The world outside began to spin sickeningly as the weakened port wing bent, then broke in half, the ground and sky exchanging places with a sickening rapidity, the sun flashing on-off-on-off before his eyes.
It was becoming increasingly harder to move his arms, and detritus from the floor of the cockpit whirled around him.
GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE…!
He tried again to grab the sides of the cockpit, fighting the forces that held him in his seat, whilst around him swirling ribbons, droplets and fragments of blood, dust, dirt and glass danced and looped and spun all around him.
Shining a brilliant scarlet in the vortex, his life-blood flicking to splash against him and the inside of the cockpit, against the Perspex, and now he couldn’t reach the canopy with his gloved hands.
Panic rippled through him, and he strove to control it.
Instead he reached painfully for the bump in his flying jacket that was the little teddy bear.
All that was left to him in these final, terrifying seconds.
The inside of the cockpit was like an oven now, and the rising heat was unbelievable, whilst flame continued to lick back from the ruined Merlin engine, darkening the Perspex above him.
It’s finally over. I’m going to die.
It’s my turn today.
He closed his eyes, holding hard onto the useless control stick, heart fluttering.
The R/T was silent now, no Morton, no calm WAAF. Nobody, and Morton was on his own now, poor lad.
He was surprised that it didn’t seem to matter anymore. No regrets, he’d lived by the sword, and now he would die that way. It had been good to love the girl, and at least death would take away the pain of her loss.
The spin pushed him harder against his seat.
He could feel the darkness gathering as his consciousness slipped away. Not long to wait now.
No chance to see Molly again, no chance to tell her how much he loved her, no chance to say goodbye. To hold her gently in his arms one last time.
He’d been wrong, of course, there were regrets after all.
He thought of the dark-haired girl longingly, wondered if she would care when she heard of his death.
Of course she would.
Rose realised that he was crying, and opened his eyes.
Blood spattered brightly across his goggles.
Then suddenly, an eye-searing white flash.
Piercing, shocking, silent, and the world finally turned black.
Chapter 1
Rose awoke with a start, heart jangling madly in his chest and confused desperation filling his befuddled mind.
Oh no! I fell asleep after all! How long have I been asleep? Have I missed my stop? Oh God!
Dusk was encroaching outside the slowing railway carriage, but he could still see through the grimy glass that the train was wearily drawing into a small, unlit rural railway station.
The elderly woman seated facing him smiled gently at him through the gloom, “Don’t worry, dear, this is Foxton station, I know it’s your stop, that’s why I woke you.”
Trying discreetly to wipe the trail of saliva from the corner of his mouth, Rose smiled his thanks for her kindness, and turned from the grimy window against which he had been hunched, the shoulder he’d been laying against protesting and sore, neck stiff, now standing on unsteady legs, and reached up for his kitbag, re-checking for the fifth or sixth time in the gloom that the service number emblazoned on it was his. It wouldn’t do at all to leave his belongings on the train.
Disturbed by the movement of his kitbag, Rose’s unsecured respirator container immediately fell off the overhead shelf and onto the kindly woman’s husband seated opposite him.
The cardboard box bounced off the man’s shoulder, rolled down his forearm and teetered momentarily on his knee, before falling to hit the floor of the compartment.
The gas mask fell out of it to lie sullenly between the feet of the kindly woman wrapped in the faded brown coat.
The severe looking Major sitting beside her looked sharply at Rose, then disdainfully down at the mask.
In the dim blue light, the shadowed lines and hollows of his lean, angular face would have terrified a gargoyle, but instead the gas mask stared back emptily at him, unmoved by his disapproval.
Thank God the old tin-hat was securely stowed away inside the kitbag. That would have given someone a bit of a headache if it had fallen on them!
Rose stammered out an apology hoarsely, and reached down for it, scooping the respirator hurriedly back into its box, grateful to the gloom of dusk for hiding his flaming cheeks.
Outside there was the clatter of doors and the call of “Foxton! Disembark for Foxton station, please.”
He had arrived.
The army officer glared at the young pilot momentarily then looked away, back out of the window, ignoring him completely.
Clumsy young oaf. You’d be useless as a soldier. You’re lucky you’re not in the battalion, I’d soon sort you out.
Thankfully, the elderly couple remained unconcerned, the woman smiling sympathetically at his discomfort, but Rose could hear the tittering of the little gaggle of Wrens in the corner beside the door that led into the passage.
To his dismay, he felt his blush deepening.
Embarrassment and stiff muscles made him unsteady, and he concentrated on negotiating his way carefully between the knees of his fellow passengers to the door.
As he self-consciously wobbled his way out, clutching his respirator box and kitbag tightly, feeling like a complete idiot, he could feel the quiet, watchful stares on either side.
He was particularly aware of the girls in blue, but their upturned faces were just blurred, pale ovals in the gloom, watching his progress quietly now.
Waiting for me to fall down on to my face, damn them!
He focussed on the path to the door, balancing his kit carefully, his face feeling so hot that he half-expected a reflection of it on the glass of the compartment door, blooming a dull red in the dark.
