大象传媒

Easier By The Minute
by
Simon Paul Watton

PART 1

The corporal鈥檚 northern tones bounced around the timbers of the sparse barrack hut,
鈥淥h-seven-thirty, gentlemen; briefing at oh-eight-thirty.鈥�
As his fellow fliers coarsely cajoled each other from their slumber Peter shook the sleep from his head and eased unwilling feet down onto the bare floorboards.
He reached for his wash gear and plodded over to the flimsy window frame, pressing his face against the cold panes.
Beyond the edge of the forest a nascent spring day awaited, the early morning mist already clearing from the airstrip and disappearing into the kindling blue above. Today鈥檚 weather wasn鈥檛 going to stop their Tempest mark V鈥檚 taking to the air in pursuit of the fleeing German Army.
The squadron had only been at Kluis, near Nijmegen, for five days, and already it looked like they鈥檇 be moving forward again.

Ready in their flying kit Peter and his comrades joined the other young RAF men assembled for the briefing. Higher powers had cancelled the 09.00 take off. Thirty-three Squadron with the rest of 135 Wing, was stood down, rescheduled to take off later in the day.

Yesterday, Peter had safely completed his twenty-sixth op - a multiple of the dreaded thirteen; and tomorrow, Friday the thirteenth of April, he was going on leave. The day鈥檚 only flying would be seated safely in the back of the squadron Dakota as it rattled its way across the channel to RAF Odiham. He鈥檇 be in a cosy guest house in Bournemouth with his mother and sister by lunch time. All he had to do today was keep safe; and, judging by the instructions coming down from above, that was getting easier by the minute.

A few minutes after midday, with Peter holding the No4 position of Yellow Section, the twelve aircraft of 33 Squadron, along with the Tempests of 222 and 274 Squadrons - the other units of 135 Wing 鈥� roared down the strip at the edge of the Dutch forest and climbed into the air.
The thirty-six aircraft flew eastward through the cloudless skies, instructed to sweep the German air force bases at Munster, Osnabruk and then Quackenbruk in an effort to force the remnants of the once mighty Luftwaffe into the air.

There was no air activity around the three bases, the Luftwaffe were staying on terra firma. The Wing attacked the few ground targets, receiving the customary ferocious reception from the German gunners; and was then detailed off in sections.
Captain Thompson, with the new boy Sgt Staines tucked in behind him, led the four aircraft of 33鈥檚 yellow section off eastwards in search of troop movement. Jo ter Beek, a hard-nosed Dutchman, held the No3 position.

Peter was glad to get clear of the enemy air bases; they were always hotly defended, and today had been no exception. Sqd Ldr Lyons of 222 had been temporarily knocked unconscious by a shell over the first base and forced to coax his stricken aircraft back to Kluis.

After fifteen minutes of fruitless flying Thompson turned the section northwards on the penultimate leg of their triangular sweep.
Peter wanted a quick look at the map, they were a long way from base and although not responsible for the section鈥檚 navigation, he felt it sensible to know where they were. He quickly slipped off his left glove and ran his fingers over the map, glancing at his watch as his sleeve rode up his out-stretched arm鈥� 12.28鈥� Yellow section were a few miles west of Ulzen.
Before replacing his glove Peter once again glanced ahead at ter Beek鈥檚 tailplane, checking on his position in the formation. As he made a small correction Thompson鈥檚 clipped and economic South African tones crackled over the R/T,
鈥淕round target ahead, down to attack.鈥�
Staines and ter Beek opened their throttles and followed, the three aircraft racing towards a line of thirty-odd grey-green vehicles moving sedately eastwards along a country road.
Peter wrapped his fingers around the bare metal of the throttle lever and slid it forward, his glove still on his lap.
He guided his gunsight onto a vehicle. The screaming aircraft were spotted coming out of the midday sun. A convulsion passed through the column and it juddered to a halt.
In the shaking black circle on the perspex in front of him, the young airman watched grey-clad figures spew out from the canvas-covered sides of the truck and jump frantically over the field-gun hitched behind. He held the aircraft steady. His cannon fire hit the body of the truck and he pulled the mark V up following the three aircraft in front as they turned westwards in a huge circle over a sea of deciduous woodland and commenced a second run on the exposed column.
Ter Beek鈥檚 aircraft had already cleared the line of vehicles as Peter lined up a second truck in his sights. Hitting the gun button early he watched as his fire ripped up the ground in front of the vehicle. A second row of fire tore up the ground - he could smell cordite. At the very instant Peter worked it out for himself, Thompson鈥檚 voice echoed flatly over the R/T
鈥淟ook out No4 , he鈥檚 up your tail!鈥�
Peter鈥檚 head span round. Just ten yards from his tailplane was the snarling prop of a Focke-Wulf 190.

