Undying

The Krauts had thrown everything but the kitchen sink at the airfields. I could see a flight of Stukas off to the east. They were being bounced by the Spitfires of 609 Squadron. Lucky them; The Stuka was a notorious sitting duck. Our problem was more serious. Since, the Ju88 was almost as fast as we were. It looked like the whole Luftwaffe, plus Hitler and Goering himself, had decided to make the call. There must have been fifty of them. They were at seventeen thousand feet in a clear blue English summer sky. We climbed to twenty-six thousand, which was close to our operational ceiling and circled until the lead elements were right underneath us. Then we came down like stooping hawks.

The Ju88 was what is called a "schnellbomber" very fast and lightly armed. So, we weren't worried about the single MG81 that the rear gunner had. Taffy picked out a Ju88 on the edge of the highest flight and walked his .303s right up the fuselage from back to front. I saw the canopy explode and the bomber began to spiral down. The 303 is a pea-shooter compared to the twenty-millimeter cannon that the Spits and 109s pack. So, you have to line up the shot a lot more carefully. Fortunately, the Hurricane was a superbly stable gun platform.

I didn't fire a shot. I was on Taffy's wing, mainly to provide wing cover and learn the ropes. We hurtled through the Germans and then hauled up for a pass at their bellies. The formation had mostly gone past when we got up to the lowest echelon. The Ju88 is a fine aircraft. But it is almost defenseless if you are attacking from underneath. Taffy fired a three second burst into the wing root of the leader and then another one into the portside wing. He must have hit a bomb because the wing blew off and the JU88 cartwheeled away. I still hadn't fired a shot.

We were loitering beneath the bomber stream when Taffy indicated that it was showtime for me. He drifted back on my wing and I picked out the tail-end-Charlie. I corkscrew turned, to line him up from the rear, fired a three second burst and missed by twenty yards. He was a lot faster than I thought. I closed the range, meanwhile the cockpit rear gunner was trying to get me first. I heard a few strikes on the fuselage and wings but I was intent on the prey looming in the sighting reticule of my GM2. The fact that he was shooting at me pissed me off. So, I gave him the full nine yards. Machine gun belts are exactly twenty-seven feet long.

There were strikes all over the middle of the fuselage and he burst into flames. I saw the face of the guy who'd been shooting at me as I zoomed over my "kill." I'll never forget his expression. It was a mask of horror. His look made war a reality and it made me question what I was doing up there.

Both Taffy and I were out of ammunition. We had splashed three and we were ready to refuel and rearm. One of the things that made a difference in the Battle of Britain was the fact that the Germans were at the edge of their operational range. Whereas we could pop down for a quick cup of tea and more gas and goodies. We flew three more sorties that day. Taffy got another one which made him two kills short of being an ace. The only JU88 to get through our covering patrols hit a building behind the field instead of us. They DID bomb the shit out of RAF Andover.

The next day it was He111s. They hit one of the hangers and killed a few of our people. The Spits from 609 Squadron caught them on the way back. The entire squadron bagged another fourteen. And thus, the months of August, September and October passed. They'd come over in waves. We'd shoot down a flock of them. They'd knock down a few of ours. The difference was that our chaps would parachute safely away and be ready to go the next day. Whereas, theirs were destined for internment in Canada. I'd been to Canada. I didn't envy them.

Unfortunately, there were so many of them and so few of us that the sheer weight of numbers was beginning to turn the tide in the German's favor. Our airfields were being bombed into uselessness and it was starting to look like they might knock the RAF out of the war. Then it all mysteriously stopped. They say that a bomber command raid on Berlin pissed off Hitler so much that he ordered the Luftwaffe to devote all of its resources to leveling London. Whatever the reason was, it was a big mistake. Once they stopped paying attention to the RAF, we were able to build back to prewar strength and new pilots restocked the ones we'd lost. The bombing of English cities didn't hurt fighter command in the slightest.

Our Hurricanes and Spits mauled the shit out of the Huns every time they came over in the daylight and so they switched to night attacks. It was basically indiscriminate saturation bombing in the dark and a lot of London's east end and dockside was on fire every night. The dilemma posed by the German's new tactics was that Britain didn't have any significant night fighter capability. That was when I was transferred to 604 squadron.

