Hurricane Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  The Spitfire pulled round in a tight turn. Richter followed him, hauling the Messerschmitt round. It was no use. Gradually, the Spitfire edged away from his sights. Another few moments and the bastard would be on his tail, and the hunter would become the hunted. Those Spitfires could certainly turn! He wondered if the Tommy was faster than the Emil in a dive. He hoped not. It might be his only chance of escaping if things got too hot.

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the Spitfire rolled out of its turn. Its nose went down and it headed for the sea in a shallow dive. Richter went after him at full throttle, the engine screaming and the Emil’s wings quivering and vibrating. He glanced quickly at the bullet holes stitched across the port wing, but the damage did not seem too serious. Nevertheless, he would need to be careful.

  He made a slight adjustment to his sights and opened fire. His tracers fell away well below the target. He closed the radiator cooling flaps, risking the possibility of his engine overheating in exchange for reducing the drag a little and gaining a few more miles per hour.

  The dive became steeper. Richter’s eardrums popped furiously and his head pounded. The airspeed indicator registered over four hundred miles per hour and the temperature gauge was climbing rapidly. The engine was on the point of boiling. If he was going to get his Tommy, it had to be soon.

  The distance between the two aircraft narrowed slowly. They were down to six thousand feet, and already well out over the Channel. Richter fired at extreme range, almost refusing to believe his eyes as he saw his tracers disappearing into the Spitfire’s fuselage, just aft of the cockpit.

  The Spitfire began to twist and turn in a frantic attempt to escape. Richter kept after him, throttle wide open, firing in two-second bursts. A thin smoke-trail began to stream out behind the Spitfire and it went into a sudden climb. Its cockpit canopy flew off and the pilot baled out, a dark bundle tumbling over and over towards the sea. The Spitfire continued its upwards trajectory for a few hundred feet, then stalled and spun down, sending up a bomb burst of water as it struck.

  The pilot’s parachute had opened all right. Richter circled him, watching as he inflated his bright yellow Mae West life-jacket. The Englishman seemed to be unhurt; he waved as his opponent flew low past him. There was plenty of British shipping in the area, and it would not be long before he was picked up.

  Richter landed at St Pol twenty minutes later, his overheated engine groaning and shuddering. Two British fighters had been shot down, but three 109s were missing. It was clear that the Spitfire was going to be a formidable opponent.

  The next morning, Fighter Wing 66 received new orders. The wing was to provide part of the escort for an all-out German bombing offensive against a single target: Dunkirk. Its aim was simple. To eliminate the British Expeditionary Force and the remnants of the French armies in the north, their backs against the sea.

  *

  Manston was like a beehive. There were aircraft everywhere, taking off or landing every couple of minutes or stacked around the circuit, waiting their turn. As well as Fighter Command’s Spitfires and Hurricanes there were aircraft of Coastal Command too; Lockheed Hudsons and Avro Ansons, the latter made more warlike by the addition of machine-guns firing sideways through the fuselage windows. Antiquated Fairey Swordfish biplanes of the Fleet Air Arm, together with a flight of more modem Blackburn Skua dive-bombers, completed the motley picture.

  The air battle over Dunkirk had flared up in earnest on 27 May, when wave after wave of Heinkels began pounding the port, the beaches and the armada of vessels offshore from first light onwards. Then the Stukas came, howling down over the shattered town, carpeting the harbour with their bombs. A French troopship was hit and capsized. Bodies floated in on the tide, forming a sodden khaki fringe along the beaches. Immediately after the Stukas came the Dorniers, droning over the town. From their elongated bellies sticks of bombs pirouetted down to explode among the inferno. Dunkirk’s big oil storage tanks went up with a thud, sending a tremendous pillar of black smoke towering into the air.

  Three hundred German bombers attacked Dunkirk that day, unloading 45,000 high-explosive and incendiary bombs into the ruins. The fires raged unabated; there had been no water supplies in the town for five days. By nightfall the harbour had been completely blocked, and the exhausted troops were compelled to mass on the beaches to await evacuation.

