Valors way, p.26
Valor's Way, page 26
The rest of the day consisted of nothing to do, but wait and sleep.
As the pilots ate dinner, Flight Lieutenant Mayfield walked up. "All pilots are to report to dispersal in fifteen minutes."
"What's going on, sir," Pender asked.
"You'll find out in fifteen minutes, Sub."
"Don't look at me, I have no idea what it's about," Redding said as several heads turned towards him.
"Well whatever it is, I hope they finally explain all the restrictions they've put us on," Talbot said.
#
At 2045 the pilots gathered in the dispersal hut.
"Now maybe we can get some answers," Talbot said to Swanson.
Ramsey walked out of his office and half-sat on Gilmore's desk. He looked around the room solemnly.
That's not exactly a good look on his face.
"I hope everyone had a restful day." A small chuckle ran through the group of waiting pilots. "I'll get right to the point. We can expect an invasion by the Huns tomorrow morning."
A murmur went through the crowded room.
It's a joke, an exercise. It has to be.
"Intelligence says we can expect a landing between Brighton and Folkestone."
He's serious.
"Each of you will be issued a pistol in case you're shot down over the invasion area."
"What about the civilians?" Baxter-Hallett asked.
"They're being evacuated as best as possible and the army is moving in. We can also expect floatfall landings behind the beachhead, in the early hours of the morning."
Ramsey paused. "The airfield is now closed. Nobody in or out and no telephone calls. You all know what's at stake and what's expected of you. I'll spare you the king and country speech. Hawkinge, Lympne, and Manston are closed. So don't try to land there if you're damaged. They're being booby-trapped.
"We'll try to stay in squadron strength for all missions, but I don't know how long that will last. Things will get a bit confused. You'll probably land, refuel, rearm, and be off again. So be prepared for continuous flying. I'm sure that most of our missions will be bomber escort, so let's see if we can do a better job of it than the Huns."
A half-hearted chuckle circled the room.
"That's all I've got at the moment. Go to the armory and pick up your weapons." Ramsey walked back into his office.
Dad's in the Home Guard. Is he going to fight? What's going to happen to my parents? What about Lynette?
"C'mon, John. Let's get something to shoot our toes off with." Redding chuckled.
"Yes. . .all right. . .you know, up until now I never thought the Huns might win."
"They haven't yet," Pender replied.
#
"Well now, gentlemen." The sergeant started. "We have a choice of party favors for your enjoyment. We have the standard-issue Enfield revolver and a new entry, the American Colt .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol." He held up each one for the pilots to see.
"What's the difference between them? Outside of the fact that one's a revolver and the other one isn't," Swanson asked.
"The Colt weighs a little bit more and is .45 caliber to the Enfield's .38. The Colt also holds seven shots to the Enfield's six." The sergeant proceeded to demonstrate the operation of both weapons to the assembled pilots. "Now, gentlemen, if you'll inform us as to which one you prefer, we can continue. Do not load your weapon until instructed."
"I'll have the Colt," Talbot said. He took a shoulder holster, two ammunition clips, and the box containing the pistol to the target range set up in a nearby storehouse.
He opened the box and unfolded the waxed paper. He closed his hand around the cross-hatched grip and felt the cold and warmth it possessed. It was solid and forbidding.
"Ever fire a hand weapon before, sir?" a corporal asked as he walked over.
"No."
"All right, sir. Point the pistol just above your target, then drop the nose. Hold your breath and gently squeeze the trigger," the corporal instructed Talbot. "You hold your breath so you don't spoil your aim."
Talbot watched the instructor, then took his position at the firing line.
"Load your weapon, sir."
He took an ammunition clip and pushed it into the open slot in the handgrip's bottom.
"Ready your weapon, sir."
He pulled back on the slide and released it, as he remembered from the sergeant's instructions. The mechanism pulled the top round from the clip and the pistol was ready to fire.
"Fire, sir."
Aiming as he was told, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
BLOODY HELL! The world's loudest cannon erupted fire. The pistol jerked up in his hand from the recoil. Good thing I'm holding on tight, otherwise I'd have dropped it.
