Tides of Valor

by Peter Albano

  Harrington dropped to the ground and waved a half-dozen other crewmen away from the Spitfire. He remained close to the fighter’s wing. Randolph looked to his right at Burroughs. Belted into his cockpit, the young pilot grinned back, a ghastly, frightened grimace. The tic in his left eye was so rapid, he looked as if he were trying to impress a strange girl. Randolph felt his stomach drop but gave him a confident thumbs-up sign and the young man answered with his own. A quick look to the left at his other wingman of over a year, Pilot Officer Ian McBride, and the same exchange of signals. They were ready. Randolph circled a finger over his head and then stabbed it upward four times to represent all four sections. Harrington picked up the signal and a man in one of the shacks spoke into a telephone. Immediately a green flare arced up into the clouds from the control tower.

  Randolph released his brake and then reset it. Then he threw two switches, turning on the battery and magneto. Immediately his instruments sprang to life. His hands moved quickly, hitting first the starter and then the fuel booster. There was the usual high electrical whine and then the first cylinders banged and popped, the three-bladed propeller jerking and turning spasmodically while Randolph primed the engine with his booster pump. More pops and bangs and the propeller picked up speed, the engine’s barks gradually blending into the rich rumble of the idling Rolls Royce Merlin. The blades became a gray-blurred disk. Randolph increased manifold pressure slightly and nodded with approval as the big Rolls changed its pitch just as it should have. The engine was perfectly tuned, he could feel it in his feet, his hands, the seat of his pants. He glanced to his right and to his left. Both his wingmen were gunning their engines.

  A final check. Gradually, he increased throttle until his rev-counter read seventeen hundred. He checked his instruments; twenty inches of manifold boost, oil temperature eighty, pressure seventy-five pounds, coolant temperature 101. Nodding approval, he throttled back and waved Harrington away. The crew chief shook his head in understanding, jerked both thumbs outward, and two men pulled the chocks free and ran to the back of the enclosure. Randolph looked to his right and then to his left, again. Both McBride and Burroughs nodded and held a thumb up. Randolph answered the gesture, stabbed a finger straight ahead, released his brakes, and increased throttle. The fighter slowly bumped along the ground and taxied out of the blast pen onto the taxiway.

  Followed by McBride and then Burroughs, Randolph taxied toward the southeast end of runway one. Passing the other dispersal pens, the squadron commander picked up the other nine members of his squadron like a mother hen leading her chicks. He could see the flagman standing at the end of the runway. He was waving both flags in a sweeping gesture toward himself. Slowly Randolph passed the flagman and turned off of the perimeter track onto the runway. He brought the aircraft into take-off position at the end of the runway, set his brakes, and stared at the flagman. “Blast it. Let’s get on with it,” he shouted into the roar of the engine.

  A single flag dropped and Randolph jammed the black knob of the propeller lever forward into fine pitch and released the brake. Then hard open on the throttle and the lithe fighter leapt forward. Roaring at take-off power with the rev-counter crowding twenty-six-hundred rpms, the Spitfire gained speed, tires drumming along the runway, vibrations of the airframe quickening, the oil-stained concrete of the runway flashing beneath him. With the huge engine and wings obscuring his forward vision, Randolph always felt queasy at this moment—like a blind man running down a strange alley. Gently, he pushed the stick forward so that his tail wheel left the ground and his nose lowered. Now he could see over his wings and engine and the aircraft was ready to return to its natural habitat. Gently, he pulled back on the stick and the Spitfire roared off of the runway and climbed into the clouds.

  Climbing with the throttle pushed to its next to last stop, Randolph broke through the clouds at nine thousand feet, much lower than he had expected. Looking back, he could see the other Spitfires of his squadron bursting through the clouds, wispy trails of vapor clinging to their airfoils like ghosts reluctant to release them. A quick look around found a clear sky and he keyed his radio and spoke into his microphone, “This is Wolf Red Leader. Wolf Flight, form up on me.”

  Throttling back slightly, he reduced his climb while the other fighters formed up in their familiar echelons of three, his leading with McBride and Burroughs close on his elevators. To his left and slightly above, the three Spitfires of Flight Lieutenant Michael Sturgis bounced on the rough air but still managed to hold a tight formation. Covering the right side was Flight Lieutenant Anthony Bowman’s section while pulling up for top cover was Archie Rhoads with Hammes and Davenport keeping their wingtips close to their leader’s elevators.

