Under the Sun (2 page)

‘Whatever for?’ the pilot asked, genuinely surprised.

Lambton was taken aback at this response and began to bluster that he was a valuable member of the squadron, had at least one confirmed kill and had shared in another two, as well as having another probable to his name. Strickland nevertheless saw through the man’s blandishments and realised the
decoration
was intended as compensation for his injuries. He knew he did not deserve the medal, but his CO plainly did not expect him to take to the wing again. It seemed he would be deskbound for the rest of the war. Even so, Lambton was as good as his word and three weeks later Strickland’s DFC was gazetted, his parents proudly showing him the announcement in
The Times.

In the days and weeks that followed, the pilot was able to move about and spent much of his convalescence walking in the large grounds of the hospital, enjoying the fine autumn weather. The gardens were well tended and he liked to stroll along the gravel paths clad in his pyjamas and dressing gown, stopping occasionally to sniff the sooty perfume of a rose. The weather that October was unusually mild and the trees were clothed in red and gold. Leaves idled earthwards and birdsong echoed through the woods. To pass the time patients played chess or bridge and wrote letters home.

Christmas came and went and New Year was notable only in that the bandages on Strickland’s hands were finally removed, after the last of his many operations. It meant he could now visit the local pub along with the other walking patients, since he was no longer at risk of infection. On his first visit to the Dorset Arms in the high street, he had been ordering a round of drinks when he noticed a familiar figure staring at him from behind
the counter. He thought it was a ghost until he recognised with a shock that he was looking at his own reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. It was the first time he had seen his face in months and as he glanced at his friends carousing around him, he realised how fortunate he was. They too must have seen their own disfigured faces as they took their turn at the counter and yet somehow they had all come to terms with their injuries. Not one of them had ever complained about their disfigurement and Strickland was humbled by their fortitude.

After almost six months at East Grinstead the pilot was given his discharge papers, returning to his squadron in early March. Two brother officers, George Hay and Harry Armstrong,
collected
him on the day of his release in Armstrong’s Morris Oxford. The hospital staff stood on the steps and waved him goodbye, as did the other patients who were allowed out from their wards. The trio set off and leaving the sleepy Sussex village they made their way to London, passing through the
bombed-out
areas of Lewisham and Battersea before arriving in the West End. They had a fine lunch at Simpson’s in the Strand where they drank champagne and dined on oysters and roast beef, before setting off for the airfield in the late afternoon.

Strickland sat on the back seat with his cap on his knee, his uniform newly cleaned and pressed, the purple and white ribbon of his DFC sewn above the left breast pocket. As they raced through the narrow Kent lanes he felt glad to be back on active service after his weeks of confinement and subsequent rehabilitation, although he doubted he would be allowed to fly again because of his injuries. Along the sunlit verges crocus and primrose bloomed and blackbirds flitted in and out of the damp hedgerows.

As the pilot day-dreamed, the two men in front chattered away. The blond and ruddy-faced Hay was now officially an ace with five confirmed kills to his credit, while the slighter and darker Armstong had three. Both of them had a DFC, while Hay had recently been awarded a DSO. Lambton and the young trio
were now the only remaining members of the squadron who had flown in France, covering the troops’ retreat at Dunkirk. The other eight had all been killed.

The mountains slid away beneath the Spitfire as it flew out across the open sea, the pilot scanning the ocean with his eyes as he looked for any signs of enemy shipping. He turned his aircraft due north and watched as the sun rose up into the morning sky, its light a hammer beating down on the flat anvil of the sea, the plane and its occupant a speck in the heavens. Alone at the
controls
the pilot gloried in his solitude. Instead of the muddy fields of Waterloo or Flanders, his battles were played out amid this empty plot of sky. Not for him the life of an infantryman
fighting
in the desert sands of North Africa, or slogging through the Burman jungle with rifle and pack. Instead, his arena was one of boundless blue. As a knight and his charger, so the pilot and his aircraft. Man and machine in harmony together.

