Trial By Fire

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  It was time to descend. Cautiously they made their way down through the clouds. The other two aircraft drew further away on either side to reduce the risk of collision.

  Ice began to form on the wings during the long slant down through thousands of feet of cold, damp air. They broke through clouds at between a thousand and fifteen hundred feet. The ice thawed and flaked off. It was still draughty and chilly in the aeroplane.

  Roger could see a low island off the port bow, some three miles away. He felt pleased and allowed himself a mild boast.

  “How’s that! We’re spot on.”

  Pike chuckled. “If it’s the right island. Doesn’t look much like Borkum to me.”

  Nor did it to him, Roger admitted, with an unsettling nervous pulsation in his stomach. Borkum was shaped like a lobster with its claws tucked in: a large U with one arm longer than the other, enclosing a narrow inlet. It was the most westerly of the East Frisian Islands. Where were they? Which island was it that they could see? Juist or Nordeney, probably, if he had missed Borkum. The island resolved itself into a narrow sliver five miles long. Beyond it was another island, slightly wider and about the same length.

  “Sorry, Skipper. This is Juist we’re flying along. That’s Nordeney ahead.”

  “Never mind: we’re over the right stretch of water and on the right side of the islands. Not bad, for this weather.”

  Devonshire reported that the other two Blenheims had emerged from cloud and, like them, were staying just below it.

  “They’ll take the piss out of you when we get back, Roger.”

  “I’ll be ready for them.”

  Pike said “They couldn’t have done any better with this wind up there.”

  There was no more chatter. They searched the tumbling sea, all deep troughs and white wave crests and driven spray. No ships. They flew the whole length of the chain of islands, turned and flew back again, and on to Borkum. The German Navy was in port and they were not allowed to follow. On passage or at anchor well off-shore, enemy warships were permissible targets. Sheltering in harbour, they were forbidden.

  They climbed through cloud again and began once more to shiver. Hands became stiff, cheeks ached with cold.

  From out of the sun came the splutter of gunfire. Orange against the glare, cannon and machine-gun muzzles flamed in quick little spurts. There were three pairs of Messerschmitt 110s and each pair had selected a target to attack simultaneously. When Devonshire cried the warning, Roger scrambled down to the gun blister under the Blenheim’s nose. Pike put the aircraft into a dive.

  Roger saw the Blenheim on their port quarter explode into burning debris. The body of one of the crew, both legs blown off, clothes on fire, tumbled out of it. He saw the other Blenheim jettison its bombs.

  Tracer was zipping past their own aircraft. He heard Pike’s voice with a note of irritation in it for the first time, Pike who was always imperturbable in any emergency.

  “Fire, for Crissake.”

  And Devonshire, as though his throat were constricted.

  “Guns frozen, Skipper...and the turret hardly turning.”

  Roger could feel his heart pounding and it seemed to swell and rise so that he was almost suffocated. One Me 110 was in his sights and he pressed the firing button. There was no response. He could hear bullets rattling and slicing through the fuselage above him. The aircraft pitched into a steeper dive. He began to move from the gun blister. He was about to unplug his intercom when he heard Devonshire’s urgent appeal.

  “Roger, give a ‘and...quick.”

  He scrambled back, sliding, holding onto any projection to prevent himself falling backwards into the nose.

  Devonshire had slithered out of the turret and was bending over Pike, his legs braced to keep himself steady on the sharply tilted floor.

  Pike had slumped forward with his head on his chest and his arms hanging by his sides. Blood oozed from his helmet and his left shoulder. The window on his side of the cockpit was broken and there were bullet holes in the metal around it.

  Roger looked at the air speed indicator and saw it showing 330 m.p.h. He had to pull out of the dive before they hit the sea. But he had to do it without tearing their wings off. He turned to see Devonshire looking at him, mouth open, eyes full of alarm. He gestured and shouted, indicating what they had to do.