  The RAF did what it could. Between dawn and dusk on 27 May, the sixteen fighter squadrons of No. 11 Group flew twenty-three patrols over Dunkirk and the beaches, destroying thirty-eight enemy aircraft for the loss of fourteen Spitfires and Hurricanes. Many more British fighters staggered back to base, however, with severe battle damage, and one squadron at Manston was so badly hit that it had to be moved north for a rest the following morning. 505 Squadron flew south to replace it, a move so rapid that the pilots had time to pack little more than their toothbrushes.

  Yeoman’s first patrol over Dunkirk was an experience he would never forget. Long before the French coast came in sight the pilots could see the vast cloud of smoke rising from the burning oil tanks, spreading like a dark banner across the sky. The acrid stench of it penetrated the cockpits, cloying the nostrils and making the eyes smart.

  The Hurricanes skirted the smoke, flying at fifteen thousand feet along the stretch of coast between Gravelines and La Panne. Yeoman, looking down, was puzzled by dark shadows on the beaches, then he realized that the shadows were men — thousands of them, patiently awaiting their turn to be evacuated. Offshore, the Channel was packed with vessels of every shape and size; destroyers and minesweepers, ferries, fishing boats and small craft. At one point, he saw smoke rising from a large ship that lay burning and beached in the shallows.

  For once, the Luftwaffe was absent from the sky. No enemy aircraft were sighted and the squadron turned for home. Shortly afterwards, a layer of low cloud crept across the sky, mingling with the smoke to form an impenetrable umbrella that afforded some protection at last to the battered men on the beaches. The cloud persisted all that day, and on the morning of the twenty-ninth fog and rain blanketed the Channel. Beneath the murk, unhindered by the Luftwaffe, the evacuation went ahead at a furious pace.

  Then, early in the afternoon, the fog dispersed and the clouds began to break up. It was the signal for the holocaust to begin all over again. At three o’clock, no fewer than 180 Stukas hurled themselves on the harbour and the ships clustered around it, sinking several of them. Half an hour later it was the turn of twin-engined Junkers 88s, flying from newly captured bases in Holland.

  The Hurricanes of 505 Squadron arrived right in the middle of this second attack, together with a squadron and a half of Spitfires. There was no time for preliminaries, for any fancy manoeuvring to get into a favourable position. The first wave of Junkers was already diving over the harbour and the British fighters went for them like terriers, every pilot selecting the target nearest to him. There were plenty of targets to choose from.

  Yeoman saw a Junkers pulling out of its dive after releasing its bombs, and threw his fighter in pursuit. The 88 turned and headed inland, gaining speed. Yeoman lost it for a moment as it passed through a drifting smoke cloud, then picked it up again as it emerged from the other side. The German bomber was fast, but Yeoman closed the range and slowed it down with a three-second burst that set fire to its starboard engine. The 88 began to lose height, weaving gently from side to side. Yeoman fired again, and now thick black trails poured back from both the bomber’s motors. Its dive became steeper and it went into the ground almost vertically, exploding in a great mushroom of smoke. Yeoman saw rivers of burning fuel spreading out like tentacles from the wreckage as he flew overhead.

  He turned away and put the Hurricane into a climb, looking round to get his bearings. The fires of Dunkirk were ahead and to the left, some miles away. A lot of light flak started coming up at him, which meant that he had strayed over enemy territory. It was time to get out of it. He continued climbing, heading towards the coast.

  He never heard the e
xplosion of the cannon shell that hit the cockpit. He was conscious only of a vivid flash, temporarily blinding him, and of a stinging pain as a shell splinter sliced across his forehead. A howling gale entered the cockpit as the canopy disintegrated. Dimly he heard a series of rapid bangs, coming from somewhere behind him, and the rattle of more splinters against the armour-plate of his seat back.

  The stick banged uselessly against his knee. He looked around, raising a hand to wipe away the blood that streamed into his eyes. The Hurricane’s tail had gone. There was no sign of his attacker.

  Frantically, he unfastened his seat harness and reached up to pull back what was left of the cockpit hood. It refused to budge. He tried again, bracing his feet against the instrument panel. The slipstream shrieked about his ears as the Hurricane plummeted down. He threw himself against the side of the cockpit in panic. A screaming voice sounded in his ears, as though from a long way off. He failed to recognize it as his own.

