He and Denton took the girls out once more before they were sent to a convalescent home in Alexandria for a week, which they spent mostly on the beach. By the time they were discharged from hospital Critchley was already losing interest in Audrey Kinch and setting out on the conquest of the next nurse on his list of probables. While they were in Alexandria Denton managed to return to Cairo for a day, to take Jean to dinner. Sergeant Butler lingered a few days in the hospital on his own, then went to an other ranks’ convalescent home by the seashore.
At the end of July all three of them were passed fit for operations.
Three
Wing Commander Nash’s expression reflected his customary manic enthusiasm.
“We’ve got a target for tomorrow morning: El Gubbi.”
El Gubbi was the Tobruk airfield and several squadrons of C.R. 42s were based there.
Denton told himself that the C.O. was not so much like a kettle on the boil as a whirlpool, now that he came to think about it. All that turbulence churned into a desperate froth that sought some useful outlet for its energy. The trouble about whirlpools was that they didn’t achieve anything constructive, but just went round and round for ever. It wasn’t quite fair to say that about Teddy Nash. A whirlwind, perhaps, sweeping all before him.
Denton and his crew were in the squadron commander’s office tent, with their flight commander, Squadron Leader Fry. No one could call Fry a whirling anything. He was thirty-one but had the deportment of a City alderman, a successful stockbroker or perhaps a bishop. Tall and portly, he had the high complexion which is usually engendered by wine and rich food. With it went a fruity, booming voice and a partiality to cigars. He had opened the batting for Eton, Cranwell, the Royal Air Force and I Zingari. He had played cricket for Sussex. He was a distinguished racquets and squash player. He drove an open Bentley in England and a Lancia tourer in Egypt. He had raced at Brooklands and Le Mans. He had a big, round, clean-shaven face and pale blue eyes. His hair was lighter than the C.O’s and cut so that it bunched thickly above his ears and fell in a heavy swath to his collar. He was a bachelor but kept a beautiful mistress in Cairo who was half French and half Egyptian, the widow of a rich Egyptian merchant. He had a lazy smile, which he now bent on Denton and the others.
“The Italians don’t s-seem to have much originality, which is s-surprising. Instead of having some s-sort of reporting s-system, the only way they’re trying to cope with us is by keeping s-standing patrol over the most attractive targets: ports, airfields, military bases and lines of communication. It’s an extravagant way of going about it.” And Victor Fry ought to recognise extravagance when he saw it, Denton thought. “They’re burning up p-petrol and engine hours and they’re going to run into s-serviceability p-problems. I think you’ll enjoy El Gubbi. I’ll t-take you along.”
Squadron Leader Fry spoke as though going to bomb El Gubbi were a jolly little picnic. His manner was an anodyne for anyone’s apprehensions. It was not difficult to visualise him in a grey topper at Ascot. Much more difficult to picture him taking part in an aerial equivalent of the Charge of the Light Brigade. You looked at Victor Fry and you told yourself There’s a man who obviously knows all about wine, feels at home in the South of France as he does at Goodwood, and has an account with a leading bookmaker. There was a lot of comfort in that if you had to follow him into battle, because it made the dangers of battle diminish and become unreal. With all his opulence and sophistication he was one of the kindest people Denton had ever known and that alone stimulated everyone on B Flight to try his utmost to please the flight commander by putting up a good show, whether on the bombing or gunnery range or in real earnest.
Nash flourished his fly whisk at a swarm of flies that were buzzing around his table and said “None of the Gladiator squadrons has been moved forward yet, so they haven’t got the range to escort us.” Not that a Gladiator escort would be much help, Denton ruminated: they were 10 m.p.h. slower than the C. R. 42. “We’ve coped well without them. The Wops don’t like getting caught in our cross-fire.”
