Valors way, p.7
Valor's Way, page 7
A Stuka fell from the formation trailing a dense cloud of smoke.
Redding made a wide, circling right turn to attack from the rear.
The sky was full of aircraft, but no enemy fighters to be seen. The dive-bombers steadily approached the convoy. The Hurricanes whipped in and out of the formation.
"Blue Leader to Blue Two. Have a go yourself."
About damn time. "Thank you, Blue Leader."
Talbot threw his Hurricane into a sharp left bank, then a right. A Stuka at the rear of the formation started filling his gunsight. The dive-bomber's square-ended tail swung back and forth to give the rear gunner a clear field of fire. Tracers reached for the closing Hurricane.
Talbot's bullets struck the dive-bomber's rear fuselage, then moved forward into the engine. Smoke erupted from the Stuka as it rolled onto its port wingtip. The nose fell and the aircraft went into a spin as it plummeted to earth.
Flying through the formation's flank, he once again found clear sky. He pulled his fighter into another tight turn. Up ahead a Stuka began its dive. He lined up on it and put his own nose down. Without removing his eyes from the enemy, his hands cranked full flaps. The Stuka appeared to hang motionless as the Hurricane shot past it.
All right. Lesson number one is don't try to dive with a Stuka. I'll get them after their dives.
The Stukas had started their attack. Columns of water erupted around the convoy. One ship burst into flames as its superstructure lifted into the air, separated from the hull.
Flaps raised, he Split-S'd for the Estuary's surface.
One Stuka leveled out after releasing its bombs. One hundred feet above the water it ran for home.
Talbot fell in behind it and opened fire. Smoke and debris poured back as the dive-bomber dropped to the water's surface. The fixed-undercarriage skimmed the wave tops just before the Stuka flipped over. The dive-bomber somersaulted twice before disintegrating.
"Pigeon Blue Flight, form up. Form up over the convoy."
Talbot banked left into a U-turn and found another Stuka coming toward him. The enemy aircraft turned away, but he cut him off. Tracers ripped into the dive-bomber's fuselage, then silence. All he heard was the hiss of the pneumatics firing empty guns.
Damn it, I could have had the bastard easily.
Breaking away, he put the Hurricane into a climb. The Stuka grew smaller in his rearview mirror.
Seven ships were all the escorts took care of now. Floating wreckage marked the position where the eighth went to the bottom.
Talbot unhooked his oxygen mask and pushed the canopy back. The air felt cold as he took deep breaths. He wiped the sweat from his face with a gloved hand.
"Everybody back? Good. Anybody hurt?" Redding asked.
Talbot added his no to Miller's and Brice's.
"I think we did rather well," Miller added.
"Yes, we did and wait until we land," Redding said.
"Fish in a barrel," Brice commented.
Talbot listened as Redding conferred with sector control. Twenty minutes later, a flight of Spitfires took over protecting the convoy.
Released to land, the four Hurricanes turned for home. Solid ground, grass, and trees soon replaced the Estuary.
Landing back at Stapleford, Talbot was guided into the dispersal area by Corporal Morris.
"The tape's gone from your guns," Morris said as he unbuckled Talbot's harness.
"We jumped some Stukas, tore the hell out of them."
"How many did you get?"
"Two, would have been three if I hadn't run out of ammunition."
"Good show, John."
Talbot's legs felt like rubber as he jumped from the wing. The dispersal hut now seemed a long journey away.
"So how'd you do? Don't keep it a secret," Swanson asked as he hurried over.
Redding walked up at the same time. "Terry, give us a minute will you? I need to talk to John. I won't keep him long."
"I'll be by the hut," Swanson said as he turned away.
Well here it comes. Whatever you do, keep your temper. Don't let him know how cheesed-off you are at being treated like a child.
"Look—I'm not sure how to say this—the situation's never presented itself before," Redding started, "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. I remembered your age and forgot your experience."
"You’re an officer, Ian. You gave an order and I followed it."
"I have an idea of how you must feel. So if you want to be posted to another flight, I understand. I'd prefer to just put this behind us."
