Fighters Up
Richard Townshend Bickers
© Richard Townshend Bickers 2014
Richard Townshend Bickers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Robert Hale Limited, 1986
This edition published by Endeavour Press Ltd, 2014
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Extract from Bombing Run by Richard Townsend Bickers
One
Images and sensations; and the cold.
The pictures forming in his mind of violent death and flaming destruction, the icy tremors of his body, the voices - sometimes the screams - in his ears: all formed a pattern, and, he supposed, a kind of crazy rhythm. Every experience, every event and situation, had its own rhythm, and this one was the rhythm of aerial combat.
The memories came whether he was sleeping or awake. If asleep, they roused him with a start and sweating: in bed, or a deep doze in a canvas chair in the pilots’ but out at dispersals, where the Hurricanes and Spitfires stood ranged in their blast pens. They came when he was wide awake: ostensibly reading Flight or The Aeroplane in the dispersal hut, or the Daily Telegraph in the mess ante-room. They recurred even when he was in conversation, or among a group with a pint tankard in his hand in mess or a pub. All it needed to set the images and the sensations going was the glimpse of a face that had shared them, the mention of a name, or some allusion.
“Break! Blue Two, break!”
“Behind you, Simon!”
And his own voice: “Break right, Tug!” “Bandits, two-o’clock, above, coming in.” “Blast you, Robbie, you nearly took my tail off.”
But Robbie had not heard him. When the Hurricane flashed past, Howard saw that it was burning and its pilot was limp, head lolling.
The rhythm of air fighting: attack and defence, thrust and parry in a three-dimensional brawl at over three hundred miles an hour, closing speeds of twice that much.
The rhythm of gunfire from an adversary, coming at him in short bursts: of multi-coloured tracer drawing curved lines across the sky, the bark of cannon and the rattle of machineguns; the cadence of his own shooting and the joyful shock of the bright splashes his incendiaries made when they hit their target; the dazzle from his .303 Brownings and 20 millimetre Hispanos, at first light and dusk, from muzzle flashes and tracer; the wing-overs, half-rolls off the top of a loop, sideslips and stall turns that were the aerobatics of battle; the shrieking of the wind in his gun muzzles when he had blasted their canvas covers off, the howling it made as it tore through the holes that enemy fighters or flak had punched in his Hurricane or Spitfire: these were the kaleidoscopic fragments of sight and sound that composed the pictures and noises which tormented him.
The war would enter its third year in four months’ time. In 1939 - away back in 1939 - four months had been a short period which brought no change to his life; except the addition of several hours’ flying time in his logbook. Now, in the early summer of 1942, four months seemed as long as a peacetime year used to. No operational fighter pilot could delude himself with the certainty that he would live so long.
The mental pictures, lively with their accompanying noises, were sharper now than they had been for six months. R.A.F. Monkston lay only another twenty miles ahead; and it was at Monkston that he was stationed when war broke out.
With his recollections came the physical response that made him shiver as though he were in an unheated cockpit at 30,000 feet, or crouching in a slit trench in Norway while the Germans bombed the airfield. He had always loathed the cold, but those few weeks of the farcical, abortive Norwegian campaign had made his hatred personal, it was so deep; as though Cold were an entity, anthropomorphic, tangible.
The Medical officers had said he would get over his nightmares and the horrors that could descend on him at any time in broad daylight. The bad memories and physical reactions never assailed him in the air; which, it seemed, was all that mattered. The doctors’ bland earnest reassurances were sometimes, however, accompanied by a look of such intensity that it made him wonder what was really in their thoughts.
Two years later, driving his six-year-old Morris Oxford two-seater along a country road in Sussex on a summer’s day, he still felt the cold biting into his flesh when he remembered the snow and strong winds, the frozen lakes; and the North Sea, where the ship that was taking him home was torpedoed.
The doctors had been kind, patient and emphatic. He would find out soon enough about himself and the truth of what they had said. His six-month “rest”, instructing at an operational training unit, was over. Now another - yet another - tour of ops confronted him. Not that instructing had been much of a respite from the danger of calamity. Flying in close formation with inexperienced pilots was often lethal: especially at low level - down to less than twenty feet, on some exercises - or in cloud; and in mock fights, when pupils also had a tendency to collide with their instructors. He had had to bail out only three weeks ago, his Spitfire’s tail fin and half a tail plane ripped off by an over-enthusiastic nineteen-year-old Canadian who had pressed a dummy attack as though he were a Japanese bent on suicide.
That brolly-hop was his fourth; so far. Thinking about it brought no sweat or chilly shudders, which was encouraging.
Intrepid, he told himself wryly. That’s what I am, downright intrepid. Come to think of it, I didn’t exactly funk a fight in Norway ... or the B of B - the Battle of Britain - or on the sweeps and Circuses and Rhubarbs that followed it. But I still get the fantods and flaming abdabs from those days.