When, after some more reassuring words from the C.O. and their flight commander, Denton led his two companions from the wing commander’s office, he was wondering how they felt about tomorrow’s return to operations. Despite what Nash and Fry had been saying, the fact remained that the squadron had lost three more aircraft and crews in the past few weeks. Butler wore his usual stoical expression; as though he suffered from piles or his feet were killing him. It was only if he had looked cheerful that Denton might have worried. Critchley was debonair, but was probably putting on an act. After so many weeks in adjacent beds, Denton still could not determine how much of his second pilot’s mien was genuine. Perhaps, thought Denton, he’s seeing himself as Tyrone Power steeling himself to face hopeless odds. This was the Western Desert, not Elstree studios. Perhaps Critchley was trying to delude himself that he was employed by Gaumont British and not the Royal Air Force.
As for himself: he had a numbness of intellectual feeling that was strange to him. Normally he was stirred into some excitement and tension before any test of skill and courage: even in anticipation of a day to be spent on practice bombing or dinghy drill. It was the same immediately before stepping into the loneliness of a boxing ring or diving into a swimming pool before a water polo match. This time he felt flat and it made him anxious.
He felt sharper in the morning and once he was airborne the old competitiveness and determination not to let himself down asserted themselves. There were six B Flight aircraft on the operation. Denton’s crew was now the least experienced. He flew on the left of the second V of three.
To the south he could see the Qattara Depression, the hundreds of square miles of soft sand below sea level, with cliffs and plateaux thrusting up from its treacherous surface. North of the Depression lay an area of desert broken by rocks that reflected the sun with a pinkish tinge. This gave way to a ridge that ran north to the coast at Alamein: a name which as yet had no particular significance. Ahead lay another high, sharp ridge parallel to the coast, yellow with sand and rocks. Between it and the coast were salt lakes which shone as deeply blue as the sea. From there, grey salt flats stretched all the way to the ivory-white sand of the beach and then came the sparkling cobalt Mediterranean.
When they approached closer to Libya they could see the Jebel Akhdar, the Green Mountain, the crescent-shaped massif 170 miles long and 50 miles wide running from south-west to north-east across the north-western corner of Cyrenaica. Its name was misleading. It was a range of several mountains, some of which rose to 2000 ft. Its flanks, rising steeply from the coast, were green with forests and with olive and citrus trees. On the plateau lying on the landward side was a pattern of arable and pasture land before the Jebel sloped down to the open desert. Tobruk lay 75 miles from the Jebel’s nearer extremity.
There was a heat haze and a sandstorm was blowing in the desert.
Critchley was the first to spot the patrolling fighters. “There they are. C.R. Forty-twos. Dead ahead, five miles, above.”
Denton found them. About 13000 ft, he thought. He could see the burned-out wreck of the San Giorgio in Tobruk harbour. The rippled blue of the sea gave way to dirty brown in the port. Flak shells began to pepper the sky around the Blenheims. Fry had chosen a course that would make a feint towards the harbour. Now he turned towards their real objective. The fighters were only two or three miles away; a big formation. The Italians were lavish with their standing patrols.
The flak became heavier and Fry began to weave. The others followed suit. A few shells burst close enough to Denton’s aeroplane to toss it about and his stomach lurched the first time this happened: it was something he would have to grow used to.
As long as the guns were shooting at them, they at least had the compensation that the fighters would keep out of the way. By feinting towards Tobruk, Fry had hoped to draw off the fighters patrolling near El Gubbi. They would have to wait and see whether the ruse had worked. Denton and Critchley bo
th searched for a sign of more fighters in the vicinity of the airfield: none was visible; but that did not mean there were no lurking C. R 42s somewhere in the area.
The aircraft immediately ahead of Denton suddenly swerved away to the left and he heard the pilot in his headphones.
“Hit in the port engine ... going home.”
Smoke was rising from it. Denton felt as though he had been punched hard in the wind: another couple of seconds and he would have been occupying that bit of airspace instead of his friend Hugh Ivens. His best chance of a safe return to base was to fly as low over the contours as he could. Denton looked down to see if smoke was still coming out of the damaged engine, then searched the sky again for enemy fighters that might be following Ivens down. There was nothing in view.
