It was not until the autumn that operational pressure eased. Howard was relieved that he had come through the sweeps, Circuses and Rhubarbs of spring and summer without falling foul of this baleful man; his incubus.
He was deputy flight commander. His present flight commander was a South African, whose idol was his compatriot Sailor Malan. This made him a little dangerous because he was so uninhibitedly in pursuit of fame. The fact that he was the third flight commander in seven months was evidently an incentive: he doubted that he had much longer to live. In fact only one of his immediate predecessors had been killed. Another was badly wounded and the third promoted to command a squadron.
The current squadron commander was the second since the boisterous New Zealander whom Howard had seen killed on a Rhubarb. The latter’s first successor had been shot down on a sweep and taken prisoner. The latest incumbent was a Scot whose features looked as though they had been hacked out of Aberdeen granite by a sculptor with a hangover and a grievance against his subject. His dour lopsided look inspired awe in those who did not know him well, but he was kind of heart and had a good dry sense of humour. Howard had the feeling that their C.O. kept a permanent wary eye on his flight commander.
One morning, after two non-operational days occasioned by bad weather, the Group controller had optimistically put the squadron on 30 minutes’ availability. Howard was on his way to dispersals with Krieger, the South African. There were several ways of going from the mess to dispersals. A few people had their own cars, but hoarded their petrol coupons and if an officer or sergeant pilot drove himself too often he came under suspicion of buying black market petrol or stealing it from the Service. Transport was provided from both officers’ and sergeants’ messes, but on fine days some preferred to walk or cycle.
Krieger, who was tall, burly and close-cropped, was a fanatical sportsman, obsessed with the necessity to keep himself “superbly fit, man”. He was a “rugby player, man” of some distinction, an inter-province cricketer, a long-distance runner and a boxer. Howard was probably a better rugger player than he, but contented himself in the early season with an occasional three-mile run to get himself fit and relied on playing twice a week to stay that way.
Krieger considered it soft to be driven to dispersals. He cycled, whatever the weather. When it was wet, he wore waterproof leggings and, against regulations, an oilskin anti-gas cape. There were some rattling spare bicycles at the back of the mess, under the open shelter where cars were parked. It was the aim of the officers on Krieger’s flight to get clear every morning and after lunch before he nabbed them and asked them to ride with him.
Howard had not managed to escape this morning. Krieger loomed over him in the hall. “Just the man I want, man. Get a bike and come with me. I want to make a plan, man.”
Krieger was always wanting to make a plan: whether it concerned a flight piss-up in the local town, a training programme, an operation or the seduction of some W.A.A.F. who had aroused his volatile passion.
So they were pedalling briskly along the camp roads and Krieger was being voluble. “It’s getting on my wick, Boost man: every time we do a trip it’s the same, it’s monotonous. Whether it’s an ordinary sweep, a Circus or a Rhubarb, there’s no variety and Jerry keeps out of the way unless he can put up a bloody great Balbo, three times as many as us.” Marshal Balbo, the famous Italian airman, had pioneered mass-formation flying, been the first to lead a formation across the Atlantic, and was admired even by his enemies for his prowess. The R.A.F. had given his name to any large formation.
“Good thing, too,” Howard said cheerfully.
Jaape Krieger gave him a shocked stare.
God! Now he’ll suspect me of L.M.F., Howard told himself. He found that he wasn’t much bothered.
“But we can’t shoot the buggers down, man, unless they come up and fight.”
“True, O King. But they can’t shoot us down either. I take some comfort from that.”
Krieger looked mournful. “Look, I know you’ve been shot down more times than I have, Boost, I know you’ve bailed out and ditched, and I respect the fact that you’ve hacked down twice as many Jerries as I have. But anyone who didn’t know you would think you’re a pacifist, to hear you talk.”
“I am, Jaape, I am.” Howard was still cheerful. It was a pity, he thought, that Jaape Krieger did not understand self-depreciating and self-deprecating public school humour. “Man,” he added, as a friendly gesture, to show that he too could master the South African vernacular.
