Valors way, p.18
Valor's Way, page 18
Swanson, a few steps behind Talbot, slumped into a wicker chair. Leafing through a stack of magazines on a nearby table, he looked up and smiled. "At least we have a new library of old magazines to read."
"Always looking on the bright side, eh, Terry." Talbot looked at Williams. "Is there another telephone around here I could use? I need to make a call. By the way, if you happen to know where I could get an aspirin, I could use a couple."
"There's a telephone right in there, sir," Williams said, pointing to an adjoining room. "I'll see what I can do about the aspirin."
Talbot sat down at the desk, put his feet up, and reached for the telephone. As he waited for the call to go through, he rubbed his forehead wishing his headache away. Williams walked in and set a mug of chai down, along with two small white pills.
"Williams, you're a lifesaver. I'll remember you in my will."
"Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but how old are you?"
"Do you mean physically or mentally? Right now I feel like I'm a hundred, but I'm actually seventeen. Why?"
"Just curious, sir. That's all. We're the same age."
"What's your first name, Williams?"
"Archibald."
"Archie, I was in a certain spot at a certain place in time, that's all—nothing more, nothing less." Talbot held up a finger. "And we'll have to continue this later—yes, operator, Section Officer Lynette Seymour, please."
Williams nodded as he left the room and closed the door.
"Good morning," he said, when she answered the telephone.
"John, are you all right? I didn't hear about what happened until this morning."
"As well as can be expected under the circumstances. I still have your scarf, luckily I was wearing it."
"The main thing is you're all right. I can always replace the scarf. I guess we need to change our plans."
"Things are rather uncertain at the moment. I should know more later and we can plan something."
"That's good. Look, I'm really sorry, John, but I have to go. I need to tear a strip off a flight lieutenant. I'll see you soon, all right?
"See you soon, then,"' he said, hanging up. He sat there drinking his chai and looked around the room. Aircraft identification charts lined the walls. Each silhouette brought with it a memory.
He walked from the room and stood next to the desk occupied by Williams, watching Redding approach the hut. "And just where were you last night?"
"North Weald. Hornchurch was too badly hit to get in. As it was, I landed on fumes. Actually, to be truthful, I spent last night with a gorgeous blond, but you're too young to know the rest." Redding looked over at Williams and winked.
Over the next forty-five minutes the remaining pilots landed and their aircraft were readied.
The desk telephone rang and Williams answered it with, "Dispersal."
Talbot saw him nod his head a few times and hang-up. Williams looked around the room as if unsure of what to do next.
Ramsey stood by the door, watching the young clerk. "All right, what is it, boy?"
"Sq—sq—squadron scramble!'
Every pilot stared at him.
"You heard him! Get moving!" Ramsey looked at Williams. "Not a good start, boy."
The pilots were out the door and climbing into their aircraft within seconds.
The airfield's fill-in ground crew were slow and uncoordinated. Five minutes later the Hurricane's were climbing into the sky.
"Pigeon Leader to Pinetree, squadron airborne."
"Well, good morning, Pigeon Leader. I was beginning to think you'd gone on holiday."
"Just give us the vector and height, control. I'm not in the mood for jokes at the moment."
"Pigeon Leader, vector two–three–zero. Angels fifteen. Bandits eighty-plus. Buster."
"Understood. Thank you, Pinetree."
Thin wisps of cloud drifted past the Hurricanes as they climbed at their maximum speed. The coast and Channel soon spread before them. Ahead lay Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. In the distance black spots grew into recognizable shapes. The Hun bombers approached as a closely packed mass. Their tight formation meant a heavier concentration of defensive fire.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Tallyho!"
Talbot lined up on one of the lead bombers. He watched the closing Do17s and the escorting Me109s above them.
His tracers dropped ahead of the bomber. A slight pull-up on the Hurricane's nose and his bullets ripped pieces from the starboard wing.
He pushed the control column forward, diving under the bombers. Enemy fire followed him and Swanson. Speed gained in the dive now helped in a tight, climbing turn.
