D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

“Quite all right....”

“Sims, Major, Pilot Officer Hildy Sims.”

“Carry on, Sims.”

Thorley sat on the parachute, deciding that if he really needed it he’d put it on at the appropriate time. Chances were good, however, that the pilot was correct. With all the extra fuel in that large tank in the bomb bay, they’d never have the chance to get out. Pushing that unpleasant thought from his mind, he leaned his back against the bulkhead, feeling the vibration of the engines. Hildy sat down in the fold-down jump seat, turned on the radio and put on his headset, then pulled out his charts and began plotting the course that would take them out over the Atlantic and then south over the Bay of Biscay to neutral Portugal.

A moment later, the engines throttled up and the rumbling idle became a full-throated roar. He felt the brakes ease off and the Wellington move forward, rapidly picking up speed. As they approached take-off speed, wind howled through the open gun ports adding to the cacophony and further jangling his nerves. He felt the wheels jounce once as the plane lifted off the earth. He was thirty-five years old, heading off into God only knew what, and this was his first time in the air. Turning his eyes heavenward, he beseeched whatever deity might be listening that he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be his last.

The plane banked sharply, turned south first, then due west. A few downdrafts jolted the plane, making Thorley’s stomach twist and his knuckles turn white. His hands ached as he gripped a piece of the plane’s superstructure. Looking toward the cockpit, he saw the copilot pointing at one of the Perspex windows. “Our escort has arrived,” he said.

It was too dark to see from where he was sitting, but Thorley knew the copilot referred to a fighter escort, no doubt two of the highly maneuverable Spitfires. Instead of making him feel better, this only increased his anxiety.

“Good show,” the pilot replied, his eyes on the altimeter. “Leveling off at fifteen thousand feet.” He put his hands to his throat mike. “This is Red Leader…do you copy Little Friends? Over.”

A crackling of static.

“We copy loud and clear, Red Leader. What are your orders? Over.”

“Stay with us until the far beacon. We should be all right after that, over.”

“Roger, Red Leader, we’re with you all the way to Tipperary. Over and out.”

The pilot smiled at the fighter escort’s joke, and was about to offer a comment to the copilot when the plane dropped two hundred feet and began to vibrate as if shaken in a giant paint mixer. Alarmed and thinking the worst, Thorley grabbed onto a stanchion and grit his teeth. And then, as quickly as it all began, the shaking ceased and the plane flew on, steady as a watchmaker’s hand. Thorley uncoiled himself from the stanchion and sank back against the bulkhead. The pilots grinned at each other.

“Your first time up, Major?” the copilot asked, a devilish gleam in his eye.

Thorley ignored the man.

“Don’t worry, sir,” the pilot offered, “we’ve never lost one to turbulence yet. It’s only Göring’s goons you have to worry about.”

Thorley stared back at the man, his gaze level and calm. “How long is the flight, Flight Lieutenant?”

“About six hours, sir.”

“Good, then keep it buttoned until then.”

The pilot’s eyebrows shot up. He gave the copilot a nervous shrug, then returned his attention to the plane.

Nothing happened until they passed near the French coast. Out of nowhere, two Messerschmitt Bf 110s dove from the clouds, their 20mm cannons and 7.92mm machine guns blazing. One moment it was quiet, the next it was pandemonium with tracer bullet accompaniment.

The pilot wrenched the yoke and the Wellington dove to the left. The radio blared: “Red Leader, Red Leader, Messerschmitt on your tail! Bank right!”

Immediately, the Wellington rolled over to the right. Thorley heard the chatter of the Wellington’s nose guns and saw the red streaks of tracers arcing out into the night.

The radio blared again: “Red Leader, Dive, dive, dive!”

But before the pilot could react, a fusillade of bullets ripped through the side of the plane, tearing up the instrument panel and nailing the copilot in the head. It exploded like a ripe melon, spattering blood against Thorley’s face. As horrified as he was, what really scared him was that the nose guns had fallen silent.

Next to him, Hildy threw off his headset and grabbed Thorley by the arm. “Do you know how to operate a three-o-three?”

“N—no.”

Hildy pulled him to his feet. “No time like the present. Come on.”

Thorley tried to stay on his feet while the Wellington maneuvered to avoid the Messerschmitt’s relentless cannon fire, which thwacked against the fuselage with sickening regularity. Passing the bomb bay, they came upon two flexible .303 calibre belt-fed machine guns on swivels mounted to the deck, each aiming out one side of the plane. Farther aft, Thorley heard the rear-gunner’s .303 clattering in staccato bursts, punctuated by Gibby’s gleeful cursing.

“You hear that?” Hildy shouted, pointing to the tail. “Fire it only when you’ve got them in your sights. You’ve only got five thousand rounds, and these babies will chew them up faster than you can imagine.”

A Spitfire streaked by the open port chasing one of the Messerschmitts, dark blurs against a darker sky. The Wellington rolled, forcing Thorley and Hildy to brace themselves until it leveled out. “How the hell can I see them, much less get them in my bleeding sights?”

“Watch the tracers. Then aim a little farther back from the source of the fire. That’s your target.”

Hildy pushed him toward the .303 on the starboard side and Thorley grabbed the handles and pushed the trigger.

Nothing.

The