To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Quick look at the instrument panel, then back out again. His eyes felt sore, and the goggles and facemask stuck uncomfortably to his face.

  Sinclair’s voice crackled over the R/T, “Honey Flight Leader to Jamjar,” ‘Jamjar’ was the callsign for sector control, “Still no sign of bandits. Please advise.” He sounded irritable.

  Rose pulled up his goggles and quickly rubbed his eyes. The gauntlets felt rough, chafing the skin on his forehead. He sighed, but did not relax his tense muscles.

  “Hello, Honey Leader, Jamjar calling, twenty plus bogies at Angels Ten. Vector to 160, repeat vector 160.”

  The voice of the controller was calm and unruffled.

  “Received and understood, Jamjar. Honey Flight turn to vector 160.”

  The pilots of B’Flight followed Sinclair onto the new heading. The Hurricanes turned as one onto a south-south-east heading, carefully maintaining their position as well as continuing to maintain a careful lookout.

  Not an easy task at all. All the while trying to look all around and watch expectantly for an as yet unseen enemy.

  Rose gazed eagerly forward, but there was only empty sky, no tell-tale glints, still no sign, and he returned to watching the space behind.

  Forcing himself not to look for the bogies ahead. Sinclair and the Red section leader, Farrell, would watch for the bandits.

  After what seemed like an age, but in truth must have been less than a minute, the R/T crackled again. It was the controller again, “Hello, Honey Leader, Jamjar calling, twenty plus bandits at your two o’clock, closing.”

  Rose turned on the reflector sight. His heart was thumping.

  Farrell called out excitedly, “Red Leader to Honey Flight, bogies in sight, two o’clock low,” Rose stole a glance forwards, ahead of the six Hurricanes a growing group of black dots suddenly became visible against the shimmering water. They quickly sprouted wings and resolved into, black (no, not black after all but a dark green, why did they always look black?), gull-winged shapes, with fixed, spatted undercarriage and long, lustrous canopies. Five waves of aeroplanes stepped up, flying eight abreast, forty dive-bombers neat and orderly as if on parade.

  Then, Sinclair again, “Whizz-o! They’re Stuka’s! And no bloody escort! Follow me down, two vics. Line abreast. We’ll split ‘em up, then every man for himself! Tally-Ho!”

  Rose’s heart leapt with excitement.

  Stukas! Granny was always wittering on about how Stukas were a ‘piece of cake’ to shoot down, and about the losses they had suffered already during the blitzkrieg and at Dunkirk. It was his turn to find out the truth.

  But where were the escort? There were no enemy fighters at all, had they missed the boat?

  Sinclair’s Hurricane nosed down, and B’Flight followed him into the dive head on with the enemy. Rose looked nervously around. Still no sign of enemy fighters. Where on earth were they?

  The Stukas rapidly grew in Rose’s reflector sight, and whilst just out of range, with one last, quick glance behind, he aimed carefully ahead of the Stuka he had picked out for himself on the port side of the formation, and squeezed the trigger on his control-column for a two second burst.

  Immediately his Hurricane juddered from the recoil, spraying out a stream of bullets in front of the oncoming target, the strange corkscrewing grey trails converging on the ugly gull-winged shapes, now distorted by the vibration of his Hurricane’s airframe.

  He had misjudged the closing speed, and his fire missed the first two waves altogether. However, the third Stuka in line was not as fortunate.

  It flew through the concerted storm of bullets, hits flashing along its cowling and fuselage, a brilliant burst of fire, debris torn from it, spinning away like a leaves in an autumnal gust.

  Then it had disappeared beneath him.

  All in less than a second.

  To his side, other trails of grey smoke and cartridge casings streamed back from the wings of his companions as they, too, opened fire on the serried ranks before them. In an instance they were through the enemy formation, and he pulled back, tilting into a curving attack from astern. He couldn’t tell which of the enemy planes he had targeted and hit, for the sky seemed to be full of the frantically twisting black gull-winged dive-bombers, the formation hopelessly broken up. Two of them were falling, trailing thick smoke.

  Tracer curved dangerously close then fell away.

