On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, when Stephen Fenton and Denis Hallowes were still at office, and Sheila had gone out with her sister Beryl to do some last-minute shopping, Roger turned up at the Fentons’.
With a touch of self-consciousness, he and his two cousins shook hands. It was the first time any of them could remember doing so.
“Have you applied for a commission yet?” James asked.
Roger looked doleful. “I’m waiting until my C.O. and the station commander know me well enough to give me a decent recommendation. Next month, perhaps.”
Christopher said “I hear your name for leave came out of a hat.”
“That was for parental consumption. I got leave because our crew is one of four which have done the most operational hours.” He paused, and the other two knew that he had done it for effect, and that was something new in Roger. They perceived a gleam of satisfaction in his expression. “We were on the Schillig Roads do on the second day of the war.”
“Well, you downy old bird!” Christopher looked amused and astonished. “You didn’t tell Uncle and Auntie.”
Roger shook his head. “I haven’t said anything yet. I’ll wait till Father comes home this evening and mention it to them both. I wouldn’t say anything, but I know they’ll be asking a lot of questions. And it’s ancient enough history now not to worry them.”
“You lost three, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and one wrote itself off on landing: it had been quite badly shot up. We had four killed and three wounded in the other kites, as well.”
“How many more ops have you done?” Christopher asked, looking at Roger with unusual awe.
“Oh, quite a few recces over north-west Germany and a couple of patrols in the Heligoland Bight. That sort of stuff.”
“Daylights?” James was looking impressed now.
“Yes, all daylights. The Whitleys, Wimpeys and Hampdens do the night ops. Anyway, how have things been with you, James? And how are you getting on, Christopher?”
“Things have been bloody tame: particularly compared with what you’ve just told us. We’ve been flogging up and down the Channel on convoy patrol day after day. Nothing ever happens: except that occasionally the Navy or the shore ack-ack have their finger in and shoot at us. The Wellingtons have been having some fun on their daylights, too, haven’t they?”
James reflected on the reversal of roles. In the past, it had been Roger who sought information from him.
“Yes. That show last week, on Tuesday, when they went looking for Jerry naval ships in the Heligoland Bight. I’m not sure how many Wimpeys were on that do, but they ran into a hell of a lot of one-o-nines and one-one-os.”
“Apart from what the B.B.C. put out, I’ve heard various stories of what happened. What do you know?”
“Apparently seven Wimpeys were shot down and three ditched on the way home, but they shot down at least twelve jerries.”
Christopher said “We never get any gen at S.F.T.S.”
“Just as well,” James said drily.
Roger looked at Christopher. “How are things with you?”
“Oh, my course are still on Masters. Given good weather, we’ll be on Hurricanes early in the new year.”
“You’re going for fighters?”
“I’d like to.”
“And you’re still a second dicky?” James said.
“Yes. But I think I’ll get my own crew very soon. That’ll help when I apply for a commission. Anyway, James, have you seen Barbara at all? D’you get up to London often?”
“Barbara has joined the Wrens. She wrote and told me the black silk stockings decided her. Anyway, there’s no point in sweating up to London: there’s ample W.A.A.F. talent around on camp. How’s your social life in the wilds of Lincolnshire?”
“Quite promising.”
“Come on Roger,” Christopher said, “you can do better than that. I’ll bet you’re well organised. Sly old devil.”
“As a matter of fact I am rather fond of a W.A.A.F. in the Ops. Room.”
“And?” Christopher prompted.
“That’s all.” Roger grinned. “I take her into Lincoln now and again.”
“On a sleeping-out pass, I bet.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Then you must be slipping,” James told him.
“I haven’t even taken a girl to the flicks since I joined,” Christopher said, looking ill-used. “There were no W.A.A.F. at E.F.T.S. and there are none at S.F.T.S. The local talent is grim. And, anyway, I’m too busy swotting in the evenings to do more than nip down to the pub for a pint occasionally.”
“It’ll all change when you get to a squadron,” his brother said patronisingly. “Won’t it, Roger?”
James rejoined his squadron in a mood of strong imaginative and emotional response to the conversations he had had with Roger, out of earshot of their parents. A growing sense of dissatisfaction at his own contribution to the war so far was accompanied by a succession of notions, each of which he rejected after brief examination.
Would the war continue in stalemate until both sides reached a compromise and signed an armistice? Was it possible that the next outburst of violent barbarian exuberance by the Nazis would be directed at Britain? Ignoring the land forces in France, would they bomb British cities heavily, deliberately massacring huge numbers of civilians, so that Britain would sue for peace and Hitler would have won without losing lives in land battles? Would the war, when it began in earnest, drag on in France and would that be where the squadrons which were to see real action would be based; leaving squadrons in England for home defence only? Was he going to be left out of all the significant action?
January did not offer him much encouragement. Convoy patrols continued. No enemy bombers ventured over southern England. On the 9th, a convoy in the North Sea was attacked from the air and five vessels were sunk. The Luftwaffe sent reconnaissance aircraft over the east of Scotland and north-east England every few days. They sent them over the Shetlands. And then at last came a sortie over the Thames estuary: but it provoked no response.
