The clatter of the guns seemed strangely muted to David although Kiwi did assure him it was 'bloody deafening' back in the turret. The recoil of the guns made the airframe shudder and the 'plane seemed to twitch slightly each time the turret swung. Kiwi reassured him that this was normal for a Defiant. They were both well satisfied when the Defiant touched down back at the base. David's landing was a little bouncy but safe enough. They taxied back to the blast pens and handed the machine back to the tender care of the ground crew. David and Kiwi walked together to the flight hut. Kiwi pulled out a packet of Players and they both smoked contentedly as they walked.
"So, what do you think, Skip? She's a good old bus, ain't she?"
"Lovely, Kiwi, just lovely."
"First squadron, Skip?"
"Yes, how about you?"
"Posted in from the 'Toffs' at 601. Didn't need any peasants once they got their 'Hurribacks,' did they? I wasn't sorry, mind."
"My half brother's on 601, Michael Welford-Barnes, do you know him?"
David sensed Kiwi Braithwaite stiffen beside him. The sergeant's demeanour changed instantly.
"Yes, sir, I was on his crew."
"Bad Luck, Kiwi," David kept his voice light. "The man's a total shit."
"You may say that, sir, I can only think it."
"I preferred 'Skip,' Kiwi. As I said, he's my half-brother. We aren't at all alike."
"Well, Skip, you certainly don't look like him and, from what I can tell, you don't act like him, neither."
David laughed. "Kiwi, if I ever start to act like Michael, turn the turret round and blow my bloody head off, won't you? Put me out of my misery!"
"Roger, Skip, will do!" It was Braithwaite's turn to laugh.
Michael flung the Hurricane into a steep turn and shouted aloud for joy. By God, he loved this aeroplane! Two thousand feet below and about a mile away, the aged Avro Anson towing the target drogue appeared bang on the nose of Michael's aeroplane. He throttled back slightly as he eased the stick forward and began his run on the target. The last attempt had been a failure as he'd come down far too fast and overshot wildly. The Hurricane was armed with eight Browning .303 machine guns, four in each wing. The on board ammunition was sufficient for only twenty seconds of sustained firing so this called for short bursts of no more than three seconds each. Michael's guns were 'coned' for the stream of bullets to converge at a range of 550 yards. This meant opening fire slightly outside this range. At an approach speed of 300 mph, the Hurricane covered a quarter of a mile in the length of a single burst. He opened fire on the towed drogue at about 900 yards, leading the target by a fraction to compensate for the Anson's stately progress. The Hurricane staggered under the recoil of the guns. Michael pushed the stick further forward to dive sharply beneath the target and pulled away in a climbing turn to start another run.
He was already aware that he'd missed again. Still coming in too fast! He made one final pass, this time at 250 mph, and he had the satisfaction of seeing the fabric of the drogue twitch as the bullets struck home at last. He waggled the Hurricane's wings at the retreating Anson and headed for home. His mind was in turmoil. How the hell would he ever manage to shoot down an enemy aeroplane that was dodging about all over the place when he could barely hit a towed target flying straight and level? He resolved to view the on-board gun camera films and see if he could find a solution there. It was strange the way the target seemed to swell so quickly once you began the attack. Two or three miles out, everything happened at a leisurely pace; once inside 1,000 yards, everything speeded up, almost exponentially. It was as though time suddenly compressed as soon as he looked through the reflector gun site.
As son as he landed, he instructed the ground crew to refuel and re-arm the machine and made his way to the flight hut.
"I've got to have another go, Boss."
"Another, Michael? That will be your fourth today. There are still three others waiting to take their third shot."
"Yes, I understand. It's simply that I need to get the hang of it, d'you see? Sometimes I think I'm almost there and then I go and find some new way of ballsing the whole thing up."
The squadron commander looked at him appraisingly. Welford-Barnes had definitely changed. There had always been something driven about him but, these days, he looked to have found a focus for his almost manic energy. All he wanted to talk about was flying. He no longer baited his fellows and was even heard to speak civilly to the ground crews. The Squadron Leader was also an Auxiliary Air Force man. He had seen the change from light-hearted self-indulgence to concentrated professionalism overtake many of his pilots but Michael Welford-Barnes was something else again. An elderly member of the old, pre-war, squadron had once remarked that Michael was not quite a gentleman. Now, maybe, that might be a good thing. He had taken to the Hurricane like a duck to water. If the truth were told he was an outstanding pilot but, currently, he was a poor shot.