Rose slid back the door and picked his way gingerly from the compartment through to the corridor, into the heaped jumble of humanity normally found in all trains these days, his careful steps encountering boots, and the ever-present bulging kitbags, knapsacks and other assorted boxes, bags and packs that seemed to be everywhere in wartime Britain.
The civilians, soldiers and matelots in the smoke-filled passage were tightly packed together, and it was a struggle for Rose to push through the crowded, sweating mass.
By some of the smirks and derisive glances he received, and the occasional sharp elbow, Rose felt sure that at least some of the servicemen packing the corridor were making the going harder than it should have been, delighting in the chance of making life just that little bit more uncomfortable for an officer, even one as lowly and inconsequential as a newly-appointed Pilot Officer.
But then again, the RAF was not very well thought of amongst the army at all nowadays.
There was a feeling in some quarters, unfairly, that the apparent lack of air support during the retreat through Belgium and France and the recent incredible miracle of the evacuation of the BEF at Dunkirk was due to a lack of ability, enthusiasm and professionalism on the part of the Boys In Blue.
Rose remembered the tales his father had occasionally told, of how the Tommies below would take the occasional pot-shot at his two-seater when he had flown it high over the trenches.
Bit of a love-hate relationship between the army and the airmen.
Well, hate-hate really, to be honest.
Strange, because the RAF had originally started as a part of the British Army itself.
The further he moved along the passage, making slow progress to the faraway sanctuary of the open carriage door, the more unbalanced he felt and the less well his feet seemed to respond to his wishes.
With each difficult step, Rose was becoming more and more convinced that he was about to ignominiously fall flat onto his face.
A grizzled in
fantry sergeant stood to one side to allow Rose to pass, and as soon as the young pilot was level with him, the NCO shrieked deafeningly, “Make way for the Orficer!”
Stunned by the blasted utterance, brain momentarily numbed, Rose briefly faltered but managed to keep his balance, feeling as if everything between his ears had been pulverised by an artillery shell.
Certain that a tumble would have delighted the troops hugely, he concentrated judiciously on each step, clasping his belongings tight.
At least the tightness of their packed bodies prevented him from falling, even on the occasions when he came close to losing his balance, but luckily, not everyone was intent on making the going difficult, and a few steadying hands helped him.
With a few mumbled apologies and thanks, he was grateful to finally stumble from the carriage out onto the platform and into the cooler night air.
Towards the end he’d felt if he’d been wading through thick treacle.
The struggle to get out of the train had sapped his strength, and he flopped down gratefully on the nearest platform bench, sucking in the cool air, and then immediately choking, for it was liberally mixed with fine soot and pungent smoke from the locomotive ahead.
But despite the fact that the air was filled with clouds of steam, soot, acrid smoke and filth from the waiting train, it was still possible to smell the sweet and earthy fragrance of the countryside in summertime.
It was wonderful, after so many hours, to escape the close, clammy atmosphere of the crowded train, to exchange the foul mixed brew of tobacco, stale sweat, bad breath, Blanco, serge and hot feet with the far nicer fragrance of the British countryside at night.
Rose took off his crumpled cap, scrubbed his face with one hand, and then undid the buttons of his greatcoat, allowing the cool air to circulate.
His neck and shoulder still ached and he lowered the kitbag gratefully on to the platform.
He’d boarded the train in a crisp uniform, but now he felt like a soiled and sweaty rag.
Someone, he recalled vaguely (had it been a doctor?), had written recently in The Telegraph that the necessity of the blackout had made train journeys far more restful for travellers, as one was no longer able to read, but obliged instead to rest the eyes; nevertheless, it was difficult to describe the experience he’d just endured as restful.
It had been more of a trial of endurance than anything else. He’d dozed, but had awoken with sore and stiff muscles, and feeling anything but rested.
Rather stressed, in fact.
The silly bugger who had written the article couldn’t have known what he’d been talking about. Let him try a journey like the one Rose had just taken. He’d soon change his tune.
Hopefully, if the reports were true, they’d soon have managed to paint all train windows and light the interiors. At least then it would be possible to read, see the face of the person you were sharing the compartment with. Felt a bit peculiar silently sitting there in the dark with a lot of people you’d never met before.
It had been a long and dull trip, but, at least he was finally here.
‘Here’ was a sleepy rural station set in the heart of rolling English countryside, an island in the darkness, but Rose knew that the little English village of Foxton was nearby.
A little further out in the surrounding darkness would be the fighter aerodrome that was to be his first operational posting after the Operational Training Unit.
“Hallo, there! Are you destined for the aerodrome, by any chance?” Rose started in surprise at the unexpected voice.
Standing just beside him was another RAF officer, a young Pilot Officer like himself. In the midst of all the noise, and deep in thought, Rose hadn’t heard his approach.
Unlike Rose, however, the young man was about six feet tall, broad chested and built like a rugger forward, quite different from Rose’s meagre and lean five feet six.
However, the young officer’s face was one of a mischievous schoolboy, with a big grin below bright grey eyes and a pug nose.
Probably grinning because he’d startled me, mused Rose sourly.
Or maybe even by my wretched, crumpled appearance.