By that point I had three confirmed kills and I was considered to be an up-and-comer among the old hands at Middle-Wallop. So, they seconded me to a squadron made up entirely of Bristol Beaufighters. The Beau was a beast. It had two 1,600 horsepower radial engines and weighed almost eight tons. The Brits needed a platform to haul the newly developed Mk-14 aerial intercept radar, which let us see the Kraut bombers when they came over at night. The problem was that, up to that point they didn't have anything fast, or lethal enough to be operationally effective. The Beaufighter was the answer.

If the Spit was lethal nobility and the Hurricane was a honest, hardworking tradesman. The Beaufighter was the brawny, broken nosed thug, with a club on his shoulder, and a blackjack in his pocket. It was actually a bit faster than the Hurricane and its four, nose mounted 20mm cannon, delivered a punch more devastating than a Joe Lewis upercut. Better yet, mine was delivered by ATA pilot officer Anna Lambert. I'd known my love was coming. So, I was standing by the revetment when she rolled my new steed in to park it.

I fell in love twice. First, with the beauty who emerged smiling from the cockpit and slithered down onto the wing. The second was with the Beau itself. It was my kind of aircraft, brutally, efficient and extraordinarily lethal. Anna jumped off the wing directly into my arms, flying suit and all, wrapped those beautiful legs around my waist and we had a moment; right there in front of the ground crew. We both had overnight passes. So, we retired posthaste to the Dolphin. We had gotten the same room, with the bay window overlooking the River Itchen. Anna had brought a little canvas bag with a change of clothing. But she still had on her flight suit.

As soon as I closed the door, she kicked off her flying boots and turned toward me with a delightfully devilish look on her face. She slowly and seductively unzipped the flight suit and shrugged it off her shoulders, revealing that she had been flying an eight-ton fighter aircraft totally alfresco. Her round, perfectly shaped breasts, her tight little body and her beautiful long legs had nothing hiding them from prying eyes but an olive drab, cotton coverall. She smiled seductively posed and said cheekily, "You like?" I most certainly LIKED!!

I lost my uniform pants shirt and shoes like they'd been blasted off. I strode the four feet to Anna, threw my arms around her and we fell backwards onto the bed; with her laughing merrily. As soon as I got us situated, I took a moment to look at her jewel of a body. It was like the opening chords of Beethoven's Ninth. You might have heard it a hundred times. But it still moves you.

It was Anna's absolutely ideal proportions that struck me. Her neck was graceful yet powerful. At the same time, her shoulders were broad, but delicate. Her breasts were ample but still perfectly shaped and proportionate to her body. The nipples were little stalwart watch towers on the swell of those two superb hills. Her stomach was flat, and her hips were wide and fruitful. Yet, you could see the muscle structure that defined their ideal shape.

Of course, her legs were her real glory; long smooth and shining thighs the muscles clearly outlined, with a gap at the top. Her tibia were perhaps a tad longer than the average woman's and so her lower legs looked almost coltish. The whole thing ended in a dainty pair of feet. Those feet had just been pushing on the rudder pedals of an eight-ton Bristol Beaufighter. Now they were pushing on the bed in eager anticipation; bright red toenails curled.

I looked at her superb face. It was beaming with adoration. I said simply and humbly, "I love you." She whispered, "I love you too." Then our lips met. Her mouth opened to greet my eagerly probing tongue and we were totally wrapped up in each other for what seemed like hours. Yet, there is always a point where lust trumps romance. Anna uttered a guttural moan and her legs began to open. It was like they were moving without her conscious control. I climbed between them, supporting myself on my arms. I was gazing into the depth of her eyes. There was a feral connection. It was as if the link had been forged at the beginning of time.

Then her eyes very slowly rolled up in her head. She uttered a wild cry of passion, grabbed me and forced me into her eager receptacle. She elevated her hips so that I instantly slid to the top. We stayed there utterly joined for seconds and then she began to buck uncontrollably. I had never seen a woman come so fast. But that was only the beginning. She began to urgently mutter, "On top, on top." I got the message. I reversed us, still joined, with her gripping my hips like she was riding a horse. She sat straight up, impaled, hands on my chest, face contorted in lust, eyes screwed totally shut. Then she began an exaggerated circling motion with her hips emitting little shrieks and whimpers.