"Not bad, sir. You've managed to nick the lower right edge of the target."
Holding the pistol with both hands, he fired the remaining six shots. The last one hit near the target's center. He looked at the instructor. "Again?"
The corporal handed him another clip.
Talbot reloaded the Colt and chambered the round. A deep breath in and out before he aimed. Seven shots with three in the target's center.
"Not bad for never firing a pistol before, sir."
After everyone fired their weapon, the instructors showed the pilots how to clean them.
Talbot stuffed three ammunition clips into his pocket and followed the other pilots back to the Nissen huts. "Now what do we do?" He asked Redding.
"Try to relax and stay out of people's way. I'll be back in a bit. I need to see Ramsey."
He stood by the door and stared at the southern sky. His mind acted as if it were a pinball machine. Mum and Dad will be all right. Dad knows what to do. Even if his Home Guard unit is called up, he'll make sure Mum's safe. I'm seventeen and worried about whether my dad knows what to do. I can't call them. I can't even call Lynette. She'll be safe. I'm thinking too much. . .just relax, John. What if the Huns succeed? Then you'll just have to make sure they don't. Right, I'm single-handedly going to stop them. No, just make sure you cause them as much damage as possible.
Swanson walked up. "As Midge always says, 'A penny for your thoughts'."
"Parents, Lynette, tomorrow morning. Not necessarily in that order though. And you?"
"Midge mostly. . .my father, but not that stupid cow he's married to, my mum, and tomorrow. You scared?"
"That or apprehensive. I'm not sure which. It could be both, but we've been at this long enough to know what has to be done."
"I'd have to say I'm feeling the same way. I hear Lord Haw-Haw's in fine form tonight."
"Really? What's he going on about now."
"The moment of total Hun victory is at hand. The Albions will soon learn the folly of their ways."
"In other words, the usual crap, but with a heavier dose of 'you'll be getting yours soon enough'."
"Exactly. Look, I'm going to try and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." Swanson turned and walked away.
Talbot looked up again. The moons, Cero and Cena, were full and stars filled the sky. He glanced at his watch, 2300. He watched the sky a moment longer before entering the Nissen hut. Lying on his cot, he stared at the curved ceiling. It wasn't long before his eyelids closed.
Rolling over, he opened his eyes. He was completely awake. His watch showed 0200. At least I got some sleep. He stared at the darkness a bit longer before sitting up. As quietly as possible, he pulled on his flying boots, gathered his uniform coat and walked outside. He hadn't bothered with or thought to undress.
The sky was clear with only a few high clouds to be seen. He started walking toward dispersal. The moonlight lit his way perfectly. The station was quiet, except for the muted sounds of activity from the aircraft shelters.
"'Alt—who goes there? Identify yourself!"
"Pilot Officer Talbot." He watched two armed sentries approach. A shielded light-wand was turned on.
"Mr. Talbot, wot are you doin' up at this 'our o' the mornin'?"
"I'm wide awake, so I thought I'd go to dispersal."
"Well, do be careful. Some of the younger lads are a bit on edge, if you know wot I mean. Sorry, Mr. Talbot. Didn' mean no disrespec', sir."
"I know exactly what you mean, Sergeant." He continued to the Dispersal hut and walked in. A light shone in the far office.
"Who's there?" Ramsey's voice called out as Talbot closed the door.
"Talbot, sir. Couldn't sleep so I thought I might as well come here." Walking over to the door, he continued. "Shouldn't you be getting some rest yourself, sir?"
"Can't sleep either. If Intelligence is correct, the curtain should be going up any time now. There's fresh coffee over there." Ramsey pointed toward a small hotplate on a sideboard by the door.
Talbot poured himself a cup and refilled Ramsey's before sitting down. "Mind if I steal one of your cigarettes?"
"When did you start?" Ramsey pushed the pack of Players over.
"I tried one when I was twelve. I didn't have another one until coming here."
"War has a habit of doing that."
Talbot lit the cigarette and exhaled the smoke. "Sir, I know you have a lot on your mind right now, but may I talk to you about something?"
