26.06.2009, 05:34
A long column of weary civilians walked south along the country road toward Amiens. One woman pushed a pram ahead of her, tired but determined to take her infant out of danger. One man pulled a small cart heaped with useless but treasured bric-a-brac. Another old man was lucky to have a horse to haul his wagon. Whatever he'd started his journey with, he now carried passengers, people he neither knew nor cared for.
They passed a black car, abandoned and empty of petrol, pushed into a ditch to make way for those who wanted to use the road. Plenty of those walking by wished they could use the car to speed themselves on their way. That said, it was doubtful many of them knew where they were going. Anywhere, if it escaped the rapid advance of the Wehrmacht.
On the wagon, a woman leaned forward, her hawkish face staring from the shawl she used to ward the early morning chill. "What is that?... Over there."
The passengers turned idly to follow her gaze, except the poilu, the infantryman, clad in voluminous khaki uniform and a ridged helmet. He merely sniffed and and ignored the womans enquiry. His eyes stared down at the road in bored indifference.
The cart stopped, and a steady line of travellers walked around it, too tired to offer any grumble at the incovenience. A youth eagerly stood and stared for a moment. "It's an aeroplane!"
"What? Here? There's no airfield I can see..." Said a businessman in a dishevelled pinstripe suit and small round glasses.
"No! No!" Cried the youth pointing in excitement that irritated an old woman sat next to him. "It crashed! Look! It's just lying there... I think there's a pilot in it. Should we go and see?"
The poilu glanced over his shoulder in a mixture of ridicule and disgust. He clearly had no intention of doing anything. The uncertainty of the others was obvious. At last the old man spoke up. "I saw markings like that in the Great War. That's one of ours. A French plane."
Everyone looked at the poilu. Suddenly aware of it, he shrugged. "Don't bother. That one crashed, even I can see that. If he hasn't moved, then he's probably dead. Drive on."
"Drive on?" The young woman gasped in outrage. "What sort of soldier are you?"
"I am on leave!" He snarled angrily. "For me, the war is finished for two weeks. Why would I tramp across a muddy field to look at a dead pilot? I've seen enough dead bodies already. Plenty more to the north if you want to see them."
"So," Sneered the old lady, "Your comfort is more important than fighting for France. What mother bore you? She should be ashamed of herself. You, in that uniform, carrying that rifle, taking a holiday while your comrades die in battle!"
The poilu spun around furiously, almost ready to strike the old woman. He glanced at the others, all sat there watching dispassionately. He hissed and slipped off the wagon, muttering furious curses as he picked up his bolt-action Lebel rifle, making one last defiant stare at the old lady before he stomped across the ploughed field.
They watched him approach the aeroplane. As he got closer, he became wary, looking about and holding his rifle as if he might need to use it. At last he stepped up onto the wing and looked into the cockpit. Suddenly the poilu turned and waved frantically. He shouted something, but at that distance it was incoherent. Nonetheless the youth jumped from the wagon and ran as best he could to meet the soldier, who smashed the perspex with his rifle butt.
They worked awkwardly to free the man from his wrecked plane, a single engined fighter. The markings on the rudder identified it as a Dewoitine D.520, whatever that was. So many straps! Why do pilots need all these straps? They couldn't see any injury apart from a nasty bump on the forehead. Something of a miracle considering the smashed instrument panel.
In the distance came the wavering drone of another aircraft. No, two aircraft. Northeast and turning to follow the course of the road. The Poliu stared hard at the small indistinct shapes and grimaced. "What's your name, boy?"
"Robert, Sir. Robert Derville."
"Aha..." Nodded the poilu, his attention firmly fixed on the approaching aeroplanes. "Well Robert Derville, be a good boy now. Go and run over there, to the edge of the field. Hide in the ditch until I tell youi to come out.... Do it!"
Somewhat hesitantly, the youth backed away then jogged toward the hedgerow as directed, looking over his shoulder. The poilu fired his rifle in the air, shouting, and waving his arms. It wasn't the aeroplanes he meant to signal, but the long line of civilians back on the road.
"Get off the road!" He yelled. "Take cover!"
A few did. The more astute realised there was danger. Many simply stood there perplexed. The two aircraft swooped down toward the road and opened fire. A clatter of cannon and machine gun fire above the steadily rising engine noise. Long lines of dust rose into the air. Robert Derville heard screams, a horse in distress, then the two aircraft began to climb as they passed over the scene of their strafing attack.
"Bastards!" Yelled the poilu, aiming his rifle at the second aeroplane and firing helplessly at it. "Boche bastards!"
One of the aeroplanes came around, a grey and green machine with an angular, evil appearance. The black crosses on the wings left no doubt that it was German. It flew close to the crashed Dewoitine, the German flying past with one wing down, to observe the site. It turned away and rejoined the other Messerschmitt.
The poilu dropped his rifle on the muddy field and frantically worked to free the pilot. Robert wanted to help, but the anger of the French soldier was nothing he'd experienced before, and he hesitated, standing in the ditch as he watched what was going on.