"I'd like that, too." You've a good friend here, John. Smooth your ruffled feathers and get on with it.
"So, how did you do?" Redding asked as they started toward dispersal.
"Two."
"Wizard!"
#
The evening was one of celebration. The squadron's first action demanded a large dose of beer from the local pub. Last call was followed by a boisterous walk back to their quarters.
"All right, we're in the privacy of our room," Swanson said, pulling his desk chair around and straddling it. "Now I can ask the personal questions."
"Personal meaning what?" Talbot unbuttoned his jacket and sat on his bed.
"What was it like?"
"I don't remember ever sweating that much before in my life. It was confusing. Aircraft were all over the place. They're shooting at you and you're trying to shoot at them. You're trying not to collide with anyone or be rammed. A few times I wondered just what the hell I'd gotten myself into. I couldn't believe the number of tracers flying around." Talbot rubbed his eyes and rested his back against the wall. "I think the main thing is to just get in a few shots and survive. Shooting at a towed target sleeve is one thing—this is totally different. You're trying to hit him and he's trying to avoid it. I know I wasted a lot of ammunition."
"You've got five now and all I've done is damage one."
"It's not a contest, Terry. At least not one I really care to be in."
"I know—it's just strange how things work out."
"So, is it getting any easier being Ramsey's number two?"
"No—I thought Logan was rough, Ramsey's worse."
"He doesn't accept excuses or poor performance. He rides everyone when they bollix something up."
"Plus, he keeps calling me, boy."
"Terry, we're seventeen. He calls me boy." Talbot chuckled. "Look, you're a competent pilot, in fact you're a damn good pilot, so just relax a little."
"Easy for you to say, you're leading the squadron in kills. You're his favorite."
"No, I'm not. He'll tear a strip off me just the same as any other pilot—probably a lot quicker, too."
"Enough of this—did you notice the blond from the armorer's section? The one with the page-boy haircut?"
"The looker you spent most of tonight chatting up in the pub?"
"Her name's Midge." Swanson smiled. "She's really rather nice when you get her away from her friend, Colleen."
"Everything Colleen says has a double meaning. Watch out for that one."
"Not me—you're the one she's after, John."
"She seems to go out of her way to embarrass me. She's already mentioned that the armorers are also referred to as plumbers. Then she asked me if I needed my pipes cleaned."
"And you said?" Swanson grinned wickedly.
"I told her my pipes were fine."
"I don't think she's as easy as she acts."
"And I don't want to know. Now if you'll excuse me, we get up in a few hours and I need some sleep."
#
Talbot and Swanson made their way to the lorry and climbed under the tarp covering the back. The rain made a soft drumming sound on the canvas. Instead of the usual pre-dawn pale gray, everything was shades of dark-gray and black.
The pilots waited in the dispersal hut, watching the rain pour off the Hurricanes. Some fell back into blissful sleep that had been interrupted. Others read, drank a cup of chai, or smoked.
Talbot looked around the dispersal room. It wasn't all that different from the few others he had seen. Somehow, it held a different quality. The plain brick interior was painted the same white over pale-green. The signs of war showed in the adhesive taped X's on the windowpanes. A wooden rail with evenly spaced pegs ran around the walls. From the pegs hung Irvin jackets, bright-yellow floatation vests, gas mask cases, and other items, known and unknown. Aircraft identification charts hung next to the blackboard where Ramsey wrote the pilot assignments. And yet, for all the similarities, it felt different. It was home.
The steady rain allowed the pilots time for a normal breakfast in the Mess. By late morning the sky started clearing.
Yellow Flight took-off as the rain ended to escort a convoy.
Shortly after lunch Blue Flight took-off to escort another convoy. Nothing was seen and again the time was spent circling the ships. Boredom again served as their companion.
#
Clear skies with scattered high clouds brought in the next day.
Gilmore leaned out the window yelling, "Blue and Red Flights Scramble!"
Talbot was strapped into this cockpit with the engine running within ninety seconds. Blue Flight lifted off into the morning sky seconds behind Red Flight.
