To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Two Stukas were already falling, and another two were dropping out of their neat, ordered ranks, wobbling and smoking. A third ballooned outwards in a catastrophic explosion.

  Parachutes were blossoming, including one that was white. The pilot of the damaged Hurricane had managed to escape his crippled mount. The Hurricane tumbling crazily down, shedding fragments.

  Poor Farrell. Bad luck. At least he’d got out.

  Perhaps he had been successful this time before he’d had to hop out.

  And then the covering 109s of the high escort were diving, trying to intercept the Hurricanes of B-Flight, and allow the Stukas a breathing space in which to rally and escape or continue the attack.

  It was the German fighter’s turn to be ‘bounced.’ They had not even seen the second flight of RAF fighters above. And as far as Rose could see there was no second bunch of Bf109s above the first.

  Denis, quiet, crisp. “Red Leader to A-Flight, time for us to join the party! Tally-Ho!”

  One by one, the Hurricanes of A-Flight leaned over into a dive and made for the plummeting Bf109s.

  They were two arrowheads of three, glittering shapes where the sun caught their canopies, falling like thunderbolts from a clear blue ceiling.

  Rose glanced down, as the twisting aeroplanes below grew larger and larger in his sights. This time, however, he was primarily concentrating on the sky behind, and in also in keeping formation with Denis. He would stay strictly on his section leader’s wing, taking a backseat role of watch and cover and protect.

  The formation of German fighters was below them, the enemy at an angle of dive shallower than that of their pursuers.

  There were three formations of enemy fighters, each containing four Bf109s. Fairly evenly matched, then, but still his heart thumped anxiously inside him.

  “Red Leader to Yellow Leader, you take the starboard four. We’ll have a bash at the others.”

  “Received and understood, Red Leader, last one in’s a rotten egg.” cackled Granny. God, how does he stay so cool?

  The two sections separated, and Yellow section closed until they were three hundred yards above and behind the four 109s when Denis opened fire, grey trails streaming back from his wings.

  They had caught the enemy completely unawares, or so it seemed. Was there already another formation of fighters descending on them? But there was still nothing above them.

  Denis’ aim was excellent, and his bullets splashed across the 109 second from left.

  Immediately, the enemy machine came apart, exploding into a blazing ball that corkscrewed out of the formation, its pilot already dead.

  At that instant, Rose opened fire on his target.

  Pieces flew off the right wingtip of the Bf109 that Rose had targeted, and then it abruptly rolled away, white smoke pouring from its exhausts.

  He let it go.

  The fighter formation was split up. But there were no congratulations or calls of triumph, just a terse, “Tighten up, Yellow section.”

  Stay in formation.

  Concentrate on the machine next to you, but don’t let down your guard. Snap off a quick burst if the odd chance permits.

  Then they were racing through a gaggle of Junker 87s. The gull-winged dive-bombers scattering from the tight formation of three Hurricanes that came as if from nowhere like a bolt from the blue into their midst. His ears buzzed, the Bf109s forgotten.

  For an instant, a Stuka was in his sights, and he pressed hard on the gun-button, a one second burst that flayed uselessly at the open air, missing the dive-bomber and its terrified, staring crew completely.

  He cursed obscenely.

  Denis was pulling out, and Rose dragged at the control column, muscles straining, vision greying, and the Hurricane shuddered as it tried to recover from the screaming dive.

  He ought to have throttled back, would not be able to stop.

  They were going down too fast, and, unable to recover fast enough to intercept, sweeping past the Stukas, which were only so many blurred streaks that disappeared behind them as if standing still.

  They finally managed to level out a few hundred feet further down. Immediately Denis had cranked over in a turn towards a Stuka that had been surprised by the nightmare of their sudden appearance, and seeing the unwelcome attention it had received, tipped over into a dive to escape.

  Rose worked to hold position with Denis, already sliding and slipping after the dive bomber.

  Throttling back so as not to overshoot, Denis locked his sights onto the Stuka, ignored the return fire and shredded it with a two second burst, destroying the dive-bomber with contemptuous ease.

