A Long Way Back: Barbara's War, page 1
Barbara’s War
Alex’s Story
A Long Way Back
Fenella J Miller
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of The Author - Fenella J. Miller
A Long Way Back © Copyright Fenella J. Miller, 2020
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author's imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Cover Design J D Smith
This book is in memory of my step father, Jack Cross, and my father, Frank Rhodes, who both served in the RAF.
Barbara’s War
Barbara’s War -The Middle Years
Barbara’s War -The Resolution
Chapter One
RAF Andreas, Isle of Man, August 1942
Squadron Leader Alex Everton and his eleven Spitfires had scarcely settled into their new home when he was summoned to speak to the CO.
‘Sorry, old boy, almighty cock up. You boys are supposed to be elsewhere. Stanmore, Northolt to be exact.’
‘Bloody hell! We’ve only just arrived. When do we have to leave?’
‘ASAP. There’s a bit of a flap going on and they need you for that. Your kites are being prepared and your ground crew are already packing up and will be flying after you as soon as you’ve left.’
‘Let me get this right, sir, you want us to go now – this very minute?’
‘You’ve got an hour to get your kit packed so you and your chaps had better get a move on.’
Alex left at the double. It took him half an hour to find everyone and none of them were particularly happy to be going back so unexpectedly.
‘For Christ’s sake, Alex, we thought we were stationed here for six months,’ Pete Thompson said.
‘On the bright side, Pete, we’ll be back in Blighty and maybe get to see our families occasionally. There’s no time to write letters now – we’ll have to do that once we’re in Stanmore.’
Freddie Humphrey, his second in command, as always took it in his stride. He was a cheerful chap, nothing got him down, and he would smooth things over with the other boys thus leaving him to run around like a blue-arsed fly getting the paperwork sorted.
His wife, Babs, would be delighted he was back. Their parting had been hard for both of them. He’d thought he wouldn’t see his baby son or his wife for months and had been resigned to it. Maybe this almighty balls-up wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Always a silver lining. The orderly taking care of him must have known the revised orders before he did as his kitbag was packed and waiting for him when he got back to his quarters.
There was a lorry ready to take them across the airfield to their Spits. These were grouped on the far side of the strip. He was the last to arrive.
‘Cutting it a bit fine, Alex, old bean,’ someone said from the rear of the vehicle.
‘I’m here now, so we can go. The Met report’s good for once. Stay in formation, minimum of chat on the radio, keep your eyes peeled for Jerries. You never know if the bastards are lurking about up there hoping for a kill.’
The lorry lurched off, gears screaming, and he was almost flung out of the back of the vehicle much to the amusement of his squadron. He’d only been promoted just before they left and was still getting used to being in command.
Fortunately, he knew half the blokes and this made it easier. They would have told the others that he was an excellent flyer and had clocked up more hours than most. He wasn’t a volunteer but a career man and had been operational for over a year when war broke out.
He was strapped into his Mae West, then, clutching the dinghy and parachute, he clambered into his cockpit with the help of a boost in the rear end by the mechanics.
His radio was switched on, the camera-gun, carburettor, pitot-head, gyro-intake heaters and de-icing equipment were working as they should. Although he didn’t expect his squadron to be involved in any dogfights, the mirror had to be adjusted. A quick look at the sight and then he set the safety catch to off on the guns. Better to be prepared than caught napping.
A Spitfire’s range with a full tank was more than enough for them to cover the three hundred or so miles to Northolt. The bowsers were already trundling away having filled up each kite.
He checked all the bods were installed and then taxied to the dispersal point. He raised and lowered his arm and nodded furiously to show it was time to open throttles. As one he led his flight of aircraft forward, rapidly gaining speed as the marker boards raced past and dust and grass swirled in the air behind them.
As leader he was the point of the Vic – the V-shaped formation that his squadron had adopted – the kites in lines of four behind him. With his radiator flaps wide open he climbed, followed by the rest. At 13,000 feet he leaned down and switched on the oxygen.
They would cruise at just over 300 miles an hour once they were 22,000 feet above sea level. Piece of cake – unless they were unlucky enough to encounter snappers. This was unlikely whilst flying over the Irish Sea but one never knew once they were flying over England.
They kept radio silence. No need to announce their presence to any Huns that might be listening. They had strict instructions not to engage the enemy unless attacked.
They were expected at the base and once down were directed to form up behind three other squadrons. The bowsers raced across and began to refuel. Two erks helped him out.
‘You’re wanted in Ops immediately, sir, there’s transport waiting.’
Alex didn’t need to tell his chaps to grab a wad and a cuppa as they would recognise the significance of the bowsers. A NAAFI truck was parked on the perimeter and the lucky blighters were heading towards it. He doubted he would get time for anything to eat.
Despite the urgency of the summons he made a quick detour to the bog. There was nothing worse than being trapped in a tiny cockpit with a full bladder. A flyer only made that mistake once.