"Very well, then, Michael. You can go again. Let Red Flight finish their turn and follow on as arse-end Charlie. I'll tell Bill there will be four, this time."
"Yes, sir. And… thank you, sir."
The Royal Air Force standard fighter formation at this time was for a 'vic' of three – one leading aircraft flanked by two wingmen in a 'V' formation. This evolved with the Royal Flying Corps in the previous war and was laid down in the standard manual of air tactics. Michael would take station behind one of the wingmen in echelon. It would be up to the flight commander how loose or tight the formation was but the normal practice was to get in as close as possible. First War experience had shown that once the combat started, such niceties as formation flying went completely out of the window. In the thick of a dogfight, it was every man for himself.
As Michael strode away to try again, the squadron commander concentrated his attention back on the sheaf of signals and intelligence reports received from 11 Group Head Quarters. It was already clear that operations in Norway were not going well The Germans had landed troops in the south of the country and were swiftly pushing north. The Norwegian Army and Air Force were seriously over-matched. The Royal Navy was doing what it could but its own aircraft were needed to protect the fleet from air attack. 263 Squadron's Gladiators had flown off from HMS Glorious successfully but now all the squadron's aircraft were out of action after only three days of operations. Disquieting reports of mess and muddle were slowly filtering through. One French regiment of ski-troops had been disembarked only to find that their ski bindings were still on the dockside at Rosythe. There were also stories of regiments being separated from their equipment and the wrong ammunition arriving for the few heavy weapons that they had managed to deploy. The Navy achieved the only success of note at Narvik, where a small force of British Destroyers had taken on and beaten a larger German flotilla. He rubbed his eyes and sighed aloud. Sooner or later we'll have to sort ourselves out, he thought.
Johanna finally got her way and applied to join the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. She was accepted and told to report to RAF Swinderby for 6 week's basic training on 28th April. The news came as a relief to all concerned. She'd driven her parents to distraction with her insistence on her chosen course and, of course, she had been bored stupid at home, which added to her general frustration. Part of the problem was David – or rather his absence. She had seen him just once since he joined the RAF. It wasn't his fault, she knew. They had barely two days together immediately prior to David joining his new squadron. And, of course, he'd had to spend some of that precious leave with his parents who were now absolutely miles away in Nottinghamshire. He'd managed to come south to see her as soon as he'd been able and she still cherished the memory of it.
Her mother had encouraged her to 'play the field' a bit; there were plenty of nice young men out there. Johanna reluctantly accepted a couple of invitations from sons of her mother's friends but it had felt all wrong. It wasn't the boys. They were probably nice enough; but none of them looked at her like David did; none of them ignited that special little spark in her breast. She had leapt like a scalded cat when one had tried to kiss her. He became stammeringly apologetic but it was too late. She didn't want to be touched by anyone but her David. She dreamily remembered their last evening together.
He had taken her to dinner in Dorchester. Albert had obligingly loaned David his car for the occasion. In Peter's absence, but with his wholehearted agreement, Albert had secured some precision engineering contracts and the little Riley-Armitage works was now turning out gun parts for the Royal Navy. As a consequence, Albert always had a bit of extra petrol – an important consideration now that rationing had been introduced. Johanna had insisted that David wear his uniform. He hadn't needed much persuasion and was immensely proud of the bright new cloth 'wings' that sat above his breast pocket. Johanna thought him very handsome; even when he had removed his hat to reveal the shock of untidy sandy hair. She felt sure that the other women in the restaurant had been looking on with envy.
Although the war was now in its eighth month, men in uniform were still a comparative rarity in Dorchester. Of course, most of the Army were over in France with the British Expeditionary Force and Dorchester was not such a metropolis as to attract servicemen in from far and wide. Johanna had worn her sole cocktail dress. She thought it old fashioned but David's reaction had suitably reassured her. His eyes went wide with awe on seeing her come down the stairs to greet him in her parents' hall.
"Gosh, Jo, you look fantastic."
