Dawson's Down!

by Don Patterson

  Dawson nodded his agreement and finished getting dressed. Ready for breakfast, the RAF captains stepped out of their quarters and into the bright morning sunshine. Instinctively, they paused and looked up. After surveying the rich blue sky overhead, Dawson and Simms eyed each other. The two veteran fighter pilots knew it wouldn't be long before they would be flying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DANGEROUS ON THE GROUND

  Hungry for breakfast, Dawson and Simms hurried to the mess hall. Inside, the rest of the pilots were already gathered around a table. The two captains quickly filled their plates with eggs and fried potatoes, then joined the others.

  Settling into his chair, Captain Dawson watched the pilots feverishly racing through their morning meal. The men were so preoccupied with their food, they barely noticed their Squadron Leader and Captain Simms had joined them.

  Dawson looked at Simms, embarrassed by the behavior of his fighter pilots. Then he realized it wasn't a lack of table manners, but the constant interruption of the "scramble" alarm that allowed little time for courtesy. The pilots had grown accustomed to being called to their planes as many as three and four times a day. A quick spoon and huge bites were essential to an RAF pilot hoping to complete a meal. Even conversation waited until after the entire group of men finished scooping the last morsels of food from their plates.

  But once they had their fill, the pilots immediately started rattling off stories over cups of coffee and morning tea. Dawson and Simms sat quietly, listening to the men spin their yarns. Occasionally the two Captains would roll their eyes at each other, reacting to some of the more colorful and exaggerated tales that tumbled from the mouths of the younger pilots.

  Soon the entire group focused on a lighthearted argument between Lieutenant James Hyatt and the ever mischievous Brian Gainey. Both pilots had recently received official credit for a "shared victory" over an enemy Heinkel bomber. And yet, Lieutenant Gainey's recollection of the battle completely dismissed any involvement on Hyatt's part. Not surprisingly, Lieutenant Hyatt's version of the story entirely excluded Gainey.

  Almost instantly, the other pilots joined in the playful teasing. Captain Simms looked at Captain Dawson and gently shook his head. Dawson sat back in his chair. Holding a cup of tea to his lips, he tried to hide his laughter.

  Lieutenant Gainey boldly detailed his story for the other pilots, "I was trailing behind the Heinkel's left wing and hit the engine with a short burst. Then I could see the tail gunner had me in his sights, so I rolled a bit right and lined up behind the other. I fired another quick squirt, and the second engine was in flames."

  "That's rubbish!" Hyatt snapped. "The second engine was in flames because my bullets ripped it to shreds! I dropped practically 3,000 feet and came in on the right side of the bomber. A touch of the trigger, and I took out the engine and the rest of the wing with it."

  "I don't think so, James," Gainey tauntingly disagreed. "It was just good flying on my part. I'll teach you how sometime."

  Groans of disbelief went up from everyone around the table. The two young pilots continued arguing over the truth of their stories. Remaining silent, Simms and Dawson were satisfied to let the men have their fun.

  "Brian, your story is just idiotic!" Lieutenant Hyatt shouted in an exasperated voice. "You were a mile away from that bomber when I flamed it!"

  Throwing his arms wide to show Gainey's distance from the fight, the back of Hyatt's hand knocked Captain Dawson on the arm. Instantly, the boisterous crowd of pilots fell silent. When Hyatt turned to apologize for accidentally bumping Dawson, his jaw dropped. The cup Dawson was holding had spilled all over his suit.

  The back of Hyatt's hand knocked Captain Dawson on the arm.

  Bathed in hot tea, Captain Dawson shouted, "Blast it all!"

  "Oh, Captain... I... I am so sorry," Hyatt stammered. "Let me help you clean up."

  Regaining his composure, Dawson replied, "It's all right, Lieutenant." Wiping at the spill with a napkin, he added, "My flight suit is already a little rank from the last few days of action anyway."

  Seeing the look of panic in the young pilot's eyes, Dawson tried to relieve the tension by teasing, "Apparently you two are as dangerous on the ground as in the air. Just remember lads, I'm on your side!"

