“Good luck gentlemen.”
Witherington saluted “Dismissed.”
The pilots of 225 squadron quickly made their way to their machines. Tommy Burke charged after the brothers calling out. Bill heard him first. The brothers stopped for him to catch up.
“Just wanted to make sure you were all right about that last hand.”
Jimmy offered his right hand which Tommy instantly shook.
“Of course, you won it fairly.
“Yes I did. It was a little bit dirty of me putting that photograph in. I know how the men look at her.”
“She’s a very beautiful woman,” Bill replied “You’re very lucky.”
“I know. I worry about her sometimes. While we’re over here I wonder if she’s safe. If those bastards are bombing where she works….”
“I’m sure she’s equally worried about you out here every day.”
The last of the Spitfires were started up.
“We’ll see you when we get back.”
“Keep that picture safe,” Jimmy said “Because when we get back I’m winning it from you.”
Tommy laughed and thumped him on the shoulder.
“No chance.”
Jimmy hugged his brother at his aeroplane.
“See you when we get back,” he said turning to climb the short ladder to the cockpit. He paused at the top to quickly wave at Bill and then crammed his flying hat onto his head and sat in the plane. He reached forward and flicked various switches and checked all the guages while doing up the harness. A member of groundcrew climbed the ladder and checked the harness for tightness and satisfied he gave Jimmy the thumbs up and descended the ladder. He went around to the front and gave the pilot the signal to start the engine. Jimmy flicked the ignition on and the crewman reached up and pulled the propeller down with all his might, stepping out of the way as he did so. The Rolls Royce Merlin engine roared into life. Jimmy held the plane on its footbrakes and the crewman whipped the triangular wooden chocks out from under its wheels. Jimmy eased the throttle back and the plane began to roll. The oil guage needle was flickering about and he tapped it with his fingers and it settled. Satisfied that everything was all right he began taxi-ing the small aircraft across the desert floor towards the smooth runway. He checked the windsock. It was barely moving, no breeze, almost perfect conditions for flying. The thirty aeroplanes all began taking off, some just seconds apart. Jimmy suddenly found himself alongside Don and Don waved as they took off together. Captain Witherington watched as each of the planes under his command took off. He watched as they disappeared slowly from his sight until all he could hear were the droning engines. Then they too disappeared and he looked around his silent airfield. A light breeze stirred up some dust and blew it across the runway, the windsock still barely moving. A large piece of dry tumbleweed blew across the sand in front of him. All there was left to do now was to wait. He looked across at two Spitfires parked up, waiting for parts and a service. His days of flying long over now. Witherington sat at the card table. The cards were still there and he picked them up and shuffled them. Then in no hurry he dealt himself a game of patience.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
The German Junkers were flying in formation over the desert. The pilots preferred to fly at night under cover of darkness but problems with supply shipments meant that they had to take off as soon as they could. Based on the Italian island of Sicily they would run down the Mediterranean to Gabes in Tunisia, make a drop and then continue down the coast before returning to Sicily. The Junkers carried a crew of five.
Bill Smith’s Spitfire V was at the head of the squadron and he was the first of the British pilots to spot the German convoy ahead. He clipped his mask over his face and flicked the radio switch.
“All right boys this is it. Our target is two thousand yards. We won’t expect any return fire if we take them by surprise but watch out for fighters. They won’t be far away. Now report in and good luck.”
One by one the planes called out their positions. Bill could hear the excitement in Jimmy’s voice. Tommy kissed the photograph of Mary and placed it over his instrument panel. He did this every time he flew. He felt that this was what kept him alive, to know that she was watching over him.
Bill Smith now banked his Spitfire to begin climbing to gain height for their attack. He checked his rear view mirror to make sure the others were following. They would fly around and come at their enemy broadside giving them a larger target to do more damage.
In the lead Junkers pilot Lerndorfer Kubermann looked nervously out to his right.
“What is it?” his co-pilot Gert Hunse asked him.
Kubermann continued to study the sky.
“Lerndorfer?” Hunse called.
Kubermann watched for a further few moments and seeing nothing he turned back.
“It’s nothing. I thought I saw fighter planes for a moment but I didn’t see them again.”
Hunse leaned forward to look past his crew mate. He couldn’t see anything either.
“We’re getting a new batch of ME109’s. Maybe you saw some of them,” Hunse said.
“Hopefully you are right,” Kubermann replied checking the surrounding sky again.
Bill Smith pushed forward on the joystick and his Spitfire V went into a perfect dive. He watched his airspeed indicator as it passed three hundred miles per hour. Three times the speed of the German Junkers. He levelled out at three hundred and twenty five feet and closed for the kill.
Kubermann heard him coming. He looked out of his side window to see the flashes from the Spitfire’s machine guns. Moments later they struck his plane. The bullets ripped through the wooden and canvas sides ricocheting horribly as they struck steel girders. The attacking Spitfire banked and screamed past the Junkers, turning directly in front of it.
Kubermann was frantically shouting into his radio, calling for assistance. His eyes widened when he heard the response. The nearest German fighters were twenty five miles away!
The other Spitfires tore in now, bullets eating into German aircraft.
“We’re sitting ducks up here!” Kubermann screamed into his headset.
The answer came back again.
“The nearest fighters to your position are twenty five miles from your location. They are being scrambled. Long live the Fuhrer!”
Kubermann tore his mask away.
“The Fuhrer can kiss my behind. We are on our own boys,” he said to his crew.
“Do you want me to tell that to the others?” Hunse asked.
“No. Just that help is on its way.”
Hunse did as he was told.
“They will arrive far too late to save us,” Kubermann said sourly, watching the Spitfires flying in a circle.
Bill Smith brought his Spitfire round keeping his eye on the Junkers. The heavy German planes were flying much slower than the British fighters so all Bill could do was strafe and run. The best way to bring a plane down was from behind. Bill brought his Spitfire round in a complete circle and opened fire at the first plane he could target. He could see the red hot tracer as it found its mark and Bill was pleased to see, as he banked, a plume of black smoke trail from one of the German engines.
The third run brought a Junkers critical damage. It began losing height and suddenly exploded in mid air. The English pilots cheered the first casualty. Pieces of burning debris rained down from the sky. The German pilots were changing direction constantly to try to avoid the British firepower but the heavy transporters were too cumbersome to respond quickly enough.
By the time the first of the Messerschmitt’s arrived twenty minutes later they witnessed a scene of total carnage. The British Spitfires were buzzing about like angry bees amongst the much bigger Junkers. Of the transporters most were damaged, many were trailing black smoke, some were on fire and some were literally dropping out of the sky and crashing into the desert.