To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Then he caught sight of a lovely evenly rectangular field of long grass further ahead, and it was clear, or at least appeared so from this height.

  Turn, to starboard, turn gently; slide over with a judicious use of rudder. It was large field, bordered by hedgerow, but to him, as he approached at what seemed to his anxious eyes as too high a speed, it appeared about as large as a postage stamp.

  Careful, careful! Don’t let your airspeed drop! Don’t stall her now!

  Blimey! That ground was coming up jolly quick.

  Easy, easy now. Tighten straps.

  He patted the spade grip of the control column gingerly. Come on, my love, come on, keep on flying, just for a little longer.

  Oh God, save me. Please!

  He stole a glance into the rear-view mirror again. Don’t let a raider or fighter pop into sight as I come down. I’m a sitting duck, here, just waiting to be plucked.

  With the engine off, he stood no chance whatsoever against enemy fighters. In fact a Stuka would have had little difficulty in knocking him down.

  He watched the ground rushing up towards him, throat bone-dry and ticklish, and his eyes smarting painfully. Altitude seemed to be running out too quickly.

  He glanced down at the little windows beside his feet.

  Oh shit! The wheels! They were still up!

  With the engine out of action, the hydraulics and the engine-driven compressor were out of action.

  He would have to do it by hand. Feverish burst of activity as he selected ‘undercarriage down,’ then wrestled with the hand-pump lever on his right, interspersed with anxious glances out of the cockpit at the fast approaching ground. Heart thundering as wings wobbled terrifyingly.

  Thank heavens there would not be cause to use the red-painted foot-pedal.

  A thump as they came down.

  There, down and locked.

  Careful, compensate for the increase in drag.

  Now, don’t forget to pump down the flaps. Move selector to outboard position.

  Keep wings level! Careful!

  You’re not going to make it! A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Shut up. I’ll make it. I’ve got a date with Molly in Mayfair, so I’m bloody well going to make it.

  His clothes were stuck to him, his body wet with strain.

  I’ll make it, of course I will. Done alright so far, haven’t I?

  Cows scattering slowly, like big white sluggish blobs, at this great dark silent bird swooping low. Everything else a green blur, as he concentrated on the field ahead.

  Five hundred feet.

  Approach speed 110 mph.

  Mouth dry, the horrid coppery taste of fear on his tongue. Swallowing so very painful.

  Not much further to go. Hedgerow reaching terrifyingly up for him.

  At one hundred feet he pulled back, flaring out into a shallow angle of approach, the speed well above stall speed as he raised the nose.

  Tongue poking out with effort and concentration.

  Again, the whisper: you’re not going to make it!

  Shut up! He banished the thought from his mind.

  I will! I must!

  As he passed low over the hedgerow, his speed was down to 90 mph, and he eased the stick back further, as the field came up to meet him. He glided down, and he tucked himself forward, head down near the Sorbo crash cushion, and then the main wheels hit, the Hurricane bouncing a few feet back into the air again, before jarring hard against the ground again. He was pitched forward, but his straps held him firmly.

  Thank the Lord he had remembered to tighten them!

  Bit of a heavy arrival, but the undercarriage had not collapsed. His forehead hurt from where he had caught it.

  The tail wheel settled onto the ground, as he eased further back, did not slam into any hidden obstacle, and he was down proper, jouncing hectically along the uneven field, everything outside just a speeding blur.

  Down! Thank the Lord!

  The wheels bumped across the rough, uneven ground, shaking him and jarring his teeth against each other. He clamped shut his mouth grimly and fought to keep her steady.

  But he was safely down.

  Safe and sound, and still blessedly alive.

  As he rolled and jolted along, at last daring to breathe, a worrying thought hit him. The ground was uneven. What if the long grass hid a sharp dip? He would have no warning before piling into it.

  But, at last, after an anxious eternity measured in seconds, the Hurricane rumbled to a stop at the far end of the field, without (thank goodness) encountering any hidden traps.

