Post by rusel on Mar 17, 2019 12:11:36 GMT 10
Gidday and welcome to a short story from my Worlds Journey 6 novel. It was an unsuccessful submission to a competition.
This Planet Must Bleed
“I can see the Blood of the People,
merge with the Blood of the Earth.”
The coast passed rapidly below as they climbed into the morning sky. Pilot officer Harold ‘Vicar’ Parrish twisted in his seat to get a better view without edging his Spitfire out of the squadron formation.
‘We will begin to evacuate today,’ he thought to himself but the smoke that poured skywards from the hellhole that was Dunkirk told a different story. His would be the first squadron of the day to try and stop the Jerries from bombing anything that looked sea worthy.
“Parlor Leader, parlor leader, keep climbing, final checks.” Nobody responded. If the ground crews had spent all night to get your kite back in the air, then no pilot would doubt it. Still, better return with a malfunction than not return at all.
“Righto chaps, bandits angels 6, from the northeast. Follow me in, watch for fighters. After yesterday we know what we’re up against!”
Vicar twisted in his seat as the Spitfire to his left suddenly exploded and something shot past him.
“Heinkels, break! break! break!” Harold threw the stick and jinked just as tracer clipped his left wing then another Heinkel 100 dove passed.
“Turn into them,” he called amid the fevered pilot radio chatter as he twisted his spit back and forth.
“Gawd he’s a flamer!”
“Hold on Ginge, jink lad, jink, … shit!”
“Look out, jeez that was close, Owain ...”
Another Heinkel, ‘shit they’re fast.’ Parrish got off a squirt only to see the tracer drift harmlessly through the space where the fastest fighter in the world had just been. He turned after it but they were gone and being thirty odd miles and hour faster he didn’t even try to pursue.
“Red squadron, red squadron, Regroup east, turning climb everyone, lets gets some height.” Harold brought his Spit around and saw the French coast below him with pillars of smoke and then streams of tracer began climbing toward him.
‘Fuck it, Jerries at the harbour! Shit that’s close,” and he jinked right and left to throw off the anti-aircraft gunners.
A pall of Dunkirk smoke rose biblical like before him and he flew straight into it to escape the flak. Climbing tightly, and fighting the turbulence he pulled out of the pall directly into a flight of Henschel 127 fast bombers turning away after their bombing run. He pressed the firing button as one filled his reflector site and he watched the red flashes of hits from the De Wilde bullets dance along it’s fuselage.
Then he was past it and over another and he felt the hits as their gunners found him. There were holes across his right wing, just behind the cockpit and his rudder felt heavier.
He jinked the spit and nearly stalled it as he flipped it over but the Spits stupid carburettor couldn't keep up with him. He came around for another run but the 127s dived away and he was losing fuel so he reluctantly gave up the chase.
Parrish turned for home, then spotted a Junkers 88 heading out across the channel. He turned to follow, but when it turned north west he gave up and settled in for the limp back to Manston. He tried to open his damaged canopy using the slipstream in case this balls up of a day just got worse but it stayed jammed. Parrish swore at another thing that had gone wrong.
“Red six to base, red six to base, leaking fuel, rudder damaged, over.” He was nearly bounced by their reply. “Red six, red six, no go, no go, try Hawkinge!”
‘Shit, Manston a no go,’ he frowned as he fought the increasingly heavy controls to bring the Spit around onto the more southerly heading for the smaller airfield that was closer to the coast.
He came in low over the White Cliffs and he got waves from an Observer station and some of the ack ack boys nearby.
“Shit what a fuckup,” he blurted out loud as he came up on and circled Hawkinge airfield. The runway was clear despite the tower and hangars being smoking ruins and a couple of dozen smoldering wrecks littering the edges of the airfield. It appeared that every able body was moving anything salvageable. He could see Blenheims, Lysanders, Hurries, Spits and those stupid turreted Defiants being parked away in the outfield. Looked like the Frogs and Belgies had also dropped by.