"Pigeon Leader to Barnstorm, Red and Blue Flights airborne. What do you have for us?" Ramsey's unhurried voice came over the R/T.
"Hello Pigeon Leader, this is Barnstorm. Vector zero–nine–zero, bandits thirty-plus approaching convoy, five miles east of Foulness Point, angels ten. Buster."
Eight fighters started climbing. Eight throttles were pushed all the way forward. One word explained it. Buster—proceed with all speed.
The buildings and roads became smaller as the altimeter steadily turned clockwise. Looking around, he could see Swanson occupying the same number two position in Red Flight.
Talbot felt calmer than he expected himself to. The Merlin steadily droned on and his earpieces played the constant hiss of R/T static.
Bits of conversation intruded on what should have been a peaceful setting. The convoy's escort was engaging the Huns.
Land gave way to water as swarming bees appeared ahead. The moving dots soon became He111s, Me110s, and Spitfires.
"Pigeon Leader to flock. Blue Flight go for the bombers, Red keep the escort busy."
The plan quickly fell apart as the Hurricanes joined the melee. The Spitfires were already in amongst the bombers and the Me110s were after the Spitfires.
He stayed on Redding's tail until an imminent collision with a Spitfire, chasing a Hun fighter, made him break away sharply.
Damn, I lost Ian. "Blue Two to Blue Leader, sorry I've lost you."
"Blue Two, you're on your own then."
A twin-engined fighter with a long glass canopy shot past Talbot and he kicked the Hurricane into a tight turn to follow it.
Tracers from the Me110's rear-gunner hit the Hurricane with dull thuds as its wings filled the gunsight.
A three-second burst brought a stream of gray coolant from the starboard engine.
As the enemy fighter banked left, Talbot banked right. The rear-gunner's accuracy forcing him to break off.
Seeing Redding below, he dove to join up. "Blue Two to Blue Leader, I'm coming up on your tail. Taking position behind you."
"Good to see you, John. Let's have another go at them."
Redding banked toward the enemy formation and attacked a bomber on the flank. A lone Me110 dropped in behind Redding, then banked quickly away as Talbot opened fire and tore away part of its twin-tail assembly.
Talbot watched the bomber formation retire, the twin-engined fighters forming a shield covering the withdrawal.
"Pigeon squadron, break off and form up over the convoy."
The convoy steadfastly kept to their course as fires raged on three of the ships.
Only six fighters returned to Stapleford. During the debriefing, Talbot heard that Brice was coming in from a swim in the Estuary and Des Griffon from Red Flight was gone.
Pilots never died. They 'bought it', or 'bought the farm', or had 'Gone for a Burton'. Any phrase to blot out the thought of death. You remembered them in your own private way.
#
Life became a routine. Wakeup, cleanup, dress, and be waiting at the lorry before dawn. A quick breakfast, then the wait at the dispersal hut for a sortie. Aside from a few days of rain, the weather was warm and pleasant.
Today was different. With the morning sun in his face, Talbot reveled in his day of freedom. Observing how the stress of flying three and four times a day was affecting his pilots, Ramsey decided to draw a name out of a hat and let that pilot stand down the next day.
"So any plans?" Redding asked, after Talbot's name had been pulled the previous night.
"I think I'll go into Londinium and play tourist."
"A day off and you're going to spend it in a stuffy museum?" Miller asked.
"True, but the main thing is I won't be flying circles over some convoy."
#
Talbot stepped into the small shop in the Piccadilly Underground Station. He felt slightly embarrassed looking for a tourist's guidebook. Browsing through the rack, he didn't notice the person walk up behind him.
"Sergeant Talbot, isn't it?"
Turning around, he found himself looking into the same blue eyes that captured him before. The same eyes, the same hair, the same lips.
"That cat hasn't got your tongue again has it?" Her smile seemed to grow a little.
"Hello, Lyn—I mean Section Officer Seymour." You really are an idiot.
He watched her stifle a small laugh.
