Spitfire

by John Nichol

  By now Kearins and Checketts had got used to being contacted by someone after leaving a train station. But for a good half-hour they walked nervously around Quimper until a look was given by a stranger and they were taken to a cafe. The owners gave them a room upstairs and, for the first time in a week, the men lay down on a bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  Kearins could see it was dark outside as he opened his eyes. There was rapping again at the door. Nerves jangling, he bolted upright as the frightened face of the cafe proprietor’s wife appeared. Security police were at the door! Kearins heard some loud thudding come from down the stairs. She ordered them to go out the back door.

  The men tiptoed down the stairs and out the back door into a vegetable garden, which had a large chicken coop. The woman whispered for them to hide. Kearins joined the chickens, crawling into the excrement-stinking henhouse. At first there were a few disgruntled clucks from the birds but as Kearins crouched silently they gradually subsided. Checketts, meanwhile, lay flat among the abundant cabbage patch.

  After what seemed like an age the owners came outside and whispered their names. The Gestapo had barely searched the cafe after they realised they were at the wrong address.

  The men were then taken to a bakery in the coastal fishing village of Camaret-sur-Mer, at the end of a peninsula across the water from the big naval port of Brest. They were led to a long room at the back of the bakery where they found themselves inhaling the body odour of a group of twenty-six scruffy and unshaven men. All evaders like themselves.

  A fresh-smelling baguette was thrust into their hands and Kearins chewed carefully, savouring each mouthful.

  The pilots were told to forget about the sub as the best they could hope for was a fishing smack to get them back home. They were also warned that the Germans were highly vigilant, checking every boat that left and returned to harbour, as well as any dinghies going out to moored vessels. The entire fishing fleet had been told they would face reprisals if just one single boat failed to come back within the twenty-four hours they were permitted to fish.

  Kearins nodded as he absorbed the information. Getting out of there would require someone to take an incredible risk.

  A few hours later the baker came in and went straight to the Spitfire pilots. It was dusk outside and a dinghy was waiting to take them out to the boat.

  Cloaked by the gloom, the fisherman carefully dipped the oars in the sea, propelling them silently over the water to the boat looming against the darkening sky. Kearins could make out the name Suzette along the side of the 30ft lobster boat. Thick netting covered its decks and the smell of dried shellfish drifted out of its deck planks.

  The men were shown down into a small cabin, which had a bunk bed, small table, bench and a bucket for a loo.

  Kearins went to lie down on the bed.

  ‘Non.’ The Frenchman pointed back up through the hatch. ‘Ici.’ The fisherman indicated the thick pile of netting, motioning for the pilots to crawl underneath. The smell of seaweed, the ocean and lobsters was strong but not overpowering as Kearins tunnelled his way into the middle of the netting. If it takes me back to Edith, it can stink to high hell for all I care.

  Terry Kearins disguised as a French farmworker

  Kearins knew the journey would be 150 miles out over the Atlantic and across the Channel on a single engine at the risk of autumn gales. Still, if it got him back home into the arms of Edith and a decent bed, he would take his chances.

  Checketts was in agreement. He also wanted to return to Spitfires and get back at the Huns who had shot him down. The pair did not remain alone for long. Over the next few days another eleven men came aboard before the crew called a halt, saying they were overloaded. Then the weather closed in.

  They waited day after day under the nets as the wind blew and a swell lifted the boat at anchor. ‘I bet you £5 that we escape,’ Kearins whispered, scratching his thick moustache.

  ‘I bet we bloody don’t and I look forward to spending your five quid in a POW camp,’ Checketts fired back.

  On the fifth day a crew member on board demanded total silence. A German security patrol was approaching to inspect the boat prior to departure. Kearins could hardly breathe as he heard the distinct sound of jackboots on wooden decking. The odd kick was given to the ship’s insides and someone lifted the nets but despite there being thirteen escapees on board none was discovered.

