Alan Judd - Slipstream

To Nigel, Susan and Stephen Judd

Frank Foucham winced at the flash of light. It was only the afternoon sun catching the stream where he had cast his fly but he couldnt help it. Nor could he stop the trembling in his arms that followed. His hands were not obviously shaking but the tiny rapid quivering of his muscles was enough to vibrate the tip of his rod. He lowered it into the long grass and clasped his hands hard. The shakes came only now and again but if Phil, the squadron doctor, saw him spill his beer in the mess he might take him off flying.

He kept his eyes on his fly, which was still on the water. It was an Infallible, a wet fly, which meant that it would gradually sink. He would have preferred a dry fly, or at least some grease to keep his line afloat, but there was no chance of finding either. He had been a keen angler since his first boyhood trips with his stepfather, back home in Canada, but now, here in wartime England, he no longer minded whether he caught anything. You were almost never alone in the air force and he treasured these rare periods of solitude, content to be in the presence of the unknown, loving the quiet mystery of dark pools as much as perhaps more than solving it.

The flash of sun on water recalled others he had seen that morning, distant flashes from the greenhouses and windows of northern France 15,000 feet below. And later those other flashes, less pure white, mixed with red and yellow and sometimes a puff of black smoke, as rockets from the low-flying Typhoons found targets on the German airfield. One, a Focke-Wulf 190, was on the runway and had almost got off the ground when it burst into flames and skidded into others parked nearby. That made a bigger flash, with much more red and a great revolving pall of black smoke.

It was just after this, as Frank tipped his Spitfire left to get a better view, that he saw the other flash, the one like the flash of sun on water, very brief and pure white, on his right quarter.

At the same moment his headphones were filled by Patricks voice. Foxtrot Alpha One break right!

He heaved on the stick, banking and turning so tightly that he felt the flesh of his neck bulge and the blood begin to drain from his head. For a long second he hung vertically and seemingly motionless on the propeller, his engine roaring and straining, while the white flash mutated into the cockpit window of an FW190, closing fast. It had already opened fire, tracer rounds streaking just below him. For every one that glowed there would be nine unseen. He had a vivid glimpse of the German planes yellow propeller spinner and the immaculate black eagle on its fuselage, then he was alone, twisting and climbing into an empty sky.

It was anything but, of course.

He looped upside down out of his turn to see below him a mle of Focke-Wulfs and Spitfires wheeling, soaring and plummeting above the spiralling smoke from burning aircraft and camouflaged corrugated hangars on the airfield below. The remaining Typhoons, their job done, headed low and fast for home, pursued by the black puffs of exploding anti-aircraft shells, leaving several of their squadron burning fiercely in the woods.

The Focke-Wulf did not pursue Frank through his upward spiral, knowing he could be out-turned by Spitfires and trusting to his superior acceleration to get away. He had judged well; by the time Frank saw him again he was out of range and climbing like a demented bee. Frank gave him a burst, half in acknowledgement, half as a sop to his own pride. If it hadnt been for Patricks call the German would have had him, deservedly.

Below Frank the scrap was in full spate, the sky now teeming with Focke-Wulfs where there had been none moments before. The British attack had achieved surprise, with the Typhoons going in below the treetops, and it was unlikely that any Germans had got off the ground. The Focke-Wulfs were probably from vreux-Fauville, a formidable lot only a few minutes flying time away. Franks face was hot, his palms sweating, the muscles in his arms trembling. He broke left and tipped his wings to get a better view. A Spitfire flashed across his nose, the pilots goggled face turned towards him in horrified surprise. Shaken by the Spitfires slipstream, he heaved on the stick and banked left again. Three thousand feet below he saw the Dodger in Foxtrot Alpha Four chasing a smoking Focke-Wulf as it dived to get away. Unable to close but still within range, the Dodger was firing short bursts, clinical, controlled, concentrating on his kill. Concentrating too well; behind and above him, gaining fast, were two more Focke-Wulfs. Dont chase the damaged down, Patrick was always telling them, look out for your own tail.

Frank put his nose down and opened the throttle, shouting Alpha Four break now, break now! into his radio. Alpha One vibrated as she always did in a dive, not dangerously, but as if quivering with excitement. He closed on the nearer Focke-Wulfs rear quarter at over 400 knots, adjusted his sights, counted three more seconds and pressed the trigger. At that moment the Dodger broke right and climbed steeply, either spotting his pursuers or in response to Franks call. The Focke-Wulf did the same and Franks cannon shells passed inches below its tail-plane. But the farther Focke-Wulf made the same mistake as his quarry, concentrating too hard and breaking right to pursue the Dodger. As he turned, he briefly filled Franks sights, two white plumes trailing his clipped wingtips, his markings clear.

Bits flew off him as Franks cannon shells struck behind the cockpit. There was no burst of flame or smoke but the entire aircraft shuddered as if in an unsteady camera frame, then began an almost leisurely roll to the right, nose down, showing its yellow underbelly. Frank steepened his dive and gave it a long burst, his shells exploding into the fuselage. As he broke away it went into a spin and the cockpit cover flew off. For an instant he could see the pilot struggling to get out. He would have no chance.

Frank levelled out at under 3000 feet. He was over woods and fields, miles from the airfield, with no other planes now visible save for the last moments of the plummeting Focke-Wulf, spinning and smoking. It hit the ground with a wide flash and a plume of thick black smoke. Frank began a long, turning climb, watching for anything behind or above. His hands were clammy and sweat trickled down inside his goggles. A tremor in his legs made him feel he wanted to kick out or get up and run around. It was sickening to see a fellow pilot, even a German one, atomised in an instant of heat. But there was also the elation that always followed a kill, the thrill of victory in mortal combat, the sense of potency. It was like being back at school and scoring a goal, only here you were on your own with no one to cheer you, just that coiling black smoke to mark an extinction that could have been you.

At 10,000 feet he circled, looking for the target airfield. It was marked by flames and smoke miles to the north now, with just two or three dark specks circling above like distant crows. Huns, probably, since the scrap was over. The Spits must have been low on fuel and Patrick would have told them to break for home. Frank was Patricks wingman and theyd be wondering what had happened to him. He had enough fuel to get home provided he didnt run into trouble. It was always dangerous, returning without a wingman. The enemy, thoroughly aroused by the poking of their nest, would be hunting in pairs for returning marauders, especially damaged ones. Frank checked all his systems. He was undamaged, but still vulnerable. There was broken cloud at 20,000 feet, not much, but any cover was better than none. Forty gallons meant he had enough fuel to gain height. He resumed his climb, heading west in order to give the airfield a wide berth before setting course 323 degrees for home. Foxtrot Alpha Ones Merlin engine note was reassuringly steady. Frank loved his aeroplane.