His headset crackled and Thatcher heard Simpson’s voice in his ear. “You ever flown before?”
“A few times.”
“Good. Don’t puke in my plane. I’ll have you down to Poole in no time. Just sit back and try to relax.”
Thatcher grunted as he squirmed about the turret. The plane had not been designed for comfort, that much was obvious. But he hoped the flight wouldn’t take that long because the sooner he was out of this bizarre flying kit and back into his civilian clothes, the better he would feel.
The Daffy turned again and pointed its nose toward the improvised runway. Thatcher looked at the mansion a half a kilometer away and wondered if the owners had ever expected to see a fleet of planes on their property. Probably not, he decided.
But then his thoughts were diverted by the Daffy as it rushed down the improvised runway — which was little more than grass cut extra short — and then lifted off the ground and into the sky.
CHAPTER 6
As soon as the Daffy’s landing gear came up and tucked away in its belly, the plane felt a lot smoother. Simpson kept the plane’s nose pointed skyward and they ascended. He banked twice and took a heading before settling the plane into its proper direction.
For Thatcher, it was weird sitting backward and seeing the world vanish as if falling away from him. The sensation wasn’t a bad one and he marveled at the miracle of flight as he tried to get some room in the turret to make himself feel comfortable. The mounted machine guns swung around slightly as he twisted this way and that. But he was largely unsuccessful at doing anything that might make his trip to Poole any more comfortable and Thatcher realized his best option was to simply hope that the trip was quick and uneventful.
“There’s not a lot of room back there, I’m afraid,” said Simpson in his earpiece. The radio crackled with static every time he spoke and Thatcher realized he could hear more than just the two of them.
“I appreciate the ride,” said Thatcher. “But how do you find someone who can tolerate this discomfort?”
Simpson laughed. “You find someone who is a lot smaller than what you are, mate. Most of the gunners are short, thin guys who can actually maneuver a bit. Although even for that lot, it can get challenging.”
Thatcher looked around. The setup seemed fairly evident. The four machine guns were electrically controlled from a main firing trigger. Thatcher also discovered that his turret would rotate if he pressed a lever on one side and it would go the other way if he pressed it the other direction. He shifted back and forth a few times, causing the turret to shudder in one direction and then the other.
Simpson laughed again in his earpiece. “Getting a feel for it, are you? This is a much better version than the earlier one we had. We’ve got airborne interception radar on this model, which is quite the improvement.”
“Have you shot down a lot of Nazi fighters with this?”
“The Defiant is primarily used against bombers. But yes indeed. 264 Squadron was one of the principal players in warding off the Blitz. Not sure what’s been happening lately, but the bombing runs have become less and less. I’ve seen a lot of mates get shot down as well. The Defiant isn’t the best when it’s forced to face Nazi fighters. They can generally out-maneuver us. But this little lady can do some great stuff if she’s put in the right position.”
Thatcher smirked. Any of the pilots he’d ever known had always referred to their planes as women. The same with ship captains. The world was apparently full of studs, he decided.
It was at that point that Thatcher heard a series of beeps going off from somewhere in the plane itself. “What in the world is that?”
Simpson’s voice crackled in his ear. “That is the radar system. I’m getting a number of hits on the scope in the cockpit here.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Other planes,” said Simpson. “Stand by.”
Simpson immediately began speaking to someone that Thatcher assumed was back at the air traffic control tower. He felt a spasm in his gut. Then he heard Simpson’s voice again in his ear. “Change of plans.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, mate, but apparently the Jerrys have decided to send a bombing mission over London right now. Base is tracking a whole bunch of them coming over the Channel as we speak. We’ve been directed to link up with the rest of the squadron and see that they don’t get through.”
“We’re going to shoot down bombers?”
Simpson chuckled. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.”
Thatcher’s stomach dropped. “How late is that going to make me?”
“I have no idea, but the priority is stopping the bombers, not getting you to your cruise ship.”
Thatcher frowned. If only Simpson knew the nature of his assignment, he wouldn’t be so cavalier about what this transport was for. He just hoped Hewitt was being kept abreast of the fact that his suicide mission was in danger of not getting started properly because Thatcher was flying into combat.
The Defiant’s engine throttled up as Simpson increased his air speed and brought them back around as if they were heading back toward London. Simpson’s voice came over the headphone again. “I don’t mean to be rude. But I’m going to basically stop talking to you unless I need you. I need to communicate with the rest of the squadron. But do me a favor, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Test fire the machine guns, would you?”
Test fire? Thatcher squeezed the trigger and the turret came to life as the guns fired automatically, sending a quick volley skyward. Thatcher, shifted the turret from left to right and then right to left, noting that the angle of the guns themselves was perhaps fourteen degrees aimed upward.
“Good stuff,” said Simpson. “Now do us a favor and if we get into position and have any bogeys coming at us, shoot them down.”
“Shoot them down? I’m no pilot, Simpson.”
“Neither is anyone who sits back there, mate. But for the time being, you’re my gunner. And if I tell you to shoot, you’d damn well better shoot or else we’re going to be in the shit. You got that?”
Thatcher took a breath, already feeling like he wanted to vomit. He’d started the morning staring down the barrels of a firing squad. And then he’d apparently been given a bit of a reprieve. Yet here he was now about to go into battle and he had no choice but to do it. Or else he might die.
Seems a rather constant theme in my life right now, he thought with a frown.
Simpson was already talking to the other pilots in his squadron. Thatcher saw other Defiants rising up to meet them as they veered east and headed for the Channel. There had to be at least thirty of the planes now and they were joined as well the likes of Spitfires and Hurricanes. That made Thatcher feel somewhat better. The Hurricanes and Spitfires would be there to help protect the Defiants from any fighter escort that the Germans had brought with them on their bombing run. Having the benefit of being able to stage from bases in occupied France meant the fighters could easily make the run across the Channel with the bombers and fight a bit before needing to return when their fuel ran low.
The Channel itself yawned before them now and Thatcher, twisted in his seat to try to see what was happening thought the view was magnificent. But his back ached and he couldn’t keep himself oriented to the front. He tried rotating the turret and the guns swung around as he did so. Now he was facing front and felt a measure of relief.
At least I can see what’s coming at us, he thought.