The Burning Sky rtw-1

by Jack Ludlow

  Whoever commanded the Italians was not going to be deterred: he kept them on their original flight path and the first stick of bombs began to emerge from the bays. Within less than a minute from sighting the biplanes, the leading pair of Potez 25s engaged the front SM73, the other pair going after number two in the bombing line, the crunch of ground explosions mixing with the rattle of the Vickers, much muted by being aerial.

  ‘Fighter screen coming in,’ Alverson said, his field glasses raised high into the sunlit sky.

  ‘This could be a massacre,’ Jardine grunted.

  The Fiat CR30s were dropping fast, the commander of the Italian bombers relying on them to allow him to release his stick; clearly he was prepared to risk damage to deliver. For the attacking biplanes, hitting something vital on a much larger plane made of plywood was a chancy affair, though from the ground it was possible to see bits of wood flying off the fuselages of the two bombers being attacked. But it could not last: with the Italian fighters coming in fast, the Ethiopian pilots broke off and ran, the Fiats on their tail and closing, with the rear-firing machine gunners seeking to keep them at bay.

  ‘Got it!’ Jardine cried, for to him the air attack made little sense. The Potez 25s were too lightly armed and slow to have any real hope of downing a bomber. ‘They want to suck them into a pursuit.’

  It had to have been planned in advance, for the anti-aircraft guns were manned and ready, with their barrels pointed forty-five degrees north. The Fiats, closing, had opened up on four aircraft losing the little height they had to get maximum speed heading for the safety of their own lines.

  As soon as they were out of the target area, the quick-firing Oerlikons opened up on the lead Italian fighters, firing at a rate of 450 rounds per minute. Three of the pursuit planes immediately spun away and began a fast climb, but one fighter pilot obviously had only a kill as an object, for he flew through the ground fire, which now included machine guns and rifles, intent on destroying one enemy.

  He had picked out his target and he stuck to its tail, guns blazing, now no longer the popping sound of distant aerial bullets, but the harsh crack of projectiles so close, people were ducking their heads. The bullets ripped through the doped canvas of the slower biplane, but the pursuing fighter was taking hits too, one of which must have been on the pilot, for the nose of the Fiat suddenly dropped, bringing it down to skim overhead and plough into the ground well to the rear of the Ethiopian positions, exploding in a great ball of orange fire and black smoke, which produced massed cheering for the whole encampment.

  ‘Our boy is in trouble, I think,’ Alverson said.

  He was pointing to the biplane which had been the object of the Fiat’s foolhardy pursuit, now turning to make a forced landing on the flattest piece of ground it could find, which was near the casualty clearing station where Corrie Littleton laboured. Jardine was already moving towards the spot, with the American shouting he would catch up: hard running was not his style.

  The loose and curly blond hair told him who the pilot was before Jardine got really close, while the inert body on the ground was enough to indicate who had suffered in the attack: the observer-gunner was either seriously wounded or dead, while Henri de Billancourt, on his knees, was covered in blood, he having dragged the man out.

  Jardine was angered by the sight, even as he knew, deep down, he had no right to be: in combat you took risks and sometimes people got killed. Pointing the finger was generally useless unless someone had been outright stupid. Had the whole thing been de Billancourt’s idea? Unfairly, he was thinking it was typical of the man, yet on balance it had been successful: a modern Italian fighter had been destroyed and its pilot killed, which was an exceedingly rare outcome in this war.

  They had got a stretcher to the observer-gunner, while someone was doing first aid, and by the time Jardine could see he was an Ethiopian they were lifting him on to it, with the seemingly unaffected Frenchman taking a handle. Jardine grabbed another and they made as much speed as they could to the medical tents, crossing paths with Alverson and his ubiquitous camera, always slung round his neck, snapping away at what was really, if you excepted the flying overalls, a commonplace picture.