She still glowed inwardly at the memory. Her mother frowned when she'd first bought the dress. It showed off her cleavage to advantage. If it hadn't been for David, she would never have dared to wear such a thing. She hated her freckled skin but David loved it, so that was all right. David insisted on buying champagne. It made her feel light and giggly at the same time. When he'd stopped the car in the darkened lane on the way home, she moved to him eagerly, enfolding herself in his arms and drifting into a warm, champagne-flavoured kiss. She hadn't meant to do it, but somehow she found herself with the top of her dress around her waist and David's lips striking feathered lightning from her nipples. Not that she let him go all the way. She wasn't that sort of girl! She'd been both relieved and disappointed, though, when he readily acquiesced once she called a halt to proceedings. One day, she promised herself; soon, perhaps, but not yet!
He'd been deliberately casual afterwards; had lit a cigarette and tapped the ash out of the window, his other arm still about her shoulders.
"Of course we must wait, Jo. It would spoil everything if we rushed it."
But there had been an echo of desperation in his voice that secretly pleased her. It was a memory to be hugged in the long nights at Swinderby as she and the other volunteers learned to march and salute and to do all those other 'necessary' tasks that the armed forces prized so highly. David, alone of her intimate circle, was enthusiastic about her joining up.
"I think it will be splendid, Jo. Maybe we could even end up on the same station."
"Wouldn't that be wonderful? Although, I don't expect you'd be allowed to speak to me as you're an officer."
"Just let them try and stop me!"
"Mutiny, Pilot Officer Riley?"
"If that's what it takes, by all means!"
He drove her home. The silence stretched between them as each anticipated the pain of another parting. At her door he said, "I won't come, in Jo, if you don't mind. I've an early start in the morning."
She understood the real reason was that he didn't want to engage in small talk with her parents. He wanted, she knew, to remember the two of them alone, without any intervention from the rest of the world. She kissed him then; a gentle, slow kiss. Her long red hair had come loose and tumbled about her shoulders in disarray. She stepped back, suddenly shy and toyed with the rebellious locks.
"Golly, look at me! Mum's sure to think we've been doing what we shouldn't."
"I want to, Jo," David said softly, holding her eyes. She nodded.
"I know, my love." Her face was solemn and her eyes looked huge.
They stared at each other for a few moments as the implication of their words resounded in the quiet. There was nothing else to say so they bade each other 'Goodnight' and promised to write every day. David moved reluctantly into the darkness as she turned to open the door. It was too dark for her to see that spring that returned to his step a little further down the road. He had no doubts at all, now; he was happily, gloriously and irreversibly in love.
May 1940 Be Ye Men of Valour
May 10th 1940 would always be engraved indelibly on David's memory. It was the day the German war machine turned its attention to the west; it was the day that 264 squadron moved hurriedly from Martlesham Heath to RAF Duxford and was declared 'fully operational.' It was also the day that Winston Churchill became Prime Minister. David had little time to think much about politics as he drove to Duxford that Friday evening. He hadn't been one of the pilots nominated to fly the Defiants to their new home and, instead, was driving one of his colleagues' cars with both of their luggage crammed into the 'dickie seat' at the rear. The reports from France had been very confusing. It appeared that the Germans had made a simultaneous strike into the Low Countries and that the British and French armies were advancing into Belgium to meet them.
Unbeknown to David, Michael was on the move, too, and much further afield. Michael's flight was detached to France to reinforce the Advanced Air Striking Force already in situ. By one of those strange coincidences, the Flight was to be based at the French airfield of Bellevue – the very field from which Phillip had flown his last mission. Bellevue was also home to a squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers. Pinky Harris's prediction that the Battle was a disaster waiting to happen had already come true. The Battle squadron was sent to attack the German spearhead that very morning. The Luftwaffe fighters had shot the unescorted Battles from the sky with ease. There was an air of gloom about the place when the Hurricane pilots arrived.
Intelligence was fragmentary and wild rumours were circulating. The Hurricane flight commander sized up the situation in a moment and resolved to keep his pilots as far away from the influence of the demoralised units as possible. Supporting ground crews and materiel arrived by transport, elderly Bristol Bombay aeroplanes that looked as if they belonged to a different generation from the Hurricanes. As soon as it was possible to do so, the Hurricanes were refuelled and fully armed to await orders. They flew standing patrols all the next day and were twice ordered to intercept enemy aircraft attacking French positions, but each time they found only smoke and empty sky. The German bombers had been and gone before they arrived.
