Bloody hell! This bastard was going to get away as well! In the last few minutes that his part in the fight had lasted, he had taken shots at three Bf109s, but hadn’t managed to properly wing even one.
The anger was still burning at him, and a scowl settled on his features as he resolved to pursue this last chance for a victory.
The enemy fighter was lower now, almost skimming the meadows and fields, its shadow leaping up and down frantically beneath it. Low over a field, sheep panicked into flight by the sudden appearance of this monster from the sky. Nothing behind.
The range was too long, but he caressed the gun-button nonetheless. It was a gamble, but there was the outside chance of a lucky hit with a well-placed shot.
Carefully sighting, he pressed the gun-button for a short one-second burst. Don’t waste it. Lord only knew how many rounds he had left in his ammunition trays.
Uselessly, the bullets flayed the freshly-ground earth of a newly-turned field, then he snatched back his thumb, for a farmhouse, barn and outbuildings loomed suddenly out at them, bursting up at them out of the landscape, like a picture in a children’s pop-up book.
Mouth dry, he pulled up the nose. That barn looked awfully big. Thank God that he had decided only on a one-second burst, that he had already stopped firing, otherwise he could have easily peppered the farm and possibly its inhabitants.
That would have been a terrible thing, a terrible thing that would have made his life impossible.
But, almost as awful, was the realisation that had been his last chance, and the thought left a harsh sour taste in his mouth and a seething frustration in his heart.
He was certain that the Messerschmitt would be too far ahead once he pushed down back into the chase, and the fight, such as it was, would be over.
And, of course, that is exactly what would have happened, if it were not for one thing.
The farmer, entertaining a mistaken belief that the embers of his fire would fall back onto his roof from the chimney, had lengthened and reinforced his smokestack to quite an impressive dimension, so that when anything once-hot did float down, it would have lost any ability to cause him damage by alighting on the roof.
This belief would be the factor that changed everything unexpectedly for the Luftwaffe pilot, and turned the entire situation drastically around into Rose’s favour.
With one eye on his pursuer, the other on his fuel, and knowing that to gain height may result in his losing some of the preciously gained advantage over the Hurricane, meant that the German pilot was ill-prepared for sudden avoiding action.
He adjusted slightly, but it was not enough.
At a speed in excess of 300 miles per hour, the Messerschmitt’s starboard wingtip sliced into the farmer’s pride and joy, leaving behind part of the wing as shattered pieces of curled metal fragments amongst broken brickwork on the farmhouse roof and courtyard.
The terrible impact twisted the aileron and made the 109 swing to starboard, and suddenly the German pilot was fighting to control his machine, pulling back hard and correcting for the fleeting contact, as it threatened to smash itself into the ground so close beneath it.
The wounded Messerschmitt soared upwards and slowed, fighting for height, straight into Rose’s sights.
Stunned but thanking his lucky stars, Rose closed in quickly behind it and placing the red centre dot of the sight before the swerving enemy fighter, and jammed his thumb hard down onto the button.
Incendiary and AP rounds ripped into the enemy aircraft, and the next instant, Rose’s fire had ignited the fuel in the Bf109’s fuel tanks, blowing the trim little fighter into a thousand flaming pieces.
The farmer poked his head out of a window and shook his fist at the triumphant, soaring RAF fighter, climbing in a graceful curve high above the pillar of smoke that marked the death of his opponent.
“Look what you done to my lovely chimney, you Brylcreem bleeder!”
And he’d bloody wet himself!
Bloody flyboys!
CHAPTER 32
They had been sitting in their cockpits for half an hour now, strapped in and on immediate readiness, and Rose was hot and weary and half asleep.
The irritation at having to wait in the heat had faded to a grumbling annoyance. For about the hundredth time, he swatted at the bluebottle that seemed to be extremely keen to land on his sweating face.