  Small pieces all that were left, to fall like errant leaves twisting to the ground in autumn.

  “Any more?”

  “Come on, Dingo!” Granny sounded thoroughly browned off with his supporting position, he was accustomed to leading and was itching to hunt his own. Rose glanced quickly into his rear-view mirror again, and saw the danger.

  “Two bandits, He113’s, five o’clock high, descending!”

  Can’t climb or dive. Have me on a plate if I try that. Best to turn and face them.

  “Yellow break! Break, chaps!”

  Kick right foot on the rudder bar, pull back and to the right on the control-column, and the Hurricane is suddenly twisting hard around, banking upwards to face the enemy. His vision greyed again as the tremendous forces pushed the blood from his head.

  When the mists cleared sufficiently from his vision, he sighted carefully on the turning shape, pressed the gun-button.

  He had misjudged deflection in his haste, and his two second burst arced uselessly away behind and beneath the enemy aircraft.

  Rose could see now that it wasn’t a He113 as he had initially thought, but another Bf109 with its squared-off wingtips and big airscrew.

  The engine cowling and airscrew of the other machine twinkled with bright light, and orange blobs were racing towards him, slowly at first, swelling and expanding, and then they were whizzing past to one side as he eased rudder and side-slipped away from them.

  A second later, the Messerschmitt had shot past, and the Hurricane wallowed in the turbulent air of its passage.

  Fight for control, keep her under control, come on, my love.

  There was just a hubbub of shouts in his earphones, and a confusion of aircraft all around him.

  Wheel round, stick back, left rudder. Blacked out momentarily again.

  Granny meanwhile had whipped around too, and his aim was better than Rose’s. His first burst sawed into the first Bf109’s Daimler Benz engine, he rolled, and his second burst caught the other 109 on the wingtip.

  The first machine’s propeller windmilled before it tipped drunkenly downwards, the pilot already pulling back his canopy.

  The second Bf109, faced by the two Hurricanes and seeing his colleagues plight, decided he’d had enough, and dived away, plunging out of trouble. A parachute blossomed as the doomed Bf109 fell away.

  Denis, meanwhile, had disappeared, and then Granny too, had gone, as he half-rolled and dived after the second 109. “Come on Flash, we can share this one.”

  Another Stuka passed below Rose from left to right, heading for the convoy. Already two ships were burning, and another was sinking, low-down at the bows, its speed dropping off sharply.

  He dived down, and a thread of tracer swept up to meet him, above, tracked downwards, thud-thud-thud! Sound of a cricket bat on sandbag. Something spanged! against the side of the cockpit, one panel crazing and frightening him badly, and then the stream of fire had washed past below.

  Bullets had torn into the port wing, and now a long thin section of fabric tore back like a long streamer, and flapped frantically like some long strange banner, the vibration from it pulling at him, but at least the bullets had missed anything vital.

  The ribbon lengthened as the slipstream pulled at it, but it would not tear off, dragged at him instead as he held her steady.

  But at least he’d surv
ived the bead of tracer. They’d missed his wing petrol tank, God be praised!

  My turn, he thought savagely, and his thumb jammed down on the gun-button.

  The Stuka was banking to port, sun catching its cockpit cover harshly, when the bullets from his guns crashed in a concerted storm against the fuselage and starboard wing of the enemy aircraft. Metal flew back, and the enemy machine shivered under the assault.

  The enemy gunner was firing again, and Rose’s Hurricane shuddered against the new hits, the big Merlin caught, just for an instant, and so did Rose’s heart, and then it was purring again, and the enemy pilot had dragged his aircraft around tight, a piece of one of the dive-brakes whirled off, and the Stuka, trailing more pieces, suddenly tipped over and tumbled down.

  Was he hit badly, or was it a loss of control? Or perhaps a controlled spinning tumble? But there was no time to follow him and find out. He’d hurt the Stuka, and that was enough.