  They were everywhere, a cloud of dark enemy machines, some desperately racing for sanctuary amongst the few clouds or diving down, whilst others continued doggedly on course towards the convoy.

  B’Flight had broken up the formation with their attack from above, and already another of the Stukas was spiralling down in flames, whilst below there were waterspouts where the bombs jettisoned by some of the startled Luftwaffe pilots had landed.

  He felt a stab of gladness and pride. That was some explosive that wouldn’t take any British lives.

  A single Hurricane was turning tightly after a group of four bombers that had maintained their heading. Another was racing after a Stuka, firing long bursts into the stricken aeroplane as it fell away, already burning and out of control.

  Of the others in B’ Flight there was no sign, although he could still hear them shouting and swearing over the R/T.

  Rose ignored the chaotic communications and looked around, searching for escorts, and more importantly, for more targets. There certainly were enough of them.

  No dark shapes from the sun. Where the hell were the fighter escort?

  A Junkers 87 flashed past, and was gone, tracer reaching out, falling away.

  Chase him? No. He had no bomb, and was heading for home. Some bombers were still heading for the convoy.

  Those were his priority. He had to stop them. He looked around again.

  Another turned lazily above him, wobbling uncertainly, turning onto a heading for the ships.

  God! They were so slow!

  Any fighters above or behind? No. Thank God.

  Pull up, tighten the turn, pull hard inside the German’s turn, watch that gunner, aim slightly ahead, and gently squeeze the firing button. The eight machine guns thundered out again, firm on the stick, strain to keep the deflection correct. No return fire. The poor fool didn’t even know he was there! Flashes on the stained pale blue underside of the other aircraft, a white plume of glycol whipped back thinly.

  Eyes flick quickly around, then back at the Stuka.

  Flame gouts out of the enemy plane’s Junkers Jumo 211 engine, and there go the bombs, a big one and four little ones, falling and turning, end over end, jettisoned by a pilot who knows he can no longer deliver them onto their intended targets. A flash of smoke and one spatted wheel flies off, spinning ridiculously.

  The Ju87 tightened its turn, extended its speed-brakes, looming dangerously before him. Rose desperately threw the Hurricane the other way, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, and half-felt, half-heard a splatter of bullets pierce the fuselage somewhere behind him once, twice and three times.

  Sounds like a cricket bat smacking into a wet sandbag. No time to worry about them.

  He passed through the gout of thick, oily black smoke that billowed out of the Ju87 suddenly, staining his windscreen.

  The world went dark momentarily, and, despite the facemask being strapped tightly to his face, he choked on the pungent stench of the smoke and from the cordite.

  Another Hurricane shot past him, close enough to touch, steadied to fire a burst into the stricken dive-bomber, and was gone again.

  Bloody Hell! Where on earth did he come from?

  Keep a proper look-out! Didn’t see him at all! Could get shot down by the next one!

  The Junkers was burning like a torch now, it tipped over, and fell away, burning pieces detaching from the main body of the aircraft. It seemed to collapse like wet paper. On the way down, a single parachute opened.

  Swinging like a pendulum.

  Got one!

  Eyeballs straining for escorts.

>   One survivor. An escapee from the torch that was the now tumbling Stuka.

  Another for me! Or is that a half? That other Hurricane may claim it, he thought.

  Cheeky bastard.

  A fierce exhilaration gripped him tightly.

  Another glance behind.

  Still no fighters. Thank you, God.

  All around was a confused picture of aircraft fleeing everywhere.

  Ah. Two more of the Junkers 87’s were close ahead, far below, tucked closely together, diving gently. Towards the convoy. They had a clear run in, no other Hurricanes apparent nearby.

  Up to me to stop them, then.

  Turning again, he closed quickly from above and astern. He was beginning to feel a little light-headed from the forces placed on him by the sharp turns, and the raw excitement pounding inside him.

  The range closed rapidly and mentally he berated himself; reduce the throttles, Harry, or else you’ll overshoot. These kites are slow, dead slow. If you overshoot and end up in front of them they may take a quick pot-shot with their wing-mounted machine guns at you, too.