The stranger was immaculately dressed in a spotless uniform, a bright red scarf around his neck (how the hell had he managed to keep so smart?), and looked fresh and strong, as if he had stepped down from a recruiting poster.
By comparison, Rose felt like the organ-grinder’s monkey. An organ-grinder’s monkey after a hard day on the pavement.
Careless Talk Costs Lives. “Er, actually, yes.” he stood tiredly and extended a hand, “How d’you do? I’m Harry Rose.”
The youngster took his hand, with a firm dry grip and pumped it enthusiastically, “How d’you do! I’m Billy Brooks. Bloody awful journey, eh? Thought it would never end. I was sitting next to a group of subalterns who were whinging and whining the whole time. Dunkirk this and Dunkirk that! By the sound of them, you’d have thought I was dropping bombs on the silly sods! I’m jolly glad to see a friendly face at last, I don’t mind telling you.”
Rose shook his head ruefully. “You were bloody lucky they didn’t thump you, Billy. We’re not too popular with the army nowadays.”
Fortunately all the soldiers Rose had been sitting amongst had been from units stationed in Scotland and the North of England, and not any of the fortunate members of the ill-fated British Expeditionary Force who had been miraculously rescued under fire from the French Port.
The unfortunate ones, of course, were now prisoners of war, or worse.
First Norway, the Low Countries, and then France. The Blitzkreig had rolled up all resistance like a moth-eaten rug, with Dunkirk and Calais the definitive full-stop to the successful German campaign.
The BEF had started with the finest of allies, including the huge two million man strong French army, seemingly invincible, massive fortifications like the Maginot Line and Eben Emael, great advantages in terms of aircraft and armour, but nothing had stopped the inexorable German advance.
With a lot of Europe now under the Nazi Jackboot, Britain stood alone.
The future was looking very bleak indeed.
Like so many other RAF airmen, Rose had received more than a few uncomplimentary words for the perceived lack of aerial support for the BEF during the evacuation, and one of his friends had even been admitted to hospital after being badly beaten by some disgruntled drunken soldiers.
Behind them, doors began to clatter closed.
“By all accounts they had had a pretty rough time of it, Billy.” Rose tried to be friendly, but he didn’t feel it, and wished the newcomer would bugger off so that he could sit and enjoy a few minutes of the night air with its clean country scents.
He really wasn’t in the mood for a cheery chat, but quelled the feeling of churlishness. “At least they didn’t knock you about. Bending your ear was better than blacking an eye.”
As he spoke, there was a shrill whistle, more clattering of doors, and the train began to pull out of the station, amidst a deafening cacophony of screeches and puffs, made that much louder by the natural quietness of the station.
Slowly, but gradually gaining speed, it disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind only a gradual attenuation of the clash of metal and hissing steam.
Billy, still grinning, waited until he could reply without having to shout.
“One should be grateful for small mercies I suppose. I must say they dented my brains with their moaning, though,” and then, “Would you like to share a taxi, Harry?” Billy looked disconsolately around the station, “That is if they have anything like a taxi in such a place. Probably only have donkeys and village idiots out here in the wilderness.”
He walked over to the entrance of the Waiting Room, and gazed wide-eyed at a faded poster glued the door. It exhorted citizens to join their local ARP (Air Raid Precautions) Units. “Look at this! You won’t find me joining these silly buggers, looks a bit dangerous to me. Mummy always told me to be careful.”
Another described the effects of Andrew’s Salts, Billy snorted, “I don’t need these, six or seven pints of beer usually help wash down my grub. No blockage in my pipes, chum.”
He moved along to a little red vending machine fixed on the wall, popped a penny into it and received a little bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. He waved it questioningly at Rose, who shook his head, and so Billy ripped it open and took a large bite. “I’m famished! I only had a couple of cheese sandwiches and a boiled egg at lunchtime. I could eat a horse.”
At the mention of food Rose’s thoughts turned longingly of a large plate stacked high with slices of steaming roast beef and yorkshire pudding, covered with rich brown onion gravy. His tummy grumbled and his mouth filled with saliva.
“Well, come on then Harry, old man,” Billy mumbled wetly through a mouthful of chocolate, “shall we go and have a look outside?” He swallowed convulsively, and his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly, “Mm, lovely. They may not have a taxi, here, but perhaps they’ll have a donkey shackled to an idiot? Shall we go and see?”
Oh for pity’s sake!
Rose grinned despite his desire for solitude after the hours amidst the packed crowd of sullen humanity of the train. He could feel the dark cloud of surliness gradually dispersing from his brow as Billy continued his inane babbling.
He sighed in resignation and reached for his kitbag.
“All right, Billy, let’s go and see.” The other’s energy seemed to replenish him, and he could feel the excitement of joining his first squadron returning.
Billy pointed down the platform with his half-eaten bar of chocolate, “Look, there’re some more of our mob! Come on Harry, last one to catch up’s a rotten egg.”
A few other figures had alighted further along the platform, and now that the clouds of steam from the train had dissipated, Rose could see that a number of them were dressed in air force blue. Replacing his cap back on his head, Rose picked up his kitbag and followed after them. With a bit of luck there might be some service transport outside waiting to pick them up, and they should be able to cadge a lift.
To So Few Page 2