BLUE 4 OUT
By Richard Zapf
Will Smythe occupied the Blue 4 slot in a flight of four Hawker Hurricanes. The Battle of Britain had petered out by February 14, 1941, because the RAF had prevented a Nazi invasion of the home island by stopping the Luftwaffe from gaining air superiority over England. With the limited resources the British had, they went on the offensive. A major opponent of RAF Fighter Command during the battle was the JG26, stationed near the town of Abbeville. They flew the Messerschmitt Bf109-E, one of the best fighter aircraft in the world, and with their all-yellow noses and wingtips, RAF pilots easily recognized them as the top aces of the Luftwaffe. But today the Abbeville Boys were going to get a surprise, because Will’s squadron had orders to make a low-level fighter sweep over their base just as dawn was breaking.
Will’s squadron was divided into three flights, Red, Green, and Blue, with four aircraft each. They crossed the Channel at wave top level and hoped to catch the Abbeville Boys sleeping or, better yet, in the act of either landing or taking off. Will had passed through fighter training with better than average scores and posted to number 505 squadron. After some orientation flights, he was assigned as a wingman to Johnny “Stuffy” Jones, Blue 3. Even though Stuffy was a sergeant and Will was a pilot officer and outranked Stuffy, this did not carry any weight as far as the squadron commander was concerned. Experience was what mattered, and Stuffy had the experience, with three kills to his credit. Will, on the other hand, had never fired his guns in battle, and his only practice had been a quick trip to the Channel where he fired into the water. The amount of lead from his eight Browning .303 machine guns made quite a splash. To his surprise, his entire stock of ammo had been depleted in a little over twenty seconds.
“Bloody good shooting, Blue 4,” came a transmission from Blue 3, who had been detailed to escort the new pilot over the Channel. “The Channel will never be the same. You hit it with each round. But next time use short bursts of three seconds. That’s all you’ll need, and it’ll prevent you from burning out the barrels. You know, you’re wasting the King’s money every time you damage one of those guns. And next time, pull out sooner.”
Will had been briefed about holding down the trigger too long but had become fixated. He was so fascinated by how some of the rounds skipped off the water that he almost flew into the Channel. He snapped out of his fixation at the last second, when he heard Blue 3 call, “Pull up! Pull up!” Will felt humiliated hearing Stuffy’s transmission but realized that it probably saved his life. All he could do was transmit back, “Roger that, Blue 3.”
This morning the squadron was awakened at 3 a.m. and briefed by their skipper on the day’s operation.
“Today we are going on a fighter sweep. Follow my lead and pay attention, because we’ll be flying less than thirty feet above the Channel until we reach the French Coast at Dieppe. As we approach Amiens, we’ll surprise Jerry by attacking from the east. We’ll fly low so we won’t be picked up by coastwatchers until the last second, and we should blow by their coastal anti-aircraft before Jerry can respond. I know some of you have been out about town scoring a few birds in the pubs last night. This is highly technical flying, as you’ll have to avoid flying into the Channel and at the same time look out for Jerry. So don’t confuse your wanger with your joystick and keep your eyes out of the cockpit.”
The pilots chuckled.
“I’m serious. If you want to live, and not let your mates down, stick to the business of flying once you’re in the cockpit. Understood? Leave your fantasies and troubles on the ground.”
The squadron responded with a collective, “Yes, Sir.”
Stuffy was the one to ask the most important question. “What’s the plan once we get there, Skipper?”
The Skipper pointed to the chart on the wall. “The squadron will come at Jerry’s field from three directions to confuse any ground fire. I’ll lead Green flight and strike first, then Red, and finally Blue. One pass only. Shoot up anything you see in the air or on the ground and get out before Jerry wakes up. We’ll rendezvous over Point Alpha at angels 10. Man your aircraft at 0500.”
Will jotted down the particulars of the mission, but at the same time, he couldn’t help thinking of his girl, Melissa Wells. She was a driver in the Women’s Auxiliary, a redhead of about five-three with just a sprinkling of freckles, and he thought she looked cute in her uniform. They had been dating for six weeks, and when they were off duty, they were inseparable. While Will tended to be taciturn, Melissa was bubbly and brought him out. Sometimes she would yammer on about all sorts of things about which Will had no interest, from clothing styles to gardening, but he didn’t interrupt because he just liked to hear the sound of her voice. Today was Valentine’s Day, and despite rationing, the two of them had scrimped to have dinner in her flat since her roommate would be away. Both Will and Melissa were virgins, and they discussed that tonight might be the night. Just the thought of seeing Melissa with less on than her uniform made it difficult for Will to think of much else.
