“Yes, you took me rather by surprise, then. I thought everybody was inside,” he said ruefully, as he gingerly took her glass, revelling in the momentary contact of their fingers. His heart was still racing.
“I better tell Jack about the pieces of glass out here.” He pushed the pieces near him carefully to one side with his shoe. “Would you like to come back inside, or shall I bring it back out here?”
He looked back at the building, “It seems to have got a little bit quieter in there, now.” Whilst they had been talking, the din inside had lessened. The sounds within the inn were now somewhat muted in comparison.
As if to make the lie of his words, there was a loud crash inside, followed closely by the tinkle of a glass or two shattering, amidst laughter and shouts.
“I’d prefer it out here, please, Harry. It’s pleasant to chat in the night air. I’m not really one for parties, and the boys are getting a little carried away in there. Sounds more than a little wild, to me. Besides, you can tell me more about the Messerschmitts you shot down? I’d love to hear about them.”
They smiled conspiratorially at each other in the darkness.
Inside, the party was in full swing. A gaggle of pilots were wrestling weakly on the floor, drenched with beer, whilst Billy was still nursing his head over a pint. Amongst the crowd he picked out Granny, who was sitting amongst a bunch of giggling WAAFs. He seemed to have lost his trousers. It was hard to associate this pilot with the vacuous grin, and his shirt tails hanging ridiculously around his skinny pale legs, with the hard-eyed man whom he had greeted just over a week ago. Granny waved to Rose.
“Harry! Get your worthless carcass over here.” He slobbered cheerfully, “I’ve saved a girl for you, her name’s Sue and she loves fliers, even old dull stick-in-the-muds like you! Get yourself a decent bloke’s drink, then plant your bottom down here!” Sue simpered and waved at him.
Rose waved back, continued to make his way to the bar for their drinks. The little fair WAAF, Janet, pointedly looked the other way as he passed.
Jack was grinning at Granny. “’Strewth! For Gawd’s sake, Granny, put them flippin’ knobbly knees away, ‘else I get ‘old of old Bill to cart you orf for lewd conduct!”
Rose held out Molly’s glass, “Jack, may I have another Lemonade, and a small gin too, please.”
Jack took it and grinned at him. “A lady already, eh, George? My, you’re a fast worker. You sure you’re not a sailor?” He winked salaciously, then leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Looks like I’ll have to save my China station stories for another time. She’s a very nice girl, is Molly, my lad. Just right for a fine lad like yourself.”
Rose flushed in embarrassment, “Just a friendly drink, Jack.” He cleared his throat, “I’m afraid I broke one of your glasses outside, though. I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps I could brush it up for you? Could you give me a dustpan and brush?” on the far end of the bar three tiddly Spitfire pilots (one wearing a WAAF’s cap back to front) were slapping the bar counter, “Come on Jack. We need more beer!” they started to sing, “Come over here, we need the beer, we need your beer, without our beer we’re feeling quite queer, so come on Jack, come over here…”
Jack ignored them, instead favouring Rose with another wink, “Don’t you worry, son. I’ll brush it up in the morning. It’s been a quiet night. The lads are behaving themselves at the moment. You should see how this place looks after the boys have had a good party!” he shook his head, rolled his eyes, “Heaven help us!”
CHAPTER 12
Rose felt as if a ton of sand had been poured onto his eyes. They felt itchy and gritty. His mouth was dry, and his muscles ached abominably. He longed to put back his head and close his eyes.
The sun was shining bright here, high above the fleecy white clouds that stretched out cleanly before them. He was callsign Slipper Two of a flight of two, on an interception of an unidentified trace.
It had been four days now, since the fight with the Bf110’s.
The squadron had taken part on more patrols, although the weather had not always been on their side, and more than once they had been stood down.
He had not seen any action since, although there had been more than one opportunity.