  Quickly Randolph scanned the sky with his usual short jerky movements. To the south and east there were only scattered clouds and the arching blue vault was limitless, the blinding orb of the sun low on the eastern horizon, painting the few stringy clouds with deep reds like the blood of a mortally wounded man. However, all of England except a small part of the south coast and what appeared to be the Isle of Wight were still obscured by a solid blanket of clouds. The Pas de Calais and northern France were covered with the overcast. Here the sun played tricks, too, reflecting from fluffy pinnacles with the glare of Alpine snow while plunging the valleys into deep grays with occasional crevices as dark as lampblack.

  To the southeast, he could see the Cotentin Peninsula and the great seaport of Cherbourg and the Channel Islands. As he turned his head, thousands of square miles of the channel were visible opening on the Atlantic to the west. Here the slanting rays of the sun were reflected by the chop, a spectacular display glinting like chips of mica sparkling on a blue mat. It was too riotously colorful to be natural. But beauty was not on Randolph’s mind. Today was a day for killing men. Anxiously, he searched inland over central France that was free of clouds. As usual, it appeared peaceful in its pastoral splendor. At the moment, it looked as if Number 54 Squadron owned the sky, but not according to the radio.

  He switched to Sector Control but heard nothing but the hiss of the carrier wave. It was weirdly quiet. Number 54 Squadron must be on their radar. But the bomber circuits were alive with frantic voices. “Where are those Kraut ships?” “I can’t see my nose in this bloody muck.” “Kraut fighters! Fighters! Three o’clock low.” “Where are our bloody glamor boys. Freddie’s bought it. We need fighters! “One bomber squadron commander shouted sarcastically, “Never have so many owed so much to so few who aren’t here.”

  Randolph pulled back on the stick and banked to the east toward the Channel, his squadron following as if they were attached. Abruptly, his fighter circuit came alive with the familiar disembodied voice of the control officer.

  “Wolf Red Leader, this is Cricket Control. Fifty plus bandits in sector one-five-seven at angel six. Your vector zero-eight-zero. Intercept.”

  “This is Wolf Red Leader. Roger. But fifty!” Randolph said. “I could use a bit of help, old boy.” He pushed the safety cover from his firing button and threw a switch, bringing his electric reflector sight to life.

  “Roger. On the way, Wolf Red Leader. Out.” Then he heard more commands as at least a dozen more fighter squadrons were vectored in on the fight below.

  Turning Number 54 Squadron toward the new heading, Randolph’s mind analyzed the information. RAF bombers were apparently attacking the German ships just east of Dover. The German ships had made incredible speed. Enemy fighters were pouring in and RAF fighters were racing to intercept. But everything was confusion in the low clouds and banks of fog hugging the sea. There was a brawl going on down there and he could not see a thing.

  Pushing up his goggles, he dropped his port wing and stared down. He saw flashes light up the clouds like the blinks of weak light bulbs. Flak or bombs? Probably both. Suddenly the clouds parted narrowly over the Channel like a partially opened theater curtain and the scene it revealed was melodramatic, stagy, and
horrifying like a Shakespearean tragedy. Low-flying Hampdens, Beaufighters, Wellingtons, and Blenheims were streaming toward the long gray shapes of at least ten German ships that were barely discernible through the mists. But the huge hulks of Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, and Prinz Eugen were unmistakable; long, broad, gray shapes leaving white, streaking wakes behind. The big ships were boiling with the flashes of ack-ack while destroyers steamed close alongside, lending their own gunfire support. German fighters like black sharks were racing in. As Randolph watched, a Wellington lost a wing and cartwheeled across the sea and disintegrated. Another bomber pulled up, engine streaking bright yellow flames like a blowtorch. Then the clouds moved in and the curtains closed.

  Randolph shouted into the microphone, “Wolf Flight, this is Wolf Red Leader. Bandits at ten o’clock, low. Follow my lead but look out for our own bombers. It’s a bloody muck down there.” His section leaders acknowledged but before he could punch his throttle into war emergency power and roll into his dive, the control officer’s voice stopped him.

  “Wolf Red Leader, this is Cricket Control. Change of orders. Twelve plus bandits east of you twenty miles at angel ten. Closing fast. Intercept!”

