To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  He stared at Rose once more with those cold, killer eyes. “It’s not an idle threat; you know,” he said quietly, “The CO will get rid of anyone who doesn’t look like they can handle the job. He’s already posted three pilots away this week that were useless. So if you can’t keep up, either you go back to the Training Unit, or to another Group where there’s no danger you might hurt someone. Understand?” Smith’s voice was ice-cold, uncompromising.

  Trying not to be overwhelmed, but also feeling a burgeoning spark of irritation and resentment, Rose nodded.

  He didn’t speak, for he was sure his voice would quaver, and this was the man who could answer all his unanswered questions, the one who would teach him how to fight and fly, and hopefully, help him to survive whilst in harm’s way.

  Was the dreadful Dickers one of those pilots who’d been sent away? He wondered. He’d left his picture of Vivien behind, so he must have gone in some sort of a hurry.

  Apparently satisfied with Rose’s cowed silence, Smith grunted, and indicated the Officer’s Mess with a nod of his head.

  “Well, now that you know where you stand, and what I expect of you, let’s make a start. Why don’t we talk about some of the basics of flying and fighting in the Hurri over a nice cup of tea?” He sniffed, “How many hours?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bloody hell! Are you deaf as well as rude? Hours on Hurricanes, man! You have flown a Hurricane before, haven’t you?”

  “Sorry. Twelve, sir.” Rose was ashamed. He had meant to speak with a firm, confident voice, but it had come out as a chastened murmur.

  “Twelve! God help us. The Old Man must think I’m a ruddy magician. I’m not a miracle worker.” Smith looked grimly at his grubby hands.

  “We’re going to have to improve on that, because there’re some very nasty flyboys not far from here who are praying for the chance to come up against a new boy like you, and I’ve no desire to see you peppered into pushing up daisies. If you’re rubbish, better you spend the war sharpening pencils or making sandwiches, or something more useful.”

  Nasties. The same word as used by Churchill, the new belligerent Prime Minister, a mispronunciation to denigrate the Nazi’s.

  Smith saw the growing resentment in Rose’s eyes, and smiled inwardly. Good, might be of some use after all, this one. Had a bit of fire in his belly.

  He pulled a grey, stained handkerchief from his pocket, looked at it for a moment, and then wiped his hands on it.

  There was no effect whatsoever upon the ingrained grime on his palms, and he frowned.

  “I’ll arrange for us to go up this afternoon for an hour or so, because we don’t have long before Adolf has a go at us, and there’s a lot you need to know, I suspect. We’re going to do a lot of flying over the next few days, OK? None of the training shit they’ve filled your little head with, though. I’m going to show you how to fly and fight in a Hurricane properly. Forget about gongs and glory, though, I’m teaching you to keep me alive, and if you stay alive too, well, that’s a bonus.”

  They started walking back towards the Mess.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Great! Some flying! This was exactly what Rose had been hoping for.

  Smith scowled. “Don’t call me, sir, for heaven’s sake. I may be your section leader, but we’re the same rank. You might even have seniority. Anyway, I’m called Granny by all and sundry around here, Lord knows why, so you’d best call me that. Just take my advice, and do what I tell you to, and do it when I say you should. Let’s try and keep me and you alive. I intend to die when I’m grey and very old, preferably clutching at least one pretty young lady at the time.”

  He looked at his hands, and scowled again. If anything, his hands looked even dirtier than before. He bunched the handkerchief up and pushed it back into his pocket.

  There was a drone, which suddenly turned to an onrushing roar as an aircraft shot across the airfield at very low level directly towards them and over their heads. The sound was deafening and he could feel the passage of air wash over and buffet him.

  Startled, scared witless, Rose instinctively threw himself face first down onto the glistening grass, only to look up and see Smith gazing up into the sky, hands thrust into his pockets, a frown still on his face.

  In the distance the Spitfire that had so rudely ‘buzzed’ them arced gracefully up into a smooth, steep climb, whilst also executing a cheeky barrel roll. His cap had been blown off his head by the low flying aeroplane.