Which was just as well, as he could not keep the girl with the dancing brown eyes and lovely smile out of his thoughts. He had spent an hour chatting with her that night, magically becoming more at ease as they had talked, revelling in sound of her voice, the delightful sound of her light but throaty laugh. He had been too shy to ask her out when a cheery Granny had come for him, grinning foolishly, but she had given him a beautiful smile, and touched his hand in parting. Murmuring “Au revoir, Harry…”
Until next time. He smiled wistfully at the memory.
Today, Smith, with Rose as wingman, had been vectored onto what they would find to be a lone, low-altitude reconnaissance Heinkel that had first been reported by a motor launch, and then spotted by the Observer Corps.
They flew tensely, each of them hunting vainly for the first sight of the bomber, but the cloud cover was thick, and could have hidden a squadron of bombers.
He tried not to think of the lovely WAAF officer he had shared such a short part of that evening with, tried to concentrate on the task in hand instead.
But it was hard, and she continued to return unbidden to his thoughts.
Molly was lovely, and like it or not, he was smitten. He wanted to get to know her even better, despite his feelings that such a relationship was not a good idea for a single man in wartime, when death was always so near.
He wanted her. Even though she was senior to him.
Anyway, there was so little free time available to get to know her in.
He must stop thinking about her. What could she ever see in him, anyway? It was just a pipe dream.
Granny always emphasised the importance of single-minded concentration. The slightest lapse could mean death.
He sighed and cast his eyes around for the umpteenth time.
Nothing, and clear behind, above and all around (Thank God).
The sector controller directed them in cool, measured tones, like one of the commentators on the BBC.
He was very efficient, and continued to guide them as they searched. He did not seem impatient as they struggled to see the invisible enemy.
They had gone up to fifteen thousand feet, down to nine, and then back up, to eleven. The controller had continued guiding them.
But, like so many times before, the bandit was evading them. Was it to be another frustrating and fruitless interception? They had had two like this yesterday, once while on escort duty.
Smith was about to turn for home when his eye caught a flashing glint of light. Sure enough, it was the Heinkel, flitting from cloud to cloud like a little fat beetle scurrying from stone to stone, two miles from them, at the same height and heading south-west.
Granny had seen it too. With a terse, “Enemy at two o’clock, Tally-Ho!” Smith opened his throttles, so that smoke trailed thickly from his exhausts. His Hurricane shot forward and Rose worked to remain close.
They closed quickly, but the bomber entered another dense bank of cloud and disappeared again.
Smith cursed over the R/T. “I’m going to follow him in, Harry. Climb and watch out for him from above and maintain the current heading.” The other Hurricane entered the cloud about the same place as the Heinkel and disappeared as well.
Rather him than me, thought Rose, don’t fancy flying around in thick cloud, playing hide and seek with a bloody fat Heinkel.
Rose flew on for a few minutes, straining to catch a glimpse of either of the two aeroplanes playing hide and seek in the clouds, whilst also anxiously watching for enemy fighters. The sun was perky today and made the clouds a brilliant white sheet. The glare was making his sore eyes hurt all the more.
Then, “Enemy in sight! Slipper Leader to Two, Harry come on down! The Heinkel’s broken out of cloud and going down, heading one
-twenty.”
Why had he not stayed safely hidden in cloud? Must be bloody mad.
Half-roll, dive. Switch guns from safe to ‘fire,’ reflector sight on. Aiming dot and circle appear as if by magic before him. Open throttle, increase oxygen flow, all done automatically. Descend at an angle to the enemy’s heading, join up when everybody’s in clean visibility.
Heart racing, try to slow it.
Vision greys as the forces strain against him. Cloud rushing up to meet him, closer, closer, then diving through it, so that the sun and bright blue sky disappears and the world becomes a limbo of milky emptiness. He felt so alone there, as if there was nothing else outside, just beyond his canopy.
Merlin engine running smoothly, propeller slicing through swathes of cloud, finger caressing the gun button gently, and then out of cloud again, out of the whiteness, into a duller, greyer world.
Cloud below and the sea above him now, grey and fitful. Roll right way up, check behind, all clear, now, where’s Granny? Keep a look out for him…
Turn, turn.
