Valors way, p.16
Valor's Way, page 16
"Barnstorm Control to Pigeon Leader. Vector two–zero–zero. Bandits twenty-plus. Angels fifteen."
"Pigeon Leader to Barnstorm, we're low on fuel."
"Understood, Pigeon Leader. Sorry. Vector two–zero–zero."
"Message understood, Barnstorm. Pigeon Leader to flock. Turn to two–zero–zero, now."
Talbot glanced at his fuel gauge. A quarter remained plus the small reserve tank nestled between the engine and cockpit. Not a lot of petrol for combat. Fight until the tanks are dry then bailout or break off and look for the nearest airfield, I guess.
#
Lynette walked onto the balcony overlooking the plot table and made herself comfortable in one of the chairs. Curved, soundproof glass separated her from the noisy room one floor below. A large table painted as a map of southeast Albion, the Channel, and part of northwest Gaul occupied most of the floor. Each of 11 Group's sectors were marked on it, as well as each airfield and major city. It was from here that Uxbridge monitored the air battle.
"Ah, good morning, Section Officer." The duty controller looked over and smiled. The bright lights of the plot room reflected off his baldhead. "It seems the Huns are up to something this morning. We have a few raids coming in from the southeast as well as one in the Estuary that might be heading for the Thames. The Observer Corps is having difficulty keeping an eye on that one. The blighters are going in and out of the clouds. Luckily we have a squadron on patrol in the area, so we're sending them over."
Surrounding the map table were the WAAC plotters. Each one wore headphones, a small hook-shaped microphone hanging from a cord around her neck, and carried a long stick used to position wooden markers on the table. Each shaped piece of wood carried information about the incoming raid or the defending squadron.
She glanced at the marker for the squadron being sent to intercept the Estuary raid.
Keep him safe—please—just keep him safe.
#
"Pigeon Leader to Barnstorm. Enemy formation in sight. Looks like fifty to sixty Do17s, height fifteen thousand, course was due west, but they're turning south. They'll be passing over Sheppey Island. No escort seen. Squadron will engage."
Ramsey's words sounded calm and relaxed in Talbot's earpieces. They could easily be mistaken for an announcer reporting the latest cricket scores.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Keep an eye out for the escort. The bastards must be around here somewhere. We'll attack from six-o'clock. Keep an eye on your fuel gauge."
The dark colored bombers continued on their course as the Hurricanes closed on them.
"Pigeon leader to flock, tallyho."
"Blue Flight, take the rear section," Redding's voice came over the R/T.
Talbot watched the thin strings of tracers reach toward him. The sky became crisscrossed with the deadly rods. Each fighter became the apex of countless cones of light.
The wings of a Do17 filled his reflector sight. The faint drone from the bomber's engines mixed with the higher pitched Merlin. His bullets shredded part of the starboard wing. Debris flew past in the bomber's slipstream. A wide, climbing right turn took him away from the enemy formation.
The sound reminded him of pebbles thrown against a window. Tracers shot past him from below as holes appeared in his port wing. Instinct changed the turn into a jinking dive. Coming around a second time, he searched the sky for the escort. His head moved from side to side, searching above and behind.
Damn gunner came too close that time. "Blue Three to Blue Four. There's no escort, have a go yourself." Talbot glanced in his mirror as Swanson broke away.
Closing in again on the damaged bomber, a four-second burst started a fire in the port engine. The flames quickly spread to the whole wing and the Dornier dropped from the formation. Banking his Hurricane around, the engine sputtered and cut out, the silence loud in his ears. He quickly switched to the reserve tank and the Merlin resumed its roar. The Do17's dive became vertical before it crashed on the shore of Sheppey Island.
He watched Swanson following close behind another bomber, firing into it. Figures dropped from a hatch as thick smoke poured from the fuselage. A line of floatfalls marked a trail behind the dying aircraft.
Antiaircraft bursts exploded around the bombers as they commenced their attack. Sporadic and off the mark, the deadly puffs seemed more of a nuisance, than a threat. Smoke rose from the airfield at Eastchurch.
