They were 20 minutes from Aachen when a pair of Me 109s appeared out of the setting sun, flying at the 500 ft to which the Blenheims had climbed and from which they intended to bomb. The enemy aircraft separated, the leader to climb and his No. 2 to dive. The upper one came slanting in towards the leading Blenheim, Snaith’s. Harry, leading the second element, had a perfect view. Snaith’s air gunner fired at the upper 109, which instantly replied with a long burst that put an end to the dorsal gunner’s shooting. Harry felt a chill run up and down his spine at the swiftness and accuracy of the German’s fire. The lower 109 fired into the belly of Snaith’s aircraft. The observer’s two guns in the belly blister were spitting back, but missing by yards. Snaith’s port engine caught fire and stopped. Flames spread quickly along the wing and reached the cockpit. The aircraft lost height. It hit the ground a few seconds before Harry flew over it.
The 109s were attacking again. This time they picked on the leader of the second section. Harry made a quick climbing turn to port, towards them. They opened fire, missed, overshot and began at once to turn. Harry held his climb, but turned to starboard. The fighters attacked simultaneously. Broadley opened fire at the upper one, but did not hit it. It returned the fire and tracer whipped over the top of the cockpit and the turret.
Harry dived to port. The lower 109 was waiting. It exchanged shots with Broadley and he exclaimed, “Got him in the engine ...”
But it was not enough to stop the German. The pilot climbed, half-rolled and pulled through in a steep dive. He fired directly into the dorsal turret, and Harry and Watson both knew that Broadley must have been killed, from the tremendous torrent of air that gushed in from the direction of the turret. He did not answer calls on the intercom.
The Messerschmitt he had hit was now, after its final pass, emitting smoke and flames from its engine. The pilot had levelled out, but half-rolled again and fell from the cockpit. Harry saw his parachute open.
The surviving Me 109 was coming in again. Harry did a violent corkscrew and it abandoned him, to try an attack on one of the others. The rest of the formation had held their positions and the combined fire of three air gunners drove the 109 away.
Five minutes from Aachen, light flak peppered the sky. The Blenheim that had been No. 2 to Snaith lost four feet off the tip of its starboard wing. Another shell hit it and tore the port engine out of its mounting. The observer released the bombs, which fell in a field. The lightened aircraft climbed sluggishly. A third and fourth shell struck it together amidships and it blew up.
The survivors flew around, and beyond, Aachen towards the target. As Watson had predicted, they were late. There was very little light left.
“There’s the power station,” Harry said. He sounded subdued. He could not dismiss Broadley’s death from his mind. Watson had scrambled back to see what he could, and reported that there was blood all over the place. The pilot and observer were cut off from the air gunner by armour plates: two behind the cockpit and one for’ard of the radio post. They had to assume that their wop/A.G. had been killed.
“I can see the gasometers.” Watson’s voice was equally flat.
The flak had started again: vicious 37 mm guns in clusters of four. Harry started his bombing run. The one Blenheim still ahead of them dropped its bombs on the roof of the power station. Harry’s fell among the tall chimneys and brought one crashing down. Brickdust and smoke filled the air.
A tremendous crash echoed through the aircraft. It shuddered under the impact of a violent concussion. The control column was torn out of Harry’s left hand. The throttles under his right hand juddered. The rudder bar swung from side to side and then jammed solid.
Where had they been hit?
“Are you all right, John?”
Watson’s voice came feebly. “Shell burst in my face ... I’m blind ... sorry, Harry ... no use as navigator any more ... sorry ...” The voice died away. Harry felt as though his intestines had been drawn from him on a gibbet. He was angry, sad and very frightened.
The control column would not move to the right or forward. The aircraft was climbing lethargically and turning slightly to port. The rudder bar was immovable.
