Declarations of War, page 15
Ah, now Woodhall’s fellow was having a go. Yes, he was giving him a squirt. The Heinkels were so close together that they had no room for jinking. Two more anti-aircraft shells over on the port side of the formation, but no one was hit. The Messerschmitts had finally made up their mind: they were turning back to have a go at the Spitfires. Good. That meant that Woodhall and his chaps might get three passes at the Heinkels before the 109s got to them. Funny how 109s always did that half-roll and vertical dive. They must teach them that at their training schools. There they go: a perfect plan-view as they tipped over. Woodhall decided that his next pass would be a head-on. Then he could do a stern attack for the third one and be pointing in the general direction of base for a quick getaway.
The gunner in Woodhall’s Heinkel was good, just as he’d guessed he would be. He was aiming high so that Woodhall must fly into it. Not like Patch’s fellow. His tracer was curving under the Hurricane and falling short. That was really stupid because the deflection was decreasing all the time. Unless the gunner made a big correction – with all the chances of going too far over the target –he’d fire short through the whole attack.
When Patch opened fire, Woodhall could still see the two aeroplanes out of the corner of his eye. The Hurricane’s eight guns converged upon the Heinkel like fine silver wires down which the Hurricane slid. Or more accurately, thought Woodhall, as though the wires were drawing the two aeroplanes together. Patch’s two port outer guns were misaligned. The armourers had lined them up to fire straight ahead. Most of the squadron’s guns were mounted like that, but for chaps like Patch and Baxter and Woodhall – chaps who knew their ranges and got in close – the guns were mounted to converge. Woodhall would speak to the armament officer about that. It could make all the difference to a kill. It wouldn’t make much difference to this one, though. The gunner had gone already and the machine-gun fire was ploughing a furrow through the fuselage, ripping the soft metal open like a can-opener.
Woodhall glanced around the cockpit before fixing his eye upon the optical sight. Everything was as it should be. The Heinkel was trapped inside the concentric rings like a fly struggling in a web. Gently he pushed the gun button. It was like hitting a jelly at high speed. The guns rattled his teeth. The nose dipped – it always did – and Woodhall corrected for it. The airspeed dropped by 38 m.p.h.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Woodhall. Actually he didn’t put the exclamation mark in. He said it in the bored and unhurried voice that he used when he accepted his bar bills. A man who spends all his time around aeroplanes acquires the knack of knowing what they are going to do. It’s the way they sit in the air and also the way they are handled and the smoothness with which they change direction. Or, as in this case, the way they didn’t change direction. He had clearly said that it was going to be a stern attack passing over the enemy formation. He only went right through an enemy formation when they had a fighter escort in close attendance. The few times he had done it the whole flight were all over the place, and instead of pulling up tight underneath the bombers to conserve height they left far too much safety margin. But Patch of all people…it was too bad.
Woodhall switched the microphone on, steering and firing with one hand. ‘Patch—’ was all he had time to say before the port wing of Patch’s Hurricane chopped right through the starboard wing of the Heinkel he was attacking. The Hurricane wing was scarcely damaged by the impact. That could be expected; it was the basis of party tricks in which tiresome uncles broke walking-sticks without damaging wine-glasses. The Heinkey wing twisted away without breaking off. It was like the flapping wing of a gull suddenly bored with gliding, but this gull was leaving a trail of feathers. The propeller broke up and then the, aeroplane tilted over like a…Like a what, thought Woodhall, still looking at it. Not like a gull, more like a harpooned whale snorting salt spray, spouting bubbles and turning its nose in demented pain and screaming in terror. Now that it was a whale, Woodhall felt more compassion for it than he had for the manned machine. Poor Huns, poor bloody Huns.
And poor Patch. He had bought it. Woodhall didn’t look that way. Jesus, poor Patch! Patch had giggled. Patch was an exbrat with over 900 hours on Spits. Patch was in for a D.F.M. Patch couldn’t get drunk, even when he tried. Patch owed Happy ten pounds which Happy would never see and badly needed. Patch had a mother who lived in Portsmouth and Patch couldn’t decide whether to make her go and stay with her sister in Leeds. Patch was the worst goalie Woodhall had ever seen but the Wingco just wouldn’t boot him out of the team. Patch had the new-style flying-boots. That was everything that Woodhall knew about Patch.
His own target was taking a pasting. Each bullet burned a big silver coin in the paintwork so that the bomber seemed to be showered with newly minted half-crowns. All over the fuselage they stuck, appearing like a magic pox upon the wings and the port-engine cowling until the engine hid itself in a white cloud of coolant. Break now, Woodhall told himself. He took his finger off the button, the intricate cat’s-cradle snapped and the two aeroplanes separated. The disc that had been the Heinkel’s revolving propeller blades went dark on one side where the engine was suffering friction. Unless they feathered immediately the prop would break up.