Another glance at his fuel gauge and the silence from his guns forced him to break off and call for Swanson to form up.
"Blue Four, follow me. The nearest petrol station is to the southwest." We'll make for Detling. It may be Coastal Command, but we can still refuel there.
The two Hurricanes touched down and taxied over to where several twin-engined Blenheims were lined up near a small building.
Talbot shut down his engine and climbed from the cockpit. Walking down the wing, he jumped the short distance to the ground.
He crouched under his port wing tip and surveyed the damage. Six holes, through which he saw daylight, formed a ragged line just ahead of the aileron.
"Well, you'll be out the rest of the day while they fix that," Swanson said from behind him.
"Shouldn't be more than a couple hours." Talbot said over his shoulder before standing up.
"I did it. I managed to get one." Swanson wore an ear to ear smile.
"Good shooting. Congratulations." Talbot shook his friend's hand.
A burly flight sergeant walked up to them, wiping the grease from his hands onto a once white rag. "And how may I be of assistance to you young gentlemen today? Run out of juice, have we?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Talbot stepped from behind Swanson.
Coming to attention, the sergeant saluted. "Mornin', sir. I'll have the bowser right over." Turning away, the sergeant motioned to the ground crew working on one of the Blenheims.
"We didn't have enough to make it back to our station and you were the closest," Talbot explained.
"See a bit of action this mornin', sir?" The sergeant nodded toward the holed tape covering the machine gun ports.
"We just tangled with the bombers attacking Eastchurch," Talbot replied.
"How bad is the damage?"
"Hard to tell. There was quite a bit of smoke."
"I have a few mates over there. Hope they're all right. If you'll excuse me, the bowser's here and we'll get you refueled and on your way."
"Doesn't make sense why they would send a raid over without an escort. They had to know they'd lose quite a few bombers," Swanson said, as they walked over to the building.
"More than likely someone fouled up. The escort missed the rendezvous and the bombers bashed on regardless."
I'm glad we broke off when we did. I landed on fumes," Swanson said.
"So did I. My kite almost became a glider."
Talbot noticed the sergeant looking at his victory line, then over at him. Less than twenty minutes later the bowser pulled away and the sergeant approached.
"All refueled and ready to go, Mr. Talbot."
"Thank you, sergeant. How do you know my name?"
"I've only heard tell of one pilot who looks like he should still be in school with a line of Hun crosses like that. Keep up the good work."
"Thank you, sergeant," Talbot replied. Is there anyone who hasn't heard about me? All I'm doing is my duty.
Returning to Stapleford, Talbot tried to relax while his aircraft was repaired. Now began the wait for the telephone to ring and start the cycle again.
Late afternoon brought the telephone call that scrambled them. The squadron headed northeast toward Harwich. As they climbed to twenty thousand feet, Talbot noticed Dale was out of position again.
Dale really seems to have a problem with formation flying. I guess there's not much call for it when flying a transport.
The coast passed beneath them and soon small flashes of light appeared ahead. Sunlight reflecting off enemy canopies.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Red Flight will hold off the fighters, the rest of you go after the bombers."
"Yellow Two to Pigeon Leader, a dozen Spitfires at eight-o'clock low, coming out of the clouds."
"We can use the help," Ramsey replied. "Pigeon Leader to Spitfire leader. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, I do. Ready to have a go at the blighters?"
"We'll handle the bombers, if you'll keep the fighter's away."
"Sounds good to me, old boy. Good luck."
"You, too. Pigeon Leader to flock. Head on attack. Let's break the bastards up."
Talbot, Swanson, and Dale spread out to the left and right of Redding as they went for the He111s.
He picked out his target and pressed the gun-button. A two-second burst was all he had time for and he dove under the bombers. Tracers followed him as he made a wide turn to port.
The attack achieved its goal. The enemy formation was now broken up. An He111 was spinning to earth, its port wing missing outboard of the engine. Not far away a Hurricane, also missing its port wing was spinning downward.
For an instant Talbot saw the aircraft's letter. Get out! For God's sake, Dale, get out of that kite! Please get out!