On El Gubbi there were orderly rows of C.R. 42s. The Italians still didn’t have the sense to disperse them around the perimeter. They were being serviced and refuelled: sitting ducks that could not even be taxyed out of harm’s way.
It was several seconds before he realised that the flak had ceased. With the realisation came a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Ian ... Butler ... eyes peeled for those blasted fighters.”
“Nothing back here, Skipper.”
No reply from Critchley, who was peering out intently.
Denton tried to concentrate on holding formation and making his bombing run. Leave the fighters to the others, he told himself.
Geysers of earth and debris were rising from the craters which the bombs of the aircraft ahead were dropping. He circled the aerodrome, looking for the best target on which to drop his bombs. He went round twice before he was satisfied and made a steady run. He released his bombs. The C.R. 42s they had seen from a distance of five miles had swept around to position themselves up-sun. Now they appeared as suddenly as they had faded out of sight: a swarm of bright specks gradually taking shape.
Butler’s doleful commentary came from the turret.
“Looks like we hit the north end of the ’drome. Got hits on the line of kites parked near that hangar. Someone hit a hut ... it’s on fire ... must have been us.”
Denton saw the C.R. 42s slanting down towards the Blenheims. He began to climb towards them instead of diving with the rest. While the fighters were still well out of range, he banked sharply to starboard and headed for the coast. He could see that most of the fighters had held their dive in pursuit of the other Blenheims. Four of them, who were apparently waiting for him, started to climb in his direction. He lost sight of them.
“Four fighters well below trying to catch us, Skipper.”
From his turret, Butler had a good view.
Denton was climbing at 1500 ft a minute and he knew that the C.R. 42s could climb at 2000 ft a minute at this altitude. He was not disposed to worry. He had a lot in hand.
Two or three enemy naval vessels in Tobruk harbour fired at the Blenheim but none of the bursts was within less than 100 yards.
“Course for base, please, Ian.”
“One-three-seven.”
“Looks as though we fooled them.”
“Subtle stuff, old boy.”
“The Eyeties have packed it in, Skipper. Can’t catch us.” Butler paused before he cast a doubt over their escape. “Perhaps there’s some more of ’em waiting down the coast.”
“You could make a man who’s just won the Irish Sweep feel miserable.”
There was several minutes of huffy silence before Butler spoke again. Denton though irritably that he sounded smug.
“Fighter at four-o’clock, Skipper.”
“What the hell d’you mean?”
Critchley had turned to stare from his window. He looked round angrily at Denton.
“It’s there all right, climbing like a dingbat.”
Denton banked around to starboard. A stubby little aeroplane was about 5000 ft below and coming up fast. At that distance it was not easy to distinguish between a Fiat G.50 and a Macchi 200. After some seconds he recognised this, from the shape of its wings and tail fin, as a G.50, the Freccia or Arrow.
The details he recalled were not encouraging. It had done well with the Aviazione Legionaria, the unit Mussolini had sent to fight in Spain on Franco’s side. It was capable of 290 m.p.h., had the same rate of climb as the C.R. 42 and the same armament.
Why was there only one? Was there just the one? Could this be a trick? Was there another, approaching from a different direction?
Critchley asked “What is it, an M.C. Two-hundred?”
“Looks like a G. Fifty ... what d’you think, Gunner?”
“Yes, sir.”
This sudden apparition interested Denton.
“Wonder where it’s from?”
Critchley’s interest was of a different order. “Never mind where it’s from. Where are we going now?”
“If we keep climbing it won’t catch us.” Denton reckoned that he could keep making altitude for another 6000 ft and perhaps a bit more.
Critchley sounded edgy. “Some of these brutes have cannon, don’t they?”
“That’s the Fifty-five.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“I can’t!”
Denton knew what was in Critchley’s mind. The Fiat G. 55 had a 20 mm cannon in its nose, firing through the propellor boss. Cannon had a much longer range than machineguns. Very few G. 55s had been built and Denton doubted that this was one. To be shot down again would be embarrassing. Perhaps he had been a little too clever in coming home alone.