  Kearins listened as the last jackboots left the deck and boarded the launch back to Cameret-sur-Mer. He was lying in the foetal position, cramping in the agony of needing to empty his bowels. Their diet of dry bread and cold fish soup had not agreed with him and the necessary trips to the stinking bucket in the hold, filled with the twelve other evaders’ faeces and urine, were becoming a wretched experience.

  He hurriedly crawled out of the netting through the roughly shaped tunnel they had made. Still on his belly he slipped down into the hold and saw to his delight that no one else had made it to the bucket. Thank God.

  He sat down and emptied his bowls in relief. Thankfully, the bucket was unsoiled. Checketts had ordered for it to be cleaned after use, where possible, in case its contents made the police think people were living aboard. Kearins had been on the loo for less than a minute when others arrived, asking him to hurry. He used a large piece of newspaper to wipe himself then left the bucket for the next man to dispose of the contents. The man in line was only too grateful to have its use.

  The next day, their sixth on board, the Suzette moved to the outer harbour where she was boarded again prior to being allowed to go out and lay the lobster pots. The Germans carried out a cursory check and the boat was allowed to putter out of Camaret-sur-Mer into the Atlantic.

  As dusk approached, the crew allowed her to drift out to sea under cover of darkness. When some distance from land, Kearins heard a rumble from the engine room. After a few tentative coughs, the spluttering turned into something more substantial. It was not the roar of a Spitfire’s Merlin engine but just as welcome. If the engine failed they would drift onto Brittany’s cruel rocks and share the fate of many thousands of sailors.

  As the boat crept away from France, shrouded in the blackness of night, Kearins climbed out from his cave inside the netting to stand on deck. For the first time in over three months he breathed in air that tasted of freedom. If the autumnal Atlantic storms held off and the engine remained constant, they’d be home within two days. Sitting under the moonlight he allowed the dream of being in Edith’s arms to settle over him. He could not help the playful grin that came to his cheeks.

  The pent-up fear of the last week was released as others joined him on deck, slapping backs and swapping stories of near-discovery, a week of frozen nights and unpleasant trips to the ‘heads’. They knew they would soon all be back home, in the company of sweethearts and family, some of whom may well have given them up for dead. Then another realisation came: we’ll be back in the war.

  They all agreed on one thing. They would return to help fight for the cause to liberate Europe because more than most they had seen the hideous nature of the regime that now gripped it. And they could repay the debt they owed to the many courageous French men and women who had risked their lives to help them.

  On 25 October 1943, the distinctive rocks of Land’s End came into view. Within a few hours the Suzette was chugging into Penzance. Kearins found himself waving at other fishing boats and a small navy patrol vessel as they motored in. The weather had been kind and the engine had throbbed without interruption. They were home. He imagined what it would be like if Edith was waiting for him at the docks. Not that there was a chance of it, but it was a nice fantasy all the same.

  As they tied up in port, there were handshakes all round, then hugs for the three French fishermen who had risked their lives and livelihoods in Brittany to save the British and Allied servicemen.

  Kearins knew he had important information that he had to pass on quickly. At a debrief by MI9 military intelligence officers, he gave them
the details and precise location of the rocket launching site he had spotted near M. Forgez’s farm. It was added to the flow of information the security services were receiving that the Nazis had a deadly secret weapon with which they hoped to win the war. The location was added to the growing list of rocket sites on the Allied targeting list.

  When Kearins had finished his debrief he jumped on a train to Biggin Hill to rejoin 485 Squadron. A few hours later he was standing at the bar, still in his old French clothes, complete with rope-soled shoes, and sporting a thick moustache.

  ‘Kearins? Terry bloody Kearins?’ One of the pilots came over to him, staring as if inspecting a curious animal at the zoo. He immediately offered to buy him a drink. The beers kept coming until Kearins realised he had to stay half-sober. He had an important date the next day.

  He spotted Edith waiting on the platform the moment the train glided slowly into the station. He watched as her eyes searched frantically, peering into the glass panes of the carriage. She hasn’t seen me. He slipped out of the carriage and walked towards her. She was a few steps away, side-on to him. Then she turned and almost fell into his arms. Tears fell down her face and her chest heaved with sobs. Soldiers walking past grinned.

