Beaufighter Blitz Read online

  He smiled suddenly, the naughty schoolboy inside appearing, “And best of all, I found out that lovely little blonde typist’s name!”

  Chapter 6

  The Whitley bomber crew breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief as the darkened sprawl of Belgium’s coast finally disappeared behind them, merging into the gloom, and praying hard that the starboard Merlin engine continued to run, albeit a little roughly.

  It had picked up flak damage over Cologne, but the dear old kite stalwartly soldiered on.

  “I’m heading back at low level, lads, but keep your eyes peeled for Jerry fighters.” He spoke calmly, but the young Sergeant Pilot’s heart was racing painfully hard.

  Come on, love, keep doing what you’re doing, you’re doing it superbly.

  He continued to mumble his refrain of reassurance beneath his breath, willing the Whitley to take his crew safely home.

  She had already done so on seven separate earlier occasions, and (fingers crossed), she would do so again.

  She always looked after them, and whatever anyone else might say, he knew that she could hear him and that she would do it again.

  Come on, love. You’re the best…

  The navigator’s voice over the intercom, “Fancy a coffee, skipper? How’s she doing?”

  “Yeah, good, mate. Just keep praying though. No coffee for me though, ta.”

  “A week’s leave after this. I think we’ve bloody earned it this time.”

  “You’re dead right there, skipper.” The bomb aimer grimaced and bit his lip.

  Poor choice of words.

  The rear gunner, sitting alone and isolated from the other four members of the crew, in his turret at the end of the fuselage, piped up glumly. “Don’t mind me, you rotten blighters. I’ll just sit here quietly and freeze my bloody bollocks off.”

  The wireless operator, a Pilot Officer and the only officer in a crew of NCOs, tapped the navigator on his shoulder, “Here, give us the thermos, Ernie, pass it over, I’ll go and give the old miseryguts a cup.”

  “No, John, don’t worry, I’ll do it. I need to go for a pee, so I might as well do it. Let me just get past you, cheers.”

  “Tubby, Ernie’s on his way to you with a thermos. How does it look back there?”

  Come on, keep going, girl.

  “Can’t see anything, Skip. We’re a bit low, though; tell me if you decide to ditch. Be nice to have a bit of warning. Tell Ernie to get on with it, though, ‘cause I think my meat and two veg have turned to ice.”

  “I’m sure the local girls will be grateful for small mercies,” his pilot replied drily, a small smile cutting through tightly on his tense face, “But don’t you worry, my old banana, I’ll give you plenty of warning. I’ll not leave you on your own.”

  “Thanks, Skip. How’s she doing? Engine OK?”

  I bloody well hope so. “Yes, chum. She’s a beauty, and she’ll not let us down.”

  The gunner grunted, “I dunno why you love this old bitch so much, Skip. She’s past her prime, but I have to say, she does seem to be a good ‘un.”

  “For goodness sake! How many times do I have to say it, Tubby? Have a little respect for her. She’s always done right by us. I don’t like you flapping that sort of crap. And don’t ever call her a bitch. How many times do I have to tell you? Call her by her name or not at all.”

  “Sorry, Skip, keep yer hair on. I’m really sorry. M-Millie it is.” His gunner replied contritely.

  “Apologise.”

  “Aw, Skipper…”

  “I mean it!”

  The gunner’s voice was gruff, “Sorry Millie. Didn’t mean it.”

  The pilot smiled and glanced mechanically at the engine temperature gauges again. Tubby was a very good gunner, the best, but he was such a miserable old bugger sometimes.

  A kilometre to starboard, Rudi strained his eyes against the darkness.

  “You must have the devil’s own luck, Herr Leutnant. It’s definitely a twin engine job. Medium bomber, I think. Droopy nose, twin tails. It might be a Dornier, sir! We need to get closer.”

  “My dear Herr Observer, do you note the thin line of smoke that comes from the engine of the aircraft? If it were a Dornier, it would it be heading the other way, would it not? Yet this damaged aircraft heads for England. Why should it do that were it not RAF?”

  Rudi scratched his head and looked away. “Hmm. I see your point, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Brainless dolt,” grunted Mouse.