He started a wide climbing turn to make a stern attack. Tracers shot past him. His Hurricane shuddered and black smoke poured from the engine.
"Damn it all!" Talbot broke sharp right and started Split-S'ing. The mirror showed no sign of his attacker. He quickly checked each gauge. Erratic oil pressure and engine RPMs accompanied the black smoke.
"John, are you all right?" Swanson was almost yelling.
"I'm okay—so far. I'm returning to base."
"I'll follow and watch your back."
"I'll be all right. Stay here." Talbot leveled out at one thousand feet. The engine was now faltering and cutting in and out. The Hurricane shook with each shudder of the engine. His arm ached as he fought to hold the control column steady. Am I too low to bailout? I don't remember what they told us at the O.T.U.. Guess I'm stuck riding it down. Why didn't that pilot finish me off?
He constantly watched behind, waiting for more tracers. The smoke was thick and left an oily smear across the clean, blue sky. Good job, you bloody idiot. You should have seen those 109s. Too busy thinking about those big, fat bombers, weren't you? Well, this'll teach you, won't it? Nice trail I'm leaving, just like blood in the water attracts sharks.
As he came in to land, the engine seized. The three-bladed propeller stopped with a teeth-jarring screech. The Hurricane bounced twice as it touched down. The fire tender and ambulance raced to meet him as he rolled across the grass. He jumped from the cockpit when the fighter finally came to a stop.
Ground crew in leather jerkins sprayed the cowl with foam extinguishers, then pried panels off with crowbars to finish the job. When the fire was put out, he walked over, but all he could see was a wet, oily mass.
"Won't know how bad it is 'til we get it cleaned up a little, Mr. Talbot," Morris said, "We'll do our best."
"I know you will—you always do," Talbot said wearily.
"You all right, Mr. Talbot?"
"Pilot Officer Dale collided with a bomber." Talbot turned away and walked to dispersal.
He sat in a deck chair, after his debriefing, watching the usual activities, but not paying attention. Pender walked over and sat down next to him.
"We lost Dale," Talbot said without looking away from the nothing he stared at.
"What happened?"
"He rammed a bomber."
"His was the Hurricane falling without a wing?"
"I saw his aircraft letter for a split-second as he spun in."
"That's a hell of a way to buy the farm. Almost as bad as burning to death."
Talbot reached up and roughly rubbed his forehead. "Geoff, right now the last thing I need is a discussion about the worst way to snuff it."
"Sorry. You're right. They're all bad."
Ramsey erased Dale's name from the board before walking into his office and slamming the door behind him.
Talbot saw Swanson walk out of the door from his debriefing and for an instant their eyes met. His friend averted his eyes and walked away without saying a word.
"Terry, I need to talk to you." Talbot got up from the chair.
They walked to the side of the building, away from everyone else.
"John, I'm really sorry about screwing up like that. I know I'm supposed to be watching your tail and I bollixed it. I let you down and I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"I'm not blaming you. We both screwed up. We should have seen them. We were careless."
"Like I said, it won't happen again. I'll make sure of that."
#
Thin wisps of cloud slipped past the Hurricane's camouflaged wings. Ahead and to the left, Redding's aircraft flickered like an apparition as the milky surroundings momentarily hid him from sight. As quickly as they entered the haze the squadron emerged into the bright afternoon sky.
Talbot rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand and tried to blink the gritty, tired feeling away. The altimeter turned steadily clockwise as the Merlin growled at full throttle.
This is the fourth time today and it was four times yesterday. Only twice the day before that, when I was hit in the engine. We've been all over the southeast counties. Every attack has been against our airfields. I wonder when it'll be our turn? I've got two more confirmed, a 109 and an 88. I've given up counting how many I've damaged. And then we have my three probables. No one saw them crash, so they may have made it back to their base or they may not have. Group had better send us some replacements, there's only eight of us left. Now if I can only stay awake.
The squadron made contact with the Huns near Maidstone.