  She gripped his arms and his face like she couldn’t quite believe he was there.

  A few days later a coded message went out over the radio to those listening in occupied Europe: ‘Jacques Lenoir has returned.’ The Resistance was able to tell Madame and Monsieur Forgez that their charge was safely back.

  It would be some time before they learned that the Spitfire pilot they had risked their lives to return back to health and sent on his way home had married the woman whose name he had muttered in fevered sleep. Three months after his return, the couple were wed at Edith’s local church in Shaw, Lancashire.

  * * *

  The wolf-whistles grew in volume as the increasingly self-conscious section of young WAAF women marched towards the Spitfires at 485 Squadron’s dispersal. In their smart light-blue RAF skirts and tight-fitting tunics, the half-dozen women cut quite a sight.

  Marching at their front was one completely unfazed by the attention. Joe Roddis rested his spanner on the Spitfire’s wing as his gaze fixed on the striking brunette. For a moment their eyes met and she held his gaze. Joe grinned and was rewarded with a fleeting smile before she returned to her professional demeanour, leading the girls into the flight office.

  Joe picked up the spanner and continued to work on the aileron. But he couldn’t concentrate. He jumped off the wing and strode into the office.

  He introduced himself to the woman who had marched at their front. She was Betty Wood, the corporal in charge of the Motor Transport drivers.

  She gave him a brief smile then Joe turned on his heel.

  Outside, he took in a big lungful of air. Suddenly the burden of work at Biggin Hill seemed to lessen. He took in the surrounding green countryside with its low hills and spreading oaks and breathed in again. Life felt good. He rather liked Betty Wood.

  Over the coming days the WAAF women worked alongside the men, delivering their 500-gallon fuel bowsers to wherever they were needed, night or day. The catcalls had swiftly been silenced and Joe made sure his men curtailed their swearing.

  He came into frequent contact with Betty and their friendship grew during the autumn of 1943. They were both at ease in each other’s company, talking about Spitfires, the war and anything else that came to mind.

  Betty had just finished refuelling a Spitfire Joe was working on when he looked up from under the engine cowling and asked if she’d like to join him for a drink later. Still holding the fuel nozzle, Betty gave him a quick nod and a grin. Betty had already told him that she was engaged to her childhood sweetheart, an RAF sergeant serving in the Middle East, and wore the engagement ring with pride. But it seemed her commitment to someone else allowed them to step out together without pressure. Joe honoured her rule of no ‘hanky panky’ and it made for a magical time.

  Most days they would be working on Spitfires from dawn, allowing them to finish in the early afternoon. The pair would then board the Biggin Hill train to London where evenings would be spent dancing to the jazz bands at the Hammersmith Palais or at the Covent Garden Opera House. They had fun, laughed a lot and for a moment forgot the war. ‘Betty loved life and lived it to the full,’ Joe recalled. ‘I don’t know why we became such good friends, we just hit it off. Our time together was an escape from the war and the military. It was pure friendship. Nothing else.’

  Betty’s intolerance of immature behaviour became more apparent after she met a group of American pilots sent to Biggin Hill to gain tactical experience. One took her on a flight in a Miles Magister trainer then proceeded to throw the plane about in a series of acrobatics with the obvious intention of making her vomit. Betty managed to retain her dignity but back on the ground she gave the American a hammering kick to the shins. The officer and his friends took it in good humour and nicknamed her ‘Butch’ in grudging respect.

  It was a blissful time for Joe and Betty until the war stepped in. Like everyone else in Flight Command, 485 Squadron was suffering losses during the cross-Channel sorties, although thanks to the French Resistance at least some had been recovered, including Johnny Checketts and Terry Kearins. By late 1943, the squadron needed a rest and was moved to Drem, Scotland.

  When a few months later they moved back south to Selsey on the West Sussex coast, Joe discovered that Betty had just been posted up to Inverness. Fate was conspiring to keep them apart.

