Valors way, p.27
Valor's Way, page 27
A slow, steady circular climb was made until the squadron reached three thousand feet. Smoke now boldly marked the invasion area.
Halfway to the coast, Talbot saw movement just above the treetops. Yellow engine cowls used for identification stood out from the earths and greens of the land.
"Pigeon Yellow Leader to Pigeon Leader. 109s and 110s at ten o'clock low!"
No answer. Too many other voices filled the airwaves.
"Pigeon Yellow Leader to Pigeon Leader. 109s and 110s at nine o'clock low!"
"I see them, Yellow Leader. Pigeon Leader to Pinetree. Bandits fifty-plus, course three–five–zero, on the deck."
Talbot heard Ramsey call Pinetree two more times without an answer.
Ramsey's voice cut through all the others. "Pigeon leader to Flock. Blue Flight, Yellow Leader, and Yellow Two go after the bastards. You know where they're heading."
Six aircraft banked left and dove.
Redding, as always, sounded calm over the R/T. "Pigeon Blue Leader to flight. This will be a quick hit to break apart their formation. After that it's individual attacks,"
"Pigeon Yellow Leader to Yellow Two. Remember what we've discussed. We're going to dive and fire, then climb using the speed we've built up. Try to stay with me as much as you can," Talbot said.
"U-understood, Yellow Leader," Baxter-Hallett replied.
The Hurricanes sped after their quarry at full throttle. Again, the colorful noses of the enemy fighters gave them away.
"Right chaps, they're at twelve o'clock low. Tallyho!" Redding announced.
The nose went down and Talbot felt his airspeed increase. The enemy fighters grew as he closed on them.
An Me110 filled his gunsight and he pressed the brass button. Large pieces tore loose as his bullets chewed into the length of the fuselage. Back pressure on the control column and he was climbing away. When his speed bled off, he dropped his left wing and rolled into another attack. A quick look around and Baxter-Hallett was still there, still on his five o'clock.
The attacks threw the enemy formation into chaos. All cohesion was lost when they arrived over Redhill. The airfield's antiaircraft guns now added to the vicious fight.
Talbot caught movement to his right. Baxter-Hallett banked after an Me110 and fired into it as the enemy fighter unloaded its bombs on the landing field.
Banking left, then right, Talbot found an Me109 directly ahead of him. Thin lines of churned up turf preceded the Hun fighter as it approached the dispersal area.
He fired and a small sun erupted where his enemy's fuel tank was. Pieces of fuselage rained down as the fighter disintegrated.
Smoke trails rose into the air ahead and around the airfield as the Parachute and Cable rockets were fired.
Coming around again, he dodged antiaircraft fire and looked for another target. Baxter-Hallett was nowhere to be seen.
An Me109 in his mirror made him pull into a tight, wingtip-high turn. The enemy fighter's wings twinkled and he felt the thuds and saw the rips in his wings. The shadow flashed past. Talbot pulled into a right turn. Keeping the control column in his stomach, he made a complete circle before leveling out.
An enemy fighter banked left directly ahead of him. Talbot's tracers hit the rear fuselage. Bursts of light showed his incendiaries striking home. He followed it over the airfield fence and used his remaining ammunition to send it nose-first into a small copse of trees.
Countless fires burned the airfield below him. A quick circuit of the station showed numerous Me109s and Me110s littering the grass field. Several isolated fires burned in the nearby woods as evidence of the PAC rocket kills. Only a few bomb craters interfered with his landing.
"Bloody marvelous you showing up at the right time," Morris said as he freed Talbot from his harnesses.
"Actually, we saw them heading this way and Ramsey sent half the squadron after them. I guess his sixth-sense told him where they were going."
"We'll get you taken care of as quick as we can. I saw you attack that 109, do they always explode like that?"
"No, they usually go down trailing smoke." Talbot climbed from the cockpit and looked around. Four of the six aircraft sent back to defend the airfield were pulled up at the dispersal area. Two aircraft and pilots were missing.
Debriefing was quickly done at a table set up outside the dispersal hut. A near miss collapsed part of the building's end wall. Talbot stood by the hut's door sipping a mug of chai watching the groundcrew ready the aircraft.
