Trial By Fire

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Sunday 18th dawned with blue skies over Kent and the promise of hot sunshine. From time to time Squadron Leader Wilson or one of his flight commanders telephoned Ops. to find out if there was any activity anywhere. They were told about the usual reconnaissance flights, a scramble or two in other sectors; and then, after mid-day, of activity over France which suggested that the enemy was forming up to launch several raids.

  Shortly before 1 p.m. the first raid of the day crossed the Channel. Forty Me 109s formed the vanguard. Behind those were 27 Do 17s and 20 Me 110s. Then 20 Ju 88s and 16 Me 109s...60 He 111s and 40 Me 109s...and another nine Do 17s...and another thirty-odd fighters.

  Wilson led his squadron into the air. Tad and Big watched them go. Bombs fell on Biggin Hill and Kenley, destroying aircraft on the ground, setting buildings ablaze, killing airmen and airwomen.

  As always, James carried away some starkly clear images in his mind among a mass of confused ones. He would never forget his rage at seeing that obscene pack of Huns with their brutal swastikas and white-edged black crosses, polluting the air above England. He would never forget the hatred he felt for the bomber crews when he saw them so far inland instead of having been turned back at the coast. The size and the effrontery of the raid made the profoundest impression. When he made out his combat report he recalled vividly the Ju 88 he had shot down — his first —climbing towards it from its port bow, where none of its guns could be brought to bear on him, and shooting a huge section of its lower wing away so that his incendiary bullets lacerated a fuel tank and caused an explosion which tore the wing off. He saw again, in every detail, the moment when he picked off a Ju 87 at the top of its dive, at the very split second in which it leaned into an eighty-degree plunge; his bullets setting the cockpit on fire. He saw the pilot try to scramble out but go down to his death jammed in the aperture, left by his jettisonable canopy, by g force, his clothes burning. He lived again his head-on charge at a Me 110 after his guns were empty, a sheer bluff, which forced the German pilot to pull up at the last moment; and collide with a He 111 above him: the huge whirling entanglement of fire and smoke sent several other enemy aircraft scattering.

  Twice more that day, in the early afternoon and early evening, heavy raids came over. In all, the enemy flew nearly 500 bomber and 500 fighter sorties across the Channel. The comparatively few R.A.F. fighter squadrons available flew over 900 sorties in defence, shot down 59 of the enemy, irreparably damaged 10 and less seriously damaged 27. Fighter Command lost 31 aircraft destroyed or irreparably damaged.

  The following five days saw a lull. Before the enemy resumed large-scale raids, Tug Wilson’s squadron was posted to a quieter sector in Hampshire to enjoy two weeks of comparative rest.

  * * *

  Those were emotionally difficult days for Christopher. If he had been allowed to continue from Hurricanes straight to a fighter O.T.U. he would have been on a squadron by now, flying either Hurricanes or Spitfires, and in action. He chafed at the restraint of being limited to training exercises when there was so much real work to be done. At the end of every day he had to fight the urge to telephone Stanswick to find out if his brother was still alive, still unhurt. He worried about their parents’ anxieties, and again he had to resist the temptation to telephone home every evening to give them what reassurance he could. To show his own anxiety would upset them further. But what, really, could he do to alleviate their fears? The whole nation knew the scale and ferocity of the enemy’s almost daily air raids. His mother and father knew that the Stanswick squadrons must be in the thick of the fighting.

  He lost interest in Morag MacWhirter. He wanted to get away from O.T.U. as soon as possible. He sought every possible opportunity for extra flying hours, by day and night.

  His crew grew concerned about him. For ten days he had been taciturn and unsociable. If he went out with them his thoughts were manifestly far away. They saw Corporal MacWhirter being driven into town by a flight lieutenant instructor and were so uncertain these days of his mood that they did not mention it.

  A few days after James’s squadron had been moved from Stanswick the crew’s posting signal arrived. Christopher brought them the news with the first sign of cheerfulness they had seen from him for many days. He told them the number of the squadron. It was based on the north-east coast: the back of beyond as far as southerners were concerned. But at last they would be able to feel that they were in the front line.