If preparation for war had wrought a welcome change in Michael, it was encountering the harsh realities over the coming days that completed the process. It was on Tuesday, 12th May, that Michael first experienced the madness and elation of air combat. Almost all the remaining British Blenheims and Battles were ordered to attack the German positions along the River Meuse. Michael's flight was detailed to provide close fighter escort to the vulnerable bombers. They took off shortly after first light and steered northeast towards the target. As they approached Sedan, a voice crackled in Michael's headphones:
"Red Leader, Red three. Bogeys, two o'clock, low."
"Roger, Red Three, I have them. Me 110's.Red leader to Red Flight, prepare to attack. Tally Ho, Red Flight!"
Michael was designated 'Red Five', he flew in the second 'vic' of three. The first section dived away. Keeping station on his section leader, Michael followed them down. Four Me110's, twin-engined fighters with a rear gunner, were aiming to intercept a flight of three Fairey Battles. So intent were the Luftwaffe 'planes on their prey, they didn't notice the approaching Hurricanes until the latter were almost upon them. Michael again experienced that strange feeling of time compression. The enemy fighters had looked like distant black dots for the longest time. Suddenly, he could make out the pale face of the rear gunner in one of the German aircraft, could see the man feverishly swinging his defensive machine gun to face the diving threat. Michael flicked the safety catch away from the gun button on top of the Hurricane's joystick and pressed hard.
He felt himself grow rigid with concentration as he spun the Hurricane around to follow the Messerschmitt, which was diving away in an effort to avoid the plunging British fighters. Michael realised with horror that he was still firing and he quickly released the button. How long was that? Five, maybe six seconds? At least a quarter of his ammunition in one futile burst. He swore richly at himself and reversed his turn as the 110 tried to claw its way free of the melee. Suddenly, it seemed to fill his windscreen and he thumbed down on the button again: one, two, three, stop! He yanked back hard on the stick and zoomed over the enemy 'plane. He felt bullets strike the Hurricane somewhere behind him and he flicked left. Bugger! Forgot about the gunner, the bastard was on the ball! He was sure he'd seen his tracers strike the target and he pulled up sharply, rolling off the top. A quick glance in the mirror. Fuck! Where they did come from?
"Red Leader, Red Five. Bandits, repeat bandits, at six o'clock. High but coming down fast."
Even to his own ears, his voice sounded high-pitched and shaky.
"Roger, Red Five. I have them. Attention Red Flight, Bandits bearing zero ninety, let's meet them."
The Hurricanes left the retreating 110s and turned to face the new threat. About a dozen single-seater Me 109s were screaming down towards the now-scattered Red Flight. Michael gave the Merlin full positive boost and tried to close up on his section leader. The two sets of aircraft had a closing speed in excess of 600 mph. The Germans opened fire first. They carried the heavier armament, with a 20mm firing through the propeller boss, in addition to their machine guns. Tracer bullets started lazily towards the Hurricanes and seemed to rapidly accelerate to the speed of lightning as they came closer. He jinked the Hurricane slightly to put off the German gunnery and then thumbed his own guns into life. A camouflaged 109 flashed by his cockpit so close that afterwards, Michael swore he could have touched it. Then everything dissolved into chaos. The sky appeared full of aeroplanes. Michael was vaguely aware of the shouts of his fellows but it was remote from him, somehow; he was fighting for his life.
He got a quick burst in at a flashing 109 and then broke hard to the right as he caught the twinkling flash of a 20mm cannon in the corner of his eye. The Messerschmitts were undoubtedly faster than the RAF fighters, but it soon became apparent that the Hurricanes had the better turning radius. Michael twisted this way and that. He was so caught up in evasion that he rarely had any chance to go onto the offensive himself. He was aware of feeling calmer now. The initial shock of the sneak attack had left him. He found he was able to think straight again. He spotted a Hurricane falling away from the battle, trailing a fiery scarf in its wake. Another was blowing heavy blue smoke from its exhaust stubs and a third simply blew up directly in front of him. Two Messerschmitts were stalking the same Hurricane that was weaving about the sky in a desperate bid for escape. A cold rage seized Michael and he flung his 'plane towards the unequal combat.
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