Kreiger muttered to himself briefly in Afrikaans, then gave Howard a grin which was like a fissure appearing in a joint of beef, which was what his face resembled. “Ja, well I want to make a plan that’ll give us a bit more sport.”
“Any time you’d care for a game of squash ...”
“Listen, man!” Krieger, who had a slow fuse, was showing the first signs of impatience. “I want to talk it over with you first, so please be serious.”
“What’s your plan, then?”
Krieger took a deep breath. He spoke with modest pride, as might a thick youngster, habitually bottom of his form, who has at last got the most marks by dint of effort. “I don’t want The Baas to pinch it, man.” “The Boss” was the common way of referring to one’s C.O. and Jaape Krieger had his native version. “I mean, I don’t want the whole squadron to get in on this at first.”
What Homeric venture was this gong-crazy gorilla about to propound? Some terrifying feat of arms in which he was about to invite his deputy to take part, alone, with him?
“Say on, Jaape. I am all ears.” And they don’t look like purple cauliflowers, like yours, chum, thank God.
“My plan is to escort the Hurri-bomber boys when they do their Channel Stop stuff.”
That was the code name for strikes against shipping along the French coast.
“I see.” Howard kept his voice level, whereas it wanted to quaver. Christ! He thought. He abjured blasphemy. This was more in the nature of a prayer.
“I knew you’d be keen.” Kreiger looked pleased. “If you’ll help me work out the details, I’ll put it to The Baas and claim first go.” He began to grow almost effervescent. “We can specialise in it, man, and become so hot that we’ll get all the Channel Stop escorts.”
That’s what I’m afraid of, was what Howard wanted to say. Instead he temporised. “We’ll need to put in some low-flying practice in formation, over water.”
“Good man: I hadn’t thought of that.”
Krieger began to pedal faster, crooning “Sari Marais” in the original Afrikaans. Mutely, Howard tried to keep pace, brooding. He wished that his flight commander would sing “Take Me Back To The Old Transvaal” and that some benevolent magician could transform his plea to reality.
He did not doubt that their squadron commander would endorse the suggestion. The squadron leader, known to all as “Jock”, would weigh it up fairly but was bound to be prejudiced in favour of any proposal that shed lustre on his squadron. What Jaape had probably not reckoned on was that The Baas would lead the first operation himself. Wing Commander Northam would certainly be in favour of it. He encouraged enterprise. And he too would take the lead on occasion; perhaps even the first occasion.
The squadron leader was not in the dispersal hut. Krieger pedalled robustly off to his office in the hangar. He’ll get a flea in his ear for trotting off when we’re on 30 minutes, thought Howard. Just as well there’s plenty of room in those bloody great lugs of his for an outsize flea. And his skin’s as thick as a hippo’s: he won’t even notice he’s being torn off a mild strip.
But Krieger came back in a few minutes, beaming. There was no real reason for him to stay out at dispersals, as long as he could be back in time to climb into his cockpit at 30 minutes’ notice. The trouble was that Group had a habit of advancing the state of preparedness suddenly to Readiness, which meant being ready to scramble within five minutes; or Stand-by, which meant sitting strapped into the cockpit with engine warmed up and
able to take off in two minutes. In practice, a good squadron on Readiness was able to get airborne in two or three minutes and, on Stand-by, in one or a little over.
Anyway, The Boss had heard Krieger and sent him off without a rebuke. Perhaps, thought Howard, he knew that to scold would have been profitless. Kreiger’s slow wits seemed to go into a trance when he was absorbed in some idea or activity. The whole squadron - the whole wing, indeed - recognised when he was hot in pursuit of some girl: he would go dreamily about his duties with a rapturous expression and temporary hardness of hearing. When looking forward to an operation across the Channel he behaved in the same abstracted manner.
He lowered himself into the chair next to Howard. The chair creaked. Howard’s nerves twitched.
“Well?”
“Bang on, man. The Baas said O.K. He’s having a word with The Wingco now.”
