A thick black plume of smoke behind marked the vertical fall of his victory, whilst Morton’s, ‘kill’ augured into a freshly ploughed field far below.
But there was no time for looking at the tumbling, disintegrating enemy.
Already Rose was searching for the other pair of Bf109s – Damn it! Where the hell were the bastards? One minute they were there, and then just so much empty sky, stained by the pyres of their two victims.
Unconsciously, he touched the little pink bear in his tunic pocket. They’d been lucky, he knew, incredibly lucky, but now there would be the reckoning.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, I can’t see the leading pair of Jerries, d’you see the blighters, over?” he craned his neck around to check behind.
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, sorry, I lost sight of them, sir.” Morton said with some embarrassment.
Probably watching his first victory go down, Rose thought crossly. But then, it was hard to blame him.
It was so hard to stay focussed after that first kill, the urge to watch the vanquished fall so very strong, but it was those few seconds of inattention that killed. He would have to give the boy an ear bashing once they’d got back safe and sound.
If they got back safe and sound.
He desperately searched the sky for any sign of the German fighters, gently rocking his fighter from side to side, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, throat like dust.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, OK, keep looking out for those bandits, and bloody well done on your Jerry, over.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader, Received, thanks sir, bet they’re not all as easy as that!”
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, dead right chum! Keep your peepers open, over.”
Morton had opened the distance between them, but remained close.
Rose was sweating copiously beneath his oxygen mask, and he desperately wanted to scratch his cheek, “Sparrow Red Leader to Base Plate, scratch two Jerries, D’you have any more trade for us, over?”
“Well done, Sparrow Red Leader. Please stand by.” Voice still calm, but she sounded pleased. Had she lost someone, did the fires for revenge burn in her heart?
Nothing to see, just empty sky, Where are the buggers?
Dear God, please let them be high tailing it for the French coast…
“BREAK! BREAK!” Morton’s desperate scream of warning was like a sharp knife slicing through his innards and he instinctively hauled his Hurricane into a straining starboard turn, tight, tighter, muscles straining and his face set in a grimace, vision greying.
They’d almost been killed because he’d allowed them to get bounced!
‘THUMP-UMP-UMP!’
Three strikes crashing close together, merging into almost one bowel-weakening sound, and he fought to control the machine momentarily as three shells smashed through the machine guns in his Hurricane’s port wing, punching through the other side, thankfully without immediate apparent catastrophic structural damage to the wing.
At least it didn’t fall off as he continued his hard turn outwards.
And then the tracer was whipping away below him as he out turned the plummeting pair of Bf109s. The wing might fall off. But if he didn’t get out of the way, he was done for anyway.
Morton’s Hurricane had broken away to port and now he too was turning tightly, Perspex flashing, as the shark-like enemy fighters zoomed through the airspace the Hurricanes had occupied scant seconds before, battering him by the closeness of their passage.
His heart was hammering and his muscles ached, vision greying.
Thank God for young Morton.
The Bf109s had dropped away, but were climbing up and away again, fast as lightning, already turning to line up for another slashing pass.
Where the fuck was Morton? He searched desperately, ease back, turn to port. Neck twisting painfully.
Oh. Closing rapidly from port.
The Germans would love to split them apart, but Morton was closing the distance again, was reforming with him.
“Sparrow Red Leader to Sparrow Red Two, fire when you see the whites of their eyes.”
“Sparrow Red Two to Sparrow Red Leader,” the boy was panting hard, and his voice was strained, “yes, sir!”
The enemy were two dark dots now, racing from below towards them nose-to-nose, tracer and cannon fire already reaching out towards them, smoke trails twirling upwards.
Rose cowered behind the deceptively comforting protection of his Merlin engine.
He pressed the gun button again and his guns roared a final time, and the Hurricane shuddered around him.
A Bf109 loomed huge before him for a heart stopping instant, a dark streaking blur, was that smoke…?