  Bruno grinned, “So less talk and more action, eh? And behind us? Anything, Mouse?”

  “Nothing behind, Herr Leutnant, all clear.”

  As Tubby, the Whitley’s semi-frozen rear gunner, turned to accept the half-filled beaker of coffee, the Ju88C crept ever closer, concealed within the veil of night.

  “So, Rudi, would you say that is a Dornier?”

  Rudi shook his head. “No, Herr Leutnant, it’s RAF. No doubts. I can see it now.”

  “And what can you see, my good Rudi?” Bruno von Ritter placed his fighter into position beneath and to one side of the ailing bomber.

  “Um, Whitley, I think, sir.”

  Bruno took one last look, settled back to slip into position behind the enemy aircraft. “Stand by.”

  Yes, it was an Armstrong Whitworth Whitley alright, a medium bomber with a crew of five, droopy nosed in flight, a square long fuselage and two fins. Damaged, but still flying.

  You bombed the Reich, but now revenge is coming for you...You may think you have escaped. And up until now, you had.

  But only for a few more seconds…

  The pilot squirmed in his seat. I need to take a pee, but it can wait. She was doing it; each uneasy second took them ever closer to home. Dearest Millie.

  We may actually make it after all…

  And then everything changed, and it all seemed to happen at once.

  The Whitley shuddered and bucked as something tore loose in the engine, a sudden shower of sparks falling back from the starboard engine, then a thin tongue of flame licking back horribly from the wing. Suddenly he was fighting to hold the aircraft level.

  “Cripes! Feathering the starboard engine.” Please, Millie, just for a few more minutes, please…

  And Bruno was pulling the heavy fighter into a hard turn, finger caressing the firing button lovingly, “Alert! Firing…”

  The pilot of the Whitley flinched at the thunderous bellow from the rear turret, “Fighter! FIGHTER! Turn to starboard!”

  The pilot almost groaned in despair. No, no, no…

  And yet he was already dragging her into a skidding turn to starboard, exhausted muscles aching and straining, and she let him, the glorious, dreadfully wounded, beautiful aeroplane that she was…Oh Millie…

  The cannon and machine guns in the Junker’s nose spat vivid fire in a spreading fan that splattered across the Whitley from nose to tail, Bruno’s hits sparkling bright on the bomber, and then in response there was an even brighter flash from the turret of the bomber, and Bruno felt the hits of .303 bullets against his Junkers.

  Incensed, he turned back again and raked the Whitley again. Schwein….

  The pilot of the Whitley painfully sucked in air through a mouth suddenly full of blood, and tried to speak. The cockpit was lit up by the flame from the burning engines, and already smoke was filling the space, making him choke. Hurt wracked him and he could feel the scream bubbling in his throat, and he clamped his teeth around it.

  The guns in Millie’s tail were silent, and he knew in the swelling anguish within his heart that Tubby was dead.

  Dear dour, bucolic, womanising Tubby, blessed with incredibly skilful and artistic fingers which could convert a block of wood effortlessly into a little model aircraft in less than an hour, and a huge smile, rarely seen, which transformed his face whenever it materialised.

  “Crew bail out, bail out…” It was an effort, but he managed to force the words, barely more than a whisper, out through his lips, his hands tightening on the controls.
>
  Already he could feel his strength ebbing as another surge of overwhelming pain threatened to overcome his defences and claim him.

  Got to hold her steady, give the boys a chance to get out...

  “Bail out…” he cried, but it came out as a choking whisper, and the darkness was already crowding his mind.

  Oh, God, it hurts so badly. His back felt as if it had been flayed, deeply laid open, as if it were on fire…

  He was falling forwards, and with a superhuman effort he straightened his back jerkily, the stabbing pain coursing down dragging a whimper from his lips, wetting his cheeks.

  And his heart was weeping too, for his beautiful Millie was burning, slowly disintegrating. She was dying.

  But she was dying hard.

  And despite it all, still she flew straight and level. Shattered and ripped, Millie continued to fly as the bomb aimer and the wireless operator jumped. The navigator paused, looking helplessly at the pilot through the smoke that filled the aircraft.

