Tempest Squadron Read online

  With Richter leading, the six remaining Focke-Wulfs passed Valkenswaard village at two thousand feet and swung round in a 180-degree turn to the right to head back in the opposite direction. As he rolled back into level flight, Richter caught sight of an aircraft about two miles to the north, flying southwest at low level. In this vicinity, a lone aircraft could only be an enemy. Quickly, he alerted the rest of his pilots and they sped towards it.

  Flight Lieutenant Ken Slater, the pilot of the duty Anson, had taken off from Eindhoven only minutes earlier, taking advantage of the first real break in the weather for twenty-four hours or more. It was his misfortune that the light wind was from the east; taking off in that direction, he brought the Anson round in a right-handed turn over Veldhoven, south of the airfield, intending to follow the main road that led through Turnhout to Antwerp. It was at that moment that the enemy pilots sighted him; if he had taken off towards the west he would have escaped undetected.

  He had just picked up the road, and was settling down on course, when Eindhoven control warned him urgently that enemy fighters were in the vicinity. Immediately, he opened the throttles and took the Anson up towards the shelter of the clouds, frantically searching the sky as he did so.

  He was too late: the Focke-Wulfs were almost upon him. There was no time to shout a warning to the occupants of the Anson’s draughty cabin — two pilots whose operational tours were over and who were flying back to England for a well-earned rest. Their first inkling that something was wrong came when Slater threw the Anson into a tight turn, pulling round hard towards the enemy fighters.

  Slater’s sudden manoeuvre took Joachim Richter completely by surprise. He opened fire from the beam, anticipating a relatively easy deflection shot, but as the British pilot turned steeply his tracers went well to the left of their target and spattered themselves harmlessly over the Dutch countryside.

  The two tour-expired pilots in the rear of the Anson clung to their seats, white-faced and gasping with fear, as Slater twisted away from the shells, desperately striving to gain height with each new turn.

  It was a hopeless, forlorn effort; there were too many enemy fighters playing cat-and-mouse with him, cutting across his turns. Warrant Officer Weiss, Richter’s wingman, throttled back to match the Anson’s speed and saw his cannon shells punch into the British aircraft’s port wing just inboard of the engine. Instantly, white petrol vapour streamed back in the slipstream; the Anson faltered out of its turn and started to go down in a shallow dive, its nose creeping round in the direction of Eindhoven.

  Slater knew now that his only chance was to try and bring the damaged aircraft back within range of Eindhoven’s anti-aircraft defences. Weaving from side to side, he dropped to hedge-top height.

  Behind him, someone screamed in pain as a shell exploded in the cabin, riddling the fuselage with white-hot splinters. An instant later, there was a dull thud as a fuel tank in the damaged wing caught fire.

  Slater knew that it was the end. He was quite calm. His action of raising his arms to cover his face, as a line of trees swept up to meet him, was purely instinctive.

  Richter swept over the blazing wreck and pulled away, glancing at his watch as he did so. They had been in the Eindhoven area for five minutes; the jets would by now have made their attack and be on their way home. He pressed the R/T button, ordering his aircraft to climb through the clouds and join the others; he had a feeling that it would get unhealthy round here pretty soon.

  A couple of minutes later, two sections of Tempests, led by Tim Phelan, took off from Eindhoven and climbed hard through the overcast in search of the marauders. Bursting out into brilliant sunlight at ten thousand feet, the pilots saw only a few tiny dots, rapidly dwindling into the far distance. At full boost they pursued the retreating Focke-Wulfs as far as the Rhine before giving up the chase.

  On the way home, dropping down through the clouds again, they spotted a few enemy trucks, winding their way along a narrow road near Goch. Phelan led his pilots down and each made several firing passes, leaving all the German vehicles burning. It made the Irishman feel slightly better; but Ken Slater had been a good friend, and shooting up a handful of trucks in no way compensated for the fact that the Eindhoven fighters should have been airborne in time to save his neck.

  Wing Commander Yeoman, he knew, was furious. From now on, the Focke-Wulf boys from Rheine could expect fireworks.