  The Hurricane was vibrating disturbingly, and fighters were somewhere behind him, hunting him.

  And then there was only a hail-like rattle of bullets or shrapnel against the armour plating behind him, more thuds against the fuselage.

  The aircraft shook and juddered even more under the violent onslaught. For a terror-filled instant he thought he was lost, but then his reflexes took over.

  Automatically, he banged hard on the rudder, and the trembling Hurricane swerved wildly to starboard, dropped a wing tip and pulled back hard into a steep bank.

  My God! Survived it!

  Even as he was turning, two more Messerschmitts sped past him, guns still winking, so close that he saw a face looking directly at him, brown-helmeted head and a pale blur of a face, features indistinct, and then the contact was swiftly broken.

  The Stuka had disappeared, grateful for a chance to escape by the sudden reprieve.

  Watch out for a second pair. Search this strange whirling confusion, yes, two more, falling down at him. There’re too many!

  Calm, calm. Reduce the turn, pull out a little.

  Vibrations worsening, not from the wing-fabric though, finally ripped off by the sharp turn. Vibrations must be from some of the damage done by the machine gun bullets.

  Pray to God she stays together. Please, my darling, don’t let me down.

  Please, please, please...come on…

  Mumbling the mantra quietly, desperately, unaware he was doing so.

  Still too far, but the Bf109s suddenly break off, dive away.

  What the…?

  There! A Spitfire, curving around behind them, light sparkled from her leading edges, and smoke ripped back from the second Bf109 of the pair.

  Off to his left, a burning Hurricane whirled past, cockpit empty and harness flapping, it’s rudder and tail plane ripped apart, angry orange fire rippling back from the exhaust stubs, the propeller stopped and broken.

  He tried to pick out whose it was, but it had disappeared below before he could pick out the code-letter. At least the pilot had managed to get out. We’ve lost two at least, then, but not me, thank the Lord. Not so far…

  And then there were no more aircraft nearby, just the shouts over the R/T, and a few planes turning and fighting, far off. A trail etched harsh against a cloud showed the death-dive of yet another aircraft, but with no sign of its identity, or of the victor of the fight, whilst below, three mushrooms, only one of them white, had blossomed, like peculiar airborne mushrooms. But at least that was one RAF pilot saved.

  In the moments of sudden quiet, he tested the controls, glancing nervously into his mirror and all around him. The torn hole in the fabric of the wing had left a few of the members of the wing exposed, scratched bright by the impact of bullets.

  She responded well, no apparent damage to the vital systems, but there was still that damn strange vibration. The motion made his hair stand on end and his nerves tingle with anxiety.

  Sod it. What could be causing it? The engine sounded fine and the propeller arc shone smoothly before him.

  There was still ammunition in his guns, but he no longer felt certain that his aircraft was prepared for further combat. Better, perhaps, to break off, and make for base. At least he’d damaged two, and maybe a third. No definite kills today, though.

  His body was shivering as if in sympathy with the fighter, and he was ashamed, but it wasn’t worth the risk to get back into that maelstrom.

  There may be something seriously damaged, if the vibration was anything to go by. He’d been hit many times, and it was a miracle if nothing vital had been damaged. It was bloody miracle he was still flying!

  Better, by far, surely, to live to fight another day?

  Yes.

  He felt a coward, but decided that it was unlikely that he could add significantly to the fight, particularly as it had drifted off to the east.

  He pushed down the nose slightly, pointing it at the nearby coast, took a heading that would get him back to Foxton.

  The vibration unsettled him, and he was keen to get home, eyes anxiously flicking at his mirror.

  CHAPTER 28

  The first sign of more trouble was a sharp staccato series of bangs, the Hurricane shuddering more violently in sympathy, the control stick shaking in his trembling hands, then a large gout of thick black oil vomited back to splatter like dark, sticky treacle against the windscreen, obscuring the checkerboard of fields below.

  Rose cursed and made to slide back the canopy hood.

  And then the engine abruptly cut out.