“I want to know where the blighter’s based. I’m going to nip into that cloud.”
The patch of cloud was five miles away and the fighter was gaining on them.
“Butler, signal base we’ve sighted a G. Fifty.”
It seemed an elastic five miles as the enemy crept closer. A few seconds before the Blenheim reached the cloud, the enemy pilot fired from below and astern. His tracer curved past. The Blenheim entered cloud. The vapour was wispy and thin on its fringes. In a moment Denton flew out of it. He was greeted by a sizzling streak of tracer bullets. He heard Butler returning the fire and knew that the enemy must be unpleasantly close.
The cloud took them in again and it was very cold up here. Denton began to think about icing problems. He plugged on blindly, wondering what the fighter was doing. The cloud began to thin out. For a few moments they flew through a clear patch and then plunged into another arm of the sprawling cloud bank. With little warning they broke clear and this time the cloud was all behind them.
A sound like hailstones rattling against a tin roof rang through the Blenheim and a cluster of holes appeared on the starboard side of the cockpit, just above and in front of Critchley.
The turret gun began to fire.
“Hit him, sir!”
“Good show.”
“Nothing much.”
The G.50 pilot and Butler were exchanging bursts of fire.
“Diving turn starboard, Skipper.”
Denton kicked on hard right rudder and put the stick across. The Blenheim plunged and banked into a tight downward spiral. Butler kept firing.
“He’s breaking, sir.”
Denton levelled out.
“Where is he?”
Critchley pointed. “One-o’clock ... diving.”
Denton put the Blenheim’s nose down once more and turned slightly to his right. Now he could see the Fiat going down well ahead of them, drawing away.
“Let’s see where he goes.”
A minute passed and the distance between them increased. Another thirty seconds. A billow of black smoke belched from the Fiat’s engine.
“You hit a vital spot, Butler. Looks as if the engine’s seized.”
“We’ll get him now, Skipper.”
“Don’t fire when we come within range. I want to see what he does.”
Critchley turned his head. “What d’you mean?”
“See if he makes for base ... wherever that is.”
The enem
y pilot was turning and Denton could see a patch of green between the hills and sea. He could see something else besides: some C.R. 42s coming up to look at them.
The Blenheim was overhauling its quarry. The Italian pilot twisted his head and looked directly towards Denton. Denton closed the gap and flew alongside with the Fiat to port. Its pilot gave him a mocking salute.
“Can’t I do him now, sir?”
“Wait a moment. I don’t like killing a chap who’s cold meat, but I’m going to destroy his aeroplane.”
Denton made gestures which he hoped conveyed the order to bale out. The Italian shrugged and looked away.
“Give him a burst overhead.”
Butler obliged at once.
The Italian looked over his shoulder and Denton repeated his gesticulations. The Italian steepened his dive.
“Give him another burst.”
As promptly, Butler fired again. The Italian rolled the G. 50 onto its back and fell clear.
“Shoot it down, Butler.”
The pilot’s parachute had opened and he was floating far above his falling aircraft. With the Blenheim in a dive, Butler fired. The G. 50 caught fire and began to spin.
“Shall I report one hostile destroyed, sir?”
“Without delay, Sergeant.”
The C.R. 42s were half a mile away and too far below to catch the Blenheim before it crossed the Egyptian frontier.
*
A lot of people had turned out to watch them land, Wing Commander Nash and Squadron Leader Fry in the forefront.
Walking from the aircraft towards the waiting group, Denton felt the unpleasant chill down his spine that he remembered from occasions when his mother had slid ice down it from the nape of his neck to stop a nose-bleed. There was a watchful silence, no word of greeting, none of the usual banter that followed a misadventure or an achievement: and they had just experienced both.
Denton was pleased at least to see Hugh Ivens among the watchers. So he had got home safely. “What happened?”
Nash stood with legs astride and tugged at his moustache.
The Eagle's Cry Page 5