"Watch out, Pigeon Squadron. We've got 109s," Redding's voice came over the R/T.
Tracers and several thuds in rapid succession emphasized the fact.
Starboard wingtip down as the Hurricane banked hard right. He turned into his attacker. The enemy fighter flashed past his canopy. He kept the control column back and completed a full circle. Wingtips level, he looked around. Swanson was longer with him.
"Blue Three to Blue Four. Where are you?"
"Sorry, Blue Three. I've managed to lose you. We'll catch up later."
The Do17s continued on as fighters of both countries dodged in and out of the formation.
A Hurricane dove past with an Me109 following and firing into it. A roll to the right and he dove after them.
Closing from above and behind, the distance shrank and the enemy fighter's wings filled his gunsight. The tracer's streaks of light tore pieces away. Dense smoke erupted from the fighter's engine.
The enemy pilot rolled left and dove for the clouds below. His smoky trail was clearly visible against the blue sky.
Portsmouth's antiaircraft guns started to pepper the sky with small man-made storm clouds.
With a quarter tank of fuel and empty guns, Talbot dove away from the fight. He kicked his rudder both ways to search for someone in his blind spot. The Hurricane originally being attacked, was nowhere in sight. He turned to the northeast and his new home.
A mile ahead and several thousand feet below, two silhouettes flew on the same heading.
As he closed on them, they banked left and came toward him. Talbot smiled. The squadron code, on the fuselage side, was BG, the same as his. One aircraft letter was A. "Blue Three to Pigeon Leader. Mind if I join you?"
"Be my guest, Blue Three."
The three aircraft formed a vee and returned to their original course.
Wheels and flaps down, and canopy open in case a quick exit was required. A slight bump as the main wheels touched, back on the throttle and the tailwheel contacted the grass.
The three Hurricanes taxied to the dispersal area and joined several others already there.
"Did you get one?" Ramsey asked as they walked toward the hut.
"No, sir, I just damaged two of them. How did you do?"
"I dropped one of their bombers, and right now I need to get rid of our dispersal clerk."
Talbot lengthened his stride so he was now in front of Ramsey. "Sir, could I talk to you first?"
Ramsey stopped. "Go ahead."
"Could you see fit to give him another chance? He's young and no doubt a bit over-whelmed by all of this. Plus, he's probably scared of bollixing something up, so he's more prone to bollix something up."
Ramsey looked toward Williams, then back to Talbot. "You tell him if he messes up like that again, he's gone."
"Thank you, sir."
Ramsey walked over to the smaller version of the dispersal hut used by Air Intelligence.
Talbot approached Williams. "Come with me a minute." They walked to the corner of the building away from anyone else, but only a short distance from the telephone.
"Tell me straight, Archie. Do you stutter?"
"No, sir. That's the first time. Everyone was looking at me and I froze. Squadron Leader Ramsey wants me posted elsewhere, doesn't he?"
"He's giving you another chance. He expects everyone to do his job right the first time. A dispersal clerk is an important position right now, if you're prone to stuttering that creates a problem."
"As I said, sir, that's the first time and it won't happen again. Thank you for talking to him. I won't let you down."
"You're welcome, Archie. Like you said earlier, we're the same age."
When the bowsers and ammunition carts were pulled away, airframe riggers swarmed over the Hurricanes applying temporary patches over bullet holes. Each pilot went to his aircraft and made sure it was ready for a quick take-off.
Talbot used his experience from readying the aircraft when he was grounded to give a word of advice here and there. Starter carts were plugged in and positioned out of the propeller's arc. Wheel chock lanyards were laid out properly. Everything was explained and everything waited on the next telephone call.
Do I move the Knight or the Bishop? Do I end the game in two moves or five? Talbot stared at the chessboard.
"You'll have to checkmate me." Pender leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not conceding."
Talbot reached for the Knight.
Williams leaned out the window and yelled. "Squadron scramble!'
Talbot's knee caught the chessboard's edge, knocking the pieces over. Every pilot ran for his aircraft.