"Does it have anything to do with not being able to sleep?"
"I don't know. This morning when Yellow Flight was sent after the recon flight, Pinetree said the bomber was not to make it back."
"I know, anything to keep the enemy from seeing what we're doing."
"I realize that now, sir. But I only knew of one way to ensure the bomber didn't return. I aimed for the cockpit. I deliberately aimed to kill the crew. I could have shot out the engines, but there was the chance they could make it back."
"And the fact that you purposely aimed for the crew is bothering you?"
"I've always aimed for the aircraft—period. If I hit the cockpit, it was just one of those things. If the pilot or crew made it out, okay. This time I didn't want them to."
"In war, we sometimes have to do things we find repulsive. I know that's a tired old justification, but it's been true since the first war started centuries ago. You did what you had to do, John. Do you think this has impaired your duties at all?"
"No, sir. If I had to do it again, I would. I wouldn't like any more than I do now, but I would do it."
"I'm sorry you've had to grow up so abruptly." Ramsey sighed. "When I was told I would be receiving two Air Explorers as pilots, I complained. I told Group I had better things to do than act as nursemaid to a couple of kids." He smiled. "I'm glad I was wrong. And if you ever repeat that, I'll have you demoted."
"Your secret's safe with me, sir." Talbot smiled back.
The telephone next to Ramsey rang. The harsh sound startled them both. Ramsey reached over and picked up the handset. "Squadron Leader Ramsey, here," he said into the mouthpiece. He listened for a minute, thanked the caller and hung up.
"Looks like Intelligence got it right this time."
King and country
Talbot leaned back against the dispersal hut wall and closed his eyes. Only three hours sleep and I'm wide-awake. It's all adrenaline and nerves right now. I need to keep my wits about me or I'm dead.
Swanson walked through the now crowded room and stood next to him. "So tell me there, pardner. Is ya a-wearin' yer shootin' iron?"
"What is that supposed to be?"
"That's how cowboys talk in those American Wild West movies."
Talbot laughed, as did everyone else nearby. "That is the worst cowboy impersonation I've ever heard."
Pender added, "We could just strap him to the front of a tank and have him talk like that. The Huns would be too busy laughing to fight."
"Peasants, all of you. You just don't recognize real talent," Swanson replied.
Several jeers answered Swanson's comment.
When Ramsey entered, the conversations stopped. "This is the gen so far. Hun airborne troops have landed north of Brighton. They're apparently planning on capturing the port. Whether they'll find it of any use is another matter. Needless to say, there's heavy fighting, but since it's dark, it's hard to tell exactly how anyone is doing. The messes are open, so you've got thirty minutes to eat a good breakfast. Be ready to fly when you get back here. Redhill will also be used as forward staging for squadrons from 12 Group. So things will be a little crowded at times. Keep alert during approaches and takeoffs."
#
"A squadron of Spitfires will provide top cover," Ramsey had said.
"What if the Spits don't show up?" Swanson asked.
"Then we'll provide our own top cover. Remember, you won't have direct R/T contact with the Beauforts." A groan went up. "Coastal Command and Fighter Command are still using different radio frequencies."
Talbot shifted uncomfortably in the Hurricane's seat as the shoulder holster dug into his side. Uniform coat, holster, floatation vest, floatfall harness, and the seat harness. Lucky I don't need to get to the pistol in a hurry.
The squadron circled Redhill as they waited for the squadron of torpedo bombers. He watched the purple, formation-keeping lights on the tails of the Hurricanes ahead of him. The bright flame from the Merlin's exhaust had long ago killed his night vision. The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. A golden tinge painted the cloud bottoms while the ground below remained dark.
"Everything in the Channel is Hun and fair-game." He remembered Ramsey saying.
"Aircraft at three o'clock," a voice said over his earphones.
Talbot turned his head and made out a group of twin-engine aircraft approaching, each one with navigation lights shining. The two groups of aircraft cautiously arranged themselves in the dim twilight. As Ramsey flashed his navigation lights, both groups of aircraft went dark. Blue and orange-glowing exhausts marked their positions.
