by Garry Ryan
“Go!” O’Malley took her by the elbow.
She ran to the corner of the hangar with her parachute banging at the backs of her legs and stopped to turn and see if he was behind her when she reached the corner. Christ, I didn’t take my parachute off.
O’Malley was on the fighter’s wing again. He was helping the pilot out of his Spitfire.
Her father and the pilot jumped down off the wing.
A string of bombs exploded with one deafening crump after another. Clods of earth and clouds of dust were thrown into the air.
A Dornier 17, with its glass nose and green-grey camouflage, was fifty feet off the ground and headed their way. She could see the gunner as he opened up. White-tailed tracer bullets reached out to them.
Some bullets whizzed overtop of the Spitfire. Others whined past her as they skipped off the concrete. One ricocheted past her nose.
Sharon dropped down to one knee and watched Patrick as he turned to run toward her.
She saw a startled look come over her father’s face.
O’Malley fell onto his knees and coughed up blood. He leaned forward. His head touched the ground. There were two holes in the back of his coveralls.
“Run, you daft bitch!” The pilot ran past Sharon.
O’Malley rolled onto his side.
This isn’t happening. Sharon jumped up and ran to her father.
The Dornier screamed overhead with its guns still firing. The ground heaved as a bomb exploded on the other side of the hangar. Sharon was knocked to the ground. She crawled forward on her hands and knees.
Another Dornier flew over the runway and dropped its bombs.
Sharon crawled next to her father and looked down. She smelled copper and iron. Her father’s blood was pooling on the concrete. Blood covered his chest and chin. His eyes stared past her.
She bent over to touch his forehead. He did not react.
His eyes remained open.
Sharon dropped the soccer ball and looked at the Spitfire. She looked down at O’Malley. He stared at infinity.
The anti-aircraft gun fired. Sharon felt the concussion against her ribs and looked to her right. The woman sitting at the trigger was pointing and screaming. Sharon looked up. One of the bombers was trailing smoke and fire. It lost altitude as it flew north and west.
Sharon raced to the Spitfire, climbed onto the wing, and eased herself into the cockpit.
She put on her Sutton harness.
Going through her preflight checks, she primed the engine.
“Clear!” The voice sounded like it came from someone else.
One of the aircraftsmen operated the starter balanced on an oversized pair of wheels.
Another bomb exploded.
She switched on. The shockwave from the bomb made the Spitfire rock from side to side. The propeller turned. The engine coughed black smoke. It hesitated, then caught, and she eased the throttle forward.
The aircraftsman disengaged the starter and rolled it away. He waved at her before running for cover.
Sharon applied rudder.
To her left, she saw a straight line without any bomb craters and enough room for her takeoff. She swung the nose around and lined up.
“Throttle!”
The Spitfire accelerated. She looked up.
The first wave of low-level bombers was gone.
She aimed for a stand of trees at the far side of the field. She pushed the stick forward. The tail lifted. She looked along either side of the nose, trying to spot any bomb craters.
The wheels skipped along the grass. She eased back on the stick, applied the brakes, and retracted the undercarriage.
Grief reached up with its hot hands and threatened to overwhelm her. It was difficult to breathe. She reached for the oxygen mask and put it on.
Sharon went through her checks: pitch, mixture, undercarriage, engine temperature, oxygen, gun sight. . . For Christ’s sake, turn on the gun sight. Shit! Where is it? She found the switch and turned it on.
Sharon caught a glint of sunlight on the Perspex. To her right, a pair of twin-engined Dornier bombers were rising and falling over the contours of the ground as they ran away from Biggin Hill and back to France.
“Get in close, short bursts, watch your tail.” She said it over and over again.
“Watch out for the Hun in the sun!” She held up two fingers in the middle of the sun’s glare and checked for predators.
She climbed to get above the Dorniers. To hide in the sun.
Two thousand feet above them, she looked up and checked the mirror, then the sky on either side. “Go!” She dove in a long split S turn to get on the tail of the trailing bomber.
She glanced to see her thumb on the trigger. Get close and use short bursts, just like Jock told you.
The controls were getting heavier as her speed increased.
The wings of the trailing Dornier filled the rings of the gun sight. She waited, then fired a short burst. She felt the recoil of eight machine guns. The Spitfire slowed.
The tracer bullets fell in a gentle arc below the bomber’s tail.
She raised the nose and was dragged down into the seat as the G forces increased.
Another short burst.
The tracer bullets ripped into the fuselage and worked their way up into the cockpit. The bomber turned right. Bits of debris floated behind the Nazi.
Sharon pulled away, turned, and gained altitude. She looked down.
The first Dornier nosed into the ground. A mushroom of flame and black smoke rose into the sky. Sharon looked for the leading bomber.
There! It was turning beneath her, trying to hide in the blind spot under her belly.
She reversed her turn, rolled onto her back, and dove to get on the Dornier’s tail.
This time, tracer bullets reached out to her as the gunner behind the cockpit fired in defense. She wove right and left as she gained on the Dornier.
This time, she got in closer and attacked from one side.
Sharon aimed for where the fuselage met the graceful wings. She could see the yellow paint on the engine cowlings and the black crosses on the wingtips.