  A burst of laughter from everyone at the table filled the room. Hardly missing a beat, the men quickly went back to their boastful stories. However, when Captain Simms looked at his watch and informed the group it was time for the morning briefing, the fleeting moment of fun ended. In practiced unison, the squadron of pilots stood up from their chairs. Still chatting, they started on their way to the Operations Building.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALL LEAVES ARE CANCELED

  Captain Dawson and the rest of the squadron gathered together in the briefing room. While they waited for the base commander, the once playful pilots grew serious. Each day during the morning briefing, Colonel Harrison explained the objectives of Fighter Command, and assigned the squadron their mission duties. After that, the life of the RAF pilots was a daily gamble of life and death.

  At precisely seven o'clock, Colonel Harrison entered the room. After a simple greeting, he promptly started the morning briefing.

  "This is the latest report, gentlemen," Harrison explained while slowly pacing in front of the men. "The Germans have been pounding our ships in the channel, hard. As long as the weather holds, Fighter Command assumes they'll keep at us, tooth and nail. Unless we stop them, our supply lines will run dry and they'll have us by the throat. We've been ordered to maintain a full alert status, ready to scramble from dawn to dusk. In addition, the lads in the 27th and 79th Squadrons have had a pretty bad time of it, so we'll be covering some of their intercepts as well."

  Harrison looked at the pilots for a moment and then announced, "Gentlemen, I'm sorry to say that with such a full plate, all leaves are canceled until further notice. No one is getting a holiday for a while. That is all. The scramble alarm will tell you when the time comes."

  Their briefing finished, the squadron rose to attention and saluted Colonel Harrison. As the pilots left the room, the Colonel waved at Captain Dawson to get his attention.

  "Ted...," Colonel Harrison started, but was then distracted by the dark stain covering Dawson's flight suit. "What happened to you, lad?"

  Embarrassed by his appearance, Dawson sheepishly replied, "Just a bit of bad luck in the officer's mess."

  Harrison eyed Dawson and commented wryly, "Well, it seems fitting. You are an officer, and you are a mess."

  Dawson grew red faced.

  "Now," Harrison continued, "what I wanted to know was, how many men are losing their weekend passes?"

  "Well, Colonel...," Dawson replied, trying to hide his disappointment. "It seems I'm the only one. I had a four day leave coming up."

  "Your day truly has started off a bit black, hasn't it?" Colonel Harrison said in an awkward tone. "But, cheer up, old man. I'll get you another leave as soon as things quiet down again. I know it's been quite a while since you've had a rest."

  Dawson smiled and nodded his head. This wasn't the first time his leave had been canceled, and probably it wouldn't be the last. Even though the life of a fighter pilot was exhausting, Dawson knew his country depended on him, and men like him. Canceling a holiday was a small sacrifice. Dawson was prepared to fly and help defend England until the war was over.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SCRAMBLE ALARM

  Finished with Colonel Harrison, Captain Dawson joined the rest of the pilots gathered out on the grassy airfield. Together, the unflappable group quietly waited for the sound of the scramble alarm.

  The morning wore on while shadows of clouds silently slipped across the field. Passing the time, Captain Dawson watched the air crews and mechanics scurry about checking the readiness of the squadron of Hurricane and Spitfire fighter planes parked on the hardstand.

  Glancing over at his own rugged Hurricane, Dawson noticed his trusty crew chief, Serg
eant Pendleton, pacing back and forth between the tail and the engine of the airplane. Then Pendleton stopped and checked the landing gear. After that, he climbed onto the wing. Lifting the ammunition covers, he started examining the machine guns. When he finished fussing over the guns, Pendleton pulled out a handkerchief and began to polish the glass canopy.

  Dawson was puzzled by Sergeant Pendleton's nervous preparation of the Hurricane. Even Captain Simms noticed the unusual display.

  Leaning over to Dawson, Simms quietly asked, "What's up with Pendleton today?"

  "I haven't a clue," Dawson whispered, "but I'd better go check."

  By now, Sergeant Pendleton had started fiddling with the Hurricane's propeller. Calmly pretending nothing was wrong, Captain Dawson walked up and stood behind the stocky Sergeant. Unaware, Pendleton stepped back from the plane and bumped into Dawson.

  "Excuse me, Captain," Pendleton apologized.

  "That's quite all right, Sergeant," Dawson replied.