On the next day, a cold, bright morning at the end of January, the squadron was at readiness: that meant that it was ready to take off within five minutes. The pilots wore their mae wests, their parachutes were ready to be buckled on: either already in the cockpit or lying on the port wing, according to individual preference. Their flying helmets, again at each man’s choice, either lay handy beside them or were already plugged into the radio and oxygen sockets in their aircraft and lying on the reflector sight, ready to don.
There was now a third squadron on the station, equipped with Hurricanes. One of its sections was on convoy patrol off the Sussex coast. The Spitfire squadron had provided a section to cover a convoy off the Essex coast.
Squadron Leader Wilson was sitting at a small table in a corner of the crew room, dealing with paper work. The wireless was silent. The pilots were reading papers, magazines, books; playing chess; practising enemy aircraft recognition with the aid of silhouettes showing portions of their wing, tail or fuselage from different angles.
The telephone rang. It was the one on a direct line to Ops. Flight Lieutenant Addison picked it up; listened, said “Right.” Slammed it down.
“A Flight scramble.”
There was a rush for the door. James saw Tug Wilson reach for the Ops. telephone to ask the controller what it was all about. Then he was pounding across the frost-hardened ground with the others. His parachute lay ready on the Hurricane’s wing. His rigger helped him to pull the straps into place. He fastened them and climbed into the cockpit. A moment after he had put on his helmet and started the engine he heard the familiar fiendish crepitation in his ears and then the controller’s voice speaking to the flight commander.
“Hello Garter Red One, Garter Red One, this is Tendril. Are you receiving me? Over.”
“Loud and clear, Tendril, over.”
“Vector one-two-zero, make angles fifteen, Bandits at ten thousa
nd, approaching from the south. Over.”
“Tendril from Red One. Understand one-two-zero, angels fifteen. Out.”
The conversation continued while they taxied for take-off. James hoped they would have time to reach fifteen thousand feet, as instructed, before they intercepted the enemy. Controllers tended to be over optimistic. Also, the heights passed to the controllers from the radio direction finding (the word “radar” did not come into use until 1943) stations on the coast were often inaccurate. The raid could turn out to be two or three thousand feet higher or lower than the estimated ten thousand.
“Garter Red One, this is Tendril. Bandits twenty miles south. About ten of them.”
We won’t make angels fifteen then, James thought. Another waste of time.
The bearings, heights and estimated strengths of enemy aircraft were passed from the different types of radiolocation station to the Filter Room at Group H.Q. There, the disparities had to be reconciled. Much depended on the skill and experience of the filter officers. At this stage of the war, nobody had very much experience. It could take as long as five minutes to resolve missing or inaccurate or contradictory information. For this reason, raids allegedly picked up at fifty miles sometimes jumped twenty miles within two minutes or so on the plotting tables in the Operations Rooms at the various fighter stations.
The flight was heading south-east. Addison changed course twenty degrees east and told the controller what he had done. This would give the Hurricanes more time to get above the approaching enemy.
Presently the controller gave some more information. “Bandits turned eastward onto zero-three-zero.”
Was this a spoof? James wondered. A feint to draw them off while a bigger raid came in?
He could see a convoy off the Kent coast now, steaming north between the South and North Forelands. He had an instant suspicion and looked southward to confirm it. The sun interfered with his vision, shining into his left eye when he turned his head to the right. He caught the shimmer of sunlight on perspex: several small reflections bunched together at about the same height as himself.
“Red One from Red Two. Bandits at two-o’clock, same height.”
There was a pause while the five other pilots searched for the enemy. The cluster of glinting cockpit canopies took more solid shape as the outlines of eight Heinkel 111s.
Addison said “I’ve got ‘em. Tendril from Garter Red One, bandits are eight Heinkel One-elevens, range three miles.”
The destroyer and two corvettes escorting the convoy, and five of the armed merchant ships, opened fire. Shells burst between the Hurricanes and the bombers. The Heinkels started to dive to a more accurate bombing altitude. Addison led the Hurricanes towards them, keeping clear of the ships’ fire.
The first three released their bombs. The Hurricane pilots saw them plainly as they fell. Spouts of water rose from the sea. A tongue of flame wreathed in smoke enveloped the stern of a merchantman at the rear of the convoy. More bombs were dropping, some exploding on the sea and two finding targets among the ships. Billows of smoke obscured one flank of the convoy and flames thrust up through them.
The bombers, relieved of their loads, making for cloud cover, turned away and the Hurricanes closed with them beyond the area in which the ships’ shells were still bursting.
James saw one of the Heinkels climb from its attack, ahead of him and to the right, and cross his path obliquely. He saw two streams of small, multicoloured sparks detach from it and come darting towards him. It took him a second or two to register that the gunners in the dorsal position and at one of the waist windows were shooting at him with 7.9 millimetre machine-guns. There was three hundred yards between them and James pressed his gun button. At that time, the eight machine-guns of a Hurricane were harmonised to converge at four hundred yards. He saw his tracer strike the wings of the Heinkel but both the gunners’ fire persisted. He adjusted his aim fractionally. He was overtaking his quarry fast and delicate precision was not possible, but his bullets slammed into the dorsal blister and he saw the gunner pitch back and then slump to one side. The waist gunner on the starboard side was still shooting. James fired another burst and the bomber caught fire. As he flew over it, it stalled and began to spin down towards the sea.