  Chapter Three

  YEOMAN STOOD ON THE DAIS AT THE END OF THE LONG wooden shack that served as Eindhoven’s briefing-room and surveyed the assembled pilots of his Wing. Normally, it was his practice to begin a briefing with a quip or some comment that was designed to make his pilots feel at ease and to release the tension everyone always felt before operations; today, however, his face was grim and he came straight to the point.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘there are indications that, for the first time in many months, the Luftwaffe is going on to the offensive. During the past few days — that is, since operational flying on both sides resumed after that appalling spell of bad weather — growing numbers of enemy fighter-bombers, and that includes jets, have been making deep penetration attacks in daylight into Allied territory. Our Intelligence people think that the Huns are up to something, but as yet they don’t know what.’

  He turned aside and picked up a billiard cue, tapping it against a large map of northern Germany that hung on the wall.

  ‘The main concentration of enemy fighters and fighter-bombers is here, at Rheine, and on the various satellite airfields scattered round about. These aircraft, which are mainly Focke-Wulfs — the long-nosed variety, with a few of the earlier FW 190AS — and Messerschmitt 262 jets, are grouped under the command of a single unit, Fighter Wing 66.’

  Yeoman smiled thinly, then went on: ‘Jagdgeschwader 66, to give it its German title, is no stranger to me personally — nor, I daresay, to a number of others in this room. It was in the thick of the fighting in France, in 1940, and in the Battle of Britain, and it cropped up later in Greece and over Malta. It is a very, very experienced outfit, and the chap who commands it is one of the enemy’s top fighter leaders. His name is Colonel Richter and he has, so they say, nearly a hundred victories to his credit.’

  A murmur of derision ran round the room: RAF pilots generally did not pay much attention to the claims of their German counterparts. They were unaware of the havoc the latter had wrought in Russia three years earlier against the relatively inexperienced pilots of the Soviet Air Force.

  Yeoman held up his right hand to restore silence.

  ‘All right, I know your views. But don’t underestimate our friend at Rheine; the Luftwaffe’s top fighter boys are good, very good indeed, and he’s one of the best. What’s more, you may be certain that the men under his command are the cream, too. In short, we can expect a lot of opposition from JG 66.’

  The point of the billiard cue moved across the map, pausing briefly at other enemy airfields in the north-western sector as Yeoman brought his pilots up to date on the Luftwaffe’s current order of battle, as compiled by the Allied Intelligence Staff. As he spoke, it quickly became clear that the fighter squadrons of the RAF’S 2nd Tactical Air Force were, for the time being at least, outnumbered by their opponents across the Rhine — a situation brought about by the lack of suitable operational airfields in Belgium and Holland. Although 2nd TAF had more aircraft on paper, many of these were concentrated on airfields a long way from the front.

  Yeoman made it clear to the assembled pilots that some hard fighting was certainly in store for the RAF units that were close to the front line.

  ‘If the present trend continues,’ he told them, ‘we may expect to encounter large formations of enemy fighters and fighter-bombers during the weeks to come, and this will mean a complete revision of our tactics.

  ‘Hitherto our forays into enemy territory have been carried out by sections of Tempests operating more or less independently of one another. From now on, we shall operate in two formations of six o
r eight aircraft, carrying out parallel sweeps with not more than fifty miles between each formation. This will ensure that if one lot runs into trouble, the other can come to its assistance fairly quickly.

  ‘As an added insurance measure, the Spits of 449 Squadron will operate over the Rhine whenever the Tempests of 505 and 473 Squadrons carry out a sortie; in this way, they’ll be able to cover us on the way out if we have to make a run for it.

  ‘One other thing: a section of Tempests, pooled from the two squadrons, will remain at cockpit readiness at all times during daylight. I don’t want any repetition of the events of the other day, when those Huns shot down the duty Anson practically under our noses and got clean away.’

  Yeoman was still smarting over that incident; the failure of the Eindhoven fighters to intercept the marauding Focke-Wulfs had earned him a rocket from Group HQ, the latter having apparently ignored the fact that radar had failed to detect the enemy until it was too late.