As she did that she leaned backwards, mouth wide open, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Her right arm was extended, so that her hand was gripping my left thigh. I began to hump like an extraordinarily mad, March Hare. She gave a throaty laugh, that was full of erotic meaning. Then she seemed to implode on herself. Her head snapped forward, whipping her glorious mop of hair around her face, and then back again. She gave a wild cry and started to bounce up and down so hard that I was afraid she would hurt her lady parts. Then her hips went into overdrive back and forth, she emitted a strangled moan and her body went totally rigid. She held herself motionless in that muscle cracking pose for thirty or forty seconds, while her passage went insane. Then she shrieked and collapsed forward on my chest, limp.

I was close at that point. So, I reversed us again. Her legs and head were flopping around as I did that, like she was unconscious. But there comes a time when you simply lose track of the fine details and this was it. I pounded on her limp frame for a few seconds and then it was like a block-buster exploded in my loins. I buried my face in her neck and didn't surface again for an eternity. When I did, my first thought was. "This is sex for the ages."

Anna seemed to have gotten her wits back by the time my sanity returned. She giggled and said, '"You really didn't have to fuck me to death. I can't imagine how I could EVER love you more." I laughed and said, "I can always try." Then I added with total sincerity, "Here we are, stuck in harm's way. And I have never been happier in my life."

*****

The Beaufighter took a while to master and nighttime radar interception was a new thing. So, the entire squadron was stood down while we worked on night fighting. Our ground-based radar could get us within five miles. That was sufficient in the daylight. But at night, you had to be within 1,000 to 2,000 feet to spot your target. The Mark IV Airborne Intercept radar mounted on the Beaufighter filled in the gap.

The Beau is a two-seater; pilot in the front, radar operator directly behind. My operator was a sergeant named Ginger. He was a Geordie with an accent so thick I could barely understand him. The rest of the chaps assured me that it wasn't my fault. Apparently neither the English, nor the Scots can understand Tyneside either.

He was a decent bloke, kind of a caricature of a Newcastle United supporter; all Toon army, pub fights and Scots resoluteness. He was perhaps seventeen, although he looked like he'd just entered puberty, pimples and all. Of course, the zits blended well with the ginger hair and freckles. I had just reached the ripe old age of twenty-two. So, he treated me like his da. He sat behind me crammed into the cockpit of the Beau gazing at little waves on a lighted screen, like an oscilloscope. Somehow, he could tell where the targets were from what he saw. So, he would take over the navigation once the Dowling controllers at Uxbridge had vectored us into the general area. We tried it out first, with intercepts of our own aircraft.

Outside the cockpit, it was nothing but stars at 19,000 feet, pitch black below. Ginger was calling the headings and I was driving blind. We had made several course and elevation changes when he said confidently, "He's ooon yr starboord quarrrter." I looked and sure enough, the target Wellington was flogging along just a thousand feet away. I announced on the common frequency, "You've just been shot down." And the Wellington driver said blithely, "Thanks for the bounce old boy."

We ran those practice ops almost every night for a week. Then we were ready for the real deal. By that point my Beau had been painted black with grey splotches as camouflage. We were almost invisible in the night. Different than day operations, our night fighters took off like solitary birds of prey. We carried one external tank so we could loiter high over the bomber streams, waiting to be vectored in.

It must have been a busy night for the Heinies because we hadn't been on-station for more than a few minutes when we got our first call. There was a flight of three bogeys headed for the Isle of Dogs. We were loitering at 20,000 feet over Croydon, so we got the assignment. The Dowding controllers were vectoring us toward Bromley. But of course, we couldn't see the Hun, who could be anywhere from 25,000 feet down to right on the deck. Still, Ginger picked them up almost immediately, flying at 15,000 feet.

They were HE 111s, better armed than the JU88s and Dornier's, but slower. They were the workhorse of the Luftwaffe because of their carrying capacity. I was counting on the Beau's hitting power and the fact that we were more-or-less invisible to the ventral and dorsal gunners as we crept up behind the 111 on the left side of the echelon. They were cruising rather than flying at full speed, obviously trying to conserve fuel. But then again, what did they have to worry about except the flak over the target.