Talbot heard Ramsey call the Spitfire squadron several times without an answer. Even now the R/T was becoming overloaded with voices.
"Pigeon Leader to squadron. Red Flight will provide top cover. Blue and Yellow stay with the bombers and give covering fire."
Ramsey called out for the Spitfire squadron a few more times as they neared the coast. Red Flight started climbing as the Beauforts dropped to treetop level.
"Pigeon Blue Leader to Pigeon Yellow Leader. Blue take the port flank, Yellow take starboard," Redding said over the R/T.
When the formation reached Worthing, they turned east over the Channel. Smoke rose from countless fires along the coast. The Beauforts were twenty-feet off the water. Attacking from the dark, the torpedo bombers and fighters would remain invisible longer. Against the rising sun, the massed Hun ships stood out sharply.
"Pigeon Yellow Leader to flight, echelon right. Repeat, echelon right," Talbot said into his microphone.
The invasion fleet spread before them. Countless Rhine barges, large and small, approached the shore. Behind them sat the freighters pressed into duty as transports. Destroyers and other small warships were scattered about, their guns erupting with flame as they shot at inland targets.
The Hurricanes stayed with the slower Beauforts as they climbed to their attack height. All was quiet until the formation passed the first line of ships.
The sporadic, low-level antiaircraft fire quickly reached a hellish level. As they neared the freighters, the sky became a deadly fireworks display. The ships were highlighted against the dawn sun and the aircraft by the antiaircraft fire. The white rods of the tracers created a solid cobweb in the air. Small globes of light climbed slowly into the air then dove at him with mind-numbing speed. Even with his earphones in place, the sounds surpassed what he heard at Portsmouth. We'll never make it through this mess—never.
A flush-deck torpedo boat lay directly in his path. His bullets kicked up the water next to the pale-gray boat. Silhouetted figures on the deck were swatted by an invisible hand and knocked down. Some were propelled in one direction or another, others crumpled where they stood. In a second he was past it.
A Beaufort hit the water and exploded. A nearby freighter received a torpedo hit. The waterspout rose above the vessel's smokestack to hang in the air for a moment, as if glued there. As the column of water receded, the freighter started rolling over on its side.
The rear turret gunners in the torpedo bombers added their tracers to death's colorful display.
Talbot fired on ship after ship as Yellow Flight remained on the Beaufort's right flank. His Hurricane bucked and jumped from the antiaircraft fire.
"Pigeon Leader to Flock. Follow the Beauforts out and cover their arses."
The antiaircraft fire followed the formation inland, trying to the end to punish the attackers. A Beaufort took a hit in its starboard engine and started trailing smoke. He saw Swanson's Hurricane shadow the torpedo bomber as it fell behind.
Talbot counted nine out of twelve torpedo bombers returning home. The Beauforts were clearly visible now. A mid-winged, twin-engined, boxy-looking aircraft, the rear gunner sat in a turret midway along the rectangular fuselage. Each bomber showed damage, great and small.
It's a wonder any of us made it through that.
The Hurricanes escorted the Beauforts back to their base at Croydon, then made the short return flight to Redhill.
The moment he switched off his engine, the ground crews ran up to refuel and rearm his Hurricane. Climbing down, Talbot looked over his aircraft, a few small holes were the only damage. With all I went through and that's all? God must be watching me double-duty. He looked over as Baxter-Hallett climbed from his cockpit.
The new pilot waved, then walked to the wing's rounded tip. Holding on for support, he started to vomit.
Talbot watched Flight Lieutenant Mayfield walk over to the sick pilot and hand him a canteen.
"Think he'll be all right, John?" Simmons asked.
"I think so—I hope so." He watched for a moment longer, before walking over to his wingman.
#
A squadron of Hampdens circled above Redhill as the Hurricanes lifted from the ground.
What is it about designers that all our bombers look like they're made from packing crates with wings? With that spindly tail, the Hampden looks like a twin-engined tadpole.
The R/T was becoming increasingly harder to use. With so many aircraft in the air and talking, Sector Control was having difficulty hearing or being heard. Pilot to pilot conversations were being replaced with hand signals.
