Passing through 10,000 feet already, seven shabby Hurricanes, climbing hard, Merlin’s screaming and metal gleaming bright as it caught the sun, hauling themselves to altitude.
Rose cleared his throat, one eye on Denis and the other on the sky around them. Would they get to the bandits before they’d bombed, would they get to them at all?
The constant attacks had pushed the detection and communications network almost to breaking, covered in brick dust and lines broken, they continued to provide the vital information to vector the defenders into position, albeit with some delay.
"Spanner Leader, hullo, Spanner Leader. Steer one-six-five, Angels 18 and above. Buster!"
Trails of smoke belched from the exhaust ports. Seven Hurricanes, turning gently.
“Spanner Leader, received and understood.” Couldn’t see them yet, “Spanner Red and Green sections, bandits above, eleven o’clock, straight through them, pick your targets, fellas.”
God, Denis had good eyes, a small cloud of Heinkels, sunlight bright as it danced on curved Perspex bubbles. No fighter escorts? No sign of enemy fighters at all, just these fat bumbling bombers, could it be that they were alone?
Rose sucked in a deep breath, oxygen sweet in his lungs, gun-button to ‘fire’, reflector sight check, bright enough - yes.
The Hurricanes were still climbing as the two-tiered German formation loomed and he was firing, tracer flickering back at him from the nose gunners of the bombers. He couldn’t see where his bullets went, but he closed his eyes for a second as the Heinkel he had chosen became huge in his sights, its brothers smeared blurs on either side. When there was no collision he opened his eyes, and let out his breath, before him the sky was empty.
A clatter of hits pebble-like against his port wing reminded him that the rear gunners of the Heinkels were on the ball and dangerous, and he pushed the nose down, full throttle, trying to evade the threads of bullets that were reaching back for him. Where had the others gone?
Another Hurricane, Granny, twisting and turning as he evaded the return fire from the bombers, but a thin stream of white vapour showed that he’d not run the gauntlet unscathed.
“Spanner Red Leader,” Granny, trailing out of the fight, “Engine caught a packet, it’s playing a bit rough, heading for home, best of luck lads…”
He was at his weakest, and Rose longed to escort him home but he knew that the bombers were his priority. Granny would have to look after himself for the time being.
“He’s done for, Jerry bastard…” Denis’s voice, laconic, steady amongst the frenzied chatter in his headphones.
Hard turn to starboard, get back into the action, head swivelling and eyes staring in all directions.
Then he saw the second wave of bombers, around twenty of them, except…they weren’t bombers at all, but the absent escorts, twin-engined Me110s, caught napping or just late at the rendezvous and unable to deflect the initial stabbing attack by the Hurricanes, but now storming in hungry for vengeance.
“Spanner Green Leader, bandits, 110s, coming in twelve o’clock…”
Forget about the bombers, got to try and break up the 110s to give the other Hurricanes a few more seconds against the Heinkels. Rose lined up on the leading rotte of twin-engine enemy fighters.
A smaller cloud of shapes appeared behind the Me110s, Dear God, more of them?
And then the flare of an exploding German motor, thick smoke tracing a line, twisting raggedly to port.
Not enemy fighters but another Hurricane outfit, a flight of six machines that bounced the approaching German escorts, turning them from a neat formation into a startled mass of aircraft turning and diving, another of their number already falling, and the blot of its demise curving downwards like a smudged black question mark against the lighter sky.
Rose forgot about the Me110s, turned back after the bombers.
A Heinkel was out of formation, and he closed on it from behind, slowly approaching the enemy bomber from dead astern.
Just as he was about to give the Heinkel an experimental squirt, there was a loud Bang! And the Hurricane staggered sickeningly. Rose struggled to regain control as his attacker, a Me110, passed low. Almost directly over his head. He cringed, but there was no crash of impact.
Where’re the others, he wondered as he dragged the Hurricane into a skidding, wallowing turn, just as a second Me110 slid past, a dark shape too fast for even a snapshot, and he kept turning, glad to have survived any return fire from the second twin-tailed machine.