He wiped his cheeks, and thought longingly of another grapefruit squash, even though Baker had brought him out an icy cold bottle less than fifteen minutes earlier. There wasn’t even a breeze to give them some relief. They’d have to switch off the engines soon as well before they overheated.
How much longer would they have to wait before Sector Control allowed them to take off? If there were some enemy kites around, they’d have cleared off long ago, surely. Laughing all over their silly fat faces at the absence of the RAF.
Rose looked around, saw that Denis was deep in his own thoughts, while good old Granny was snoozing with a newspaper, his beloved Daily Mirror, shading him from the burning sun.
Without warning, at the eastern end of the airfield, a column of roiling orange fire suddenly leapt skywards, almost knocking down the water tower, and reducing the trees around it to firewood.
The sound of the explosion came next, a flat, sharp report with a deeper, rolling undercurrent that was like a heavy wooden door slamming shut, or the crack of thunder. The ground seemed to vibrate beneath him, the shock travelling up the undercarriage of the Hurricane.
For a second he thought a petrol bowser may have blown up through some idiot piece of carelessness, for there was no sound of aircraft, no sign of an enemy at all.
Almost immediately there was a second eruption, and then a third. The crash of the explosions was belatedly joined by the slow, mournful wail of the sirens around the station.
Desperately he waved for the chocks to be pulled away. Thank God his propeller was already turning. Baker came running, “They’re dropping bombs, sir! Watch out! Take off!”
Rose nodded and pointed, “Get under shelter!” he shouted.
Immediately he revved his Merlin, and with the chocks pulled away, he eased off the brakes so that his Hurricane slowly started to roll forward. God, so slow! Pull forward the hood, close out the din. Watch out for the others…
Dear God! Caught with our bloody pants down! He looked up to see layered rows of silver shapes glittering in the sun as they crawled across the blue backdrop, the elliptical wings of Heinkels. They droned slowly overhead, passing almost leisurely from east to west, as if they were on a restful stroll through the park.
Anger flared hot in him.
So much for the bloody lookouts! Bastards on the tower must be half-asleep as well! How had the Germans managed to get so close without someone seeing them?
And where were the blasted AA defences?
Molly! Rose looked back at the administration building. Molly was there!
He felt a mad urge to leap from his machine and go to her, but he knew he could not. His place was up there, as was his duty.
They had to be stopped.
Run Molly, hide!
Moving, bumping along faster, faster.
Please, God, give me the strength I need!
Take care of my beloved, my sweet Molly! He grasped the little bear without thinking.
Belatedly, “Excalibur squadron scramble, scramble!” about bloody time!
Already, like Rose, Donald was moving, jouncing along the grass as he desperately tried to get into the air. Except, he was flying towards the columns of fire that were erupting like cancerous growths along the recently filled-in ground. Beneath him, the ground heaved in sympathy.
Come on. Come on.
Damn the take-off drill! No time for that now. He had to get up there now. He’d checked everything a dozen times already, anyway, during that interminable wait of before.
Something in the region between the equipment store and the station chapel exploded searing white, addi
ng to the cacophony of the bombs falling and exploding, Bofors and machine guns clattering now, shouts of running men, and Merlin engines roaring angrily at emergency power.
Quick, oh fuck, quick.
Another bomb exploded inside the already ravaged hangar, further shattering the wrecked walls. He cowered as a flying clod of earth bounced off the engine cowling.
Smoke was already climbing into the sky from a dozen different sources, drifting heavily along. Perhaps it would help to make it harder to bomb, he thought hopefully, although it was likely they would already have dropped all their ordnance already. But there may be a second wave…
Oh, Molly! Run! Run, as fast as you can! Get under shelter.
Already Donald was in the air, his undercarriage legs folding beneath him, and then he was gone, plunging into the thickness of the wall of clinging smoke.
Where was Granny?
Denis was in front of him, Cynk beside him, as they raced at break-neck speed across the grass, towards the advancing columns of fire and smoke.
Run, Molly! You have to live! Run!
