The Eagle's Cry

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  ‘Love is a circle, that doth restless move

  ‘In the same sweet eternity of love.’

  Which I thought trite, even for a Seventeenth Century poet.”

  “You’re being rather hard on him, aren’t you? He wrote a lot of good stuff: including another epigram called ‘Purposes’ which came to my mind when I asked you to marry me. D’you know it?”

  “I can’t recall it.”

  “ ‘No wrath of men, or rage of seas,

  ‘Can shake a just man’s purposes;

  ‘No threats of tyrants, or the grim

  ‘Visage of them can alter him;

  ‘But what at first he doth intend,

  ‘That he holds firmly to the end.’

  What do’you think of that?”

  “I take the point you’re making about steadfastness. Are you a just man, Geoffrey? I think you are.”

  “You can count on it.”

  “We’ve literally been through the rage of seas together, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, we have. So why are you stalling?”

  “I’ve never had a proposal before. It takes a girl by surprise.”

  “Answer please.”

  “Yes, Geoffrey, I’ll marry you: in Athens, some fine day.”

  “We’ll buy a ring before I leave tomorrow.”

  “There’s no hurry. You can trust me until your next leave.”

  “Oh, it’s not that I want to put my brand on you! I don’t expect you to sit at home and knit while I’m away. If you want to go out, then do so. I’d rather you had some fun. I want to give you an engagement ring because I want to give you something and that seems to be the best ...”

  She pulled his face down to hers and said softly “You’ve already given me the most precious thing you can, darling.”

  “Perhaps I should have quoted Rabelais to you, not Herrick.”

  Fortified with this happy memory, he went back to war. The medical board passed them all fit for operational flying, but Critchley not yet ready to take on the responsibilities of an aircraft captain. Critchley contrived to dissimulate his disappointment and fear by a forced joviality and sulked only when no one was looking. Denton was not without qualms. The Blenheim was under-armed for combat against Me 109s and the greater determination of German pilots compared with Italian. About the flak he had to be stoical. Anti-aircraft fire brought down small, fast aircraft like the Hurricane and Tomahawk in great numbers. Nobody could defend himself against it. Butler was, in a way, more worried about his two comrades than about the enemy. He expected Critchley to crack any day under the stress of a job which, Butler knew, he feared and hated. He expected Denton, who almost made a fetish of his obstinacy and courage, to take one risk too many some day when a particularly hot engagement fanned his hatred of the enemy to red heat. The more the fighters bored in and the heavier the flak, the more Denton seemed resolved to prove that he was unafraid; and the greater became his zest for vengeance.

  Wing Commander Nash moved Ivens to B Flight and promoted Denton to acting flight lieutenant and deputy flight commander of A Flight.

  It was by then mid-August. There had been no major action since Operation Battleaxe, while the squadron was in Greece, when Tobruk had been cut off and beleagured. South African Air Force squadrons, which had done well against the Italians in Eritrea and Somalia, had arrived in the Western Desert, with more to come: but the Luftwaffe was adding to its strength more quickly than the Allied Air Forces. Messerschmitt 110s had appeared in North Africa as well as 109s. Both types were strafing the forward ground positions and plaguing the bombers. The Allied fighters were outnumbered and there were not yet any Spitfires in this theatre. German bombers were raiding as far as the Suez Canal. The flying training school at Abu Sueir had been raided. The Germans had enough fighters to maintain standing patrols, so it was difficult to avoid interception.

  A group captain from H.Q. Western Desert Air Force visited Landing Ground 44 and addressed the air crews.

  “No defence against the enemy’s Blitzkrieg tactics has yet been found. What succeeded in Poland, France and Belgium will inevitably be tried here. We must expect heavy combined attacks by Ju 87s and tanks against our ground forces. The Army have asked for standing patrols to counter this, under their control. You will be glad to hear that the air forces in the Western Desert are not going to be placed under Army control.” The group captain paused for the brief outburst of amusement. “The Prime Minister dealt with that particular request with his usual succinctness. I’ll read you his signal. ‘The idea of keeping standing patrols over our moving columns should be abandoned. It is unsound to distribute aircraft in this way and no air superiority will stand the application of such a mischievous practice.’ ”

  There was renewed laughter. Denton particularly appreciated “mischievous practice”.