Time to get out of it…
“Harry, you silly bloody clot, what in the name of all that that’s holy were you doing up there?” Granny was incandescent with rage, “you almost rammed that fucking Heinkel up there! You may want to the easy way out of this, but we can’t afford to lose the kite!”
He looked searchingly at Rose. “Are you OK, matey? What the hell were you thinking?”
Rose stared tight-lipped at Granny for a moment, then sighed, this was his dearest friend, and Granny had become closer than a brother. He owed him an explanation for the way he’d behaved.
“Does it really matter, whether I live or die, Granny? I mean, what difference do I make, anyway? I thought there was something to live for when I was with Molly, but…”
“You silly sod! How do you think she’ll feel if you get killed? What happened between the two of you? You were crazy for her, but as soon as she gets hurt, you change completely!” he shook his head in mystification, “What happened? You never stopped talking about her before, now you don’t even mention her name. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that!”
Rose reached for his pocket, “Oh, you think so? Well what do you think of this?” he pulled out the photograph and brandished it at Smith.
Granny took it from him and looked at it. “Well? What about it, you silly tart?”
“Are you stupid, Granny, look at it!” A single tear dribbled down his cheek. “There was somebody else! I thought she loved me, but she had this other blighter in her life.”
Granny smacked him hard in the chest with the picture, and Rose almost fell.
He was stunned at the intense fury on his friend’s face.
“Oh my God, you stupid little shit…” Granny clenched his hands and turned away. “For fuck’s sake. Why did you keep this to yourself? You should have spoken to me! That’s a picture of Molly’s kid brother! Pilot Officer Edward Digby, flies medium bombers!”
“Oh…” suddenly Rose felt very small and incredibly, unbelievably stupid.
Then it dawned on him, there was no one else after all! Her feelings for him had been genuine! Everything that had passed between them before that terrible raid on Foxton had been real, after all! All his suspicions, all his anger, all the grief, all misplaced.
Shocked by the revelation, with legs turned to jelly, he could not stand, and he sat down, hard, on the grass.
“Oh Granny, I thought she felt nothing for me.” and then, “What if she finds out about Anna?” he stared at the picture, “Oh my God. Oh my God!”
“She’ll never find out, Flash, and you mustn’t tell her, OK? Why should she find out? It’s up to you now to make her happy. You have to find her and look after her. But to do that, you’re going to have to survive this. Don’t throw yourself away like some suicidal idiot. You needed Anna, and I reckon she needed you. It was a nice time you both enjoyed. After everything, you needed a spot of fun, and I think that poor girl needed it too. Forget about it. It was just a bit of fun. You love Molly don’t you? Despite what you thought?”
“Of course I do, Granny. She means everything to me. Everything.”
“Well then, least said, soonest mended, eh? When we get a spot of leave again, we’ll find her, OK?” He winked at Rose, “Unless you fancy another trip down to London with me? I know Anna would love to see you again.” he leered lewdly.
Cynk walked up to them, his face stained and a cheroot hanging from his mouth. Granny glared at him and coughed pointedly.
The Pole smiled beatifically at them both and blew smoke in Granny’s face. “Got another today, Flash. Blew it up, killed ‘em all. How did you do? Any luck?”
It hadn’t taken Granny long to realise that Cynk wasn’t the simple Pole that he professed to be, and he’d promised to keep silent so that they could continue to fly together. They’d discussed the notion that Cynk might be a Nazi spy using a Polish identity as subterfuge, but the Pole’s clear delight at killing large numbers of enemy aircrew was genuine. He could not be a Nazi spy. Not in a month of Sundays.
Cynk noticed the photo in Rose’s hand.
“Pretty boy, Flash. Not your usual type, though. I thought you liked girls?” he looked around, spat out a lump of tobacco, narrowly missing Granny’s flying boots.
“I need some tea and an iced bun. Where’s the NAAFI wagon? Is the cheeky little blonde one with the tits on today?”