He turned the Spit and began his landing run. ‘Looks a shit of a strafing run,’ he reckoned as he passed the first of the wrecks and the Spit bounced then embraced the runway as if it would never leave the ground again.
He was directed to the outfield where sandbag walls were hurriedly being built for the newly dispersed aircraft. He was directed past french Bloch and Dewoitine fighters. They were the equivalents of the RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires, which meant they too were being flamed out of the sky by the diving attacks of the new Heinkel and those mongrel twin engined Focke wulf 187s.
He flicked off the fuel switch with the gauge showing empty and then the kill switch for the V12 Merlin which spluttered into silence. One of the Erks raced over with a fire extinguisher and doused part of his wing and the ground while another of the ground crew climbed up and tried to slide back the damaged hood. It stay jammed and the Erk kicked at it till it pushed open enough and Parrish climbed out.
“Quik abo’t it ser, thes way. Kip rund the back way ser. We’ve ‘ad 187s ‘nd 124’s a’ us a’ready. A right flammin cockup it’s bin awl mornin!”
A ground wallah beckoned to him, “the debrief tent over there sir.”
Parrish saluted the ground crew officer and made straight for the make shift airfield HQ. An MP pushed open the flap and the hubbub of pilot’s voices nearly drowned him in their concern and distress. He saw hands showing dogfights and others holding heads too exhausted to go on.
“Vicar, you’re alive you bastard!” Parrish swung around and saw Bluey jump up from a desk and stride over to him. With much back slapping they made their way back to the debrief desk.
“It was just a complete cockup,” Parrish found himself saying to the debrief officer. “We’d no directions from controllers and what we did get was sh…, sorry sir, bloody useless. They bounced us before we got near enough to see anything. Red nosed 100s tore straight through us and then came back for seconds. If they slow down and manoeuvre we can turn inside them and get off clear deflection shots but if they’ve any speed, … it’s just thin air.”
“Very good then Parrish, we’ll put you down for a probable 127. Now get some nosh and a kip, the mess tent is in the next copse of trees.”
“Come along sir, come along, it’s 4.30 sir!” Parrish’s eyes flickered open and he made some sort of hand gesture at the orderly who moved onto the next pilot. Vicar dragged on his long johns and then the rest of his kit. He hung his scarf around his neck and slung the Irvine jacket over his shoulder then joined the others heading to the briefing tent.
“Morning Gentleman,” said the C.O. as he entered and walked straight up to the situation board showing a reasonably well drawn map of the channel and headed 27th May. Dunkirk was all that was detailed and the arrows of the german units showed that the British Expeditionary Force was now encircled.
“Right then. All of us took a hiding yesterday and it is now clear that Stategic Luftflotte 1 has taken over ops along the coast. Tactical Luftflottes 1 and 2 have turned their attention to the French in the south while Marine Luftflotte 2 is now operating along our coasts.”
Parrish looked at the situation map. He was looking at hell.
“All our radars along the coast between the Thames and Portsmouth are out of action. Their Henschel 127s and Dornier 19s hit all our channel ports and airfields yesterday.” Captain Stratton pointed at each site of an attack. “Every one of our squadrons sent across to Dunkirk was intercepted. As of today any remaining Belgian and French squadrons operating over Flanders and Belgium will be operating from our airfields.”
Parrish shook his head in disbelief, ‘we’re up shit creek’.
“Our aim today is to give cover to a renewed push to breakout the BEF southwards and to keep that corridor open. The French will be striking up from the south and their first raids should be going in at dawn. They will be facing the 109s and 110s while we have the privilege of facing the 100s and 187s …”
The air raid siren began its blood curdling howl and everybody jumped up. “Don’t be heroes, if you can’t get up safely don’t try. We need you alive!”
Parrish finally made it out of the tent and as he raced for his Spitfire he realised that the fleet of enemy aircraft just coming into sight weren’t bombers, they were transports!