  Together the two men stood quietly, looking at the sturdy fighter plane in front of them. Finally, Dawson broke the silence.

  "Thomas, why are you fussing over my Hurricane this morning?"

  "Just making sure everything is tip top, Captain!" Sergeant Pendleton replied.

  Captain Dawson bent over to examine the engine and grabbed at the fuel line. Pulling his head away from the plane, Dawson looked directly at Pendleton and asked, "Everything looks fine to me. What has you so worried today?"

  Kicking at the ground, Pendleton explained, "I don't know. I just want to make sure everything is perfect, so there's no problem when you're in the thick of it."

  Dawson put his arm on the mechanic's shoulder. "I appreciate your effort, Thomas, but it's just another day, like all the others. You've kept me flying this long, there's no reason to think today is any different."

  "Yes, sir. If you say so, sir," Pendleton said in a disbelievingly tone. "But I have a feeling something bad could..."

  Before another word passed between them, an alarm screamed across the airfield. The waiting was over. It was time to scramble the squadron. While the pilots raced to their fighter planes, aircrews started the thundering engines.

  Climbing into the cockpit of his Hurricane, Captain Dawson had little time for Sergeant Pendleton's premonition. After a quick check of the plane's control surfaces, Dawson throttled up his engine. Looking down the row of Hurricanes and the three new Spitfires flown by Simms, Gainey and Hyatt, Dawson watched the smoky exhaust streaming from the popping engines. Impatiently, he waited for the last plane to turn over.

  Then, Captain Dawson saw young Harry Winslow racing across the field. Harry ran up to the side of Dawson's Hurricane and in a winded voice shouted to the Captain.

  "Captain Dawson!" Harry yelled over the roar of the churning propeller. "Please take this. My mother made it for you."

  Harry stretched to hand the silk aviator's scarf to Captain Dawson. The Squadron Leader grabbed the elegant white fabric and smiled. Quickly wrapping it around his neck and tucking the length into his flight suit, Dawson called to Harry.

  "Harry, this is beautiful! Where did your mother find the fabric? Ever since the war, the only thing made of silk anymore is parachutes."

  Harry shook his head and shouted back, "I don't know where she got the material. But she hopes it will help keep you warm when you're at high altitude."

  Nodding his head Dawson exclaimed, "You know, Harry, your mother must have sacrificed a lot to make this. Tell her thank you for me."

  Ready to go, Captain Dawson signaled for Sergeant Pendleton to pull the chocks from his wheels. "Stand back now, Harry. We've got a job to do. I'll see you in an hour or so."

  Surrounded by the roar of aircraft engines and preoccupied with leading the mission, Dawson couldn't hear Harry when the boy shouted back, "I wish I could help, too."

  The Captain closed his canopy, and waved goodbye one last time. Adjusting his headgear, Dawson could feel the soft silk scarf cushion his chin. Outside, Harry stepped back from the airplane and turned away from the swirling dust kicked up by the churning propeller.

  Strapped in his cockpit, Captain Dawson keyed the radio, "Squadron ready?"

  Dawson's voice sounded more like a command than a question. A moment later, the eleven other pilots all checked in. Keying his radio one more time Dawson announced, "Gentlemen, we're off!"

  In response, the pilots throttled up their engines and started to pull away from the hardstand. The deafening roar from the squadron of RAF fighter planes echoed across the countryside. Racing down the airfield in flights of three, the mix of nine rugged Hurricanes and three new Spitfires hurled over the turf and climbed into the blue sky. Back at the Winslow house, the thunder of airplane engines rattled the windows. Inside, Mrs. Winslow stopped her sewing long enough to think of Captain Dawson and the rest of his pilots. Quietly she wished for their safety, and returned to her stitching.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  INTERCEPT

  Captain Dawson radioed Fighter Command and asked for the location of the incoming enemy aircraft. According to the flight controller at Section Headquarters, the RAF radar network had picked up a large German formation when it cleared the French coastline headed for England.

  "Roger, Command," Dawson replied, "German formation at twenty-five miles out, heading due west."

  Adjusting course, Captain Dawson led his squadron to intercept the German planes before they could attack any English ships sailing through the English Channel. Racing at top speed, the group of Hurricanes and Spitfires would engage the enemy in less than five minutes.