There was a sound like hail rattling against his wings. The fuselage of the Hurricane was fabric-covered, but the wings had a stressed metal skin. He glanced out and saw a line of holes in his port wing. He looked at his rear-view mirror and saw a Heinkel behind him. Its nose gunner was firing his 7.9 mm machine-gun at him from about two hundred yards. He banked steeply to port and caught another stream of tracer from abeam. When he looked round he saw the front gunner of another He111 shooting at him. More holes appeared, in the starboard wing this time.
He saw the aircraft he had shot down splash into the sea and sink in a welter of spray and smoke. Two other burning He 111s were tumbling down. A Hurricane was heading westward with white smoke trailing behind it.
He banked steeply and made a tight orbit. There was no other aircraft, friend or enemy, within five hundred yards of him. He turned towards Stanswick.
It occurred to him for the first time that the annoying background crackle and screech of his R/T set had fallen silent. He switched to transmit and spoke into the microphone. The set was dead. He was glad he knew the way home and did not need to ask the controller for a bearing.
When he joined the circuit over his base he found two Hurricanes in front of him. Following them round, he saw one turn to fly diagonally across the airfield and wondered what the pilot intended. The pilot began a slow roll as he was almost over the middle of the aerodrome. When he had completed the roll he made a tight turn and came in again, lower, and started to do a flick roll right over the squadron’s dispersals.
He’s pretty pleased, thought James. I wonder how many he bagged. From the aeroplane’s identity letter he knew that it was flown by a sergeant who had been directly behind him in the formation. The pilot did not complete his second roll. At the moment that he was completely inverted, one wing snapped half-way between its root and tip and the Hurricane hit the ground. Both wings were torn off. The engine gouged a long, deep scar across the grass. The petrol vapour in its tanks exploded in a gout of flame and a black vomit of smoke.
James and the third Hurricane pilot went round again, very sedately, and landed with extreme care: James conscious of the bullet holes in both his wings and half expecting either to fold without warning before he was safely down.
* * *
Tug Wilson perched on the corner of a table in the crew room, took his pipe out of his mouth and spoke in his habitual quiet, unemphatic way.
“I’m only going to say this once. Aerobatics on return from engagement with the enemy are absolutely forbidden. You can shoot down a whole squadron of Jerries, but if you do just one roll or anything else to celebrate it, you’ll be put under close arrest at once and court martialed. You’ll never fly operationally again. We’ve had one object lesson in the damage that can be done in a fight without the pilot knowing. There is not going to be another.”
Ahead of them was the dreary ceremonial of a Service funeral. It was general knowledge that they would be burying mostly ballast, sand, because all that remained of the pilot to be recovered from the wreckage weighed about forty pounds.
James thought about the five men he had killed that morning and his elation at his success was in no way lessened. Although he had quite clearly seen the German air gunner die, the event still remained impersonal. The pilot, navigator and two other gunners might have been trapped in their places by fire or by the centrifugal force of the spin. Their end must have been more disagreeable than the upper gunner’s. James found himself unable to think of their deaths with any real pity. It might have been they whose bombs had hit one of the ships and killed and wounded British seamen. If the air gunners’ bullets had struck a few inches to right or left of where they did, they would have killed him. When he shot the upper gunner, he was n
ot consciously trying to do so: all he was concerned with was silencing the man’s gun.
The sergeant pilot, apparently, had been seen to shoot down one Heinkel. His own loss meant that the squadron was now short of one expensively trained pilot and one expensive aeroplane. He had been popular, but even a few hours after the accident it was as though he had never been among them, never existed. They would have an unpleasant reminder in four days’ time when they marched behind his remains to the village churchyard, but even so their predominant emotion would be boredom at being subjected to the chore.
* * *
The three Stanswick squadrons stood down at half past four. At six-o’clock, sharp, James had his first pint of beer in his hand. The squadron had shot down four Heinkels and damaged three. Tug Wilson was in their midst instead of by his own fireside with his wife. So was Walter Addison. The station commander would surely appear after dinner. The other two squadrons would be joining in the celebrations of the station’s first successes. There were going to be a lot of sore heads in the morning, but winter sunrise allowed a little longer to sleep off the effects of a party than in the summer.
One of the mess waiters threaded his way through the throng to James’s side.
“Call for you, sir. Your brother.”
James took his tankard with him to the telephone. He had not been in touch with Christopher for two weeks.
“That you James? I’ve done it...caught up with you.”
“They’ve let you loose with a Hurricane, have they?”
“Yes. It was super. I got in a whole hour.”
“Good show. Well done.”
“How’s everything?”
“Much the same.”
“I heard on the news there’d been some activity in your part of the world this morning.”
“So I believe.”
“Is that all you’re going to say?”
“It’s as much as anyone should say on an open line.”
“I don’t suppose you could find a moment to drop me a line, if there’s anything more to say?”
Trial By Fire Page 7