CHAPTER 42
The letter from Molly came the very next day.
My darling Harry,
I pray with all my heart that you are safe and well.
I miss you.
I am much better now. I can sit up comfortably and I went for a little walk this morning. The foot doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.
The doctors say that I’m healing quite nicely. They gave me the piece of the shrapnel that got me, and I’ve kept it. What is it they say about keeping your enemies close?
The rumourmongers are saying that I’m to receive the George Cross, although what for, I can’t think. I still can’t remember much of that dreadful day. But I do remember you crying, and it broke my heart to see it.
My sweetest, I have to tell you something very important. You are a beautiful man, and one day, with God’s sweet mercy, you will be a father, and what a wonderful father you’ll be!
However, the little shiny piece of metal here beside me on the desk hurt me quite badly, and the surgeon believes that the damage done means that it is quite likely that I will never be a mother. I can never be the mother of your children, though I would give the world to be.
And so, you must forget me, my darling love, as I shall try to forget you.
You will always be in my heart and in my prayers. May God always keep you safe. Keep Genevieve close always, promise me?
Bless you, my precious, wonderful man. I’ll always love you.
Goodbye.
Molly xxx
Oh Molly, I’ll never forget you, he vowed, clutching the piece of paper in his hand as he watched, through tearful eyes, Granny and Cynk tussling on the ground for a newspaper, scattered shreds of paper around them.
I’ll find you, my sweetest beloved girl. No matter where you go, I’ll find you.
Forget you? How can I?
Without you, I am nothing, I am incomplete. Nothing can replace you, and I’ll not rest in this life until I find you.
And when I do, I’ll never let you go again.
Ever.
CHAPTER 43 – Prologue Reprise
Death was close…he could feel it.
Quartering the vivid sky, exactly as Granny had taught him to, an endless eternity of just a few months ago, rapidly yet carefully, Rose searched.
Eyes strained, squinting against the light.
His eyes flicking from one quarter to another, not lingering for even a full second; it was not long before he caught sight of the little group of tiny dark specks in the brightness, tracking across the nose of his aircraft.
He glanced quickly to the Hurricane flying alongside, piloted by young Sergeant Morton, tucked close into his port quarter.
“Sparrow Red leader to Sparrow Red Two, bandits at ten o’clock, we’ll give ‘em a nasty nip on the arse.”
God! He sounded so confident, as if he really knew what he was doing!
“Give the tail end Charlie one quick burst, then tuck in tight, keep ‘em peeled and no heroics, over,” he licked dry lips.
Say it.
“If I buy it, lad, keep turning, get low and get the hell out of it, they’ll not have fuel to play with, OK? No heroics.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, received and understood, out.” Calm, thoughtful with a quiet voice.
A smooth round eager face, bright brown eyes, looked about ten. Good lad. But if it all went tits up, he might be dead within minutes.
It won’t happen. Not while I’m alive, he thought grimly.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Baseplate, four bandits in sight, am attacking, over.”
The cool voice of the young WAAF, miles away, “Baseplate to Sparrow Red Leader, understood. Good luck and good hunting.” What does she look like, he wondered, and what is she thinking?
Two against four, rotten odds. The same bloody story all through the summer. Always outnumbered, the poor bastards.
He turned gently to starboard, staying below the height of the enemy aircraft, and taking care to keep the channel behind him, to (hopefully) merge into the sunlit and glittering expanse of water behind.
Any glint of light on Perspex or other surfaces would (hopefully) be missed, mistaken for the golden light dancing and shimmering on the wave tops.
The gentle turn guided the nose of his Hurricane into an approach from below and into a five o’clock position on a loosely arranged quartet of faster light-grey, sleek Bf109s.
Luckily (?) the enemy fighters were flying at a leisurely pace, otherwise Rose and Morton would never have managed to close the range.
Four, or were there more, waiting to spring a trap?