Rose blanched as a Hurricane suddenly received a direct hit, the racing sleek fighter instantly crumpling into a shattered flaming ball of debris that continued along, caroming in the same direction for fifty yards, shedding fabric and metal in its wake.
Several unknown somethings cracked! against his canopy, followed by the clatter of stones and earth, and he flinched back again involuntarily.
The burning Hurricane came to rest at last, just a mass of blazing ruin. Oh God! Whose was it?
He looked ahead, tearing his eyes from the conflagration that contained his squadron mate, and gasped, as Denis’ Hurricane, clawing for the sky, was tipped over by the blast from another exploding bomb, sliding out of the air to careen messily across the grass, ripping up great clods of turf, its wheels collapsed, the propeller shattered, falling apart like a toy thrown by a spoilt child.
And at that moment the terror squeezed his heart harder.
Oh God, don’t let me die like this, not here, not on the ground.
Give me a chance, please! Let me get up there.
Up to that point, they had still been together, and he had always been so confident in the company of the others, flying alongside his fellows.
But now, someone was blown up and must surely be dead, Denis lay wounded, maybe dead in the battered remnants of his own Hurricane.
And where was Granny?
Then Cynk had disappeared into the huge thick bank of smoke that roiled fitfully towards them, like a malevolent cloud, and Rose was alone, blasts buffeting him mercilessly.
Please, God, let me get up there; not here, let me die up there, not uselessly on the ground, but clawing and ripping and screaming defiance in their faces, curse their craven hearts..
Molly, run, my love, hide!
Behind him more bombs burst like malevolent flowers amidst the airfield buildings, levelling the signal section and part of the sick quarters, killing and further wounding the survivors of the previous day’s attack.
He was alone, the black wall of smoke speeding towards him, like a monstrous evil that would swallow him into a world of twilight.
Granny, where the hell are you?
“Red Leader to Excalibur squadron, no chance of forming up boys. Get altitude, and get stuck in. Tally-Ho! They’re killing our people, don’t leave a single one!” Donald’s hoarse voice steadied him, pushed back the fear that threatened to swallow him in its grey maw.
The Hurricane was bouncing and bumping interminably, shaken by the blast, the Merlin screaming like a banshee, the surroundings a blur of blue and green and brown, and before him the hungry amoebic darkness. He could sense the evil within it.
85 mph! Un-stick speed! Pull back, jolt as the kite clears the ground.
Flying, flying smoothly now, oh, what a darling you are!
Reflector sight on, adjust for 150 yards, get in close and kill ‘em! Twist from ‘safe’ to ‘fire,’ the action steadying him further, although the icy fear still ate at his innards.
Another series of incessant explosions, crump-Crump-CRUMP!
Each of the geysering eruptions was closer, disturbed racing air jostling and swinging and threatening the Hurricane.
Oh my God, save me, please…
Threatening to upset his fragile inner courage and stability.
Ease back, back, don’t let your speed bleed off, evil blackness blotting out everything before him…
And then he had plunged into the shadowy world where there was nothing but his Hurricane, as if there were a limitless abyss and not ground but fifty feet below.
He was engulfed and swallowed by this emptiness, and momentarily disorientated, he forced himself to look down at the instruments, his cockpit suddenly shadowed and dull in this world of no light.
And just as suddenly, two seconds after entering the stinking and bitter darkness, he tore through the other side, trails of smoke wisping back in oversized spiralling vortices from his wingtips, the Beech trees of the north-eastern boundary passing just below his wings, the airfield behind him and hidden by the drifting black gulf.
He thought despairingly, guiltily, of Molly, half-grateful for that obscuring curtain, which hid the savage wounding of his home.
One last glance back, then he swallowed and blinked away the tears, concentrated on the fast diminishing Hurricane (Cynk’s?) clawing for height ahead of him. There was no sign of Donald.
But he had survived that inferno.
He himself still lived, Praise God! Yet behind him the people that he had lived with, his family, were dying.