  She was shaking now, her agony juddering viscerally, excruciatingly through his bones, the fuselage vibrating worse and worse as if in response to real pain, slowly coming apart, the icy blast of the airstream shrieking thinly through the cracked and holed windscreen.

  But, incredibly, despite all the damage, she still continued to fly.

  The Whitley pilot smiled sadly through pained eyes that were dimming fast at the stricken expression on his navigator’s face.

  “Ernie, go, get out…please,” he gasped.

  Behind the flying goggles, Ernie’s eyes were filled with tears, and his pilot painfully turned away from him, exposing his torn and shattered back. He took one last long look, but his dear friend and skipper continued to face forward, and the vibration was worsening.

  And then the navigator was gone, and the pilot was all alone on the Whitley, except of course for poor dear Tubby, lolling lifelessly behind him in the bullet-torn and devastated turret, his faithful companion in so many flights, and now sharing their very last flight together.

  When the end came, Tubby would not be alone.

  And even as the agony flayed his rapidly fading consciousness, a spark of pride glowed in what remained of him. Final memories of loved ones.

  We did it! With a little luck, the boys should make it. I’m sorry, Mum and Dad, I’ll not be coming home ever again. Thank you for all that you did for me. I love you so much.

  Behind the goggles his eyes were streaming with tears as pain and overwhelming sorrow coursed unbearably though him.

  His crew were safe, thank the Good Lord, and it was time. The young RAF pilot closed his eyes and opened his hands wide, releasing the controls.

  Dearest Millie, thank you, I knew you could hear me, and you took care of us even when you’ve been ripped apart. You kept us alive.

  Thank you. Dearest Millie…

  Ernie the navigator swayed gently beneath his parachute, tears blurring his vision as he watched the sinking, downwardly curving comet that was his Whitley suddenly balloon brilliantly, absorbed in an eye-searing and angry expanding bubble of glaring light, as the fuel tanks in M-Millie finally blew her into oblivion.

  He could not bear to look any longer as the glowing fragments of his friends and his aircraft gracefully twirled slowly downwards to the waiting sea, and he shut his eyes in pain and turned his face away, even though the sea was close.

  I’ll tell them, he promised, I’ll tell them everything, if I get back, no, when I get back, I’ll tell them about how you held her steady to allow us to escape.

  I’ll make sure they recognise your courage and your sacrifice. Your name will be remembered for ever more. You deserve a VC. And you’ll get one if I have anything to do with it. God bless, Skipper. And you, Millie.

  The three survivors were lucky; for they would shortly be picked up by a flotilla of Royal Navy Motor Gun Boats, hunting enemy shipping by night in the treacherously icy North Sea, fortuitously close to where they landed.

  But the navigator would never forget the sight of Millie exploding, nor would he forget for as long as he lived the fleeting sight of the shadowy Junkers hurriedly turning away from them with a burning, smoking engine.

  Tubby had drawn blood even as the stream of enemy bullets focussed and found him.

  With a bit of luck, the Nazi bastards would end up in the drink as well, like their victim.

  Bruno leaned against the wall of the debriefing rooml, trying to still the shaking in his hands.

  So close. Painfully close. They almost had not made it back, and the landing had been a terrifyingly rough one.

  As soon as they landed on the NNE-SSW runway and rolled to a stop on the large northern hardstanding at NJG2’s Gilze-Rijen aerodrome, the Junkers was surrounded by fire support vehicles and the wing blanketed with foam, even though Bruno managed to successfully put out the fire on the flight back.

  Their Ju88 had been immediately wheeled into the large northern hangar for repairs, the crew chief’s long face a disapproving picture of gloom, whilst the crew were driven to the barracks for debriefing.

  Rudi exhaled smoke forcefully through his nostrils and looked unseeingly at the shaking cigarette he held, “Well, we got him, boys.”

  Mouse stood with his back to them, hands in the pockets of his flying overalls, solid and unmoving. No trembling in that one.

  “And he almost got us. Almost.” He didn’t turn. Must be used to facing the other way, Bruno thought with a spark of humour.