  On the evening after the group captain’s visit, there was discussion in the officers’ mess.

  “Nobody believes more strongly than I do in taking the offensive,” Teddie Nash said. “But the pongoes are blinded by the Blitzkrieg philosophy and they can’t see that a defensive strategy can succeed against it. Even though we weren’t here for Battleaxe, it’s plain to see that Rommel won it precisely because he relied on defence rather than offence. We took the fight to him, an all-out three-day effort, and he won. It’s no use our trying to use the Blitzkrieg method until we have sufficient numbers.”

  General Auchinleck arrived to replace Wavell. The army in the desert was designated the Eighth Army. The Western Desert Air Force said goodbye to Air Commodore Collishaw, who had completed his overseas tour, and its command was taken over by Air Vice Marshal Arthur “Maori” Coningham.

  Nash had something to say about this too, to the whole squadron.

  “You all know what a fine type Air Commodore Collishaw was. We’re lucky to have someone as good to replace him. As most of you may not know, A.V.M. Coningham is a New Zealander. None of you, I am sure, know his record. Let me tell you that in the Great War he served in the New Zealand Army at Gallipoli and was invalided out in nineteen-sixteen. He came to England at his own expense and joined the R.F.C. One of his achievements was to shoot down nineteen enemy aircraft in fourteen days. I think we can have the same total confidence and pride in our new A.O.C. as we had in his predecessor.”

  Coningham’s first innovation, to impress on everyone the closeness of co-operation between the ground and air forces, was to move the site of his Headquarters to the same place as Eighth Army’s and announce that henceforth the two would remain side by side and move together as the front moved.

  The squadron’s principal target was Benghazi, where Rommel had his Headquarters. They attacked it so often that the trip became known as the milk run. On the ground, life was monotonous and hard. They lived mainly on bully beef and were limited to a gallon of water each day, which included what was used for cooking. Mail and the wireless provided the chief relaxation. Denton had never received many letters, for he seldom heard from his father. Now he found Kathia a conscientious and entertaining correspondent. Creon and Cyrene had always been generous in sending him magazines and books. Now Kathia contributed as well. She had a responsible and interesting job in the Operations Planning Section of G.H.Q. and had moved into a flat on her own not far from the Pefkoses’ house. Despite the anxiety she expressed about her parents, she always wrote cheerfully. Denton’s love for her deepened as their correspondence progressed. She wrote and told him frankly about her invitations to dine, dance or go to the cinema with other men; but she made it plain that she kept them at arm’s length and he believed her. Even if she didn’t, there was no point in fretting over it, he reasoned. There was nothing he could do about it from this distance.

  One morning in late September Denton was called at dawn to lead a formation of four Blenheims to a target in the desert, south of Benghazi. Reconnaissance the previous day had suggested that a new supply dump had been sited there. It was a welcome change from the milk run.
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  He loathed setting out feeling scruffy. He had used a tablespoonful of water to brush his teeth and scarcely more to sponge the sleep out of his eyes. Shaving would have to wait. A mug of tea helped a little to make him feel less leprous. There was a stale feeling about every day and every operation at this period. The two opposing armies were at a temporary deadlock and its effect was bad on morale. Critchley was subdued and could talk of little but his hopes for his next leave in Cairo, when he intended to cut a wide swath through the nurses and grass widows who were more abundant with every passing month. Butler had become the recipient of frequent socialist propaganda leaflets sent out by the Labour Party agent in the constituency in which he lived, and had grown morose and argumentative.

  He showed some of this literature to Denton one day, who took it away to peruse; and, when he handed it back, said “That’s not socialism, you clot: it’s thinly disguised communism.”

  “Yeah, well, the Communists are fighting on our side against fascism, so what’s wrong with that?”

  “Quite a lot, but it’s your business, not mine.”

  Another day Butler said “I thought the official Service policy was to commission one-third of us air gunners, Skipper?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, there’s not one-third of commissioned air gunners on this squadron. Or on the two other squadrons here.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t done any counting.”