  There was just the continued sound of metal cooling, tinkling from the engine, the distant whirr of insects, and the high hawthorn hedge rising before him, partially obscured by the raised nose and unmoving propeller blade. No fire.

  He slumped in the cockpit in a daze for a long, grateful moment.

  Oh God, oh God.

  A quivering, painfully deep breath.

  Still alive. Drained and sweating and faint with fear, but still here.

  Squeeze the little bear in his pocket.

  We survived again.

  God only knows how. There are such things as miracles, after all.

  Dear, sweet, kind God, Thank You.

  Incredibly, unbelievably, still alive.

  How long he sat there, trembling and faint, he could not recollect, but finally, with unsteady hands, he unstrapped himself from his aeroplane, disconnected his leads, and raised himself out of the cockpit.

  His descent onto the wing walkway was little more than a controlled, stumbling fall, and he had to sit down on the wing-root trailing edge quietly, limbs trembling, gazing unseeingly at the long, straight trail of crushed, flattened grass that his Hurricane had left behind it.

  He removed his flying gloves and took out the NAAFI chocolate he had placed in his pocket earlier, and, with a little difficulty, he unwrapped it. What he really wanted right now was a Mars bar, but this would have to do.

  The bar, soft and warm from his pocket, trembled stickily against his incisors as his hand shook, but then at last, he managed to bite off a piece and was sucking the rich, dark sweetness, the rush of saliva finally moistening his dried mouth and throat.

  But his poor, beloved Hurricane was a mess. Joyce and Baker would be cross.

  The lower part of the rudder and some of the anti-spin fairing, the strake, had been shot away, leaving a tattered hole in the framework arrangement, and lopping off the tail navigation light from the rudder tab. Luckily there had been no damage done to the tail wheel.

  A 20mm cannon shell had torn into the rear fuselage on the port side, removing part of the skin with her P code-letter, the ragged edges of the horribly large hole exposing the bare ribs of the wooden dorsal formers.

  The upper longeron was still whole, although shrapnel had scoured glittering silvery scratches on its surface, and splintered a number of the formers. Thank goodness none of the compromised elements had broken.

  It was only by a miracle that the exploding shell had not sheared any of the tail control cables, or hit the flare launch tube. He felt sick, but doggedly pushed the chocolate into his mouth again.

  On the wing, the torn fabric had pulled away a hole that exposed the wing stringers and aluminium alloy wing ribs, but, luckily, damage to the wing sections was mercifully light. If fortune had not been on his side, the wing or fuselage may have folded during some of the harsh manoeuvring.

  It was a sobering thought. It had been close, very close.

  She was also liberally peppered in the wings and rear fuselage with lesser damage through bullet holes, but this seemed like nothing when compared with the great rents torn into her.

  It was incredible that she had handled so splendidly despite the extensive damage done to her, and that she had managed such a rough landing. If he’d known the extent of the damage he may have taken to his parachute after all!

  It was a testament to the amazing strength of Sydney Camm’s design
that she had been able to take the punishment she’d endured and carry on flying through it all.

  He reached up and stroked the plywood skin panel behind the cockpit gently with one gauntleted hand, played with the bullet hole there with one finger.

  “You brought me back,” he whispered, feeling both serious yet daft at the same time, “You brought me back safe. I owe you my life,” and he did. “Thank you my precious. Thank you.”

  But it was obvious she would need some fairly extensive repairs before she was fit to take up again into combat. She may have brought him back safe, but she had suffered badly in the process of doing so.

  Truly, she had saved his life. He patted his pocket gratefully. As had his lucky mascot.

  He slipped carefully off the wing, threw down his parachute and lay down in the long, fragrant grass, closing his eyes, unwilling to further see the wounds inflicted upon his poor Hurricane.

  Perhaps, if he lay here for a minute, the trembling would stop.

  Finally, as he lay in the shadow of the port wing, his head pillowed on his parachute pack, and munching the last soft lumps of chocolate, the tiredness claimed him, and he drifted off into a blessedly peaceful, dreamless sleep, free of fire, smoke trails and Messerschmitts.

