A/N: Just to mention it again, my main goal isn't historical accuracy, but I will try to keep it as accurate as possible, while still retaining the story element.
Chapter 2: Journey into the Whirlwind
The next day, I had gotten up early to file paperwork, look-over maps, confirm the day's plans, and all the boring bureaucratic stuff. After about an hour of boring meetings, we finally got the go-ahead from command for our flight to Gibraltar.
"Well, that sure took a long bloody time," I mumbled to myself, "but I guess it was well worth it in the long run because I get to my little slice of the world." How funny is it that I look up to the bureaucracy for once. With my arms aching from all the weight of my supplies that I had collected earlier, I started to head towards my green and white under-bellied Supermarine Spitfire Mk. IX.
The supply packs in question are filled to the brim with all the essentials for my survival in the event I get shot down over enemy territory. This includes an electric torch, a blanket, some food, a Kukri, and among other semi-important things, my piece de resistance, a Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk. I with a standard issue telescopic scope. A staple in the British Army, the rifle has been "around the block" a few times, if you know what I mean. I personally love it for its smooth, quick bolt-action, the accuracy and it's venerable .303 cartridge. It wasn't standard issue to pilots, but a little sweet talking and they made an exception.
"Hmm, maybe I should have brushed up on my marksmanship," I thought to my self, "because it really helps in a dogfight to have that calm, precise attitude."
"Well, I should put this stuff in the Spitfire before I turn into a raisin from standing in this blasted heat all day." I told myself. Which was true, because today was sure a hot one with the temperature in the mid to upper-30s (Centigrade, of course), which is quite hotter than Manchester, where I was born. I didn't live in Manchester most of the time, but I did live in Japan for a few years of my childhood and I do have a somewhat wide knowledge of Japanese culture and society.
So, while dragging on through the unrelenting heat, the base commander rushes up to me with an urgent look on his tan, heavily mustached face.
"Pendleton," he says, "I just received a wire-in and the lads over at Gibraltar need a new ensign, since the old one got torn to shreds by Jerry bombers, and they also requested it to be a formal occasion." He also added, "God only knows why," under his breath. I asked him if the rest of the squadron needed to be formal as well and he oddly said no, and that it was just to be to most senior officer wearing a formal outfit.
Not thinking about it, I nodded to him and ran quickly to my plane to deposit my bundle of goods into the stowage compartment. Then, I ran quickly back to the barracks and collected my dress uniform and went directly to the base quartermaster to get an ensign flag.
As I rushed out of the quartermaster's office, new flag in tow, I see the base commander walking into his office with - I think it was a worried expression - on his face, like he knew something but didn't want to discuss it. I slowed down a bit, thinking, "Why would the commander be worried, he only gets worried if something very bad is about to happen, like a Jerry bombing raid." After finding it puzzling, but not substantial to the mission, I walk on the rest of the way towards my awaiting plane and the rest of my impatient squadron.
After I had gotten settled in my classic green and white Spitfire, with the sound of engines roaring to life, I contacted the tower to request a departure for my squadron.
"One moment please," said the operator, and after about a minute and a half, he responded with the go-ahead.
"Copy that, number forty-one squadron is taking-off." I said in reply.
"Roger that, number forty-one squadron, say hello to Jerry for us and good luck!" the operator said enthusiastically.
With those cheering words ringing in my headset, I pushed the throttle to full power and the Merlin engine screamed as my Spitfire lurched down the runway. After the required take-off speed was acquired, my plane lifted of the ground and I aimed towards the heavens, with my plane rising ever faster. I checked back to see if the rest of the boys have gotten off the ground. As the last plane did so, I radioed back to the rest of the squadron to start forming up for the long journey ahead of us.
With the squadron flying at a nice cruising altitude of twenty-three thousand feet, a few of the men started chatting about the armament on their aircraft, like any group of men with guns would. One conversation I was listening in on went a bit like this: "I be telling you, the way you have yer guns at a ground-attack angle is suicide in a right-oh scuffle with Jerry, with those one-oh-nines packing a bloody 30 millimeter in their noses!" went on a pissed Scottish voice.
"Well, for some unknown reason, I do better with the guns the way they are." said another voice, which I also couldn't put my thumb on, but he did sound younger and more from the south.
"But think about the caliber of yer guns, three-oh-three, those couldn't scratch the paint off of a fabric-covered fighter, 'tis suicide I tell ye! At least I have a pair of Browning fifty calibers on mah bird!" said the first one in the same Scottish accent.