  “I’ve arranged to do a nay. exercise down to Middle Wallop. When I telephone James to let him know we’re coming I’ll ask him if he can arrange for us to do some fighter affiliation while we’re down there.”

  James and Ross did him proud. With guidance from the fighter controller in the Middle Wallop Sector Operations Room they intercepted the Beaufort at 10000 ft twenty miles from the station and gave his crew a fuller measure of fighter affiliation than they had reckoned on, diving in turn on the bomber in mock attacks for ten hectic minutes while Christopher threw it all over the sky taking evasive action.

  When they landed, James said “We shot you down about six times each. You can see for yourselves after lunch: the camera gun film will be ready by then.”

  “If only we had camera guns, we could prove to you that we shot both of you down on your first pass!”

  Later, Christopher asked “Any news of Roger.”

  James chuckled. “I think the dear old buffer is suffering from chagrin d’amour.”

  NINE

  Pike had returned to the squadron after an absence of two months in hospital and on convalescent leave, and another three months of duty in the station Operations Room and at Group H.Q. while he fully recovered. He came back to flying as a flight lieutenant and deputy flight commander; but too late to take part in the squadron’s sorties over France at Dunkirk time. Roger had missed both him and Jorkins while they were away from the station. It gave him a feeling of security and continuity when they reappeared and Ginger Pike, although not yet passed fit for operational flying, used to spend much of his time in the crew room and stealing an hour’s flying whenever he could with Wing Commander Dean’s approval. There were days when Pike was unable to give Jorkins his daily exercise, and then Roger used to take the bulldog for a walk; they became much attached to each other, although as soon as his master came into sight Jorkins used to formate on him, slightly to starboard and astern, keeping obediently to heel and looking pleased.

  During the second half of June and in July Bomber Command had reduced the squadron’s effort, to compensate for the high number of operations it had flown during the preceding months and give it time to train replacements for those who had been killed or wounded. Their targets had been enemy airfields in France and Holland, railway sidings in Belgium and coastal batteries on various stretches of enemy-occupied coast. They also flew a high proportion of reconnaissances of coastal waters from the Heligoland Bight to Antwerp, which were usually undisturbed by enemy action.

  Roger had worried about losing Devonshire when Pike resumed flying, but Pike had said it would not be fair to break up a crew who had settled down well together.

  “While I’m finding my way about again and working up with a new observer, I might as well start with a new jeep as well.”

  Roger had asked Devonshire, none the less, if he would like to rejoin his old captain.

  “Reckon I’ll get more flying if I stay with you, sir. Flight Lieutenant Pike’s bound to be flight commander when the Squadron Leader’s posted.”

  Squadron and flight commanders could not, with all their other duties, fly as frequently on operations as the rest of the pilots. Roger admired Devonshire’s diplomacy and his neat evasion of having to express anything so sentimental as an attachment to him. The fact was that they were both now much more operationally experienced than their old captain, and more likely to survive together than apart.

  Now that they lived in the same mess and could consort with complete informality, Roger’s friendship with Ginger Pike had grown as close
as either of their natures was capable of permitting. He needed a growing bond of this sort to support him in the vagaries of his relationship with Daphne.

  He did not like complexity in his affairs or his emotions. Banking was essentially a straightforward business and so was flying. His scanty association with women had also been orderly and of too short duration to reveal any unpredictability. Nothing could have been more simple and direct than his whirlwind weekend with the lady aviator, the affair with the redhead determined on a physical holiday romance or the transactions with the two Mayfair tarts. He had in fact become fond of the seaside girl and been hurt when she did not keep her promise to write to him. But the feeling he had for Daphne was much stronger and was of itself causing him uneasiness as well as was her behaviour.