  Randolph squinted through his goggles at the sun and found the enemy just to the north and below the glaring sphere. Black dots headed for the fight below. Tiny fly specks that were growing rapidly. A staffel of fighters below them. Apparently they were so intent on the battle, they had not picked up Number 54 Squadron. If he had led his men in a diving attack into the melee below, this lot would have fallen on their tails and massacred the squadron. Obviously, Sector Control recognized this danger. “Roger, Cricket Control. I have them. Am engaging. Wolf Red Leader out.” And then to himself, “We’ll give those bloody bastards a jig-a-jig they won’t forget.”

  He keyed his radio and spoke into his microphone, “Wolf Flight, this is Wolf Red Leader. New target at two o’clock. At least a full staffel. We’ll engage.” Again, the quick acknowledgments from his section leaders. Craning his neck, he looked up at Rhoads’s section two thousand feet above and behind. He could see no Germans in top cover or up-sun. He needed every gun. “Wolf Yellow. Join the party.”

  Rhoads’s voice scratched in his earphones with the usual wry humor no situation could defeat, “Thanks awfully for the invitation, Wolf Red Leader. Wolf Yellow on its way in black ties and tails.”

  One last look around. The sky was clear. “Tally-ho!” Randolph shouted into his microphone, punching the Rolls to war emergency power and banking sharply toward the enemy aircraft. They were ME 109s. And his heart jumped into his throat when he saw the black and white chevrons on their vertical tail planes. They were flying in threes with the orange-and-green-striped Messerschmitt of Major Erich Kochling leading. Jagdstaffel Vierter at last. He felt his hate for Kochling boil up. It was a tangible thing that sat heavily on his heart and lungs and cut his breath to shallow, labored gasps, tingled his fingertips, and poured nervous strength into his arms and legs. He hunched over his controls and there was suddenly no saliva in his mouth. He dampened his lips with the rip of his tongue.

  Streaking toward the enemy, Randolph scanned his instruments with a minute glance. The needle of the rev-counter had passed the red line at 2850 and was crowding 3000. The engine temperature was climbing slowly toward its red line at 121 but was still within a safe range. The airspeed indicator showed 360. He could hold this speed for five minutes and no more. The glycol would overheat and burst out through the safety valves. The Merlin would burn up. But he cared nothing about his engine, his aircraft, not even his life. Only one thing possessed him—to kill Kochling.

  Good, experienced leader that he was, Kochling was leading his staffel in a shallow climb directly toward the hurtling Number 54 Squadron. The Spitfires’ advantage in altitude had been erased. The first pass would be head-on at a combined closing speed of seven hundred miles an hour. Randolph knew his wingmen would have no chance to stay with him in the free-for-all to come. He disliked seeing his new chaps on their own, but had no choice. It would be every man for himself. He spoke into his microphone, “This is Wolf Red Leader. Individual combat.”

  The two squadrons streaked toward each other like two lances hurled by hateful giants, Kochling’s ME expanding with explosive speed in Randolph’s gun sight. The Englishman brought the yellow spinner into the center of the sight and squeezed off a quick burst just as flame blinked like yellow blossoms from the ME’s cowling and wings. Glowing strings of luminous beads whipped past as the two fighters raced together spinner to spinner. Burroughs and McBride were firing and the other sections had opened up, Rhoads diving down to join the battle. Laced with tracers, the shrinking space between the two squadrons appeared filled with white threads that were pulling the enemies together. Kochling’s ME filled Randolph’s windscreen.

  At the last instant, the German pulled back hard on his stick, kicked rudder, and the Messerschmitt’s wings flicked almost vertical, continuing over into a punishing right turn. His wingmen shot past to the left and right while the remaining three sections of the staffel bored on through the British formation.

  A Messerschmitt collided with Plight Sergeant Melvin Greentree’s Spitfire in a cataclysmic explosion of flying debris—chunks of wings, torn aluminum skin still attached to formers, wheels, an engine, a complete tail assembly, the lower half of a pilot still strapped into his seat. An incandescent ball of yellow flame swirled in the air for an instant like a boiling apocalypse, sending a black cloud storming upward. And then there was only falling, smoking wreckage and wind-whipped smoke to mark the extinction of two young men.

