Flames over France (18 page)

When the fog lifted in the early afternoon, Bulle saw to his horror that Bellegard was in enemy hands, and that Italian reinforcements were pouring into the position. From his vantage point, he immediately signalled the French artillery, which opened up a devastating and accurate barrage on the enemy troops milling around on the mountain slopes. A detachment of Italian soldiers tried to advance on Bulle’s position, but they were decimated by mortar and machine-gun fire.

Then came the blow. The artillery commander reported that his guns had run out of ammunition, and that promised supplies had not arrived. Through his binoculars, Bulle saw the Italians preparing for what looked like a massed attack. Taking out a message pad, he wrote:

My section is in position on the approaches to the Col d’Enclave. The enemy have overwhelmed de Castex and have encircled the Seloges strongpoint. In the event of no further orders from you, my company will continue to prevent a passage through the Col d’Enclave. We do not have many men, but we shall hold on. As long as have a single bullet left, no enemy soldier will break through the Col. Long live eternal France!

Meanwhile, Bulle’s men, in the certainty that they were going to die, had been hastily scribbling last letters to their families with fingers that were numb with cold. Bulle placed them in a satchel, together with his message, and handed the bag to one of his
chasseurs
, Corporal Blanc Ovide, the best skier in the company. Bulle seized the NCO by the hand.

“Go, Ovide,” he said. “Go like the wind! And may God go with you.”

The men watched anxiously as Ovide sped away on his skis, manoeuvring skilfully to avoid the enemy bullets that kicked up spurts of snow at his heels, heading down the valley towards the French command post. Then, as the messenger disappeared from sight, Bulle and the others turned to face the enemy and prepared to sell their lives dearly.

The Italians came in a frontal attack, floundering through the snow in a dense wave, coming on in the senseless manner of an infantry assault in the earlier war, and dying in the same way. Mortar bombs and machine-gun bullets cut great swathes in their ranks. Blood flowed across the snow, and flocks of chamois, the agile mountain goats, lent an incongruous note to the battle as they bounded across the bodies of dead and dying men, fleeing in terror from the storm of fire that had turned their mountain home into a slaughterhouse.

From his observation post, Bulle suddenly spotted a party of Italians attempting to work their way along a ledge below the French position, protected from overhead fire by a rocky outcrop.

Attaching a rope around his waist, the lieutenant ordered his men to lower him over the side until he was dangling in space with a clear view of the infiltrators. Bulle raked the ledge with his sub-machine gun, taking the Italians completely by surprise; only three of them managed to scramble clear, and they were knocked out by a grenade tossed from above.

Meanwhile, it had taken Corporal Blanc Ovide half an hour to reach the command post in the valley, where he encountered Major Ferrier, the commander of that particular sector. Ferrier read Bulle’s report, asked a few questions of Ovide, then said decisively:

“They must hold on. Reinforcements are on the way, but they will not be here until tomorrow. They must hold on at all costs.”

Although he had not shared the information with anyone else, Ferrier knew that an armistice was in the offing, and that it could come about in a week or perhaps even less. He was determined that the Italians were not going to be in possession of French territory in his sector when it happened. He turned to a signaller who was manning a bank of telephones.

“Lemaitre,” he said, “can you open a line to the Alpine Air Operations Zone?”

The man looked surprised. “But, sir, there is one open already. It is just that we have not used it because there has been no sign of the Italian Air Force in this sector, and therefore no need for air cover.”

“Well, we have need of it now,” Ferrier remarked grimly. “Get on to Air Zone HQ and ask them for as many aircraft as they can spare. I want the Italians attacked and attacked again before nightfall. I want them frightened to move out of their foxholes. We might yet save the skins of Bulle and his men. As for you, Ovide, you have done well. You are overdue for food and rest. Go and get some of both.”

The messenger drew himself to attention. “Sir. with respect, my place is with my comrades. Do I have your permission to rejoin them?”

Ferrier looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Corporal, you may go. Tell Lieutenant Bulle that help is on the way.”

I only hope to God that it will be in time, he said to himself, as he watched Ovide’s retreating back. He shook his head wonderingly, asking himself why, with men such as that, France lay amid the wreckage of defeat. But he already knew the answer, and it had nothing to do with the fighting men.

