Fighters Up

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  How many would there be? What would they be: fighters only, or a small bomber force heavily escorted? Did it matter? Not really: the bombers were easier meat than the Spitfires, but there was greater satisfaction in out-manoeuvring another fighter than in pouncing on a Blenheim. He had sometimes even felt sorry for the Blenheim crews in the very act of killing them. He wouldn’t feel like that today. It wasn’t the enemy’s fault that Heinie had been killed: but if they hadn’t shot him down in the first place ... Profitless reflection, he told himself.

  God! There they are: what a swarm ... must be more than two hundred of the bastards ... can’t see any bombers ... God! That means they’ll all be waiting to take us on ... none of them will have to stay close to bombers. Why the hell do I feel so unconfident?

  Me109Fs and FW190s were converging on the enemy formation from three directions, in eights and tens and in larger numbers of two, three or four Staffeln together. It had always been reassuring to see friends coming to do battle, and today should be no different: there were at least as many of them as of the raiders. But this afternoon he felt inexplicably helpless; as though caught in a strong current of events over which he had no control and of which the outcome would be unpleasant.

  He had often felt afraid and was not ashamed of it, because he had always overcome it and he knew that everyone else felt equally afraid from time to time. It was not feeling afraid that should cause shame, but succumbing to it. He could not believe that he would ever show cowardice, but it was a very long time since he had experienced this present degree of fear.

  When he had first gone into action in Spain and Poland he had felt no twinge of fear, because he had despised the quality of the enemy’s aircraft and their paucity of numbers. Over France, facing the R.A.F., he had always at first been afraid until battle was joined: but that phase soon passed. Since then he had known only an occasional stab of intense fear when he found himself seemingly trapped, being attacked by two or three enemy fighters. But he had always survived and years of survival had given him immense confidence which banished fear.

  He found his thoughts roving off at a tangent. The image of Hienie Rumpf’s crash thrust itself before his mind’s eye. He had been staring straight ahead at the enemy. Staring fixedly in any one direction was courting death if you were a fighter pilot. He jerked his head from side to side and turned it to gaze into the heights above. The distance between defenders and attackers had not yet closed to combat range, and it was unlikely that any vanguard of enemy fighters had already penetrated so deeply and was already in position overhead, about to swoop. But keeping a constant all-round lookout was a habit one should never break.

  The Spitfires were stacked between about 5000 and 7000 metres, he estimated. His Staffel had been ordered up to 8000. He searched the upper sky. A cluster of aircraft was making condensation trails 1000 metres higher than his little lot. His were not alone, however: there were another eight 190s on his right and ten 109s on his left.

  There was something odd about those aeroplanes overhead. They did not have the distinctive pointed wings of the Spitfire.

  Typhoons! That was what they must be, Typhoons: the first R.A.F. fighters that were capable of more than 400 miles an hour ... 640 kilometres. He had not encountered them since their recent introduction to squadron service, but he had learned from Intelligence reports that they were armed with twelve machineguns. He had also heard from pilots who had fought them that their rate of climb was poor. They must have taken off well ahead of the Spitfires, then, to make altitude.

  The condensation trails took a downward curve.

  Here they come!

  Twelve machine guns were a formidable armament, but the 190’s cannon had much the longer range. In the grip of his usual fighting fervour, Thorwald prepared to enjoy himself as he watched the Typhoons approach.

  The 109s were spread at intervals of between 100 and 200 metres, in their customary pairs. The enemy, in finger fours, were more closely spaced. Thorwald chose his victim. His thoughts and emotions were no longer apprehensive and unsettling, but moved swiftly in an exciting stream of anticipation. He turned towards his target in a shallow climb.

  Tracer spurted from its wings. For a moment he ridiculed the pilot mentally for a panicky burst of fire before he was within range.

  Then it dawned on him that there were only four streams of tracer, not twelve. And they were drawing bigger smudges across the empty air than did machinegun fire. Cannon, by God!