And then there was a neck-wrenching blow, and suddenly the Hurricane staggered nauseatingly in mid-air, and was flung over and was falling. The stick flopped uselessly in his gloved hands.
Time slowed, through the top of his canopy he saw with shocked eyes his propeller, tips bent sideways, and lazily turning end over end, curve slowly away and disappear out of his field of vision.
The fight was over.
Time to go.
Rose reached against for the quick release lever for the canopy, fighting the forces that gripped him. With an effort he grasped the lever, and pulled hard.
It didn’t shift as he heaved on it.
He tried again, but no luck.
Fuck.
There was another bang and a juddering as his falling Hurricane was raked again. The instrumental panel shattered, and vibration in the tumbling ruin of his Hurricane worsened.
He was about to bang the canopy with his elbows when something smacked his leg to one side, knee cap cracking painfully against the side of the cockpit.
There was a dull ‘whump’, and suddenly flames, painfully bright, were licking around the edges of the cockpit. He could smell his aircraft burning, and he desperately reached again to dislodge his canopy. He was gasping now, unable to speak, eyes wide behind his goggles, muscles straining against the sides of the canopy, but still it wouldn’t shift on its runners.
The world outside began to spin as the weakened wing broke in half, ground and sky exchanging places with a sickening rapidity, the sun flashing on-off-on-off in his eyes.
It was becoming increasingly harder to move his arms, and detritus from the floor of the cockpit whirled around him.
Got to get out of here…
He tried again to grab the sides of the cockpit, fighting the forces that held him in his seat, whilst around him ribbons and droplets of blood, dust, dirt and grass danced and looped and spun around him.
Shining a brilliant scarlet in the vortex, his life-blood flicking to splash against him and the inside of the cockpit, against the Perspex, and still he couldn’t reach the canopy with his gloved hands.
Instead he reached for the bump in his flying jacket that was the little bear. All that was left to him.
The inside of the cockpit was like an oven now, and the rising heat was unbelievable, whilst flame continued to lick back from the ruined Merlin engine, darkening the Perspex above him.
I’m going to die, he realised. I’m going to die.
It’s my turn today.
He closed his eyes, holding hard to the useless control stick.
The R/T was silent now, no Morton, no calm WAAF. Nobody, and Morton was on his own now, poor lad.
He was surprised that it didn’t seem to matter anymore. No regrets, he’d lived by the sword, and now he would die that way. It had been good to love the girl, and at least death would take away the pain of her loss.
The spin pushed him hard against his seat.
At last, Lady Luck had turned her back on him.
He could feel the darkness gathering as his consciousness slipped away.
No chance to see Molly, no chance to tell her how much he loved her, no chance to tell her how much he missed her, no chance to say goodbye.
<
br /> He thought of her, wondered if she would care when she heard of his death.
Of course she would.
He realised that he was crying, and opened his eyes.
Blood splattered across his goggles.
Suddenly, a white flash.
Piercing, shocking, silent, and the world finally turned black.
Epilogue
A light, cold rain was falling, but the RAF flyer was as stolid and unmoving as the gravestone before which he stood.
Eyes closed and head bowed, the bitter icy droplets speckled the exposed nape of his neck above his silk scarf like beads of crystal.
They had been standing there for some time now, and he could sense the restlessness of his companion, although she remained as silent and still as he.
The man who lay in the grave before them had been an important part of both their lives, but the airman with the stripes of an RAF Squadron Leader on his greatcoat knew her thoughts were elsewhere.
Still he stood, honouring the dead, but the tears would not come.
It was October now, and the German assaults had turned into a night bombing campaign, and the scrambles each day were becoming fewer.
The Battle was over.
With so much pain and death, tears should have soaked his cheeks, yet they would not come, just the uncaring rain that ran down his face, and the smell of wet grass and fresh turned earth filling his nostrils.
She sneezed beside him, and he knew it was over. Their time here was at an end, and it was time to go.