There was another tremendous blow on the front of the aircraft. Harry saw most of the nose blown away. It flew past in the slipstream. Watson hurtled after it a second later. Whether he was alive or dead, Harry had no way of telling. Watson’s arms and legs were spreadeagled. His face was covered in blood. His helmet was gone. His flying overalls were burning.
It had become very dark and the Blenheim was heading deeper into Germany.
Harry crawled forward to the gaping hole where the nose had been, and shoved himself out. The underside of the aeroplane passed a few feet above him. He pulled the ripcord of his parachute and began floating down into Germany.
He felt tears in his eyes as he thought of Broadley and John Watson; and of the shock to his parents when they received the telegram that would presently be sent to announce that he was missing.
Far away, the fires that he and three of the other Blenheims had started were burning brightly. He began to lose sight of them as he approached the ground. Enemy soil, he thought. How the hell do I get out of this?
*
At seven-o’clock, over their pre-prandial whisky and soda, Alice began to betray the anxiety that plagued her all day and every day.
Templer recognised her uneasiness and smiled fondly, rising from his chair to kiss her brow, then sitting down again on the opposite side of their hearth.
“Don’t worry, darling. The boy will still be airborne; possibly on a training sortie or an air test; or in his bath; or celebrating a good raid with a few quick ones before he gets ready for dinner.”
“I’ve never liked these long summer evenings; and now they’re longer than ever, it can be so awfully late before they finish flying.”
“Now, you know jolly well it’s sometimes ten-o’clock before Harry finds time to telephone. Tell me what you’ve been doing today. By the way, there’s a new litter in the pigstyes ...” He chatted on, trying to distract her.
At nine-o’clock they listened to the news. Air Ministry had released an announcement that, simultaneously with covering the evacuation from Dunkirk, bombers had attacked targets in Germany itself.
Alice gave her husband a forlorn look.
“Darling,” he patted her hand, “there are other squadrons on daylight ops, you know.”
“I know Harry was on this one. I know it.”
“Now, that’s carrying female intuition too far, dear.”
At least, she was thinking, there was nothing about any of our aircraft being missing. But then, she reminded herself, sometimes they hold that back until next day.
Ten-o’clock passed, and eleven.
“Time for bed, darling,” Templer said gently.
“I won’t sleep, darling.”
The telephone rang.
Alice smiled. “There he is! He is naughty: I bet there’s a tremendous party going on to celebrate their trip to Germany.”
She followed Templer to the telephone in the hall.
He heard a voice that he instantly recognised.
“Lionel?”
“Hello, Ted.”
Alice involuntarily put her hand to her mouth in distress. Not Harry! Why was Ted Liversedge calling?
“Lionel, I’m afraid Harry’s not back yet. The station commander asked me to let you know.”
“I see.”
Templer’s hand, holding the telephone, shook, his face paled, his voice was studiedly unemotional: all the signs of shock which Alice knew well; he was so self-controlled that the slightest tremor and change of colour, the smallest change of tone, gave him away to her.
Alice stood close to him, her hands clasped, lips compressed, horrific pictures flitting across her mind’s eye.
Templer was saying “I see ... of course ... yes, I understand ... thank you, Ted ... and please thank the Group Captain for me. We’ll wait to hear mo
re from you, then.”
When he replaced the instrument and turned, he first of all breathed deeply as he drew himself fully erect; then he took his wife in his arms.
“It’s all right, darling. Harry’s aircraft was shot up over Germany. Someone thinks he saw him bale out, but the light wasn’t good. However, the pilot who reported it is almost sure, and so is his observer. Ted says they’re both very reliable types. He says it’s virtually certain that Harry did bale out.”
“How could they tell it was Harry?”
“Because, my darling, the aeroplane was badly shot up; and they know that neither the air gunner nor the observer could have got out.”
“Both killed,” she said in a tone as dull as his had been a few moments earlier. “Poor boys.” She began to cry silently.