Armed parties searched each crashed Hun fighter for its pilot. One search group exited the woods escorting two captured enemy airmen. Close behind them walked Baxter-Hallett and Swanson.
"I got my first one! I shot down a 110 just as his rear gunner shot up my engine. He crashed in flames, but I managed to put mine down in a field nearby," Baxter-Hallett announced excitedly.
"Well, congratulations are in order then." Talbot pointed to the large rip in the right sleeve of the uniform coat and the blood dripping from his hand. "What about your arm?"
"What?" The young pilot looked at his damaged arm. "Oh, Strewth. I'm wounded? I—I didn't even feel it." His eyes rolled back and he pitched forward.
"Bloody hell! I need a stretcher party here!" Talbot caught him and lowered the unconscious pilot to the ground. "See any other wounds, Terry?"
Swanson knelt next to Baxter-Hallett and looked him over. "No, that looks like it. Williams! We need a stretcher!"
Talbot pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the wound. "It's a deep gash. I can see the bone clear as day. You didn't notice he was bleeding?"
"I was on his left the entire time we walked here."
"The sentries didn't say anything at the guard posts?"
"His 110 punched a hole in the fence and we just walked through it. John, if I had seen it, I would have done something."
"I'm not blaming you, Terry. All I did was ask a question."
A stretcher party and a medical attendant rushed over. "I'll get that, sir." A battle dressing in hand, the corporal placed it over the wound and tied it.
"So, how did you do?" Talbot asked Swanson while he watched his wingman being carried to an ambulance.
"A 109, then two of them shot my kite full of holes. I put mine down next to his," Swanson replied, pointing toward the ambulance. "So what do you think? He faints at the sight of blood or was it normal, everyday shock and blood loss?"
#
As the squadron readied for their third sortie of the day, another squadron arrived. Twelve Hurricanes landed in flight formation and taxied over to a group of tents across the grass field from the aircraft shelters.
"I'll give them a nine–point–zero for synchronized landing. But I'm not sure about the swimsuit competition." Swanson said as he munched on a meat roll, then swallowed half a mug of chai.
"That'll be 523 Squadron from the Midlands and we're about to go up again," Ramsey announced.
Less than ten minutes later, nine Hurricanes lifted off the ground.
"Pinetree Control to Pigeon Leader. Vector one–eight–zero. Angels ten. Bandits one–hundred plus. Buster."
Talbot searched the sky for the enemy formation. Not even noon and we're up for the third time. I wonder how many more times today?
"Bandits twelve o'clock high and low!" Talbot heard over his earphones.
"One hundred-plus, my arse! Must be half the bloody Hun Air Force!" a voice commented.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Yellow go for the bombers, Blue and Red the fighters. Tallyho!"
Talbot banked left in a wide arcing turn before reversing into a dive to the right. The massed enemy bombers released their bombs sporadically, apparently only as ground targets presented themselves. He picked out a bomber on the left flank and held the brass button in for three-seconds. The bullets ripped into the starboard wing and engine. Banking away and climbing, he saw a bomber falling in pieces. A Spitfire minus a wing followed.
Closing on another He111, his fire raked the dark-colored fuselage. Shards of metal blew back in the slipstream to bounce off another bomber in the formation.
Spitfires and Hurricanes were in abundance in the embattled sky. Row upon row of camouflaged bombers with their escort close at hand stretched for miles. Aircraft of both nations fell from the sky. Some trailed crimson and orange tails or oily black ones. Some transformed into fiery globes. White floatfalls resembled airborne jellyfish as they drifted to the ground.
All nine Hurricanes from 363 Squadron returned to Redhill. Their landings mixed in with ten Hurricanes from 523 Squadron.
"I can't remember a hairier furball than that last one. I saw the other squadron's code on a few fighters during the melee," Talbot said as he slowly chewed on a tinned beef sandwich, discussing the last sortie with Air Intelligence.
"How bad is it up there, sir?" Williams asked him as he left the new debriefing tent.
"I'd be lying if I didn't say it's the worst I've ever seen, Archibald. The Huns must have everything flyable up."
