Upton, turning with Festner and staying inside him, lined him up for another burst. This time, he caught him half-way between the trailing edge of the port wing and the tail plane. A further burst of De Wild incendiaries hit the fin and rudder. He saw his tracer smacking in. The 109 yawed sharply to starboard and side-slipped steeply before turning starboard and diving.
Upton saw tracer sizzling past a few inches overhead and glanced sharply up and to the left. Two 109s, a hundred feet or so above and at ten-o’clock, were shooting at him. One was too far away to bother about, the other was unpleasantly close. He did an immediate barrelled aileron turn to the left, the enemy’s fire went wider and the leading aeroplane (Hintsch’s) charged right past him.
The 109 which Upton had hit (Festner’s) seemed to have left the fight, so Taylor and Dellow turned their attention to the remaining two. With the consequence that as Hintsch passed above and behind Upton, he left the air clear for both of them to turn their guns on Rudorffer.
The two Spitfires each gave the 109 a three-second burst and their combined fire set it ablaze at once. Flames and smoke enveloped the wings and fuselage; and five seconds later, as they turned to keep it in sight, the fuel tanks exploded and they felt the shock wave of disturbed air fling them up and sideways.
Dellow, tossed about like a dinghy in a gale, saw, felt and heard the explosion, and, a moment later, felt a series of loud thuds on his own aeroplane, followed by a long, violent judder, sparks from the engine and coiling smoke from the cowling. He heard an eerie howling and from the corner of his eye saw two large holes in the fuselage through which the wind was whistling, just in front of him and to the left, by the throttle lever. Tom Dellow had never been hit by a cannon shell before, but it didn’t need his B.A. (Hons.) in History to recognise two cannon shell holes when he saw them. With extreme indignation he acknowledged that his engine had also been shattered by cannon shells and that he had better bale out before the Jerry on his tail made a colander of his aeroplane or it burst into flames.
The cockpit was already half-full of smoke as he rolled the Spit onto its back and dropped out, hoping one of the naval escort would pick him up quickly.
Upton’s barrelled aileron turn had carried him out of harm in a manoeuvre that enabled him to keep his eyes on his opponent while he turned behind him. The Messerschmitt climbed at first and started to turn back, but when the one that Taylor and Dellow had attacked exploded the last surviving pilot changed his mind and turned in the opposite direction once more, making for home.
Upton circled round Tom Dellow, watching him fall and waiting with a tightening of the stomach for his parachute to open. When it did, he went round it a couple of times at a distance that would not disturb it, Roy Taylor by now having joined him.
They saw a corvette thrashing its way towards them, a huge white bone in her teeth and a great creamy wash frothing out in a long furrow astern.
They had just enough petrol to stay until Tom Dellow was safely aboard, then set course for home.
“He’ll get his brekker before we do,” Upton remarked to Taylor.
“Yes. And a tot of rum with it, lucky chap.”
SIX
Arthur Goldsmith got up at seven o’clock as usual to make a pot of tea and take it up to the bedroom. He put the tray down on the bedside table near Maidie, drew the curtains and stood at the window looking towards the aerodrome.
“Fine morning,” he said tentatively, knowing how little Maidie relished emerging from sleep. He cocked his ear to the sound of approaching aero engines and ventured again: “Couple of the lads coming back from dawn patrol, by the sound of it. “ It had not strictly been a dawn patrol, but Arthur called all early morning sorties by that name: in the other war, fighter squadrons had flown a real dawn patrol every morning and he had always relished the dashing, romantic sound of the term.
Maidie responded with a long-drawn breath and an incoherent mutter.
“Here,” said her husband, “I don’t like the look of this. There’s only two of them.” He knew that the squadrons at Longley either flew singly or in units of three, so one was obviously missing.
“Come-an’-pour-th’-tea,” Maidie mumbled. “I’m dying... (large yawn)... for a cup.