Her thumb pressed the trigger.
This time, she was expecting the recoil from the machine guns as the Spitfire slowed. The tracer bullets dove into the fuselage and into the glass cockpit. The enemy gunner stopped firing.
She touched the rudder. The bullets walked across the wing and hit the bomber’s engine. Black smoke and flame erupted.
“Too close!” Sharon leaned hard right on the stick, pulled out, and climbed. She held her breath until the g-forces eased.
She looked below. The second Dornier turned on its back, hit a stand of trees, and exploded.
Sharon checked the sky, turned, and climbed.
Above, a second wave of bombers approached Biggin Hill. She checked the sun for any fighters hiding above her.
The Spitfire climbed steadily until it was between the sun and the higher-level formation of twin-engined German bombers. She recognized the silhouettes of Junkers 88s. She weaved in and out, continually checking above and behind her Spitfire for enemy fighters.
She looked down at the formation. The Junkers 88 has guns in its belly, but not in its tail.
Sharon eased the stick forward and turned left to get into position behind the formation. She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Clear.”
She used the speed of the dive to catch up with the last bomber. These Junkers are fast. Remember, short bursts. There can’t be much ammunition left.
Sharon gained on the trailing bomber. She saw its black crosses and radial engines. She lightly tapped the rudder and pressed the button.
Her tracer bullets hit the bomber between the right engine and the cockpit. Debris flew back at her. She pulled right, then left.
As she passed the bomber, she saw flame licking back along the wing from a ruptured fuel tank. The bomber dropped out of formation. A body fell away, then another. One parachute blossomed.
She attacked the next bomber from the opposite side. Her first brief burst fell well behind the bomber. The Junkers turned away from her. She followed — aiming for the spot in the sky where the Junkers was headed — and fired.
It flew into the tracer. A shudder went through the aircraft.
Sharon fired another burst. The bomber filled her windscreen.
As she flew over the bomber’s right wing, Sharon glanced left and saw blood spattered inside the shattered cockpit. The crippled Junkers dove for the earth.
She pulled back on the stick. The weight of the g-forces induced a wave of nausea.
A flashback of her father coughing blood and his empty, staring eyes made her shudder with the realization that the same thing had just happened to the men in the bomber.
She gained altitude. “One more attack.” Sharon looked up into the sun.
A pair of wing tips appeared at the edges of the sun’s blinding core.
Here it comes! Her mind filled with a profound sense of clarity. Don’t dive. He’ll have you then. She turned and climbed to face the fighter diving down out of the sun.
In this head-on rush, the closing speed was over five hundred miles an hour.
She hunched down, pulled her shoulders in tight. Tracer bullets passed over the top of her canopy.
Sharon fired. The Spitfire slowed with the recoil. Her guns stopped firing. “Shit! I’m out of ammunition!”
The pale belly of the Messerschmitt flashed overhead. Its engine coughed smoke.
Sharon rolled her Spitfire onto its back. Dust and a clot of mud from the floor fell upward against the canopy. Her eyes watched the dirt as it bounced against the Perspex, then fell into her lap when she righted her aircraft to follow the Messerschmitt 109. It was half a mile ahead and trailing a white line of coolant and smoke.
Sharon gradually closed the distance. If I get on his tail, he won’t be able to shoot at me. He can’t know that I’m out of ammunition.
The Messerschmitt 109 turned east.
Sharon turned with him. He continued the turn and headed inland.
Sharon found herself within a quarter mile and closing rapidly. His engine must be packing it in.
She throttled back and closed to within one hundred yards. His cockpit was at the centre of her ring site. She saw him looking back over his shoulder.
Sharon closed to seventy-five yards. Spatters of oil from the 109’s engine appeared on her windscreen.
The 109 turned right. She followed and closed. There was a whiff of the German’s exhaust mixed in with the stink of burning rubber and oil.
Something flew back from the Messerschmitt. Sharon watched his canopy float up and over her Spitfire.
A large piece of debris fell away from the enemy aircraft.
Wham!
The Spitfire began shuddering. The control stick hit her hard on the inside of her right knee. She grabbed it with both hands.
She looked ahead.
The 109 was gone.
She throttled back. The vibration eased.
Sharon looked for a place to land and saw Biggin Hill to the west. Columns of smoke rose up from the airfield.
Ease the throttle back some more. Go through your pre-landing checks.
She tapped the throttle back and set the flaps at one quarter. “There,” she said as the vibration became even less pronounced.
“Wheels down.” As her airspeed dropped further, Sharon felt the aircraft returning to her control.
“Throttle all the way back.” The vibration almost disappeared.
When she knew she was going to make the runway, she slid back the canopy. “Pick a line that won’t put you into a bomb crater.” Sharon pulled back on the stick and held the fighter off until it stalled at four or five inches off of the runway. The wheels kissed the ground. She rolled up to within fifty feet of her father’s hangar and shut down.
She released her harness and opened the door. Sharon looked to her left. Patrick’s body lay under a blanket on the concrete apron in front of the hangar. She climbed out onto the wing.
“What the hell have you been up to?”
