They were his good luck charms, and whilst he had them, he felt the Germans could not shoot him down. He took her photo with him every time he flew, now, as well as Genevieve of course, and he could not imagine going into action without either of them.
They were his shield against misfortune, but his heart still thumped for a moment when he caught sight of the shadow of his aircraft momentarily outlined against a cloud, as he weaved from one to another.
Thank goodness for the glycol pump that kept his windscreen from icing up.
At least up to about twelve thousand feet, or so, Chiefy said.
His wingtips scythed through the cloud, leaving spiralling vortices swirling loosely behind. He turned between the clouds, winding a twisted path between them, as if the openness between them were a road within a canyon. Exhilarated, he banked around, flinging himself and his fighter at the mounds of cloud, like a modern day Don Quixote tilting wildly at windmills, gasping with the excitement and the forces.
He felt a mad urge to spray the cloud with his machine guns, as if they were titanic foes, and he laughed at himself and his foolishness.
The spinning airscrew a few feet in front of him sliced pitilessly into the flanks of the cloud.
The sun had begun to burn off the early morning mist, so that the shadowed land below slowly became more visible, the vivid colours of the countryside were not yet brightly lit, and the landscape was still grey below. The world had not quite fully awoken.
Soon enough they would form a vibrant collage of greens and yellows and brown below.
But he did not look down, for the grey land was far beneath, and he and his Hurricane were all alone in this world, a world of brilliant blue and fleecy white.
Heaving his rugged aircraft around, he enjoyed the freedom, the tranquillity of his surroundings that brought in him an easing from the normal everyday tensions of his life.
For ten minutes he zipped from cloud to cloud, like a child playing tag on a summer’s day. It felt wonderful to play, to actually just fly and be released from the strains that were part and parcel of his daily existence. He could clear his mind, and indulge himself.
Tiring of his game at last, but still revelling in the crisp freshness of the morning, he yanked his stick back, and the Hurricane responded like a thoroughbred, soaring gratefully upwards into the clear air again. The two of them were creatures of the air, the strings that bound them to the earth cut, so that they could fly endlessly, reaching up, ever up.
At twelve thousand feet, the last cloud tops and feather-tail wisps fell behind, so that all that filled his straining vision and his windscreen was a sunshine-filled blue.
The sky stretched vast before him, miles and miles of a deep azure bowl, nothing able to contain and hold him.
The fighter was like a champion racehorse, a living instrument straining against him, eager to throw herself forward, the power of her humming through his blood, the trembling of her exciting him and invigorating.
At 20,000 feet, he eased further back on the stick and looped the Hurricane so that the clouds he had left behind below were now above, then before him again. He rolled her so that she was pointing almost straight down again, and he held the stick tight as she rocketed sharply downwards, towards the stiff white ragged curtain of broken cloud, faster and faster. He was all alone, but he could see the light glinting off the surfaces of his wings, and he knew that he would be visible from afar, a plummeting shining sliver of metal, glowing bright, high in the air, falling, falling.
The sun was warm against his face and caught the metal and wood of his control panel, making them glow warmly, the instruments shining.
He fell quickly back to earth, down, down, as if to ram the ground.
He hit the cloud again, and pulled back, rolled and turned (easy there-mind the wings, don’t want to lose them!), like a diver smashing through the surface of the sea. The horizon gyrated and whirled, this way and that, the world around one of movement and changing position, of light and shadow.
A sudden glint caught his eye, and he looked again. A momentary flash of light reflecting off glass. Instantly alert to danger, he steadied the fighter.
Yes, again. There.
Something on the surface of the sea?
A tiny cruciform shape crawling across the surface.
Worry prickled through him.
He turned towards it, checked the sky above, no bandits above, no trap. Perhaps it was an aircraft, flying low, really low. Without being aware of it, his body had tensed in the confines of the cockpit as the warrior effortlessly slipped back into the seat.
Why was it so low? Trying to avoid being seen? He felt suddenly cold, and his dry throat tickled uncomfortably. He was all alone up here.
Where it had been a delight a mere few seconds ago, now it was an uncomfortable position to be in. There may be more of them.
Quickly, he spoke to the duty controller at sector control, advised them of the situation.
Whatever it was, it was too close, dangerously close. And he was the nearest. He felt the coldness of fear nibbling at his periphery.
What’s wrong with me?
The peace of a few moments ago forgotten as harsh reality loomed. The interception was his to do.
Gun sight on, guns to ‘fire.’
It was difficult to see the other aircraft, for aircraft it was that he’d seen. The speed at which it was moving meant it could be nothing else.
A single aircraft skimming the waves at close to zero feet.
And it was heading for Britain.
Might it be a reconnaissance Dornier? No, they flew far higher, often far above the normal ceiling of intercepting fighters.
The painful shimmering of the sea making him squint, but still he could not see what it was, so he curved around, turning widely out above the icy sea, so that the sun was behind him. The aircraft before him turned from a glittering shape to a dark one.
No sign of any escort.
He drew closer, his finger poised, ready to pump lead into the other machine as he strove to identify it.