He could see Spits taking off and coming in to land, although the airfield was still hidden by a slight rise in the ground, by trees and by Monkston village. High above he saw condensation trails made by others which he could not discern except as small shapeless glints of silver, their green and brown camouflage reflecting the sun like mirrors. At 5000 feet a Halifax lumbered past, presumably on a navigation exercise. In another direction a bright yellow Oxford trainer was cruising. Elsewhere in the sky he made out a Tiger Moth, circling an anti-aircraft site so that the gunners could practise aiming; a black Beaufighter night fighter; a pair of Blenheims. Everybody’s doing it now, he reflected. Three years ago, being able to fly an aircraft was a rare accomplishment. Now, insurance clerks and stock-brokers, undergraduates, grocers’ assistants and vacuum-cleaner salesmen, carpenters and lawyers are all getting in on the act.
A world gone mad with war! He smiled as he recalled the parodic recitation, popular in R.A.F. messes when drink was flowing, in which the sententious phrase recurred.
A world gone mad on defying the law of gravity, it seemed to him: it must be the pay that attracted them in preference to the Navy and Army. Or maybe it was the special appeal they thought a pilot’s wings held for the girls. It was all right with him: he didn’t care what the motive was, as long as they watched where they were going and didn’t fly into him or any of his friends. He didn’t resent the wartime intake. They were amateurs, but they were needed, they had their uses. Some of them, particularly those who joined at eighteen, would be good enough to be kept on after the war. Anything that was good for the Service had his approval. But it had taken a lot of getting used to: to fly with, to put his life to a great extent in the hands of, men whom he scarcely knew and whose ability he doubted. After two years of peacetime flying with the same squadron, that had come very hard.
There had been few changes among his comrades in those two years. A couple had been posted overseas, another two had died in accidents; his first Commanding Officer had been sent to Staff College, but his successor had taken over more than a year before war was declared. All the other pilots, both officers and sergeants, were his friends as well as his brothers-in-arms. He trusted their judgment and skill in the air, whether in formation drill, aerobatics or battle; as he knew they trusted his.
The first time he was shot down it had been because a Volunteer Reservist who had been only ten days on the squadron lost him while supposed to be keeping watch for an attack from astern. This had made him suspect all non-regulars; which in turn had made him the most demanding, and often intolerant, instructor at the O.T.U. he had just left. An Irish pupil had called him Hard Man Howard and the name had been taken up by all the others. It amused, and rather pleased, him. The R.A.F. was prolific with nicknames and he had been known, on his old squadron, as Boost: because he was a scorching sprinter on the track and rugger field. He played right wing three-quarter for the station or Fighter Command on Wednesdays and for a leading Sussex club on Saturdays. He won the 100 and 220 yards at Service and civilian athletics meetings consistently in the summer. Part of the pleasure of returning to squadron life was that he had left Hard Man behind and would be Boost again.
There was comfort in any link with the old days, the pre-war years and the first few months of the war; and he had two: returning to a long familiar station and, he knew, the use of his friendly and flattering nickname.
The Pig and Whistle was on the left as he drove through the centre of the village and he looked on it with some of the affection with which he regarded his family home in Wiltshire. But at The Manor he could still count on seeing his parents, his brother and sister, while too many faces he remembered with affection would never be seen again in the snug old inn.
The thought brought back the devil who sat so persistently on his shoulder. His hands felt cold and pins and needles prickled his feet, his pulse quickened. Then the main gate appeared around a curve in the road and all emotion had gone except the excitement of being back on a squadron.
The young conscript Service policeman (corporal, acting and unpaid; and automatically unpopular with the troops) checked his identity card, gave him a sycophantic salute.
It would be a happy station under Group Captain Jones’s firm but genial command, Howard reflected. He had known Jones when they were respectively pilot officer and wing commander.
He drove slowly towards Station Headquarters, taking in the changes since his first squadron had left here, eighteen months ago, for a quieter sector in Lincolnshire. There were Nissen and wooden huts in unfamiliar places, and a third huge hangar loomed beside the others. More airmen and W.A.A.F. moved about from building to building or along the camp roads. With three squadrons based here instead of two, the population had noticeably grown. But it was still Monkston, where he had been happy.
He would feel better now if he were not coming to fill a dead man’s shoes. It was never easy to replace a good flight commander; all the more difficult when he had been as well liked as this predecessor. Being posted in to take over after a man who had been killed in action a week ago brought a heightened reminder of the special dangers of leadership. The posting was a compliment. The squadron had asked for an immediate replacement, but Fighter Command kept the vacancy open until he could reasonably be released by Flying Training Command. The augury was excellent: command of a squadron before long.
He parked outside No 2 hangar and paused for a moment to watch two Spitfires take off together, then entered the echoing steel vastness and went upstairs to the squadron Adjutant’s office. In the old days, the job had been done as an ancillary duty by one of the pilots. Now, it was a full-time one. The flying officer seated behind the desk was thirtyish and bespectacled, wingless, with the air of a conscientious prefect in a shoddy public school. He did not stand up. “Ah! Howard?”
“Flight Lieutenant Howard.” Regulars’ etiquette demanded formality on a first official meeting.
Fishy eyes took in the two faded rings of braid and the D.F.C. ribbon. The Adjutant rose and leaned over his desk to shake hands; his was as cold as a fish, too. “We’ve been looking forward to ... welcome to the squadron ...”