"Blue Flight keep the fighters busy. Red and Yellow go after the bombers. We'll attack from their right flank. Individual attacks." Talbot heard Ramsey over the R/T and watched the Me109s up high waiting to pounce. Waiting for the right moment.
The sky quickly turned into a grand melee. The three Hurricanes of Blue Flight broke up a group of enemy fighters three times their number. Talbot lined up behind one of them and fired into it. Pieces flew from it as the enemy fighter broke left and dove.
As if part of an air display, three Me109s serenely passed in front of him. Talbot banked right and followed, taking position behind the last in line. When the wings spanned the gunsight's ring he pressed the brass button. His bullets raked the enemy fighter. The incendiary bullets created small flashes of light as they hit. The Messerschmitt nosed over and he stayed on its tail. A three-second burst at close range caught the fighter in the fuselage and a small fireball appeared near the cockpit. The enemy fighter exploded.
Talbot felt the heat as he flew past the miniature sun. He saw another Me109 chasing a Spitfire and dove after them. Playing third man in a deadly game of Follow-The-Leader, repeating each move made by the pair in front of him, he closed to less than fifty yards before firing. The Me109 broke off leaving a thin gray trail.
In ones and twos the fighters returned to their haven called Stapleford. Pilots recounted their actions for the Intelligence officers. Each one concentrated to remember this fight from the others of today and yesterday. Each one concentrated to stay awake during the telling.
Dinner in the Mess was followed by a pint in the lounge, before the slow walk to collapse in bed.
#
They arrived while the others crawled into bed. Straight from an O.T.U., the four fresh faces were etched with inexperience and naiveté. Red and Blue Flight each picked up one and Yellow received the remaining two.
Talbot drank his chai and stared at the Hurricanes waiting to be brought to life by the ring of a telephone. The morning passed quietly with fair weather. Two swallows of lunch's potted meat sandwich was all he managed before the telephone sent him running for his aircraft.
Flying east-southeast the squadron headed into the Estuary again. Another Hurricane squadron was already engaging the enemy formation when they arrived. It was a majestic and deadly sight. The bomber formation flew on solidly with fighters weaving in and out. Some were attacking, while others fought back in defense.
Diving into the swarming mass, he resisted the temptation to fire at two passing fighters. Threading his way through tracers he reached the bombers.
A quick shot and pieces tore from the Ju88's tail. Control column forward and he was diving away. Attack, dive away, then climb and repeat. He kept glancing behind him checking his own tail and each time he saw Swanson glued in position. His mind was tuned to his friend's voice. If he heard Swanson say to break one way or the other the control column was pushed over. No need to second-guess, it was automatic.
He made two more attacks before running out of ammunition and breaking off. Split-S'ing down he watched for anyone following him.
He pushed his canopy back, letting the wind blow past him. It felt good, it felt clean and calming.
No sooner were they refueled, when they were scrambled again. The enemy was intercepted near Horsham. With height advantage the squadron attacked the bombers from the flank. Talbot dove past the escorting fighters and dropped behind an He111. Short bursts started the starboard engine on fire. It broke formation and dove.
Coming around again, he fired into another bomber. Smoke streamed back from the port engine. Still following behind him, Swanson poured a long burst into it. The He111 rolled onto its left side and went into a spin.
That night, after stand down, Talbot walked back to the dispersal hut and sat in one of the deck chairs. He watched the stars make their appearance. A few of the brighter ones he recognized as planets.
His thoughts drifted to someone else. I should be sitting next to her on a night like this. To hold her in my arms, to feel her softness, to kiss her lips. I finally find a girl I want to spend all my time with, and I have no time to see her. She's nothing like Susan was. She knows what she wants and I think it's me. I hope it's me.
#
Talbot needed an extreme effort to get out of bed. The constant flying was taking its toll on his body and his mind. The person looking back at him in the mirror was someone else. He was young, he was only seventeen, but the face in the mirror looked ancient. He found it hard to concentrate at times. He felt in a fog and only the adrenaline rush of combat would burn it away. All this was accompanied by the constant, dull headache. Centered on the forehead, the knot lay two inches deep in his brain.