Everyone in the hut was watching them, interested. Somebody asked “Making a plan, Jaape?”
Krieger looked pleased and bashful. “It’s made, man. I’ve talked it over with Boost and I’ve just been to see The Baas.”
“What is it, then? Did he give you permission to take a sjambok to anyone who doesn’t hold formation?”
Someone else, adopting the tone of spurious interest which seldom failed to launch Krieger on a dissertation about his native land, asked “Is it really true they make ‘em from a rhino’s prick?”
A third voice suggested alternative providers of the same organ: an elephant, hippo or giraffe, surely, would have a bigger one?
This red herring effectively distracted attention from the original curiosity, in a noisy welter of vulgarity and guffaws. A fighter pilots’ dispersal hut could yield some bizarrely imaginative and salacious conjecture, humour and high spirits.
This flow of scabrous wit and ribaldry stopped abruptly with the opening of the door and the arrival of their Commanding Officer. Jock’s Aberdonian face was, as usual, inscrutable. His eyes, however, held a glint for which his pilots’ enthusiasm was tepid. Somewhere, thought Howard, a pibroch should be playing; and it should be playing a ruddy lament.
“Group have laid on an interesting wee diversion for eleven hundred hours.” Jock’s eyes rested on Kreiger, then scanned the gathering. “A flight of Hurri-bombers are coming down from Lincolnshire to refuel here. We’re going to escort them on a Channel Stop off Le Touquet. It seems there’s a string of barges being towed away from Boulogne and Calais, to Antwerp and Rotterdam, escorted by E boats and two flak ships. Spy will have the gen presently and he can brief us on the details.”.
The familiar reaction to an unpleasant prospect in a frivolous release of nervous tension stimulated the usual fantasies and cackling laughter.
“I’ve always wanted to take a close look at Le Touquet ...”
“My uncle lost some golf clubs there ...”
“My aunt lost her virginity there ...”
“I wonder if the casino’s full of Jerries now, bawling at the croupiers to call ‘Nichts geht mehr’ instead of ‘Rien ne va plus?’ ”
“Don’t show off, Smithy ...”
“Your accent’s lousy, anyway ...”
“Come to think of it I lost my virginity there, too ...”
“Lord, what a line!”
“What exactly is a flak ship? I never bother to look down ...”
“I’ve got a stinking hangover ... I feel far too ill to die this morning ... can I stay behind, please?”
Howard said quietly to Krieger “I told you so: if you trot out an idea, nobody with another ring on his cuff can leave well alone. Now you’ve dropped the whole squadron in the clag.”
Krieger looked hurt. “But you said it was a good plan, man.”
“Too bloody good.”
Visibility was lamentably excellent when they took off and remained so all the way. The Hurricane pilots had said little but looked glum as they drank coffee in the dispersal but and peered out at the sky to the south-east. They explained their bomb-aiming technique and Howard confided to one of his friends that it made his blood run cold to listen to them. It emerged that on some attacks they half-rolled and, at a calculated moment, pulled through into a vertical dive before releasing their 250-pounders. On others, they flew very low and dead straight at the target, released their bombs from very close to it, so that they would make a flat trajectory and hit the side of a ship; then tried to break before they would be caught in their own bomb blast.
The sea twinkled incongruously in the sunlight, as though the formation were on a pleasure trip. The pilot who claimed that he had never seen a flak ship quickly learned that these were trawlers converted to carry several 20 mm cannon.
The E boats were armed with two 20 mm and one 37 mm cannon.
This, the Spitfire pilots learned early in the sortie. One E boat was cruising far out on a flank of its charges. It picked off a Hurricane with the first burst from its 37 mm. A few seconds later, a Spitfire went down.
From then on the operation became a flurry of coruscating tracer, black smudges of bursting 37s, burning barges and a sinking tug. Another Hurricane crashed into the sea after releasing its bombs.
Ten FW190s and Ten Me109Fs scorched into view from landward. The flak ceased, but the air was still thick with criss-crossing tracer.