He reached out to the pale gravestone, touched it gently with his fingertips for a long moment. “Cheerio, mate. God bless.”
He turned away, knew that she was following him as he strode through the tree lined path.
He stopped just once, at the gates, looked back once to whisper, “You’ll never be apart again, together forever. Just as you wished.”
Sadness, deep and black and forlorn.
Yet still no tears.
The gates creaked closed behind them, and then there was just the rain and the sighing of the wind and the silence of the stones beneath the leaden grey skies.
The girl placed the china teacup carefully beside him, yet still tea slopped into the saucer. She smiled brightly, but the bandages still covering his eyes prevented him from seeing it.
”There you are, milk and two sugars, just the way you like it. Would you like some biscuits with it, Harry?”
“Some custard creams, if you have them?” Anything but those bloody rock cakes.
She tapped one incisor with a fingernail. Still felt a touch tender. She knew better than to try another of those cakes.
“No custard creams, but we’ve got some crumbly digestives, more than a bit crumbled, though, I’m afraid, some coconut macaroons, rich tea biscuits, and, um, there’re still some of Matron’s rock cakes?” she sounded hopeful.
Not likely, love, not if I want to keep my teeth. “No, thanks, Iris. Just the tea will be fine.”
“I tell you what. Let me check if there are any in Professor Owen’s tin, OK? Bet the old sweetie’s got some hidden away. Be back in a jiffy.” she brushed an invisible speck of lint from the foot of his bed and bustled out.
He shifted in the armchair set beside the open French doors, careful not to upset the cup and saucer. His feet rested on his slippers, and he wiggled his toes leisurely in the late afternoon sunlight.
The shrapnel wound in his left calf didn’t sting any more, but it still ached dully.
He wished he could look out onto the gardens, but the eye specialist, Professor Owen had been firm. “No, Harry, the bandages are to stay on for at least another three to four days. We must ensure that your poor eyes have enough time to recover from the flash they were exposed to. Don’t worry; I’m sure the war can wait. Be patient.”
He heard the door swing open and he turned his head, “That was fast, any luck?
“You silly boy, I’m always lucky. Totty just falls at my feet, can’t help it, just the way God made me. You’re an ugly little bastard, so you’ll not understand.”
Rose stood, a huge smile on his face. “Granny, you old dog!” the teacup wobbled dangerously, but stayed in the saucer. Smith hugged him, a sudden welcome bouquet of tobacco, rain and machine oil in Rose’s nostrils, and then stepped back.
He looked carefully at his young friend, noted the softening of the facial lines Rose had developed over the last few weeks, the bandages over his eyes. Rose would have been touched by the fatherly tenderness in Granny’s eyes.
“It’s Squadron Leader Old Dog, if you please, brat.” Smith’s smile matched Rose’s.
“Dear God, you, a Squadron Leader? Granny Smith? Has the Air Ministry gone bananas? Who’d you steal the stripes from? Is everyone else in Fighter Command dead?”
The smile dimmed slightly, “No, mate, even though old Jerry has had a damn good try.” He unbuttoned his greatcoat and slumped on Rose’s bed, smile brightening as he saw the picture of the girl propped against the little pink teddy bear on the bedside cabinet.
“It’s acting rank actually,” he explained, “Substantively I’m actually a Flight-Lieutenant. The powers that be, Gawd bless ’em, decided they needed someone with a spot of experience and devilish good looks to take over a Spitfire outfit in Wick. I’m taking Uncle, Fricker and Hermann up there with me. Fuck knows how I’m going to find Totty up there, though. It’s in Scotland, or something, you know,” he added helpfully.
“You’re going to Scotland?” Rose’s smile was gone now. “What about us? What about the Squadron?” he blushed, “What about me?”
