Valors way, p.25
Valor's Way, page 25
Talbot and Redding were sitting in the deck chairs as the squadron returned.
One Hurricane came in with wheels up and trailing black smoke. It hit the ground hard and skidded across the grass. Talbot and Redding jumped aboard the crash tender as it and the ambulance raced to the crash.
Several airmen sprayed the engine with fire extinguishers as the medical attendants carefully pulled the wounded pilot from the cockpit.
"Do be careful of the arm, old boy. It's the one I use to hold my polo mallet." Hammond gritted his teeth as they laid him down.
Talbot held the rear door open while they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance.
"Well, I see they've finally found a job you're qualified for, John. You'll make an excellent doorman when the war is over. I'd give you a tip, but my right arm is a bit useless at the moment."
"Make sure you give him the morphine in his arse. And use a dull needle," Talbot said to the attendant.
"That's another one lost to hospital," Redding remarked as the ambulance drove away.
"I realize he's wounded, but there are times when Ivor's comments get on my nerves."
"I agree, and when he returns you can tell him."
While they waited for the Hurricanes to be readied a high-winged Lysander landed. A figure climbed out of it and approached the hut. "Mother, I'm home." Swanson announced with a smile.
"Are you all right?" Talbot asked.
"Chilled to the bone from that damned Channel. Other than that, I'm okay. How'd you do?"
"Went into the drink in Portsmouth harbor. Get cleaned up, see Midge, and get debriefed. You pick the order you want to do it in."
"I'll see Midge first. If I don't, she'll drown me in the shower," Swanson said over his shoulder, walking away.
#
"John, I need to talk to you for a minute."
Talbot opened his eyes and looked at Ramsey. "Of course, sir." His nap on hold, he stood up from the deckchair and walked over to the hut by the status board.
"With Ivor out wounded, I have to rearrange my experienced pilots. You're taking over Yellow Flight. We're supposed to get several new pilots today and one's yours."
"Sir, shouldn't a more senior pilot lead the flight?"
"By senior, do you mean older?"
"Actually, yes, I do."
"I'm going by ability and you're more than able to do it. I'm also putting you in for a DFC. With over twenty kills you deserve it."
"Thank you, sir. For both."
"I'm also splitting you and Swanson up. Like I said, I need to spread my experienced pilots around."
"I understand, sir."
Several minutes later, the pilots stood around the board looking at their new assignments.
Talbot studied the changes, then looked at Chadwick Simmons, Yellow Three, standing next to him.
"This isn't going to create a problem between us, is it, Chad?"
The short, dark-haired, mustached pilot looked at him. "No, why?"
"I'm younger than you."
"Ramsey put the better pilot in charge and I agree with him. There's no problem here." Simmons turned and returned to his chair.
"You'll find the hardest part is keeping your call-sign straight."
"Really?" Talbot looked at Redding, who walked up as the other pilot left.
"Stick a card to your instrument panel with your new one. I found it helps immensely."
#
The squadron met the enemy over Tunbridge Wells.
From three o'clock high, Talbot dove on the Ju88s. A squadron of Spitfires kept the escort busy.
The dark shape of the bomber grew in his gunsight. The ever-present tracers of the air-gunners passed to his right. His own bullets fell short. A slight correction and they ripped into the bomber's port wing. Pieces tore from around the engine, but the Ju88 absorbed the damage and flew on. More tracers glowed bright in the evening sky. Banking away, he came around again and fired. He watched his bullets rip the once smooth skin.
Again the Hurricane's nose came up and around in a tight, climbing turn. An Me110 presented itself several hundred yards away. Dropping in behind it, Talbot and the twin-engined fighter's rear gunner commenced to duel. He felt the thuds as the gunner hit his mark. The return fire stopped when Talbot found his. The Me110 twisted and turned as it took hits in the fuselage and wing. The enemy pilot broke to the left and dove, trying to get away. Half-rolling and diving, Talbot continued to shoot. The port engine started smoking, then caught fire. As the flames spread, he watched part of the long, greenhouse canopy breakaway and a lone figure jump.
