Once more his eyes quickly searched the sky around him. He watched as the other Me-109 hung tightly to the tail of a Spitfire that was already in trouble, a white stream of unignited fuel behind it. It fired several short bursts. None found their target, but that seemed academic, the plane was desperately scrambling to find a way out of the skirmish.
‘Who is that? Will? Let him go and form up with me behind the bomber.’
The radio crackled and a moment later the pilot replied. ‘It’s me, sir, Gunter.’
‘Gunter? Well done, man. It’s just us now. Let’s tighten our position around the bomber.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Chapter 49
Mission Time: 6 Hours, 28 Minutes Elapsed
200 miles across the Atlantic
There was still no reply from Stef.
‘Stef! Are you all right?’ Max called once more. Over the interphone he could hear only laboured breathing and the grunting of effort as both Pieter and Hans worked their guns.
Not Stef, please.
‘You want me to go back and take a look?’ asked Pieter over the comm.
‘No, not yet, not until we’re done here.’
Max himself wanted to go back and see what had happened to the young lad, but until this exchange was over, he needed every pair of hands busy, holding something useful.
‘They’ve had enough! They’re pissing off!’ Hans barked loudly.
‘You sure? Pieter, can you see?’ Max sought confirmation.
‘Yup, two of them, plus one limping. They’re heading back east.’
‘Right, in that case, Pieter, go and see what’s happened to Stef.’
Pieter climbed up the metal rungs leading from the bombardier’s compartment and hastily made his way through the bomb bay and through the navigation compartment. He stopped in the bulkhead leading into the waist section and studied the damage.
It had been perforated with hundreds of ragged holes. Several small fires were burning on the wood-panelled floor, fuel that had made its way inside from the exploding Spitfire. Stef was sitting on the floor, both hands clasped tightly around one of his legs, holding it desperately. His trouser leg was black and wet with blood. Considering the mess there, the lad looked like he’d got away lightly.
‘I think I’m hurt pretty badly,’ he said.
‘Stef. Let me take a look at that.’
Pieter squatted beside him, ripped the ragged material of his trousers open and moved it out of the way to inspect the wounded leg. There was a triangle of still smoking metal, the size of a packet of cigarettes, lodged into his leg just above the knee. It had clearly severed an artery and Stef had done the best he could with the tight grip of his hands to slow down the blood loss. All the same, the wound was pumping muted jets of blood past his tightly clasped fingers.
‘Not too bad, boy,’ said Pieter, doing his best to sound in charge and calm. ‘We’ll need to get a tourniquet on that,’ he added, looking around for something to use. He ripped off the rest of Stef’s trouser leg and from that tore a strip long enough to tie around his leg above the knee. He secured it around and tied it up. ‘We need something we can use to wind it tighter. Something long and thin.’
‘Like your pecker?’ Stef grunted painfully.
Pieter smiled and knuckled the lad’s head. ‘At least it’s long.’
He found a socket wrench in a toolbox beneath the port waist-gun. He inserted the wrench between Stef’s leg and the tourniquet.
‘Now this is going to hurt a lot, sorry.’ He twisted it round once and the tourniquet tightened with a creak. Stef let out a scream of agony that he quickly bit down on, turning it into little more than a stifled whimper.
Pieter winced sympathetically. ‘It’s okay, you can let it out if it hurts.’
Stef shook his head stubbornly, his mouth clamped tightly like a vice, refusing to let out anything more than a grunt.
Pieter patted him roughly on the shoulder. ‘So… no more of that “Baby Bear” shit, then. I promise.’
The boy smiled. That was about as much praise as he would get from the bastard. But it was more than enough.
‘You’re not going to pass out, are you?’
Stef shook his head, ‘I’m okay,’ he hissed painfully.
‘You hold that tight for me, right? I’m going to let Max know what’s going on back here.’
Stef leaned back against the bulkhead and held the wrench in both hands as Pieter stamped out a couple of the small fires which were still burning on the wooden floor and then made his way forward to update Max.
‘We’re both fine. Gunter didn’t take a single scratch, and my plane, amazingly, appears to still be in one piece,’ said Schroder, holding the yoke with his right hand, his left clamped tightly over the gash in his right forearm. ‘Will didn’t make it, though.’
‘I know, I saw him go down,’ Max replied.
Even if he had managed to bail safely, out at sea, there was little hope for him. If he didn’t get pulled under by the parachute and drown immediately after he splashed down, he was unlikely to be picked up by any ship.
‘A good thing the three of you made it off the airstrip. They would have had us.’
‘Then the refuel was worth it,’ Schroder offered.
‘I’ve got to check the damage and get a navigational plotting, and I think one of my crew’s hurt. Let me deal with these things and then I’ll tell you how we’re doing for range.’
‘Of course, speak with you soon.’
Schroder checked his fuel gauge. He had lost too much in the last few minutes to be accounted for by the manoeuvres he’d pulled during that skirmish. He must have taken a hit on the fuel tank and was losing it quickly.
‘Gunter, am I leaving a trail?’
The reply was prompt. ‘Yes, sir. Looks like fuel.’
He cursed under his breath. That was that, then, he wouldn’t be making it back to France. Gunter might be able to make it back, though.
‘What’s your fuel reading?’
‘Good, I have about a fifth capacity left, sir.’
They were roughly 235 miles out from the French coast and he had a fifth of his fuel left to burn. He could make it back if he turned around right now.
‘Gunter?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You need to head home now. Fly low, you should make it back to France.’
The young pilot failed to respond.
‘Did you hear me? You need to turn around.’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘I’ll be fine for another half an hour, then I’ll need to be heading back too.’
There was a pause; the young pilot was foolishly going to object. ‘Gunter, that’s a bloody order, now piss off back to France.’
‘Yes, sir… Good luck, sir.’
‘And you… now go!’
Schroder could tell by the tone in Gunter’s voice that the young man had guessed he was in trouble. He watched as the young pilot pulled his plane around in a roll that arced one-eighty degrees, taking him back east. Gunter waggled his wings once in the distance.
Schroder looked back down at his fuel gauge again, the pointer was wobbling unsteadily and indicating that