Howard held a Focke-Wulf in his reflector sight and had fired a burst of only one second’s duration when bullets from another FW190 came through the side of his cockpit and damaged his trimming wheel beyond use. More bullets smashed his radio and artificial horizon.
He did not need the trimming wheel in a fight and he could manage, in daylight and good visibility, without an artificial horizon. But when a 20 mm shell sheared off several inches from the 20 mm gun in his starboard wing, which protruded from the leading edge, and another sent oil spraying over his windscreen, he felt the time had come to quit the scene.
That was all very well; but with those damnable 109Fs and 190s all around, both types capable of greater speed than his Spitfire VB, it was going to be very unhealthy to try to extricate himself and depart; especially as half his forward vision was obscured.
He dared not turn so tightly that he blacked out, so near the water and without an artificial horizon. Even a grey-out might be fatal. If, however, he did not turn tightly enough to stay inside any enemy aircraft’s turn, he might as well say his last prayers. Either that or bail out and have done with it. But he had no intention of spending the rest of the war in a prison camp. He had no intention of being killed, either.
He flew straight at an Me109 that was turning in to attack him and it jinked aside so late that its slipstream tossed him about wildly. Beyond it was a 190, also preparing to shoot at him. He hurtled straight at it and it sideslipped in panic. His mirror showed no-one taking any particular interest in him. At full throttle, he dived to within a few feet of the whitecaps and hared home.
He was the first to return and Wing Commander Northam was waiting at dispersals.
“What’s the trouble?”
Howard told him.
“Didn’t you take a squirt before you got hit?”
“About one second, sir.”
“What were you hanging about for? Why were you holding your fire?”
“I fired as soon as I had a One-Ninety in my sight, sir.”
“You must have taken your time about it.”
“I don’t follow, sir.” He followed only too well and knew that he was going red in the face.
“Twenty ferries and only twelve of you ... not counting the Hurricanes ... and you couldn’t sort out a target? With your experience?”
“That was exactly how it was, sir: a hell of a shambles, aircraft all over the place and flak from several different directions before that.”
A year later and Howard could still recall clearly the sceptical grimness of Northam’s eyes and the malicious twist of his mouth.
It was poetic justice, he thought, when Northam, leading an escort for a whole squadron of Hurri-bombers th
e following week, was badly shot up. His aircraft suffered severe damage, he was wounded, and further injured in his crash landing.
It transpired that he had not fired even one second’s worth of ammunition; and he, too, was the first, by some ten minutes, to leave the fight.
When he emerged from hospital a month later, he had already been posted away from the station. Howard’s pleasure at this was shared by many.
Eleven
The friendly atmosphere of a squadron, the ambience in which Howard felt totally at home, was balm for his lingering worry that Northam would be alert for any excuse to harass and discredit him. With a straightforward squadron commander like Bobby Kennard, a charmer such as Bunny Reid as wing leader, and Bisto Lambert as senior flight commander, every other facet of his life was serene. Even for Northam he felt respect, despite the dislike, for his flying skill, bravery and leadership in action.
Among the ebullient pilots of B Flight, two diffident figures caught his special attention. He had flown with Frenchmen and Poles before and knew that the apparent shyness and reticence of many of them hid a deep unhappiness and shame. The French felt humiliated by their country’s quick collapse under German invasion and the turpitude of the politicians who had brought it about. They were humbled by, and resentful of, having to rely on Britain - and, later, America - to clothe, house, feed and pay them. Their welcome to the R.A.F. and being given the world’s finest fighter to fly made their obligation and its indignity more acute.
Polish pride had the ferocity of a small nation’s which unhesitatingly launched cavalry against tanks, inferior numbers and arms against a savage horde equipped with the most modern weapons, and knew that if numbers had been equal its impetuous bravery would have won.
For both there was the abiding sorrow of separation from their families and the uncertainty of what had befallen them, the thoughts of the hardships and cruelties that the Germans must surely be inflicting on them.
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