A moment ago he could not believe that he might survive, and now his heart was still beating as fast as the revolutions of the Merlin, or so it felt. The cloying sweat that bathed him was cold and grasping.
God had listened to his prayers, and given him the chance he had asked for, unlike those others who had not managed to take-off.
Where was everybody else, for goodness sake?
He was climbing too slowly, he’d never catch the bombers at this speed. What was wrong? Perhaps he had been damaged in that crazy take-off. Anxiously, he scanned the panel, and then he saw his omission.
Idiot! He saw that the undercarriage light was still on! The damned things were acting like a speed brake, slowing him down.
For heaven’s sake! You’re behaving like a bloody novice! Tuck your bloody wheels up!
Hand from throttle to undercarriage lever, then back again.
Another, slight, jolt as the wheels retract into their wells.
The altimeter was reading five hundred feet, when he noticed three dots, low down, almost invisible against the darkness of the ground, heading at high speed in towards Foxton from the north-west.
Jerries!
Fucking hell! A low-level strike to follow up the high level one!
He was trembling, swallowed again, his throat like cardboard. His head was throbbing, and the buzzing deafening in his ears. But the fear had disappeared, instead the anger in his heart had begun to burn brighter, the flames flaring white-hot, and threatening to consume his reason.
They were twin-engined jobs.
Junkers 88s?
No, thin shapes, twin tails, no glazed nose - Me110s. Bloody 110’s again.
They seemed to tear across, at an angle towards him, the combined speed bringing them rapidly together at a point of intersection.
They were below, but they had to have seen him, for they turned slightly to head towards him.
With their nose-mounted cannon and machine guns, they were formidable opponents in a head-on attack.
If he had not spent a moment retracting the undercarriage, he would not have seen them, and they would have sped past beneath him (if, that is, one of them had not taken a hopeful shot at his fighter as he climbed above them against the bombers), to hit poor, battered Foxton again, from an unexpected direction.
But it no longer seemed to matter. He was a dead man flyi
ng. He had not died down there (Thank you, God!), and now he would sell his life for German blood. He would see some of them die before the light faded from his eyes, go to his end with their blood beneath his fingernails.
What was it the Ghurkhas shrieked into battle? ‘Ayo Ghurkali!!’
Molly would understand.
Behind him, Foxton burned, and he knew that only he lay between his people and the German bullets, as the survivors of Excalibur raced madly, desperately to close with the departing bomber formation.
No Bf109s, Thank God!
Yet.
Oh, Granny, I need you here.
And then they were in range, for their noses suddenly flared bright, and orange blobs of fire lifted from them, floated on twisting tails of smoke, and then dancing progressively faster, madly at him.
Bang on the rudder bar, right, left, right, hurl the aircraft from side to side, jinking wildly. Press the button, the vibration of the guns and the bitter reek of cordite comforting. Keep on sliding around; lay down a curtain of lead, through which they must fly!
“Ayo Gurkhali, you fucking, motherless bastards!” if only I could bury a kukri right up to its hilt into your damnable chests!
Then something thumped into his Hurricane, and he momentarily lost control. At first, he thought he had collided with one of the 110s, before he realised that instead, one of them had hit him with their fire.
Falling, stomach lurching with fear, there, easy my darling, easy, got you, level out, easy there…
He was so low, so low that he thought he would plough into the swaying sea of green below him at any moment. The aircraft faltered again, and then she was clawing her way back up.
He tested the controls carefully, craning his head around to check if one of the enemies was coming after him.
Gentle, turn to port.
One of the Me110s had pointed its nose up, and was climbing, hoping perhaps to whip around and dive on this impertinent Englander. Except that it passed directly over the airfield, high and in plain view of the gunners.
Smudges of grey-brown puffed all around it, as the anti-aircraft gunners caught sight of it and turned their guns on it, and then, realising its mistake, it was desperately diving back down again.
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