The Burning Blue Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by James Holland

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  North Africa – July, 1942

  Cairo – August, 1942

  England – August, 1938

  Cairo – August, 1942

  England – August, 1938

  England – September, 1938

  Cambridge – October, 1938

  Cairo – September, 1942

  Cambridge – November, 1938

  Cambridge – December, 1938

  London – Christmas, 1938

  Cairo – September, 1942

  Cambridge – February, 1939

  Cambridge – March, 1939

  Germany – March, 1939

  Cairo – September 7th, 1942

  Alvesdon Farm – April, 1939

  Alvesdon Farm – August, 1939

  England – September, 1939

  Cairo – September, 1942

  Scotland – January, 1940

  Cairo – October, 1942

  England – May, 1940

  Cairo – October, 1942

  England – June, 1940

  Southern England – July, 1940

  England – July, 1940

  England – July, 1940

  Southern England – July, 1940

  Cairo – October, 1942

  England – August, 1940

  England – August, 1940

  England – mid-August, 1940

  England – August, 1940

  Cairo – October, 1942

  England – late August, 1940

  England – late August, 1940

  Cairo – October, 1942

  England – early September, 1940

  England – mid-September, 1940

  England – March, 1941

  Cairo – November, 1942

  Historical Note and Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Joss Lambert has always been a loner, constrained by a secret from his past, until he finds friendship and solace firstly with Guy Liddell, a friend from school, and then with Guy’s family, who welcome him into their farmhouse home. Joss increasingly comes to depend upon the Liddells and treats Alvesdon Farm as the one place where he feels not only appreciated but also truly happy.

  The idyll cannot last. With war looming, Joss is forced to confront the past. He escapes through flying, becoming a fighter pilot in the RAF. But with the onset of war, even the Liddells’s world is crumbling. As Joss is fighting for his life in the Battle of Britain, so he begins to fall madly in love with Stella – Guy’s twin – but with tragic consequences.

  Leaving England and the Liddells far behind, he continues to fly amid the sand and heat of North Africa, until his hopes and dreams are seemingly shattered for good . . .

  About the Author

  James Holland was born in Salisbury, Wiltshire, and studied history at Durham University. He has worked for several London publishing houses and has written for a number of national newspapers and magazines. He is also the author of a work of history, Fortress Malta: An Island Under Siege, 1940–43, and two previous novels. Married with a son, he lives near Salisbury.

  Also by James Holland

  Fortress Malta: An Island Under Siege 1940–1943

  The Burning Blue

  JAMES HOLLAND

  For Ned

  High Flight

  Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings

  Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds –

  and done a hundred things

  You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

  High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,

  I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

  My eager craft through footless halls of air.

  Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

  I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

  Where never lark or even eagle flew –

  And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

  The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

  Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

  — John Gillespie Magee, Jr. 1922–1941

  North Africa – July, 1942

  Although the enemy has lost a great many of his fighter aircraft during the last two months, there has been so far no apparent sign of a decrease in flying ability or combat performance. Combat effectiveness has been maintained, and indeed increased.

  Memorandum from General von Waldau,

  Fliegerführer Afrika, 25th July 1942

  A little after four that afternoon, Joss Lambert left his tent and strode towards his plane in a line of others on the far side of the landing ground. He was twenty-two, unshaven, with blond hair which had thickened with dirt and sand. The last time he’d looked in a mirror he’d noticed a new line that ran from the side of his nose to his mouth; no longer such a baby face.

  It was hot again, really hot, but very still and quiet, so that the only sound was of his boots crunching across the desert grit.

  He was conscious of very little going on around him. For weeks now, he’d felt an increasing detachment from the job in hand. In part, this was deliberate, a necessary means of dealing with the desperateness of his situation. His life was more bearable if he did not think too much about what it was he was doing. Then perhaps one day – one day – he might be allowed to return home to her.

  But now – well, now, there was nothing. He’d read her letter a dozen times, but it was as though his brain had simply shut down, refused to absorb the meaning of those words. Instead he had become numb, unable to think about anything other than the task ahead: a German land recce unit to bomb and strafe. More enemy to kill. Sweat glistened on his temples and ran, like a spider, down his back. He brought his upper lip to his sleeve and looked at the wet imprint of a moustache outlined on the material.

  Bradshaw, his rigger, was giving the windscreen and canopy a final clean as Joss grabbed the parachute off the plane’s wing. Feet first, then arms through the canvas straps and all brought together into the single fastener. He paused, ran his tongue around his gums, and then spat, as he always did in a vain attempt to rid his mouth of sand before a flight. He’d been the first to reach his plane. Ten battered Curtis Kittyhawks, all gently baking in the sun. The metal was too hot to touch, so hot they’d once fried corned beef on one of the wings. Joss put on his gloves, then hoisted himself onto the wing and into the cockpit, his parachute pack thumping against the back of his legs. The other pilots were reaching their planes. Prior, the squadron leader, walked round his, touching it, examining the underside of the wings and rudder. Everyone had their own routines.