“Shit parachutes!”
This Planet Must Bleed
“I can see the Blood of the People,
merge with the Blood of the Earth.”
The coast passed rapidly below as they climbed into the morning sky. Pilot officer Harold ‘Vicar’ Parrish twisted in his seat to get a better view without edging his Spitfire out of the squadron formation.
‘We will begin to evacuate today,’ he thought to himself but the smoke that poured skywards from the hellhole that was Dunkirk told a different story. His would be the first squadron of the day to try and stop the Jerries from bombing anything that looked sea worthy.
“Parlor Leader, parlor leader, keep climbing, final checks.” Nobody responded. If the ground crews had spent all night to get your kite back in the air, then no pilot would doubt it. Still, better return with a malfunction than not return at all.
“Righto chaps, bandits angels 6, from the northeast. Follow me in, watch for fighters. After yesterday we know what we’re up against!”
Vicar twisted in his seat as the Spitfire to his left suddenly exploded and something shot past him.
“Heinkels, break! break! break!” Harold threw the stick and jinked just as tracer clipped his left wing then another Heinkel 100 dove passed.
“Turn into them,” he called amid the fevered pilot radio chatter as he twisted his spit back and forth.
“Gawd he’s a flamer!”
“Hold on Ginge, jink lad, jink, … shit!”
“Look out, jeez that was close, Owain ...”
Another Heinkel, ‘shit they’re fast.’ Parrish got off a squirt only to see the tracer drift harmlessly through the space where the fastest fighter in the world had just been. He turned after it but they were gone and being thirty odd miles and hour faster he didn’t even try to pursue.
“Red squadron, red squadron, Regroup east, turning climb everyone, lets gets some height.” Harold brought his Spit around and saw the French coast below him with pillars of smoke and then streams of tracer began climbing toward him.
‘Fuck it, Jerries at the harbour! Shit that’s close,” and he jinked right and left to throw off the anti-aircraft gunners.
A pall of Dunkirk smoke rose biblical like before him and he flew straight into it to escape the flak. Climbing tightly, and fighting the turbulence he pulled out of the pall directly into a flight of Henschel 127 fast bombers turning away after their bombing run. He pressed the firing button as one filled his reflector site and he watched the red flashes of hits from the De Wilde bullets dance along it’s fuselage.
Then he was past it and over another and he felt the hits as their gunners found him. There were holes across his right wing, just behind the cockpit and his rudder felt heavier.
He jinked the spit and nearly stalled it as he flipped it over but the Spits stupid carburettor couldn't keep up with him. He came around for another run but the 127s dived away and he was losing fuel so he reluctantly gave up the chase.
Parrish turned for home, then spotted a Junkers 88 heading out across the channel. He turned to follow, but when it turned north west he gave up and settled in for the limp back to Manston. He tried to open his damaged canopy using the slipstream in case this balls up of a day just got worse but it stayed jammed. Parrish swore at another thing that had gone wrong.
“Red six to base, red six to base, leaking fuel, rudder damaged, over.” He was nearly bounced by their reply. “Red six, red six, no go, no go, try Hawkinge!”
‘Shit, Manston a no go,’ he frowned as he fought the increasingly heavy controls to bring the Spit around onto the more southerly heading for the smaller airfield that was closer to the coast.
He came in low over the White Cliffs and he got waves from an Observer station and some of the ack ack boys nearby.
“Shit what a fuckup,” he blurted out loud as he came up on and circled Hawkinge airfield. The runway was clear despite the tower and hangars being smoking ruins and a couple of dozen smoldering wrecks littering the edges of the airfield. It appeared that every able body was moving anything salvageable. He could see Blenheims, Lysanders, Hurries, Spits and those stupid turreted Defiants being parked away in the outfield. Looked like the Frogs and Belgies had also dropped by.