Now it was 0520, and the squadron was speeding across the Channel. The three flights formed a V formation, with Green in the center, Red on the left, and Blue on the right. As Blue 4, Will flew the last aircraft on the extreme right, guarding their flank. He concentrated hard to stay in formation and avoid flying into the Channel. He had to clear the perspiration from around his goggles several times. Rather than maintaining a light touch on the joystick, he realized, he gripped it so tight that his hand cramped. He had to switch hands and exercise his fingers. The squadron was so low over the water that the Green flight was causing a wake and kicking up spray, and he guessed his flight was doing the same. At nearly three hundred miles per hour, one slip at such a low altitude meant death. He started to think about Melissa, and as a result, he started to separate slightly from his flight. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem at angels 10, or ten thousand feet, but at thirty feet it could kill a lad. Sorry, Melissa, he thought to himself. If I’m to survive the war I need to boot you out of the cockpit.
Before he could contemplate much else, the French coast came up faster than Will expected. Now he had no time to think of Melissa. The three flights broke in three directions after they hit the coast. True to the plan, their surprise of the coastal defenses was almost complete. Most of the flak and tracer fire was behind them, but Jerry got in a lucky shot. Red 3 started to smoke and pitched up, making a tight turn for home. Will didn’t have time to see if Red 3 made a good escape.
“Oh shit, oh shit!” Will said more to himself. His mouth went dry, and he had a strange copper taste in his mouth.
He heard a transmission from the skipper that seemed to be directed to him. “Stay on mission, lads. We have a job to do.”
Blue leader spotted their waypoint, a small village with a church steeple, where they were to alter their course. Will’s flight turned thirty degrees and started to climb to a thousand feet. As they climbed they could see an open patch of ground being used as an airfield. Green and Red flights had already made their passes. Smoke and several burning buildings and aircraft littered the field. Will couldn’t tell if they were friend or foe, but he hoped the wreckage belonged to Jerry. As planned, Blue flight deployed in a line astern, with Will being the tail end Charlie. Blue leader caught a pair of Bf109s just taking off. He put a three-second burst into the cockpit of the lead aircraft, causing it to drop its left wing and cartwheel down the runway, bursting into flames. His wingman, Blue 2, was about to do the same to the Jerry wingman when a Bf109 dropped out of nowhere from behind and put several rounds into Blue 2, causing him to burst into flames.
It was Stuffy’s turn to return the favor, but as he lined up the 109, another 109 skimmed over Will’s cockpit, missing him by inches. He screamed into his mic, “Brake, Stuffy! Brake!” It was too late. A quick burst from the 109 and Stuffy exploded. Why the 109 had not seen Will or chose to ignore him, he couldn’t explain. He didn’t need a sight to line up the 109 because it filled his windscreen. He could see its yellow rudder, gray and green upper camouflage, and light blue underside with yellow wing tips. Three seconds was enough to finish off the 109, but Will kept the trigger down even as he pulled up, flying through the wreckage of his victim. He could hear and feel some of the debris striking his Hurricane. One chunk of a wing, spinning wildly, struck his armored windscreen and cracked it. Will ducked. How stupid is that? he thought. You can’t duck anything at three hundred miles per hour.
As he continued to climb, he observed dents in the leading edge of his port wing. The damage was bad enough that the guns on that wing probably would not fire. This was a moot proposition because he had expended all his ammo. For once he was thankful he was flying a Hurry instead of a Spitfire, which he coveted. While the Spit was faster and a dream to fly, it couldn’t take this kind of battle damage.
Will could hardly see forward due to the smashed windscreen. He pushed back the canopy for better visibility, and it moved an inch and no more. He panicked. Then he put both feet on the dashboard and pulled on the canopy with both hands. The damned thing moved another inch and stuck. Will abandoned trying to open the canopy because he had other things on his mind, like looking out for Jerry and finding the rest of his Squadron. Thank God the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine was running like a top. He reached angels 10 over point Alpha and the sky was empty. No Jerry and no squadron. He had heard from veteran pilots that sometimes after intense combat the sky would be empty, even though you’d expect to see squadrons of aircraft. He guessed this was one of those occasions. Will keyed his mic. “Blue 4 to Blue leader, over.” No response, so he tried several times more with the same result. He guessed the radio would not transmit on the squadron frequency.