  While Devonshire hauled Pike upright against the back of his seat, Roger leaned across to wind back the trim and ease the stick back. Slowly the nose began to rise and the rate of dive to decelerate. He brought the throttles back but they were still going down too fast and too steeply. They broke cloud with the sea less than a thousand feet below and the Blenheim hurtling into it.

  Devonshire was standing with his legs apart and his whole body braced to restrain Pike from toppling forward again. Roger pulled more strongly on the control column, worried now that the aircraft might stall. He watched the air speed indicator but he also had to watch the artificial horizon, for they were port wing low and side-slipping. He had to get Pike’s feet off the rudder bar. He reached down swiftly and scooped them back where they could not move the rudder controls. The Blenheim stopped its sideslip with the port wingtip two hundred feet above the water. He brought the stick to the right and it levelled off.

  A torrent of tracer bullets ripped into the starboard engine and a billow of disturbed air hit them. A Me 110 passed a few feet overhead and began to turn.

  Still leaning awkwardly over the motionless Pike, and with Devonshire getting in his way, Roger pulled the stick back and shoved the throttles forward. They still had a hundred feet to go for the shelter of cloud when the Me 110 opened fire again. Bits flew off the starboard propeller and holes and dents appeared in the engine cowling. Roger feathered the starboard engine. He could not spare it a glance, he had to keep his eyes on the instruments. If it was on fire, he would know soon enough when the glare lit the cockpit through the cloud-enshrouded gloom.

  They were climbing, the artificial horizon was unaffected and they were level. He looked over his shoulder to his right. There was no fire in the starboard engine. But they were climbing sluggishly; even more slowly than one should expect on one engine.

  They still had their whole bomb load. It struck him like a hard punch over the heart. He shouted at Devonshire, above the engine noise.

  “Go and release the bombs, Creamy.”

  Devonshire stared at him. Roger knew that he had not fully heard or comprehended. He knew that Devonshire’s whole being was concentrated on Pike, whom he idolised.

  Roger took a hand off the throttles and punched Devonshire on the shoulder.

  “We’re too slow...let the bloody bombs go, man.”

  Devonshire blinked as though coming out of a trance. He nodded and shambled forward.

  Roger looked at Pike. There was a long tear in his helmet through which hair protruded and blood was seeping. He peered more closely. There was no brain tissue oozing out. He turned his attention to the wounded shoulder, from which blood was running more freely. He put his ear near Pike’s nose and mouth. He could feel breath, and the knowledge that Pike was still alive released a tide of tension and anxiety.

  He felt the Blenheim lighten as the bombs left it. The nose went up and when he shifted the stick a little forward to correct its attitude, the speed began to mount and again he felt a burden of worry lifted.

  When Devonshire came back they undid Pike’s harness and dragged him, with much difficulty, out of his seat. Devonshire laid him on the floor and went for the first aid kit. Roger sat in the pilot’s seat and began to think about what to do. They were still in cloud, but at only two thousand five hundred feet. If he descended or climbed out above, a Messerschmitt might be waiting for him. He set a rough course for the English coast, then, with the aircraft carefully trimmed, switched in the automatic pilot.

  He knelt on the floor beside Pike, with Devonshire, but constantly looking at the instruments; for automatic pilots suffered many vagaries. They removed Pike’s hel
met. He had a long scalp wound that had laid the skull bare, but there was no mark on the bone. Either a bullet, a splinter of cannon shell or a shard of perspex had caused it. There were two bullet holes in his shoulder. They staunched the bleeding and while Devonshire cleaned and disinfected the wounds, Roger returned to flying the aircraft.

  They had ample fuel, especially with only one engine. Provided no damage had been done to the port engine, they would get home safely. Roger listened as carefully as a doctor listening to a patient suspected of pneumonia, but the engine sounded healthy. All the instruments were working. No fuel or oil was leaking. He would hold his present course and altitude for another fifteen minutes, then poke his nose out of the cloud. Devonshire would be able to pick up some bearings later and they could fix their position, and alter course if necessary: which it surely would be. When they were closer to England they could ask for a homing, if they needed it.

