‘Anyone in 64 like to swap planes, then?’ muttered the Sergeant-Pilot.
‘Till then, you know your tactics: Wingmen, stick to your Number 1’s. Number 1’s, stick to your Section Leaders. Section Leaders, stick to your Squadron Leader. Keep your eyes open, everyone. Remember: If you see German aircraft, call out Bandits. If you’re not positive they’re German, call out Bogies. Now, synchronise your watches on my count…’
As he drew up his watch, Quinn’s mind flashed to the Messerschmitt he’d caught fleeing Manston. A reconnaissance fighter… Three days ago.
Had the Germans known about all this in advance?
The other 109 had got away. With photos, presumably. Three days ago.
*
122 Squadron had left Dispersals at 0325. Their assignment: White Beach, Dieppe – Cover the Canadian Royal Hamilton Light Infantry. Against enemy bombers, Eastwood had said most likely. They’d spend an hour over the combat area, come back to Hawkinge to refuel while another squadron held their station, then return to it.
Quinn felt some small measure of relief as the red lamps of his ground crew drew closer up ahead: He was still getting his flying gloves on and, in the meagre glow of their lamps, the crew wouldn’t see his hands too clearly – They were shaking again.
It had started just as they’d passed out through the blackout curtains of the Dispersal Hut, just as he’d glimpsed Carroll’s face close by him and following out into the darkness, as ever in daylight, cheefully determined.
By the time Quinn reached the Spit, he had the gloves on.
‘All ready for you, sir,’ came the Flight Sergeant’s greeting, his voice resolute. Another old-hand as usual, it was only the second time Quinn had heard him speak. ‘No chance of the cannon freezing up on you this morning, sir, don’t you worry, nice warm one ahead… And the supercharger’s running smooth as a baby’s bottom.’
‘Thank you, Flight.’
‘Pleasure, sir. Just you look after young Mister Carroll, that’s all. First time up for him now, isn’t it. Into action, I mean… He’ll be looking to you, sir.’
This fact hit Quinn now. ‘Yes, Flight.’ He felt strangely steeled by it. ‘Yes he will.’
The Flight Sergeant paused – He knew it was Quinn’s first time in command. ‘Well good, sir. You just do your job, remember your training. No point in worrying, Mister Quinn. Won’t do no good now, will it.’
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Quinn saw the man was smiling at him. ‘No, Mister Kemp. No it won’t… Thank you.’
‘Well all’s well then, sir, isn’t it. And don’t worry ’bout old FB216 here… She’ll get you there and back alright. You just bring ’er back safely for me and the lad.’
‘I will, Flight. Count on it.’
The Sergeant saluted. Quinn returned it.
The man whispered to him: ‘Don’t worry, boy.’ Then hollered: ‘Alright then, Airman! Ready fer Engine-Start.’
Quinn climbed into the cockpit, once strapped in and set, finding the Flight Sergeant’s comment about the supercharger had been no mere pleasantry: The Spit’s engine started more sweetly than he’d ever heard, whether or not because the darkness sharpened his senses, he couldn’t tell. In the dim red light of the instrument panel, the power-plant’s eager vibration through his gloves and up his arms felt good. Now, to work. Eastwood had taken them quickly through it at Dispersals…
Follow your Fitter’s red lantern. Until airborne, you’ll see little else. Don’t try to: That’ll cause collisions while taxiing. Trust the light – The Fitters know what they’re doing. Keep the light stationary in the left-hand quarter of your windscreen. When it moves, you move. When it stops, you stop. When it turns green, throttle full on and take off. STRAIGHT. Got it?
Blue Section’s new leader would be an English Sergeant-Pilot called Hook. Quinn had heard the name though not met him, the No Other Ranks Rule of the Officers’ Mess being rarely broken. Yet the gen awarded him one of its highest accolades: Gen Man. He’d have to be: Though only a Sergeant, Bob Eastwood had appointed him as Maclean’s replacement. Brooke as Blue 2 would be his wingman, Quinn – Blue 3, Carroll – Blue 4.
Quinn saw Kemp’s lantern turn green. As he pushed the throttle forward, dark shapes flashed past him down the field.
