To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Dolly was waiting too.

  “Oh dear, poor Dolly. I’d best go and tell her not to worry.” With that he bustled off, leaving Rose, Granny and Carpenter to be carried off in triumph by the gaggle of newly-arrived, excited pilots. Skinner smiled benevolently at them.

  It certainly brought back a few memories of another field, another war, another time.

  The sun was low in the sky when Rose managed to slip quietly away from the celebrations in the Mess. Excalibur squadron had not been called upon for any more sorties after A’ Flight’s action over the channel.

  Although there had been further raids, other squadrons had been tasked with interception. Unlike earlier days, there had been a noticeable increase in enemy activity.

  Behind him, in the Mess, Farrell was trying to dance the can-can on the bar. He had already lost his trousers, and he was waving his shirt-tails seductively, amidst the catcalls and jeers of his fellows.

  The occasional glimpse of his underpants and his suggestive leers at the catering officer were enough to make her scowl, whilst pretending not to see the leers.

  In addition to the two Me110’s that had been shot down, Smith and Denis had each accounted for a Dornier 17, Barsby had been chased by Me110’s, but had managed to escape, shaken but unhurt, whilst Pilot officer Renfrew, Blue Two, had been shot down, but was safe. His Hurricane had been the only casualty of ‘A’ Flight.

  Donald had flown down and picked him up in the station’s Miles Magister.

  On his return, he had drunk heavily, ‘To wash the taste of seawater from my mouth,’ and was now lying snoring and insensible in a quiet corner of the mess, minus trousers, shoes and tie.

  Needing to be alone for a little while, Rose walked slowly along the road leading back to the squadron’s adopted home, enjoying the coolness of approaching night and inhaling the sweet fragrance of the countryside in summer.

  Joyce and Baker had already painted one and a half German crosses (Rose’s score having been officially confirmed) onto the side of P-Peter, his machine. They seemed even prouder of his victories than he did himself.

  What a day! Everything had changed.

  Smith had taught him that they were all members of the same team, each as important as the other. ‘A machine cannot function unless it has all its’ parts,’ he had once said.

  Rose had thanked Joyce and Baker quietly for the vital part they had played, and had promised to buy them each a pint or two.

  Joyce had spoken for them both when he had said, “Just take care of dear ol’ Peter and keep on shooting them Huns down, Sir. That’s the best thanks you could give us.” He had patted the fuselage fondly, “Give ‘em hell!” Rose wasn’t sure if the last comment had been addressed to him or to the fighter.

  The bullet holes were greater in number than he had imagined. He had thought that only a handful of bullets had smacked into the Hurricane, but there were twenty strikes in total. Some rounds had even passed vertically through the wings, probably from the first Me110’s machine-gun. He had been extremely lucky not to have received a disabling hit, particularly, as Smith would have put it, indelicately, in the ‘Crown Jewels.’ He could not even remember the impacts as he had passed over the Me110. He must have been a wonderful target for a split-second of time.

  The gunner had not been such a bad shot, after all. Rose had been luckier than he had realised.

  On impulse, he decided to walk through the field that ran alongside the leafy road. This was after all, what he was defending. Even if it were private land, he had the right to walk through it at least. He was going to do his best to prevent some jack-booted Nazi infantryman from making it into some battleground.

  Unbidden, a picture from a history book came to mind. It had been a photograph of the ravaged French countryside at Ypres following a prolonged artillery barrage during the Great War. It had been a sterile and lumpy panorama, a dark land of water-filled shell craters and torn tree trunks.

  He stopped for a moment and looked around him, trying to imprint the peaceful image into his mind.

  Taking out his unsmoked pipe, he thrust it into his mouth, clamping it firmly between his teeth. It made him feel heroic and pugnacious.

  Rose thought of the clumsy attempt he had made to thank Granny for the training. Had it not been for that, it was more than likely he would be represented as a little roundel painted onto the side of an enemy kite right now. The words had stumbled out, and Granny had smiled briefly.