  ‘That’s as clean as I’m going to get her,’ said Bradshaw, leaning back to give the Perspex one last inspection. He glanced up at Joss. ‘You all right, sir?’

  Joss looked up, forced a fleeting smile.

  ‘Well, she’s all ready for you,’ said Bradshaw, and slid off the wing.

  Out in the open, there was something about the vastness of the desert that muffled the occasional clang or shout. But in the narrow space of the plane, the quietness was close and contained, even with the hood pushed right back: sounds were amplified and tinny so that he was conscious of his breaths, of the squeak of pedals being pushed up and down, and the strapping of his flying helmet; sounds that emphasized the routine of the pre-flight checks.

  Without meaning to, his gloved hand felt for the letter in his shirt pocket, and as it did so his mind flooded with the crushing weight of despair. Stella,
he thought, how could you do this? He lifted his arm to rub the sweat off his forehead and saw his hand was shaking.

  When the ground crew gave him the signal, he began to manipulate the hand pumps and starter buttons. The airscrew began to turn, silently at first, then chugging, until the exhaust stubs vomited blue flame and black smoke and the whole airframe began to shudder and clank as the Allison engine erupted into life. Moments later, the other nine planes joined him, a deafening roar tearing apart the quiet.

  Pulling the hood close, he lowered his goggles. Christ, it was hot. Even his arms and legs were glistening now. Come on, come on. Any longer and both he and the plane would be dead from overheating. He felt in his pocket, then realized he’d left his tiny wooden lion behind. Damn. Still, it was too late to worry about it now. Put it out of mind, he told himself, put everything out of mind.

  At last, Prior, at Red One, moved off, followed by Reds Two and Three. A new low whining began, then it was his turn, at Blue One, to open the throttle and start trundling into position. Swathes of sand and dust whipped the airframe. It was bad enough taxiing with an enormous engine cowling for a view, but with the man-made sandstorm it was like night-flying without the lights. A further complication – and there always was one – was the way the Kittyhawk tended to veer to the right. He had developed a method of taking a compass bearing and hoping for the best, but with everything juddering – including his legs on the rudder pedals and the arrows on the dials it wasn’t easy. And on the ground there was always time to worry. Like the fact that his plane was full to bursting with high-octane fuel and a 500lb bomb.

  Sand and grit battered the Perspex. So much for Bradshaw’s cleaning efforts. Opening the throttle further, he felt the plane surge forward. A sudden jolt as a wheel went over a large stone and the stick bolted in his hand momentarily, knocking his elbow against the side of the cockpit and numbing his arm. He cursed and corrected the yaw of the plane. The rattling and noise increased with the speed, until with a sigh of relief from both the pilot and machine, Joss pulled back, the stick biting and firming up, his grip tightening, as though controlling a strong dog on a lead. The shaking stopped as he and his plane, strapped together, emerged into the big wide blue. From sand cloud to glaring brightness, he thought, squinting through the goggles at the sun that was now gleaming off the Perspex of the machine in front. He glanced behind him, back at their airfield. One of the planes was still on the ground, its propeller slowing. That song – Blue Skies. She’d always sung it wrong – wrong words, wrong tune half the time too.

  The target was a wadi some forty miles south of Mersa Matruh and the coast, full of tanks and other vehicles, and more importantly, ammunition, fuel dumps and several hundred men. These dried river beds were hard to spot from the otherwise flat desert floor, but from the air offered rich pickings, as Prior had cheerfully pointed out. But no one had been fooled by his bravado; such a base would be dense with anti-aircraft flak and machine guns. It was a basic equation: the richer the pickings, the smaller the chances of making it back.

  They crossed down into the Qattara Depression, the huge escarpment marking its northern edge clearly visible, then headed west, eighty miles behind enemy lines before looping up north so they could attack low, fast and out of the sun. Surprise was the key. They had to pray no one saw them before they dropped height into the bomb run. At twenty miles from the target, Prior brought the squadron into line astern. An old RAF attack formation, but then again, Prior, was a Cranwell man. Joss had tried suggesting they attack in lines of three astern, but it had fallen on deaf ears. ‘Doesn’t give us enough room for manoeuvre,’ Prior had told him, ‘and makes us a bigger target.’ And that had been that. This was fine on a single run, but when there were two circuits to be made – the bombing, then the strafe – the odds were shortened even further for those at the end of the line.

  As they approached the wadi, Joss lifted his goggles onto his forehead. They were low enough now for him to see a burnt-out bomber, crumpled and alone among the sand and stone away to his left. With his thumb, he flicked off the gun safety catch. He had been on the receiving end of such attacks on many occasions. From the ground, the attackers seemed to hold all the advantages, but this was of little comfort. Strapped into the tiny cockpit, so narrow his elbows brushed the sides and his head the canopy roof, he wondered how he ever made it through. A deep breath, the target rushing towards him. Lines of orange and green tracer were already criss-crossing the sky in front of him, despite the advantage of surprise and coming from out of the sun. Arcing lazily at first, they accelerated as they flashed past his plane.