  The first shells flitted past only centimetres from his cockpit canopy. Even as he had realised what was coming at him, his marvellously swift reaction had saved him. He shifted automatically out of the hail of cannon shells and began turning to place himself on the tail of the big heavy enemy fighter as it tore past.

  His first burst of fire slammed into the Typhoon’s engine, which instantly began to emit streaks of flame and a plume of smoke. There was no need to waste ammunition on hitting it again. The pilot would have to bail out within a few seconds.

  Thorwald looked for another easy victim: and saw a Spitfire astern and slightly above. As he turned hard to evade it, he climbed so that he would be able to reverse their positions. But this enemy pilot knew a thing or two and immediately flattened out. An instant later Thorwald felt machinegun bullets thud into his port wing. He knew that, after this sighting burst, shells would follow ... and then the raging flames of ignited petrol. He sideslipped, desperate all of a sudden, momentarily unbalanced, thrown out of his usual calm stability in action. But although his movement was rough, his experience and high reaction speed saved him.

  But the man flying the Spitfire was persistent. Thorwald had not shaken him off. The Spitfire whirled into a downward spiral and more bullets hammered against the 190: the unpleasant orange splashes of incendiaries. They were ripping through the 190’s wingtips, doing no great harm, but threatening destruction if the pilot shifted his aim a little. Thorwald went into a steep climb, taking care not to give his adversary a plan view of the 190, presenting the smallest possible surface to him.

  For a few seconds there was no more shooting. Briefly, Thorwald lost sight of his attacker. The Spitfire reappeared. They were at the same altitude, both turning tightly again, each trying to turn inside the other. Deadlock. No, it must not be. I’ve got to get a decent shot at him. But Thorwald was greying out. He eased his turn and at once cannon shells began bursting behind him.

  He was swung, with sudden violence, from side to side as though he were going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

  The 190’s nose pitched steeply down as it gyrated with increasing speed. My rudder and elevator controls have been shot away! Then, a second later, he saw that he had neither rudder nor elevators.

  He had no tail unit at all. Only a truncated fin and one stump of tailplane remained.

  At least, he told himself with a touch of grim humour, there’s less for me to bash into when I bail out.

  Thirteen

  There was an aircraft hand on the squadron who had been a sign writer in civilian life. It was his task - and pleasure - to paint on the Spitfires the swastikas which denoted kills. He was hovering around the voluble group of pilots, paint pots and brushes in hand, listening, waiting for the flight sergeant to give him his instructions.

  Everyone looked pleased, but Odchodski, although he had shot down a FW190 on the afternoon’s sweep, sidled up to Howard with an anxious expression. “Not scrub around Rhubarb, I hope?”

  “You’re a glutton, Oddy. The Rhubarb’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Why Group put squadron on sweep again so soon?”

  “Because it was a last-minute maximum effort order from Command.”

  “Is still time for Rhubarb.”

  “Belt up, Oddy; don’t be a bind.”

  Jannier had been standing near Howard, looking as if he was trying to make up his mind to say something but thinking better of it. Now he spoke. “It would take the Boches by surprise, Boost, if we took off again as so
on as possible.”

  “Not you, too! If you stop binding about it, I’ll ask The Boss if we can lay it on for first light tomorrow.” Jannier looked pained. “But we’re being released until nine tomorrow morning.”

  “And you’ve arranged to sleep off camp with some popsie, I suppose? Well, tough titty. I don’t like getting up at sparrow fart any more than you do: but I’ll lay the Rhubarb on for first light tomorrow, if the C.O. agrees. Message received and understood?”

  “Strength Five,” Jannier said, with a smile of defeat. “What is a hangover between friends.”

  Megson chipped in. “Sure will be a thrash tonight. How many did we get altogether?” He called out “What’s the score, Spy?”

  The Intelligence officer looked up from his clipboard. “Just totting it up, Meg. One for the C.O ... one for you ... two for Boost ... Oddy, one ... Bisto, one ... Flight Sergeant Smith, two ... Sergeant Brown, one ... Nobby Clarke, one. That’s the lot.”