Arthur did not respond but remained watching the two Spitfires cross the airfield fence of Dannert wire, barbed and coiled and partly hidden by thick hedgerows.
He kept a pair of binoculars handy wherever he went about the house. He put them to his eyes now.
“Gun covers blown away,” he said knowledgeably. “They’ve been in a scrap.”
“One of these days,” said Maidie, awake now,” someone’s going to see you... some stranger who doesn’t know your funny ways... and report you for a spy.”
Arthur ignored her. He was searching the aeroplanes for damage. He could see none, so put the field glasses down, took the folded newspapers from under his arm, gave the Daily Mirror to his wife, poured two cups of tea, then settled in the armchair to scan the Daily Telegraph.
“They’re still on about an invasion, I see,” he said presently.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t have a go, “ Maidie said. “He” was tacitly understood by everyone, in this context, to refer to Hitler. “With all the guns and everything we lost at Dunkirk, and a Fred Karno lot like the Home Guard to defend us, God help us, I should think it’d be what the boys call a piece o’ cake.”
“It’s because of lads like our lot at Longley that he hasn’t had a go,” replied Arthur. “Air superiority, that’s what they must have before they try an invasion. And it’s what they haven’t got. Nor never will have at this rate.”
“I wonder if it’s true: all what they say about invasion barges and that, ready and waiting at Calais and those places?”
“It’s true, right enough; no doubt about that. I’m going into town this morning to get another box of cartridges for my twelve bore, and some more twenty-two for my rook rifle.”
This literally made Maidie sit up. She reared her substantial torso out of the bedclothes and looked alarmed. “You don’t really think…? They couldn’t... I mean to say... Oh, no!”
“They might very well be coming ashore any time, if they reckon they’ve got control over the air, my love.”
“But you just said they never would.”
“That’s right. But I don’t believe in taking anything for granted, and if any Fritz shows up on our doorstep, I’m going to blow his head off.”
Maidie sniffed, pouring the tea. “Fritz! That’s an old fashioned word: we call ‘em Jerries, now.”
“Bloody Huns... sales Boches... the only good one’s a dead ‘un. Wish I had my old three-o-three and a bayonet, handy.”
“I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about, if you’re so sure they can’t get here,” Maidie said fondly. “No more do I believe they’ve got a chance, neither; not with lads like we’ve got, flying the Spitfires and Hurricanes. Anyone who knows them as well as we do can see that: one of them’s a match for ten Jerries.”
“They have to be, girl, poor young blokes: the Huns are coming over with odds of almost ten to one in their favour: look at the swarms of the beggars they send over; and only a handful of our boys to turn ‘em back.”
“But they do turn them back. Every time,” Maidie said proudly. “Want a second cup, dear?”
***
In the Bar des Sports, some thirty-five miles to the south, Hercule Pelegrand was already serving his first customers of the day: workmen who stopped by for a glass of red wine or a tot of marc to help them to face the rigours of long hours of manual labour.
He habitually rose at six, but without the tea-making ritual that heralded a new day for the Goldsmiths at the Angel. Hercule’s return to consciousness after his midnight retirement began with the tinny jangle of a twenty-five-franc alarm clock. His first act was to silence it. This was followed by a stretching of the arms, a vigorous scratching of his hirsute chest, a rubbing of the eyes; and ,
finally, a shaking of Berthe’s fat shoulder. Berthe would come half-awake, turn towards him, and with eyes still shut, accept, and return, the encirclement of his arms. There followed a prolonged agitation of the bed and bedclothes, a certain amount of stertorous breathing, a climactic yowl from Berthe and simultaneous grunt from Hercule. After which they lay supine for a few minutes before Monsieur Pelegrand heaved himself out of bed, shuffled a shirt and trousers over the underclothes in which he slept, donned a leprous pair of socks and down-at-heel slippers, washed perfunctorily, postponed shaving and brushing his teeth until Berthe could take over at the bar, and went downstairs to open the shutters, drink a cup of coffee and a marc and light the day’s first Gauloise.