  One day Joe was sent to work away from his base. That very same day Betty arrived down from Scotland on leave and decided to go to her home in Worthing, West Sussex, and hopefully pay Joe a surprise visit at Selsey. Yet again they missed each other, so she left a note asking him to meet her the next day. Joe eagerly jumped on the train to Worthing the next morning. When it pulled into the station he was leaning out of the window, keen to see Betty after months apart. Their eyes met but there was something different in her face, something mournful.

  Joe asked her what the matter was after they briefly embraced.

  Her fiancé was coming back home from the Middle East. She looked down the line. He’d be back in a few days.

  She took Joe’s hand, saying there was a tea dance on at Worthing town hall.

  As they sat down with a cup of tea, Betty was quiet as Joe chatted. Then a slow foxtrot came on. Their favourite number. They looked at each other and without speaking slipped onto the dancefloor.

  When the foxtrot finished, tears streamed down Betty’s face as she rested on Joe’s shoulder. He took her hand and led her off the dancefloor and outside into the fresh air. They walked the short distance to the train station, both turning together when they heard the distant purr of a Merlin engine as a lone Spitfire streaked over Worthing Pier.

  Joe fumbled in his pocket for his train ticket. Betty squeezed his arm. For a moment he was lost in her gaze. Should he ask her to go with him, to be with him? He instantly quashed the thought. He had given his word that he would respect her commitment.

  The whistle of the arriving train broke the moment. Joe sighed then gently released her fingers clinging to his arm.

  Her cheeks were damp as they embraced next to the carriage.

  Carriage doors slammed behind them. The guard’s whistle sounded.

  Joe pushed himself out of her arms and boarded. ‘Goodbye, Betty!’ he shouted through the window, waving.

  He saw her lips quiver. She turned away.

  Joe shook his head. ‘Goodbye, Betty Wood.’

  * * *

  The tall stands of Lord’s Cricket Ground struck Brian Bird as symbolic of power and authority. He stared in awe, imagining what they had witnessed. Under their shadow Len Hutton had made 196 against the West Indies two months before the war began; Bradman had scored heavily here too . . .

  ‘Snap out of your bloody civilian coma,’ a flight sergeant shouted as Bird gawped. It was March 1943 and he had be
en summoned to the RAF’s Aircrew Training Centre based at the HQ of cricket.

  Bird had come a long way since hiding among the corn from Luftwaffe bombers while working as a sixteen-year-old farmhand in Kent during the Battle of Britain. It seemed a long time too since he’d ridden his bicycle to church on 3 September 1939 to tell his stepfather that war had been declared. But his plan to get back at those who attacked his country was still on track. He was passed fit for flying and after basic training he sailed to South Africa where he qualified as a pilot.

  A few months later he was sitting in a Hurricane outside Cairo in Egypt waiting to go solo in his first ever fighter. ‘In my hands were the controls of a mighty fighter which had played such an important role in the Battle of Britain and almost unexpectedly I felt entirely at ease.

  ‘As if providing icing to a rather special cake, the view from my cockpit was utterly staggering, with the full length of the Suez Canal stretched out beneath my port wing and vast areas of the Sinai Desert to starboard.’

  Bird spent the next fortnight notching up ten hours solo in the Hurricane then it was time for the main event: the Spitfire. He immediately noticed subtle differences. ‘The Spitfire was a lighter aircraft than the Hurricane, both in weight terms and aerodynamic handling. Whereas in the Hurricane small pilot errors escaped unpunished this was not the case with the Spitfire. But it was an aircraft which gave even the most nervous of pilots a quick shot of confidence.’

  Bird, determined to get in the action before the fighting ended, took to the advanced operational training with enthusiasm. As a young farmhand in 1940 he had seen Spitfires and Hurricanes fight for Britain’s survival in the skies of Kent. He now had the chance to fly them into combat himself.

  His skill and determination were noted by instructors as he practised battle formations, steep climbs, dive-bombing, air-to-air firing and, of course, aerial combat. He was sent to advanced fighter training. Brian Bird was going to war.

  * * *