It was painted black on its underside, and as he eased himself nearer, he could now see that it had the peculiar yet familiar tadpole-like shape that was typical of the Handley-Page Hampdens that served with RAF Bomber Command.
One of ours. Not an enemy aircraft, after all. Thank goodness!
The twin-engined medium bomber had a narrow fuselage, that pinched in about half way along the aircraft, to form a thin fragile element, to which was attached a twin tail-fin arrangement.
There was a rear-gunner, and Rose took care to stay out of range. They might mistake him for a Jerry fighter.
How must they have felt? The coast of their homeland before them in the early light, a long dark night over enemy territory behind them.
They must have been relaxed, until they saw the fighter approaching from astern, their relief at seeing the English coastline dispelled by the fear at the sudden appearance of the unknown aircraft.
To have survived hours over hostile airspace, then to get home and see a fighter approaching must have been a terrible shock for the bomber aircrew.
Rose waggled his wings, waved apologetically at the faraway gunner in the open cockpit (must be frozen stiff, poor sod!), who waved back enthusiastically (must be bloody glad I’m not a Hun!).
He reported the nature and identity of the contact to sector control, and edged closer, moving forward so that he drew level with it.
He could see the battle damage and the stain of war on the skin of its fuselage and wings. Ack-ack bursts had streaked it grey-black, so that the dark green and brown of the camouflage was almost obscured.
There was also a sprinkling of ragged tears in the port rudder, the largest of which was over a foot in diameter.
The battered Hampden looked dirty and tired against the crisp water. It was a thing of the night, and somehow appeared uncomfortable and out of place in the daylight.
Rose looked past the shining a
rcs of the propeller to the high cockpit. He could see the pilot within, but the cockpit was in shadow, only the shape of the man visible.
There was a strange pride in him for his compatriots as he looked at the Hampden. The battered machine and its weary men had emerged from a hostile darkness, where all around them had been only the enemy and danger.
They had fought their way through a fiery gauntlet, and returned to a homeland washed clean and bright by the early morning sun. Brave men venturing alone deep into enemy territory to strike a blow against the enemy.
How glad and comforted they must feel each time their wheels touched the ground of home.
He took up a protective position above and behind. He had decided he would escort them, at least part of the way, home. He was their welcoming committee, and now he would be their escort. It was the least they deserved.
In the bomber the pilot wiped his face. He eased the bomber into a gentle climb as they passed over the coast.
He was the same age as the young man in the Hurricane flying alongside, but he had been flying bombers for three months, and had sixteen operations to his credit already. He was already a veteran of Bomber Command’s war, and whilst his colleagues of Fighter Command were tasked with the defence of Britain, his remit was to attack the enemy in their own territory, in their own backyard, alone.
In the wee small hours of the night he and others had bombed one of the coastal facilities where the German invasion forces were gathering their assets.
There were shattered barges with dead soldiers inside them this morning because of his and his colleague’s actions. Enemy soldiers that would never storm a British beach or port.
We’ll keep them at bay, he thought, with a grim satisfaction, but there was no longer gladness in his heart, just the all-encompassing tiredness.
He patted the side of the cockpit.You brought us back safe and sound again, old girl. They called you a ‘flying panhandle,’ but there’s nothing better than you.
You and little Harriet. The little panda bear, with one missing button eye, swung from a stanchion beside him. One eye was missing because he had ‘tortured’ the stuffed toy when he was eight. Harriet, however, did not seem to hold a grudge, for she had brought him back again and again.
There was a tap on his shoulder. It was his observer. “Almost home, thank the Lord. There’s a little tea left in the flask, skipper. Would you like it?”
The pilot grimaced. “No thanks, John. Bit strong for me, and it’s probably pretty well stewed solid now. You lads have it. Could do with a fag though.”
The observer laughed and disappeared back into the tight dark space behind him.
The pilot glanced back at the Hurricane holding station on them. Nice to have an escort for a change. The yell from the gunner as the fighter had curved in from behind still rang in his ears.
Thank goodness it had been a ‘friendly.’ He was exhausted and did not feel that he would have been able to evade an attack after such a night. All he wanted was to have a bath, tuck into some eggs, and then straight to bed.
He sighed, scratched his neck. Fat chance there would be of that. The Intelligence Officer would be waiting with sharpened pencils to debrief them.
He yawned hugely. Lots of lovely cloud around today.
The bomber’s enemy and friend.
He fumbled in his fur lined flying jacket for the picture of the girl.
She was a WAAF Flight Officer, stationed at a fighter airfield, worse luck. Wish you were based with me, old girl, he thought. I could keep an eye on you then, at least.
Maybe the fighter came from her field?
He looked back across at the Hurricane. I wonder if she knows you, my friend. Perhaps you could tell me how she is.
He smiled to himself.
Silly sod. What funny things to be thinking about at this time of the morning.
At last, he managed to free the photograph from his pocket. The teeth of the zipper cut into its edges, adding to the worn appearance.
