Voices on the Wind - Assault

At last, a figure emerged — or more accurately popped up out of a slit trench. He was waving and shouting. “Take cover! There’s an air raid on!”

Well, he thought, that explained why the Hurricanes had taken off. It didn’t explain why no one was frantically trying to get the Spitfires refuelled, armed and combat ready.

Robin shouted back at the Flight Sergeant who was still waving at him to come to the slit trench, “I’ve come all the way from England to defend this bloody island! I don’t intend to take cover! I want fuel and ammunition!”

“But sir! They’re just ten minutes away! There’s not enough time to get the Spitfires serviced.”

“Not the way you’re wasting it, there’s not! Get some men over here to re-arm and refuel these Spitfires immediately!”

After a stunned moment, the Flight Sergeant seemed to recognise he was dealing with a senior officer, and he became confused. He saluted yet still made no attempt to obey.

Robin registered the distant crump-crump of anti-aircraft batteries and scanned the horizon until he saw some puffs of smoke drifting off to the north from what looked like twenty miles away or more. Yes, that was about ten minutes flying time for most German bombers, but ten minutes was plenty of time to get a Spitfire armed and ready. 606 Squadron had prided itself on doing it in six during the Battle of Britain. Of course, that assumed that things were well organised and that every man knew his aircraft and his job. It also assumed the men were dedicated and keen — which did not appear to be the case here.

Robin’s mind went into overdrive. He’d just flown in Malta’s first Spitfires, which meant none of the erks here had serviced one recently. Getting the Spits armed and fuelled wasn’t enough to make them battle-ready. They also had to gain altitude to be able to take on the German bombers — let alone the fighter escort. A Spitfire Mark V had a rate of climb of 2,150 feet/minute, which meant even if they got airborne before the enemy was on top of them, they’d probably be at no more than 10,000 feet and fighting at a disadvantage.

Robin scanned the field — the bomb craters, wrecks, shattered buildings, distant tents and the improvised blast pens scattered over the field — and admitted that the best he could hope for was to get the bulk of the Spitfires into blast pens. Still, he’d be damned if has going to crouch in a slit trench!

“Get thirteen of these Spitfires into pens before the Huns use them for target practice!” Robin ordered emphatically. “I want my Spitfire, that of Squadron Leader Grant and Flight Lieutenant Toff armed and refuelled!”

“Sir, it takes two to three days to get new aircraft fitted with radio crystals and sand filters, to change the camouflauge—”

“Flight Sergeant! Get this Spitfire armed and refuelled NOW!”

There was only one answer to that: “Yes, sir!” The Flight Sergeant spun about and started bawling in the direction of the slit trench. Within seconds, men poured out at the double. The Flight Sergeant pointed and shouted, and soon the bulk of the Spitfires were being pushed, shoved or hauled towards pens.

Robin turned his attention back to the incoming raid. More and more guns had joined hue and cry. They bayed furiously in the distance, and the puffs of smoke merged into a dirty brown-black smudge against the sky. Squinting, Robin thought he could see the first black specs that marked the incoming bombers.

Men suddenly surrounded him. He could smell their sweat — their fear. He could hear their uneasy breathing. Men scrambled up onto the Spitfire’s wings to pour fuel into the tanks from handheld petrol tins. “Don’t you have fuel bowsers?” Robin asked generally.

“No, sir,” a long-haired airman flung over his shoulder as he continued to pour from the can. “The last one we had was hit and burned out in a raid about ten days ago.” He nodded in the direction of a no-longer-recognisable, incinerated vehicle.

That stunned Robin, and he looked more intently around him. None of the men frantically servicing his Spitfire were in regulation uniform — or rather the uniforms they wore were torn, patched, and stained. The men were dirty as well as tired and on edge.

Meanwhile, the raid moved steadily towards them. You could tell because the sound of the ack-ack grew louder as the batteries engaged progressively. More clouds of black smoke soiled the sky, the old and the new mixing together in a noxious brew.

Pairs of men with belts of ammunition on their shoulders ran up panting. Robin was dumbfounded to notice that the ammo-feeds of his Spitfire were filled with packs of cigarettes which had to be removed before the ammo belts could be inserted. The Navy had meant well, he reflected, but they clearly had not anticipated the urgency of the situation.

Meanwhile, the familiar sound of unsynchronised engines was becoming audible in the distance, and Robin focused again on the approaching raid. It appeared composed of Ju88s flying at no more than 8,000 feet. He counted four formations so about fifty bombers, presumably escorted by fighters, although he could not see any. The air had started to throb, and the hands of one of the armourers trembled as he worked.

The dull crump and rumble of distant bombs came with the wind. Robin judged the explosions were no more than seven or eight miles away. Four minutes flying time, and he was still on the ground.

“That’s good enough!” He shouted up at the man filling the tanks. “I’m not going to be flying far! Get a starter cable! I’m taking off!” He raised his voice to be heard above the bombs and the guns and shouted in the direction of Grant’s Spitfire, “Squadron Leader! Are you with me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Flight Lieutenant Toff?” he shouted in the other direction.

“Yes, sir!”

“Good!” Robin grabbed the handhold in the side of the fuselage and hauled himself onto the wing. He dropped into the cockpit and strapped himself in.

The other Spitfires were at least dispersed, although only half of them were actually inside pens. The bombers and explosions were closing in, and the ground crews were working as if someone had lit a match under them.

Robin pressed the starter button, the Merlin growled furiously and belched smoke. He waved the chocks away, throttled back, and the erks galloped for the slit-trench holding onto their caps as the Spitfire rolled forward.

Robin opened up the throttle and raced across the narrow stretch of field where the bomb craters had been filled with dirt and rubble. It was a rough ride. The Spitfire bounced and the shock absorbers sounded like guns cracking as the wheels hit rocks or the rim of holes. It rattled as if every rivet had been shaken loose until, at last, the wings started to lift her up. The bouncing lessened and then stopped entirely. Robin reached down to lift the undercarriage and banked hard to the west. He had to get away from the raid in order to gain some altitude before tangling with the enemy.