  “Well, I have: and there’s less than a quarter ...”

  “But that third is spread over the whole Service, all round the world.”

  “Yeah.” Butler looked disgusted, sounded disillusioned and sucked his teeth.

  “Are you hinting that you’d like me to put you up for a commission, Flight Sergeant?”

  “Any reason why not?”

  “None at all. But are you sure you’d really be happier? You’ve got a lot of friends in your mess, haven’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be put up on me own, like: but I reckon several of us ought to be put up.”

  “I’ll recommend you, if that’s what you want.”

  “Fry ...” He saw the look on Denton’s face and quickly amended this to “Squadron Leader Fry wouldn’t put his dhobi mark on it, if you did. Nor would the C.O.”

  “You’re taking a lot for granted, Happy.”

  “Yeah. And with good reason. No, Skipper, forget it.”

  But Denton did not, because Butler’s disgruntlement disturbed him: it was bad for the morale of the whole squadron as well as being unpleasant for the crew.

  He led the Blenheims to a height of 10000 ft and settled down to a comfortable ride. At this altitude they had room to manoeuvre, the air was not bumpy and the temperature was agreeable. They would descend to 6000 ft to bomb.

  Five minutes before the estimated time of arrival over the target, Critchley interrupted Denton’s concentration on looking ahead for the objective and to port for enemy fighters.

  “Stukas and one-one-os two-o’clock, four miles, well below.”

  Denton glanced up. The escort of six Hurricanes was still in position ahead and 3000 ft above the Blenheims.

  The enemy formation would pass them more than two miles away on the starboard. Three of the Hurricanes peeled off towards the enemy.

  Butler reported “Fourteen Stukas and sixteen one-one-os.”

  Eight of the 110s forged ahead of the others and began climbing. Denton had not yet been in combat with them and was not looking forward to it now. They were fast — 350 m.p.h. — twin-engined machines and heavily armed: two 20 mm cannon and four 7.9 mm machineguns for the pilot, and a 7.9. for the gunner who sat back-to-back with him. Despite this, their pilots had not distinguished themselves in France, where their favourite tactic had been to form a defensive circle immediately any Hurricanes attacked them. Escorting bombers in the Battle of Britain, they had been badly mauled by both Hurricanes and Spitfires.

  The three Hurricanes which had gone towards the Germans had dived onto the 110s and two of these were already going down in flames while the Hurricanes reefed around to attack again. A third 110 was descending steeply with smoke emerging from its engine. The 110s loosed off a torrent of shells and bullets and one Hurricane flicked onto its back and began to spin, emitting flames.

  Seven 110s came at the Blenheims. The three Hurricanes which had stayed close to them attacked and the 110s instantly went into a defensive circle, orbiting and waiting for a chance for one of them to break out and shoot at one of the Hurricanes. The two Hurricanes which had gone towards the main enemy formation were heading back to protect the Blenheims. They had used only a few seconds’ worth of ammunition.

  The Stukas continued their way and the six 110s which had remained to escort them showed no interest in the British formation.

  Three 110s suddenly dived steeply out of the defensive circle to hurl themselves at the Blenheims, which replied with crossfire from their four turrets. One German fighter turned away with a dead engine. The Hurricane pair dived hard after the three 110s and the other three began to make darts at the four circling 110s. One of these left the circle in a steep dive that quickly became vertical and then it began to bunt onto its back shortly before it hit the ground and exploded.

  “Must have got the pilot,” Critchley commented.

  The Blenheims held formation and between their shooting and the Hurricanes’ another 110 caught fire and one more left the fight with its port engine feathered and smoke trickling from the starboard motor.

  The target was in sight. It had sprung suddenly into view from the dun-coloured sand. There were tents and piles of crates in a compound of barbed wire. Vehicle tracks led towards the compound and crossed it in all directions.

  The surviving 110s abandoned the fight and the Blenheims bombed with careful accuracy after having dived to 6000 ft. Two of them had been lightly damaged by the enemy fighters but there had been no ground fire.

  It was the first big combat since Greece for Denton’s crew. Perhaps the comparatively tranquil days of the milk run were over.