The two Messerschmitts weren't satisfied with their handiwork. They were coming back. Robert realised with horror that the crashed aeroplane was their target. Both fighters were coming in low, engines making a deep throated announcement of their intent.
Robert fought down his increasing fear and shouted "The Germans! They're coming!"
With a swift glance the poilu saw the lad was right. He forgot the pilot, reached down for his rifle, almost slipping on the wing surface. He quickly aimed his rifle and fired before sprinting toward the ditch, holding his helmet onto his head.
The lead Messerschmitt pulled up sharply, a thin trail of black smoke behind it. By sheer good fortune the single bullet had damaged something vital. The second Messerschmitt abandoned the attack in indecision, flashing past at tree top height. Both aeroplanes turned east and their engine noise receded.
Robert received a heavy pat on his shoulder for his trouble. The poilu was grinning like a cheshire cat. "Haha! That saw them off! You are a good boy, Robert, now let's get that pilot out."
"What about my father? The others?"
The adult soldier looked straight at his young companion in unwilling compassion. "Don't worry right now, there's plenty of people to help them, look see... Yes?... Now he needs our help. The pilot. You and me, yes?"
With some effort they got the man out of his stricken aeroplane. He wasn't badly hurt at all, probably stunned by his crash landing. The poilu slapped his face gently until he came round.
"You all right now? You crashed your aeroplane, huh? Looks all smashed up, but you're not badly hurt. How did you crash? The Germans get you?"
The pilot swallowed a couple of times, blinking as he gathered his wits. He started to talk with difficulty, then found his voice. "I was hit, bullets everywhere, everything flying into pieces in front of me. I tried to get down into a field..."
"Hey you did that. Your plane is damaged pretty bad though."
"Only got the machine six days ago. Fresh from the factory. I should send the bill to Adolf Hitler..." He coughed before speaking further. " I need to get to Amiens-Glisy. My escadrille is there..."
"Amiens-Glisy... That might not be far... Come, Robert, give me a hand with our fighter ace. Let's get him back to his friends." The poilu stopped short at he saw the hesitation of his young companion. He sensed the lads desire to go and see what he could to help his friends on the road, especially now the wagon was on it's side and a lifeless horse lay amongst the silent bodies. Before the lad took it into his head to go see, the soldier hauled him to one side.
"Now you listen to me, young Robert." He smiled, pushing him gently away from the direction of the carnage that so worried him. "I need your help. He needs your help. You must be big and strong today, help us fight for France. Don't worry about your friends for now... Wait!"
Robert tried to run back there, realising that something terrible had happened, prevented from running back across the field by the poilu, whose tone of voice turned very serious and direct. "Now you listen to me, Robert Derville. Your family are dead now... Listen to me!... There is nothing you can do for them. But you can help me get this man to his unit. Amiens-Glisy must be ten, maybe fifteen kilometres from here, that way. Look, see where I'm pointing, over there. You stay with with me for now, Robert. You will do that?"
"Are they really dead?" Asked the youth in increasing resignation.
"Yes Robert. But life goes on, yes? Now we have a war to fight, you and I You must be brave now Robert. We must all be brave now. Like my pilot friend here. What's your name, aviator?"
"Jacques Faroux, Sous Lieutenant, Groupe De Chasse II/3."
"Okay, okay, Your name is Jacques, we got that. I am Louis. Help me get him to his feet, Robert... Now Jacques, why don't you tell me about your fight, huh? While we walk that way..."
Louis and Robert helped the man along. He seemed a little unsteady, and needed support to avoid falling over on the rough ground. His story began very early that morning...
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No-one would believe the battle was raging. At the quiet airfield of Amiens-Glisy, the pilots of Groupe De Chasse II/3 had waited since dawn for operational orders. For now they lazed about on the grass, some lying on their backs staring up into the sky, others trying to hold their newspapers rigid in the light breeze, frowning at reports of German atrocities and assurances of victory against the Boche. The jovial conversation of the early hours had long since lapsed into bored silence.
Ten years ago they called us the best air force in the world. Now it seems the Armee De L'Air must wait for an elderly general to remember he had an air force to play with, pushing small blocks of painted wood across large tables in a moated chateau at Vincennes.
We of course were lucky. Whilst many of our escadrilles carried on with obselete aeroplanes, we had received brand new Dewoitine D.520's, fresh from the factory at Toulouse-Blagnac despite all those problems with nationalisation of the air industry. And what an aeroplane! Simple cockpit, light on the controls, a genuine joy to fly. We'd barely had them a week now, and most of us, including me, had an hour or two practice in our records. Was that enough, I wondered to myself, to face the Luftwaffe, an air force with experienced crews and fast aeroplanes?
"It's eleven hundred." Remarked Lebefre, a friend of mine since we passed out of flying school at Salon-de-Provence. Eleven hundred. Almost midday already, and no sign of offical direction. Our commander, Capitaine Yves Durand, paced back and forth impatiently, anger building like a frustrated volcano. Never a man to tolerate fools at the best of times.
"Do you think we will fly today?" I asked in all innocence. Durand heard me.
"Enough of that, Sous Lieutenant!" He hissed. His glare was punishing enough.