  The sun was a little lower on the horizon, the shadows longer, when he finally awoke.

  ”Hullo! You there! Do you need a hand, there, young man?”

  Rose opened his eyes to see a stout country-squire type standing some distance away. He sat up.

  “Ah, er, good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry if I’m trespassing, but I had to land, because my poor old kite just couldn’t carry on.”

  The other nodded slightly. “Yes, I do see. You’re RAF?” he made no move to come closer.

  Rose, surprised by the strange question, turned to stare at the Hurricane. Yes, the roundel was definitely visible. It was only her code-letter that had been shot away.

  “Yes, of course I am, sir, Pilot Officer Rose, Royal Air Force, Fighter Command.”

  Who the hell do you think I am, a member of Haile Sellasie’s air force? Silly old codger!

  “Nowadays, you can’t be too careful, y’know, old boy. You could be one of those Huns dressed up. Can’t be too careful, Fifth Column and all that sort of thing, of course.” He thrashed at the grass with his walking stick.

  Rose felt like laughing, the few minutes of rest had been a godsend to him, and he felt refreshed, the effects of the high fight and the unpowered landing a tough memory. “Yes, I know, it’s the war.”

  He felt ridiculous standing here talking politely with this country squire, when he should be trying to contact the squadron, tell Molly he was OK, find out how the boys had done.

  The other looked at him for a moment, and then nodded sagely. “Quite. Would you care for some tea? You could call your chaps on my telephone.”

  “Thanks, I’d be most grateful.”

  “Splendid. You can’t possibly be a Hun, then. Buggers don’t drink tea, what? Come along.” He stared at Rose closely. “You look awfully pale, my boy, are you quite alright? Not hurt, are you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. Just a little tired, is all.”

  The other turned away, looked back. “Well, come on, then, dear boy.”

  Rose looked doubtfully at his aircraft. “I shouldn’t really leave her here…” After what they had just been through together, it felt wrong to leave her here alone in the meadow. She had protected him and brought him safe from the fight.

  Besides, she was government property, and it was improper procedure to leave government property unattended and unguarded.

  “Oh, my dear boy, don’t worry about that, nobody ever comes here. Your aeroplane will be safe here. We’ll call some of my chaps.” He glanced at him keenly, “I’m the local commander of the LDV, you see. We’ll call ‘em when we get back to the house. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to supply an armed guard until we can contact the local army barracks. Sound alright to you?”

  Rose nodded, “That sounds a very reasonable arrangement, sir. By the way, sir, as I mentioned, my name’s Rose, Harry Rose.”

  The man cleared his throat noisily. “Good gracious, how terribly remiss of me. You must forgive me, forgetting my manners. Inexcusable, absolutely inexcusable. Bloody war, of course. The name’s Fitzwilliam,” he waved the gnarled walking-stick again, “pleased to meet you.” He stared at the Hurricane with frank curiosity, and appreciation.

  “What a lovely thing. Must be wonderful up there in the clouds in it.”

  Rose turned to look back at his aeroplane fondly. “Yes.”

  The Hurricane was not an ‘it.’ She was a she.

  But Fitzwilliam was right, she was a lovely thing.

  A wonderful, fantastical and lovely thing that had brought him back down to earth safe and sound.

  He felt a traitor leaving her here in the empty field, but he was conscious of Fitzwilliam’s gaze on him, watchful, and wondering at this quiet, stained and strained young man who had descended from the sky in this beautiful fighter.

  He patted the bulge in his tunic pocket unconsciously, squinted upwards. “Yes. You’re right. There’s nothing that compares with it.” He thought back to the flashing aeroplanes up in the bright blue sky, twisting and turning, sometimes tumbling out of control.

  It wasn’t always wonderful up there in the clouds.

  But she was, and she had brought him back down safely. He reached out and touched her side for a moment.

  Thank you.

  Fitzwilliam saw the touch, and smiled at him, nodded as if satisfied about something.