Ferrier’s request for air assistance reached Luc in the middle of the afternoon, and plunged the airfield into a whirlpool of activity as every available aircraft was made ready for the mission. Leaving one battle flight of six Dewoitines for airfield defence in case the
Regia
Aeronautica
attempted further attacks, the total came to six Hawks, four Caudrons and eight Moranes. The latter were to go in first, attacking the Italian posts with their cannon, followed by the Hawks. The Caudrons, much to the disgust of their pilots, were assigned a top-cover role as a defence against any possible interference by Italian fighters, but if the Italian Air Force failed to show up Armstrong felt certain that the Poles would find something to shoot at.

The Alps made a breathtaking sight as the formation climbed steadily towards their peaks, the Hawks and Caudrons following the Moranes, whose pilots knew their way around the area. The mountains soared up to 10,000 feet and more, their rock walls intersected by winding roads and rivers; away to the left Armstrong could see a big lake, glittering in the sun. The river that it fed, his map told him, was the Durance, whose waters wound across Provence before joining those of the Rhône.

The RAF pilot was leading the Hawk formation, the French pilots — two of whom were replacements — having readily given way to his experience. Ahead of him, the Moranes flew at a slightly lower altitude, their wingtips almost scraping the snow-covered mountain peaks, or so it seemed from higher up. He followed their every movement as they turned into a high pass — the col they were looking for — seeing their shadows skip across the snow.

Up ahead, orange smoke drifted from a ridge, marking the position of the beleaguered French troops. The Moranes leapfrogged over it and Armstrong saw puffs of smoke dancing away in their slipstream as they opened fire on a target which, for the moment, was invisible to him. Then he was leading his own formation over the French positions, and suddenly, in the adjacent valley, he saw the Italians — dark groups of men and vehicles, silhouetted against the snowy landscape.

The Moranes had completed their attack and were climbing away, leaving the way clear for the Hawks. Some groups of Italians were scattering in search of cover; others stood their ground and fired back. The Hawks’ machine-gun fire tore them to shreds. Further down the valley, some trucks were burning, having fallen victim to the Moranes’ cannon. Armstrong fired a burst at some that seemed to be intact, then he was tearing overhead, pulling hard back on the stick to avoid a mountain face that loomed up ahead. The Hawk shot vertically into the sky like a stone from a catapult and Armstrong allowed himself to gain a couple of thousand feet of height before rolling out of the climb and turning back the way he had come. Amid these towering peaks there was precious little room for manoeuvre, and none at all for mistakes.

He saw thankfully that the other Hawks had all come through unscathed. They had made their attacks individually and were now climbing up to join him in line astern. Looking up, he caught sight of the Polish fighters crossing from left to right, and grinned as he pictured Kalinski fuming in his cockpit.

The Moranes were a couple of miles ahead, already turning in to make their second strafing run. He saw them pass by on the left, entering a shallow dive, and saw too that this time the Italian defences had woken up. Tracers rose to meet the French fighters, and one of them was hit; it rose in a steep climb, trailing a thread of smoke, then veered sharply to the right and plunged into a mountain slope in a gush of flame and debris.

He stood the Hawk on its wingtip, turning steeply over the French position, then levelled out, following the remaining Moranes. Almost at once, he saw that most of the Italian fire was coming from two heavy machine-gun positions placed close together on a small plateau above the valley floor, from where they could give covering fire to the troops attacking Bulle’s defences. He placed his sights on the right-hand position, instinctively hunching up in the cockpit as tracer came at him like red sleet, and squeezed the Hawk’s twin triggers. His bullets sent up a spray of powdered snow as they danced over the enemy position, and the gun abruptly ceased firing. He knew that the other Hawk pilots, following close behind, would complete the job and wipe out the other gun.

He used up the rest of his ammunition on a group of infantry dashing across the valley and then climbed out of danger, going up to 15,000 feet, well clear of the peaks. The other Hawks climbed up and formated on him one by one, the pilots waving, and together they set course for base. The Polish Caudrons, their pilots amazingly obeying orders for once, slid into position on the left of the Hawk formation.

It grew perceptibly warmer as the fighters descended towards Luc, and Armstrong did not envy the troops who had to live and fight in that freezing mountain fastness. The French would have to hold on for at least another night before they were replaced by fresh soldiers.