Sharon looked in the direction of the voice. She spotted William. He had his hands on his hips. His face was streaked with dirt and tears.
Sharon shrugged and looked away from her father’s body.
William pushed back his brown hair. “What happened to your propeller, and who fired those guns?”
Sharon looked at the propeller. One blade was bent back by ten or fifteen degrees, and the spinner was gone. That explains the vibration.
“Well?” William asked. “Who fired the guns?”
Sharon looked at him. “I did.”
“Did you get one of the bastards?”
Sharon found herself looking at her hands. “Actually, more than one.”
William wasn’t looking at her. He pointed at the nose of her Spitfire. He walked closer.
Sharon stepped to the ground and walked around the wing. She could hear the engine ticking as it cooled.
William pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped it along the underside of the engine cowling.
“What is it?”
“What did you hit?” William asked.
“Two Dorniers and two Junkers. There was a 109 as well, but I didn’t see what happened to him. I got in behind him, but by then I was out of ammunition. A chunk of debris fell off of him, and I flew right into it.” Sharon caught the scent of something wafting around the aircraft. It smelled familiar. Her mouth filled with saliva.
William turned to look at her. “You shot down four?”
Sharon shrugged. “Yes. I did.”
“But what did you hit?” William opened the rag. It was stained with blood.
Sharon sagged. Oh my God. She looked under her Spitfire. Red drops were falling on the concrete.
“How close were you to his tail?”
His canopy came off, then something hit the propeller of my aircraft.
“It looks like a Jerry pilot went through your propeller.” He bent down to look under her wing. “There’s a piece of him stuck in the radiator.”
Sharon shook her head. The grief of her father’s death, the horror of what she’d done, all of it seemed to hit her like a blow to the chest. She found it difficult to breathe.
“Come over here.” William sat her down at the side of the hangar in one of two chairs leaning up against the grey brick wall. “Back in a tick.”
Sharon watched as a Bedford truck pulled up. Two men put her father’s body on a stretcher and slid it into the back of the truck. She could see at least two other stretchers there.
“Have a taste of this. Patrick kept it in his desk drawer.” William handed her a glass. He poured from the bottle.
“What is it?”
“Rum. The good stuff.” William stopped pouring and waited for her to drink.
“Aren’t you going to have some?” Sharon raised her glass.
“To Patrick.” William lifted the bottle to his lips and drank.
Sharon tipped the glass back. She could feel the rum run its hot course down into her stomach. The warmth feels better, she thought as her eyes watered.
“Christ, that was close. I didn’t notice ’til just now.” William used the bottle to point at Sharon’s Spitfire.
Sharon looked at the fuselage behind the cockpit. A neat row of holes were punched in and around the roundel, starting just behind the wing root and working their way up to the tail.
William looked at her. “You weren’t joking, were you? You shot down four bombers and a 109.”
Sharon shrugged. “Yes. It happened.”
William shook his head and took another swig from the bottle.
“You there!”
William and Sharon turned.
An officer stood with his hands on his hips and braid up his sleeves. “We haven’t got bloody time for a drink! The bastards are sure to be back. We’ve got to be prepared! Where the hell is O’Malley?”
; Sharon pointed in the general direction of the departed truck. “They just took him away.”
“Where the hell did he go? We have Spitfires and Hurricanes to refuel and rearm!”
William said, “He was killed, sir. Jerry machine-gunned him. You’re standing in his blood. We were givin’ Patrick a toast.”
The officer looked down, frowned, and stepped to his left. “And who is this?” He pointed at Sharon.
William said, “A pilot. In fact, an ace. And she’s O’Malley’s daughter.”
“What kind of rot is that?” the officer said.
Sharon stood up with her feet shoulder-width apart.
William pointed at her Spitfire. “She just landed. Shot down four bombers and, if I’m not mistaken, that’s blood on the belly of the Spit. The fifth one was a 109 pilot who bailed out and hit her propeller.”
“You mean to tell me that girl just shot down five of the bastards?” The officer shook his head in disbelief.
Sharon looked to her right and saw the brown paper wrapping on the soccer ball. She walked over and picked it up.
“Where are you going?” the officer asked.
She looked at William. “To a birthday party in Leaves Green.”
“Haven’t you heard? One of the Jerry bombers crashed into the village. Who knows what you’ll find. It’s a bloody shambles there, too.” The officer pointed to the north to emphasize his point.
“Right over there.” The fire warden wore a helmet, a faded, khaki-coloured World War I army uniform, and a grey moustache. He pointed to half of a row of four houses. The furthest half of the two-storey, side-by-side homes stood straight and white in the sun. The nearest half was rubble. The twin-finned aft section of a Dornier bomber lay to one side in the back garden. Its swastikas were still visible on the fins.
“Which home was Patrick O’Malley’s?” Sharon asked.
The fire warden lifted his helmet. “The one on this end what got hit by the bastards.” He walked away.
Sharon looked at the pile of wood, brick, and shattered glass. The front door of the nearest home hung open like a drunken guest leaning on the doorstep.
A woman stepped out of the bakery with a bag. She was wearing a flowered dress and her grey hair was tied back. She saw Sharon and walked over. “How are you, love?”