Fuel was getting low, and he saw no reason to hang about in enemy territory with a banged-up Hurry and no ammo. It was time to head home. He decided to climb to angels 15, fifteen thousand feet. It never hurts to have extra altitude. I can always trade it for speed if I need it, he thought. As he crossed the coast at Dieppe, Will should have been making evasive maneuvers to avoid the flak, but he was preoccupied with keeping his banged-up bird in the air. There were several explosions of red flashes surrounded by black smoke about the Hurry and one hell of a bang. The whole aircraft jolted. Surprised that he was still flying, Will let out a sigh as he flew out of range. A few seconds later the Merlin started to act up. The news from the instrument panel wasn’t good. The engine coolant temp gauge’s needle swung into the red zone and the oil pressure gauge needle pointed near zero. He throttled back to save the engine. Normally it would be time to bail out and be picked up by Air Sea Rescue or become a guest of the Luftwaffe for the duration of the war, but with a jammed canopy, these weren’t options. Again, he desperately tried to force it open. It wouldn’t move. The edge of the canopy cut into his fingers even though he wore gloves. He took out his revolver and shot into the canopy to make a hole. But using the pistol as a club, he couldn’t make a hole big enough to climb out. A look back revealed that Blue 4 was trailing dirty brown and black smoke, announcing to the world, “Here I am! Shoot me down!”
In desperation, Will switched frequencies to fighter control. He keyed the mic. “Bedrock, Blue 4, over,” he said in a calm voice. He had picked up this manner of communication from other RAF pilots who would report dire situations in the calmest manner. “Even if you’re on fire it would be bad form to scream into the mic,” the skipper said when Will first presented his orders to join the squadron. “It upsets the ground control operators, who are all young women. So act like a proper gentleman when communicating with them.”
To Will’s surprise, the radio worked. A pleasant female voice responded, “This is Bedrock. We copy you, Blue 4, over.”
“Bedrock, Blue 4 is at angels 14 and a bit banged up. Engine’s cobbed up. Request alternate destination, over.”
“Roger that, Blue 4. What is your position? Over.”
Will gave it to her. He was feeling some excitement as he sat up in the cockpit. He could see the Isle of Wight.
“Blue 4, maintain course of two seven zero and as you approach home you should see your alternate off to the right, over.”
“Roger that, Bedrock. Blue 4 out.”
Will continued to feel hopeful. In less than five minutes he could glide to the emergency field even if the engine quit, and the rescue crews could pry open the canopy. Not only that, as he looked off to his right he could see two specks heading toward him. An escort, he hoped. They were closing fast. A second look revealed yellow noses and wing tips, and a shot of adrenaline went through him. His hand started to shake, and when he pushed his goggles up, they were fogged with a combination of tears and perspiration. Will knew he had little chance of escaping, but he had to try. He put the nose down to try to outrun them and slammed the throttle to the firewall. The cranky Merlin responded with only a slight increase in speed, belched even more black and brown smoke, and started to shake violently.
The Hurry was barely making 150 mph. The Abbeville Boys could easily double that speed. He tried weaving. The Hurry was usually responsive to such evolutions and could turn inside a 109, but even with aggressive movement of the joystick and rudder pedals the Hurry’s handling was sluggish. Control cables were either jammed or shot away. He punched the instrument panel in frustration. Will then keyed his mic one more time. He took a breath, “Bedrock, this is Blue 4, over.”
“Bedrock to Blue 4. We copy you, over.”
“Bedrock, could you please call Miss Melissa Wells at Mayfair 2997, and give PO Will Smythe’s regrets that he will be unable to attend the planned Valentine’s Day dinner this evening? Over.”
After a longer-than-normal pause, the female voice read back his message, finally responding “Over.”
“Roger that. Blue 4 out.”
Will then looked out to his right. For a moment he thought he had shaken the 109s because he couldn’t see them. He felt a ray of hope. He might make it. A glimpse into his rearview mirror suggested otherwise. He could see the leader directly behind him and his wingman higher and slightly to the leader’s right. Will scrunched his body as small as possible in front of the pilot seat’s armor plating as cannon and machine gun rounds played a tattoo on the plate.
Richard Zapf is a retired clinical neuropsychologist and retired general aviation pilot who writes about his lifelong interests in aviation, sailing, and most of all the human condition. This story is the first of a series about British pilot Will Smythe.
