Home > Under a Sky on Fire : A gripping and utterly heartbreaking WW2 historical novel

Under a Sky on Fire : A gripping and utterly heartbreaking WW2 historical novel
Author: Suzanne Kelman

Prologue

 

 

15 August 1940 – The First Bomb

 

 

Hauptmann Rubensdörffer swiped the sweat from his brow and blinked twice, struggling to clear his vision one more time and steady his breathing. In his ears his heart pounded like a drum as he attempted to recover from the attack that had come out of the blue. With twenty-one planes behind him counting on his leadership, he sought desperately to grapple with the fear and anger that boiled inside him. Hot sweat gathered under his collar, prickled the backs of his hands and trickled between his fingers inside his leather gloves as he gripped the control stick harder with the sheer frustration of it. With great fury he recalled the assurance from the intelligence reports he had studied before take-off that the British squadrons had all been destroyed on this route. But now his own airmen were, hundreds of miles from their air base, deep in enemy territory, and they had barely made it through the last attack, losing their fighter support in the process. His greatest fear was upon him: under his leadership the entire bomber squadron were flying towards London alone and unprotected.

Dramatically unbuckling and yanking back the strap of his leather flying cap, stretched so tightly across his throat it felt as though it would strangle him, he struggled frantically to recall the route he had so meticulously committed to memory, but he felt so rattled that everything just swam in front of his eyes. Trying to shake off his terror and orientate himself, he peered across the stretch of the silver wingtip of his Messerschmitt BF 110 as it bobbed and weaved through the hazy cloud, the glint of the setting sun’s orange glow blinding him as it flashed along the wing like a lighthouse beacon.

Another terrifying thought suddenly gripped him. What if more fighters were waiting for them on the direct route into Kenley? Surely, they would never survive another attack.

‘I’m going to take a different route,’ he barked into his radio to the gunner sitting behind him.

‘You think that is wise?’ came back the hesitant response. ‘Why don’t we just drop the bombs and get the hell out of here?’

Rubensdörffer could hear the fear in his gunner’s voice but reasoned if they passed the target and approached from the north they could drop the bombs and clear the target faster.

Undeterred by his counterpart’s concerns, Rubensdörffer leaned heavily on the throttle controls, racing past the target, then banked hard right as the engines shook and whined with the strain. Behind him, the rest of his squadron blindly followed. Diving to a lower altitude, the rush of the accelerated airspeed screeched to a deafening pitch as below them terrified ground crew and personnel ran in a hundred different directions to avoid the attack.

Suddenly, a stream of bullets peppered the side of Rubensdörffer’s Messerschmitt, and behind him his rear gunner swore as he swung his guns to engage the new squadron of British fighters. He banked hard away to avoid the onslaught as a fresh trail of bullets blazed over his cockpit window. A Hurricane tore past, diving down then up and away to engage him again. From the other side, another rally of bullets cracked the window behind him and as he swivelled his head back he gasped in shock: he had lost his rear gunner. The man he had flown with, his friend for five years, was slumped over his gun, very obviously dead.

Filled with bottled-up anger and overwhelming grief at his friend’s death, he wanted more than anything to get away; he had to get away fast. Rubensdörffer knew his bomber squadron couldn’t sustain another attack, especially as he now could see that Spitfires filled the sky and he was completely defenceless. So, making a desperate decision, knowing it was controversial, as there were factories and housing close to the airfield, but not caring, he slammed his hand down on the bomb release. The plane shuddered as the five-hundred-pound explosives were freed from the bomb bay.

All around, his group followed suit, bombs scattering everywhere, missing the intended target of Kenley.

Banking hard away at full throttle, his engines roared. With perspiration now dripping down his face and blurring his eyes completely, he sped towards the Channel, trying to put out of his mind the fact that instead of bombing the Kenley airfield as he had been intending to do he may have just killed innocent civilians. He would explain to his commanders the impossible position he had been in, and of course they would understand, he reasoned.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion slammed into the side of his plane, rocking and rolling it onto its side and he swore as it shook every bone in his body, jarring him practically out of his seat as he cracked his head on the far side window. Fighting to remain conscious, dazed and in shock, he clung on to his control stick more like a life raft than to steer. As his vision cleared he looked down at his control panel to get his bearings as smoke filled his cockpit, choking him, and out of the corner of his eye he could see a ball of fire was engulfing his wing. This was very bad. He thrust the plane into a steep dive, attempting to put out the fire with the updraught. Rubensdörffer felt frantic – he was still deep over British soil and wasn’t sure if he would make it back to the Channel where he could be picked up by a German rescue boat. As he tore towards the ground, his engine screaming its protest, the fire smouldered to a grey ugly cloud and Rubensdörffer heaved back on his control as the plane shook violently. It took all his strength to lift the nose as he skimmed high trees and desperately tried to keep it airborne. Beside him his only good engine whined and spluttered, the imbalance of the hole in his wing bouncing him around wildly as his controls jerked aggressively beneath his grip. As he tried to cling onto his life he prayed furiously, prayed he would make it, make it home to see his family again.

 

 

1

 

 

Twelve Weeks Earlier

 

 

Lizzie Mackenzie inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with the smell of the fresh damp grass and the icy scent of the mountain streams that rippled across the granite rocks. As she closed her eyes and exhaled, she realised this was what she would miss the most, just being out here in the Highlands in her very own world. As a sharp breeze blew across the loch, it swept up the hillside to find her, bringing with it the salty scent of the water; toying with her, it tugged at the mass of red curls piled up beneath her green knitted hat, which finally gave in and broke free to swirl around her face. Pulling wisps of copper strands from her lips and wrapping her arms around herself, Lizzie listened to the familiar sounds of the place she’d come to call home.

Out on the loch, geese were honking one to another, and below her, in the fields, she could hear horses whinnying as they stretched out their golden necks and shook out their shaggy manes. As the wind whistled through the trees and splayed the waving bracken, she relished in the complete peace and spaciousness it afforded her, a timeless tranquillity that she had known all of her life.

Lizzie couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like to live in a big city. She had never been to London. In fact, since arriving from the Isle of Barra five years before, she’d barely left her aunt and uncle’s farm, but when her papers had arrived, they had informed her that she would be at a training site just outside the capital. Her two younger cousins had protested, wanting to go with her, but as her aunt Marion had reminded them, she needed someone left at home and besides, thirteen and fourteen were far too young to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, as Lizzie was doing.

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