cloud. It had presumably chased off the other ME109. As
Frank manoeuvred alongside Patrick he could see holes towards the rear of his fuselage but no sign of serious damage. Patrick’s pale face turned
towards him. He raised one hand and grinned as they crossed the French coast. Frank, relaxing, eased away and up a thousand feet, checking his fuel.
There was just about enough to see him home.
The other Spitfire emerged from the cloud base above and ahead of them. Frank saw now that it was Tony. His plane looked
unscathed as it lost height and turned, showing its white underbelly like a fish as it went for a position on the far side of the Fortresses. It was
still turning when the rear and upper gunners of the nearest Fortress opened up on the exposed belly. Frank saw their
tracers ripping into its fuel tank, which immediately billowed black smoke. He shouted into his radio – uselessly because the Fortresses were on
another frequency – and heaved his plane towards Tony’s. But that was just as useless. Tony was already spiralling
and tumbling earthwards in a vortex of smoke and flame. His canopy flew up and away and for an instant his hands and arms reached out of the
cockpit as he tried to heave himself up. But the fuselage turned again and he was engulfed by another sheet of red flame.
The burning carcasses of him and his plane exploded near the beach south of Calais. The Fortresses were well out over the sea.
Frank wheeled once around the pall of smoke then went after the Fortresses, furious and impotent. But not quite impotent. His thumb was on the firing button as he lined up the last Fortress in his sight.
He wouldn’t do it, he knew. He didn’t intend to do it. But if they gave him an excuse, the slightest excuse, a single round of tracer, he would
down them. Then Patrick’s Spitfire eased in from the right, between him and the bombers. Patrick wriggled his wings, indicating that Frank should fall in behind.
Frank backed off, his heart thumping, sweating again despite the cold. They’d be back in the mess for tea.
Chapter Five
Later, about two and a half hours after Tony had been a living and breathing presence, and after they had
finished their toast, Patrick got up and nodded to Frank to follow him. Frank was happy to leave
the mess. The Dodger was recounting his two near misses and one probable. Everyone else was quiet, but the Dodger
hadn’t noticed.
It had not been a good mission. True, they had lost only Tony whereas the other squadron had lost two, but the Fortress fleet had been badly mauled,
losing a third of their strength. At the debrief the wing commander had been more than usually crisp and critical, describing the bombing as wilfully and
shamefully inaccurate. Many Fortresses, meeting heavy flak around the airfield, had veered away or climbed above it and dropped their bombs anywhere. At one point the
only planes near the airfield were the covering Spitfire squadrons, with nothing to cover. Then, because of their avoidance of the target, the bombers had failed to form defensive and defendable
formations on the way back. Spreading out over northern France and Belgium, they made easy meat for the Luftwaffe. Our own encounter before
reaching the bombers, the wing commander said, was because the diversionary Typhoon attacks had not worked as intended. That is, they had
worked but only too well, taking the Germans so completely by surprise that by the time they reacted the diversions were over and the real attack
was about to start. Thus, the bombers and escorting fighters had flown into a stirred-up hornets’ nest.
Patrick waited for Frank in the mess entrance, by the table where their letters were laid out. It reminded Frank that he still hadn’t written to his mother.
Patrick picked up a couple of letters.
‘Two for Tony. One from home, by the looks of it, the other –’ he turned it, studying the
postmark – ‘unclear. Feminine hand, wouldn’t you
Frank manoeuvred alongside Patrick he could see holes towards the rear of his fuselage but no sign of serious damage. Patrick’s pale face turned
towards him. He raised one hand and grinned as they crossed the French coast. Frank, relaxing, eased away and up a thousand feet, checking his fuel.
There was just about enough to see him home.
The other Spitfire emerged from the cloud base above and ahead of them. Frank saw now that it was Tony. His plane looked
unscathed as it lost height and turned, showing its white underbelly like a fish as it went for a position on the far side of the Fortresses. It was
still turning when the rear and upper gunners of the nearest Fortress opened up on the exposed belly. Frank saw their
tracers ripping into its fuel tank, which immediately billowed black smoke. He shouted into his radio – uselessly because the Fortresses were on
another frequency – and heaved his plane towards Tony’s. But that was just as useless. Tony was already spiralling
and tumbling earthwards in a vortex of smoke and flame. His canopy flew up and away and for an instant his hands and arms reached out of the
cockpit as he tried to heave himself up. But the fuselage turned again and he was engulfed by another sheet of red flame.
The burning carcasses of him and his plane exploded near the beach south of Calais. The Fortresses were well out over the sea.
Frank wheeled once around the pall of smoke then went after the Fortresses, furious and impotent. But not quite impotent. His thumb was on the firing button as he lined up the last Fortress in his sight.
He wouldn’t do it, he knew. He didn’t intend to do it. But if they gave him an excuse, the slightest excuse, a single round of tracer, he would
down them. Then Patrick’s Spitfire eased in from the right, between him and the bombers. Patrick wriggled his wings, indicating that Frank should fall in behind.
Frank backed off, his heart thumping, sweating again despite the cold. They’d be back in the mess for tea.
Chapter Five
Later, about two and a half hours after Tony had been a living and breathing presence, and after they had
finished their toast, Patrick got up and nodded to Frank to follow him. Frank was happy to leave
the mess. The Dodger was recounting his two near misses and one probable. Everyone else was quiet, but the Dodger
hadn’t noticed.
It had not been a good mission. True, they had lost only Tony whereas the other squadron had lost two, but the Fortress fleet had been badly mauled,
losing a third of their strength. At the debrief the wing commander had been more than usually crisp and critical, describing the bombing as wilfully and
shamefully inaccurate. Many Fortresses, meeting heavy flak around the airfield, had veered away or climbed above it and dropped their bombs anywhere. At one point the
only planes near the airfield were the covering Spitfire squadrons, with nothing to cover. Then, because of their avoidance of the target, the bombers had failed to form defensive and defendable
formations on the way back. Spreading out over northern France and Belgium, they made easy meat for the Luftwaffe. Our own encounter before
reaching the bombers, the wing commander said, was because the diversionary Typhoon attacks had not worked as intended. That is, they had
worked but only too well, taking the Germans so completely by surprise that by the time they reacted the diversions were over and the real attack
was about to start. Thus, the bombers and escorting fighters had flown into a stirred-up hornets’ nest.
Patrick waited for Frank in the mess entrance, by the table where their letters were laid out. It reminded Frank that he still hadn’t written to his mother.
Patrick picked up a couple of letters.
‘Two for Tony. One from home, by the looks of it, the other –’ he turned it, studying the
postmark – ‘unclear. Feminine hand, wouldn’t you
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