As Woodhall’s Hurricane passed over the Heinkel he could feel the closeness of the other plane. Perhaps it was the sound, or a change in the reflected light or the pressure of the air, but whatever it was it gave Woodhall a curious feeling of being one with the machine. Patch must have copped it during the dive. It just wasn’t Patch’s style to ram the brute, so he must have been unconscious or crippled and unable to move. It happens. We all know it happens. Poor Patch. Woodhall began to compose the letter to Patch’s mother. He’d written three in the last ten days so he knew the form by now. If only the relatives knew what it took out of a chap to write a next-of-kin letter they would make do with the Air Ministry telegram. Perhaps Patch had left a last letter. Now that was very much in character. He was a good chap: self-conscious and shy and keen to give no one any trouble. Woodhall would still mention that misalignment of the guns to the armament bod. Some of the pilots had their guns loaded with every other bullet a De Wilde instead of one in five. The armourers objected because the incendiary bullets fouled the guns, but it might be worth trying. It would be politic to mention that at the same time.
Above them the Messerschmitts and Spitfires were now only a mile apart. Woodhall fixed a point in the sky to which he would bring the Flight for a head-on attack. He looked around. They were all with him, but the two new pilots were strung out a bit. A gentle curve to port would give them a chance to cut the corner and catch up. Woodhall liked them in tight behind him. There was no need to tell them on the blower. They’d soon get the idea.
Woodhall brought the stick over before putting on any rudder. It gave them a chance to get into the turn as soon as he did. One day before the war he’d flown in a formation of Gauntlets. They were all thousand-hour chaps and the formation leader didn’t have to do anything like that. They were tight in behind him no matter what he did. Woodhall would love to lead such men in a high-speed monoplane formation. No babying anyone, no R/T warnings, no banks before turning, everyone’s reaction time as fast as his own. Faster perhaps.
He looked down towards the tilting earth. The mist parted, and for a moment there was revealed a grand design of fields and villages, linked by roads both straight and crooked, beset by pits and surmounted with peaks. The world turned grey once more. With such brief clarity must a man find God.
Now some rudder. One silly sod hadn’t even started yet. Great Scot! What did these fellows do when they were flying? Did they never see anything? The two new bods were catching up. That’s good, he didn’t want to throttle back to wait for them. The first of the 109s had broken formation to get at the Spits. Funny, that, he would have kept them together. Some Staff bugger along for the ride, trying to chalk up a kill to impress the brass-hats. Last month they’d had a chap from Group tag along with them in a Spitfire. They’d had a bundle with some 109s and the poor old sod had bought it. Woodhall knew exactly what had happened: a Hurricane had shot it down. A Spit can look very like a Bf 109 in front elevation – and that’s the view you get when you’ve got to make the fastest decision. Anyway, a chap flying a Hurribird in a mêlée is awfully tempted to shoot at anything that doesn’t look like a Hurribird. Of course, Woodhall had never uttered these thoughts.
They were tight together again now. The Heinkels were keeping a steady course. ‘Blue Leader to Blue and Red sections. Line astern: go! Head-on. We’ll go under them but don’t lose height. Out.’ After he’d switched the microphone off Woodhall snorted to himself: these line-astern formations were another R.A.F. absurdity. Woodhall looked in his mirror. The Heinkel Patch had hit was miles away; a great trail of smoke jabbing into the mist. No parachutes anywhere.
Two more of the Heinkels were crippled. Both were doing all they could to keep formation but they were beginning to slide back through it. The leader was also losing height. When they had gone through the formation again Woodhall would have to decide whether to go after the stragglers or try again to break up the formation. He shouldn’t really have to make the decision, his orders were quite clear, but it wasn’t easy to leave two like that so that some sprog has only to follow them until they crash in order to claim a kill. Oh well, he mustn’t become victory-happy. That was just for the V.R. chaps and the fellows from the auxiliary squadrons. Regulars are paid to be airmen. They are paid to stay at the sharp end, obeying the stupid orders as well as the clever ones. Regulars fly in proper uniform with collar and tie and with life jacket tied. If the others wanted to fly in shirtsleeves and civvy cardigans, do victory rolls and get their photos in the newspapers, well, that was all right too.
Woodhall tapped the throttle and unclipped the face mask to scratch the side of his nose. Even through his glove he could feel that his face was wet with perspiration. He reclipped the mask and stole a glance at his wrist-watch. It was 12.16. Forty-four minutes to go until lunch. In that minute he’d travelled nearly seven miles.
The two crippled Heinkels were both losing height now. Perhaps he’d let one of the boys claim half of his. On the other hand, would that imbue the boy with a false confidence and make him do something stupid? Oh well, he’d have plenty of opportunity for making that decision during the next attack.
Bonus for a Salesman
My dear old friend,
Public relations or not, Perce, it’s still nice of you to remember my birthday, and thank you for the new catalogue. When you retire next month there will be no one at the firm who was there in my time. I hope you can read my writing, Percy. As you well know, I was never good at writing letters or any other sort of paperwork which is, I suppose, why I wanted to get out on the road instead of staying inside that miserable little office in Railway Street. On that last trip though, the girl did it all for me. Perhaps you noticed the good handwriting.