He was wide awake and on his second cup of coffee, chatting to his tenth early customer, when he saw a Schwarm of Me 109s fly over.
By bending over his zinc-topped bar and peering up to the right he could see the sky.
“Bad luck to the swine,” he growled.
The workman leaning on the bar sucked at his yin rouge and agreed. “I’ll drink to that. “
Pelegrand was able to discern the identification number on the fuselage of the leading aircraft. He automatically took note of such details: one never knew when they could be handy. Besides, his inquisitiveness encompassed every-thing, whether directly relevant to him or not. People in the village said he knew more than the cure, who had the advantage of the confessional.
The morning pursued its familiar summer course, with many notable differences. There were no holiday visitors, no French uniforms apart from those of a gendarme or two who dropped in for a beer. But men got thirsty, war or no war, and if there were fewer customers at least there was always someone there with whom to while away the time in gossip and in vilification of the occupying ex-enemy: who were still very much the enemy to loyal French people.
Half an hour after the four Messerschmitts had flown overhead, Berthe appeared and Hercule came round from behind the bar to go and shave. He was half-way towards the staircase when there was the noise of two aeroplanes low over the house. He waddled quickly to the door and caught a glimpse of two 109s; and of the leader’s identity.
“They’ve been in action,” he exclaimed. “Gun smoke smeared over them and streaks of oil. It looks as if they’ve left a couple of their mates behind: in a watery grave or in deep holes in English soil.”
“Perhaps they separated and the other two will turn up later,” suggested Berthe.
“No. If they go out in fours, they come back in fours. If they’re all alive.” Hercule was wreathed in a big smile.
The gendarme who was enjoying his draught beer lifted his glass and said “That makes this taste even better.”
“I never thought much of the English,” said Pelegrand, “but these fighter pilots they have seem to be pretty good. Of course, when I was a young artillery sergeant in ’14-’18, we always used to say the British would fight to the last Frenchman. And they got out fast enough two months ago when the Boche turned on their Blitzkrieg. But I must admit one has to admire their flyers, in the last war as well as this one. If you ask me, it’s them as is going to stop the Boche from winning this war.”
“What about the invasion?” asked the gendarme, unconvinced.
“Yes,” echoed Berthe, “what about the invasion? What have the English got to fight with, since they left so much behind in their hurry to clear out?”
Pelegrand swivelled his leaky pale eyes at them and replied quietly, “They’ve got a rare fighting spirit, that’s what they’ve got. I don’t say I like them, mark you, but I’ve fought alongside them; and there’s one thing I can tell you: Hitler will never break their spirit.”
“What about all those ill-behaved drunks who used to come across to Calais and Boulogne in the ferry boats for a cheap day in France?” remarked Berthe.
“That’s right,” the gendarme said. “Trouble-makers, all of them. They used to get drunk and make a nuisance of themselves in the knocking-shops. What good will types like that be when Hitler invades them? Dammit, if we couldn’t stop them.”
Pelegrand interrupted him. “Leave it to their fighter boys: they’ll knock the stuffing out of Hitler. And they aren’t the types who used to come and misbehave over here: remember that lot who were flying from the airfield here for a while? There was something about them that I don’t see in the Boche pilots. I don’t know what it is... a kind of resolve, I think... and a refusal to take even war too seriously... in a word, I think it is their morale…”
“Stop blathering and go and shave,” his wife told him. “And hurry up about it, I want my croissants and coffee.”
A shadow fell on the floor, heavy boots crossed the threshold and two military policemen entered the bar.
A silence fell. Pelegrand, loath to leave his wife to cope with them, turned back towards the bar. The gendarme gave the two Germans a cold look and showed them his back.
The Germans paced to the bar and one of them said curtly, “Café au lait.”
Pelegrand jerked hid head dismissively at Berthe and went behind the bar. She began to move away but the same German said “Wait.”
She stopped, looking apprehensive.