  "Keep your eyes open, lads," Dawson called to the others while searching the sky around him. "Intercept in two minutes."

  Below the RAF fighter formation, a convoy of ships traced curved white lines on the blue water of the English Channel. Counting the number of freighters steaming to harbor, Dawson mumbled to himself, "There's plenty of shipping down there for them to be going after."

  Anticipating the incoming German planes, tense seconds slowly ticked away. But, when Dawson's headset sparked with a message from one of his pilots, the anxious moments ended.

  "Bandits, 12 o'clock low!"

  Dawson jerked in his seat and squinted through his canopy. Below him and to the right, a group of German aircraft dotted the sky. Straining to identify the type and number of enemy planes, he counted twelve large aircraft surrounded by eight smaller ones.

  Dawson called to the other members of his squadron, "I count twelve bombers and eight fighter escort. Can anyone confirm that?"

  "That's right, Captain," Lieutenant Gainey replied. "I confirm twelve Stukas and eight Messerschmitts flying escort, straight ahead."

  Dawson adjusted his goggles and flipped the safety latch off the gun trigger on his control stick. Briefly looking right, he could see Simms and some of the other pilots preparing for combat in the same manner.

  "Get ready to mix it up, gentlemen," Dawson declared. "Break on my mark!" Eager to protect the convoy of English ships below, Captain Dawson shouted into his radio, "Break!"

  Throwing the yoke hard right, Dawson rolled his Hurricane on its side and dropped toward the Luftwaffe formation. Simms, Gainey and Hyatt, flying the new Spitfires, followed their Squadron Leader on a long diving approach to attack the enemy bombers. But, the vicious German fighter escort swarmed on the remaining Hurricanes.

  Gaining speed as they hurled earthward, the distance between the four British fighters and the German Stukas rapidly closed. Dawson trained his guns on the enemy dive bombers, but the Stuka in front of him suddenly dropped away, out of his gunsight. Amazed at how quickly the bomber disappeared, he realized the Stukas were diving to attack the ships below.

  "The Stukas are diving!" Dawson yelled into the radio. "Hurry up lads. The Stukas are diving!"

  Dawson...pitched forward in an even steeper dive.

  The flight of German dive bombers all nosed down in unison, dropping in a straight line for the unsuspe
cting English freighters steaming through the choppy water below. Dawson struggled to correct his course in order to pursue the diving German planes.

  In a bold attempt to reach the bombers before they could attack the ships, Dawson twisted his Hurricane and pitched forward in an even steeper dive. The force of the plunge pushed Dawson back in his seat. On the gauges in front of him, the air speed indicator passed 400 miles per hour, into the red zone of the dial. The turbulent rush of air passing over the control surfaces on the wings of his Hurricane rattled the stick in his hands.

  Behind Dawson, Simms and the other two Spitfires endured much the same as they followed in pursuit of the German bombers. Without hesitation, the Spitfire pilots committed themselves to the perilous dive in order to save the British ships from the attacking Germans. All the while above them, the rest of the pilots of the 14th Squadron continued to battle the ferocious squad of German Me 109 fighters.

  Dawson glanced up into the mirror on his canopy. Reflected in the glass, the three Spitfires matched his every move as he raced to intercept the deadly German Stukas. Hurling toward the bombers, as well as the ocean surface, Dawson and the others could afford little time to strike and then pull out of their dizzying dive.

  Concentrating on the line of enemy planes, Dawson ignored the ocean waves in front of him. Struggling with his controls, he aligned his gunsight on the lead bomber. Time was running out. Any mistake at this point and he would crash into the icy water below.

  "It's now or never," Dawson mumbled to himself and triggered his guns at the first Stuka. At the same moment, Simms, Gainey and Hyatt fired into the line of enemy planes. Tracers from the guns of all four RAF fighters flew into the formation of dive bombers. With them, a rain of bullets smashed into the diving German planes.

  Captain Dawson jerked back on the control stick with every ounce of strength he could muster. Sweat beaded on his brow and seeped into his eyes. Blinded by the stinging perspiration, he couldn't see the ocean surface edging dangerously closer. Straining every muscle while pulling back on the yoke, his Hurricane finally leveled out of its long dive and began to climb back into the sky.