  “Those silly buggers from the Spit Squadron just love to show off. One of these days the pongoes in the machine gun posts are going to bring one of them down. The Army isn’t renowned for its aircraft recognition.” He looked down, eyes dark, “They showed that well enough in France and during the retreat.”

  Red-faced and trembling, Rose stood up and brushed his uniform. The dew had left some rather damp patches. He looked around for his cap.

  He was mortified. “I’m s-sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. You did the right thing. If that had been Jerry, I’d have been Swiss cheese. The only way any of us have any chance of surviving this war will be to carry out our job, but not to take any unnecessary or stupid risks. Live to fight. Live to kill. Better to have a wet uniform than a peppered arse. I’ve had both, believe me, and I wouldn’t recommend the latter.”

  He clapped Rose on the shoulder, leaving a faint greasy stain on his sleeve. “Something tells me that you’ll do alright.” He almost smiled at Rose. Almost.

  “Come on then, Harry, let’s go and get that tea, and I can make a start on your re-education.”

  He waved to where his cap had been blown by the Spitfire’s propeller wash. “I’ll get my hat, and then we can talk. Tell me about the flying formations that they taught you…”

  Rose was assigned to fly T for Tommy for the first of the training exercises, a tired looking Hawker Hurricane, which incidentally, had been one of the trio of fighters lined up in the pens where he’d first met Smith.

  Apparently she had seen service in France, and proudly bore four black swastikas on her fading paintwork to show the combats she had triumphed in, and survived.

  Unlike poor Rose, T was no virgin. She’d lost her innocence in France, and had accounted for four of the enemy in that time.

  Smith and he had discussed flying and fighting in the Hurricane for over two hours, their cups of tea cooling between them, after which they had adjourned for a light lunch, following which, Rose had met the Station Commander, an ancient (Forty seven years of age!) Wing Commander, who had flown Bristol Fighters during the Great War, amassing a tidy score of victories and a vehement desire for peace.

  The station CO had been a provincial Bank Manager until 1939, when he had decided to offer his services to his country once more, despite his abhorrence of war.

  His country over his ideals.

  He was aware that there was no longer any chance of his being able to fly the modern monoplane fighters that were now the mainstay of Fighter Command, but he would serve where he could.

  The Top Brass had decided, in their infinite wisdom, that his authority and experience were best suited to a desk job, so he had gracefully accepted this assignment to station command, and did his best to make his little station a happy but efficient part of 11 Group.

  Rose had found him welcoming and kind, and watched with interest as the young WAAF secretary fussed fondly over him. It seemed he was very popular amongst his personnel.

  A ‘very nice old bloke’ was how Smith had described him. The ‘Stationmaster’ had talked with interest to Rose and Billy, a round and kindly figure with a gentle manner and a voice that was indulgent. Rose had to listen carefully to catch every word. It was impossible to visualise him ever giving a ‘rocket’ to anyone.

  There was a superbly carved foot-long mahogany model of a Brisfit (as the Bristol fighter used to be known to its aircrews) on the battered desk, amongst the piles of paperwork, with an inscription, ‘Presented to Capt
ain Edmund Albert Heart DSO, MC, CdeG, RFC, by the Officers and Men of 317 ‘Hawk’ Squadron RFC, Rouvres, October 1917.’

  It had been in every office in which he worked, and now it was back once more on an operational fighter airfield.

  A mass of photographs on the wall, a cavalry sword, a decrepit looking elephant gun, and assorted trophies told of a well-travelled and sharp shooting ex-army officer and ex-RAF aviator.

  There was also a sepia photograph of a pleasant looking woman of about forty framed with black velvet. They had met in France, she driving ambulances, and their love had lasted, even though he had outlived her. He knew she waited for him on the Other Side, yet he also knew his duty lay with the men and women of his command on this.

  The Service and his station were the only things that the Wing Commander had left now, and he guarded them, and loved them jealously.