Hold on they did, through a bitter night in which the temperature fell to twenty below. Snow, icy wind and hunger were beginning to take their toll of the French defenders, crouching in holes hacked from the ice with only tent canvas for protection. There was sporadic firing during the night, but it died away in the early hours; the Italians were in no position to mount a co-ordinated assault in the wake of the air attacks, which had cost them considerable casualties, and at dawn a strange calm hung over the embattled slopes.

Lieutenant Bulle knew, though, that his men, exhausted as they were, could not remain in their positions for much longer. The problem was to get them out of their foxholes; any movement was likely to attract enemy fire. In the end, Bulle set off down the mountain alone, making use of the scant available cover, and after an hour of strenuous effort he reached another defensive position a thousand feet lower down. He had drawn no enemy fire at all, which encouraged him to try to withdraw the other
chasseurs
singly. Those left on the peak would continue to lay down fire on the Italians, and by the time the last man was pulled out the promised reinforcements would hopefully have arrived.

One by one, Bulle’s men scrambled down to safety. It was eight hours before the last
chasseur
evacuated the observation post, and before he did so, he was able to shake hands with the first of the replacement troops, fresh and fit and well-armed.

Later that morning, under a mantle of fog, Armand Bulle’s weary company was at last relieved. They sang as they marched off down the valley, each man to face his own uncertain future.

Chapter Thirteen

In the afternoon of the day following the attack in the Alps, Armstrong and the other Hawk pilots — who had been on alert since dawn — were dozing in the powerful sunshine when the sudden thunder of aero-engines brought them wide awake. Some of the French jumped to their feet, expecting an enemy air attack, but Armstrong knew that the sound was not made by any Italian aircraft.

Shading his eyes against the sun, he watched as six twin-engined bombers roared overhead in two tight sections of three. They were Vickers Wellingtons. One by one, they peeled off and made their approach to land, their Bristol Hercules radial engines burbling as the pilots throttled back.

Armstrong waited until the bombers had taxied to their dispersals on the far side of the airfield, and then, overcome by curiosity, he grabbed a bicycle and pedalled off across the field to see what was going on. By the time he reached the bombers their crews had disembarked. Throwing his bicycle aside, he sauntered up to the man who was obviously in charge and prepared to introduce himself.

The man was in deep conversation with some crew members, and his back was towards Armstrong. Suddenly he turned and peered hard at the newcomer, who stopped dead in his tracks as mutual recognition dawned. A moment later, the two men were slapping each other heartily on the back while the other crew members looked on curiously.

“Well, I’m damned!” Armstrong exclaimed. “David Pittaway. What the devil are you doing here?”

Pittaway was a New Zealander. In October 1939, Armstrong had accompanied him on a hair-raising daylight bombing mission to the German naval base of Wilhelmshaven, a sortie that had cost the squadron nine Wellingtons out of twelve. Both men had been injured when their Wellington had crash-landed back at base, having survived repeated fighter attacks.

Pittaway had been a flying officer then, a florid-faced, happy-go-lucky type who had appeared not to have a care in the world. His face was much more serious now, and when he stripped off his Mae West lifejacket Armstrong saw that he had risen to the rank of squadron leader.

“I might ask you the same thing,” Pittaway said, in response to Armstrong’s question. “But come over here, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He took Armstrong by the elbow and steered him off to one side.

“We’ve got a bit of a show on tonight,” he said quietly. “We’re off to bomb the Ansaldo aircraft factory at Genoa. As a matter of fact we were going to do it a few days ago; we actually got as far as La Vallon, on the other side of Marseille, and were all set to go when the French commandant got cold feet and had lorries driven onto the runway to prevent us from taking off. It seemed that a civilian deputation had turned up with a fistful of protests at our presence; they were scared stiff that the Eyeties would carry out a big reprisal raid. No wonder they’re losing the bloody war,” he added disgustedly.

“They aren’t all like that,” Armstrong assured him. “Not by any means. So now you’ve got the green light to go ahead?”

Pittaway nodded. “That’s right. Here we are, bombs and all. We’ve even brought our own armourers with us. We were told to use this airfield because La Vallon is unserviceable for some reason.” He half-turned and eyed the airfield. “Looks a bit short to me,” he said dubiously. “Still, I expect we’ll make it all right. We’re only carrying two thousand pounds apiece. At least we won’t be faced with a long haul. Some Whitleys flew from the Channel Islands to attack Genoa and Turin a couple of nights ago; the poor buggers were almost asleep in their seats by the time they got back, and to make matters worse they hit sod all and lost an aircraft.”