  “Come along then, young man. Perhaps we can talk a little about it before I get my chauffeur to give you a lift back to where you need to go. I was on the Somme, you know. Lost the best part of a battalion in less than a day. Lucky to be here, really. Bloody awful. I know it isn’t all soft light and music.”

  Probably thinks I’ve got the ‘twitch’ or something, maybe that I’m off my rocker, thought Rose.

  He could pretend to be civilized again for a few short hours, amongst those who could not know what it was like, before they sent someone to pick him up, or he was dropped off by Fitzwilliam’s chauffeur.

  And, most importantly, he was still alive.

  Tired and stained, perhaps, but very much alive.

  CHAPTER 29

  August the 12th had started as a lovely clear day, with scattered patches of fine mist lightly cloaking the airfield at Foxton.

  Excalibur squadron had had a rough day on the 11th. They had been scrambled four times, three times unsuccessfully, and had been able to intercept the enemy only once, on the third occasion.

  They had been sent to support the convoy ‘Booty’ off Harwich, but had been unable to close with the attacking Dorniers before they had in turn been intercepted by the escorting Me110 Zerstorers.

  The German fighters had fought valiantly, but there had still been losses for the bombers they had been escorting.

  A replacement in B-Flight, young Sergeant Ryan, was shot down and killed, in the ensuing combat, but Billy had avenged him.

  Rose, flying in a replacement fighter, and the rest of A-Flight had had an inconclusive but frenetic fight in the gathering cloud, and were unable to make any claims at all.

  Carpenter had received a bullet in the arm, but had been able to force-land his aircraft safely. He would not be flying for at least a week or maybe more.

  He’d smiled at Rose, “Can’t say I’m sorry. Could do with a break!” Rose had pretended not to notice the teary eyes of the tough and dependable NCO.

  Another raid had come soon after that, but the weather quickly made fighting dangerously difficult, and Excalibur were recalled, the pilots grateful for the unexpected respite.

  There had been no party that evening, just clumps of tired pilots sitting together, talking. Molly was able to see Rose for an hour, but they had said little, just comfortable to be with each other, holding hands and secure in each o
ther’s love, and glad they had seen out the day. Already the walk and the conversation that they had shared seemed so long ago.

  The mist was almost clear when the first attacks began. First of all there was a fighter sweep by Me109s, and a flight of the now rather battered 97 Squadron brought them to battle, without loss to either side.

  Then there came a serious development. A brilliant Luftwaffe officer, Hauptman Walter Rubensdorffer led his unit on an assault on a number of RDF CH stations in the south-east of England, including the nearby station at Barhamwood. The stations were left damaged, although not permanently, by the very nature of their structure, although with many dead and wounded. Many of these casualties were the heroic and unfaltering WAAFs who played such an important part in operating the complex equipment.

  A-Flight were scrambled, but yet again, were unable to intercept the raiders, who made good their escape, disappearing gratefully into the poor visibility over the morning sea.

  A shaken and pale Denis had taken them low to survey the damage done to ‘their’ CH station. A number of the girls on duty there were regular visitors to the Mess, and the personnel were old friends to Foxton.

  Angry tears and a sour bitterness welled in Rose as he saw the piles of rubble that had once been the buildings of the station. There were still men and women searching the piles of wreckage, but they must have little hope. The damage was too severe.

  Only the barracks of the guarding troops appeared untouched, the rest of the Nissan huts and brick buildings having been levelled.

  Of the Receiving Hut itself, the heart of the CH station, there was no sign, just a deep, still smoking crater.

  The two groups of skeletal transmitter and receiver towers, however, also showed amazingly little damage, only one of the four in one of the two sets being crumpled into what now resembled a confused and twisted pile of matchsticks by the storm of bombs.

  He was grateful for the height, as it hid from them some of the true awfulness of the attack, the battered corpses and torn uniforms that were their own.

  The return to Foxton had been silent, as they mourned those they had lost, and hoped for those who might yet be saved. Behind them, the pillars of smoke rose into the air accusingly, and each man felt again the guilt and pain that comes when someone close is hurt, and nothing can be done to help, or help is too late.