  “You were alone in the cockpit today. If you were a duffer, nothing I said could have helped. Those Jerries were yours alone. But, if you feel you owe me, well, you can buy me a beer.” Then he had slapped Rose on the back and turned to speak with Skinner.

  With his hands deep in his pockets, Rose began to walk again. It was hard to think that the beautiful countryside around him could be changed into a nightmare of mud and death, but that was exactly what could happen if he and the others of the RAF failed to stop the continuing advance of the German war machine.

  Dad had often spoken of how the French fields had been turned into a barren and destroyed landscape with very little effort on the part of the fighting armies.

  He leaned against a large tree. The wood of the thick trunk felt dry and knobbly beneath his fingers, and he sat down against it, sucking noisily on the pipe.

  Smith favoured cigarettes over his pipe, and had smoked innumerable numbers of them during his talks with Rose and Barsby. Rose just kept his stock of issued cigarettes in his wardrobe, for Granny, Baker and Joyce. He was content to suck his empty pipe, although he found the smell of tobacco vaguely pleasant.

  He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky. He could still see the image of the Me110 frozen in his mind.

  The halo of glass shimmering silver and gold where the canopy had shattered explosively, the smoke, the faces seen dimly in the dark shape of the fighter.

  Smith had said that there had been no parachutes, which meant that he had killed at least two men today. Three, if the gunner of the second Messerschmitt were also included. Although some reports said that three men flew in a 110.

  At the time, he had felt as if he were fighting an evil machine, an inanimate collection of metallic parts. It had seemed like a great monstrous insect, buzzing death. And he had felt pleasure at swiping it.

  But after the action, and on seeing the lonely German survivor in his dinghy, the realisation had set in. The duel had been between men.

  This morning, as he had got out of bed, three, perhaps four young and maybe as many as five men just like him had also stirred in France, and prepared themselves for the coming day. They had had breakfast, joked with each other, and not realised that in a few short hours they would be dead with their remains lying in their smashed aeroplanes in the cold waters of the channel.

  Before they had met their ends, had they been thinking of their futures? Had they intended to meet with a girlfriend, see a film? Or might they have intended to write home to a household in Germany?

  It was a sobering thought.

  Had he stolen a father from small children, or a doting son from elderly parents? He realised that the consequences of his actions over a period of only a few minutes had ended the lives of at least three men, but perhaps more importantly, he had changed the lives of those left behind completely. He had gained so much, but others had lost everything. Today he had been responsible for their deaths.

  He remembered his father. If he had not returned as he had, would Rose have been a better man?

  He shook his head. Those unknown men would not now be dead if they had stayed in Germany. They were flying from one conquered land on a mission to help conquer another. If he hadn’t killed them, more British sailors would have died this day.

  They were servicemen who knew the dangers, and the likely consequences of flying in combat, as did he.

  He felt suddenly angry, the morose mood evaporating.

  What the bloody hell was he feeling sorry for them, anyway? Wh
at did they think they were doing? Why couldn’t the bastards have stayed on their side of the puddle? They had come over, bombed the convoy, just because they coveted what was not theirs to have in the first place.

  If they had left loved ones, well sod them! The sailors on the coasters had families too. Families who today had had the full effects of the war brought brutally home to them. What had they ever done to deserve the unwanted attention of the Luftwaffe?

  The pipe stem was slippery with saliva, so he wiped it on his sleeve, then placed the pipe on the ground beside him, and picked a stalk of grass. He chewed on it absentmindedly, and rubbed his sore neck wearily.

  He had not started the war, he was just one of millions who had been forced to come from their homes, and from a life of peace, and been thrown into the maelstrom because of the crazed machinations of a madman in Berlin.

  The guilt that skulked in the deep recesses of his mind had no place in his life. It was a luxury that could not be afforded in wartime.

  He gazed at the orange sun that seemed to shimmer just above the trees at the far end.