He was sweating, nerves crawling as he waited for the enemy to react at any moment, but incredibly, there was no response to their approach.
Don’t muff this up, he thought to himself.
Rose had already set his guns to ‘fire’, and his thumb rested lightly on the button.
With young Morton keeping a keen look out around them, Rose was able to concentrate carefully on the rapid approach, although he continued to glance in his rearview mirror and check the clear blue around them, whilst selecting the number three aircraft in the enemy formation as his target.
He licked dry lips once more, “Sparrow Red Leader to Red Two, second pair, I’ll Take the number three. You take number four, but keep ‘em peeled. This could be a trap.”
The Rotte of four enemy aircraft bobbed lightly above and before them, thin, almost invisible, trails of grey exhaust streaming behind, gleaming blunt noses pointed purposefully for France, looking forward to a glass of wine and a cigar, the arrogant bastards.
Again, check the airspace all around, eyes straining in the aching brightness, he swallowed painfully, wishing for a cup of tea and searching for those enemy silhouettes that would be part of the trap that spelt instant death, despite Morton’s continued vigilance as his wingman.
All clear, no signs of a trap.
In this high cerulean arena the hunter and the hunted regularly exchanged roles.
The buggers must be asleep, confident in their self-perceived aerial superiority.
The two Hurricanes were now behind and below the fast moving Bf109s.
The curving line of approach had brought them together perfectly, despite the higher speed of the Messerschmitt’s.
Incredibly, they hadn’t been sighted during the approach, and now the range was close enough to fire worth a damn.
Better make it count, just going to get the one free shot.
A last glance at the pale undersides and dark dappled flanks of the bandits, quick check on deflection, press the trigger – fingers crossed!
As soon as he saw the casings cascading back from Rose’s Hurricane, Morton opened fire on his target.
Rose’s aim was good, and ‘his’ Bf109 flew straight through his burst, but, his only reward was a panel of metal detaching lazily from one wing and a single puff of smoke. The enemy aircraft he was targeting serenely sailed through the tight spray of rounds, outwardly unscathed.
Damn it all!
His heart was hammering inside him so painfully that he
thought he would have a heart attack. He lined up again, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking behind and above, finger mashing down savagely for another short burst.
Morton, however, had better fortune, and his bullets splashed the underside of the German fighter and chewed the tail plane of the fourth enemy machine into ruin.
As pieces of the tail were ripped away, the smoking Bf109 wobbled unsteadily and then began to skid sideways out of formation, dropping away, beginning to flat spin, cartwheeling out of control.
You jammy bastard!
Incredibly, Morton had scored, one down confirmed, three to go.
At last thick smoke poured from their exhausts, the leading pair of Bf109s increased speed to climb rapidly away.
Morton gave them a hopeful burst but without result as the range widened. Thankfully, his success did not entice him into breaking formation to chase the enemy fighters. Faithfully, his Hurricane remained tucked in close to Rose.
Bollocks, thought Rose savagely, edgily lining up on the third Messerschmitt again. It hadn’t altered course (the bastard must be asleep!), and he squeezed the trigger again.
This time the enemy machine began to smoke and the Bf109 began to roll, to dive and turn away, but, the young Leutnant from Bremen was unlucky and inexperienced, and he turned his aircraft straight into the path of Rose’s guns.
Puffs of smoke and glittering flashes splattered along the stricken German fighter.
Rose’s bursts splattered messily across the side of the German fighter, tearing ruin into the enemy machine as it passed before him.
The Bf109 shuddered beneath this third onslaught, first the propeller blades and then the Big Daimler-Benz engine ripping free of the fuselage, a big chunk of metal whirling dangerously away, the side of the fighter seeming to collapse beneath the onslaught.
A ribbon of flame, instantly thickening, surged from the ruined fuel tanks to engulf the fuselage, which dropped straight downwards, but the pilot was already dead, killed instantly in that devastating third burst from Rose’s machine-guns, schoolboy dreams of glory turned to blaze and devastation.
To So Few Page 46