That was a fatal misassumption. I lined up my unsuspecting quarry, closing to easy shooting range. The Beau was a silent and invisible predator, stalking an unwary victim. It almost didn't seem fair. Twenty millimeter cannon deliver a devastating blow and there was the added advantage that they were situated right in front of me. So, all I had to do was aim the aircraft. The problem was that they're also so powerful that they'd drive the nose down when you shoot.

I fired a short burst and immediately pulled back on the yoke, to line up the leader. I really didn't even have to look at my first kill. My twenties had blown his left wing off and he started to somersault. He never knew what hit him. The leader must have seen what happened because he began a right bank, and the ventral gunner opened fire. The Hun was shooting wild because he still didn't see me. The twenty-millimeter shells ripped into the bomb bay right behind the ventral position and blew the entire Heinkel to kingdom come.

I was occupied for several seconds avoiding flying pieces of bomber. As I was doing that, the last 111 broke right and disappeared headed home. I would have chased him, but I was out of ammunition. The twenty-mike-mikes are notorious gluttons. There was a bit of a celebration waiting for me when I got back. The last Heinkel had made me an ace, just like my Dad. I immediately called Anna. I wanted to do a little bragging.

They told me she was delivering a Stirling for Coastal Command. It was a relatively short flight from Stoke down to St. Eval in Cornwall, where she was dropping it off, and she would be back by midafternoon. I told them to have her give me a call when she returned. Then I hit the rack for a well-deserved kip. I wanted to be rested because I still had to be back in the office that evening. I had been sawing logs for approximately four hours when one of the enlisted clerks from squadron headquarters roused me. He said gravely, "The governor wants to talk to you." That would be Squadron Leader Michael Anderson.

Mike was a handsome, late thirties guy, who was always fun at the pub. So, I was in good spirits when I approached his door. I was thinking he probably wants to congratulate me for getting dealt the ace. I knocked and heard, "Come!" Mike was sitting behind his desk, pipe in mouth. He looked dire. I thought, "Oh-oh, what's this??!!" He said, "Sit down Tom. I have some very bad news." My first thought was my father. I felt a wave of sadness.

That thought was annihilated by his next words. He said sadly, "We just received word that the Stirling your wife was flying was shot down over the Bristol Channel. It went straight in. There were no survivors. I'm very sorry old chap."

How do you react to the news that ends your life? My precious wife; snuffed out by the heartless vagaries of war. Anything else could've happened and I would have survived. But this was unsustainable. I was alive and breathing - temporarily. But I was a deadman. Anderson was staring at me like a parachute mine had just landed in his visitor's chair. He needn't worry I no longer had a soul. All I had left on this earth was one final task.

I said mildly, "Who shot her down." Anderson said warily, "It was a 109. The women in the accompanying Stirling said it was one of the Abbeville Boys." Those fuckers flew Messerschmitt's with a distinctive yellow nose. I didn't have any idea what one of them was doing over the Bristol channel in the daylight. But it made sense. He must have been freelancing after escorting bombers up to Bristol or Cardiff.

I sat there for an eternity. Anderson puffed his pipe and waited. I finally sighed and said, "Well there's nothing I can do about it, thanks for telling me." He looked surprised. I suppose he expected an explosion. There would be one all right. But it wasn't going to be in his office. I said, just to make sure he wouldn't get in my way, "I'm fit for duty, Sir. I just need some time to grieve. I'll be in the air tonight." I turned and walked out of his office before he could stop me. I made it a point to act as normal as possible for the next couple of weeks.

There was a little remembrance ceremony in Maidenhead. Her parents were there and so was I. They looked almost as distraught as I felt. I tried to say a few words. But despair was my only friend now, and anguish was its everlasting companion. I just stood there choking. I couldn't even speak. I finally had to sit down, bury my face in my hands, and let it all out.

I must have looked awful. Because the CO started hinting that I was going to be stood down. It was only the fact that the Blitz was still raging that kept me in the air. For a fortnight, I was a remorseless killing machine. I took every vector they offered, and I added six more HE 111s, making me a double ace. I always shot for the fuel tanks. It gave me a small amount of satisfaction watching them burn.