“Is the C.O. in or flying?”
“He’s in. If you’d just sign the ... er ...” The Arrivals book lay open. The formalities of booking in were brief. The Adjutant opened the door to the adjoining room, mumbled and stood aside to motion the new flight commander into his squadron commander’s office.
The squadron leader’s battle dress blouse bore a D.S.O. and D.F.C. He had straw coloured hair and a livid burn scar disfigured his right cheek. The glazed and shrunken flesh tugged the corner of his mouth up in what looked misleadingly like an incipient smile. He walked round the desk with his hand outstretched. “Glad to have you on the squadron, Boost old boy.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m lucky to get the posting.” It was his way of acknowledging that Squadron Leader Kennard had maintained the squadron’s high reputation, which dated back to the Great War.
Kennard pushed a chair forward with his foot and perched on the edge of his desk while Howard removed his Service Dress cap. “Have a pew.” He regarded Howard with attention. “How long did they keep you at O.T.U.?”
“Six months almost to the day.”
“You were lucky. I got done for nearly nine.”
They had been on different squadrons at a station in Kent for a couple of months after the British Expeditionary Force’s retreat from France in June 1940. Howard said “You probably did a longer first tour than I did.” He knew that Kennard had spent a long time in hospital, too, after being scorched, but that was not an episode to which to allude. “I was glad to get away: some of the pupils they’re sending to O.T.U. these days should still be at F.T.S.”
“The flying training schools are sausage machines these days. Can’t expect the wartime system to produce polished flying. The end product doesn’t really learn how to avoid killing himself or other people until he gets to a squadron.”
They were happily in accord: the squadron commander a product of the R.A.F. College, Cranwell, and Howard of the long training given to pre-war short service commission pilots.
Kennard returned to his chair. “You know Bisto Lambert, my A Flight commander.”
Howard looked amused. “I didn’t know he was on the squadron, Bobby.” He had paid his dues with a “sir” on reporting and would scrupulously so address his C.O. on duty and in others’ presence in mess or anywhere else; but it was not expected in private between former equals, friends. “Is he the same?”
“Bisto’ll never change.” It was said with a laugh.
Flight Lieutenant Lambert had earned his nickname as a newly commissioned pilot officer. He was tall and lissom, astonishingly handsome and very much of a dandy. His early life in the Service could have been made miserable but for the fact that he was an R.A.F. cricket and squash “blue”; an elegant batsman and devastating fast bowler. Lambert was ardently pursued by young women: one of whom, a peer’s daughter, had ensnared him into an engagement; and given him a present of a large bottle of after-shaving lotion. Few Britons used such a product in those days, and in the fighting Services that kind of indulgence was highly suspect. Poor Jimmy Lambert was reluctant to apply his fiancée’s expensive Mayfair-concocted gift to his skin. She insisted crossly. His nickname was instantly born. The engagement was brief, the bottle was still half-full; and Lambert had acquired a liking for its contents. When it was empty, he had bought another. Nobody held it against him: he was popular, not only because of his prowess at ball games but also because he was amusing and a good pilot.
Bisto Lambert was someone else with whom Howard had served in the Battle of Britain: different squadron, same station, but not the one at which he had first known Kennard. Lambert had also been on the course ahead of Howard’s at flying train
ing school.
“Where is he?”
“Airborne: doing P.Is with one of the new boys.”
Practice interceptions under the close guidance of a ground-control-of-interception radar station were a valuable part of any fighter pilot’s constant training, even the most experienced.
“Which G.C.Is do we work with? Wartling and Sandwich?”
“Mostly Wartling. They’re both good.”
“I’d better get myself airborne with them this afternoon.”
“Let’s go along to dispersals and I’ll introduce you to the chaps. I’ll let you form your own opinions of your flight: we can talk about them in a week or so. You’ve got a very sound deputy flight commander: Megson, a Canadian; and a Frenchman and one Pole.” Amusement showed on Kennard’s face again. “I won’t say any more.”
Howard knew what that portended. “Both a bit round the bend, are they?”
“Harpic, old boy.” This was a famous brand of lavatory cleaner whose advertising slogan was “It cleans round the bend”. The R.A.F. had typically adopted the brand name to refer to anyone regarded as notably wild or mad: clean round the bend.
“Oh, God!”
“You’re not an orphan, as the Aussies say: A Flight have got the same enfants terribles, another Frog and Pole. I keep them apart. By the way, you’ve got the Squadron Aussie, as well.” Kennard fell abruptly silent.
Howard looked at him. “And?”
“And nothing. As I said, I’ll leave you to form your own conclusions.” Kennard braked his Austin Ten staff car outside the crew room. He spoke casually, but his look lost all trace of amusement. Even the updrawn side of his mouth no longer suggested it. “Have you heard we’re getting a new station commander this afternoon?”
“No. Who?”
“Gus Northam.” Kennard looked straight ahead as he spoke. His tone was flat. Howard wondered whether he disliked Northam as much as he himself did or whether Kennard had heard something that had prompted him to spare a friend’s feelings.
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