  She had an independence and pride which he admired and which aroused a particular brand of affection. He knew that her pay was nugatory, he doubted that if her parents ever sent her money it was more than a couple of pounds now and again. Yet every now and then she gave him a present “Because you’re so sweet and generous to me”. At Christmas, by which time they had been going out together for three months, she had given him a leather tobacco pouch with the R.A.F. colours on pigskin. On their 48-hour trip to London she bought him a Parker pipe; and half a guinea was a lot for an Acw 1 to spend. She had stayed in a hostel then as much to pay for herself as to put herself well out of temptation.

  But had she been tempted to sleep with him? It bothered him that he still could not decide. They had not discussed their relationship in terms which gave him any indication of what he might expect if they went away together again. She had said a couple of times that there were sometimes good classical concerts at Nottingham, which was a short journey away, and it would make a pleasant break to go to one and spend the night. He could take or leave classical music; with a slight preference for the latter. But he was prepared to sit through a couple of hours of it if that meant ending up in bed with her. The odds on it were too short to encourage him to give it a try. And he was still not sure whether he really wanted to: he feared that he would have a strong feeling of guilt; it would be a different matter if, as he had heard it put, “someone had been there before him”. But — another but — in that event, he would have quite different feelings about her.

  On a fine evening in August he drove her to a riverside meadow where he had been occasionally to fish when he was free and she on duty and unable to accompany him. He had fished in the sea all his life but only occasionally in fresh water. He enjoyed it these days because it was so tranquil, and did not care whether or not he caught anything. (He lacked the competitive spirit of his sporting cousins.) The place he had found was idyllic, the river there tree-fringed, accessible by a lane which attracted only an occasional farm vehicle. He had never seen another person in the vicinity. But he had seen kingfishers and woodpeckers, water voles and otters, hares, rabbits and a fox.

  He spread his motoring rug on the grass and she took off her tunic. In shirtsleeves, her breasts were surprisingly big. He had seen her with her tunic off before, but always in the Ops. Room. Here, in the open and perhaps because there were no other shirt-sleeved girls around, they seemed more conspicuous; certainly more arresting.

  She opened her bag. “I got this for you when I went into Lincoln yesterday.” She held out a one-ounce pack of tobacco.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. Thank you.” He read the label. “Presbyterian Mixture. I’ve never tried it.

  “I like the aroma: my father smokes it.”

  “I know all about its aroma; I’ve seen the advertisements: but does your father like the taste?” He smiled gently. He had always smoked Player’s No Name; he was not a mixture man, didn’t much care for latakia.

  “I’m sure he does. Mummy buys it for him.”

  There lay an ominous item of information, if only he were experienced enough to recognise it.

  “I’ll try it as soon as I’ve finished what’s in my pouch.”

  “Fill your pipe with it now. Then I’ll know you like my present.”

  He really did not want to try the stuff; not yet, anyway.

  “Perhaps the fish won’t like it. Maybe they don’t care for Baldwin. Maybe they aren’t even Conservatives.”

  Stanley Baldwin endorsed the brand in the maker’s advertising.

  Daphne looked a little petulant. “Don’t be funny, Roger. It’s got a lovely scent...just right for this heavenly spot.”

  He knelt beside her and put his arms around her. She fell back on the rug and looked up with dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. He kissed her. His hand, for the first time, rested on her breast. He wondered whether to slide it inside her shirt, and before he had debated the matter in his mind his fingers moved and he felt her warm flesh above the cup of her brassiere. She clung hard to him, then pushed him away with a gasp.

  “Light your pipe...with Presbyterian Mixture...and go and fish.”

  Each time he turned round to smile at her from the riverbank she was looking at him. An hour later, with two chubb and a roach caught and thrown back, when he began to take his rod down, Daphne, without any urgency, but at once, put her tunic on. She waited for him to kiss her again but this time she was firmly buttoned up.

  He took her to dinner at an inn which was off the bus routes and, with petrol rationing, patronised by only a few; which meant that the food was always abundant and good. Daphne insisted on his smoking a pipe of the mixture after their meal.

  When he saw his batman next morning he gave him the rest of the packet of Presbyterian. Daphne bought him another the next time she went to Lincoln. He resigned himself to smoking it in her presence and his preferred brand whenever he safely could.