  Corrie Littleton was at her usual task; the present attack had been blunted by the usual methods of mass artillery, backed up by machine guns firing on fixed arcs, while the bombing and strafing aircraft were now free to roam at will once more, inflicting death and destruction on men falling back. The casualties were being brought in on makeshift stretchers, while out on the battlefield there would be many dead and wounded, remaining there until darkness fell. As soon as she saw the Frenchman she rushed over, no doubt, Jardine suspected, to see if the blood on his overalls was his, to be greeted with a smile.

  ‘I think this fellow,’ Jardine growled, nodding to the man on the stretcher, ‘needs your attention.’

  The American girl was quick then; a few weeks spent dealing with the effects of war had taught her much in a short space of time. Her examination was precise, professional almost, and she addressed Henri de Billancourt, not Jardine, her head shaking as she did so.

  ‘With these wounds I doubt he can be saved, and there are people here who will benefit more from attention than he. The doctor can only deal with those cases that warrant his time. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s pretty harsh, Corrie,’ Alverson said, as the stretcher was laid on the ground.

  The reply was weary and resigned. ‘It stops being that, Tyler, after the first few hundred cases.’

  ‘I must look to my aircraft,’ said de Billancourt, before turning to walk away.

  The fact that he was not as indifferent as he at first appeared was evident in the stiffness of his gait, which had in it an attitude that Cal Jardine recognised from the times he had seen men of his own killed in situations where to show your feelings was not permitted; that made him castigate himself for being a bit of a bastard.

  The casualty clearing station was within walking distance of where Alverson, Jardine and Vince had a tent, one to which the American girl came to take what little release she allowed herself. Vince Castellano being an expert scrounger, they ate well, he having the depth of Alverson’s pocket as an aid, as well as what was left in Jardine’s money belt.

  Whatever things this peasant army lacked, an active black market in little luxuries was not one of them, while those who supplied their needs also provided the route by which Alverson got out his despatches — both those approved by the censors and his own less cheerleading account — back to Gondar for transmission on to the Sudan, his Rolls-Royce now acting as a temporary ambulance.

  A rather morose and uncommunicative Henri de Billancourt was there when she arrived — his plane was damaged and he was waiting for people to arrive from his base and fix it, and it was a testimony to the pressure she was putting herself under that, this time, she barely acknowledged the Frenchman, instead more interested in the bottle Alverson was holding out. It was also an indication of how low de Billancourt was feeling that he did not seem to care.

  ‘Whisky, Tyler, for the love of God.’

  ‘Makes life tolerable, honey.’

  Corrie Littleton had ceased to be rangy and was now thin, while her face had that drawn look which comes from continuous exhaustion brought on by relentless toil. If Jardine admired her spirit, and he did, he was not inclined to show it much: they still sparred like two fighting cocks, much to Alverson’s continued amusement and Vince’s rising irritation. She had taken to occasionally calling him ‘Doc Savage’ after some ridiculous American comic book hero.

  ‘I am told, Mademoiselle Corrine,’ de Billancourt said, when he finally roused himself, no doubt aided by alcohol, ‘you will go out tonight with stretcher parties to look for anyone still alive?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Very dangerous, I think, and very brave.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to,’ Jardine said, ‘she chooses to.’

  ‘Maybe I misnamed you: Doc Savage would
n’t hesitate to keep me company, especially him being a medical man.’

  ‘Give that a rest, will you?’

  ‘You should black up if you’re going out, miss,’ Vince said. ‘There’s not likely to be a lot of light tonight, what with the cloud cover that’s come over, but they will be putting up star shells.’

  ‘It’s bad for my complexion, Vince.’

  ‘A bullet’s worse.’

  ‘What the hell do you care, Jardine?’

  ‘Odd as it seems, idiot, I do, but don’t think it’s because you’re a female, not that it’s certain.’

  ‘Anybody suggested you go to charm school, buster?’

  ‘God help me if you ever went to one.’

  ‘Ah!’ de Billancourt sighed, with a wry and irritating smile, ‘it is sad when friends fall out, is it not?’

  ‘At least I have you for a friend, Henri.’