*
0410 Hours
Dawn had broken. In the last shadows of night below, Quinn watched the French coast darkly approaching, the line of it menacing south-west to north-east. He’d long pondered what the ‘Enemy Coast’ might feel like first time. Only a handful of miles ahead now, he could see a long stretch of beaches, headlands, even clusters of buildings spaced along it. It would be a beautiful day. Visually, it could have been any coastline – some place people woke up on their holidays. If they’d turned back mid-Channel, this could be England welcoming them. But they hadn’t. And Quinn felt this coastline in the pit of his stomach. For it didn’t feel how it looked. It felt bad.
Quinn had never seen, nor been within, such a massive formation of aircraft. His own squadron – three sections of four, line abreast. Each section, two pairs – leader, wingman, leader, wingman. Out to the left, another squadron, same out right. Left and right, above, beneath, near and distant – a dozen squadrons at a glance, all heading parallel south and touched golden by the sun.
As it brightened, the eastern sky was speckling black – flak clusters sprouting – as if each burst spawned another, then joined. It looked to Quinn a spidery curtain forming, grotesque, and drawing silently nearer. The gen said if you heard one over the noise of your own engine, you were dead – Quinn had heard Mac’s…
Quinn had very briefly been the squadron ‘new-boy’, as the Brits called it. Now he glanced back right and checked his wingman, Carroll’s Spitfire perched there sure and steady. Radio silence had already been broken, the Invasion clearly no longer a secret. Best check in with the hat-collector…
‘Blue 4, Blue 3. Are you receiving me? Over.’
‘Roger, Blue 3, this is Blue 4 answering. Loudly and clearly. Over.’
‘You alright, Nick?’
Carroll’s return sounded mildly surprised: ‘Oh. …Yes, fine, thanks. Actually… Interesting, isn’t it… Over.’
Quinn couldn’t suppress a chuckle before replying. ‘Roger. Stay with me. Out.’
‘As it happens,’ Carroll’s voice persisted, ‘I was just thinking I might…’
Eastwood’s voice came through the headphones sharp and preoccupied. ‘ Blue 3 and 4, Red-Back Leader. Belt up, please. Red-Back Squadron, Red-Back Leader. I don’t give a rat’s arse what our height orders are, I am not flying us through that flak. Follow me down. Out.’
In their immediate descent, Quinn knew two things: One – Eastwood had just committed a court-martial offence. Two – The squadron would now follow him anywhere. As now they’d be in no doubt he’d put his own arse on the line for them; their lives came first, orders second. In any event, there’d be no court-martial this day.
‘Righto, Red-Backs… Guns from Safety to Fire… Out.’
He curved them in a long, diving bank down to the left, straightening them north-east and levelling out at 2000, directly above the headland of a beach. The right beach, Quinn could only assume as they flew up it. A seaside village looming ahead, by the sound of Eastwood’s voice in the headphones, he was very clearly hoping the same thing.
‘Hendrikus?’
Even over the radio, Eastwood’s tone revealed the massive weight of responsibility now on his shoulders alone. As the village passed beneath, another voice returned, his South African Number 2, a Flight Lieutenant and the squadron’s unofficial navigator.
‘Yes. Orh believe that’s it. Green Beach and Pourville belowh us… Yes, that’s it ahead now, man, there’s the town – White Beach. Dieppe.’
Second in command of the squadron, the Afrikaaner’s policy was a very simple one. Be Afraid of me. Though the squadron knew Eastwood’s was even simpler regarding whom he hired.
Resu
lts.
Quinn had never held sharper formation than he held in this moment. And though solely here to look for enemy bombers, he managed a glimpse straight down.
The foreshore was shrouded in thick smoke. No sign of the Canadians under it. Only flashes in the harbour area of the town fast approaching: artillery firing. German? Friendly? No way to tell. Beyond the town, more flashes: A German heavy gun emplacement, definitely – ‘Rommel Battery’ on the map.
The emplacement disappearing beneath now, Quinn spied ships out to the left – scores of them, many flashing also. Being hit? Or hitting back? Quinn switched his eyes to the Spits all around him. Eastwood was curving them out to sea, transmitting as he did: ‘Watch the sky… Watch the sky…’ His tone said it could be full of bandits at any second. Quinn scanned the brightening morning in all directions through the long banking turn, as, he knew, would be every other pair of eyes in the squadron. He saw only Spitfires orbiting higher up.