  Had the positions been reversed, would the Germans have mourned him? He thought not.

  Had the bounce been successful, they would have celebrated his death with Schnapps and a sing-song, as they must have already celebrated the victories of the last few months or so. There was no place for guilt in the life he now led.

  It would only serve to make him weak. Weakened steel breaks so easily, he thought, I must ensure that I do not break. Britain needs me and those like me.

  Britain may yet have to fight for its very survival, and the last thing it needed now was a warrior with a guilty conscience. He wondered for a moment how the others came to terms with the killing.

  Did they have these thoughts? He must ask Smith. Perhaps this was why Father drank so heavily.

  But what it came down to in the end was that he, with so many other men and women, both military and civilian, was fighting for the way of life that he had always known, and one which he wanted to continue. Those young men he had killed had been the soldiers of the tyranny that now threatened them all, and he had to fight them. He was fighting for his flag and his country, but more importantly, for his people.

  The People of Britain and of the free world.

  A warm feeling of pride, in his country, his service and for himself, permeated his being.

  He banished the guilt back into the dark recesses of his mind. There was no place for it in the world he found himself.

  The sun had disappeared behind the trees, and the darkening sky had turned a glorious blend of various deepening shades of gold, red, purple and blue. The weather had been wonderful, after the miserable, wet start, and sunset brought a kaleidoscopic collage of magnificent colour.

  The sun had gone. And with it, the guilt.

  What came in the future could not be changed. He would meet his destiny with fortitude.

  Fate had granted him the precious sight of this day’s sunset.

  He got to his feet, stretched, and yawned. He felt shattered.

  In his tiredness he could not appreciate the beautiful lilac half-light, or where the sun’s last dying rays caught the undersides of the clouds with red-violet fire.

  The boys can play, he mused, but I need my sleep. What a day!

  It was a day in which Rose had finally seen action, had overcome his fears, had killed the enemy, and his life would never be quite the same again.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next day dawned wet and miserable, too.

  A fitful light rain spattered the windows of the dispersals hut, whilst a low bank of thin fog eddied around aircraft and buildings.

  “I don’t fancy a take-off in this muck,” complained Barsby, but Rose only snored gently in reply, untroubled in sleep.

  He managed to sleep almost until the end of readiness, although his sleep was disturbed twice, once by a call to advise them that tea was on the way, and the second time when the tea arrived. He waved it away, preferring to doze, then changed his mind and struggled up to claim a cup.

  His mouth was sour tasting and sticky, and a nice cup of the hot sweet NAAFI tea was just the thing to wash it out.

  They flew twice that day, both times a convoy patrol in the Dover Straits.

  There was no sign of the Luftwaffe on the first patrol, and they returned to Foxton for a late lunch. Later in the afternoon they rushed back with the squadron when the same convoy was attacked by a small raid, but when they finally got there, they were too late.

  The Heinkels had already bombed and left the scene of the crime, leaving behind their escort, but the Staffel of Me109’s were low on fuel and not interested in a fight. Seeing the British fighters, they turned away and flew towards the approaching dusk at full throttle.

  Donald, leading Excalibur, boosted his throttle and tried to close the distance, but the Messerschmitts, with their speed advantage, and probably low on fuel and ammo after battling the convoy standing patrol, disappeared into the late-afternoon murk. They had already downed a Spitfire and damaged two others, all without loss, and were well satisfied with their day.

  As the formation lost some of its cohesion, Rose was one of the tail-enders of the formation, and maintaining a careful watch behind, almost crashed into Barsby who was also watching behind. The near-collision scared them both badly, but neither pilot was anxious to be bounced again by high-flying bandits.

  Fortunately, there was no further enemy activity, and the squadron returned to Foxton with a frustrated Donald, and a greatly relieved Rose.

  Fighter Command lost four aircraft, but the balance for the day was worse for the Luftwaffe, suffering twenty losses.