I heard no response from the second voice, so as if on cue, the first one starts up again.
"Lookie here, see the commander's (That would be I, not the base commander) bird, she has..." he paused. "Uh commander, what do yeh have on yer birdie again?" the first voice asked me.
"Well, I've got four fifties and a pair of twenty millimeter Hispanos, also I am carrying some of the new rockets just for kicks." I replied while grinning enormously under my mask, proud of my airplane's powerful armament. No wonder they called me 'The Lioness of England'.
"Rockets?" started up the first voice yet again, "well that'd be very interesting, aye, very interesting." Yes, rockets on a fighter is an interesting combination, but they are extremely helpful in taking out heavy, slow bombers. I have yet to test them out on Jerry fighters though. I think there is no need for an explanation why. After that little chat, the conversations died down a bit as we were streaking over the channel. The channel was a wondrous site to see, for I have rarely flown over it, let alone viewed from the air, but now I was able to take in it's full beauty. With dancing hues of light greens, blues and yellows of reflecting sunlight, almost reminiscent of Claude Monet's Impression, soleil levant or "Impression, Sunrise". (Not that I'm an art person, I just appreciate good art!)
After gawking at the sight, I scanned the darkening horizon like an eagle for signs of enemy activity. Upon seeing nothing out of the ordinary, (Was anything ordinary with times as hellish as these?) I pulled out my Spanish-English phrase book and started brushing up on my Spanish. For all I knew, this flight would be a routine "milk-run", as the Yank bomber crews called their "easy" missions.
With studying that for a few hours then getting bored, I looked around once again. With a slight tilt of the head, I could see that we were already well over the Spanish countryside. I told my men that we were over Spain and that we would be refueling because it seemed that everyone was starting to complain about their petrol tanks. With a few grumbled replies, I started to descend below the scattered the silver-lined clouds. It was already dusk as we landed at a secluded airstrip high in the Spanish mountains, near a place called Ciudad Real.
I decided that we should stay the night and rest up for the remainder of the flight to Gibraltar. James agreed but on the condition that we were never to leave the airstrip, to decrease the likely hood of Jerry's spies finding out. I was perfectly fine with that, so with the dagos refueling our planes, we all turned in for the night. With me laying on an old cot, in the middle of neutral Spain, with a war going on, it certainly felt out of place. So, with drowsiness setting up shop in my head, I drifted off to sleep.
I found myself back in my Spitfire, which I found odd, and soaring over a small island. Looking around, I couldn't seem to find the rest of the squadron, so I dived to a lower altitude to get my bearings. For kilometers around, there was nothing but water, water, and more bloody water.
"Ugh!" I moaned after seeing that, so, to brighten the mood, I scouted around the island for a viable place to land and explore this unknown island in the middle of nowhere.
"Well, that's just my luck!" I said, looking at a place to, well, land. So, I started the descent and guided the aircraft in for a surprisingly smooth landing on a clearing, just off the beachfront. After I had gotten out of the Spitfire and slid off the wing to the ground below, I noticed that there was no other sign of civilization, let alone other beings. I pulled out my sidearm and decided to have a look around.
Walking along the beach, I see that time has left this place almost virtually untouched. But what struck me as odd is the fact that the field I landed in looked like it was recently created. It almost seemed to me that someone was expecting my arrival, thinking about it sent shivers down my spine. I immediately pushed the thought of it out of my head, knowing that it was some sort of crazy notion, but the thought stubbornly stayed in my brain.
I turned back to see the distance I have traveled so far. When I did, I saw a rather large, dark, storm looming ominously on the horizon.
"Well, that doesn't look good, now does it." I said to myself. The first thing I needed to do was make a temporary shelter, and also cover my fighter, to protect it from any sort of damage. So, I started to jog briskly back to the field.
Upon reaching said field, I looked around and there was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the storm heading my way! I fanatically started to search for any sort of shelter, and if by magic, I spotted a grove of large trees. So I started to push my airplane to that spot, and I was also surprised that it was so light and easy to move. After doing that, I rummaged around my supplies until I found my knife, which in this case is a Nepali Kukri. With my knife in hand, I began to chop away at a nice green sapling.
With a little time, I began to build a suitable, dry shelter. After about 15 minutes, my simple barrier against the elements was finally erected. As I looked out, feeling the wind brush against my face, I saw that I had finished with not a moment to spare. The storm shrouded the small island in semi-darkness, already adding to my growing woes. So, I built a fire like any survivalist would do and hunkered down for the night. I sat down on a blanket I had brought, hearing the rain softly pit-patter on the trees above, thinking about my next move. I thought back to the words of wisdom my father had bestowed upon me at a young age.