  The shimmering disc of his propeller disappeared, as the whirling blades slowed, windmilling, and finally came to a stop.

  Thankfully, there was no sign of fire.

  Just the sound of wind whistling on surfaces and ragged, torn and damaged areas, and the peculiar tink-tink-tink as the Merlin cooled, and a slight, strange grinding.

  Fucking Hell! He licked dry lips, wiped his goggles automatically.

  Hold her steady, drop the nose a little, before speed drops off too much. Turn off the engine, trim the kite’s tabs gently for a long glide.

  Five thousand feet, and can’t see a bloody thing.

  Anxiously he searched the sky around, for he was a sitting duck, easy meat to a marauding enemy kite.

  Push back the hood, lock it open, and lean forward into the sudden cold blast of air.

  Can’t reach.

  Don’t panic. Loosen straps, try again, and try to wipe away the oil.

  Hold her steady. He looked down and the slipstream tore the hanky from his fingers, as he tried to mop ineffectually at the stain. A thick droplet whipped back and splattered stickily against one of the eyepieces of his goggles.

  He recoiled. Ouch!

  But not in hurt, just shocked by the impact of the viscous glob of oil.

  Careful. Keep wings level, watch your airspeed.

  That’s no bloody good. There was still a thick skim of oil across the windscreen, and he was peering through smeared goggles.

  Time to ask himself the question he would have preferred to avoid.

  What should he do, stay with her or bale out?

  She might be OK, might be able to make a good landing. Don’t much fancy hitting the silk. Rather a long way down and it feels much safer to be surrounded by a rigid protective skeleton.

  They’d been a victorious team together, torn out the enemy’s throat together more than once.

  And, after all, she’d taken care of him so far…

  But was there fire hiding inside the engine, was the integrity of the airframe compromised?

  Sod it. He’d earned an AFC bringing back a damaged aeroplane in the past, he could do it again.

  Anyway, the kite may spin out of control if I try to step out of the cockpit, thought Rose. And if I leave her, she may land on a school or something…

  Stay with her, then.

  “Slipper Yellow Three to Turnip,” Turnip was sector control, “My engine’s conked out, so I can’t get back home. Am going to pancake, um, about ten miles north of P
evensey Bill.”

  But there was only silence in reply. He tried again, but with no joy.

  The airframe shook in the turbulent air, and he wrestled with the controls.

  Keep your airspeed up, keep the nose down, but not too far, maintain airspeed of at least 120 mph. Compensate for drag on the aircraft. Keep the glide angle shallow as you can.

  Make sure she doesn’t get too tail-heavy, or else airspeed may bleed off, and off you stall.

  He tried to still his trembling fingers.

  Oh God, help me!

  Watch your wings, keep ‘em level, watch out for wobble, don’t let her go into a spin either, or else you’re done for.

  Got to look for a good landing site. Poke your head into the whistling slipstream, look ahead for a suitable site.

  Shouldn’t be much of a problem; find a field, preferably without any of those anti-invasion traps.

  Sure. No problem at all.

  Oh, please help me!

  Take another breath, got to stay calm.

  A moment’s lack of concentration, you lose control, and suddenly, it’s all over and you’re dead. Not desirable when you’ve got an intimate rendezvous planned with the best looking WAAF in Britain.

  Rose smiled at the delightful memory of her nipple, firm and erect beneath his palm, the suppleness of her breast and her gasp as he gently grasped it, the desire hot in her eyes, then he shook his head and looked at the instruments.

  The needle on the altimeter was winding down terrifyingly quickly.

  Sky still mercifully clear and free of enemy aircraft, the blue empty all around.

  Ah. There we are. A long flat rectangular shape that was a freshly turned field, lovely and brown, but the loose earth would not be able to support the three ton Hurricane, it would dig in on contact, likely ground-looping, and the chance of coming to a sticky end would be far higher in such a field.

  A sticky end! He grinned to himself tightly, but without humour, eyes grim and continuing the search for salvation.

  But at least he could still smile. And the thought gave him courage.