  Immediately, all order, organization, was lost; the sky filled with snarling, brawling aircraft, tumbling, firing.

  The fighter circuit was filled with shrill, frenzied voices. “Kraut at three o’clock. Break right, Tambler!”

  “See the bastard!”

  “Krasney! Two at eight o’ clock high. I’m coming in from your left.”

  “See them, Sturgis! Take the one on the left! I’ve got the other.”

  Randolph was worried about Burroughs and Davenport, but there was nothing he could do for them now. He brought the stick back sharply with his left hand, balancing with his left foot for rudder control. He was matching Kochling’s maneuver, upward and into a tight turn. Randolph screamed to release pressure as the g-forces slammed him down in his seat and for a moment his vision blurred. But not his mind. He knew Kochling would be wracking his ME around so that he could bring his guns to bear as quickly as possible. A tight turn costs a plane a lot of speed, but he knew the Messerschmitt would lose more than the Spitfire—could risk a high-speed stall. Kochling would be dropping his nose to regain speed before pulling up for his shot. Try to catch the Spit in the belly.

  A Messerschmitt burst into flame, rolled onto its back, and curved slowly into its final plunge into the sea, leaving a black banner of smoke behind. Randolph heard Rhoads’s shout of triumph, “Chopped the bastard. Welcome to Oz, Krauthead.”

  Then McBride’s voice, “Look ‘oot, Hammes. One-ooh” nine, five o’clock low! Break left, laddie! Left! Left!”

  “See him! See him!”

  But Hammes did not turn soon enough. Randolph saw Hammes’s fighter break from the dogfight and turn toward home, streaming smoke while McBride stormed after the ME that had damaged Hammes and was streaking after the smoking Spitfire for the kill. McBride fired a two-second burst that hit the German’s left wing root and tore the entire structure free. With its left wing fluttering behind it, the ME tumbled grotesquely across the sky like a grouse that had taken a full load of buckshot. The pilot tried to bail out, but he was slammed by the remaining wing and swatted across the sky like an insect struck by a board. His parachute never opened.

  McBride’s voice came through the circuit, “Pranged the Heinie bugger. Hammes, hightail it. Sure an’ I’ve got your arse covered.”

  Hammes answ
ered, voice controlled and calm, “Roger. Thanks much, old boy. The old Rolls is heating up a bit.”

  Randolph felt a jolt of panic, heart pumping against his ribs like a caged animal trying to burst out. He had guessed wrong. Kochling had not dived, but, instead, he was coming around in a tight turn onto his killing angle, risking a stall. Frantically, the Englishman made a quarter turn to his right, rolled out, and pulled the stick back brutally, whipping the Spitfire into a wrenching loop—a loop the Messerschmitt could never follow. A hammer pounded low on his fuselage and then the controls leapt in his hands as slugs drummed into his tail. The German was a great marksman, firing in a turn and at one-half deflection with an aircraft that must be mushy in the controls. However, he had lost too much speed and Randolph broke free, coming down flat out of the loop and barreling into a wing-bending half roll and onto Kochling’s tail. But the German had anticipated Randolph, split-essing into a dive.

  With the Spitfire hard on his tail, Kochling dove. Randolph knew the ME would pull away and he had to kill the German now or he would escape. He brought his sight to the German. Jammed the button with his thumb. The guns jittered and the airframe vibrated, flames leaping from his wings and the brass casings tumbled into the slipstream.

  The German seemed to be reading his mind. At the moment Randolph opened fire, Kochling steepened his dive and jinked to the left. Randolph cursed as he saw most of his tracers fly off into empty space. But then he felt a surge of joy. Kochling was trailing a fine mist. Coolant. He was hit.

  Burroughs’s high girlish voice in his earphones jolted him. “Major! A ME diving on you, four o’clock high!”

  Randolph turned his head so fast and hard he felt a pain streak down from his neck to the base of his spine. A black Messerschmitt with a yellow arrow painted the length of its fuselage was diving on him. And he was close with a good killing angle. Tracers whipped past and Kochling was pulling away. Then another presence, above and to the left. It was Burroughs. Diving and closing on the black ME. Both fighters converged on Randolph’s Spitfire while a desperate Kochling flattened his dive over the Channel and turned his wounded fighter toward France. He was on his own. The cloud cover was far to the north.