Rapid check all around, no sign of him, nor of the Heinkel.
Bollocks! Where on earth were they? Had he kept to the correct heading? Yes, the instrument still read one-twenty degrees. So where were they? He muttered fretfully. Calm, calm, look again. Careful check, look, look.
Yes! A dark grey shape sliding down, another, smaller one above, turning. Quick! Catch up, full throttle. Enemy not trying to evade, just diving at full speed. Trying to get away. Granny turning for another attack.
No enemy fighters, yet. Range closing rapidly, standby.
“Slipper Two attacking,” he called. He had built up his speed in the dive, closing in behind quickly, pull up a little, stay behind and below, keep the tailplane between himself and the dorsal gunner. Stay out of his line of fire. A wide shape, two propellers spinning, wings sweeping back.
Damn! A line of tracer. Bloody ventral gun! Hunch down, grimace behind goggles and facemask. Concentrate on the shaking image of bandit in the GM2 gun sight. The forces of the dive pressed him back into the seat.
The enemy fire curved away uselessly to one side.
In range, get closer, closer.
There! Seeming to fill his windscreen, enemy bomber swollen and dark, evil and insectile. Enemy gun flashing but no hits.
Press the ‘tit’ and the eight Colt-Brownings roar out their song of anger. The Heinkel blurring before him.
Careful. Correct for deflection.
Acrid cordite smoke penetrates the facemask, dry throat hurts all the more, and eyes smart despite the goggles.
Kite vibrating wickedly from the recoil, but his aim was true, there, the sparkle of hits, clustering around the starboard engine, wingroot and fuselage of the Heinkel.
Leaden hatred hammering into the enemy.
There! A trace of smoke, streamer of fire from the Daimler-Benz DB 601A-1 engine as the starboard undercarriage falls out and hangs uselessly, tyre spinning listlessly. Pieces of German aeroplane spinning past.
Eyes suddenly watering and still smarting.
No enemy fighters, clear sky around and behind clouds too far for safety.
He was engulfed by the sudden black cloud that billowed out of the engine, recoiled with shock as it leapt back at him, like a hungry beast. He could smell the hot, choking, bitterness of it.
For a stunned second he could see nothing, trapped in the darkness that was to be the bomber’s shroud, and then he had burst through back into the light.
Pull up, up! Fire again, hits on the enemy fuselage, sparkling on the dorsal gun position. Almost strike the tailplane? No, loads of room, could drive a bus through that!
The enemy bomber flashed past beneath him, a streak of dark grey and green, tracer from the dorsal gunner’s MG15 reaching out, far behind, it’s alright, no danger. Three thin yellow bands painted on the starboard wing.
Strange markings, wonder what they mean? Section leader perhaps?
Eyes still smarting, filling with tears. Blink rapidly to clear them.
Heinkel disappears in an instant behind him. The enemy gunner doesn’t manage to connect with Rose, thank God!
Clear in front. Where’s Granny?
Turn hard, keep out of field of fire of the front MG gunner. Careful, careful.
“Good shooting, Slipper Two!” Granny calling.
Where is he, watch out for him.
Rear-view mirror.
No enemy fighters? Good. Must keep looking.
Keep turning. Line up for another attack.
Twist around.
Movement? No. Just shadows at the periphery of his vision. There would be no enemy fighters today to save the Heinkel.
It was far behind now, turning too, climbing now, desperately seeking sanctuary in cloud, thick smoke flowing darkly from one engine. Granny tucked in close behind, throttled back, raking the bomber mercilessly, burst after burst.
More smoke, and pieces of burning aircraft. The other engine begins to smoke. Fire streaming a searing yellow-white from both engines now. Undercarriage flops down, is he surrendering?
No. He’s still heading for cloud cover. Have to attack again.
No enemy fighters.
Curving into the attack again. Cloud getting nearer, he’s going to get away, hit him hard!
Jerry turning from Granny who curves smoothly away, desperate to escape, plan view of aircraft looming before Rose, press the trigger!