On his entrance the Win Co beamed. ‘Bloody good show, Everton, didn’t expect you for another half an hour. Take a pew and I’ll get started on the gen.’
The intelligence room was thick with smoke and unpleasantly hot, but it wasn’t overcrowded. It was unusual for only the top brass and squadron leaders to be at a meeting like this. Why weren’t the rest of the chaps included? They couldn’t function efficiently as a unit if they didn’t bloody well know where they were going or what they were supposed to be doing when they got there.
There were a few faces that he recognised and he nodded to them as he took his place. They were to be the air support for a raid on Dieppe. God knows why Churchill had chosen this port but he would follow orders and do his duty as expected of him.
There were to be several thousand Canadian troops, tanks and other artillery in this attack and as far as he could see the raid would only succeed if the Germans weren’t alerted. Bomber Command was also involved.
‘Righto, gentlemen, you have your orders. You will convey them to your squadrons verbally. Good luck and safe return. You leave in half an hour.’
Those leaning against the wall straightened and shot off – more likely to grab something to eat than to give the gen to their flyers. He didn’t stop to talk but shouldered his way through and grabbed a bicycle that was leaning drunkenly against the wall.
He pedalled furiously and arrived in a skid of dust and gravel bedside the NAAFI van. He looked around and gestured that his squadron head in his direction for a briefing. Whilst he devoured two bacon sandwiches, he explained their sortie.
Satisfied everyone knew what was happening, where they would be positioned, and what their role would be when they arrived, he swallowed the last of his tea and gave his mug to someone to return to the truck for him. For this op he was Red Leader and Tommy and Jim were his two and three. Freddie, was Blue Leader and Buffy was Yellow. Everyone had a number and a colour and would use these in all communications over the radio.
The armourers finished checking the guns and the ammunition, every Spit was fuelled, and they were ready to go. Cigarettes were stubbed out, gloves pulled on, and ground crew were poised to do their bit to get them in the air.
Alex scrambled up the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit. He checked his harness was secure then began to run through the routine checklists. He applied the brakes first, then checked that the ignition switch was off and that the undercarriage selector was in the down position and the indicator was showing idle. He waited for the green light.
Chocks away and he taxied forward followed by his squadron. Take off was smooth and soon they were climbing to the designated height. Visibility was good and the sky cloudless. Looked pretty but better for everyone when there were clouds you could dive into if required.
His squadron was to fly in reserve – protect the bombers and troop ships that were somewhere ahead of him if necessary. This meant the horizon was empty as the others had taken off two minutes before him and his boys. Beneath him was the Channel. From this height it seemed smooth and inviting but looks could be deceptive. The coastline of France was closer than that of England now.
They’d barely reached cruising height and speed when the radio crackled into life. ‘Red Leader, bandits inc lude many snappers. I say again, many snappers, keep a good lookout. Over.’
Snappers was the codename for Messerschmitt 109s. He acknowledged the information and kept his eyes peeled. Then he saw them approaching. They looked like a small swarm of bees from that distance.
There was a well-known saying in the RAF that it wasn’t the Jerry that you saw that got you, but the one that you didn’t. How true that was.
‘Tally-ho, lads, stay in your pairs. Good luck and good hunting.’ There was no time to say more as the first of the 109s screamed towards him. Streams of tracer twisted past his port wing and he could see the flashes of the Germans guns. His eight Brownings spluttered and the pungent smell of burnt charges filtered into his mask. The bullets found the target and the cockpit of his enemy disintegrated.
No time to congratulate himself as two more were on him seeking revenge. He hauled on the stick and the drag pressed on his face and he almost blacked out. He kicked on the left rudder in the hope that this would confuse his opponents.
His head cleared and for a moment the sky was empty. Then from nowhere they were on him. A stream of solid fire engulfed the kite. He was hit. Flames engulfed his right wing. Bail or burn. He heaved and struggled to get out. He gripped the perspex above his head and pulled. It flew back and he was sucked out and his ruined kite tumbled down beside him. He just had time to see it heading out to sea. Better it crashed in the drink as the Nazis wouldn’t be looking for him.
He counted to ten as instructed before pulling the ripcord. For a moment nothing happened and his heart stood still. Then his head snapped back as the parachute opened above him. His dinghy remained inside the burning wreck. His harness dug into him making it hard to breathe.
Still too high to see if he was going to ditch in the drink or hit the deck. Either way his war was over. He was going to drown or be captured and sent to a POW camp for the duration. He wished he’d had time to write to Babs.
Dangling beneath the silk umbrella was strangely peaceful. He’d expected to be shot down by one of the 109s but he appeared to be alone up there. The wind whistled through the strings and several times he was jerked painfully sideways. He was frozen, wished he’d kept his gloves on. At least he still had his boots which he could also have lost when he’d bailed out.