He paused and looked steadily at Armstrong. “Right, then,” he said. “What’s your excuse?”

Briefly, Armstrong recounted his adventures. Pittaway stared at him with mock awe. “Bloody hell, you certainly get around. I say, are you under anybody’s orders? I mean, can you please yourself more or less what you do?”

Armstrong smiled. “Well, I expect orders of various sorts have been chasing me around France, but they haven’t caught up with me yet. The Air Ministry has probably written me off. I’ll probably be court-martialled when I get back — if I get back.”

“In that case, why don’t you come on a little tour of northern Italy tonight? Hop aboard, and we’ll take a look at Genoa. I might even get my bomb-aimer to let you drop the eggs, if you’re very good.”

“You’re kidding,” Armstrong laughed. “I couldn’t hit a barn door if I was sitting on the handle. I’d love to come along for the ride, though. By the way, why are you only carrying a two-thousand-pound bomb load? You could have got this far with twice that, couldn’t you?”

“Sure we could,” Pittaway replied. “It’s the bloody politicians again. They reckon with two thousand pounds per aircraft, we can hit the target without much fear of damaging civilian property. With a bigger load, some of the bombs might go astray and kill some Eyeties. Oh, dearie me,” he added, rolling his eyes skywards.

Armstrong showed Pittaway where he and his crews could rest and get something to eat, then, still exercising his unofficial role of liaison officer, he went off to see the airfield commandant, who had only learned of the Wellingtons’ arrival half an hour before it happened and who was not in the best of humours as a result. Nevertheless, he agreed to institute standing patrols over the airfield until dusk; although the
Regia
Aeronautica
had not revisited Luc since its mauling of the previous day, there was nothing to say that it would not do so again. Moreover, both the commandant and Armstrong suspected that there would be Italian agents in the vicinity, their task to report everything that happened at Luc and the other French airfields in the south.

However, the day passed without incident, and a few minutes past midnight found Armstrong sitting in the second pilot’s seat of Pittaway’s Wellington as it lumbered down the runway between the rows of flares, gathered speed and lifted into the darkness — if it could be called darkness, for even without a moon there was always a translucence about the Mediterranean night, an extra brilliance to the stars that hung over the earth.

The new moon had yet to rise, and so only the stars accompanied the six bombers as they headed out over the coast. The plan was to head due east across the Ligurian Sea to a point north of Corsica, then turn through ninety degrees to approach Genoa from the south. The Italians, Pittaway reasoned, would not be expecting an attack from that direction. Armstrong hoped that his reasoning was correct.

The flight to the turning point was uneventful, except for some scattered anti-aircraft fire that came at them from some ships — probably friendly — and brought forth a string of curses from the crew. Luckily the fire was inaccurate, and soon dwindled astern. Ahead of them now was the coast of Italy, and they had no difficulty at all in locating Genoa.

“Gawd, take a look at that!” Pittaway exclaimed. “It’s lit up like a bloody Christmas tree!”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when the lights went out.

“Thanks a lot, skipper,” said the bomb-aimer, from his position in the nose. Normally, the navigator would have dropped the bombs, but on this occasion each Wellington carried an extra crew member; the navigators, Pittaway had reasoned, would probably have their hands full over this unfamiliar territory. After a pause, the bomb-aimer said: “Not to worry, I’ve got my bearings. Turn left five degrees.”

Ahead, the darkness was suddenly split by a searchlight beam. It speared straight up like a luminous finger, remained stationary for a few moments, then began to track to and fro across the sky. It was joined by others, and now the crew could see twinkling flak bursts between the searchlight cones.

“They’re a bit premature,” Pittaway said laconically.

“Do not jest, skipper,” his navigator commented. “Five minutes to target. You okay, George?”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” the bomb-aimer replied. “This heading is fine. Steady as she goes, skipper.”

“Roger,” Pittaway acknowledged. “Gunners, keep your eyes peeled. There may be fighters about.”

“Steady, skipper,” the bomb-aimer said again. “We’re spot on. I can see the target area. Stand by to drop the flares. Begin descent to five thousand.”

Pittaway obeyed the bomb-aimer’s instructions. As he levelled out at the required altitude the man in the nose released two flares, which fell into some patchy cloud and shed a soft light over the whole city.