Up the wing and into the cockpit, a fitter strapped him in while his hands moved from switch to switch. The Merlin started and he waited as an aircraftman timidly reached for the starter cart cable and pulled it free.
In less time than before, but still too long, the squadron was airborne and climbing.
He listened to Ramsey and Sector Control over the R/T. The squadron turned to the same heading as last time. They passed over the same villages and farms, and crossed the coast at the same point.
The Hun bombers split into two smaller forces as the formation neared the coast. One turned west, while the other continued north.
"Pigeon Leader to Flock, the group heading west is ours. Pigeon Leader to Pinetree. Enemy force has split. Approximately forty bombers heading west and forty continuing north. Pigeons attacking west group."
"Pinetree to Pigeon Leader, message understood. Additional squadrons on the way."
Talbot pulled his goggles down and took his guns off safety.
"Pigeon Leader to flock, tallyho!"
The squadron turned and attacked the bombers from their starboard rear.
The elliptical wings and curved lines of the He111s were always a graceful sight. The camouflaged bomber grew in his gunsight as his bullets struck home.
Talbot banked hard right. He glanced over his shoulder and he saw Swanson fire at the bomber.
"Watch out, pigeon squadron, 109s right on schedule. Nine-o'clock high to the bombers," Ramsey announced.
Talbot looked up and saw the orange-cowled fighters approach. "Blue Three to Blue Four. Let's break them up."
"I'm with you, Blue Three," Swanson replied.
A shallow turn to port and Talbot raised his fighter's nose. The dark silhouettes rapidly grew in size. Tracers spanned the decreasing distance.
The Hurricane shuddered. Several loud thumps created large holes in his starboard wing. Me109s flashed past as Talbot dove under them. He pulled the control column into his stomach and put the fighter into a tight half-loop. At the top, he stayed inverted and dove.
The two Hurricanes built up speed and broke through the enemy fighters. Tracers again filled the sky. One Me109 broke from the formation leaving an oily, black trail.
Again he put the nose up into a tight climbing turn to the left. Talbot leveled out for only a moment, then half-rolled and dove on a solitary Me109. His bullets tore apart more sheet metal and the smoking enemy fighter dove for the channel.
The last attack used up his remaining ammunition. Talbot looked in the mirror at a Hurricane trailing smoke. "Blue Four, what's your damage?"
"Not as bad as it looks. She's running rough, but I can make it home or fight if I have to," Swanson replied.
"Time to run for it then." They Split-S'd for the treetops, leveling out at one thousand feet and turned for home.
"Blue Three, you're leaking coolant," Swanson said.
Talbot looked at his temperature gauge. The needle showed just above normal and climbing slowly. He adjusted the radiator flap fully open.
The remainder of the flight home was silent as each pilot focused on his stricken aircraft and the sky behind them. The two Hurricanes landed on Redhill's grass field trailing a wake of smoke and coolant.
Fire tenders and ambulances raced to meet them.
Talbot climbed from his cockpit and looked his fighter over. Both wings and fuselage were peppered with holes. He jumped down and saw coolant steadily dripping from the radiator.
Swanson stood to one side, watching the fire attendants spray his cowl and engine with foam.
"Are you all right?" Talbot asked his friend.
"Yes, what about you?"
"I'm okay. Can't say the same for our kites though."
"I think Stapleford will be remembered as a holiday camp compared to where we are now," Swanson said as they walked across the field to dispersal.
"I think you're right. We're a lot closer to the 109's airfields here. We'll see a lot more of them."
"There's no way our Hurricanes are going to be ready any time soon."
Debriefing was followed by a lunch of tinned meat sandwiches and fried potatoes. As always, it was eaten too fast and was an all too short chance to feed the body and rest the mind.
"I need the spare aircraft readied. Any aircraft that can't be operational in ten minutes will have to wait," Ramsey told Aymes.
"I'll have it done immediately." Aymes glanced at his watch. "Your people should be arriving here anytime now."
"Squadron scramble!" Williams yelled out once again.
