Read Online Flames over France by Robert Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Jackson
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throttle hard up against the stops, Armstrong seized the flap lever and pulled it. The big flaps went down and the Hawk suddenly bounded into the air. With relief, Armstrong saw the airspeed beginning to build up. He pulled up the flaps and raised the undercarriage, hauling the fighter round in a steep climbing turn. The cockpit canopy was still open and he decided to leave it that way for the time being, so as to provide an unobstructed all-round view.
Armstrong brought the aircraft round through 180 degrees, still climbing, and wished that he was in a Spitfire; the Hawk climbed like a brick, the altimeter needle, calibrated in metres, creeping round the dial with painful slowness. Squinting into the sun, he saw the enemy bombers; they were Dorniers, like the one that had dropped the marker, and he counted six of them, flying in two tight ‘vics’ of three, one behind the other. They were flying at about 3,000, half a mile from the airfield.
Armstrong levelled out at the Dorniers’ altitude and went head-on for the middle bomber in the first flight. The Curtiss was fitted with an old ring-and-bead gunsight and the bomber grew larger in it with frightening speed. Armstrong unconsciously crouched lower in the cockpit, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, and squeezed both triggers on the control column.
The Hawk shuddered as all four machine-guns opened up and the rapidly expanding silhouette of the Dornier trembled in the windscreen. Grey smoke trails speared out towards it, converging on it. In the bomber’s glasshouse nose, a light twinkled; the German gunner was returning fire. Then the nose fragmented and shattered as Armstrong’s bullets found their mark.
There was no time to see the end result of his shooting. A collision was a hair’s breadth away. Pulling back frantically on the stick, he leapfrogged over the German aircraft, catching a glimpse of its upper-surface camouflage: angular patches of dark and light green, forming a pattern like splinters of broken glass.
Then he was bearing down on the second flight of Dorniers, guns hammering again as he repeated his attack. The leading bomber pulled up suddenly in a climb, exposing its pale blue belly. Its companions on either side broke away sharply to left and right and Armstrong saw his bullets hit the Dornier’s underside in a series of sparkling flashes. Then the sky ahead of him was filled with a great fiery balloon of red and black, surrounded by whirling debris, as the Dornier’s bomb load exploded.
He shut his eyes and flew straight into the inferno. There was a moment’s consciousness of searing heat and of choking, oily fumes mingled with the acrid smell of explosives. Something struck his aircraft with a thud. Then he was through into clear sky, coughing violently.
He opened his eyes and looked outside. The first thing he saw was a dark, sticky mass, glued to his left wing root by the airflow. It took him seconds before he realised that he was looking at a man’s entrails.
Armstrong’s stomach rose into his mouth and he stuck his head out of the other side of the cockpit. Madame Bessodes’ egg breakfast whirled away in the slipstream. Shaking violently, Armstrong risked another look; the glutinous mass was still there. He remembered reading an account of the battle of Trafalgar, when sailors on Nelson’s flagship, the Victory , had used shovels to prise the remains of men off the bulwarks …Still trembling, he forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand and turned, heading back towards the airfield. Smoke was rising from it, and from clumps of debris that lay in a field just short of it, the remnants of the Dornier he had destroyed.
There was no sign of the other bombers. Armstrong looked behind him to make sure that there was nothing sinister on his tail, then throttled back and began his descent towards the aerodrome. Lowering his undercarriage and flaps, he looked ahead and saw to his surprise that the smoke was coming
Armstrong brought the aircraft round through 180 degrees, still climbing, and wished that he was in a Spitfire; the Hawk climbed like a brick, the altimeter needle, calibrated in metres, creeping round the dial with painful slowness. Squinting into the sun, he saw the enemy bombers; they were Dorniers, like the one that had dropped the marker, and he counted six of them, flying in two tight ‘vics’ of three, one behind the other. They were flying at about 3,000, half a mile from the airfield.
Armstrong levelled out at the Dorniers’ altitude and went head-on for the middle bomber in the first flight. The Curtiss was fitted with an old ring-and-bead gunsight and the bomber grew larger in it with frightening speed. Armstrong unconsciously crouched lower in the cockpit, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, and squeezed both triggers on the control column.
The Hawk shuddered as all four machine-guns opened up and the rapidly expanding silhouette of the Dornier trembled in the windscreen. Grey smoke trails speared out towards it, converging on it. In the bomber’s glasshouse nose, a light twinkled; the German gunner was returning fire. Then the nose fragmented and shattered as Armstrong’s bullets found their mark.
There was no time to see the end result of his shooting. A collision was a hair’s breadth away. Pulling back frantically on the stick, he leapfrogged over the German aircraft, catching a glimpse of its upper-surface camouflage: angular patches of dark and light green, forming a pattern like splinters of broken glass.
Then he was bearing down on the second flight of Dorniers, guns hammering again as he repeated his attack. The leading bomber pulled up suddenly in a climb, exposing its pale blue belly. Its companions on either side broke away sharply to left and right and Armstrong saw his bullets hit the Dornier’s underside in a series of sparkling flashes. Then the sky ahead of him was filled with a great fiery balloon of red and black, surrounded by whirling debris, as the Dornier’s bomb load exploded.
He shut his eyes and flew straight into the inferno. There was a moment’s consciousness of searing heat and of choking, oily fumes mingled with the acrid smell of explosives. Something struck his aircraft with a thud. Then he was through into clear sky, coughing violently.
He opened his eyes and looked outside. The first thing he saw was a dark, sticky mass, glued to his left wing root by the airflow. It took him seconds before he realised that he was looking at a man’s entrails.
Armstrong’s stomach rose into his mouth and he stuck his head out of the other side of the cockpit. Madame Bessodes’ egg breakfast whirled away in the slipstream. Shaking violently, Armstrong risked another look; the glutinous mass was still there. He remembered reading an account of the battle of Trafalgar, when sailors on Nelson’s flagship, the Victory , had used shovels to prise the remains of men off the bulwarks …Still trembling, he forced himself to concentrate on the job in hand and turned, heading back towards the airfield. Smoke was rising from it, and from clumps of debris that lay in a field just short of it, the remnants of the Dornier he had destroyed.
There was no sign of the other bombers. Armstrong looked behind him to make sure that there was nothing sinister on his tail, then throttled back and began his descent towards the aerodrome. Lowering his undercarriage and flaps, he looked ahead and saw to his surprise that the smoke was coming
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