  What a terrible thought. Being shot down by a bloody Ju87 Stuka!

  He was not aware that he was muttering meaninglessly under his mask, encouraging himself with directions and meaningless remarks. His thumb stroked the gun-button. Not yet, he reminded himself, get in close, really close.

  He thought they might separate from one another, but doggedly they held formation, relying on the security of combined fire from their rear facing guns.

  The rear-gunners were firing back at him, and their fire drew close so that he was certain that it would hit him, but he side-slipped again and again and the blazing balls of fire would sear past.

  So close, he felt he could reach out to them. Can’t you do any better, you Jerry bastards? His anger burnt away the creeping fear.

  His testicles felt as if they had been turned to ice. Despite the armoured glass of the windscreen, and the comforting bulk of the engine block in front of him, he could not help but hunch down in the face of the return fire. Side-slip, jink.

  Four hundred yards, then three hundred. Reduce the throttle.

  Glittering webs of tracer reaching out. Something spanged! off the side of his cockpit, startling him, but he held to his course grimly. The engine still growled smoothly, and she continued to fly.

  At a range of less than two hundred yards, with the worn and dirty-looking Stukas looming large in his gunsight, he placed the dot onto the leading aircraft, and pressed down the firing-button convulsively. The machine guns clattered, a harsh reek of cordite filling the cockpit again. At exactly the same instant, he finally felt more bullet-strikes on his fighter.

  Ahead of him, the shuddering vision of the lead Stuka shook under the onslaught, as Rose kicked the rudder pedals alternately and nudged the control column to spray a spreading cone of gunfire over the pair of Stukas.

  The dive-bomber’s wing man pulled up and broke away, out of the lethal hail of lead. The flaming blobs of tracer swirled around the port aircraft, and it sparkled from multiple hits on its fuselage, wings and tailplane, small pieces of metal and thick grey-black smoke escaping in a couple of billowing puffs. Fire flared briefly, went out, flared again. Yellow-white tinged with red, lancing back like the flame from a blow-torch.

  Shreds of metal, tailwheel and then one tail-strut were ripped off. Unsupported, the port aileron shook then folded back. The wingtips wobbled as the pilot fought desperately for control of the aeroplane.

  Something smacked against his starboard wing tip but he retained control, heart pounding.

  Meanwhile, the Stuka wingman was frantically diving away in an attempt to escape the hail of lead.

  And then Rose’s bullets set off the bomb slung low under the Ju87.

  One second the enemy aeroplane was in front of him, burning, pieces falling from it, the next Rose was flying inverted, six thousand feet above the sea, hanging downwards in his straps, mind muddled and disorientated.

  He realised after a few confused seconds that the glittering sea was now above, the sky beneath.

  All he could remember was the sudden bright white flash as the bomb exploded. It had been a dazzling whiteness interspersed with black spots, and a pointed wing had twirled dizzily past, close enough to touch, the black and white cross on it just a blur, and then nothing.

  He must have been unconscious for at least a few seconds. Nothing was audible on the R/T. It was completely dead. And his ears were ringing strangely. Was he deaf? No. He could still hear the roar of the engine.

  Best roll right way up, come out of this dive.

  Dazedly, he righted the Hurricane, shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer, and pulled back into level flight. The light-headedness persisted, and he could taste acid at the back of his mouth. He swallowed painfully.

  At least his kite was still airborne, seemed responsive, and the engine sounded healthy enough.

  He closed his eyes tightly, counted to three, opened them again. Blinked.

  And almost threw his Hurricane into a hard turn of evasion to port.

  Flying close off his starboard wing was a Spitfire with unfamiliar squadron markings. The other pilot had pushed back his canopy, and was staring at him beneath thick black eyebrows, white silk scarf flapping in the slipstream. He held up a hand.

  Rose waved weakly at the other, aware that his earphones were completely dead. No static, nothing. The only sound was the roar of his engine and the whistling of the slipstream through the holes in the fuselage.

  He keyed his microphone. “Jamjar from Honey Red Three…do you read me….please respond.” No response. His R/T was useless. Must have been damaged by the explosion.

