Read Online Mosquito Squadron by Robert Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Jackson
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from time to time; walking and reading seemed to be his main pastimes. That was his affair, but nevertheless Yeoman liked to see his pilots involved with one another socially; he knew from experience that it made for better teamwork in the air. However, he could find no fault with O’Grady’s operational record; he had come to Mosquitos after a tour of operations on Westland Whirlwinds — fast, superb and highly manoeuvrable fighters cursed with twin Rolls-Royce Peregrine engines which had produced an incessant spate of troubles — and was the only pilot on the squadron who had flown long-range daylight escort missions over occupied Europe, before the RAF’s two Whirlwind squadrons had gone over to ground attack.
Yeoman had the feeling that the root of O’Grady’s problem — if, indeed, he had a problem — was that the man had some sort of chip on his shoulder. Something to do with his background, perhaps. Yet the majority of the men in the room came from relatively humble backgrounds; Yeoman’s own father was a gamekeeper, which had absolutely nothing at all to do with Yeoman’s own ability. Or maybe it had, for John Yeoman had taught his son the one thing essential in the making of a successful fighter pilot: the art of deflection shooting, and of hitting the target first time. Anyhow, Yeoman sensed that something deep down was bothering O’Grady, and he was determined to find out what it was.
Of the others, as far as he knew, only Pilot Officer Reed was a former public schoolboy, and it showed in his accent and mannerisms. Six feet tall and of athletic build, with corn-coloured wavy hair, his uniform was always immaculately tailored and pressed and he exuded self-confidence from every pore. He was the only first-tour pilot on the squadron, but his flying ability was well above average and he got on well with everybody. Young Reed would do all right.
Four of the squadron’s pilots were NCOS, and they were top quality too. Yeoman looked at Flight Sergeant Miller, a wiry, hawk-faced man with dark eyes that had hidden depths to them. Like Sloane, Miller had completed a tour on Beau-fighters and had three German bombers to his credit, all at night. His navigator, Sergeant Sillitoe, who had come to Mosquitos with him, told horrifying stories of how Miller had yelled and cursed crazily in the cockpit as he pumped cannon shells into his shattered enemies at point-blank range, and now everyone knew the reason for his actions. For Miller was a Jew, sent to England from Germany by far-sighted parents in 1933 to be brought up by an aunt. The parents were to have followed, but they never did. Both were arrested and flung into a concentration camp, and Miller had no idea whether they were alive or dead. All he knew was that he had a highly personal score to settle with the Germans.
Once, in the sergeants’ mess, he had remarked to Sillitoe that he would never allow himself to be captured alive if anything went wrong over enemy territory.
‘Well,’ his navigator had retorted mildly, ‘that’s up to you, old son. But if we catch it and you feel like diving the bloody thing into the middle of Berlin or somewhere, for Christ’s sake let me get out first!’ Together, they made a formidable team.
Then there was Flight Sergeant Lorrimer, the South African, who had spent his early working life as a merchant seaman (so many of his countrymen did, Yeoman mused). Lorrimer, sun-burnt and lithe, was a demon card player and a formidable drinker, although he seemed to sense when an operation was in the wind and never touched a drop for at least twenty-four hours beforehand. He had completed a tour in Coastal Command, flying Beaufort torpedo-bombers.
Sergeant Olafsson, the Icelander, was a typical Nordic type, blond and long-boned. He, too, was a former seaman, having served his apprenticeship on whalers, and had volunteered to serve with the British forces after Iceland was occupied by them in May 1940. Serving originally
Yeoman had the feeling that the root of O’Grady’s problem — if, indeed, he had a problem — was that the man had some sort of chip on his shoulder. Something to do with his background, perhaps. Yet the majority of the men in the room came from relatively humble backgrounds; Yeoman’s own father was a gamekeeper, which had absolutely nothing at all to do with Yeoman’s own ability. Or maybe it had, for John Yeoman had taught his son the one thing essential in the making of a successful fighter pilot: the art of deflection shooting, and of hitting the target first time. Anyhow, Yeoman sensed that something deep down was bothering O’Grady, and he was determined to find out what it was.
Of the others, as far as he knew, only Pilot Officer Reed was a former public schoolboy, and it showed in his accent and mannerisms. Six feet tall and of athletic build, with corn-coloured wavy hair, his uniform was always immaculately tailored and pressed and he exuded self-confidence from every pore. He was the only first-tour pilot on the squadron, but his flying ability was well above average and he got on well with everybody. Young Reed would do all right.
Four of the squadron’s pilots were NCOS, and they were top quality too. Yeoman looked at Flight Sergeant Miller, a wiry, hawk-faced man with dark eyes that had hidden depths to them. Like Sloane, Miller had completed a tour on Beau-fighters and had three German bombers to his credit, all at night. His navigator, Sergeant Sillitoe, who had come to Mosquitos with him, told horrifying stories of how Miller had yelled and cursed crazily in the cockpit as he pumped cannon shells into his shattered enemies at point-blank range, and now everyone knew the reason for his actions. For Miller was a Jew, sent to England from Germany by far-sighted parents in 1933 to be brought up by an aunt. The parents were to have followed, but they never did. Both were arrested and flung into a concentration camp, and Miller had no idea whether they were alive or dead. All he knew was that he had a highly personal score to settle with the Germans.
Once, in the sergeants’ mess, he had remarked to Sillitoe that he would never allow himself to be captured alive if anything went wrong over enemy territory.
‘Well,’ his navigator had retorted mildly, ‘that’s up to you, old son. But if we catch it and you feel like diving the bloody thing into the middle of Berlin or somewhere, for Christ’s sake let me get out first!’ Together, they made a formidable team.
Then there was Flight Sergeant Lorrimer, the South African, who had spent his early working life as a merchant seaman (so many of his countrymen did, Yeoman mused). Lorrimer, sun-burnt and lithe, was a demon card player and a formidable drinker, although he seemed to sense when an operation was in the wind and never touched a drop for at least twenty-four hours beforehand. He had completed a tour in Coastal Command, flying Beaufort torpedo-bombers.
Sergeant Olafsson, the Icelander, was a typical Nordic type, blond and long-boned. He, too, was a former seaman, having served his apprenticeship on whalers, and had volunteered to serve with the British forces after Iceland was occupied by them in May 1940. Serving originally
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