Eastwood straightened them south-west, back down the coast towards their initial point. There they’d turn up the beach again, Quinn presumed, make another pass of the town. He now peered right. Down on the ocean, pillars of white water rose between the ships. As well as pyres of black – Some of the ships were burning.
‘Righhht,’ Quinn hissed beneath his mask, the taste of anger metallic in his mouth. Check left. Inland. Check the sun and around it. The bastards would come out of that.
The whole squadron heard the young voice that now came through the headphones.
‘Red-Back Leader, Green 4. 10-plus bogies at 12 o’clock low.’ His words clear and urgent. ‘About 500 yards ahead and passing low across us, over.’
Quinn focused hard and saw them – low to the water, line abreast and pointed as one at the headland 122 had first passed. Pin-pricks of light now flew ahead of them, Eastwood’s voice returning through the headphones.
‘Green 4, Red-Back Leader. I see them. Friendlies. Hurricanes, I think, but well-spotted…’ He paused a moment. ‘Yes. Look, they’re shooting up the headland. Must have a target down there. Red-Back Squadron, keep it tight, we’ll be curving round above it in a sec. Then back up the coast to Dieppe. Remember, our responsibility is Dieppe. Out.’
The Spitfires tore round the headland, Quinn squeezing his lower muscles as the g-forces heaped in the turn. Eastwood was keeping their speed way up, thus his men perhaps a degree less terrified: The local Focke-Wulf pilots would be onto their presence by now.
Straightened and heading up the coast again, Quinn saw the instrument panel clock touch 0430, with one hand tightening the dotted silk around his neck.
*
Up the beach, round the battery, down the beach, round the headland, up again – Quinn had lost count of the number of circuits they’d made, the repetition becoming eerily hypnotic.
Nothing had happened.
No bandit, no bogie, no enemy contact at all, no transmission from Eastwood in an hour, just circuit after circuit in a rhythm that had Quinn feeling strange indeed: Gradually, the predictability of the circuits and his precise control of the Spitfire through them smoothed his tension. He felt he could take the next turn with his eyes shut, in comfortable unison with the fighters all around him. Carroll hadn’t missed a beat – It could have been a squadron exercise. Formation practice.
If not for the pyres of smoke that had crept up from directly below…
And many more from beaches up and down the coast. That a battle was raging beneath them was now certain, its course, as yet unclear. Though from the number of ships now burning it looked bad. The sun was climbing in the sky, and with the constant high throttle, fuel was getting critical. Quinn checked its gauge and the clock once again, reading 0530 as Eastwood finally came over the radio. His voice was uneasy.
‘Red-Back Squadron. Red-Back Leader. I’m buggered if I know what Jerry’s up to. But we’ve gone over time already… Any sign of our replacements, Hendrikus?’
‘No sign, Robert.’
Eastwood fairly spat it: ‘Cathedral Control, this is Red-Back Leader. Where the bloody hell is our replacement squadron? Over.’
After a long moment, a familiar tone permeated the static. As if from a comfortable armchair by the fire.
‘Red-Back Squadron Leader, this is Cathedral Control… Your replacement squadron has been delayed. Approximately five minutes out from you. Can you hold your position at all longer? O-ver?’
‘Cathedral Control, Red-Back Leader. Not unless you want twelve of your precious Spitfires to land in the sea. OVER.’
Another interminable moment.
‘Red-Back Leader, Cathedral Control.’ The voice sounded less comfortable now. ‘You have permission to pancake. Eastwood, isn’t it. Over and out.’
The Spitfires kept on up the beach for many seconds, Eastwood clearly holding out desperate hope. Until, over Dieppe, he resigned, exasperated.
‘Right-o, Red-Backs. You heard the man. Back to the Service Station,’ – codeword for Hawkinge – ‘Lowering revs to conserve fuel, shallow decent, follow me out.’
He banked them wide out to sea, straightening to the north over the ships, Quinn’s altimeter gently unwinding.
At about 1500 feet, his fighter nose-down slightly, Quinn saw the oddest shape on the water ahead. At first it made no sense to his eyes: a structure high and upright on the water.
Until, fast approaching in front, its outline became horribly clear…
The massive bow of a ship was receding into the ocean, the water around it churned white or black and burning. Passing over it now, Quinn saw specks between the fires – men in the water, some thrashing, some still.
Only the rage that then seized him quelled his vomit. And only just.