  A face rose in front of him, sharp against the blurred earth. Julia. Oh God, he cried, let me live.

  He gave a last, despairing heave and the hood came free at last, jerking back on its runners. Sobbing with relief, he heaved himself out of his seat and flung himself head-first over the side. The cushion of the airflow carried him over the trailing edge of the wing, plucking him clear of the doomed fighter.

  Later, he could not recall having pulled the D-ring. All he remembered was the sudden crack of his parachute opening, the blissful swaying as he drifted down.

  Suddenly, his stomach twisted in apprehension as he realized that he might still be over enemy-held territory. He looked down. He was drifting over a maze of canals and waterways, intersected by an occasional road. Hamlets were dotted here and there, some of them in flames.

  He still had no idea what had shot him down. The sky was empty. As he floated down, he became aware of other sounds above the whisper of the wind in his parachute lines; a kind of popping noise, like the crackle of twigs on a fire, and sporadic dull thuds. It looked as though he was going to land right in the middle of a pitched battle.

  He hit the ground heavily, beside a small clump of trees, and his parachute dragged him along the ground for several yards before he managed to release himself. Breathing heavily, he sat up. He saw movement ahead of him, and reached down to pull his revolver from his flying boot. It wasn’t there. It must have fallen out during his exit from the Hurricane.

  Three or four soldiers came doubling towards him, crouching low and running forward in short bursts. Their field-grey uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets left Yeoman in no doubt about their identity. Wildly, he looked round, wondering if he could reach the copse before they caught up with him. In that same instant, he knew he couldn’t make it. He had hurt his ankle slightly on landing and he would not be able to move fast enough. In any case, the Germans were close enough to cut him down easily.

  He stood up painfully and raised his hands. He felt no emotion. The only thought in his mind was that it might be worse. Suddenly, all he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep.

  The leading German doubled up and crumpled forward as though in slow motion, clasping his stomach. The others fell sideways, like a row of skittles. Yeoman swung round, startled, the burst of gunfire ringing in his ears. A man in khaki crouched by the edge of the copse, a smoking Bren light machine-gun slung from his shoulder at the hip-firing position. He waved urgently at the pilot. Yeoman felt a great surge of relief and stumbled towards him, wincing with the pain of his ankle. The man, a corporal, grabbed him by the arm and urged him into the shelter of the trees.

  ‘You’re lucky, mate,’ the soldier said. ‘Another twenty minutes and we wouldn’t be here anymore. We’re the rearguard, and we’ve orders to fall back behind the Bergues Canal on the Dunkirk perimeter. That was a Jerry recce patrol I just clobbered; their pals won’t be far behind.’

  Yeoman saw that the copse was full of soldiers. He learned that they were men of the 4th Battalion, the South Durham Regiment. They were just about on their last legs; most of them had had no real sleep for three weeks, having been involved in continuous fighting all the way back from the river Dyle. The corporal grinned at Yeoman through a layer of grime and stubble.

  ‘We saw you get the Jerry,’ he said. ‘The lads here gave you a bit of a cheer. We thought you’d had it, though, when you got hit.’

  ‘What shot me down?’ Yeoman wanted to know, out of curiosity.

  The corporal shrugged. ‘We never saw any Jerry fighters,’ he said, ‘so I reckon it must have been ack-ack. They have some light stuff, which they move up with their forward units.’

  A lieutenant came running up through the trees and held a short conversation with the corporal. The officer turned to Yeoman. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you’d better move back with “A” Company. You’ll find them on the other side of the wood. Don’t waste any time — Jerry will be bringing up his mortars in a minute to give this place a pasting.’

  Yeoman limped off and found ‘A’ Company without difficulty, reporting to its commander, a young captain whose left hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage. Ten minutes later the company set off in good order along a narrow road that bordered one of the area’s many canals, trudging wearily towards the fires of Dunkirk. On the other side of the road, the fields were littered with burning vehicles. Some had been left half on the road, and their heat scorched the men as they trooped past.

  As they marched on, a drum-roll of explosions echoed behind them. Yeoman paused and looked back. Over the copse they had just left, yellowish smoke was rising as the Germans carpeted the area with mortar shells. The crackle of rifle and machine-gun fire drifted on the breeze. After a while, there was silence.