Granny puffed out his cheeks. “They’ve withdrawn what’s left to Acklington. Morton got another Bf109 before the squadron was pulled out. His fourth. He’ll do well, given half a chance. Reminds me of a cheeky young bugger I met a few months back. I still can’t believe that you got thrown out of your poor old Hurribag when she blew up, though. Talk about nine lives! Young Morton saw it all, reckons the Hun you hit went down, too, so you’ll get a probable at least for it. They’ve made Dingo Denis CO, but it’s a toss-up if they’ll disband us altogether. There aren’t many of us left. It’s been a rough few weeks, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t come any earlier, but there’s been no chance of getting away.”
He shook his head ruefully. “You need a rest, mate. We all do. Don’t rush back. Let your eyes heal.”
They would always be a part of Excalibur, even if the squadron ceased to exist. They could never forget their band of brothers.
“What about old Stan?”
“Somebody found out the smelly bugger could speak proper English, so he’s been bumped up to a Polish mob at Church Fenton, Squadron Leader as well, poor bastard. Quickest promotion in the history of the RAF! Pilot Officer to Squadron Leader in a day! That’ll teach him for smoking those bloody awful smokes. He said he’d come and visit you as soon as he could, so better warn the nurses to keep their knickers glued on!” he looked around.
“And talking of which, where are they all? I thought you’d be surrounded by sweet lovelies. But here you are, all alone. Good God, man, what kind of fighter pilot are you? More to the point, what kind of girls are they? They should have shagged the arse off you by now!” he sniffed, “Promise me you’ll offer each of them a fuck? Even the ugly ones, OK? It’s your civic duty to give ‘em a damn good shag. In fact, I’m making it an order. Don’t disappoint me!”
Rose grinned, “Good grief! I didn’t realise that Squadron-Leaders had such a fine appreciation of official duties!”
Smith grunted and reached over and picked up a cake from the cabinet beside the bed, sniffed it, considered it, then took an experimental bite.
“Phwaauugh!” pieces of rock cake and saliva sprayed across the room.
“Good to see that you’ve remained as refined as always, Granny, at least the stripes haven’t changed you,” Rose said drily.
“Urgh! Oh my God!” Smith probed his mouth tentatively; “I think I’ve broken a t
ooth!” he took out his denture and looked at it. “What the bloody blue blazes was that? It tastes like something that came out of the back end of a goat and dried out in the sun! I thought that they were supposed to look after you! Is Stalin running the kitchens around here?”
“Ah, you found a bit of Matron’s detestable rock cake. I think half the people in this hospital are still here because they ate something kindly matron brought in for us.”
Smith grimaced, “I feel ill already. I might go see if there’s a bed for me. Perhaps I can get an Angel of Mercy or two to minister to me,” he scratched his crotch. “I definitely have something that needs to be taken care of.”
Rose shook his head ruefully, “Bloody hell, Granny, even when you’ve been poisoned all you can think about is women!”
“A warm, friendly girl wearing a big smile and bugger all else bouncing on one’s willy is all that makes life worth living, Flash my old mate.” He thought for a moment, “That, Roast Beef, Yorkshire Pud and a good pint, of course.”
“Well, I’ve got no beer, Granny, but you’re welcome to a drop of tea.”
Smith jumped up and brushed past Rose, “Cheers, my old son. You’re a life saver.” Smith swept up the cup and saucer and slurped Rose’s tea noisily.
“Ah! That’s better!” Smith burped loudly, and then broke wind, “Oops! Better out than in, as my dear old Ma always said. Thanks very much. Now it’s my turn to give you something, Harry, so stick out your hand, old chum!”
Rose put out his hand, palm upwards. “What is it?” he asked suspiciously “not some old snot filled hanky, is it? I’ve still got the one you gave me last time. It’s still stuck to the inside of my tunic.”
Smith put a piece of fabric in his hand, “Almost, but no coconut. There you go. Don’t say I never give you anything.”
Rose rubbed the little piece of fabric between finger and thumb, “What is it?” he asked.
“What does it feel like, you twit?”
“Erm…” It felt silky-smooth and rectangular, but what was it? It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was.
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