  He looked across to the other pilot, tapped his ear, shook his head, pointed to himself, and gave thumbs up gesture.

  The Spitfire pilot nodded his understanding, waggled his wings, drew his gauntlet dramatically across his forehead, in a gesture that cried out 'Phew!', winked and gave Rose a thumbs-up in return, then opened his throttles wide open and curved away.

  Presumably after the remaining Stukas. He looked around, but there was no sign of the second Stuka or any other Stukas. Had it been hit by the bomb blast too? Had the surviving enemy plane gone down? Had the Spitfire pilot shot it down?

  Or was it, even now, limping back home, with a crew, thankful to be alive, just as dazed as he?

  Thank Heavens that it had been an RAF kite that had been sitting on his wing. It could just as easily have been a Jerry fighter.

  Thanks a lot, chum, he thought warmly of the other, I’ll stand you a drink or three if I get the chance to meet up with you. I owe you a lot more than that.

  My guardian angel. You kept me safe in those seconds or minutes whilst I was out of it.

  Quick glance around and into the rear-view mirror. Nothing.

  There were Jerry kites still in the area, and he was still in the battle area, so Luftwaffe fighters could still jump him. He pushed back the hood, then, gingerly, he tested the controls. She seemed to be OK in level flight.

  Should I get back into the fight?

  No, perhaps not. He was still feeling peculiarly light-headed, and he’d definitely accounted for one (all by myself!), shared one, and maybe had a probable with the other Stuka? That was enough for today.

  Two confirmed, two shared, and a probable, at least. The score was mounting, and he still lived!

  There was probably only a couple of second’s worth of ammunition left in his ammo trays, his aircraft had suffered hits, and the fighter escort, notable in its absence, could arrive at any moment. Flying along, on his own in that wide open sky, he felt very, very, lonely. He’d had enough.

  Best get home. I’ll remember the squadron letters of that Spitfire, try and find out who it was who thought to protect me. He must have been itching to get into the fight, but instead he was looking after me. He certainly shifted fast enough when he was sure I was alright. Hope you’re lucky, too, my friend.
r />   Lady Luck again, giving me a guardian when I most needed it. I would have made easy pickings whilst I was out. Why, even one of those Stukas could have downed me, with its single forward facing popgun!

  He shuddered at the thought, and then, remembering, patted his breast pocket. Yes, Genevieve was still there. He could feel the little bear with the slightly faded pink ribbon beneath his gauntleted fingers.

  Thank you, Genevieve, and Thank you, Molly. I think she works for me as well. You and the unknown Spitfire pilot looked after me today.

  He shuddered, suddenly feeling very cold. A few yards closer, and the explosion would have shredded his aircraft like tissue paper. The sight of the flaming wreckage of the first Stuka he had helped shoot down was still fresh in his memory.

  I could have died, he thought shakily, and not even known it. A telegram would have arrived on the doorstep at home, perhaps even a letter from the Palace.

  A letter of Royal sympathy. ‘The Queen and I offer you our heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow…’

  His legs began to tremble from reaction.

  Well, no damned telegrams or letters today! Mother would not be shattered by loss today.

  For some reason that he could not fathom, tears were spilling from his eyes, slowly dribbling out of his goggles, along his cheeks where the slipstream caught them.

  In the distance, thin trails of smoke threaded the sky. A faraway flash, flaring bright briefly.

  Mute testimony of the deadly struggle still raging.

  Was he imagining it, or did the engine sound a bit rough?

  His fight was over for today, he felt exhausted, and he desperately wanted to see Molly, to hear her voice, inhale the sweet scent of her fragrance. He craved her cleanness, the warmth of her nearness, and he had had more than enough of the stink and sight of war for one day.

  He felt Granny’s absence, and was uncomfortable high over the channel, all alone.

  He turned carefully for home and safety, keeping a wary eye out for enemy fighters.

  Still alive, he thought, fatigue mixed with gladness.

  But, for how much longer?

  CHAPTER 17

  The sun was warm on his face, and slowly, he allowed his muscles to relax. The sound of bees and birdsong, and the rich fragrance of earth and wild flowers, lulled him peacefully like a soporific.