“Go on, Berthe,” Pelegrand told her quietly.
She looked at him hesitantly.
The German said, “I told you to stay.”
“No one but me gives orders to my wife: or, in my own bar, to anyone else,” Pelegrand said quietly.
Both Germans grinned. “For that bit of cheek, blubber-guts, the café au lait is on the house. Now then: did you see those four aeroplanes fly over just now?”
“No,” replied Pelegrand, “we saw two.”
“You have one blind eye, then: there were four.”
“Four went out, two came back,” Pelegrand repeated.
“It’s up to you,” the German told him. “If you don’t want us to shut this place down at once, you’ll have to remember to count better in future. The same number you see going out is always the number you see coming back. Got it?” The German turned to the gendarme. “It’s your duty to make sure your own people understand.”
“If you’re so bothered,” said Pelegrand, “we’ll humour you.
“That will cost you two large cognacs,” the German told him. He gave Pelegrand a long cold stare. “Don’t be a damned fool, Pelegrand. Do you want the Gestapo or the S.S. in here? Just do as we say and you’ll stay out of trouble. And in return, my mate and I will drop in from time to time to make sure you’re behaving yourself, and to sample your excellent coffee and cognac. And perhaps Madame will knock us up an omelette.”
“Not this morning, Madame won’t,” Berthe retorted. “I’m too busy.”
“That’s all right,” the German said, “we’ll be back this evening.”
“This is not a restaurant,” Berthe reminded him. “But we’re coming as your guests: we don’t mind eating in the kitchen.”
At the door the two men paused and they both said, in different words and separately, “Remember: all that go out, come back safely. If we hear any rumours to the contrary, we’ll know where they came from: the most inquisitive man in Aigres.”
***
Squadron Leader Maidment, the fair-wavy-haired epitome of a boys’ magazine or West End theatre fighter pilot, had a rough tongue and a lot of tough style. He had had a rugger trial for Scotland at centre three-quarter and played cricket for Surrey 2nd XI, as well as flying in the Hendon air display three years running. He put on his style all the time, but kept his rough tongue for rare occasions. He had nothing rough to say to Upton and Taylor when they landed back.
“Good show, chaps. Bad luck you didn’t get a confirmation on the third one.”
“I think he must have made it back to France, sir,” said Upton. “His controls weren’t working properly, but his engine was O.K. Judging by the way his controls were behaving, I’d expect him to prang on landing.”
“Well, if his aircraft’s a write-off, that’s go
od enough. What about the other two? What did you make of them?”
“Pretty clottish,” Taylor replied. “It was a piece of cake, really. They must have been very green.”
“That’s good news: they must be getting pushed.”
“I suppose they do the same as we do; send a couple of new boys out with a couple of more experienced ones,” Upton said. “A convoy recce. isn’t very dicey, after all. They could have stayed away from us.”
Maidment said, “I wonder they didn’t: four against three isn’t usually their idea of safe odds!”
“Perhaps they won’t do it again,” Taylor suggested. “No: that’s the trouble,” said the C.O. “In future they won’t take us on unless they’re at least three to one.” “They’ll use up a lot more hours and serviceability, then.” Upton said.
“That’s one way of looking at it. If they do send out stronger patrols, we’ll have to try to entice them into range and let the Navy have a go at them.”
“An ack-ack barrage would keep them away,” Upton objected, “but it wouldn’t necessarily shoot any of them down.”
“Bombers are our official priority, so we may have to leave it at that. Anyway, good show: you’d better go and have some breakfast; so that you can be ready in good time if we get a squadron scramble.”
“Wonder how long it’ll take for Tom to get back?” asked Taylor.
The squadron leader said, “An M.T.B. has gone out to the corvette to bring him ashore. He’ll be here before his clothes are dry.”
“And on readiness, too, no doubt,” Upton muttered.
***
Hauptmann Siegert was not only built like a bull but also had a bull’s temper. “What the hell happened?” he asked.
Battle Climb Page 6