“He’s alive. That’s what matters. We mustn’t take it for granted the Hun will put him in the bag. Harry’s tough and resourceful. He speaks the lingo well enough. He’ll be home before we can say ‘Jack Robinson’.”
The assurance did not stop Alice’s weeping.
*
The Blenheim had been able to climb only to about a thousand feet before Harry threw himself out. He had to wait until well clear of it before opening his parachute: thus he was left with a short drop to the ground. Efficient as his father, he had practised landing by parachute by jumping off a high platform onto a pile of gym mats. It was as well that he had taken such trouble, for he alighted at a higher speed than desirable; but was lucky to land on grass. He was knocked breathless by the impact, recovered quickly and was on his feet in seconds. He hid the parachute in a ditch, covered with nettles and dock leaves. The nettles stung him badly, but the dock leaves quickly assuaged the stings.
Night had settled. He crawled along the ditch, listening for sounds of a hue and cry. He had heard the Blenheim’s engine note diminishing but knew that, with one wing low, it would soon stall and crash. Presently, while making his way along the side of the meadow, in the ditch, he heard the explosion of its fuel tanks. The sound was faint. When he peeped through a hedge in the direction from which it came, he saw a red glow. It was a couple of miles away; which meant that, if he had not been spotted coming down by parachute, no one would come as far as this looking for him until the wreckage had been searched and a hunt made in its immediate vicinity.
When he reached a corner of the field, he carefully rose in the angle of the hedge and peered through it. It was too dense at the top to permit him a clear view. He cautiously peered over it.
Against the dark grey of early night, he made out the outline of a large house. Turning to the right, he saw farm buildings. To the left, there were three other substantial-looking houses. He guessed that none of the houses had anything to do with the farm, and all must be the residences of prosperous men who made their living in industry or one of the learned professions.
From the direction of the farm came the barking of two dogs, and Harry had his first moment of anxiety: since landing, he had been too concerned with concealment to fear immediate discovery; or feel any other kind of fear. Were they on his scent already? He stood motionless, remembering that it was movement that gave away a fugitive’s position. He expected to hear the barking come closer, but instead it gradually died out.
The glow from the burning Blenheim was still bright. That would keep the Jerries out of it, he thought, until they brought up some fire-fighting equipment. He thought with horror of Broadley’s charred corpse and of John Watson lying dead, his body riven by flack and smashed flat on its fall to earth.
The mental images galvanised him into action. He had to get back to England to fly again and wipe out the grief of his comrades’ deaths, by killing more Germans.
I’m as virulent as Father, he told himself: and it’s a brand new sensation. He had always rather liked the Germans for their attitude to life: they did not expect anything for nothing, but were prepared to work for what they wanted, and work hard. He doubted that German labourers would expect danger money for working on a Luftwaffe airfield with the country at war. As a Regular, with high ambitions in the Service, he had deemed it wise to learn as much as possible about the inevitable enemy. He had studied French and German at school, and spent holidays in both countries. As a Cranwell cadet and a newly commissioned officer, he had visited Germany and France with serious intent. He loathed Nazism, but respected the Germans’ patriotism.
His father had not discouraged his interest. His only statement on the matter had been: “I can’t understand why you want to spend time learning such a hideous, convoluted language; or want to visit a country that has been breeding the world’s worst bullies since the beginning of history. Bloody crude horsemen, too.”
Lights showed on what must be a road, a quarter of a mile away: the headlamps of vehicles. Looking for me? But they did not stop.
He wanted to travel as far from here as he could during the night, and find somewhere, before dawn, where he could hide throughout the following day. He looked at the farm. Farmers were usually law-abiding and patriotic. Traditionally, they were stolid; and peasants were suspicious and narrow-minded, the world over. I don’t think the farm would be a good bet, he reasoned.
The four stolid-looking houses. Three of them were set fairly close together. That meant that the occupants of each would be aware of the others’ activities. The biggest house stood alone. Perhaps it belonged to someone who lived in one of the Ruhr cities and came here only at intervals. He might find it empty and possible to break into: a secure and comfortable hiding place.
