A Good Clean Fight (R.A.F. Quartet)
Derek Robinson
Language: English
Pages: 528
ISBN: 0857051180
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
North Africa, 1942. Dust, heat, thirst, flies. A good clean fight, for those who like that sort of thing, and some do. From an advanced landing field, striking hard and escaping fast, our old friends from Hornet Squadron (Piece of Cake) play Russian roulette, flying their clapped-out Tomahawks on ground-strafing forays. Meanwhile, on the ground, the men of Captain Lampard's S.A.S. patrol drive hundreds of miles behind enemy lines to plant bombs on German aircraft.
This is the story of a war of no glamour and few heroes, in a setting often more lethal than the enemy.
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Exploring the valley where the patrol was hiding. Lampard was unworried. The trucks looked like scrub and the men looked like the rocks they sat among. The pilot was up in the glare of the setting sun, searching for detail in shadow as dark as a cellar. As long as nobody moved nobody would be seen. “Good heavens. That is a British plane,” Schramm said. As Lampard and Dunn shaded their eyes and tried to make out its markings, Schramm heaved himself up with both hands and began running. Sergeant.
Demanded. “They travel about the Sahara as if they were taking a taxi across London. How do they do it?” “I suppose a magnetic compass is reliable if it’s not in a truck,” Lieutenant Fleischmann suggested. “Take it, say, twenty or thirty meters away and—” “Stop-start, stop-start. I can’t see an SAS patrol jumping out every five minutes to check its bearings. Can you?” Benno Hoffmann took a fat pinch of salt and washed it down. “Captain di Marco knows,” he said. “The sun compass is what you.
Flinging up streaks of sand to make the scene very lively and noisy. One machine-gun crew had a stoppage; they were cursing softly and hitting the weapon. Corporal Pocock found a rifle and hid by the wheel of a truck. During the next rattle of fire, he shot both the crew in the back. For a moment nobody noticed. Then he heard shouts, orders, whistles. Two men scuttled across and dragged the bodies from the gun. Pocock briefly considered shooting them too. No. Not wise. Captain Lessing had had a.
Remaining two hundred kilometers to Kufra, which was a big, sprawling, well-found oasis with plenty of stores, including new tires. Kufra was an SAS base, so Lampard was able to radio HQ in Cairo and report his arrival. Cairo ordered the patrol home. CHAPTER TWO More Bright Breasts “Ping-pong is not an Olympic sport,” Henry Lester said. “What you’ve got here in the desert is a ping-pong war. That’s why the public don’t buy it. It’s not box-office.” “For Pete’s sake, Henry,” his wife.
Troops at the southern end of the Front. Camps, supply dumps, vehicle parks have been getting sprayed every ten minutes. The generals are livid. They want standing patrols of 109s.” “Not a hope,” Hoffmann said. “Standing patrols just drink fuel and wear out pistons.” “Strafed,” Jakowski said. “By what?” “An aggressive squadron of Curtiss Tomahawks,” Schramm said. “Based where? It must be an advanced airfield.” “We don’t know. We’re looking.” “It could be a diversion,” Jakowski said. “While.