  ‘Maybe we should get out of here, Vince,’ Jardine sighed. ‘There are some Italians whose company I prefer.’

  ‘Those shitty bastards!’ she responded angrily, before realising what she had said. ‘Sorry, Vince.’

  ‘No offence taken, miss, but I’m a bit like the guv here. I wish you would put a sock in it.’

  Her reaction was a startled ‘Oh!’ — clearly, being put down by Vince mattered.

  Seeing Jardine grinning, Vince added, ‘An’ that goes for you too, guv. It would be much better if you just admitted you fancied her and stopped all the bollocks.’

  In the embarrassed silence that followed, the Frenchman, who had now drunk a fair amount of whisky, became more animated, his dancing eyes searching the surrounding faces: Alverson’s grin, Vince’s irritation and the crabbed looks being exchanged between Jardine and the girl. A sort of dawning seemed to appear in his expression, for Vince’s words did not need to be clearly understood in an atmosphere so crackling with obvious tension. Finally he spoke, looking directly at Cal Jardine.

  ‘When my aircraft is repaired, which it will be by tomorrow, Ras Kassa has asked me to do a reconnaissance sweep again.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Mon ami, I do not have an observer and I need someone trained to fire my Vickers.’

  Then de Billancourt came out with a full smile, for the first time that night, and aimed it right at Corrie Littleton, while Jardine heard himself saying, ‘You found one.’

  Everyone knew what had just happened: a gauntlet had just been thrown down and Tyler Alverson was not the only one to speak. ‘Game on, boys.’ Vince Castellano was the other. ‘They’ll be bloody well jousting next.’

  ‘Have I missed something?’ Corrie Littleton asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The aircraft mechanics, a mixed bag of Frenchmen, Germans and Ethiopians, had travelled down from de Billancourt’s airfield as soon as they were alerted to the need for repairs, bringing with them on a flatbed truck a complete set of spares, a generator and arc lights by which they could work, as well as a drum of fuel.

  The Potez, which was not as badly damaged as first appeared, was serviceable again before dawn, the holes in the canvas covered, several broken struts, a wheel and damaged instruments replaced, the whole covered in a camouflaged sheet before the prospect of a dawn raid by Italian fighters.

  Even if that did not materialise, they had to wait till mid-morning to take off on a less-than-perfect strip: it required a party of warriors to clear away a number of rocks. Initially, once airborne, de Billancourt turned south, wishing to test out the repairs before heading for enemy airspace.

  There would be standing patrols of Italian fighters up and flying, but, even as numerous as they were, they had a lot of sky to cover along a potential front line stretching hundreds of miles, while a good proportion of their strength had to be diverted to the Somali border, the scene of another hard-fought battle in which the peasant army was pushing back the Italians who had invaded.

  Aeroplanes are noisy: you can hear them coming from a long way off and the higher they are, the easier it is to both hear and spot them. The ground-skimming tactic that de Billancourt employed once he did turn north was to avoid a too-rapid alert of an Italian defence line that would have been stood to at first light and kept there in anticipation of another assault, while his relative speed was another safeguard.

  At low altitude the aircraft would come upon the Blackshirt infantry unsighted and at speed, cutting down their ability to react. So low were they that Jardine reckoned a pair of scissors would be handy — he could have cut some enemy hair, and it was possible the undercart took off some steel helmets. But it did protect them from ground fire, which was wild and inaccurate. From above and in open country, de Billancourt was relying on his camouflage and the hope that any Italian fighters were at distance enough to make him invisible against the broken ground below.

  Ras Kassa wanted to know if the Italians were moving forces to face him on the Ethiopian left wing, which led Jardine to suspect, though he had not been told, that things were not progressing as hoped in the main assault further east, and no doubt the counterpart commander of the right wing was asking the same question.

  Without metalled roads in very rough country, the Italians would only move in daylight over that which their engineers had provided — a dusty bulldozed track that would not survive the rains when they came — with the added safety of their air superiority to protect them. Even then they could not do so quickly; any build-up should be evident, which would obviate the need to remain over enemy air space for a long period.