"Don't be so worried Jacques." Whispered Brequet, a man whose bushy moustache had been the butt of many jokes. At the age of forty he was the eldest flyer of us all, a veteran of three months flying on the Western Front in 1918. He continued "We stopped them in the Great War, we'll stop them again. Even if Maginot got it wrong. Besides, we have more tanks than the Germans, and better ones too. It'll work out. You'll see."
The distant drone of an aero-engine caught our attention. Most simply turned their heads, but a few stood up and scanned the horizon shading their eyes with their hands. "Over there!" Lebrefre said, pointing toward a dark speck trailing smoke, flying very low. We could hear his engine struggling. Durand ordered a fire crew to ready the truck. It was obvious he was trying to make the field.
"Is it one of ours, do you think?" I asked.
"No you buffoon." Brequet corrected me with his encyclopedic knowledge. "That's a british aeroplane. A Fairey Battle. Light bomber. Shot up too. He's in trouble."
The British bomber barely made it over the trees at the far end of the field. It settled on to the grass with a thump, and bounced along without power, the engine siezed, rolling to a halt with a cloud of oily smoke billowing forth. I leapt onto the running board of the fire truck along with the crew, and we drove out to meet the aeroplane. The pilot, visible by his yellow life jacket, clambered out of the cockpit. He stumbled about as if dazed and confused. I ran to him. My english is fairly good.
"They jumped us..." He said, suffering from cuts to his forehead. "We never stood a chance... They got the other two... Freddy went down in flames... My crew... They're still in there..."
I looked over my shoulder. The gunner was dead. He was leaning over the side stained red. The fire crew was pulling the damaged canopy off, trying to reach a third crewman amidships. One of the crew stood back waiting for his chance to help out as the others crowded around, hacking at the airframe with axes. He noticed me looking. He gave a slight shake of the head, and I knew what he meant by it. For all their efforts the other Englishman would not survive.
We were all so occupied we never heard the Messerschmitt approach. An evil grey green fighter with black crosses on the wings shot over our heads and turned low across the hangars before flying away. A confirmed kill, then. A small symbol to paint on his fuselage. I have no love for the English, but at that moment, I felt his pain. What would that German pilot do now? Empty his guns on columns of civilian refugees fleeing Sedan? Until that moment, the war was something far away. Now I wanted to hit them back.
Once the Englishman, whose name I never learned, had been given to the medical orderlies I returned to the other pilots. At last orders had arrived. An elderly man had cycled down the road with the paper he found attached to the pidgeon sent to deliver it. We were to defend the airfield at all costs. It was ridiculous. We had waited all morning to be ordered to wait for the Germans to attack.
Durand was hovering over the radio operator from that moment on. "Find me something to defend against." He ordered repeatedly, "I must have a target."
After three quarters of an hour the operator turned his head away from the radio set and pulled the earphones away. "Sir, we have it. There is a report of German troops to the east."
Durand smiled. That was his excuse. In some urgency he ordered us to take to the air. My heart pounded. The leather flying gear was never meant for this sort of exercise, and I was quite hot and breathless when I reached the line of about a dozen machines. Quickly I stuffed my jacket into the trousers. You had to, otherwise it was impossible to adjust parachute straps. I felt so clumsy, so slow.
Lebefre arrived in much the same manner as I, shouting something incoherent. I did not wait to find out what he wanted, climbing onto the wing and hauling back the perspex canopy. It was ridiuclous. Why is everything so more complicated when you are in a hurry? Looking about as I fumbled with straps, I tried to spot the German plane. Thankfully it seems he has gone elsewhere.
At last! Strapped in. The Hispano Suiza engine started on the third blade of the Ratier airscrew. A lovely, throaty rumble from the twelve cylinders ahead of me. The smell of exhaust gas and burnt oil was quickly dispersed by the propeller wash. Lebefre soon ctaches up with my progress. He signals his readiness impatiently. I signal back, let's go!
Pulling the throttle lever back to full power the engine roars happily, and I gather speed rapidly with nine hundred and ten horsepower pulling me forward. The undercarriage rattles and thumps, the aeroplane gently lifts up and down on the undulating surface, then a wobble as the aeroplane begins to climb. Hold the control column lightly, always use gentle pressure...
Canopy in place and undercarriage raised I soon reach climbing speed. Where is that German? I can't see him anywhere. There's Lebefre behind me on the right. We circle around the field for a minute of two. I fel very concious of the fact this is my first combat. It's making me a little nervous thinking of it.
Brequet is leading the gathering Dewoitines that circle the airfield. How small it looks, little more than another farm field. We get an order to formate with the flight and having done that, we turn east at low altitude. At first I wonder why he flies so low. Spotting the enemy must be almost impossible at this height. All I can see is the countryside rolling by.
Of course! I realise he wants our soldiers to see us, to know that the Armee De L'Air is fighting this war too. There is an exhilaration in low flying, an addictive thrill, heightened by being part of a formation flying to war like cavalry of old. Nonetheless, I'm wary and keep a good eye out.