The girl, I had picked up in Caracas or Trinidad or somewhere up there in the north, so it must have been soon after the trip began. I always worked south to Rio and then came back across the South Atlantic in a first-class cabin. By Christ, I needed a little relaxation and luxury when I’d got to the end of one of those jaunts. Sometimes I went on the wagon during the return voyage. Three times around A deck before a boiled-egg breakfast. Into bed alone, while the other salesmen were telling their dirty stories and lining up the triples in the Neptune Bar. (Or, if it was the Roconia, the Swordfish Bar.) I used to count the days! Christ knows what I would have done that day in the village if I’d known how long it was going to be before I saw Rio again.
I unbuttoned my shirt and, after wiping the chair-back with a piece of newspaper, hung my clean white shirt upon it. Clean white shirts were the main armament of a European salesman in those days. A frayed collar or a gravy stain would place you among the poor whites or half-caste locals trying to get a pass, or a visa, or a passage, or a dowry or Christ-knows-what they were all trying to get. Every waiting-room was packed with dozens of them, camping there with wives and screaming kids. Once you sat down among them, you’d never get in to sell anyone anything.
The girl watched me take off my shirt and she pulled open the bodice of her petticoat and blew down there. She looked up to see me watching her and smiled. ‘It’s hot, no?’
‘It’s hot, sí,’ I said. She even spoke like something out of a bad film. ‘So open the bloody window more, you stupid bitch.’
She didn’t show any anger. She never did. They are like that, these girls; they’ve all got a trace of Indian in them. Calm, see, and patient. Some night, I told myself, she’ll cut your sodding throat and there won’t be a whisper of noise.
‘It will only open as far as that, Alberto. There is a bar fixed to the balcony.’
‘Like buggery there is,’ I said, ‘artful bleeders!’ She was right. There was a metal bar bolted to the balcony so that the window would open enough to ventilate the room but not enough for anyone to step out on to the balcony. At least, not wide enough for me to step out on to the balcony. The girl might squeeze through. Still, she’d never be able to climb down the pipe, and the drop was thirty feet or more. She’d probably break her back legs or something. You know what birds are like.
I was cooler by the window. She went and sat down on the fleabitten old bed. I heard the brass frame of it creak but I didn’t look around. A bus came down the main street. How it failed to hit someone I’ll never know. There were chickens and cats and dogs and Indians and kids screaming their stupid heads off and running out to meet it. The driver didn’t care, but by some strange alchemy when the dust settled around the halted bus there were no casualties except in the sense that they were all casualties.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘I mean they are all casualties,’ I repeated. ‘Poor bastards. You should come over here and see them trying to get into that bus. There must be fifty on the roof and they are chucking boxes and things down to make room for more.’
‘Will they get to the coast?’
‘They’ll get to the coast all right,’ I said grimly, ‘if they walk there stark naked.’ I turned to her, I wanted to explain that she’d be no better off down there with them. ‘They’ll get a mile down the road and there’ll be a roadblock. The soldiers will strip them and turn the bus over to this bugger Manio. It’s obvious, isn’t it? That’s just what he needs for moving his half-baked army from this road to the capital and then back again if needed.’
‘His army is not much good?’ she said. She was a sarcastic cow, always having a go at me in that quiet way, pretending to be so bloody complaisant. She knew it was my policy never to criticize the police or the army or even the rebels of any country to which I regularly travelled. It’s a good rule, because first you may only think things, next you have a couple of drinks and you start saying them. There was a fellow named Murdoch –best bloody rep we ever had – remember old Norman Murdoch? No one could ever teach him to stay off the subject of the dago authorities. He did three years in some poxy prison up-country, and would have done eight, but there was a revolution and he got out along with the shoot-up artists. By that time he could speak one of the hill dialects like a native, and his Spanish was so vernacular I could hardly understand a word he said. He could have made his fortune after that but he wouldn’t come back no more. He lost his nerve, I suppose. He ended up an assistant poxy personnel manager in Birmingham.
‘His army is valiente, muy valiente,’ I said.
‘Why does the driver go?’ she said. I was looking at the bus again, the driver was a regular bloody Ramon Novarro: shiny, long, black hair, flashing white teeth. Perhaps it’s all that bloody maize muck they eat. I touched the bald patch on my head and searched out my fillings with the tip of my tongue.
‘Who knows?’ I answered. ‘Perhaps he’s one of General Manio’s people. Perhaps he’s got a wife who nags the arse off him. Perhaps he just doesn’t give a shit.’ I picked at the Victorian wallpaper and tore a strip of it away from the wall. Then I looked at the picture over the wash basin: Napoleon taking a sword from some bugger. That’s the way the generals fought their wars, like bloody horse-racing. All they lost was their sodding swords. They were never locked up in lousy, nitty hotels in some little stench-pit of a jungle bus-stop, waiting for some punch-drunk wogs to put them up against the wall.
‘You shouldn’t lose your temper,’ she said. ‘It makes you smoke too much.’
‘It’s all bloody fine and nice for you,’ I said. ‘Any time you feel like it, you can clear off. I’ve seen that bloody sentry eyeing you every time he comes in with the food. You can choose,’ I said, ‘between death and a fate worse than it.’ I laughed. It seemed quite a good joke, considering I wasn’t sitting back in the Savage Club with a glass in my hand. But she didn’t laugh; she howled.