"Remember, when in doubt, fly higher than the heavens." Dad would always say, but I never really knew what it meant. I always asked him what it meant and he would always say "you'll know in time, honey, you'll know." But right at the moment, that wasn't really helping my situation. Stumped, I laid my back against the fuselage and listened to the sounds of nature. With dull roars sounding off in the distance, I thought it was just another regular storm.
Suddenly, one of those roars started to get louder and loader. I jumped up and ran out from my shelter and jerked my head skywards, wiping my face every so often. The roaring was still getting louder, not stopping then starting, but one continuous, deafening sound.
"What's going on!" I screamed, still looking up. I saw that a small patch of clouds was starting to light up, almost as if they were on fire. The light grew more intense, so did the sound as I grew more and more frightened and awestruck by the spectacle. Just as if the light and roaring, almost screeching sound couldn't get anymore intense, a giant flaming ball burst through the clouds and sped violently towards the ground. Judging by the way it was falling, it seemed bound to fall on the tiny island.
No amount of military training could prepare me for something like this, I was deeply convinced for a moment that the end of the world was approaching. So, remembering those duck and cover drills that would always happen when ever I was in London, I rushed back to my shelter and dove under my Spitfire. I covered my head and hoped this would all be over, as the ground started to rumble and the trees shaking very violently.
Then, as huge explosion erupted and a shock wave ripped through the foliage, causing me to get thrown against the landing gear.
"What in the name of bloody hell just happened," I said to myself. In pain and partly deaf, I struggled upright and tried to get to my feet. While attempting to do that, I discovered that I seemed to have sprain my right ankle. Searching around for a branch to use as a crutch, I found my Spitfire for the most part undamaged, along with the surrounding flora.
I spied the branch, seemingly shaken off from a tree somewhere and used that to steady myself. I limped out into the field, finding that the storm subsided, started towards the rising column of thick, black smoke. As I speed-limped across the rain saturated beach, it struck me that the massive ball of fire that I had seen minutes earlier must have been some sort of large meteor. While I was thinking, I suddenly heard an all to familiar roar, so my head immediately snapped upwards. I saw not only one, or two, but at least 7 large meteors screeching towards me.
"Oh my god," I whispered to myself, knowing that I will not survive to see another day. With the ground quaking harder than ever before, I sat down hard with a cry.
"Dawn, it's time to wake up," I heard a mysterious voice whisper. I looked around, to locate the source of the voice, but to no avail.
"Help me!" I screamed, looking at the fiery rocks of doom streaking towards my position.
"Dawn, come on, it's time to wake up," the voice said insistingly. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out as I saw first meteor strike, somewhere on this godforsaken island. As I watched the explosion happen and the shock wave come, I happened to notice that the second one was heading on beeline right for me. Knowing of no chance to escape, I just watched it getting bigger and bigger. I closed my eyes, knowing that I was going to die, and I waited and waited. Then when the sound screaming at it's climax, it suddenly got deathly quiet.
"Dawn, you street broad, wake the bloody hell up!" yelled the irritated voice that broke the silence. I immediately snapped my eyes open, and there leaning over me was James.
"Hey, so you've finally woke up, huh, sleepyhead." he said grinning. I, as if by some womanly reflex, slapped him across the face, hard. He recoiled back, holding his hand against his face.
"Ow, what was that for?" he said, whimpering.
"That's for calling me an 'street broad', you balmy bastard!" I said as I swung my feet from under the covers.
"Sorry, ma'am..." he muttered like a scolded schoolboy. Satisfied, I asked him to leave so I could freshen up, which he did so, still nursing his wounded face and pride. After he left, I just stood there, remembering the horrible nightmare that I had just been through. I decided not to tell anyone, because I needed to be strong to guide my mates through this mission.
After having a shower, I got suited up and went out on the field to check my aircraft. Looking at everything from the flaps, to the gauges in the cockpit, it all checked out and was fine.
"Alright chaps, lets get these props spun up!" I said happily to the rest of the squadron, with them scrambling for their respective planes. With the familiar sound of the Merlin engines starting up, I began to taxi towards the end of the runway, with the rest following suit. A few of the locals came to wave us off, which I thought was nice. They were chanting something, it sounded like 'Viva la Vida!', but to what it meant, I was at a loss. As my plane reached the end, and swung into position, I throttled up the engine to maximum power. The plane, shaking and bumping down the runway, was gleaming in the late morning sun. Peeking at the airspeed indicator, I saw that I had the required speed to take-off, so I gently yanked the stick towards me.