Holding the stick forward with his left hand, he reached out for the round head of the drop tank release. The aircraft lifted slightly as the tanks fell away. Bringing his hand back to the controls, he hauled the stick towards him and slid the throttle forward with his left hand, sending the Tempest soaring to fifteen hundred feet.

The Focke-Wulf had disappeared. Had it flown into the falling drop tanks? It had certainly missed its chance. The Tempest was intact. Pete quickly scanned the skies - a melee of twenty odd Messerschmitts and Fw鈥檚 buzzed around his comrades.
The next day鈥檚 rendezvous in Dorset sparked forlornly across his mind - this far beyond the lines his leave had gone with his drop tanks.
Before the thought had even left his mind, he chillingly realised that it was likely to be far worse than missing out on his leave; against such odds, he was probably going to die in the bright spring skies of northern Germany, just nine weeks before his twenty second birthday.

Within seconds two German aircraft were on his tail vying for a shooting chance. Instinct took over and Peter kept the manoeuvrable Tempest turning inside the pursuing aircraft as a third German aircraft joined the foray. An Me109 screamed through his gun sight. He let off a burst hopelessly late and banked hard right trying to shake off the closing trio on his tail, his gunfire having slowed the Tempest.
A 190 flew into his sights. He pressed hard on the gun button and fancied he saw cannon ripping into its cowling and cockpit-side before he quickly turned the mark V away.
Machines cavorted through the clear ether in the April sunshine, Peter letting bursts of fire off at the fleeting chances the odds gave him. Coming out of a tight right turn a Focke-Wulf came into view above him. Peter kicked left as the Luftwaffe man slipped a tight turn and fired a burst. The turning Tempest juddered violently as cannon shells tore into the underside of its nose.
It was only a few seconds before Peter knew the radiator had been hit, the overheating engine oil igniting and filling the cockpit with a searing, acrid heat.
This was it. He wouldn鈥檛 even get chance to crash-land the aircraft now. It was time to bail out.
He straightened up the dying machine and tore off his helmet, leaving the R/T lead attached. If a burst of gunfire slammed into his back as he clambered out, so be it; he was certainly going to die if he stayed where he was.
Holding the stick between his knees, his ungloved left hand fumbled with the new style harness-release clamped tight on his lower belly - it wouldn鈥檛 give; with rising terror he reached forward with his right hand and yanked at the hood jettison toggle. As the slipstream ripped the canopy clear, a blow-torch of flame exploded into the cockpit from the engine. Peter desperately tore at the harness-release mechanism, the flesh on his exposed hand sizzling in the thundering inferno and his uncovered hair crackling as the flames swept out of the cockpit. Now, Now, he had to go Now.
The harness suddenly gave and his training took over. Still holding the stick between his knees he frantically trimmed the aircraft nose-heavy and ripped off his mask. The aircraft fell away as he released his grip, his right knee ripping open on the cockpit lip as he tumbled out.

Twisting through the air he could hear an inner voice,
鈥淐alm, stay calm鈥� don鈥檛 hit the release buckle like in the crew-room鈥� Only 1500 feet. Rip cord鈥� The rip cord鈥� Pull the rip cord.鈥�

Peter watched the nails fall away from his roasted fingers as he yanked at the cord.
A sudden jolt and then silence. Silence and pain. He glanced down. The tattered remnants of his trousers flapped uselessly in the breeze as he hung suspended under the open canopy. In the forest, a thousand feet below his gently rotating feet, five fires burned.

The fight over, two Focke-Wulfs cruised towards him 鈥� he froze - had he only escaped the burning cockpit to be butchered whilst helpless in his chute?

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