  ‘As I said earlier,’ the Wing Commander continued, ‘our Intelligence chaps are convinced that the Huns are planning something big — hence all this air activity to test our reactions, and the growing number of incursions by Messerschmitt 262 reconnaissance jets. Well, it’s up to us to hit them hard, and to keep on hitting them whenever and wherever we can. As of now, our primary target is the Luftwaffe, together with its airfields.’

  There were groans from the audience, many of whom saw visions of suicidal airfield attacks through a forest of anti-aircraft fire looming large before them. Yeoman recognized their apprehension, and gave a sudden disarming grin.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We won’t be attacking the airfields themselves — that is, not unless we’re specifically ordered to do so. On the face of it, our main concern will still be attacks on enemy transport and communications — but every time we fly a sortie into Germany, we’ll make damned certain that our route takes us close to a Hun fighter airfield. That way, operating at low level, I think we’ll stand a far better chance of catching the Huns with their pants down than if we hang around for long periods in the vicinity of the enemy fields.’

  He laid the billiard cue aside and stood facing them, his hands clasped behind his back. Simon Wynne-Williams, seated unobtrusively near the back of the room, permitted himself a quiet smile. The man on the dais, he thought — an experienced, confident and self-assured leader — was a far different person from the twenty-year-old boy who had arrived in France on that May day in 1940, right at the start of the German Blitzkrieg. And Wing Commander George Yeoman had yet to see his twenty-fifth birthday.

  ‘This afternoon,’ Yeoman concluded, ‘we shall have an opportunity to put our new tactics to the test. Sixteen Tempests, eight from 505 Squadron and eight from 473, will attack trains in the Münster area — and on the way back we’ll take a look at Rheine. Final briefing will be at 1330; take-off at 1415. That’s all for now.’

  *

  The airfield was uniformly covered with a thin frosting of powdery snow, criss-crossed by the dark wheel tracks of vehicles and aircraft and by lines of footprints.

  Against the grey-white background, the Tempests looked darkly forbidding, as though brooding angrily over the prospect that they would soon be compelled by their masters to climb into the freezing atmosphere. Above them, shreds of grey-brown cloud trailed across a cold, eggshell-blue sky.

  Yeoman, who was in No. 505 Squadron’s dispersal hut with the other pilots, clasped his hands round the enamel mug to warm them and took a sip, pulling a face as the tea scalded his lips. Take-off was still ten minutes away. They would go out to their aircraft at the very last moment; there was no sense in spending unnecessarily long minutes in the cockpit, slowly freezing to the marrow.

  Yeoman himself was to lead the Tempests of 505 Squadron’s Red Section, with Wynne-Williams as his number two. Tim Phelan, the Squadron’s rightful commander, would on this occasion lead the four Tempests of Yellow Section. Of the unit’s other four fighters, two were unserviceable and Yeoman had decided to keep the other two behind on readiness at Eindhoven.

  As a last check, Yeoman put through a quick call to Group Control and asked if there were any significant changes that might affect the forthcoming operation. There were none, although the weather forecasters now predicted that there was a possibility of moderate snowfalls before dark. With luck, the Tempests would all be safely home by then.

  Yeoman glanced at his watch, then said quietly: ‘All right, lads. Time to go.’

  They picked up their parachutes, maps and flying helmets and walked out to the waiting aircraft, their boots crunching on the frosted grass. Despite the heavy clothing he was wearing Wynne-Williams shivered; even for late November, it was unnaturally cold.

  He nodded to his ground crew, waiting beside the Tempest, muffled up in greatcoats and Balaclava helmets.

  ‘Everything okay, Corporal?’

  ‘Okay, sir. Top line.’

  Wynne-Williams still found it hard to get used to the Tempest’s sheer size. Handing his parachute to the corporal, he carefully inserted his fingers and toes into the spring-loaded traps built into the fighter’s fuselage and climbed up to the cockpit, easing a leg over the side and balancing precariously while the airmen passed the parachute up to him. Settling the pack into position, he sat down on top of it and did up his straps; parachute harness first, then seat harness, pulling the straps to make sure that they were tight. He fitted on his helmet and plugged in his R/T and oxygen leads, but left the face-mask dangling loosely for the moment.