  Photographic reconnaissance later that day revealed that the supposed dump was only a dummy and they had been sold a pup.

  Thirteen

  A week later Wing Commander Nash sent for Denton. When he entered the office tent and saluted, Nash gave him the sly look which sometimes put Denton in mind of a rather wistful gangster. Cryptically, Nash said “Friends in high places.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re wanted in Cairo. You and your crew. Your raks with the one-one-os seems to have stirred up peculiar interest.”

  “Raks” was the Arabic for dance, and Denton supposed that was one way of describing his encounter with the Zerstörer, the so-called Destroyers; although it hadn’t seemed like a frolic at the time and still did not in retrospect.

  “What about the type who was leading the Hurricanes, sir?”

  “He’s going on a swan too.”

  “Swan” was the new desert word for roving around and enjoying oneself.

  “My crew will go big licks on that.” A favourite R.A.F. way of expressing appreciation: alluding to the manner in which children consumed ice cream cornets. “What’s this swanning off to Cairo in aid of, sir?”

  “Not a clue, old boy.” Nash gave a merry twirl of his fly whisk, reminiscent of royalty waving from a state landau. “Hush-hush stuff.” His expression became mildly mocking. “Report to G.H.Q. Colonel Smith-Jones, Ops, Plans.”

  Now Denton understood the irony. Kathia worked for the colonel.

  Nash had not finished with him yet. “Don’t dare come back without a case of Scotch from the N.A.A.F.I. and half a dozen bottles of araq for me.

  “How do we ...”

  ‘D dog has to go back to be scrapped. You can fly her to the M.U. and bring back a replacement.”

  D was a decrepit aeroplane much hated by one and all, air and ground crews alike. Denton would not have cared to take bets on the probability of it getting them t
o Cairo, but the news brought joy to his crew.

  Butler said “Better climb as high as she’ll go, Skip, so we can glide the rest of the way when the engines pack in. They’ll never last all the way.”

  He also said “Bullshit baffles brains. I suppose all those colonels and group captains and naval captains on the Staff have to justify their existence somehow. Gawd knows how much more they expect us to tell them. It was all in the combat report, wasn’t it, Skipper?”

  “D’you want to stay behind?”

  “No, I’ll take me chance in Dog. Don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see me N.A.A.F.I. bint this side of New Year.”

  A staff car was waiting to whisk them to G.H.Q. when Denton deposited the protesting and creaking D dog on the runway near Cairo. Theirs had been the first combat in which so many 110s had attacked so small a formation and with such determination; it had seemed at the time like desperation. There was a Fleet Air Arm officer at the conference as well as representatives of the naval Staff, the Army, the R.A.F. and South African Air Force. Both Creon Lefkaris, now a major, and Kathia were also present: she as personal assistant to Colonel Smith-Jones, an ambitious and plausible product of Eton, Cambridge and the Brigade of Guards, who had won an M.C. in France in 1940 and had decided to end the war as a lieutenant general with the prospect of a future colonial governership and numerous appointments to company boards. For the time being he was concerned solely with advancement to brigadier and the subtle seduction of Kathia. He was in no doubt that her fiancé’s expectation of life could be no longer than a month or two and he looked forward to consoling her bereavement and her physical deprivation; with a third pip under his crown.

  Despite Kathia’s serious manner, she managed to exchange a private, affectionate smile with Denton which sent his systolic pressure leaping up several points. Momentarily he was so absorbed in her that he missed the look that crossed the gin-and-claret veined face of her colonel: the struggle to subjugate lust under avuncular benevolence, the pursing of his mouth as he appraised the opposition in the form of Flight Lieutenant Denton, well set-up, tough and 15 years younger. Butler did not miss the stirring of the turgid currents underlying the colonel’s involuntary behaviour and nor did Critchley. They exchanged an undeceived grin and thought, in their separate terms: Poor Geoffrey; he’d better keep a sharp lookout for that affable and vigilant schemer. The one, literally: That’s a right shit, I wouldn’t put it past him to pinch pennies from a blind beggar’s bowl; and the other: Randy old party, he’ll have his paw up her skirt under the mistletoe this Christmas before she knows it.