With one hand, he unclipped the oxygen mask from his face. With the other, he held the control grip as steadily as he could. And did his best to breathe. Keep your eyes on your Leader. Stay in formation.
Coming into Hawkinge, Quinn’s landing was bumpy. His hand on the control grip had been trembling, and worse than ever.
*
Quinn stood on the grass by his aircraft as the local ground crew expertly checked and refuelled it. No need to re-arm – No shots fired. Instead, an airman polished the windscreen and canopy in the minutes remaining.
Quinn hadn’t paid much attention to the surrounds of Hawkinge. Right now it was nothing but a peak-hour of Spitfires landing, refuelling, taking off again. Squadron after squadron they bore in, the very real danger now being that of collision, even a few Hurricanes – one trailing smoke. The first Hurris Quinn had seen up close, they looked antique next to the Spit, hunch-backed, and had a duller sound. Quinn’s focus was drawn by two Spits touching down in masterfully neat formation, a copybook landing that put his own to shame – He just hoped Carroll had been too preoccupied to notice. The hat-collector was currently a short way off at the station buildings in search of somewhere he’d referred to as ‘the Other place’.
The newly landed Spitfires turned about, then taxied as directed by ground crew to a spot not far from Quinn, to refuel from the same fuel bowser truck, he assumed. As their engines wound down and bladed to a stop, Quinn was surprised to see their propellers had not the usual three blades but four. Peering more carefully, he saw further differences: six smaller exhaust pipes stubs each side of the engine instead of three, a second air intake under-wing, nose and airframe just marginally sleeker than the Mark V.
These were Mark IXs.
Quinn stepped forward for a closer look as the lead pilot was shifting out of his cockpit, six painted ‘kill’ crosses beneath it. Quinn noticed the still-helmeted figure wore the twin bands of a Flight Lieutenant on his battle-dress shoulders, and so offered a token salute. He wasn’t too surprised when the chap didn’t return it – saluting not formally required without caps, just at your own discretion.
Though Quinn was surprised to see the face smiling at him, a friendly smile at that.
The battle-dress under the Mae West was dark blue
. The leather helmet was pulled off.
‘How ya doin’, son?’
The face was Mick O’Regan’s.
*
By 0700 Hours, Quinn was leading his wingman back towards Dieppe. By which time it had been reported that German bombers, Dorniers, had slipped into the gap between 122’s departure and the replacement squadron’s late arrival and bombed hell out of the Canadians on White Beach. The replacement squadron had then arrived and caught a few of the bombers, only to be scattered by the Focke-Wulfs that then bounced, a handful of Spits and a handful of Focke-Wulfs shot down on either side. Even so, by the time 122 were on approach, Dorniers were still in the area, their bomb blasts still flashing.
As he maintained formation, Quinn thought back to what had just happened on the grass of Hawkinge: By the look on Mick’s face, he was just as glad to see an old friend as Quinn was. But more than that, O’Regan’s arm on Quinn’s shoulder had felt like a brother’s. In the moments that followed, Quinn had soundly shocked himself…
It didn’t last very long, but he’d found himself crying.
In his mind he’d been above the sinking ship again, the men floundering in the burning water. Then another memory crowded in, and cloaked him – Victoria, smiling by his side. The instant he’d felt Mick’s arm, the tears simply came. And when they came, they’d flowed, his brain a leaden jumble of shame and release.
He’d felt more than a little pathetic in front of the ground crew attending to Mick’s craft, before sensing the blind eye they were turning. Even as they feigned awareness purely of the job at hand, their gesture made him feel a little better.
‘I’m sorry, Mick,’ he forced onto a breath.
‘That’s alright, mate.’ O’Regan followed softly but sternly: ‘Has to come out somewhere. And better sooner than later, I reckon.’
Quinn swabbed his jacket sleeve across his face, and breathed deeply. ‘Funny how it just… hits you like that, isn’t it.’
‘It is.’
‘Sorry… Can’t help feeling a bit stupid…’
‘You shouldn’t, you know,’ offered O’Regan. And looked Quinn square in the eyes. ‘You’ve held it all together these last two years. And held it together so tightly you became a fighter pilot. …Along the way, how many people have you seen die? What, a dozen? Some of them you knew, some you didn’t. Some you were even close to. But most of them, you saw it happen right in front of you. And they all went violently.’
Nor the Years Condemn Page 18