Boulton Paul Defiant Short Story

[Adam Poultney]

Just thought I'd post up this that I did as a practice question for part for GCSE English Language a while ago. I just found the original copy of it and typed it up, making a few modifications. It's about a Boulton Paul Defiant being shot down. It's probably not realistic, but it scored marks 😛  (the formatting was a lot better in Word)

 

- - - Lost - - -

Darkness engulfed the world. Alone now, yes, I was alone. The last of the crackling tongues of flaming fuel finally extinguished. I was lost without allies, the only survivor of a ravaging attack by German Zerstörergeschwader of Bf110 heavy fighters. My aircraft’s gunner had died quickly and brutally. A screaming stream of burning death tore through the exposed turret. His last anguished scream still echoes in my mind.

 

My wounded aircraft surreptitiously stole through the unknown November sky like a predator in shallow water, the constant hum of the Merlin engine my only comfort in the murky clear night far above the low cloud cover. All I could do was hope not to be spotted. With the gunner dead, the Boulton Paul Defiant was entirely defenceless. I was entirely lost, I didn’t know which direction led home and which led into the open jaws of the Third Reich. Did it even matter? My shredded aircraft was a flying coffin, the slow countdown of the altimeter counting what time I had left until I inevitably hit the ground. Then chaos descended. The first I knew of them was a streak of shining tracer rounds spearing in from behind, just off their mark by mere inches.

A cacophony of shells lit up the night sky, 20mm cannon shells stung the air, bright tracers slashing burning lines across my vision. Behind me, somewhere, were enemy aircraft. Full of adrenaline, cold sweat ran down my forehead, my gunner’s shattered turret was just dead weight, obscuring what little view there was from the cramped cockpit that was feeling evermore like a coffin. As I desperately gathered every scrap of power from the damaged engine, a new foreboding symphony arose. Not the noble roar of the Rolls Royce Merlin, but the shrill shriek of a swarm of German DB601 engines, the distinctive power plant of the Luftwaffe’s frontline fighter, the Messerschmitt Bf-109. It was in every conceivable way superior to my stricken and defenceless aircraft. Death’s flaming lances pierced my wings, the German fangs tearing away chunks of bent metal, a fatal timpani played by the guns of the Messerschmitts heralding my impending undoing. Struggling to grip the shaking controls, I rolled into a screaming dive. How much more could the stressed monocoque construction take before disintegrating? So far, the Defiant was living up to its name. Having little choice, I decided to bail out.

 

Levelling out the wounded aircraft, with the right wing now lit up by dancing flames, I unbuckled my harness. With a crash like the crack of a whip, shells obliterated what was left of the spluttering engine, crushing the roar of the merlin and giving way to a blinding curtain of acrid smoke. The engine’s final cough of life was a death knell. I turned to get a better view of my pursuers, the hunters drawing in on their prey for the final bite. Another burst of shells exploded through the canopy sending shattered shards of glass slicing through cokpit, cutting my face like a thousand tiny knives. I tried to wrench open the broken canopy framing, but latest assault had jammed it shut. With increasingly sweaty hands, I tried desperately to force it open, but my efforts were futile. The freezing wind just taunted me to leave the falling coffin, knowing that I couldn’t.

Somehow, despite the catastrophic damage, the altimeter showed that the aircraft was maintaining an altitude of one thousand, five hundred feet. The torn wing forcing me to jam the rudder pedals down to the left to avoid spinning to my death. The relief did not last long. With the engine joining the dead weight of the turret, I could not retain airspeed and altitude. One was traded for the other. In the dead of night, I could not make out the ground and I was falling like a bird shot out of the sky. Realising the inevitable, panic took control. This was it. This was the end. There was no way out.  Trapped…. Still trapped, nailed alive into my flying grave. I clawed at the shattered canopy, trying in vain to pry it open. The altimeter was spinning, faster and faster and faster, accelerating downwards. I had to keep one aching hand on the controls avoid flipping over.

 

Trees. Trees, tall and white with winter snow pierced the horizon; the otherwise smooth landscape became an ocean of towering fangs. German pine met British metal. The battered razor wings cut through the upper branches with easy. The flaps, I should have deployed them! Too late. I tried to lower them regardless, in the hope that it might reduce my speed enough to survive the impact. The sky turned dark as the moon disappeared behind the evergreen leaves, this was it. A hideous scream of stained and broken metal heralded the destruction of the right wing, being ripped from the fuselage at the root. The aircraft spun onto its side, plummeting through the dense forest.

I saw the ground appearing airborne above me, snow rising downwards, glistening with the final rays of shattered moonlight. I became aware of soft tears falling up my face, and felt the blunt sorrow of my fate, experiencing both the happiest and most tragic moments of my life in a fleeting instant. Seeing the small photo of my family pinned to the instrument panel, the ground rose to meet me. Darkness engulfed my world.

 

*   *   *

 

Light. I see light. And pain, I feel that too. A warm amber glow illuminates my vision. I try to look around, but am met with excruciating pain. My shoulder is a mangled wreck where my arm should be, crushed by wreckage. Outside the burning wreck, I hear voices, German voices, speaking German. The stories I have heard of the fates of prisoners of war are terrifying. As I lie here, bleeding out in agony, I hope for the sweet bliss of death, the alternative would be infinitely worse.

                                       It seems I may get my final wish, as darkness engulfs my world once more.                                      

Edited May 22, 2019 by Adam Poultney