Another long four second burst, no return fire from dorsal gunner. Strikes on fuselage and tailplane. An aileron flaps, tears off and rolls away. Pieces whirl off into the slipstream. Bandit carries on flying, cloud very near now. He’ll disappear into it in just a few seconds.
Wait. He’s not climbing anymore. Starting to lose height now, turning slightly, fuselage and wings well alight, broad trail of dirty smoke marking his falling.
Granny, breathless, “Break off, Slipper Two, he’s done for.”
Turn away; get out of range of his MG15 machine guns.
No enemy fighters, sky all clear.
Throttle back, take deep breaths. Wet with sweat and tense.
Relax.
The Heinkel was falling now, uncontrollable and now unable ever to reach the cloud, both engines wrecked, the machine could take no more. The smoke was a long thick black trail now. A parachute blossomed, then another. White silk umbrellas drifting down.
They waited, but there was no sign of a further parachute.
Just two survivors from a crew of five.
A coffin for the dead members of its crew, the Heinkel dived a further thousand feet before the fire burnt through the main spar. The wings folded, and the remnants of the bomber fell vertically down. A molten pyre dripping fiery blobs, spiralling into the sea.
Above it, the two survivors hung disconsolately beneath their canopies.
But they had survived. They were the lucky ones.
“I’m alive.” He had spoken out loud. “I’m alive,” He said it so that he could hear it again, know that he was still there.
“Still alive.” He was sopping wet.
“Well done, Harry, that’s another one in the bag for us. There’s a bit of gen that fat old Herman won’t get his greasy paws on.” Granny, laughing and still breathless. “That’s another half for you, my old son. That one makes your score two. One confirmed, two shared. You’ll be a hero soon, like me, though not as pretty!”
Another laugh, that sounded strangely like a sob, “I thought you were the bloody escort when you came down shooting out of that flipping cloud like God only knows what. You scared the hell out of me! I was about to clear off! Christ!”
A half share. Add that to one and a half, makes two. Two kills! Or is that one and two shared destroyed? All in just a single week of operations.
Who’d have thought it just a few weeks ago?
He almost felt like a veteran. And this time he had not felt the guilt, even as the Heinkel had fallen flaming straight down, the survivors to an un
certain and cold fate.
More dead by his hand. More empty chairs across the channel.
Just that fierce exultation again. The fire burning liquid through his veins. But there was a dark shadow of something still cast by it.
There was a pleasure coursing through him, he had defeated a deadly enemy, victorious in this duel to the death. He knew that the killing was necessary but it was undesirable.
There was no guilt, but still it did not please him to send men to their deaths. But it was necessary. It was his duty, an honour even.
He formed up on Smith’s wing as the other broadcast news of the victory and giving a ‘fix’ of the location of the survivors for RAF Search and Rescue. With a bit of luck the survivors would be picked up shortly.
They were still very close to the coastline; it was just visible as a dark line on the horizon, so they should be able to rescue the Germans before dusk. That’s if the cold, hungry sea did not claim them first.
“Alright, Slipper Two, time to head for home. Jerry may have called for fighters, so I think we’d best make ourselves scarce.” Granny paused, “I think he gave me a light peppering too. Doesn’t look like he hit you at all, though, you lucky dog! Anyway, I’ve called for help and a launch for those poor devils should be here within twenty minutes, well before one of their own rescue planes. With a bit of luck, they’re in the bag.”
“Understood, Leader.” Calm, professional. I’m alive, thought Rose, as he searched the sky endlessly with sore, slitted eyes.
Still alive. Thank you, God.
CHAPTER 13
A Bristol Blenheim IF fighter was in the circuit when the two of them returned from shooting down the He111 bomber.
There was a thin tenuous trail of smoke coming from one of its two Mercury VIII engines, and the dorsal turret was a ruin.
They waited as it made a perfect approach and just a slightly bumpy landing, before it taxied off the runway, followed by a fire tender and one of the station’s ambulances, the huge red cross inside a white circle standing out on its’ side.
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