  There had been an incident of disorder at the local public house two months earlier, involving broken glass and furniture, following a difference of opinion between some soldiers and a number of his airmen. He had paid for the damage, and spoken out for everyone involved, including the soldiers, after giving them a stiff talking-to, which coming from so gentle a man, came as sufficient shock to make even the most hard-bitten of the soldiers to tremble.

  There had been no further incidents since.

  After all, he had been a soldier in the British Army first, well before he became an airman. And even though he may rescue them all from gaol, he had to maintain discipline. After all, adherence to discipline and authority are vital to any service at all times.

  And he was still an aviator, for Rose had seen the wistful look in his eyes whenever an aircraft took off or landed behind them.

  He did, of course, have his own personal Gloster Gladiator (assigned as a headquarters staff machine), but running a station ensured he had little time to fly, although he made efforts to find time and on the occasional Sunday the airfield was lucky enough to see him putter sedately around the local area, like an old gent out for a Sunday jaunt in his motor car. It was also proving to be handy transport to have available whenever he attended meetings at Group or at the Air Ministry.

  His two young squadron commanders made sure that there was always a fighter in the air nearby whenever and wherever he flew, should a hostile aircraft choose to make an unwelcome appearance. They loved him too much to leave him in the air without protection, despite the fact he had more combat experience than the both of them put together.

  The old boy had been a crack fighter pilot once, but a lot of water had passed under the bridge since, and they were not convinced he could fling an aircraft around as he must once have done when he battled with the Kaiser’s finest.

  It was now the turn of the young men, the brave new eagles of the Royal Air Force, and although he may have envied them, and wished himself with them above the fields of the land that he loved so dearly, he knew that he had to allow them the foremost place of danger.

  His role was to keep them free of concern when it came to being on terra firma.

  He loved them, as a parent will love their children. They were the ones who would take the lion’s share of the fight, who would give their all and then some more, perhaps all that they had, so it was his dearest, most fervent desire to make their precious lives as easy as possible.

  Their interests were his own.

  And so it was, with a warm handshake and a beaming smile, like an authoritative yet favourite close relative, he welcomed Rose and Brooks to the Station that was now his home and theirs, and into the service that was his family.

  On the ground, at least, he would do his utmost to protect them.

  They were his kin.

  CHAPTER 6

  The smell of 100 Octane fuel, glycol, dope and wet grass made for a heady, electrifying mixture, and it made Rose feel slightly light-headed, although it may also have been because he was standing alongside the solid and powerful shape of T-Tommy.

  It was early afternoon, and Smith had arranged for some formation flying and simple combat practice in the bright sun, to assess Rose’s abilities as a combat pilot. Furthermore, the trip aloft would also give Rose an idea of the local geography whilst visibility was good, show him where everything was relative to the airfield.

  After all, he would likely have to make his way back home alone one day, perhaps even today, and it was important he had some idea of where to find it when he needed to. Smith would first show him some of the local landmarks like main roads, railway lines, watercourses and other features that were the visual aids which usually helped guide home lost pilots.

  But it was also of paramount importance that Rose familiarised himself with his newly-allocated aeroplane, before he began any risky, complex manoeuvring in it. It was essential to be aware of the safe flight parameters before trying to exceed them.

  T-Tommy had been produced at the Hawker factory in Brookland two years previously, and after the ending of the ‘Sitzkrieg’ and the beginning of the now famous ‘Blitzkrieg’, or ‘Lightning War’, it had been sent across to France as one of the replacements to try to make good the terrible drain on fighter resources that the BEF Air Component and the AASF had been suffering once the Nazis had finally got going.

  T-Tommy had returned safely to Britain three weeks later, after confused and heavy fighting, with battle-damage and a wounded pilot who had been instructed to evacuate himself and his valuable aircraft to safety.

  Many other aircraft, now sorely needed for Britain’s own defence, had been destroyed in France by their ground crews because they could not be flown out, due to damage or lack of pilots or essential spare parts.