  By the time Devonshire had sent the signal reporting the enemy air attack and received an acknowledgement, Pike was stirring and moaning. His eyes opened and Devonshire called to Roger, who turned and looked down at him.

  Pike mumbled a few inarticulate words, then closed his eyes again and Devonshire gave him a shot of morphia.

  Roger had two hours in which to reflect on events. He was angry about what had happened to Pike. To be wounded while bombing a target was at least worthwhile, but to he hit on an ineffectual sortie was a bitter waste. Pike was an exceptionally good pilot and it was possible that he would never be able to fly again. Well, Roger told himself, they’ll have to make me a captain if I get this one-engined heap back safely and do a decent landing. It’s about time. I’ve done my stint as second pilot.

  It was a long while later that he thought of Daphne. She was on duty at one-o’clock and the first thing she would hear was that they had been under attack and lost one aircraft. He wondered what had happened to the other Blenheim for, when he emerged from cloud, there was no sign of it.

  Nearly six hours after taking off, and after three further alterations of course, he found himself in the Baxton circuit with permission to make a straight-in landing. There were the usual groups of onlookers and for the first time he felt angry with them. He wondered how many of them were watching because they were anxious and concerned and how many from ghoulish curiosity. He brought the Blenheim down with immense care and set it neatly on the runway with neither swerve nor bounce.

  Through the shattered left hand window he could see Jorkins and the ground crew, all looking equally worried.

  His first question, shouted down from the pilot’s seat, was about the third Blenheim.

  Squadron Leader Eastman, who had driven out with the ambulance and fire tender, called back.

  “They didn’t do as well as you...had their wireless shot up. They ran short of fuel and lost their way...landed in Scotland.”

  Roger climbed stiffly out and walked beside Pike’s stretcher to the ambulance. He had to bend and grip Jorkins’s collar as the dog tried to climb aboard. Jorkins tugged and growled. The ambulance drove off.

  Jorkins became frantic and Roger tried to soothe him.

  He turned to Eastman. “Perhaps I should have thought of making for some northern airfield, sir. It would have been better for F.O. Pike. A doctor could have got to him sooner.”

  Eastman shook his head. “You did bloody well. Wizard show.”

  SIX

  For the rest of that winter and in the spring, Bomber Command’s Whitleys, Hampdens and Wellingtons by night and Blenheims and Wellingtons by day maintained their leaflet dropping, their searches in the Heligoland Bight for enemy shipping, and their intermittent attacks in that area. On the night of 20th February twenty Wellingtons attacked ice-bound cruisers, destroyers and a pocket battleship. They shot down one fighter and lost one of their own number through foul weather on the way back to base. On 16th March fourteen Junkers 88s bombed the fleet at Scapa Flow. In reprisal, three nights later, thirty Whitleys and twenty Hampdens bombed the German airfield on the island of Sylt.

  Fighter Command continued to protect coastal convoys and to try to intercept enemy bombers whenever Germany launched a bombing raid: most of which were directed against shipping off the east coast. Now and again two or three trawlers and small merchant vessels were sunk or damaged. There was usually too little warning of the raiders to allow the Hurricanes and Spitfires to catch them.

  James Fenton, in common with the rest of his squadron, began to wonder why Hitler had bothered to provoke war if he intended to prosecute it so lethargically. He might just as well have put the allied nations off their guard by delaying his assault on Poland until the spring and simultaneously mounting heavy air raids on Britain and France. Poland would have been over-run as easily then as it had been in September and he could have maintained his momentum against the Allies.

  The offensive, they reasoned, must be launched in the coming spring.

