‘Green 1—watch out behind you!’ Daniel screamed into the R/T, as he continued to tail the Messerschmitt. To one side, someone else in a parachute casually fell by. Good luck to you, Daniel thought, whatever your nationality.
He looked up again, just as Barker’s Hurricane took another blast from the Messerschmitt behind him. ‘Get out, Green 1—get out! Barker!’
But it was too late.
In the time that it took for Daniel to blink away the sweat that weighed heavily on his eyelashes, his friend Barker and his aircraft had been macerated in a burning ball of angry phosphorous colours: bright red and deep black. The plane momentarily held its morbid trajectory then suddenly plummeted, disappearing almost instantly from Daniel’s view.
Barker’s demise had prompted the R/T system to ring with angry shouts, orders and warnings. Then, there was more heavy firing from above.
Daniel’s grieving period for Barker was over and he turned his attention back to the Messerschmitt, still taking evasive manoeuvres to shake off the pursuit.
Another Messerschmitt, with its starboard wing dismembered, dived vertically and perfectly out-of-control through the small gap between Daniel’s Hurricane and the machine that he was targeting. Just a few seconds earlier and it would have severed through the other Messerschmitt, a few seconds later and Daniel’s number would have been up.
The Russian roulette of the skies.
Daniel’s thumb returned to the gun button, poised.
Thick blasts of iron-grey smoke poured from the Messerschmitt’s exhaust, as its pilot pushed the engine harder. He banked sharply, continuing to thrust.
But Daniel mimicked his every move, pushing open the throttle and holding on the enemy’s port side.
The Messerschmitt danced gaily in Daniel’s gun sight. The pilot was good.
Come on!
There. Perfect alignment.
Daniel pressed down on the gun button and squirted off a long round, watching as the shells ripped into the Messerschmitt’s fuselage. A great puff of black smoke revealed that he had struck the engine. He throttled back, watching the enemy aircraft losing speed and losing altitude. The pilot was battling with the controls.
Daniel lined up the ailing machine and pumped out his last round of ammo. That was it. The Messerschmitt began to spiral into an unstoppable corkscrew, smoke belching from the engine.
His work here was done. He turned the Hurricane in a slow, elegant bank, searching the skies for the rest of the squadron. He spotted them, a thousand feet above, appearing to regroup. What was left of the Messerschmitt swarm were disappearing back towards their base in northern France.
He glanced at his instruments. Glycol temperature 102 degrees. Oil pressure 74 lbs. Fuel down to 25 gallons. All okay, but without ammunition, it was time to head home. Wheeler’s voice over the R/T confirmed with control that Jacko Squadron were returning to Hawkinge.
‘Jacko, this is Sapper. Caution on landing, some airfield damage. Over.’
The aerodrome had been hit again. Daniel sighed and set course for base. The adrenalin that had been thrusting through his veins began to slow and the pores punctured by sweat, began to dry. He breathed normally as the fear and isolation receded.
His mind was empty as the aerodrome drew closer. Drained, he entered the circuit above the airfield.
‘Sapper, this is Jacko Red 2,’ Daniel said breathlessly. ‘Coming in to land.’
‘Red 2, this is Sapper, you’re free to land.’
With a smile of relief, Daniel pulled his speed back below two hundred miles an hour, dropped the wheels down and turned into the final approach.
The airfield, perforated with fresh bomb craters, came swiftly closer. He halved his speed as the aerodrome perimeter passed below him. Closing the throttle down, he held the plane’s nose up, the wheels reuniting with the grass below. The Hurricane slowed as it glided across the airfield. He taxied the plane to a standstill then killed the engine.
With a rabid desperation, Daniel undid his oxygen mask and pushed his helmet off his head, feeling the wind coolly caressing his hot scalp. He had made it. He looked around him. Had the others—apart from Barker—made it, too? So far, there was no sign of Smith.
Daniel climbed from the Hurricane as his ground crew began to prepare the plane for the next scramble. He darted into the dispersal hut. ‘Has Smith returned?’ he demanded.
The operator shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
Daniel strode back outside and looked up into the skies. Nothing. He remembered seeing his Hurricane banking away from the combat.
‘All right?’ a voice asked him. It was Woody.
Daniel didn’t know if Woody had heard that Barker had been shot down. The two of them had been close friends since training. He just needed to say it. ‘Barker was caught.’
‘I know,’ Woody said quietly. ‘Such a bloody decent chap. Did you see what happened?’
Daniel shook his head. ‘Not really. A 109 crept up behind him and, well, that was that. No time to bail.’ When he saw the look of loss in Woody’s eyes, he wanted to add, ‘It would have been quick and painless,’ but he couldn’t, not to another pilot. Woody would have known the sheer terror that Barker would have faced in the moments before his death. Instead, he changed the subject. ‘How’s the girl?’ he asked remorsefully.
‘She’ll be okay. She’s over there,’ he said, pointing to a distant figure on the other side of the aerodrome. ‘I’m taking her to the Odeon to watch The Grapes of Wrath.’
‘You’re not flying again today, then?’
Woody shook his head. ‘It’s got to go away to be fixed—I’m off until another plane can be brought in.’
‘Lucky you. What happened here, while we were up?’
Woody explained, ‘About twenty Heinkels and Dorniers decided to drop us some presents. No warning—pretty harrowing. They did a couple of circuits, then buggered off back to France.’
Daniel raised his eyebrows and stood