  Mouse pulled gently on one ear. “That Tommy gunner was quick, fucking quick, a second or so more and he might have had us. Quick on the draw.” He nodded to himself, “A proper gunner, a professional. He knew his business, that one. Almost a pity to kill him.”

  Fuck me, thought Rudi sourly, he’ll be crying into his coffee next. He hawked and spat on the ground, wiped his mouth on his stained sleeve, “I’m not complaining.” He stared unseeing at the splatter of mucus on the asphalt.

  Bruno gazed at the oil stain on his boots, and with an effort, forced a rictus-like smile onto his frozen lips. He noticed the Intelligence Officer approaching, clutching his folder and pencils, and groaned inwardly.

  “Ten victories now. They used to call those with ten kills an Oberkanone. Thank you, boys. I couldn’t fly with anyone else.” They were in double figures, now, but after the shaky flight back, he needed a break. It had been too close this time.

  The IO smiled tentatively at them. Mouse returned his gaze darkly.

  “You better not, Herr Leutnant, because I’ll not get into any aeroplane unless you’re behind the controls.” Mouse continued to eye the Luftwaffe intelligence officer balefully. “Anyway, nowadays the correct term is Experten.”

  Bruno closed his eyes tiredly, “Good, decent Mouse, how could I trust another to guard my back when I have you?”

  Rudi threw his cigarette stub to the ground, crushing it flat with one booted foot. “If you fly with anyone else, Sir, I’d kill the fuckers.”

  Bruno was surprised to see he was deadly serious. Rudi wiped his pale and stained face with a hand that refused to stop quivering.

  “I need a big drink and a damned good fuck. Will you excuse me, Herr Leutnant?” He glowered at Mouse, but the gunner said nothing.

  Bruno nodded, “Of course, Rudi. I’ll join you shortly. I could do with some schnapps myself. Oberleutnant, forgive me, is the debriefing complete? Have you finished with us?”

  The Intelligence Officer shifted uncomfortably under Mouse’s surly scowl, “I have all the details I need, Leutnant. I just wanted to applaud your victory. May I offer my congratulations?” He held out his hand. “Here’s to the next one, eh?”

  Bruno took it, conscious of the unsteadiness of his own limbs, and hoping the Intelligence Officer would not notice.

  “Thank you, sir. Yes. Here’s to the next one.”

  Chapter 7

  “Well, my darling, you’re back on ops again. I shan’t ask you to be careful.” Molly put down her cup of
tea and placed her hand over his, squeezing it gently. Her words were spoken casually, but the rigid chill in her fingers betrayed her and told him of her fear.

  Gently Rose placed his other hand over hers, feeling helpless and annoyed with himself that he caused her pain by his decision to return to the war.

  Yet he knew there had could have been no other choice. Who could stand idly by and watch as others fought? At least he was returning to the war with a decent young man alongside him to face the danger with.

  Over the previous two days, Rose and White had flown many hours together, and formed a comfortable relationship that was rapidly turning into a friendship.

  White was a quiet and deferential operator, and pleasant company on the ground. They worked well together and Rose was keen for his first interception, to put into practice what they knew and had learned together, to blood their partnership.

  “Don’t fret, Molly, I’ll be careful, my sweetest, scout’s honour. It’s a sight safer than last year when we were flying in daylight. You know it’s a lot harder to see the enemy and a lot harder for them to see us. It’s a lot harder to see anything at all, to be honest. That’s why I need Chalky, can’t do it on my own, and at least we’ll only be intercepting bombers, piecemeal, one by one.”

  He smiled at her tenderly, “There’s no big massed formations for us to attack this time, my darling. No serried ranks of guns like some mobile fortress in the air. This time we’ll creep up on the buggers, one at a time, hidden by the darkness. My D-Doggie’s not quite as nippy as a Hurricane, but much better armed. She’ll do nicely. Piece of cake.” He said it reassuringly, voice gentle.

  “Wanna give me a ride, mister?” she pouted her lips and fluttered her long dark lashes at him, even though her cheeks were colouring, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  Molly was furious with herself, hating the fact that she was unable to remain composed and casual as her husband returned to the war.

  He beamed and took both her hands in his, and like the rest of her, they were soft, slim, and a little warmer now.