  “What about the other squadrons?” asked Squadron Leader Kennard. “Get on the blower, Spy, and find out.”

  Sergeant Brown, who had been flying Number Two to Howard, had scored his first victory and was looking as happy as a boy with a long-coveted birthday gift. He was a red-haired eighteen-year-old with a plump and innocent face and a frank admiration for all the seasoned pilots, above all his own flight commander.

  “Good show, Brownie,” Howard said.

  “You gave it to me,” Brown said, smiling hugely. “You held off so I could get a burst in ...”

  “Don’t kid yourself!”

  “I know ... anyway ... that first One-Ninety you hacked down ... I was trying to get a shot at him while you were both dodging about all over the sky ... that was wizard, the way you ...” He broke off to demonstrate, with his hands, how Howard had tricked the One-Ninety pilot ... riddled his engine with twenty-mil, and made the bugger bail out. He had an interested audience.

  “We’ll all have to look to our laurels now,” Lambert said. “Ace of aces, that’s what Boost is: two on one sweep ... ages since anyone did that.” He paused for just the right length of time, while everyone waited in silence; then finished, with a self-deprecating shake of the head. “Not since I bagged those three over Calais, and Spy only allowed me two confirmed.”

  This aroused the howls of derision and rebuke that he had intended. He pretended to look injured amid the laughter and the shouts for an instant entry to be made in the squadron line-book.

  Howard, as they all drifted to the pilots’ hut, caught the disconsolate looks on the faces of “his” Pole and Frenchman, who were in quiet conversation. He quickened his step to catch up with them. “Listen, you two, the Rhubarb’s on for tomorrow morning because I’ve got a date tomorrow evening: savvy?”

  They both gave him a startled look, then beamed their understanding and approval.

  Jannier shrugged and spread his hands. “I am glad you have the right priorities, cher ami.”

  Odchodski nodded vigorously. “Is beautiful Waal from last night dance, I think.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Howard said amiably. “You just keep off the grass.”

  Odchodski looked confused. “I not do it on grass ... for this reason I buy car ... with big back seat.”

  “English idiom,” Jannier informed him. “It means don’t trespass ... n’empiètes pas sur son territoire.”

  Odchodski looked shocked. “I never try for flight commander girl.”

  “Good!” said Howard. “Or flight commander try for shoot you down.”

  Oddy chuckled and the cigarette between Jannier’s lips oscillated with his amusement.

  Whatever erotic plans they might have had for that evening, both were present in the mess after dinner for the three squadrons’ ebullient celebration of the success of that afternoon’s sweep.

  Shortly before ten-o’clock, Howard was called to the telephone. A diffident voice asked “Flight Lieutenant Howard? Simon?”

  His brain was a little sluggish. A few seconds passed before he said, in surprise, “Pamela?”

  “Yes. Congratulations, Simon.”

  “Oh! ... Thank you. Aren’t you on watch?”

  “Yes, but I’ve just been relieved ... I’m in the rest room.”

  “You haven’t got a telephone there, surely, so that you can all call your boyfriends?”

  Was he being a bit premature about thus categorising himself?

  She didn’t seem to think so. She chuckled. “The PBX operators are cooperative. Yes, we have an extension, so that the Queen Bee can get through to us if she’s worried about the welfare of her gals. Also, the controller can get us back into the Ops Room quickly.”

  The Queen Bee, the W.A.A.F. C.O., was a strikingly pretty forty-year-old, married to an air commodore now serving in the desert. She was reputed to be providing the married senior Medical officer with some of the home comforts of which absence from his wife deprived him. Howard thought it unlikely that she lost much sleep from worry about her charges.

  “I don’t think you should tell me things like that!” The telephone operators were contravening orders.

  “I’m a simple, trusting soul.” She didn’t much sound like it, to judge by the little laugh that accompanied her declaration.

  “Stay that way. See you tomorrow. And thanks for calling.”

  “We’re all terribly thrilled.”