  Joss pushed the stick over hard right then left, half-rolling his plane from side to side, stomach lurching as the blue horizon swivelled. On the ground, men fell flat at the roar of nine Allison engines belting past so low. He corrected himself, dropped his bomb, and not waiting to see where it had hit, sped on through the encampment. Explosion after explosion thundered behind him, and one massive fire-ball pitched orange flames and black smoke like a geyser into the sky. Someone had scored well. Tracer followed him out into the desert as he circled, black puffs of smoke filling the sky, ahead, below and to the side. They were way off, but it wouldn’t be long now. He glanced round. They’d all made it through the first run, but then that was the easy bit. Now for the strafing. No surprise any more, and the guns would be ready. The puffs of smoke intensified, and the plane jolted. Closer now. Joss gripped the stick tighter, breath quickening. Another crash, the plane shuddered again and tiny shards of shrapnel showered the airframe. Jesus that was close. He saw Prior turning in for his second run, followed by Reds Two and Three. Then his turn.

  One, he counted. The camp looked a mess. Thick oily smoke belching into the sky, but there was no let-up from the flak batteries. More splinters rained across the airframe. Two, lines of tracer looking as though they would hit him square between the eyes, but somehow hurrying past and over. The stick jolted and shook with the plane. Joss gripped it with both hands. Sweat poured down his cheeks and back. Three. Over 300 miles an hour into a sky raining bullets and debris and pieces of jagged metal. Finger on the firing button. Four. More men down below, leaping face-first onto the ground as his bullets sprayed across them. Five. Another massive explosion – not flak, not a bomb, but one of their Kittyhawks disintegrating in mid-air. The planes ahead disappeared into a cloud of smoke, then Red Three emerged again, a spectral silhouette, hardly real at all. Six. He whipped on through the burning gust. The tracer still pursued him, flashing doggedly over his canopy as he rolled once more, before running out of steam and dropping away.

  Six seconds. That was all it took, and then he was away, blind through the smoke wall at fifty feet, and then racing over the desert. The whole attack completed in just over a minute. Joss started to gulp deep breaths of air, realizing he’d stopped breathing again as he’d counted through the strafing run. Looking behind, the puffs of flak and tracer disappeared into the distance, until all he could see was the smoke cloud caused by their sixty seconds of destruction.

  Spared again.

  Prior led them back up to 10,000 feet before breaking radio silence. Two pilots killed: one blown up, the other by ploughing straight into the ground (causing as much damage as any 500-pounder). Most of the others had taken some kind of punishment, although no one else was injured and the planes were still flying, still keeping up with the CO.

  ‘Well done everyone,’ said Prior, ‘but keep a sharp look out. We’re not out of the woods yet.’ Predictable, routine words.

  Sixteen months before, when Joss had first arrived in the desert, he’d been surprised to find his shoulders bleeding after his first sortie. The combination of sand and wearing only a thin shirt rather than a thick jacket or Irvin had caused the straps to chafe as he kept turning his head to scan the sky. His skin had hardened since. He’d also lined both his parachute and the cockpit straps with padding, but even this minor irritation had made him realize there were a number of differenc
es between flying over home and the desert. Another was the lack of cloud cover. Flying over England, they’d cursed when there was little cloud; in North Africa, there simply were no clouds. Just a vast, burning blue, with only the sun’s glare for cover.

  Goggles lowered once more, he continued to search the wide desert sky, although his mind had now begun to drift. He could do that, fly and keep a look out without really concentrating. He’d often thought it was a bit like driving a car. He might indicate, overtake or change down a gear, but without being conscious of it, thoughts on something else entirely.

  But now the dull nauseous sensation in his stomach had returned. No, he thought, this cannot be happening, not now, not after all this. ‘It can’t, it can’t,’ he said out loud. There had been a time when he’d believed Tommy – that war promised honour, excitement and fellowship – but this place, this fucking awful desert, with its freezing nights and scorching days, its sand and its millions of flies and fleas, had soon put paid to that. But he’d persevered, borne it because there’d been the hope of a future worth having; a future with her. Stella had made it all bearable, only Stella.

  Bob Carter at Red Three was wavering up and down before him. Damage somewhere. Rudder or aileron, maybe. Further ahead was Prior with Brian Scott flying at his side. Christ, but what a bunch they’d become. Sun-bruised faces, uncombed, bony, barely a decent uniform between them. Joss had begun by trying to keep himself presentable, but on a canteen of water a day it was impossible. He’d rather have a glug of water on his return from a sortie than enough to wash in properly. They were all exhausted. They smelled too, of sweat mixed with oil and grease, although it was only when someone came back from leave that anyone noticed. The little round pills the medical officer sometimes issued helped keep them going, but they were no substitute for leave. And leave in Cairo was no substitute for going home.