  *

  Joachim Richter crouched among the sand dunes, feeling utterly dejected. He looked at the dirty, unshaven men around him, clad in their stained and tattered khaki, and shuddered inwardly. It would not require much of an excuse, he thought, for one of them to put a bullet through him.

  He still didn’t know fully what had happened. It had been an uneventful patrol over the Dunkirk sector, with no enemy fighters to be seen, the Messerschmitts skirting the British and French anti-aircraft defences around the port. Suddenly there had been a massive jolt and his Emil had gone out of control. Someone must have collided with him; probably that idiot Schöner, who couldn’t hold station properly if his life depended on it. Anyway, Richter had baled out in the nick of time and had landed just inside the northern sector of the Dunkirk perimeter, where some French troops had taken him prisoner. They had been all for shooting him on the spot, but some British soldiers had arrived just in time to save his skin.

  For the past twenty-four hours he had cowered miserably among the dunes, discovering what it was like to be on the receiving end of his own side’s bombs and shells. A shallow fox-hole, scooped out of the sand, seemed pitiful protection against the machine-gun bullets of the Messerschmitts that dived down frequently to strafe the beaches. For Joachim Richter, life just at the moment seemed pretty bleak; a choice between being killed by his own people, or if he survived, a prison camp somewhere in England.

  He looked up, past his captors, as yet another line of soldiers filed down on to the beach to await evacuation. Because of the incessant Luftwaffe attacks, troops were now being taken off only after dark.

  With sudden interest, Richter noticed a blue uniform among the khaki. So this, he thought, is what one of his RAF opponents looked like at close quarters. The man saw him at the same instant and wandered over, curiosity on his face.

  So it came about that, on a bullet-swept, bomb-torn beach two miles west of Braye Dunes, two young men who had already met more than once in air combat, but would never know it, at last stood face to face through one of the incredible coincidences that occur so often in time of war.

  Richter had learned some English at school. He had never been very good at it, but he recalled enough to make himself understood. He got up, carefully brushing the sand fro
m his uniform, and nodded coolly at the Englishman.

  ‘Richter,’ he said, ‘Leutnant, Reichsluftwaffe. Good afternoon.’

  Yeoman nodded back. ‘Oh, really,’ he said, determined not to be dragged into a tea-party conversation. Richter stiffened slightly, his English sufficient to comprehend the other’s slight insult.

  ‘I will not be a prisoner for long,’ he continued. ‘Soon, the German Army will invade England.’

  ‘Balls,’ Yeoman said, and turned away. Strangely enough, he felt no antagonism towards the young pilot. Richter’s presence on the beach, and his subsequent fate, was a matter of complete indifference to him.

  Yeoman walked back to where the South Durhams were waiting, sprawled on the sand in small groups. Someone produced a looted tin of damsons and, miracle of miracles, some bully beef. A soldier handed a few morsels of the food to the pilot and he wolfed them down, conscious of the fact that he had eaten nothing since five o’clock that morning. Then, all at once, he felt guilty as the realization came to him that the exhausted men around him had probably eaten nothing for days.

  Suddenly they were all burrowing into the sand like moles as a cluster of shells, hurled by heavy German guns far inland, erupted across the beach. The barrage went on for ten minutes, the explosions lifting great geysers of sand and debris — human as well as material — into the air. Then the shellfire crept out to sea, searching out the ships and boats in the Channel. The silence after the barrage seemed unearthly, broken only by the occasional cry of a wounded man or the broken sobbing of those whose nerve had gone. Yeoman spat out sand; his head ached intolerably and there was a stabbing pain in his ears. Blood trickled from the cut on his forehead; the dressing placed over it by one of the soldiers had come undone. He staunched the flow as best he could.

  There was to be little respite. After the shelling came the dive-bombers, sweeping over Dunkirk from the south-east. They spread out, some going for the town, others for the beaches and still others for the ships. Two of them, having unloaded their bombs, raced low over the beach almost wingtip to wingtip, blazing away with their front guns. Yeoman, sickened, saw a group of soldiers run to find better cover, only to be cut down like com under a reaper.