Talbot visited the latrine and stuck his head under the running water in the basin. He stayed bent over for several minutes. The cold water clearing his mind. Is my three hours of sleep catching up with me or is this just fatigue?
#
For the fifth time that day, Talbot climbed into the cockpit and waited while Corporal Morris strapped him in. "Getting any better up there, Mr. Talbot?"
"The Huns are still fighting like the devil. Does seem like there's less of them though, but it's too damn hard to say."
The Merlin came to life and Talbot waited as the battery cart was disconnected. A wave from Morris and the Hurricane taxied forward. He advanced the throttle and his aircraft rolled down the field and lifted off the ground.
His altimeter showed one hundred fifty feet when he felt the Hurricane shudder. He scanned his gauges and controls for anything he'd forgotten to adjust. "Pigeon Leader, this is Yellow Leader. I'm losing power and returning to base."
As the Merlin repeatedly cut out, he struggled to keep his aircraft in the air. With the wheels lowered the fighter sloughed through the air drunkenly. Just above stall speed, he touched down heavily, then bounced briefly into the air as the engine picked up speed. Halfway across the field the engine shut down.
He climbed down and looked at his fighter in disgust. "What you need is a good swift kick in the radiator!"
A small lorry pulled up and Mayfield jumped out. "We saw you drop out of formation. What's wrong?"
"My engine packed it in."
Another lorry pulled up and a group of airmen jumped out and started pushing the fighter toward the shelters.
Talbot turned to Mayfield. "What's available to fly?"
"Nothing. It's either in the air or being repaired."
"Bugger it. Unless you need me for something, sir, I'm going to find some coffee."
"Good idea. Hop in, I'll give you a lift."
"No thanks. Right now I feel like a good stroll."
He brought up the rear of the strange caravan and slowly walked toward dispersal enjoying a few minutes of peace and quiet.
Near to dispersal sat a Salvation Army canteen van. A small group of pilots from the other squadron were already queued up next to it. As Talbot approached, they looked at him and talked between themselves. They moved to stand in front of the van as he picked up a mug of coffee.
The hot liquid soothed his throat while he looked around the station. As much as he wanted to sit down, it felt like that was all he did lately. Either sit in a chair and wait or sit in the cockpit. It felt good to stand for a bit.
"Have you been over the Channel yet?" one of the pilots asked.
"First thing this morning. With all the shrapnel flying around, I was surprised any of us came through it."
"We just made it back ourselves. Something seemed odd when we were over it."
"Like what?" Talbot asked.
"There's no big ships. I would have thought we would see a battlecruiser or one of their pocket battleships, at least a cruiser. All we saw were destroyers and torpedo boats."
"We were there at dawn and didn't have a chance to look around, really," Talbot replied, "Maybe they're elsewhere."
"If they're planning on using their air force in place of a navy, this could be a short invasion," another pilot said.
"The Royal Navy outnumbers them in everything, except subs. It could be over quickly, but I wouldn't bet money on it," Talbot responded.
"Well, we have to go. I guess we'll see you later. Nice talking to you," one of them said.
"Yes, nice talking to you, also." Talbot walked to the dispersal hut and sat in a deck chair. A little while later his aircraft was rolled back out to the field.
Sloane walked over. "Your Hurricane's all taken care of, Mr. Talbot. We replaced the fuel pump. They'll top off the tanks and you'll be already for the next go."
"Thank you. I suppose there'll be several more outings today."
"I'd be surprised if there weren't. If you'll excuse me, I have a few things to finish."
#
His Hurricane pulled its wheels up for what he hoped would be the day's last sortie. Redding was missing after being shot down on the last mission and Ramsey was nicked in the arm and in the Infirmary. Talbot found himself leading a squadron of five aircraft. The damaged ones couldn't be repaired quickly enough. The sun was low in the western sky as the squadron circled over Balcombe. "Pigeon Leader to squadron. Let's keep an eye out, I don't want to be surprised by anyone coming out of that sun."
"Pinetree Control to Pigeon Leader. We have trade for you. Bandits fifty-plus. Vector one–six–zero. Angels three."