Once again, I was flying with the birds, well if there were any birds about. I circled the airfield once, waiting for the rest to get airborne, when I thought I saw a dark speck in the sky, but when I blinked, I was gone. Shrugging my shoulders, I turned my aircraft to the direction of Gibraltar. After everyone was formed up, light conversation began anew, having been previously left off from yesterday. I didn't really listen to it much, a few bits here and there, but I was just too busy deciphering the nightmare I had just a few hours prior. With a spur of the moment, I asked my fellow squad-mates what 'Viva la Vida' meant, and I got the answer from none other than James.
"It roughly means 'long live life' in Spanish," he replied, I guess taking those Spanish courses at the academy wasn't a bad choice for him.
Looking around and pondering why they chanted that, I saw nothing of interest until I looked up. I saw the distinctive shape of a single Me-109 barreling straight toward us with it's guns blazing.
"Tally-ho! Bandit, twelve o'clock high," I yelled over the radio, "divide up and attack!" The moment I said those words, the squadron sprung into action, like seasoned veterans they were.
"He must be a scout, watch your six o'clock chaps!" I heard James say over the airwaves. It was all a blur, with airplanes diving and twisting through the air. While another section was going after it, I spotted the main fighter group, but with an unfamiliar shape among the 20 odd aircraft. I squinted my eyes on the unfamiliar fighter and to my disbelief, I saw those distinctive 'tubes' slung under the wings.
"Looks like Jerry's decided to play today lads," I said enthusiastically, "and they've brought a two-six-two for us to play with!" Hearing a few comments and suggestions for the plan of attack, I ordered that the scout had to be dealt with first and the two-six-two was the next absolute priority. With a string of confirmations, I told the rest of the squadron not chasing the scout to follow me and attack the main group.
I accelerated to maximum power, with the adrenalin pumping through me. I wanted, no, needed to see what that futuristic jet could do!
"James, come with me," I said to him, "we're going after that jet!"
"Roger that!" James said, I could tell he felt the same way as I did. We headed straight through the enemy group, shooting at anything in front of us, our focus was on Jerry's fancy new toy. As my fifty-caliber guns rattled to life, I scored another kill on an unfortunate Messerschmitt that strayed into my gun sights. I watched tumble down to the ground in a massive fireball. I was hoping that the pilot got out alright, because no one, German or not, should die a horrible, fiery death.
Now, getting back to the battle, I saw a few more German fighters go down in the same fashion. I started to bank my Spitfire to the left, to start chasing that 262, when I felt a searing pain in my right shoulder. I immediately griped it, using my other hand to dive away from the enemy fire. The pain was intense, so intense that I almost forgot that I was still in the middle dogfight. Evading the bullets whizzing past my head, I quickly looked over to see that the offending bullet passed right through my shoulder and seemed to imbed itself into my seat.
"I'm hit, James, cover me please!" I asked in a painful voice.
"Are you ok?" I heard him ask.
"No, I caught one right through the shoulder, and it's burning like the dickens!" I responded, as another wave of pain swept over me. I tried to ignore the pain by searching around for that damned jet. I looked up in my little rear-view mirror, and my heart skipped a beat, because there was the coveted jet, right behind me! I guess the hunter has become the hunted, as I frantically tried to turn away, but it was too late as the two-six-two's guns riddled my Spitfire full of holes. I lost all control as the plane did a nose dive towards the ground.
"Dawn!" I faintly heard from James, along with a burst of gun fire.
"Pull up lass, pull u-" I heard a Scottish voice say, before the radio fizzled and died. As my aircraft plummeted to the ground, I heard some sort of humming sound that grew progressively louder. I thought it was the wings moaning under the strain of the air rushing past them. I hurriedly thought about my predicament, with me being wounded, my plane unresponsive, and the rest of my squadron fighting for their lives, I knew I was having a bad day.
"'Viva la Vida', my arse!" I cried out in frustration.
Abruptly, an explosion rocked my green and white aircraft and I was temporary deafened by it. When I snapped my head forward, an extremely bright light flashed in my face, blinding me as I covered my face. When I dropped my arm, I glanced around and all I saw was white, and nothing else, just pure white.
…Was I... Dead?
Oh, what will come next! Isn't the excitement and suspense building? As always, please give me your thoughts on how I could improve this! Also, Happy New Year everyone!