Pops and bangs erupt behind me, the steady growl of the engine picks up vibration and a whining sound. I panic, open the throttle, and pull up, trying to gain as much height as possible. I'm looking over my shoulders, frantically trying to find where my unseen foe has gone. Then I realise it wasn't an aeroplane. It was ground fire. Someone had opened up on me with machine guns. There... Down on my left, I see the rising tracer.
My engine won't last forever. I cannot believe my bad luck. With regret I call Brequet over the radio and tell him I'm damaged.
"Return to Base." Brequet orders me, "We'll take on the enemy here. Lebefre, fly with him."
I hear hear Lebefre confirm he has received the instruction. Relunctantly I must do as I'm ordered. So I turn the machine on a heading for Amiens-Glisy. As I fly home I look about for places to land. This is farming country, thankfully without too much obstruction, but not many meadows suitable for landing. If worse comes to the worse, I will have to come down wheels-up on rough ground.
Lebefre's machine is flying on my right, slightly behind. We don't chat to each other. Radio frequencies are limited and we hear the clipped communications as Brequet organises his attack. Someone has been hit! One of my friends has gone down, and at low altitude, probably never stood a chance of bailing out. Another pilot confirms the passing of one of my comrades. Such is war, and I have my own disaster looming.
One of the problems of low flying is that it's hard to see landmarks. I scan the distance for the church spire of Glisy but so far, nothing. It must be around here somewhere... My engine is going to fail soon. With the power still left to me I climb, hoping to spot something or perhaps improve my chances of making an emergency landing if need be.
"Faroux!" I hear Lebefre's distorted voice on the radio. "Four machines closing on us. Stay on course for Glisy. You must be ten minutes away. I'll fend them off."
Lebefre! You idiot! How can he fight four enemy machines alone? I can do nothing but continue. I have maybe half the usual power available. Behind me, Lebefre's engine revs up and he climbs away.
There they are. I see the enemy, twin engined planes breaking formation and descending to attack. From here it is difficult to tell, but I think I see black crosses on those light blue undersides. Messerschmitt 110's. I must be wary. They carry heavy armament and my stricken plane will not stand much punishment from them.
I can a smoke trail above. One aeroplane is hit and going down. With relief I hear Lebefre claim a victory. He makes an arrogant laugh and I think he does so to raise my spirits. It does. The enemy plane is spiralling down and noses straight in in a ball of flame that creates a dark cloud to mark his demise. I feel no sorrow for him at this time, fellow aviator or not.
Running from a fight is not the way of a fighter pilot but I cannot fight on equal terms. The engine temperature gauge is well above normal. There is no oil pressure whatsoever registering on my instruments. That my engine is still turning and delivering power is amazing.
Gunfire! My right wing judders as bullet holes appear across it. The 110 responsible dives past me on my left, baring his underside as he turns away I dive to gain airspeed, to compensate for the declining power from my ailing engine. I want to put down, now, anywhere here, but that German will simply pick me off if I make an approach. I know there's another behind me, manoevering for the coup de gras.
My instrument panel almost exploded in my face, Acrid fumes swirling in a cockpit filled with draughty holes. That's it, my engine is beginning to slow down. The throttle lever is useless now. I should have called for assistance on the radio, but in the heat of the moment, I never thought to do so. I doubt the radio works now anyway - there's a dead feeling from my helmet speakers.
What to do? He'll shoot again any moment! In desperation I waggle my wings, an appeal for mercy to a ruthless enemy. There's a ploughed field not far ahead. That's my best shot at landing from where I am.
There he is, a Messerschmitt 110, flying alongside me on my right side. He looks across, gives a salute, and roars away. I feel like screaming at him. Too late now, I must concentrate on a forced landing. The engine is siezing. I am no more than a glider now. Over the field, hold it off... hold it off.... the stall warner is making a hesitant whistle... With a thump. the tail strikes the ground, forcing the aeroplane to nose forward....
----========------
After another fifteen minutes a military truck squealed to a halt on the road, disgorging it's load of British soldiers. Several approached with their Lee Enfield riifles ready. One of them yelled a command. Louis knew he meant for them to stop even though he didn't speak english. Thankfully, Jacques Faroux did.
"Now Matey, I want to know who you are." Said the British corporal, a savage gleam in his eyes. You could sense this man wanted violence and sought an excuse to lash out for his trouble.
Jacques identified himself as a French pilot. The corporal seemed unimpressed but the evidence was that he was challenging allies.
"I need to return to my unit." Jacques implored of him, "Can you take me to Amiens-Glisy?"
"What? Back there? No, mate, the area is crawling with Jerry. We're going to Abbeville. You can come with us and find a French outfit there. Your soldier friend too. Come on, we haven't much time, Jerry will be after us if they see the truck."
Louis realised that the youth was not invited. He made an appeal, but the englisman spoke no french. Jacques spoke for him. "This young man must come with us. He helped save my life. His family was killed down the road today."
"Sorry mate. No civilians. Now get aboard the truck or say hello to the Germans when they get here."