He wasn’t injured – that had to be a good thing. The only thing that was good in this damned business. It seemed to be taking a long time to reach the ground. He peered between his boots and instead of seeing either the Channel or the pebbled beach of Dieppe he was heading for a forest.
Landing in trees was likely to end in disaster but it also gave him a slim chance of remaining undiscovered by the Germans for a day or two. The Dieppe raid wasn’t supposed to continue for more than a few hours and he’d been shot down before it had really got going. Hopefully, this meant the enemy would be too busy fighting to bother about rounding up stray pilots.
He jiggled the strings which were supposed to help him control his descent but either he was doing it incorrectly or they didn’t work. He continued to drift towards the green canopy. The closer he got the denser the trees looked. He had the quick release knife all flyers were issued with but he was buggered if he knew where it was.
No time to think about it now as the branches rushed towards him. He closed his eyes and sent a fervent prayer up to a God he was quite certain didn’t exist. By some miracle his chute didn’t snag on the massive branches of the tallest trees – he braced himself waiting for the hideous jerk that would follow at any second when it did become entangled.
His harness tightened suddenly as it caught in the lower branches of a massive oak tree cutting off the circulation below the waist. His balls were being crushed. The agony galvanised him into action. He tried to pull himself up by the strings but failed to do more than lacerate his palms.
He gritted his teeth and threw his weight backwards so he swung towards the trunk. He almost blacked out from the pain but the manoeuvre was successful and he was able to grab hold of the branch and haul himself up. The relief was immediate. He clutched the trunk like a drowning man, and pressed his wet cheek against the bark.
Now he was able to breathe normally he began to believe he might get out of this alive. His questing fingers could feel the shape of his knife in a pocket in his jacket. All he had to do was work out how to reach it through his Sidcot suit.
He punched the release clip on his harness and wriggled out, but kept hold of it. Once free of the restraints he hauled himself into the V of the branches and braced himself against the trunk. He was going to try and rip the chute free before cutting the lines. One thing he remembered from his training was that the first thing a downed pilot should do was bury his chute. They had to empty their pockets of personal items before a sortie so that wasn’t a problem. The photo of Babs and Charlie he’d kept tucked into a crevice in the cockpit would have been incinerated.
He heaved and was almost catapulted from his perch when the silk tore free and billowed down. Hastily he gathered it in and used the lines and harness to tie it into a manageable bundle. He rammed this into a hole in the trunk made by an animal of some sort long ago.
Slowly his heart stopped hammering in his ears and his breathing returned to normal. The sound of gunfire, bombs dropping, aerial combat reminded him he wasn’t out of danger yet. He was too damn close. If he was going to have any chance at all of avoiding being incarcerated for the duration in a POW camp somewhere in Germany then he had to get as far away from Dieppe as he could.
Thank God it was summer and the trees thick with leaves. His hidden chute wouldn’t be discovered until the winter. All he had to do now was climb down without breaking his neck – not as easy as it sounded wearing flying boots.
A few minutes longer in the safety of the branches where he was invisible to anyone below couldn’t hurt. Before he did anything, he needed to think things through. If he removed his uniform then he could be shot as a spy but if he remained in it, he would be captured almost immediately.
He wriggled out of his Sidcot suit and jammed this in with the parachute. His much loved and precious flying jacket joined them. He was already unpleasantly hot – flying gear wasn’t made for traipsing about the French countryside in the middle of summer.
What did he have in his favour? He was pretty certain he hadn’t been seen. He spoke decent French – a minor public school education had done that for him. Sod it! He’d forgotten to remove his emergency rations from his suit. He scrabbled about and managed to retrieve the tin without pitching head first to the ground twenty feet below.
No point in sitting about up here – he needed to get moving. He managed to climb down without suffering more than superficial scratches on his hands and face. Relieved he was on the deck and still in one piece, he now had to make up his mind pretty damn quick which direction would be the safest one to travel.
Obviously, not towards the battle, and definitely away from the coast. Also, avoid villages as he couldn’t be sure the inhabitants would be friendly and not immediately turn him in. Helping someone like him would cause instant execution to those involved if discovered by the Gestapo.
He stood for a few minutes trying to visualise the maps of the area that he’d seen when in the briefing – God – was it only an hour ago he’d been listening to the CO in the Ops room? He had his evaders package which contained a purse with French francs, train tickets, a sewing kit, adhesive tape, fishing hook and line, matches and a language card plus a shaving kit. These were going to prove crucial to his survival as Frenchmen were usually clean-shaven. The tiny, folded silk map of the area would be invaluable. Thank God these had been in his jacket and not left behind in the burning kite.
Would Babs be told he was missing in action or missing presumed dead?
Chapter Two
Alex kept to the shadows and was fairly certain he was the only person in the forest at the moment. Animals, birds – yes – in the undergrowth and above him in the branches. There were probably wild boar lurking somewhere as well. He hoped to God he didn’t encounter one of those.