  He was not yet sufficiently familiar with the Tempest for the pre-take-off checks to be completely automatic. He went through them meticulously, one by one, muttering the sequence to himself.

  ‘Check ... undercarriage lever down, lever locking catch locked. Undercarriage indicator on, the green lights showing. Cockpit hood locked closed. Now, engine starting checks ... no, wait a minute, forgotten something. Oh, yes, make sure the footstep is retracted.’ He reached outside the cockpit and closed the top hand grip; that did the trick.

  A glance at the ground crew to make sure they were in position, waiting.

  ‘Right. Ignition switches off, all fuel tanks on, flaps up, propeller speed control fully forward. Supercharger control into “M” ratio, radiator shutter down.’

  Like its predecessor, the Hawker Typhoon, the Tempest employed the Koffmann starter system, which used explosive cartridges to turn the engine. The system held a total of five cartridges, so a pilot had five attempts to start a reluctant motor — in theory at least. In practice, it didn’t quite work out like that; if the explosive gases of one of the cartridges failed to start the engine, there was a good chance that they would set it on fire.

  Before starting the engine, he took the precaution of fastening his oxygen mask into place and turning the valve fully on, just in case poisonous fumes penetrated the cockpit. Then, satisfied that the mask was on snugly, he looked for the corporal’s signal that all was clear.

  The airman gave him a thumbs-up. Wynne-Williams opened the throttle gently as far as it would go, then pumped the carburettor priming handle until the fuel pressure warning light went out. Making sure the pump was screwed down, he loaded the cartridge starter by pulling a toggle on the right-hand side of the cockpit.

  So far, so good. The next step was to operate the cylinder priming pump, sending a mixture of petrol and oil into the cylinders. The pump moved easily at first, then gradually stiffened under his hand. He gave it four vigorous strokes, then, with his other hand, pressed the booster coil and starter buttons simultaneously.

  Slowly, creakingly, the big propeller blades began to turn over. Wynne-Williams kept the booster coil button depressed and suddenly the Sabre engine fired with the terrific bang. Immediately, an opaque film of oil spread over the windscreen. The pilot ignored it and gave the priming pump another few strokes; the engine coughed a few times and then settled down to a steady burbling roar. Breathing an involuntary sigh of relief, Wynne-Williams screw
ed the priming pump down and took his finger off the booster coil button.

  Opening the throttle slowly, he ran the engine at 1,000 rpm and then increased the engine speed to 2,000 rpm, checking each magneto in turn and watching the oil temperatures and pressures. Next, he checked the pneumatic pressure and then the functioning of the hydraulic system by lowering and raising the flaps.

  One of the ground crew, meanwhile, had climbed up on to the wing. Quickly, frozen stiff by the icy blast from the propeller, he wiped the oil from the windscreen with a clean rag, restoring the pilot’s forward vision. Wynne-Williams waved at him in thanks, then completed the rest of the pre-take-off ritual, checking the operation of the supercharger and the propeller speed control.

  What else? Oh, Christ, the radio! Quickly, he switched it on, and a few seconds later was rewarded by the crackle of static in his headphones.

  Off to the left, Yeoman’s Tempest was already starting to taxi. Wynne-Williams signalled to the ground crew to remove the chocks and released the brakes, opening the throttle until the big fighter started to move, keeping its position behind and to the right of the leader’s machine.

  On the perimeter track, just short of the runway, the pilots went through the check-list for take-off, using the mnemonic TPFF: ‘T’ for trimming tabs, ‘P’ for propeller pitch, ‘F’ for fuel settings and the other ‘F’ for flaps.

  All set. In pairs, the Tempests moved on to the runway. A green flare arced up from the Aerodrome Control Pilot’s trailer. Wynne-Williams applied too much brake as he lined up with Yeoman’s aircraft and the Tempest skidded slightly on the icy surface.

  He opened the throttle gradually, keeping pace with the leading aircraft as it gathered speed. Both Yeoman and he were using twenty degrees of flap, which reduced the take-off run by a hundred yards or so, but which resulted in a marked tendency to swing to the right. Wynne-Williams kept his left foot firmly pressed on the rudder pedal as the big fighter’s tail came up, correcting the swing before it had time to develop properly.