The pilot continued flying north and headed towards the Carolines, a myriad of islands and coral atolls, which gave some protection to the enemy ships and submarines that plied the area. There were markedly fewer ships these days, but plenty of submarines which were always elusive. At night among the islands they would surface unseen and take on fresh water and supplies, before slipping out to sea again. The Carolines were at the limit of the Spitfire’s range, but they were also the most fruitful hunting grounds for the squadron. And so each day the pilot from the dawn patrol would make a sortie, choosing his favourite haunts which he knew his quarry preferred, like a
fisherman
who knows where the best salmon pools lie. And just like a fisherman sometimes his patience and skill would be rewarded and equally sometimes it would not.

After two hours flying at ceiling altitude Strickland pushed the stick away from him and the Spitfire descended towards the ocean. At 2,000 feet the pilot levelled out and up ahead he could make out the irregular contours of the Carolines along
the horizon. In a few minutes he was flying over them, circling the islands that lay scattered across the sea below, like a string of pearls on a dark cloth. Each island was a forest of palms and in the heart of some there rose an occasional mountain, usually an extinct volcano. The Carolines had been the enemy’s Pacific base from the beginning of the war until 17th February 1943, the
Japanese
Year of the Sheep, when American carrier planes swooped down on Truk which was home to the Combined Fleet. In the attack they destroyed seventy planes on the ground and sank two auxiliary cruisers, an aircraft ferry, two submarine tenders and twenty-three merchant ships. It was the biggest Japanese loss since the battle of Midway the previous year.

Strickland began to search among the scattered islands and atolls, looking for the tell-tale wake of a ship or a submarine as it ploughed across the blue. He also kept an eye on his fuel gauge, making sure that he did not spend too long on his quest and not leave himself enough to get back to base. Checking his watch, the pilot saw that he could spend a maximum of five minutes in the area, before he would have to head for home. He searched both port and starboard, dipping the plane’s wings from time to time to get a better view.

The waves crashed against the atolls in a ring of white surf, but the pilot could see no wake from any ship. Here and there he spotted the tiny sailing rigs of fishermen, their wooden vessels bobbing about in the ocean like corks. Flying low over one of the boats, Strickland saw the fishermen raise their straw hats and wave and he waggled his wing tips in reply as he flew on. He glanced at his watch again and at his fuel gauge, which hovered at the halfway mark. A minute more and he would have to return to base. He put his foot down on the left rudder pedal and swung the plane to port, as he rounded one of the larger islands for a final sweep.

The pilot had almost given up his search and was thinking thoughts of home, when he noticed a thin white trail cutting through the waves on his starboard side. It was probably nothing
more than an outlying reef breaking the surface and he pushed the stick away from him and dived towards the sea to take a closer look. As Strickland neared the spot he could see the line was too straight to be a reef or a rocky outcrop and yet there was no sign of any ship. It was strange. Then he saw why and his heart flipped inside his chest like an eel in a trap. Just beyond the whirring yellow rim of his propeller blades he could see the
distinct
outline of a Type C submarine, the letters 1–47 stencilled on the conning tower. It must have been at the island he had just flown over and was making for the open sea again. Tensing with excitement Strickland knew he had his prey and he shuffled his feet on the pedals and wheeled his plane round to attack.

The aircraft swept across the sea towards its quarry, the pilot’s thumb resting on the brass firing button. Pointing the nose of the Spitfire a little ahead of the submarine’s bow so as to give it sufficient lead, Strickland peered through the reflector-sight and fired a burst, the four 20 mm cannons on the wings
stuttering
in a roar. Small white splashes flayed the water around the submarine, as the plane screamed overhead and turned to make another pass. As the Spitfire banked sharply a group of sailors leapt out from a hatch and ran towards the gun on the upper deck. The pilot levelled his aircraft and came in for another run, the cannon blasting away and tearing up the water in front of him. But this time the crew were ready and he noticed black puffs of smoke erupting around his canopy as the submarine’s 50 calibre gun returned fire. Strickland kept his line and
concentrated
his aim at the base of the conning tower, the aircraft bucking slightly with each burst. Again he flew low over the enemy vessel, passing just a few feet above, before banking the Spitfire and turning in a wide circle as he lined up for the kill.