He began to walk towards it, and at the same moment the dogs in the farm gave tongue again. This time, they were answered by dogs in the big house: Harry could distinguish three sorts of bark coming from there: one that suggested a large animal and two others that might belong to terriers.
Damn. Rotten luck. But I’ll press on a bit, anyway.
He followed the hedge until he came to a gate, climbed it and found himself on a cart track. The dogs were still barking at intervals. An owl flapped out of a coppice so low that he ducked. He moved off the track to hug the fringe of the little wood.
He paused. The house was only a furlong away now. It was surrounded by a stone wall some eight feet high. He thought he could see a pillared gate, stone spheres on its uprights silhouetted against the faintly showing stars.
Again there were vehicles on the road. A car’s masked headlights swung their beams off the road. There was evidently a lane leading to the house. The car stopped at the gates and a man stepped out. He did not open the gates and Harry thought he was tugging a bell-pull.
Damn! They’ve got onto me pretty quickly. I must have been seen baling out, and pinpointed.
He heard noises in the direction from which he had come. Turning, he heard the sounds of men in the fields.
The gate opened and the car drove in.
Harry moved a few steps further into the wood. I’ll climb a tree ... go high and lie doggo.
As though reading his thoughts, the trunk of a tree a few feet away appeared to move towards him.
He blinked, to clear his vision.
Delusions! That’s all I need ... must have banged my head, without knowing it, when I baled out. He remembered the half-dozen times he had been concussed in falls from horses. It had been difficult, each time, to realise or admit that he was hurt and confused. It could have happened again.
The treetrunk split into two.
A voice said quietly, “Don’t move.”
Instinctively, Harry’s hand went to the holstered Webley .38 revolver he wore on a webbing belt outside his flying overalls.
“I said, ‘don’t move.’” The command came crisply and sounded all the more menacing because the voice was a woman’s. She had spoken in English, with a strong German accent.
5.
The woman, whom Harry was able to see more clearly when his eyes adjusted to the darkness and she moved out of shadow into a clear patch where the faint starlight touched he
r, was tall and slim. She was bareheaded and wore a pair of binoculars around her neck. Her hands were empty.
“I thought you had a gun.”
“I told you to keep still, because I do not want you to be seen.”
Shock had rendered Harry prone to excitement, euphoria, sudden changes of emotion and accelerated heartbeat. He felt excitement, hope and the thudding of his heart.
“Why?”
“My presence here is nothing to make them suspicious.” She jerked her head in the direction of the house.
“Are you going to help me?”
“Of course. Otherwise, why am I talking to you?” She drew closer. “I was frightened, too, you know. You are a big man ... you are frightened for your life and your ... er ... your liberty. I thought you might shoot me or hit me.”
“I might shoot a lady; I’d never hit one.”
He saw her smile. “So English ...”
“Who are they?”
“Soldiers ... Gestapo ... who knows?”
“And you?”
“I live in the house. I come out bird-watching before sunset, on most evenings.”
He said, in German, “You are an animal-lover? I heard three dogs barking in the house.”
She gave a little exclamation of pleasure. “Your German is excellent. Good ... that will make it easier to help you.”
“Why…?”
“Why should I help you to escape?” They were still speaking German. “I shall explain later. Now, you must stay here while I go back to the house. You are what: the pilot of that aeroplane that crashed? A crew member?”
He was suspicious. “Pilot. But why do you ask?”
“Don’t worry. I do not intend to betray you. I ask from interest.” He was conscious of her close scrutiny and it gave him an eerie sensation. She was, he judged, between thirty-five and forty; fair-haired, with — as far as he could tell in the gloom — fine large eyes and a sensual mouth: an attractive woman, one would say of her without hesitation.
There was an oddly awkward moment of silence while they regarded each other.
War Wounds Page 9