Robert Derville tried to follow but one of these soldiers with union jacks on their shoulders warded him off and made some gruff dismissal. He watched his new friends clamber aboard a lorry and drive away. His lasting memory was the face of Louis, the reluctant soldier, staring at him in pity as they receded into the distance. Glisy was the other way, perhaps another half an hours walk. Where else could he go?
They passed a black car, abandoned and empty of petrol, pushed into a ditch to make way for those who wanted to use the road. Plenty of those walking by wished they could use the car to speed themselves on their way. That said, it was doubtful many of them knew where they were going. Anywhere, if it escaped the rapid advance of the Wehrmacht.
On the wagon, a woman leaned forward, her hawkish face staring from the shawl she used to ward the early morning chill. "What is that?... Over there."
The passengers turned idly to follow her gaze, except the poilu, the infantryman, clad in voluminous khaki uniform and a ridged helmet. He merely sniffed and and ignored the womans enquiry. His eyes stared down at the road in bored indifference.
The cart stopped, and a steady line of travellers walked around it, too tired to offer any grumble at the incovenience. A youth eagerly stood and stared for a moment. "It's an aeroplane!"
"What? Here? There's no airfield I can see..." Said a businessman in a dishevelled pinstripe suit and small round glasses.
"No! No!" Cried the youth pointing in excitement that irritated an old woman sat next to him. "It crashed! Look! It's just lying there... I think there's a pilot in it. Should we go and see?"
The poilu glanced over his shoulder in a mixture of ridicule and disgust. He clearly had no intention of doing anything. The uncertainty of the others was obvious. At last the old man spoke up. "I saw markings like that in the Great War. That's one of ours. A French plane."
Everyone looked at the poilu. Suddenly aware of it, he shrugged. "Don't bother. That one crashed, even I can see that. If he hasn't moved, then he's probably dead. Drive on."
"Drive on?" The young woman gasped in outrage. "What sort of soldier are you?"
"I am on leave!" He snarled angrily. "For me, the war is finished for two weeks. Why would I tramp across a muddy field to look at a dead pilot? I've seen enough dead bodies already. Plenty more to the north if you want to see them."
"So," Sneered the old lady, "Your comfort is more important than fighting for France. What mother bore you? She should be ashamed of herself. You, in that uniform, carrying that rifle, taking a holiday while your comrades die in battle!"
The poilu spun around furiously, almost ready to strike the old woman. He glanced at the others, all sat there watching dispassionately. He hissed and slipped off the wagon, muttering furious curses as he picked up his bolt-action Lebel rifle, making one last defiant stare at the old lady before he stomped across the ploughed field.
They watched him approach the aeroplane. As he got closer, he became wary, looking about and holding his rifle as if he might need to use it. At last he stepped up onto the wing and looked into the cockpit. Suddenly the poilu turned and waved frantically. He shouted something, but at that distance it was incoherent. Nonetheless the youth jumped from the wagon and ran as best he could to meet the soldier, who smashed the perspex with his rifle butt.
They worked awkwardly to free the man from his wrecked plane, a single engined fighter. The markings on the rudder identified it as a Dewoitine D.520, whatever that was. So many straps! Why do pilots need all these straps? They couldn't see any injury apart from a nasty bump on the forehead. Something of a miracle considering the smashed instrument panel.
In the distance came the wavering drone of another aircraft. No, two aircraft. Northeast and turning to follow the course of the road. The Poliu stared hard at the small indistinct shapes and grimaced. "What's your name, boy?"
"Robert, Sir. Robert Derville."
"Aha..." Nodded the poilu, his attention firmly fixed on the approaching aeroplanes. "Well Robert Derville, be a good boy now. Go and run over there, to the edge of the field. Hide in the ditch until I tell youi to come out.... Do it!"
Somewhat hesitantly, the youth backed away then jogged toward the hedgerow as directed, looking over his shoulder. The poilu fired his rifle in the air, shouting, and waving his arms. It wasn't the aeroplanes he meant to signal, but the long line of civilians back on the road.
"Get off the road!" He yelled. "Take cover!"
A few did. The more astute realised there was danger. Many simply stood there perplexed. The two aircraft swooped down toward the road and opened fire. A clatter of cannon and machine gun fire above the steadily rising engine noise. Long lines of dust rose into the air. Robert Derville heard screams, a horse in distress, then the two aircraft began to climb as they passed over the scene of their strafing attack.
"Bastards!" Yelled the poilu, aiming his rifle at the second aeroplane and firing helplessly at it. "Boche bastards!"
One of the aeroplanes came around, a grey and green machine with an angular, evil appearance. The black crosses on the wings left no doubt that it was German. It flew close to the crashed Dewoitine, the German flying past with one wing down, to observe the site. It turned away and rejoined the other Messerschmitt.
The poilu dropped his rifle on the muddy field and frantically worked to free the pilot. Robert wanted to help, but the anger of the French soldier was nothing he'd experienced before, and he hesitated, standing in the ditch as he watched what was going on.
The two Messerschmitts weren't satisfied with their handiwork. They were coming back. Robert realised with horror that the crashed aeroplane was their target. Both fighters were coming in low, engines making a deep throated announcement of their intent.
Robert fought down his increasing fear and shouted "The Germans! They're coming!"