"So, how have you been, Sergeant?"
"I'm fine. Doing a lot of flying, but I've been allowed to stand down today. How are you?"
"I'm doing all right. Spending the day as a tourist?" Lynette cocked her head toward the rack of guidebooks.
"I didn't want to spend my day off on station. So I decided to spend it here. On a day-trip from Wittering?"
"No, official business, I'm afraid. Actually, I've just been posted to 11 Group staff at Uxbridge. I'm still in Air Intelligence. You do remember that you promised to ring me up when you make officer?"
"I haven't forgotten." Me make officer? Fat bloody chance of that ever happening.
A loud cough announced the arrival of another WAAC officer. A few inches shorter than Lynette, her black hair pulled back into a small bun. Her green eyes conveyed a look of extreme annoyance.
"Sergeant Talbot, this is my friend, Mavis Fleming. Mavis, this is the pilot I mentioned to you."
"Nice to meet you, Section Officer Fleming." He smiled and nodded his head slightly.
The annoyance remained. "You do look too young to be a pilot. We have to be on our way, Lynette."
"Yes, we do have to go. It was nice seeing you again, John."
He watched her walk out of the shop, across the concourse, then onto a down escalator.
She called me John. It wasn't Sergeant Talbot. She called me John!
He spent the morning walking through the courtyards and buildings at The Tower of Londinium. Even with the war barely a month old, people still visited this place of history. It was interesting, but his thought kept returning to her.
On his way to the Albion Museum, he stepped into a small, storefront café for lunch. The interior was warmly decorated with rich woods and lace curtains around the front windows that looked onto the street. Tables filled the interior with quite a few already occupied by elderly couples or the military.
"Sit anywhere you'd like, Luv," a stout, brown-haired waitress pointed to the room in general.
He was about to sit at a table near the wall when a voice addressed him.
"A fellow Air Explorer, why don't you join us?" Two sergeant pilots sitting at a table next to the window motioned to him.
"Thanks, don't mind if I do." Talbot sat down and extended his hand. "The name's John."
"Eric Porter," the dark-haired, shorter of the two answered.
"Nigel Griffin," the other stated. His blond hair was parted down the middle.
The same waitress who addressed Talbot when he walked in, came over and placed two plates in front of his tablemates.
"Care for a menu, or do you already know what you'd like?" She asked.
"The Bangers and Mash look good." Talbot pointed toward Griffin's plate. "I'll have that and some chai, please."
"What's your unit?" Porter asked between mouthfuls.
"363 Squadron, Stapleford, northeast of Londinium. And yours?"
"522 at Colly Weston. We came down for a day-trip," Griffin said, "and you?"
"Our squadron leader's letting one pilot a day stand down. We've been flying at least four times a day since this started."
The waitress placed a plate in front of him, and Talbot looked up and thanked her.
"We used to be 16 Squadron Air Explorers, then they made us a regular squadron and changed our number. What's your old squadron number?" Porter asked.
"I was in 5 Squadron, but they split us up and scattered us around the country."
"5 squadron? Did you know John Talbot?" Griffin stopped, fork in mid-air.
"I'm John Talbot. Why?"
His tablemates both stopped eating and extended their hands again.
"It's an honor to meet you," Porter said.
"Why's that?" Talbot shook their hands again.
"Why? For what you did," Griffin answered.
"You shot down two 109s on the first day of the war. The first air victories for our country. You took on two experienced pilots and won," Porter added.
"Two careless pilots," Talbot replied.
"You still won—and then you hedge-hopped over Grangemouth before doing a double-victory roll."
"Yes, and that little stunt almost got me sacked." Talbot smiled.
"The people in charge of the Air Explorers didn't even give you any recognition or a commendation," Porter added.
"The Air Explorer's didn't have medals, remember? Plus, they were a little occupied at the time."
"They should have done something," Griffin insisted.
"It's over and done with." Talbot forked a piece of banger into his mouth and slowly chewed. "But—I suppose it would have been nice. With the war starting they had other things on their minds, like I said."