A wide turn to the right became a shallow dive. Another sortie finished, another day over.
After their usual late dinner, Talbot, Swanson, and Pender stood outside the NCO's Canteen.
"So how does it feel to be leading a flight, John?" Swanson asked.
"More to worry about."
"I've been looking around and from what I'm hearing something is going on," Swanson said quietly.
"It's called a war, Terry," Pender replied dryly.
"I'm aware of that, Geoff. I mean here."
"Such as?" Talbot asked.
"Midge said a lorry showed up while we were off on a scramble."
"We get lorries all the time," Pender said.
"This one was loaded with crates of Enfield revolvers and American Colt automatics. They're stored in the armory." Swanson explained. "Midge was part of the unloading party, she read the boxes, so it's not a rumor. The day before that it was Bren guns and rifles."
"We're still restricted to the area around the airfield and we can't chase any Huns back across the Channel," Talbot noted.
"All right, so what does it all mean?" Swanson asked.
"I'm not sure and right now I'm too tired to put it all together," Talbot said.
Pender looked at each of them in turn. "A pilot only gets a pistol to defend himself if he's shot down over enemy-held territory."
Prelude
Lynette lay on the rug next to him. Waves of flickering light from the cottage's fireplace washed over her nakedness, accentuating her figure. He traced the contours of her face as he looked at her. As his fingertips touched her lips, she smiled and kissed them. Leaning over, his hand cupped her breast and they kissed. Looking into her eyes, the blue changed to gray and her face lost focus. . . .
"Come along, sir. It's four o'clock."
Talbot opened his eyes and blinked several times.
"Come along, sir."
"You couldn't have waited another few minutes, Williams?" Talbot did little to hide his irritation.
"Sorry, Mr. Talbot. I'm only doing my job," Williams said, a hurt look on his face.
"Another few minutes would have made a great dream even better." Talbot sat up and rubbed his face. "Anyone know what day this is?"
"It's Sunday, the first," Pender answered. "Going to services?"
"No, I don't think the Lord or the vicar would appreciate my sleeping through the sermon."
Talbot needed to burn-off his brain-fog, but even a cold shower failed to succeed. The fog acted like a typical Albion late Autumntide day. It receded only to stay in the distance.
Back in the Nissen hut, Talbot was dressing when Williams re-entered. "I'm sorry about earlier, Archibald. I was having a rather nice dream and you woke me during a good part."
"Sorry, sir. But I do have my duties to perform."
"I know and I apologize for my rudeness."
"I understand, sir." A horn gave a short bleat and Williams looked out the window. "I believe the lorry's filling up, Mr. Talbot."
"Impatient as always." He rushed out the door and sat on the tailgate next to Swanson. He stared at the airfield in the pre-dawn twilight, watching as figures moved about the Hurricanes, finishing last-minute duties.
Talbot jumped from the back and stretched after the lorry delivered the pilots to dispersal. Still tired and muscle-sore, he walked over to the Status Board. He turned to Pilot Officer Winslow Baxter-Hallett and felt old. Not too tall, or too thin, the brown-haired, new pilot looked as if he should still be at some reserved, hidebound public school.
"We met briefly last night before dinner," Talbot started. "You're my wingman, Yellow Two. You missed our last bit of fun yesterday, so I'll fill you in on a few important items. 'Beware the Hun in the sun', isn't just a quaint saying leftover from The Great War. They love to attack out of it. You'll spend five-percent of your time watching your position off me and another five-percent watching your gauges. The remaining ninety-percent will be watching the sky for the enemy. You need to keep your head moving. If we run into a fight, stick to my tail like glue and keep your wits about you. It's natural to be scared, but don't let it take control of you. Any questions?"
"Which Hurricane is mine? Or do I just take the first one I run too?"
"You've got R for Roger. The status board has that information. Next to your name is the letter of your aircraft." Talbot pointed to the chalk board.