“Marvellous,” the bomb-aimer said. “I can see everything. Steady, skipper. Bomb doors open.”

The Wellington vibrated as the bomb-bay doors swung down into the slipstream. The other five bombers had dropped back into line astern at half-mile intervals and would now be beginning their individual runs towards the target, guided by the drifting flares.

“Steady, steady … ” The bomb-aimer’s voice sounded unnaturally calm. Looking through the side cockpit window, Armstrong could see the red flashes of anti-aircraft gunfire, but curiously there was no sign of any shellbursts.

He wondered why, then realised that the Italian gunners must be firing high, and that the flashes of the bursts were eclipsed by the glare of the searchlights.

“Steady, steady … bombs away!” The Wellington gave a leap as the four 500-pound bombs dropped away, and Pittaway’s heartfelt comment sounded over the intercom.

“Thank Christ for that! Course for base, nav?”

“Two-five-oh, skipper. Climb to ten thousand.”

“Okay. Rear gunner, keep your eye on the target.”

“Roger, skip. Oh, there go the bombs. One, two, three — wow! That was a big one. A sort of greenish flash. We’ve started some fires, by the look of it.” His voice took on a sudden note of excitement. “Hello, the searchlights have picked up one of our chaps! He’s turning … It’s okay, they’ve lost him. There are more bombs exploding. Can’t tell if they’re on target.”

“Right-oh, rear gunner. Well done, everybody. Don’t relax, though; we’re not out of the wood yet.” He glanced across at Armstrong. “Do you mind taking over for a minute, Ken? I could do with a pee.”

Armstrong gladly took over the controls, allowing Pittaway to unfasten his seat harness and make his way towards the rear of the fuselage, where there was an Elsan chemical toilet. The Wellington was once again amid the stunning scenery of the Alps. There was little to do now, he told himself, but enjoy the flight back.

He should have known better.

Five miles to the south, a French Potez 631 night fighter was patrolling at roughly the same altitude. Its pilot,
Sergent-Chef
Gillet, was not a happy man. He belonged to one of the French Air Force’s five night-fighter
escadrilles
, or rather what was left of it, and he had flown many night patrols since 10 May without seeing a thing. In fact, most of the French night fighters had been used in day combat during the early phase of the campaign, with disastrous results.

On one occasion, eighteen Potez based in the Paris area had been ordered to attack enemy armoured columns near Fourmies. Six were shot down, and of the others only two — including his own — had returned to their airfields unscathed.

To make matters worse, the Potez, with its twin fins and long cockpit canopy, was often mistaken for the Messerschmitt 110, and several had been shot down by friendly fighters. All in all, the story of the French night fighters had not been a happy one.

Now here Gillet was, flying one of the modified Potez 631s armed with two cannon and seven machine-guns, of which four were fitted under the wings. To compensate for the extra weight a rear gunner was no longer carried, so Gillet was truly a single-seat fighter pilot, a role he had always coveted. It was rather unfortunate, he told himself for the umpteenth time, that he had achieved his ambition when it was too late.

With the battle in the north over, the remnants of Gillet’s
escadrille
had been moved to Marseille to provide a defence against the Italian night bombers. That was a laugh! The Italians didn’t like flying at night, everyone knew that. They had made not a single night attack; indeed, it seemed they had disappeared from the sky altogether.

Gillet glanced at the luminous dial of the chronometer on his instrument panel. Soon it would be time to return to base at the end of yet another fruitless patrol. He realised that he was still flying east, and tossed a mental coin to decided which way he should turn; north or south. He chose a northerly direction; his intention was to fly towards Monte Viso, then turn south-west towards his base, and some welcome hot coffee.

Suddenly, he frowned. There was something out there ahead of him, something that was not quite right. He strained against his straps, leaning forward to peer through the cockpit windscreen. No, he told himself, he was not mistaken; it was there all right, a black shape skimming between the mountain peaks. An aircraft — a large aircraft — crossing into France from enemy territory.

Adrenaline set Gillet’s heart pumping as he turned in pursuit of the strange aircraft, releasing the safety-catches of his guns as he did so. He climbed a little so that he was looking down on it, its black silhouette etched on the snow below. Twin engines, a single fin and rudder; it looked a bit like a French Bloch 210 bomber, but it was not. In any case, he knew that they had all been either shot down or grounded through lack of spare parts. So, he asked himself, what were the alternatives?