There was a scrawl in black ink on the back of the picture. An inscription that read, ‘Dearest Edward, don’t I look grand in this uniform! Flight Officer no less! You’ll have to salute me, next time! Have to dash, so take care of yourself. Love always, Molly.’
The girl in the picture was smiling, a calm smile. Her eyes were dark, the long black hair he knew so well tucked demurely beneath her service cap, and the two rings of a Flight Officer proud on her sleeve.
“That’s one more op in the bag, Moll!”
He had begun to feel that he may see out the end of his tour after all.
Please God.
He pushed the photograph back into his pocket. He could not know that an identical photo, but without the scrawled message, was taped to Rose’s instrument panel in the Hurricane that flew alongside.
It had seemed an age since he had last seen her, although it could not be more than two days since she had driven down to see him in her little sports car, and she had telephoned him the evening her field had been attacked by Bf109s.
He hoped that she was OK. He massaged his back with one hand. These long flights were hell on the old back.
The damned flight had seemed to last forever. They should be at the airfield in just a few more minutes.
“Chummy’s off, Skip. Time to wave ta-ta.”
The Hurricane on his port side waggled its wings, then tipped over and dived away.
He watched it as it grew small with distance, shrunk to a dot, then disappeared altogether.
A chance encounter, and a blessed one for the bomber pilot.
Whoever you are, thank you for the welcome home. God bless.
CHAPTER 24
The aroma of ripe fruit, foliage and wet earth was heavy in the air. The light rain that had fallen earlier that afternoon had brought a feeling of freshness, as if the world had just been crafted anew. Delicious and clean and pure, the scents and hues all around heightened by this sense of cleanliness.
Rose took a sip from his pint glass, and sighed, pleased that his world was so lovely and peaceful. As with all such rare opportunities, he took great pleasure in enjoying the simple delights of nature. They were a welcome and wonderful contrast with the sounds and smells of high-performance fighter aircraft and fighter airfields during wartime.
How strange it was that he had never been able to truly appreciate the true beauty of the countryside before. In the last few weeks it was a land for which he had spilled enemy blood and killed, and now he saw it as he had never done before.
The imminence of death makes one enjoy life and living so much more, allows one to experience its essences all the better.
The lull in the fighting of the last few days had given them all time to recover, to rest. Perhaps the Germans had decided not to invade after all.
But, of course, he knew better. It was a forlorn hope.
Molly laughed, the low, throaty sound like music to his ears. “Lovely moustache, Harry.”
He smiled back self-consciously, and she leaned across the wooden table between them to wipe his upper lip with her napkin. He raised his glass of milk to her in thanks, watching her warm eyes as she critically assessed her cleansing efforts.
“Thank you, kind lady.”
She tried to curtsy, but she was sitting down across from him, and it didn’t come out right.
They were sitting in the garden of the Horse and Groom, in the shadow of a clump of trees that led onto part of the adjoining orchard.
Between them were the remains of a light lunch of bread, cold cuts of chicken, cheese and pickles that Jack had rustled up for them. Jack had also given them his ‘special’ chunky Piccalilli, although the strength of it made Rose suspect it may contain the stuff that flame-throwers used.
Molly seemed to enjoy it though. He’d decided that she must have a steel-lined stomach, and the appetite of an ox.
She traced swirling patterns in water on the table top, and watched him surreptitiously. With the lull in fighti
ng, the pilots had been able to get some rest.
It had not been unusual for them to be flying three or more sorties a day.
The dreadful pallor of his face had gone, and the dark shadows under his eyes were beginning to fade. He still looked tired, lined and gaunt, and there was something in his gaze that made her want to take him into her arms and hold him tightly forever.
But then, she felt like that all of the time.
“Let’s go down to London again, Harry.”
He watched the way the beat in her slim neck pulsed. She was not in uniform this time, deciding instead to wear a simple dark blue dress that accentuated her figure beautifully, her narrow waist, and had also given him a tantalising glimpse of long, shapely legs.
He was still quite shy of staring at her, but whenever they were together, he had found that he could not help himself. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Aware of his admiring gaze, she tossed back her hair and flicked water at him.
“Didn’t mother tell you it was rude to stare?”
She was pleased but also a little embarrassed at his single-minded attention.
His eyes remained locked on her. “She said it was OK if the girl in question was staggeringly beautiful.”
She snorted in amusement. “Flattery…”
He held up one hand. “I know, I know. It’ll get me nowhere. It doesn’t matter. I’m not saying it for some reward here on earth. I’m merely speaking as I find. You are just so very, very exceptional it entrances me.”
And she was. With the sun behind her, her black hair was lit a glowing reddish-brown.
On the road, a despatch rider bellowed noisily past on his motor bike, a hateful and smelly reminder of that other world from which they had escaped, even though it were only for an hour or so.
Their eyes followed his passage south, until he disappeared where the road curved behind the trees bordering it, the sound and smoke a fading memory of him.
She raised one slender arm, to tuck a tress of hair neatly behind an ear. Her lashes were long and dark, and there was something in her eyes that spoke of hot winds and spice, an exciting and exotic mysticism harking back to her Indian heritage.
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