#
The Merlin coughed into life. The first puffs of exhaust smelled of petrol and the sound settled into a throaty rumble. The three-bladed propeller quickly became a blur and the Hurricanes once more joined the sky.
A patchy mist floated on the Channel and along the shoreline. The squadron turned east for another loop of their patrol area. As on every dawn patrol, Talbot's mind was on breakfast.
"Pinetree to Pigeon Leader. Detach Yellow Flight to intercept reconnaissance flight."
"This is Pigeon Leader, message understood Pinetree."
"Pinetree to Pigeon Yellow Leader. Vector two–seven–zero. Angels twenty, Bandits three."
"Understood, Pinetree. Yellow Flight turning to starboard—now." Three? Recon flights are usually single aircraft to get in and out fast.
He watched the squadron recede in the distance. "Pigeon Yellow Leader to flight, climb another three thousand."
The sky ahead was a brilliant blue with no white background of clouds to spot the enemy against. It was only three, not the usual large formation. A brief flash of light from the morning sun reflecting off a canopy gave them away.
"Yellow Leader to flight. Bandits at two o'clock low. Let's see what they are."
The distance closed and the spots became silhouettes.
"Pigeon Yellow Leader to Pinetree. Enemy in sight. Course zero–one–zero, angels twenty. One bomber and two escorting fighters."
"Pinetree to Yellow Leader. Bomber is not to make it back. Repeat, make sure bomber is destroyed."
"Message understood, Pinetree." That's a new one. Never heard that before. All right. I can't send a new pilot against a fighter by himself. If two of us go after a single fighter, they'll know he's new. "Yellow Leader to flight. Yellow Three, you take the left fighter. Yellow Four, you have the right. Yellow Two, you're with me on the bomber. Tallyho."
His right wingtip went down and he rolled into a wide, diving turn.
"Yellow Leader to Yellow Two. After Yellow Three has moved into position, I want you behind me, Indian File, and don't get more than a hundred yards away."
"Yes—yes, of course, Yellow Leader."
The larger silhouette became a Do17. The enemy fighters banked away from their charge and placed themselves to block the attack. As the distance closed, bright rods of light reached for the attackers.
Talbot held his fire as he dove past the Me109s. He held his fire even longer as the Dornier's wings spanned his gunsight.
He jinked to avoid the bomber's fire. At first, his bullets overshot the large transparent canopy. Then ripped the Perspex apart.
A tight, right turn was followed by only sporadic return fire. A quick look around and the enemy fighters were involved with their own survival. The new pilot was still in position behind him. He closed on the bomber, the dark silhouette getting larger with each second.
The fire from his eight Brownings tore through the fuselage and decimated the cockpit. A scythe disintegrated the remaining canopy amidst splashes of bright red.
I have NEVER purposely aimed for the cockpit. Never—ever—until now. He swallowed hard to keep the bile from filling his mouth.
The Do17 made a slow, left roll. Once inverted, it nosed over into a dive.
Talbot leveled his wings and looked around. A dark plume marked the end of one enemy fighter.
"Yellow Leader to flight, report."
"Yellow Three, damaged mine and the bastard got away."
"Yellow Four, I got mine."
"Yellow Two, I'm still behind you, Yellow Leader."
"Yellow Leader to flight, form on me. Pigeon Yellow Leader to Pinetree. One bomber and one fighter destroyed."
"Pinetree to Pigeon Yellow Leader. Good job, return to station."
Talbot looked at the smoke trail left by the bomber. At the end, in a pasture, a small fire burned.
#
Corporal Morris was on the starboard wing before the propeller stopped rotating.
Talbot sat motionless as his seat harness was released.
"I see the tape is off the gun muzzles, sir. Bit of a fight already?" Morris unlatched the floatfall harness.
Talbot pulled off his leather flying-helmet and dropped it over the gunsight. "Murder isn't a fight." He removed his gloves and threw them onto the port wing.
Morris dropped from the wing as Talbot climbed from the cockpit, then hurried around the tail to stand in front of him. "Problem with the Hurricane, sir?"
"The kite's fine. The problem is this bloody war." Talbot reached over and retrieved his gloves.