  That evening, after dinner, following the usual rough and tumble, the pilots of Excalibur squadron elected to spend their evening at the local watering hole in Foxton.

  The Horse and Groom had a long association with the aerodrome, and the Inn, once a favourite of the famous highwayman Red Tom, was now proud of Tom’s flying successors.

  The old landlord, an ex-RN sailor named ‘Jack’ Ayres, always welcomed the men and women of RAF Foxton with open arms.

  His old pub was decorated with memorabilia from Ayres’s time in the Navy, a few mementoes of the time when Red Tom had frequented the locale, and more recently with photographs of RFC and RAF fighters and squadron members, past and present. The propeller of an Avro 504 was nailed above the great fireplace. The place had a long association with the men and women of the air force.

  Feeling comfortably full with meat pie and vegetables, the bruised and battered pilots piled into two cars. Rose wavered a little at seeing the way the cars were overloaded, but a wink from Smith made him forget his worries, and he pushed himself aboard with a shout, placing an elbow accidentally into Billy’s side. Billy yelled in turn.

  They were in Fellowes’ dented Bentley, a vehicle that came with a questionable past, “Won it in a poker game, old boy. Don’t worry; I let him keep his shirt.” A thoughtful look, “Had his trousers, though.”

  As the cars strained their way haphazardly down the winding lanes, they sang a number of bawdy songs, as well as a few recent hits. It had been a day with no action, but plenty of tension, and the pilots were full of energy.

  Just as they were beginning the final chorus final line of ‘Lords of the air,’ they pulled into the courtyard of the Horse and Groom.

  Amongst the irreverent it was otherwise known as the ‘Nag and Bone,’ mainly because the picture of the groom on the sign depicted a rather strange looking cadaverous creature standing beside the horse.

  Old Jack affected not to hear the name given to his establishment whenever within earshot.

  Other parked vehicles included an RAF station car and a three-ton lorry. The RAF presence was already there in force.

  Catcalls and hisses greeted their entrance, as some of the Spitfire boys of 97 welcomed them in.

  Some of them shifted to allow the newcomers in. Rose noticed that ther
e was a fair smattering of young WAAFs present too. His face reddened as one caught his eye and held it daringly.

  He continued on behind Smith and the others as they pushed their way through to the bar.

  Behind the bar, Jack stood solid, built like the Rock of Gibraltar. Pink-cheeked, stout and with a broad smile on his round face he was the very epitome of a senior lower-deck Royal Navy rating.

  He was talking affably with one of the two Sub-Lieutenants loaned to Excalibur Squadron by the Fleet Air Arm. Rose had spoken with one of them earlier, a young man of twenty called Grayson. He had told of flying the Skua in the Norwegian campaign.

  Rose shuddered at the thought of having to fly such an obsolescent aircraft. He was now speaking earnestly with Jack.

  “Lord knows what his real name is,” muttered Billy under his breath, “everybody calls him Jack, but that’s only because he used to be a Jack Tar.”

  On the wall behind the bar were a number of photographs showing destroyers dashing through the sea under thick black clouds of smoke. There were also some carved wooden models of sailing ships. Skeins of pipe and cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, thick and torpid.

  Standing apart from the others, Rose marvelled at the intricacy of the modelling. Each of the ships was fully rigged with cannon run out of tiny open gunports.

  “These’re what used to be called Frigates. The one you’re looking at is a model of the old HMS Arrow. The old wooden walls of Nelson’s time.”

  Jack had come across, and was watching him. He had seen Rose’s interest in the models. His voice was placid and low, and Rose thought he could detect a Cornish accent. He reached up and brought down the model for Rose to hold.

  “Here, take a look at that.” His hand was huge and rough, but he handled the little ship tenderly. “She was a 32-gun ship. Her descendants of today are destroyers. Like the ones that captured that Jerry supply ship, Altmark, in Norway a little while back.”

  He regarded Rose with curiosity. “You boys don’t usually take such an interest in the Navy.”