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Authors: Johnny O'Brien
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inside the gate which read: Welcome to RAF Northolt .
“Over there!”
In the distance, they could see a large, twin-engine, civilian aircraft with its motor running. The black car was parked nearby and a man was being lifted on a stretcher from the back of the car and towards the aircraft.
“That’s Pendelshape. He’s flat out. Something’s happened to him.”
Angus pointed the bus in the direction of the aircraft and it lumbered on across the grass of the aerodrome, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. But that was nothing to what came next. Suddenly, the ground ripped open right in front of the bus and mud spurted upwards in a giant plume. Angus threw the bus sideways to avoid the crater, which had breached the ground directly in front of them. The bus lurched violently to one side, Angus corrected it, but swung the wheel too far and it veered in the opposite direction and then fell onto its side, scraping along the ground, before finally coming to a halt.
Touching the Face of God
Jack was dazed. He touched his head and looked at his hand. Miraculously there was no blood. He looked forward. The windscreen of the bus had shattered and Angus was already climbing through.
“Come on!” he shouted.
Jack staggered forward and stepped through the windscreen into the open. Perhaps they should have stayed where they were. A squadron of Stuka dive-bombers screamed down, one after the other, pummelling the airfield and the surrounding buildings and aeroplanes. Then the Messerschmitt 109s came in, flying just a few metres above the ground, guns blazing. Jack saw a row of parked Hurricanes strafed. Then, one after another, the fighter planes exploded in puffs of black smoke and orange flame. Soon, the whole place was stinking of burning gasoline. Incredibly, one or two pilots on the ground had made it to their aircraft and were desperately coaxing their engines to life.
At the far end of the runway Jack could see the civilian plane preparing for take-off – with Pendelshape inside. It started to make its way along the airstrip, picking up speed. Incredibly, the plane remained cocooned from the maelstrom all around. It was as if it were somehow protected.
Jack and Angus dashed forward. Twenty metres ahead, a lone Spitfire bravely nosed its way towards the runway. So far it had avoided being hit. That was about to change. Jack saw a 109 swoop in low, strafing the helpless plane. Bullets ripped into the fuselage and the pilot slumped forward onto the controls in his cockpit. The Spitfire ground to a halt right in front of them, its engine still running.
“We need to help him,” Jack shouted.
Angus clambered up onto the wing of the Spitfire and peered into the open canopy. The pilot groaned.
“He’s alive! Get him out.”
The pilot flipped off his helmet and mask and gasped for breath. Angus and Jack heaved him from the cockpit onto the wing and then manhandled him down onto the grass. An ominous dark patch had appeared on his leather flying jacket. Jack scanned the airfield for any sign of help, but the scene around them was one of utter chaos: people were running away screaming; smoke poured from a number of the buildings. But the attack did not let up.
“You all right?” Angus asked the pilot.
The pilot looked up at them and grimaced in pain. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a scratch. Ambulance will be here soon.”
He jerked his head towards his Spitfire. “If either of you are pilots – take my Spit and get one of those bastards for me…”
A hundred metres away, the civilian plane was just lifting off the runway and heading up into the sky. Jack and Angus looked at each other. If they stayed out on the open airfield they risked death.
Jack looked up at the Spitfire. “Do you think you can drive this thing?”
Angus clambered back up onto the wing and peered into the cockpit.
“It all looks exactly like the simulator, but we do have a
“Over there!”
In the distance, they could see a large, twin-engine, civilian aircraft with its motor running. The black car was parked nearby and a man was being lifted on a stretcher from the back of the car and towards the aircraft.
“That’s Pendelshape. He’s flat out. Something’s happened to him.”
Angus pointed the bus in the direction of the aircraft and it lumbered on across the grass of the aerodrome, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. But that was nothing to what came next. Suddenly, the ground ripped open right in front of the bus and mud spurted upwards in a giant plume. Angus threw the bus sideways to avoid the crater, which had breached the ground directly in front of them. The bus lurched violently to one side, Angus corrected it, but swung the wheel too far and it veered in the opposite direction and then fell onto its side, scraping along the ground, before finally coming to a halt.
Touching the Face of God
Jack was dazed. He touched his head and looked at his hand. Miraculously there was no blood. He looked forward. The windscreen of the bus had shattered and Angus was already climbing through.
“Come on!” he shouted.
Jack staggered forward and stepped through the windscreen into the open. Perhaps they should have stayed where they were. A squadron of Stuka dive-bombers screamed down, one after the other, pummelling the airfield and the surrounding buildings and aeroplanes. Then the Messerschmitt 109s came in, flying just a few metres above the ground, guns blazing. Jack saw a row of parked Hurricanes strafed. Then, one after another, the fighter planes exploded in puffs of black smoke and orange flame. Soon, the whole place was stinking of burning gasoline. Incredibly, one or two pilots on the ground had made it to their aircraft and were desperately coaxing their engines to life.
At the far end of the runway Jack could see the civilian plane preparing for take-off – with Pendelshape inside. It started to make its way along the airstrip, picking up speed. Incredibly, the plane remained cocooned from the maelstrom all around. It was as if it were somehow protected.
Jack and Angus dashed forward. Twenty metres ahead, a lone Spitfire bravely nosed its way towards the runway. So far it had avoided being hit. That was about to change. Jack saw a 109 swoop in low, strafing the helpless plane. Bullets ripped into the fuselage and the pilot slumped forward onto the controls in his cockpit. The Spitfire ground to a halt right in front of them, its engine still running.
“We need to help him,” Jack shouted.
Angus clambered up onto the wing of the Spitfire and peered into the open canopy. The pilot groaned.
“He’s alive! Get him out.”
The pilot flipped off his helmet and mask and gasped for breath. Angus and Jack heaved him from the cockpit onto the wing and then manhandled him down onto the grass. An ominous dark patch had appeared on his leather flying jacket. Jack scanned the airfield for any sign of help, but the scene around them was one of utter chaos: people were running away screaming; smoke poured from a number of the buildings. But the attack did not let up.
“You all right?” Angus asked the pilot.
The pilot looked up at them and grimaced in pain. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a scratch. Ambulance will be here soon.”
He jerked his head towards his Spitfire. “If either of you are pilots – take my Spit and get one of those bastards for me…”
A hundred metres away, the civilian plane was just lifting off the runway and heading up into the sky. Jack and Angus looked at each other. If they stayed out on the open airfield they risked death.
Jack looked up at the Spitfire. “Do you think you can drive this thing?”
Angus clambered back up onto the wing and peered into the cockpit.
“It all looks exactly like the simulator, but we do have a
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