"Permission to speak freely, sir."
"Of course," Talbot replied, not hiding being annoyed.
"You took off in your usual good mood. You land and say the aircraft is all right and mention something about murder."
"I'm not allowed to be in a bad mood?" Talbot snapped.
"You're rarely in a bad mood, John."
Talbot turned and stood squarely in front of Morris. "We were ordered to shoot down a recon flight. I purposely aimed for the cockpit to kill the crew."
"That's regrettable, but this is war."
"I know."
"It wasn't murder," Morris stated quietly.
"Really?"
"Have you seen crews bail out every time you've shot a bomber down?"
"No."
"Was it murder then?"
"Of course not."
"If an He111 full of bombs was attacking your house, you'd do everything to stop it, right?"
"Yes."
"Even aim for that big glass nose?"
"This was a recon flight." Talbot raised his hands as if to hold his words. "This—was—a—recon—flight."
"A recon flight to decide what and who to bomb."
"I know what you're saying, but you weren't there."
"No, I wasn't, and I can't tell you how to feel. You killed a bomber crew this morning that won't be around this afternoon to kill our people."
Talbot looked around at the station's activity, the ground, then back at Morris. "I'll think about what you've said, Thomas."
"Fair enough, John. Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I have to get your kite ready."
Talbot walked towards Baxter-Hallet. "You look a little pale. Are you all right?"
"Y-yes. Is it always that scary?"
"Your first fight, yes. But, that was only three of them." Talbot gave him a half-smile. "Wait until we bounce a formation of fifty-plus."
Baxter-Hallet swallowed hard, a gulp worthy of any cinema comedian.
"Look, you've made it back safely. That's what matters. You did fine. You kept in formation and you didn't panic. Now, we need to be debriefed."
#
One flight at a time went for breakfast, as the aircraft were refueled. Powdered eggs and bangers later, Talbot found an empty deck chair and sat down. Leaning his hat over his eyes, he quickly dozed off. Someone tapping on his arm woke him.
"The vicar's making the rounds," Swanson said.
"Ah, the two pilots I've been meaning to talk to." Flight Lieutenant Gordon smiled as he walked up.
"Morning, Vicar," Talbot and Swanson said in unison.
"All things considered, how are the both of you doing? I know we've talked in the past. But, with everything that's going on now, I'm concerned for you both."
"Concerned how?" Swanson asked.
"Well, the reason I ask, is that some people are wondering how the Air Explorers are coping. Because of their ages, that is. I'm sorry, I suppose I should have phrased that differently, sometimes tact fails me."
Talbot and Swanson exchanged glances. "I'd have to say that we're managing to cope," Talbot said.
"We're like everyone else—tired." Swanson added.
Talbot continued "Would we rather be doing something other than flying combat? Of course, who wouldn't? If you're asking if we're scared or nervous, I'd have to say, no more than anyone else."
"I guess you're doing as well as can be expected then. If either of you ever want to talk, about anything at all, anything, my door is always open. I won't keep you, so you can go back to catching up on your sleep." The chaplain shook their hands before walking away.
Talbot looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock, where are the bastards? A day like this and no flying? He was dozing off again, when he heard aircraft coming in to land. He watched them touchdown, bouncing a few times before rolling down the field. One of the Hurricanes taxied, stopped, then repeated it several times.
"My God, I think he's bloody lost," Swanson said. "He can't even find dispersal."
Talbot watched the two pilots approach the hut.
Redding greeted them, then quickly ushered them into Ramsey's office.
#
Talbot was dozing in the warm, late-morning sun, when the telephone on Gilmore's desk rang.
"Blue Flight, scramble!"
Reflexes kicked in and Talbot was rising from the chair when he remembered he was no longer in Blue Flight. He watched his friends climb their mounts and taxi away.
An hour later they returned, with one of them trailing smoke.
"One bomber with four escorts. They must have really wanted that recon flight to make it back," Swanson said.
Talbot nodded. "It does seem strange that the recon flights are all guarded now."