With a swift glance the poilu saw the lad was right. He forgot the pilot, reached down for his rifle, almost slipping on the wing surface. He quickly aimed his rifle and fired before sprinting toward the ditch, holding his helmet onto his head.
The lead Messerschmitt pulled up sharply, a thin trail of black smoke behind it. By sheer good fortune the single bullet had damaged something vital. The second Messerschmitt abandoned the attack in indecision, flashing past at tree top height. Both aeroplanes turned east and their engine noise receded.
Robert received a heavy pat on his shoulder for his trouble. The poilu was grinning like a cheshire cat. "Haha! That saw them off! You are a good boy, Robert, now let's get that pilot out."
"What about my father? The others?"
The adult soldier looked straight at his young companion in unwilling compassion. "Don't worry right now, there's plenty of people to help them, look see... Yes?... Now he needs our help. The pilot. You and me, yes?"
With some effort they got the man out of his stricken aeroplane. He wasn't badly hurt at all, probably stunned by his crash landing. The poilu slapped his face gently until he came round.
"You all right now? You crashed your aeroplane, huh? Looks all smashed up, but you're not badly hurt. How did you crash? The Germans get you?"
The pilot swallowed a couple of times, blinking as he gathered his wits. He started to talk with difficulty, then found his voice. "I was hit, bullets everywhere, everything flying into pieces in front of me. I tried to get down into a field..."
"Hey you did that. Your plane is damaged pretty bad though."
"Only got the machine six days ago. Fresh from the factory. I should send the bill to Adolf Hitler..." He coughed before speaking further. " I need to get to Amiens-Glisy. My escadrille is there..."
"Amiens-Glisy... That might not be far... Come, Robert, give me a hand with our fighter ace. Let's get him back to his friends." The poilu stopped short at he saw the hesitation of his young companion. He sensed the lads desire to go and see what he could to help his friends on the road, especially now the wagon was on it's side and a lifeless horse lay amongst the silent bodies. Before the lad took it into his head to go see, the soldier hauled him to one side.
"Now you listen to me, young Robert." He smiled, pushing him gently away from the direction of the carnage that so worried him. "I need your help. He needs your help. You must be big and strong today, help us fight for France. Don't worry about your friends for now... Wait!"
Robert tried to run back there, realising that something terrible had happened, prevented from running back across the field by the poilu, whose tone of voice turned very serious and direct. "Now you listen to me, Robert Derville. Your family are dead now... Listen to me!... There is nothing you can do for them. But you can help me get this man to his unit. Amiens-Glisy must be ten, maybe fifteen kilometres from here, that way. Look, see where I'm pointing, over there. You stay with with me for now, Robert. You will do that?"
"Are they really dead?" Asked the youth in increasing resignation.
"Yes Robert. But life goes on, yes? Now we have a war to fight, you and I You must be brave now Robert. We must all be brave now. Like my pilot friend here. What's your name, aviator?"
"Jacques Faroux, Sous Lieutenant, Groupe De Chasse II/3."
"Okay, okay, Your name is Jacques, we got that. I am Louis. Help me get him to his feet, Robert... Now Jacques, why don't you tell me about your fight, huh? While we walk that way..."
Louis and Robert helped the man along. He seemed a little unsteady, and needed support to avoid falling over on the rough ground. His story began very early that morning...
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No-one would believe the battle was raging. At the quiet airfield of Amiens-Glisy, the pilots of Groupe De Chasse II/3 had waited since dawn for operational orders. For now they lazed about on the grass, some lying on their backs staring up into the sky, others trying to hold their newspapers rigid in the light breeze, frowning at reports of German atrocities and assurances of victory against the Boche. The jovial conversation of the early hours had long since lapsed into bored silence.
Ten years ago they called us the best air force in the world. Now it seems the Armee De L'Air must wait for an elderly general to remember he had an air force to play with, pushing small blocks of painted wood across large tables in a moated chateau at Vincennes.
We of course were lucky. Whilst many of our escadrilles carried on with obselete aeroplanes, we had received brand new Dewoitine D.520's, fresh from the factory at Toulouse-Blagnac despite all those problems with nationalisation of the air industry. And what an aeroplane! Simple cockpit, light on the controls, a genuine joy to fly. We'd barely had them a week now, and most of us, including me, had an hour or two practice in our records. Was that enough, I wondered to myself, to face the Luftwaffe, an air force with experienced crews and fast aeroplanes?
"It's eleven hundred." Remarked Lebefre, a friend of mine since we passed out of flying school at Salon-de-Provence. Eleven hundred. Almost midday already, and no sign of offical direction. Our commander, Capitaine Yves Durand, paced back and forth impatiently, anger building like a frustrated volcano. Never a man to tolerate fools at the best of times.
"Do you think we will fly today?" I asked in all innocence. Durand heard me.
"Enough of that, Sous Lieutenant!" He hissed. His glare was punishing enough.