  The column was not immediately visible but the dust they were sending up was plain for miles, rising on the warm air currents, especially as the Potez was still flying frighteningly low, skimming through slight depressions to stay hidden and near to touching the scrub-covered ground in more open areas. Jardine spent as much time looking at the mounds he was sure de Billancourt was going to plough into as he did searching the sky for enemy fighters, thinking the risk from the former was probably greater than from the latter: the fixed undercarriage was often so close to the earth he feared it might be ripped off by an unseen boulder or tree.

  For all his concerns, it was the only safe way to fly and had to be accepted: altitude increased danger, and it takes more than sharp eyes from above to spot a camouflaged aircraft against a same-coloured backdrop over up to a mile — it takes luck. Also, if de Billancourt was an arrogant bastard and a daredevil sod, he was also a damned-good pilot, so Jardine concentrated on keeping his breakfast coffee in his gut as the Potez jinked, rose, swooped and occasionally dropped at a rate that left his stomach under his chin.

  The Frenchman was making for the billowing dust, even though that would likewise be visible to, and might attract the attention of, Italian pilots, working on the assumption of there being so few Ethiopian planes they were a rare problem on the front lines and non-existent behind them. So, unless a radio message had been sent from the point of crossing to say that one had entered this particular rear area, it was not something the enemy would expect or look out for with too much zeal.

  After a last check of the sky, Jardine got himself into position to use his Vickers; he had no need to be told what was required: having been on the receiving end of aerial gunfire he knew what the pilot would do. Through the dust de Billancourt could now see a line of ten trucks making their way along a rough roadway created by their engineers to get supplies up to the front-line forces. Unprotected on the assumption such a thing was seen as unnecessary, they paid the price as he banked to fly up their line.

  Jardine had no need to depress his weapons, the angle of the plane did that for him, and he began his primary burst just before they came level with the lead vehicle, aiming for the driver, then raking the canvas covering in the hope it was carrying infantry. There was no return fire at all; all the drivers did was swing their steering wheels in an attempt to lessen the impact — pretty futile given that Jardine only had to lift or drop his muzzles to compensate.

  To the rear of the last truc
k the Potez swooped up, then made a tight turn so de Billancourt could run down the line of trucks, still close enough to form one because, on both sides of the engineers’ roadway, the ground was so broken that to seek to pull off was to invite disaster. The Frenchman was now strafing through his propeller, and as they flew by, Jardine could see that some drivers were abandoning their trucks and running for cover, while others were seeking to accelerate out of trouble.

  One was ablaze, while another had left the road, either through terror or wounding, and tipped onto its side. Obviously, whatever they were carrying, it was not troops, given no bodies were either emerging or being flung clear, and while it had to be a pleasure to do what he was about, de Billancourt was also conscious of the need to preserve ammunition for his own defence.

  He did one more non-firing run, getting not even a rifle bullet in response, before banking away, heading for some low hills in the distance, this while Jardine observed the remaining trucks re-forming and continuing on their way at as much speed as they could muster; if there was anyone hurt, they were not hanging about to find out.

  Facing forward again and curious, Jardine tapped the Frenchman and indicated downwards with his hand, the response a drop in the aircraft speed as de Billancourt acknowledged the message; he was flying a plane that could land anywhere and very likely he, too, was wondering the same as his temporary observer-gunner: what were those trucks carrying if not troops?

  It wasn’t ammunition, since no explosions were coming from the burning truck now sending a plume of black smoke skywards. What was it? If they landed, some information might be gleaned from the contents.

  It was necessary to stay behind those low hills and jink about for a while to let the remaining trucks get clear, but after a short while they re-emerged to see the plume of smoke still rising, now to a point that made watching the sky paramount: if they could see it miles away, an Italian fighter scouting at higher altitude could see it as well, so there was a degree of caution in the approach. Finally thinking it safe, de Billancourt lined up on the roadway and brought the bouncing Potez in to land past the blazing truck, so that Jardine could provide cover in case they were shot at.