He turned the Spit and began his landing run. ‘Looks a shit of a strafing run,’ he reckoned as he passed the first of the wrecks and the Spit bounced then embraced the runway as if it would never leave the ground again.
He was directed to the outfield where sandbag walls were hurriedly being built for the newly dispersed aircraft. He was directed past french Bloch and Dewoitine fighters. They were the equivalents of the RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires, which meant they too were being flamed out of the sky by the diving attacks of the new Heinkel and those mongrel twin engined Focke wulf 187s.
He flicked off the fuel switch with the gauge showing empty and then the kill switch for the V12 Merlin which spluttered into silence. One of the Erks raced over with a fire extinguisher and doused part of his wing and the ground while another of the ground crew climbed up and tried to slide back the damaged hood. It stay jammed and the Erk kicked at it till it pushed open enough and Parrish climbed out.
“Quik abo’t it ser, thes way. Kip rund the back way ser. We’ve ‘ad 187s ‘nd 124’s a’ us a’ready. A right flammin cockup it’s bin awl mornin!”
A ground wallah beckoned to him, “the debrief tent over there sir.”
Parrish saluted the ground crew officer and made straight for the make shift airfield HQ. An MP pushed open the flap and the hubbub of pilot’s voices nearly drowned him in their concern and distress. He saw hands showing dogfights and others holding heads too exhausted to go on.
“Vicar, you’re alive you bastard!” Parrish swung around and saw Bluey jump up from a desk and stride over to him. With much back slapping they made their way back to the debrief desk.
“It was just a complete cockup,” Parrish found himself saying to the debrief officer. “We’d no directions from controllers and what we did get was sh…, sorry sir, bloody useless. They bounced us before we got near enough to see anything. Red nosed 100s tore straight through us and then came back for seconds. If they slow down and manoeuvre we can turn inside them and get off clear deflection shots but if they’ve any speed, … it’s just thin air.”
“Very good then Parrish, we’ll put you down for a probable 127. Now get some nosh and a kip, the mess tent is in the next copse of trees.”
“Come along sir, come along, it’s 4.30 sir!” Parrish’s eyes flickered open and he made some sort of hand gesture at the orderly who moved onto the next pilot. Vicar dragged on his long johns and then the rest of his kit. He hung his scarf around his neck and slung the Irvine jacket over his shoulder then joined the others heading to the briefing tent.
“Morning Gentleman,” said the C.O. as he entered and walked straight up to the situation board showing a reasonably well drawn map of the channel and headed 27th May. Dunkirk was all that was detailed and the arrows of the german units showed that the British Expeditionary Force was now encircled.
“Right then. All of us took a hiding yesterday and it is now clear that Stategic Luftflotte 1 has taken over ops along the coast. Tactical Luftflottes 1 and 2 have turned their attention to the French in the south while Marine Luftflotte 2 is now operating along our coasts.”
Parrish looked at the situation map. He was looking at hell.
“All our radars along the coast between the Thames and Portsmouth are out of action. Their Henschel 127s and Dornier 19s hit all our channel ports and airfields yesterday.” Captain Stratton pointed at each site of an attack. “Every one of our squadrons sent across to Dunkirk was intercepted. As of today any remaining Belgian and French squadrons operating over Flanders and Belgium will be operating from our airfields.”
Parrish shook his head in disbelief, ‘we’re up shit creek’.
“Our aim today is to give cover to a renewed push to breakout the BEF southwards and to keep that corridor open. The French will be striking up from the south and their first raids should be going in at dawn. They will be facing the 109s and 110s while we have the privilege of facing the 100s and 187s …”
The air raid siren began its blood curdling howl and everybody jumped up. “Don’t be heroes, if you can’t get up safely don’t try. We need you alive!”
Parrish finally made it out of the tent and as he raced for his Spitfire he realised that the fleet of enemy aircraft just coming into sight weren’t bombers, they were transports!
“Shit parachutes!”