  “I’ll try to give you a bigger one tomorrow.”

  She chuckled again. “I’ll look forward to it. Good night, Simon.”

  He rejoined the turmoil in the bar and ante-room feeling more carefree and lighthearted than he had for many months.

  ***

  Birdsong. Pearly light. The fresh smell of new-mown grass. None of these evoked a pleasurable response in a man who had passed several hours in rowdy, beery revelry and been called from his bed after only four hours’ sleep.

  There was no conversation between the four of them when they met in the dining-room for toast and coffee, or in the light pickup Hillman van in which a perky W.A.A.F. driver took them to dispersals. A cigarette smouldered between Jannier’s lips. Odchodski gazed out at the sky. He spent hours doing so whenever he was forced to remain on the ground. Megson kept rubbing a bruise on his cheek, incurred in a generally bruising tournament at cockfighting. In front, seated next to the driver, Howard mentally checked his flight plan and attack tactics; wishing he were still abed.

  He thought he saw a familiar - all too familiar - figure striding - the stride was also unpleasantly familiar - along the line of blast pens. He blinked. It could not possibly be. Yet it was, for he saw the car with its pennant limp in the still air, parked by the pilots’ hut.

  The tall, heavy figure turned at the sound of the van. Howard jumped out and saluted.

  Group Captain Northam gave a sketchy acknowledgment. “You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you, Boost?”

  To hell with the bastard. Insubordination, distaste and anger rose instantly. “No, sir. We’re exactly on time.”

  “I see.” Northam looked amused. “It depends, I suppose, on what one considers the best time for take-off. I’d have preferred to make it rather earlier, personally.”

  “We didn’t think that would be a good idea, sir.” The anger in Howard’s voice was plain.

  “Oh? Running your flight on the Soviet system, are you? Rule by committee instead of personal command?”

  “Far from it, sir. Jannier happens to be a bit of an expert on this particular target. I discussed it with him. But the decision is mine ... and the responsibility.”

  Northam nodded, still showing signs of mocking amusement. It was not unusual for him to turn up to see the first take-offs. On the other hand, it was not frequent either. He had stayed late in mess the previous night. No doubt this visitation was intended to display his resilience, the fact that he was as tough and fit as anyone fifteen years younger. To hell with him, Howard thought.

  The other three joined them hesitantly, saluted
, were perfunctorily returned the courtesy; and treated to the group captain’s glacial inspection. “About time I did a Rhubarb again. One gets out of practice; which is not very good for one’s health.”

  Howard’s large and small intestines, his stomach, bladder and anal sphincter all wobbled, contracted, expanded, felt as though they had received a large forced-feed of frozen frogspawn, according to their various natures. Was Groupie about to wish himself on them? He said nothing. An extra sense, which he did not know he possessed, seemed to enable him to be aware of what was going on out of his line of sight: the others’ uneasiness communicated itself to him. He heard Jannier cough. It was not a mere smoker’s early morning hawk. It was a rasp of pure mental discomfort more than physical.

  Northam said “I’ve seen your routes out and back. You aren’t leaving anything to chance, I see.” His manner made Howard bristle. He knew he was flushing and felt annoyed with himself for letting Northam see that the sarcasm had been noticed and resented. So what? He had chosen a long route to the target for safety’s sake; a circuitous approach which would not give away the objective and would avoid the zones of greatest danger from flak or fighters. Nothing to be ashamed of in that. It was his job to bring his pilots back alive and their aircraft intact.

  “I’ve done my best not to, sir. May we carry on please?” He looked at his watch.

  “Yes, and good hunting.” There was doubt and mockery in the valediction.

  The four of them walked away and while they were putting on their Irvine jackets Howard quickly went through all that they were to do. Then they went to their aeroplanes, where their parachutes awaited them, placed by their ground crews according to the pilot’s individual preference. Howard liked his on the port wing, as did Jannier. Megson preferred his to be already in the cockpit. Odchodski wanted his on the port tail plane.