Jimmie swooped in, jostled the control stick, and pressed the gun-firing button.
Bullets pierced the Messerschmitt, producing sparks, and it retreated with smoke pouring from its engine.
For several minutes, the Green Section fought to defend the bombers from the Messerschmitts. Cobber shot down an enemy plane, which spiraled into the ground near a French tank division. And, as suddenly as the dogfight occurred, the Messerschmitts disengaged and flew away.
“Flak!” Cobber shouted over the radio.
Within seconds, German antiaircraft flak guns boomed from the ground. A barrage of projectiles exploded near the planes, sending jagged metal fragments through the air, and producing black clouds that hung in the sky. Shock waves blasted Jimmie’s Hurricane. The control stick juddered in his hands.
The bombers descended, leaving their fighter escorts, and they dropped their payload on a line of Panzers, destroying three of the tanks. As the bombers fled from the front, one of them took a flak hit to a wing and struggled to climb to the safety of the clouds.
The German antiaircraft bombardment ceased, and the German fighters, like wolves smelling blood, came in for the kill. Jimmie, Cobber, and Benny attempted to fend them off, but they were outnumbered. Two Messerschmitts zeroed in and unloaded rounds of bullets into the faltering bomber. Its engine exploded, severing the left wing. Jimmie and his fellow pilots listened to the airmen’s screams over the radio as the bomber tumbled from the sky.
A chill ran through Jimmie’s body. God help them. He regained his focus and shot his Hurricane behind a Messerschmitt. He pressed the gun-firing button, but missed as the German plane slewed to the right. He struggled to keep up with the enemy aircraft as it rolled and dived. He fired bursts from his machine guns, over and over, until his ammunition was exhausted.
Two Messerschmitts swooped in behind him. Jimmie pulled back hard on his stick, shooting his plane upward and twisting through the atmosphere. He expected that he’d have to rely on his maneuvering to survive, but the Luftwaffe aircraft retreated to German-controlled territory, as if their pilots had been given orders to guard the Panzers and their assault path into France.
Jimmie eased his grip on the control stick and sucked in air from his oxygen mask. His neck and shoulder muscles relaxed. He scanned the perimeter, tipped his wings, and flew his Hurricane to join Green Section in formation, above and behind the bombers.
“Green Section,” Cobber said. “Is everyone all right?”
“Green Two—affirmative,” Benny said.
Jimmie ran a gloved hand over his flight jacket pocket that contained his good luck charm. “Green Three—affirmative.”
“Roger,” Cobber said. “Well done, gents. Let’s escort these kites safely back to base.”
Jimmie’s eyes gravitated to the vacant spot in the rear of the Fairey Battle squadron’s formation, and he wondered if there was anything he could have done to save the aircrew. Despite feeling grateful to be alive, a mix of sadness and regret pricked at his conscience.
Thirty minutes later, they landed at an airfield in Reims, where the No. 73 Squadron and several Fairey Battle squadrons had been relocated days earlier because of its proximity to the breach at Sedan. Jimmie landed and parked his Hurricane. He cut the engine, removed his flying helmet, and climbed out of his cockpit to a frenzy of ground crew who were preparing aircraft for sorties. Fitters, riggers, and armorers buzzed over the area as the men loaded ammunition, fueled aircraft, and made repairs to flak-damaged engines and airframes.
Horace, his faced covered with sweat, approached Jimmie and gave him a canteen.
Jimmie’s hand trembled as he gulped water. He returned the canteen. “Thanks.”
“I’m glad to see that you and your section made it back safely.”
An image of the Fairey Battle’s severed wing flashed in his head. He felt sick to his stomach. “One of the bombers failed to make it back.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Me too.”
Horace shifted his weight. “We’re hearing that there’s a major tank battle at the front, and that the Germans have hundreds, maybe thousands, of Panzers.”
“It’s true,” Jimmie said.
Lines formed on Horace’s forehead. He rubbed stubble on his face and he lowered his voice. “Do you think we’re capable of stopping them?”
“To be honest, I don’t know,” Jimmie said. “But we’re going to use all of our power to try to fend them off.”
Horace slipped his cap from his head and glanced to the sky. “Thank you for what you’re doing up there.”
“You too,” Jimmie said. “You and the ground crew are keeping us in the fight.”
“Merely doing our duty, sir.” Horace looked at Jimmie’s plane. “Any damage or mechanical issues?”
“No.”
“I’ll check it over. It’ll be armed, fueled, and in tip-top shape for you for your next sortie.”
Jimmie patted Horace’s shoulder and walked to the front of an aircraft hangar where Cobber and Fanny were sitting on wooden folding chairs that overlooked the runway. Several meters away, Benny was resting on a cot with an arm over his eyes.
“Have a seat,” Cobber said, gesturing to an empty chair. “We’ve got an hour until our next sortie.”
Jimmie sat. He exhaled and wiped sweat from his brow.
Fanny puffed on a cigarette. “Did you score any victories?”
“One,” Cobber said. “A Messerschmitt 109.”
“I damaged a 109,” Jimmie said, “but it got away.”
Fanny flicked ash from his cigarette. “I shot down two of them on my last sortie. That puts me at thirteen destroyed enemy aircraft. Cobber, what’s your total?”
Cobber, his eyes surrounded with dark circles from little sleep, peered over the runway. “I’ve lost count.”
For several minutes the men recounted their dogfights with the German pilots, and Jimmie listened intently to learn about the tactics used by Cobber and Fanny to outwit and outmaneuver their adversaries. While Jimmie had become a formidable fighter pilot, given that he had two victories, a Messerschmitt and a Dornier Do 215, he had far to go to reach the skill level of Cobber and Fanny, both of whom were flying aces.
