Christopher Priest - The Separation

‘Fighters! German fighters down there!’

‘Where are they, Ted?’ JL’s voice came immediately. He sounded calm. ‘I can’t see them yet.’

‘About twelve o’clock, sir. Dead ahead, quite a long way off’

‘I still can’t see them.’

‘Sorry, there’s only one. Me-110,I think. Way below us, heading west, straight for us.’

‘Is he acting as if he’s seen us?’

‘I don’t think so!’

I was standing at the side nav window at the time and had a clear view around and below us. No other aircraft were in sight. As soon as Ted called his warning I moved forward, clambering up into the cockpit behind JL’s seat so that I could look through the main canopy. Moments later I too could see the plane: a small black shape, some way below us, fully visible against a silvery plateau of clouds.

It was unusual to meet any German fighters so far out to sea, even more so to see one at low altitude. Luftwaffe pilots normally gained the advantage of height before diving to attack.

‘Permission to open fire on him, skip?’ Ted said. ‘He’s almost in range.’

‘No, keep an eye on him, Ted. No point letting him know we’re here if he hasn’t spotted us yet.’

I suddenly made out a movement beyond the Me-110.

‘There are more of them down there!’ I said. ‘Look! Behind him!’

Four single-engined fighters were rapidly catching up with the larger aircraft, swooping down on it from the east. Even as I watched they went into a steep turning dive and accelerated towards the twin-engined plane. I could see the firefly flicker of their wing-mounted cannons, the lines of tracer curving towards the Me-110. The pilot of the twin-engined plane responded at last, making a climbing turn, briefly presenting a plan shape of his aircraft against the grey clouds, but then twisting around, diving away from his attackers. I saw a spurt of flame from one of his engines.

Our own track was taking us on past the fight. We were almost on top of the German aircraft. I dodged back to one of the side windows, but could see nothing.

‘Boom! Boom!’ It was Kris’s distinctive voice, loud in my earphones.

‘What’s up?’ said JL.

‘They got him! I see it all. Four Me-109s and a 110. They got him! Boom!’

‘Is he down?’

‘Bloody big bang! Big flames, big smoke! Down in the sea, skip!’

‘What about the 109s?’

‘Can’t see. They scattered.’

‘Kris, are you certain you saw the 110 crash?’

‘Rear gunner has best seat. Germans attacking Germans. Good stuff!’

‘OK, everyone, keep your eyes open for more bandits.’

I clambered awkwardly up through the fuselage, past Col’s radio kit, and returned to the cockpit, intending to talk to JL about what had happened. He was fully alert, scanning the sky in all directions. He registered my presence and unclipped the mike so we could speak direct.

‘Did you see the 110 go down, Sam?’ he shouted over the roar of the engines.

‘No. We’ve only Kris to go on.’

‘Good enough for me,’ JL said, and I nodded vehemently. We both clipped our mikes on again.

‘More Messerschmitts!’ It was Ted again, from the front turret. ‘About three o’clock. Below us again.’

I craned forward, trying to see down and to the right-hand side. JL kept the Wellington on a steady track, still climbing slowly.

‘I can see!’ I shouted. ‘Same thing as before . . . another Me-110, this one heading due north. He’ll cross under us in a moment.’

‘Has he seen us?’

‘Doesn’t look like it.’

He was a long way off to our right, flying low against the clouds, crossing our track.

‘Hold your fire, gunners!’JL said crisply. ‘They’re not looking for us.’

‘What’s going on down there, JL?’

‘Haven’t the faintest.’

‘There are the 109s again!’ This was Lofty, from somewhere down the fuselage. ‘They must have circled round.’

‘No, the last lot buggered off,’ I said. I could see the smaller fighters now, flying fast and low from the south, catching up with the 110. Apart from the different direction from which they appeared, it was an almost exact replay of what we had seen a few moments before. I saw the fighters go into a diving turn, accelerating towards the larger aircraft. Cannon fire glinted on their wings. Tracer curled across the short gap between them.

But once again our track was taking us over the dogfight.

‘We’re losing sight of them, Kris! Can you see what’s going on?’

‘Rear gunner has best seat. Yeah! They go for him!’

I moved back from the cockpit and found Lofty pressing his face against the thick perspex of the port-side nav window. I crammed up against him, trying to see.

‘They miss!’ It was Kris again, from the rear turret. ‘He’s OK!’

‘They’ll go round again, won’t they?’

‘I lost them. Wait!’

JL came on. ‘Don’t forget, if any of those crates see us we’re in trouble. No one relax!’

‘Yes skip.’

‘Sam, can you get a fix for us? I need to know where we are, how far from the coast.’

‘OK, JL. Give me a few minutes.’

From the rear, Kris said, ‘I can’t see them no more. The 110 was OK. I saw him fly on.’

‘Which direction was he going in?’

‘Due north.’

‘What about the Me-109s?’

‘Like you say, they bugger off.’

We remained fully alert, knowing for certain that there were German fighters in the vicinity, knowledge no bomber crew liked to have. A strange sense of purpose settled on us. With remarkable efficiency the gunners reported at regular intervals on what they could see in the skies around us and I completed the fix I had been taking.

When I had worked out our position, I reported the information over the intercom to JL.

‘How far does that put us from the German coast?’ he said.

‘A couple of hundred miles,’ I replied. About two hundred and sixty from the Danish coast, though.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because that was the direction the first lot were coming from. That would place their airfield somewhere on the Danish mainland.’

‘They might have come from Germany’

‘It looked to me as if the second lot did. Either way, the Me-109s would have been close to the limit of their range.’

‘Presumably that’s why they buzzed off as soon as they could.’

‘Right. So what were they up to, trying to shoot down their own?’

‘Beats me.’

We were closing on the German coast and we said nothing more about the strange incident. Other business was more pressing. By this time it was completely dark outside the aircraft and I needed to take another positional fix to be certain of where we would be crossing the coast. I worked it out and reported it to JL: our landfall would be a few miles to the west of Cuxhaven.

Not long after, Ted Burrage reported flak coming up from below and the familiar sick feeling of fear rose in me. While we were under attack from anti-aircraft fire, or while we were on a bombing run, I had to sit tight inside my little cubicle, unable to see what was happening outside. All I had to go on was the movement of the aircraft, the change in the pitch of the engines, the explosions of the flak and the often incoherent shouts from the rest of the crew coming through the intercom. On those flights in which we penetrated deep into German or occupied territory the racket could continue for several hours.

That night, though, our target was Hamburg, a port about fifty miles inland from the coast on the long estuary of the River Elbe, so we wouldn’t have to be over enemy territory for long. I plotted the route from the coast to our turning point and reported the bearing to JL. After that I worked out the course that would take us directly over the Hamburg docks, the intended drop-zone for bombing. After the plane had manoeuvred round to the new course I heard the voices of the rest of the crew changing when they reported in. As we neared the target everyone spoke more quickly. Their breath rasped noisily in my headset and sentences were left unfinished. They all seemed to be on the point of shouting.