"Understood Pinetree. Pigeon Leader to squadron turn to one–six–zero—now." The Hurricanes wheeled as one onto the new heading.
Within minutes, the black dots appeared and took shape. "Pigeon Leader to squadron! Bandits eleven o'clock low! Pender and I will take the fighters, the rest of you go for the bombers. Pigeon Leader to Pinetree. Do17s and Me109s, height two thousand feet. Pigeon Leader to squadron, tallyho!"
Talbot dove on the lead group of fighters and a silhouette quickly filled his gunsight. He held the button in for two-seconds. The enemy fighter flew on undisturbed. Diving past, he pulled his Hurricane into a right turn with an Me109 close behind. Tracers, bright in the evening light, weaved around him. Unexpectedly, the enemy pilot broke off and dove away. No longer with a pursuer, Talbot closed on another Hun fighter.
A Hurricane dove past trailing black smoke. Two Me109s followed firing into the damaged fighter. Talbot ignored his next target and half-rolled after them. He pulled in behind the trailing enemy fighter and waited until he was close enough to touch it. Pinpoints of light erupted as his incendiary bullets struck. The eight Brownings walked their bullets along the fuselage to the nose. The enemy fighter abruptly slowed. As he overshot it, Talbot caught a quick glimpse of the bright red cockpit. The single-engined fighter smoothly rolled onto its back before diving into the ground.
The smoking Hurricane's pilot bailed out as his aircraft caught fire. The fight's victor was already diving for the treetops.
The sun was half below the horizon as Talbot touched down. Switching off his engine, he sat there with eyes closed, taking slow deep breaths. Unshackled from the seat by Corporal Morris, he pulled off his leather flying helmet, ran his hands through his sweaty hair, and rubbed his eyes. I'm too damn young to feel like this.
#
"Well, you look like hell." Redding sat on the ground next to Talbot and leaned back against the dispersal hut wall.
"Looked in a mirror yourself lately?"
"Afraid to, old boy. I'm convinced it would shatter instantly." Redding set his mug of chai on the grass and lit a cigarette, then passed the pack to Talbot.
He took one and the offered lighter. Two Hurricanes passed fifty feet away, propelled by the feet of the exhausted ground crew. The newly repaired aircraft were soon swarmed by riggers and fitters doing their last minute checks.
Talbot deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke and exhaled. "All right—we've been at this for four days now. Both air forces are being chewed up. We've lost four pilots and that includes the two who joined us Sunday. The toll on the Hurricanes and ground crew is terrible."
"We may be getting a few pilots today. I heard Ramsey on the telephone with Group. So what did you think about our trip to Hastings as this morning's eye-opener?"
"Rather dicey," Talbot replied, "I bet Group just loved to hear that every Hurricane, in the squadron, ended up marked unserviceable due to battle-damage."
"But, we did get a few more minutes rest at the expense of Sloane's men. How did you enjoy leading the squadron again yesterday?"
"More to pay attention to. Watching for anyone in trouble and making sure everyone makes it back. It's a lot of responsibly to not forget anything or anyone."
"People seem to think you did an excellent job."
"Not to change the subject, but I feel sorry for Geoff. He's hit in the engine and almost makes it back here, when it catches fire and he bails out. Then he twists his ankle on landing."
"I asked him and he says he's all right. He's hiding it from Ramsey, but not for much longer." Redding nodded as a clearly injured Geoff Pender limped past, followed closely by Ramsey.
"Something wrong with your boots, Sub?"
Pender froze and turned toward the voice. "Loose heel, sir. I just need to have it repaired."
Ramsey stared at Pender for a minute. "Williams!"
The clerk arrived after a moment. "Sir?"
Ramsey kept looking at Pender. "Williams, please drive Sub-Lieutenant Pender to the Infirmary so the M.O. can look at his loose heel."
"Yes, sir." Williams gave Pender an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.
Ramsey glanced at Williams, then back to Pender. "Tell the M.O. that unless it's broken or fractured, to bandage it up and mark you fit for duty. I'm not blind, boy—or deaf. I know what you were up to, but you're no good to me up there with a broken ankle."
