though,” grumbled Chandler.
“I’m not complaining, skipper. They sent us out here to find a tub, we found one. Now can we get out of here please?”
His pilot nodded in response.
“One pass to make sure and then home. Hang on.”
Chandler dived for the sea and watched the altimeter unwind.
END OF SAMPLE
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Maximum Effort Page 72