  He was too preoccupied with other matters to be irritated by Daphne’s insistence. His thoughts dwelt daily on James and the intense air battles which were being fought over that part of south-east England which had already become known as Hell’s Corner. Perhaps he could fly down and visit him, find out for himself how things were really going. Now that his own squadron had started to bomb concentrations of invasion barges in the ports of the Channel and the southern North Sea, he had a sense of desperation. The great number of barges was evidence of Hitler’s fanatical determination to conquer Britain, and since the Allies’ humiliation in France two months ago he wondered if the Germans really could be kept out. It depended more on Fighter Command beating the Luftwaffe than on Bomber Command destroying invasion vessels. Awareness of it disturbed his sleep and, as Daphne sometime complained, with a touch of peevishness he was too inattentive to notice, made him abstracted — “as though you were a million miles away, Roger” — when he was with her.

  * * *

  The Battle of Britain worked itself up to a climax on 15th September. By that date, Squadron Leader Wilson had led his squadron back to Stanswick. If the respite between returning from France and the first big raids on England had seemed so short to James that it was hard to recall that there had been a break at all, the two weeks away from Hell’s Corner vanished from his memory as soon as he scrambled at dawn on the squadron’s first morning back in Kent.

  He had already experienced every emotion and witnessed every scene of glory and horror that a fighter pilot could know: and he had known and done it all many times over. He had seen his comrades take to their parachutes but fall slowly to earth with their uniforms ablaze. He had seen overwrought pilots turn tail, on their third or fourth sortie of the day, when they glimpsed yet again an enormous phalanx of Messerschmitt 109s escorting a vast armada of bombers. He had seen his friends come back safely from a battle and injure or kill themselves when landing an aircraft they did not know was badly damaged. He had seen Stanswick bombed and had to land between a scattering of craters. He had seen other Hurricane, Spitfire and Me 109 pilots ditch no more than half a mile from the beach and drown when their aircraft dived straight to the bottom of the sea. When the ferocity of the encounters over the Channel, the Thames Estuary and
Kent reached its apogee of bitterness he saw German fighter pilots murdering British pilots while they dangled helplessly beneath their open parachutes. And he once saw an enraged Hurricane pilot treat a baled-out German in the same way.

  The Battle of Britain reached its climax on 15th September. The German attacks came in three waves and up to as high as 35000 ft.; the last of them as late as 6-p.m. on that long, sun-drenched Sunday. So confused and hectic was the fighting that when the last enemy had been sent scurrying home and the reckoning was made, Fighter Command genuinely estimated that 185 enemy aircraft had been shot down; seven of them by anti-aircraft artillery. It was not until the end of the war that analysis of German records revealed that, in fact, the score had been sixty.

  To James, it might as well have been six hundred or a hundred and eighty-five as sixty. The precise number was not significant. What mattered was that the R.A.F.’s fighter pilots knew they had finally beaten the Luftwaffe. The entanglement of frozen pictures on the mind’s eye was as great in the process of shooting down sixty as 185 or six hundred. James lay abed that night with his nerves twitching, his emotions numbed, too stirred up to fall asleep, seeing all over again the glow that filled the sky eight nights ago when London Docks were bombed and set on fire; the sun’s silvery reflection on the hundreds of close-packed bombers three times that day, the darting bright dots where the fighters were weaving in combat with Hurricanes and Spitfires; the interwoven skeins of the vapour trails; the bomb bursts thousands of feet below, where hundreds of civilian men, women and children were being slaughtered and their homes obliterated.

  The next two days were quiet because the weather was bad. And then began the almost nightly bombing of London.

  Squadron Leader Wilson came into the crew room and looked around at his torpid pilots. There were only himself and six others left of those who had sat around this room a year ago. Then, they had all been impatient for action; now, they had all had too much of it. Twelve months ago nobody had slept in his chair and nobody had looked pale and haggard. Today, anyone who did not was the exception. He walked across to the sleeping Addison and touched him on the shoulder.