Mosquito Squadron Read Online Free PDF Page B

have a peek outside to see if there was any sign of you.’
    ‘What’s going on?’ Yeoman wanted to know, full of curiosity.
    ‘Haven’t a clue, old boy. There’s one sure way to find out, though.’
    Rees beckoned and led the way to his office, which adjoined the station commander’s at the end of the corridor. It was shared by the adjutant, a redoubtable flight sergeant through whose scrutiny all visitors had to pass and a little WAAF filing clerk who made endless cups of tea. The flight sergeant rose as Yeoman walked in behind Rees, bade him a curt ‘Good morning, sir,’ his glance taking in the pilot’s greasy hat and crumpled trousers, and then subsided again behind a mound of paperwork. Followed by Yeoman, Rees crossed his office and tapped on a door at the far side marked ‘Officer Commanding’. He opened it, stuck his head inside to announce the pilot’s arrival, then stood aside to allow Yeoman to enter.
    Group Captain Hector Davison, DSO, MC, looked sharply over the top of his half-moon glasses at Yeoman as the latter came into the office and saluted. Despite his quiet, school-masterish appearance, the medal ribbons which the commanding officer of RAF Burningham wore below the pilot’s brevet on his tunic testified to his experience, and the cold, piercing blue eyes clearly brooked no inefficiency. He wasted no time on preliminaries, but waved a hand in the direction of a second senior officer who was standing by the window, sipping tea.
    ‘Yeoman,’ he said, ‘this is Group Captain Sampson from the Directorate of Operations, Air Ministry. He wants to talk to you. Sit down and smoke if you like.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ Yeoman crossed the room, shook hands with Sampson and sat down in one of the leather armchairs facing Davison’s desk. He searched his pockets for his pipe, then remembered that he had left it in his bag which was still in the outer office.
    ‘Well, Yeoman,’ said Sampson, setting down his cup and saucer on the window-sill, ‘how are your chaps shaping up?’
    ‘Pretty well, sir. I’ll need to keep an eye on the odd one for a while, but they’re a good bunch. Keen as mustard to start operations.’
    Sampson nodded, thoughtfully stroking his chin with an index finger, and in the pause before he spoke again Yeoman took the opportunity to study him carefully. He realized with a start that, despite a swathe of grey hair that gave the group captain a badger-like appearance, Sampson was probably not yet forty years old; and then, as the man half-turned and the light from the window fell on his medal ribbons, Yeoman remembered.
    It had been in March 1941, and Sampson had led nine Blenheims in a gallant, suicidal attack on a group of German warships off Wilhelmshaven. The flak had been murderous and the fighters had been waiting, and one Blenheim after another had gone down in flames, but Sampson had brought the survivors through a storm of fire and got them home, riddled with holes and at low level all the way. That was why, on the breast of his tunic, he wore the mauve ribbon of the Victoria Cross.
    ‘Have you ever wondered why you were picked to form a Mosquito squadron, Yeoman?’ Sampson asked suddenly.
    ‘Yes, sir, I have,’ the pilot admitted. ‘But I’m glad it happened. The Mossie is a very fine aeroplane, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ He grinned. ‘Almost like a Spitfire with twin engines, you might say.’
    Sampson smiled. ‘That’s right, and it leads me nicely in to the point of this conversation, because there’s one thing the Mosquito possesses which a Spitfire doesn’t have, and that is range. Its armament is also excellent, and it has two attributes normally associated with single-seat fighters: speed and manoeuvrability. All of which adds up to an ideal aircraft for fast, long-range operations against the enemy.’
    Yeoman remained silent, wondering what was coming next. Surely, he thought, Sampson had not come all the way to Burningham