Talbot stood up and started to run, but stopped. He turned and threw his leather-flying helmet at the deck chair he just vacated. "Damn it all!" Retrieving his helmet, he noticed Aymes standing nearby. "Sorry, sir."
"I know exactly how you feel, Pilot Officer Talbot."
Talbot turned back and watched eight Hurricanes climb into the clouds. Entering the hut, he poured himself a cup of chai from the ever-ready urn and went back to his deck chair.
He watched the fill-in ground crew ready the spare fighters with fuel, ammunition, and oxygen bottles. The previous squadron's personnel would have moved also, just like ours are doing. Where these people came from, I have no idea.
Halfway through his chai, he watched a group of lorries pull up and familiar figures dismount. Several of them separated from the group and approached the dispersal area.
"Everyone out, John?" Flight Lieutenant Mayfield asked.
"Third scramble today, sir. Our kites are damaged and there's no ready spares."
"If you would, brief Flight Sergeant Sloane so he can get started."
Sloane was broad-shouldered and stood just over six-foot tall. His deep resonant voice made him easy to find. The explanation was short and soon the squadron's personnel where double-checking the spare aircraft to make sure they were, indeed, ready. Others pushed the damaged Hurricanes into the shelter to start repairs.
As Talbot regained his deck chair, he saw Gilmore and Williams deep in discussion. He also overheard. "Actually, I prefer Archibald to Archie."
Aircraft returned in ones and twos, the same as always. All eight returned, with one trailing smoke. Pilots and ground crew greeted each other the same as a traveler back from a long journey.
The clock in the dispersal hut showed 1830 when Williams yelled, "Squadron scramble!" for the fourth time.
Talbot ran for the spare aircraft allotted him. Morris strapped him in, jumped down, and gave him the thumbs up after the wheel chocks and starter cart cables were removed.
Within ninety seconds, the squadron lifted off.
"Pinetree Control to Pigeon Leader. Vector one–four–zero. Bandits fifty-plus, Angels fifteen."
Over field, meadow, and country lane, past clouds resembling candyfloss, the squadron climbed and headed southeast.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Everyone on their toes. We've got Dorniers, 109s and 110s at twelve-o'clock low. Tallyho!"
Talbot banked left, then right to attack the enemy formation from its flank. He circled right to follow a fleeting target, only to lose it in the general melee.
Below him the twin-engined Me110s flew in a large defensive circle. Each fighter was able to protect the tail of the fighter ahead. Half-rolling to the right, he dove on the formation. Gauging his speed and theirs, he waited for the right moment. The enemy fighter entered his gunsight's ring and he fired. A miniature cloud of smoke showed hits scored and a black stream poured from the starboard engine. Talbot kept his nose down and dove past the circle. Pulling the Hurricane around, he spotted the damaged Hun fighter just above the treetops, hedgehopping for the Channel.
The rear gunner opened fire as he closed in. Talbot jinked left and right to dodge the tracers. His return fire shredded the fighter's twin tail. Within sight of the Channel, the enemy fighter plowed into a field coming to rest with its nose in a thicket.
The sky was empty except for Swanson and himself. There was no sign of the Hun formation, his squadron, or the war. The peace lasted barely a breath's lifespan. A speck approached and grew into another Me110. A dark stream trailed from both engines.
"Blue Four, let's finish this one off. Follow me, Indian file."
"Sounds good to me."
He made a wide right turn and attacked the enemy fighter from the flank. A long burst and bullets ripped through its fuselage. When he pressed the button again, silence greeted him. His ammunition was finished.
Swanson opened fire and flames poured from the starboard engine. The Me110's nose lifted and the fighter appeared to stall. The nose abruptly dropped, and the enemy fighter burst into flame as it hit the ground.
Without spotting anymore enemy stragglers, they landed back at Redhill. Talbot approached his friend. "Congratulations. You can chalk that one up as a victory."
"Thanks, that makes three now. What were you doing with that circle? You dove through it, more or less."
"If you try to get on the tail of somebody in a defensive circle, the one behind him has you in his sights. The only thing you can do is make a diving attack and try to cut one out."