The pilot raced across the waves once more, the submarine a sharp silhouette in his gunsight. He pressed the firing button and saw the bullets streaking ahead, knifing the water and ripping mercilessly into the steel hull. The bow gun continued to fire, its muzzle flashing methodically with each round as the
Spitfire approached. With a shriek the aircraft hurtled overhead, the gunners frantically wheeling as they blasted away, black puffballs of smoke dotting the sky around the plane as the flak exploded. Suddenly the aircraft lurched and veered sharply to one side and a cry went up from the crew. A thick trail of smoke poured from beneath the plane and the gunners began to shout and leap about, as they watched the Sptifire yaw from side to side before climbing away.

Inside the cockpit Strickland remained calm as he turned the plane round and headed for home. He knew he had been hit and although the controls were soggy, the aircraft was still
manageable
and he thought that he could make it back. But he was being unduly optimistic. While the Spitfire still responded to his movements, a quick look at the fuel gauge showed him that it was on zero. The submarine’s gun had ruptured the fuel tanks on the wings and he was doing no more than flying on empty. The pilot searched in vain for an island where he could beach the plane, but none lay ahead. As he looked about for a suitable landing site the engine began to run roughly, the fuel mixture in the carburettor evaporating. With a final cough the engine died, the propeller spinning to a stop. Strickland was too low to bale out and drifted in a silent glide. He levelled the plane and flew parallel to the waves’ crests as he prepared to ditch in the sea. As the Spitfire dived towards the ocean, he undid his parachute and tightened his harness straps, bracing himself for the impact. A moment later he hit the surface, the sea erupting in a geyser around him. Water gushed into the open cockpit, his body jerking against the harness as the plane slewed to a halt. The Spitfire was still and the water subsided, the plane rocking gently in the waves.

Strickland quickly undid his straps and removing his sodden parachute, he climbed out onto the aircraft wing, taking the Very pistol and a box of shells with him. He loaded and cocked the pistol, pointed it at the sky and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp retort followed by a puff of smoke as the flare rose in an
arc and the pilot watched it drop still flaming into the sea. He knew it was unlikely he would be rescued, but it was possible there were friendly vessels in the vicinity and the flare would at least alert them that someone was in trouble. Strickland put the pistol in his pocket and reaching down into the cockpit, he pulled out the life raft and his heart sank. There was a long tear across the middle, presumably made by a piece of shrapnel. He threw it aside and opened a panel in the fuselage and took out the box containing the survival kit, which was undamaged. He then inflated his Mae West and sat down on the wing with the box on his knees, his legs dangling in the tepid water.

Strickland undid the top pocket of his shirt, took out his packet of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. The cigarette was damp, but it smoked well enough and he sat there
listening
to the waves slapping against the aircraft’s hull, as he
pondered
what to do. It was doubtful anyone had seen the distress signal and without a life raft, he would be too small to spot from the air. Strickland could see the island was some distance away, probably three or four miles; but he was a good swimmer and thought he might be able reach it, so long as the current did not drag him in the opposite direction. There was not much of a choice. Either he sat there and went down with the plane, or else he tried to swim to the island. If he stayed where he was, his bones would soon join the pale mass of coral which lay just a few fathoms below.

Strickland took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed the stub away. He removed his helmet and goggles and took off his shoes and the now wingless Ariel slid off the Spitfire into the water. He began to paddle towards the island, one arm helping him swim, the other clasping the survival box. He turned around only once, when he heard a gurgle and a rush of water and saw his aircraft tip slowly forward and sink beneath the waves. When it had disappeared Strickland turned back again and continued
swimming
. After a while he abandoned his grip on the box which was hampering him. Later, he pulled out the bulky Very pistol from
his pocket and disposed of that as well. With his arms now free he swam in a breastroke, his limbs working away in unison, the island rising up tantalisingly from the surf ahead.