done. At each attack, the Hurricanes and the Spitfires were positioned correctly to defend their territory, the beneficiaries of expert radio detection. The enemy fighters were hacking the German bombers out of the sky, five, ten, twenty a day. And despite their own losses, the RAF kept coming.
For a change, the radios were silent; this, too, was simple fatigue, well earned in months of endless warfare. As soon as the first glints of the British fighters appeared, the usual quivering, yipping cries would begin to jam the channels. Luftwaffe radio discipline was appalling; Josten realized that it was one of the many changes that had to be made if they were to win the war. He wondered if the bomber crews talked as much as the fighter pilots. He didn't know because they were on totally different frequencies, another planning fiasco. It wouldn't have taken too much brainpower to figure that the bombers might like to talk to the fighters!
The pleasure he took in the almost mutinous thinking surprised him. It opened up a whole series of possibilities beyond the daily dogfights. He could help both Galland and Hafner—and really make a difference. It was one thing to shoot down a few airplanes; it was quite another to have an effect on the war!
Josten was jerked back into his cockpit by a sudden waggle of Galland's wing. He caught a glimpse of his rudder, the Luftsieg stripes of forty victories picked out, each with a date and type recorded. Josten's thoughts swung briefly to Lyra, then to the horizon, where dozens of dots suddenly swarmed, a whirling mass of lethal gnats hurtling toward the bombers.
*
Above Southeast England/September 15, 1940
Leveling off at twenty thousand feet, the Hurricane gained speed and its controls tightened, imparting the taut, finger-drumming feel of a sailboat placed precisely before the wind. The magnificent Rolls-Royce engine's turbine-smooth song of power inspired more confidence than the American Allison engines Bandfield had flown behind. All the compounded forces of the aircraft—the pistons flashing up and down, the gears turning, the propeller trying to tear itself apart, the suck of wind upon the wings, the invisible air battering it everywhere—all were smoothed by the airplane's harmonious lines into a single flow of power, an endless sheet of energy he controlled with the tip of a finger. Only the hammering recoil of the eight .303-caliber Browning machine guns would disturb the Hurricane's dolphin-smooth flight.
Bandfield had never felt lonelier. He thought of Patty and the children constantly and hated missing even part; of George's young life, the wonderful time when he was proficient in crawling and just beginning to think about taking the first step. He wondered if even a vagrant thought of him flickered through the children's heads. Charlotte must think of him; perhaps even George, with his crooked grin and slobbery smile, might sometimes remember him.
Abruptly, Keeler's voice came through his earphones as loud as if he'd been in the cockpit beside him: "Short John, Short John, this is Natty Leader."
Short John, the deputy controller for Northolt came back, "Hello, Natty Leader, we have some custom for you; vector one-twenty degrees, angels twenty."
Keeler's roar didn't need a radio.
"Angels twenty my bloody ass, Short John. I can see the bastards and they're at angels twenty-five if they're an inch. We're climbing to meet them."
Unruffled, Short John said, "Thank you, Natty Leader, 74 Squadron is climbing behind you."
Keeler's voice was calmer. "Short John, it's a mixed bag of Heinkels and Dorniers with a stack of 109s just above them."
Then, to his flight: "All right then, Natty Flight, line astern, head-on attack on the lead Heinkels."
Bandfield felt his muscles go through the automatic constrictions that tried to squeeze him into a tiny ball hidden by the engine and the armor plate behind the seat. The four Hurricanes had leveled off, accelerating as they swung to
For a change, the radios were silent; this, too, was simple fatigue, well earned in months of endless warfare. As soon as the first glints of the British fighters appeared, the usual quivering, yipping cries would begin to jam the channels. Luftwaffe radio discipline was appalling; Josten realized that it was one of the many changes that had to be made if they were to win the war. He wondered if the bomber crews talked as much as the fighter pilots. He didn't know because they were on totally different frequencies, another planning fiasco. It wouldn't have taken too much brainpower to figure that the bombers might like to talk to the fighters!
The pleasure he took in the almost mutinous thinking surprised him. It opened up a whole series of possibilities beyond the daily dogfights. He could help both Galland and Hafner—and really make a difference. It was one thing to shoot down a few airplanes; it was quite another to have an effect on the war!
Josten was jerked back into his cockpit by a sudden waggle of Galland's wing. He caught a glimpse of his rudder, the Luftsieg stripes of forty victories picked out, each with a date and type recorded. Josten's thoughts swung briefly to Lyra, then to the horizon, where dozens of dots suddenly swarmed, a whirling mass of lethal gnats hurtling toward the bombers.
*
Above Southeast England/September 15, 1940
Leveling off at twenty thousand feet, the Hurricane gained speed and its controls tightened, imparting the taut, finger-drumming feel of a sailboat placed precisely before the wind. The magnificent Rolls-Royce engine's turbine-smooth song of power inspired more confidence than the American Allison engines Bandfield had flown behind. All the compounded forces of the aircraft—the pistons flashing up and down, the gears turning, the propeller trying to tear itself apart, the suck of wind upon the wings, the invisible air battering it everywhere—all were smoothed by the airplane's harmonious lines into a single flow of power, an endless sheet of energy he controlled with the tip of a finger. Only the hammering recoil of the eight .303-caliber Browning machine guns would disturb the Hurricane's dolphin-smooth flight.
Bandfield had never felt lonelier. He thought of Patty and the children constantly and hated missing even part; of George's young life, the wonderful time when he was proficient in crawling and just beginning to think about taking the first step. He wondered if even a vagrant thought of him flickered through the children's heads. Charlotte must think of him; perhaps even George, with his crooked grin and slobbery smile, might sometimes remember him.
Abruptly, Keeler's voice came through his earphones as loud as if he'd been in the cockpit beside him: "Short John, Short John, this is Natty Leader."
Short John, the deputy controller for Northolt came back, "Hello, Natty Leader, we have some custom for you; vector one-twenty degrees, angels twenty."
Keeler's roar didn't need a radio.
"Angels twenty my bloody ass, Short John. I can see the bastards and they're at angels twenty-five if they're an inch. We're climbing to meet them."
Unruffled, Short John said, "Thank you, Natty Leader, 74 Squadron is climbing behind you."
Keeler's voice was calmer. "Short John, it's a mixed bag of Heinkels and Dorniers with a stack of 109s just above them."
Then, to his flight: "All right then, Natty Flight, line astern, head-on attack on the lead Heinkels."
Bandfield felt his muscles go through the automatic constrictions that tried to squeeze him into a tiny ball hidden by the engine and the armor plate behind the seat. The four Hurricanes had leveled off, accelerating as they swung to
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