Inspector Yarrow

Chapter 5

The next time!

The squadron had been scrambled to intercept a large force of bombers and escorts heading for the airfields of Kent and Essex and he was closing in on the Heinkel 111 bomber. He knew the Me 109 fighters were high above, but he ignored that, his job and that of the rest of his squadron was to shoot down the bombers making such devasting attacks on the fighter airfields. If the bombers got through and damaged the airfields beyond repair the war was lost. Let the Glory Boys in the Spitfires take care of the German fighters.

He closed in on the Heinkel, watching as the target grew larger in his g*n sights.

Green One, David Clarke, the section leader was ahead to his right tracking another bomber, part of a massive fleet of over 200 Heinkel’s and Dornier’s from all of the Luftlotte 2 Staffels, escorted by several Jasta of Messerschmitt 109s. The third pilot in B Flight, Edward Morrisey, the Tail End Charlie, was behind to the left. The other planes from the squadron were lost to sight amongst the confused melee of fighters and bombers as from the corner of his eye he saw a Dornier going down in flames, followed down by a spiralling, smoking Hurricane, but not from 249 Squadron.

He lowered his seat as far as possible to reduce his profile and give him more protection. Switch on the guns, then the Aldis gunsight, fixing the calibration for a Heinkel 111 so that when the target filled the sight, wing to black-crossed wing, the range was right – three hundred yards. The Hurricane juddered as he fired, and he noted the check in airspeed as the sun-bright yellow tracer from the 8 wing-mounted Browning machine guns streaked across the airspace like an electrified hose and bits of the Heinkel began to fly away. He closed in, all eight guns firing straight into the circle of his gunsight, wanting to bring the range down to two hundred yards. He aimed for the wing root of the bomber, weaken the root sufficiently and the wing would fold in, bringing the bomber down.

The next time!

‘Break, break, break’, he heard Morrisey shouting through his headset. ‘Chris,109 on your tail. Break!’

Immediately he spun away, diving to the right, but the Me 109 followed him down in a tighter turn. A loud bang, the plane shuddered as each bullet from the Messerschmitt struck and the crippled plane spun away into the death-spiral. The canopy had shattered in the attack and he felt the shards of acrylic striking his face, blood streaming down, sharp needles of pain where broken glass from his smashed goggles pierced his left eye.

He fought the spiral, retarding the engine to idle since the power of the engine only increased the speed of the spiral. He neutralised the ailerons and despite the agony in his wounded leg, and hand had brought the plane out of the spin by applying full rudder opposite to the rotation but could not control the crippled plane as it ploughed into the coppice, narrowly avoiding a fatal direct impact into the trees, but smashing into the ground between the age old trunks. By good fortune, the plane did not catch fire, had it done so he would have been incinerated where he sat, unable to move, his legs broken in the impact. He passed out.

Pain. Intense pain, memories of pain, vague memories of being lifted from the wreck of his plane. Blackness.