"Don't be so worried Jacques." Whispered Brequet, a man whose bushy moustache had been the butt of many jokes. At the age of forty he was the eldest flyer of us all, a veteran of three months flying on the Western Front in 1918. He continued "We stopped them in the Great War, we'll stop them again. Even if Maginot got it wrong. Besides, we have more tanks than the Germans, and better ones too. It'll work out. You'll see."
The distant drone of an aero-engine caught our attention. Most simply turned their heads, but a few stood up and scanned the horizon shading their eyes with their hands. "Over there!" Lebrefre said, pointing toward a dark speck trailing smoke, flying very low. We could hear his engine struggling. Durand ordered a fire crew to ready the truck. It was obvious he was trying to make the field.
"Is it one of ours, do you think?" I asked.
"No you buffoon." Brequet corrected me with his encyclopedic knowledge. "That's a british aeroplane. A Fairey Battle. Light bomber. Shot up too. He's in trouble."
The British bomber barely made it over the trees at the far end of the field. It settled on to the grass with a thump, and bounced along without power, the engine siezed, rolling to a halt with a cloud of oily smoke billowing forth. I leapt onto the running board of the fire truck along with the crew, and we drove out to meet the aeroplane. The pilot, visible by his yellow life jacket, clambered out of the cockpit. He stumbled about as if dazed and confused. I ran to him. My english is fairly good.
"They jumped us..." He said, suffering from cuts to his forehead. "We never stood a chance... They got the other two... Freddy went down in flames... My crew... They're still in there..."
I looked over my shoulder. The gunner was dead. He was leaning over the side stained red. The fire crew was pulling the damaged canopy off, trying to reach a third crewman amidships. One of the crew stood back waiting for his chance to help out as the others crowded around, hacking at the airframe with axes. He noticed me looking. He gave a slight shake of the head, and I knew what he meant by it. For all their efforts the other Englishman would not survive.
We were all so occupied we never heard the Messerschmitt approach. An evil grey green fighter with black crosses on the wings shot over our heads and turned low across the hangars before flying away. A confirmed kill, then. A small symbol to paint on his fuselage. I have no love for the English, but at that moment, I felt his pain. What would that German pilot do now? Empty his guns on columns of civilian refugees fleeing Sedan? Until that moment, the war was something far away. Now I wanted to hit them back.
Once the Englishman, whose name I never learned, had been given to the medical orderlies I returned to the other pilots. At last orders had arrived. An elderly man had cycled down the road with the paper he found attached to the pidgeon sent to deliver it. We were to defend the airfield at all costs. It was ridiculous. We had waited all morning to be ordered to wait for the Germans to attack.
Durand was hovering over the radio operator from that moment on. "Find me something to defend against." He ordered repeatedly, "I must have a target."
After three quarters of an hour the operator turned his head away from the radio set and pulled the earphones away. "Sir, we have it. There is a report of German troops to the east."
Durand smiled. That was his excuse. In some urgency he ordered us to take to the air. My heart pounded. The leather flying gear was never meant for this sort of exercise, and I was quite hot and breathless when I reached the line of about a dozen machines. Quickly I stuffed my jacket into the trousers. You had to, otherwise it was impossible to adjust parachute straps. I felt so clumsy, so slow.
Lebefre arrived in much the same manner as I, shouting something incoherent. I did not wait to find out what he wanted, climbing onto the wing and hauling back the perspex canopy. It was ridiuclous. Why is everything so more complicated when you are in a hurry? Looking about as I fumbled with straps, I tried to spot the German plane. Thankfully it seems he has gone elsewhere.
At last! Strapped in. The Hispano Suiza engine started on the third blade of the Ratier airscrew. A lovely, throaty rumble from the twelve cylinders ahead of me. The smell of exhaust gas and burnt oil was quickly dispersed by the propeller wash. Lebefre soon ctaches up with my progress. He signals his readiness impatiently. I signal back, let's go!
Pulling the throttle lever back to full power the engine roars happily, and I gather speed rapidly with nine hundred and ten horsepower pulling me forward. The undercarriage rattles and thumps, the aeroplane gently lifts up and down on the undulating surface, then a wobble as the aeroplane begins to climb. Hold the control column lightly, always use gentle pressure...
Canopy in place and undercarriage raised I soon reach climbing speed. Where is that German? I can't see him anywhere. There's Lebefre behind me on the right. We circle around the field for a minute of two. I fel very concious of the fact this is my first combat. It's making me a little nervous thinking of it.
Brequet is leading the gathering Dewoitines that circle the airfield. How small it looks, little more than another farm field. We get an order to formate with the flight and having done that, we turn east at low altitude. At first I wonder why he flies so low. Spotting the enemy must be almost impossible at this height. All I can see is the countryside rolling by.
Of course! I realise he wants our soldiers to see us, to know that the Armee De L'Air is fighting this war too. There is an exhilaration in low flying, an addictive thrill, heightened by being part of a formation flying to war like cavalry of old. Nonetheless, I'm wary and keep a good eye out.
Pops and bangs erupt behind me, the steady growl of the engine picks up vibration and a whining sound. I panic, open the throttle, and pull up, trying to gain as much height as possible. I'm looking over my shoulders, frantically trying to find where my unseen foe has gone. Then I realise it wasn't an aeroplane. It was ground fire. Someone had opened up on me with machine guns. There... Down on my left, I see the rising tracer.