  What happened in April was not at all the assault which they had expected. The Germans invaded Norway and Denmark. The latter was immediately overwhelmed but the Norwegians were able to fight on even after Oslo had fallen. Long-range Blenheim fighters, Hudsons of Coastal Command and Wellingtons of Bomber went out to attack German shipping and aircraft on and near the Norwegian coast. A British land force sailed with the Navy for Norway. R.A.F. activity increased.

  James had just returned from yet another boring convoy patrol one afternoon when the squadron Intelligence officer came into the crew room.

  Someone asked “What’s the latest gen on Norway, Spy old boy?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. The bomber boys are getting most of the fun. Ninety-two Wellingtons and Hampdens went out on a daylight yesterday, to look for Scharnhorst and Gneisenau” (two pocket battleships) “and a cruiser. They were intercepted by M.E. one-one-os and one-o-nines. They shot down two 110s and damaged one, and shot down five 109s. We lost ten bombers. But the point is that the Jerry fighters didn’t do terribly well really and if we’d had any fighters up there, they’d have fared a damn sight worse. Even the Hudsons have been shooting them down. Two Hudsons were attacked by two 109s and shot one down and damaged the other.”

  Ten days later, Walter Addison, James’s flight commander, had some more information to give his pilots.

  “I hear Two-two-three are on their way to Norway in Glorious: presumably Gladiators are considered expendable! “

  The Gladiator was the last of the R.A.F’s biplane fighters. None of the pilots of No. 223 Squadron had ever flown onto or off an aircraft carrier. Fleet Air Arm pilots flew their Gladiators on for them but they themselves took off from the carrier on 24th April to land in Norway. Forty-eight hours later only five remained serviceable. By the evening of the 26th, there was none. The men of the squadron embarked for home on the 28th. The fighting in Norway continued and Bomber Command kept up its attacks on German-occupied ports and airfields. Among those squadrons which took part in these operations was the one to which Roger Hallowes belonged.

  His cousin’s embroilment in so much of the most hectic activity while he, the regular, the real professional, was doing no more than act as nursemaid to small ships which were seldom attacked, and never when he happened to be on patrol, increased James’s dissatisfaction and frustration. He was not jealous of Roger, but he did envy him his opportunities. He was even a little amused, if wryly so, because of his own contrasting situation, by Roger’s mounting experience of action as distinct from mere active service. It struck him as ironical that the quiet and rather sedate bank clerk had been transmogrified into a battle-hardened fighting airman at all, let alone in so few months.

  During the first week of February, James had a delighted call from Roger to say that he had at last got his own crew. Three weeks later he saw, with some surprise, the award of a Distinguished Flying Medal to Sergeant R.M.K. Hallowes gazetted; and promptly telephoned Christopher in case he had not seen the Gazette or a mention in the newspapers. They both telephoned
Roger that evening and then to Roger’s parents to felicitate with them.

  In March James had a call from his mother to say that Roger was home on commissioning leave, so he duly telephoned congratulations to his cousin once again.

  In April he found out through the squadron Intelligence officer the extent to which Roger’s squadron was participating in operations against the Germans in Norway. He also heard through the Intelligence grapevine how much Roger’s performance when Pike was wounded had contributed to the award of his decoration. He had passed that on to Christopher and their parents and asked his mother to let Roger’s mother know; for he was certain that Roger would have said nothing about it.

  James himself had by now been promoted to flying officer, but this was no compensation at all for having seen action only once in the seven months of war. Surely he had been through a long enough period of gestation and it was time for the birth of a real chance to justify himself in his own eyes and further his career.

  * * *

  He had a telephone call from Christopher.

  “What d’you think they’ve done, James?”

  There was such distress in Christopher’s voice that James almost forebore to joke. Even as he replied, however, he was dismayed by the thought that perhaps his jest would turn sour.

  “I suppose they’ve scrubbed you?”

  “They might as well have.”

  “What on earth’s the matter?”

  “I’m going onto twins.” Christopher had never heard his brother sound more despondent.

  For a moment he said nothing.

  “That’s probably intended as a compliment.”