  Oh, how desperately they were needed now in these dark hours!

  But this one was his! His first aeroplane!

  Mine! He thought, all mine! (or at least for the next hour or so...after which he’d have to return it to Chiefy and the ground crew).

  Even now he could feel the senior ground crew NCO gazing balefully at him from the side of the pen.

  Rose thought of cheerily shouting out that he’d look after her, but he was concerned that he might appear careless and flippant, so he walked slowly around the machine, eying the surfaces carefully, trying to ignore the NCO instead.

  T-Tommy was an early Mark I Hawker Hurricane, a fabric-winged aircraft with a Watts two-bladed wooden fixed pitch propeller, kidney shaped exhausts and eight .303 Browning machine guns mounted in the wings, in two bunched clusters of four per wing.

  Wing-mounted guns were a recent, innovative step in fighter weapon mounting. Up until the last few years most fighters, like the Gladiator or the Hart, had still carried fuselage mounted machine-guns.

  He reached out and touched Tommy. She felt alive beneath his fingertips, and he could feel the tingle of electricity thrill through him. She was as exciting to him as any woman could be (not that he had any personal experience of such delightful creatures, unfortunately!).

  T-Tommy wore the dark green and brown European theatre camouflage pattern, patched in places, paint chipped on the fuselage and the wings, streaked and stained with exhaust and fraying at its edges.

  She was no sleek debutante, but in his eyes, she was truly gorgeous.

  External checks and walk-around complete, engine started, Rose climbed up onto the port wing of the aircraft, and then, with the assistance of an airman, clambered into the cockpit, trying to make sure he avoided any contact with hot metal.

  Even though he had a slight frame, the cockpit still seemed tight and enclosed once he sat down on the bucket seat, but nonetheless, it felt right, perfect.

  He wiggled himself into a comfortable sitting position, and then adjusted the straps of his Sutton harness, but not too tight, as Smith had emphasised, leaving them a little slack purposefully, so he could change position should he have to fight the loss of consciousness that comes with manoeuvring (“But tighten ‘em up if you have to take a brolly-hop, unless you want to feel you’ve been strung up by your ba
lls when your ‘chute opens!”).

  The airman crouched on the wing handed him his flying helmet and gloves, and Rose nodded his thanks as he pulled them on.

  He ensured he was properly connected to the oxygen tank, checking that there were no blockages and that there was an acceptable flow of the precious gas, and then he connected the other cord to his R/T, and tested it to ensure the set was functioning correctly.

  He then ran through his checklist, T.P.F.F. (Trimming Tabs, Prop control, Fuel, Flaps).

  Good, everything seemed correct.

  Rose gave the thumbs up to the airman, who now crawled out along the wing, out of the backwash from the spinning propeller, to lie down beside the large blue and red roundel on the port wing, hanging on tight and facing forwards.

  Another pulled away the chocks from the undercarriage and waved to Rose who nodded, excitement and anticipation building within him.

  Having ensured all was as it should be with his aeroplane, Rose turned to look at the other Hurricane that was now taxiing out of its pen alongside. Smith was going to lead him to the main runway, so Rose revved his engine, testing the running, and the growl remained smooth.

  Satisfied, he eased off the brakes and T-Tommy slowly began to trundle forward, out of her bomb-proof pen, following on after Smith.

  Once clear, he relied on hand-signals from the airman on the wing to guide him. The long nose of his aircraft, angled upwards due to the arrangement of the undercarriage, effectively blocking the view directly forward of the aircraft. As a result, the presence of the airman, whose view from the wing was unobstructed, was necessary for any taxiing around whilst on the ground. It really wouldn’t do to drive the kite into the station-commanders office.

  Lovely man, but he wouldn’t like it.

  Once at the runway, the airman, with a last wave and a thumbs up, jumped off the wing, and ran back the way they had come.

  Rose tucked himself into position beside Smith, checking the distance between them, and then with a curt nod from Smith, and a last look around and with clearance received, they began their take-off runs.