My engine won't last forever. I cannot believe my bad luck. With regret I call Brequet over the radio and tell him I'm damaged.
"Return to Base." Brequet orders me, "We'll take on the enemy here. Lebefre, fly with him."
I hear hear Lebefre confirm he has received the instruction. Relunctantly I must do as I'm ordered. So I turn the machine on a heading for Amiens-Glisy. As I fly home I look about for places to land. This is farming country, thankfully without too much obstruction, but not many meadows suitable for landing. If worse comes to the worse, I will have to come down wheels-up on rough ground.
Lebefre's machine is flying on my right, slightly behind. We don't chat to each other. Radio frequencies are limited and we hear the clipped communications as Brequet organises his attack. Someone has been hit! One of my friends has gone down, and at low altitude, probably never stood a chance of bailing out. Another pilot confirms the passing of one of my comrades. Such is war, and I have my own disaster looming.
One of the problems of low flying is that it's hard to see landmarks. I scan the distance for the church spire of Glisy but so far, nothing. It must be around here somewhere... My engine is going to fail soon. With the power still left to me I climb, hoping to spot something or perhaps improve my chances of making an emergency landing if need be.
"Faroux!" I hear Lebefre's distorted voice on the radio. "Four machines closing on us. Stay on course for Glisy. You must be ten minutes away. I'll fend them off."
Lebefre! You idiot! How can he fight four enemy machines alone? I can do nothing but continue. I have maybe half the usual power available. Behind me, Lebefre's engine revs up and he climbs away.
There they are. I see the enemy, twin engined planes breaking formation and descending to attack. From here it is difficult to tell, but I think I see black crosses on those light blue undersides. Messerschmitt 110's. I must be wary. They carry heavy armament and my stricken plane will not stand much punishment from them.
I can a smoke trail above. One aeroplane is hit and going down. With relief I hear Lebefre claim a victory. He makes an arrogant laugh and I think he does so to raise my spirits. It does. The enemy plane is spiralling down and noses straight in in a ball of flame that creates a dark cloud to mark his demise. I feel no sorrow for him at this time, fellow aviator or not.
Running from a fight is not the way of a fighter pilot but I cannot fight on equal terms. The engine temperature gauge is well above normal. There is no oil pressure whatsoever registering on my instruments. That my engine is still turning and delivering power is amazing.
Gunfire! My right wing judders as bullet holes appear across it. The 110 responsible dives past me on my left, baring his underside as he turns away I dive to gain airspeed, to compensate for the declining power from my ailing engine. I want to put down, now, anywhere here, but that German will simply pick me off if I make an approach. I know there's another behind me, manoevering for the coup de gras.
My instrument panel almost exploded in my face, Acrid fumes swirling in a cockpit filled with draughty holes. That's it, my engine is beginning to slow down. The throttle lever is useless now. I should have called for assistance on the radio, but in the heat of the moment, I never thought to do so. I doubt the radio works now anyway - there's a dead feeling from my helmet speakers.
What to do? He'll shoot again any moment! In desperation I waggle my wings, an appeal for mercy to a ruthless enemy. There's a ploughed field not far ahead. That's my best shot at landing from where I am.
There he is, a Messerschmitt 110, flying alongside me on my right side. He looks across, gives a salute, and roars away. I feel like screaming at him. Too late now, I must concentrate on a forced landing. The engine is siezing. I am no more than a glider now. Over the field, hold it off... hold it off.... the stall warner is making a hesitant whistle... With a thump. the tail strikes the ground, forcing the aeroplane to nose forward....
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After another fifteen minutes a military truck squealed to a halt on the road, disgorging it's load of British soldiers. Several approached with their Lee Enfield riifles ready. One of them yelled a command. Louis knew he meant for them to stop even though he didn't speak english. Thankfully, Jacques Faroux did.
"Now Matey, I want to know who you are." Said the British corporal, a savage gleam in his eyes. You could sense this man wanted violence and sought an excuse to lash out for his trouble.
Jacques identified himself as a French pilot. The corporal seemed unimpressed but the evidence was that he was challenging allies.
"I need to return to my unit." Jacques implored of him, "Can you take me to Amiens-Glisy?"
"What? Back there? No, mate, the area is crawling with Jerry. We're going to Abbeville. You can come with us and find a French outfit there. Your soldier friend too. Come on, we haven't much time, Jerry will be after us if they see the truck."
Louis realised that the youth was not invited. He made an appeal, but the englisman spoke no french. Jacques spoke for him. "This young man must come with us. He helped save my life. His family was killed down the road today."
"Sorry mate. No civilians. Now get aboard the truck or say hello to the Germans when they get here."
Robert Derville tried to follow but one of these soldiers with union jacks on their shoulders warded him off and made some gruff dismissal. He watched his new friends clamber aboard a lorry and drive away. His lasting memory was the face of Louis, the reluctant soldier, staring at him in pity as they receded into the distance. Glisy was the other way, perhaps another half an hours walk. Where else could he go?