England Expects (Empires Lost)

by Jackson, Charles S.

  Empires Lost

  Charles S Jackson

  Copyright 2011 Charles Jackson

  License Notes

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  Book One:

  England Expects

  Contents:

  1. Darkening Skies

  2. A Gathering of Eagles

  3. Seeds of Doubt

  4. Food for Thought

  5. Revelations

  6. Opening Moves

  7. Preparations & Developments

  8. Reality Checks

  9. Taking Care of Business

  10. Down Time

  11. A Not So Phoney War

  12. Ultima Ratio Regum

  13. Lay Down Misere

  14. Post Mortems

  15. A Few Good Men

  16. Once More Unto The Breach

  17. Slings and Broken Arrows

  18. Too Many, Too Much and Too Few

  19. England Expects

  20. Prodigal Sons

  21. Last Rites

  1.

  Darkening Skies

  RAF No. 610 (County of Chester) Squadron

  Sussex, England

  Saturday

  June 29, 1940

  Alec Trumbull’s father still called him ‘young man’ whenever he visited, and in truth even he had to admit he didn’t really look a great deal older than he appeared in the pictures his parents kept of his last years at Eton. Trumbull was tall and bordering on ‘too thin’ (according to his mother, at least), although he was relatively fit for all that. His dark, curly hair, if not well groomed and kept regulation-short as it was, would tend to find a style of its own making – a style that might’ve been considered ‘foppish’ by some. At just twenty-six he was also relatively young for a squadron leader.

  Trumbull would’ve liked to believe the situation had come about purely as a result of his own endeavour, innate talent and rapier wit. Unfortunately, try as he might, he was forced to admit that other factors had indeed played a greater hand: factors of a far less pleasant or light-hearted nature. As he sat in a folding deck chair outside the entrance flap to the large, army-green tent that served as the squadron briefing room, he cast his eyes around the area in general and gave a snort of derision that held more apprehension than real humour.

  Not all that much of a ‘squadron’ though, old chap, he thought to himself with more than a little tired resignation. The open field before him, the closest the RAF could come to anything resembling a forward airfield these days, was the makeshift home for what Trumbull considered an incredibly motley collection of assorted aircraft.

  Number 610 was an RAF Auxiliary Squadron originally been formed as a bomber unit at Hooton Park in February of 1936, flying Hawker Harts. The squadron converted to fighters in April of 1938 flying Hawker Hind biplanes, and had received Hurricanes (Britain’s first monoplane fighter in service) prior to the outbreak of war. Squadron 610 was also the first Auxiliary fighter unit to re-equip with the superlative Supermarine Spitfire Mark I, moving to Wittering in October of ’39 flying coastal patrols.

  In May of 1940, as the Battle for France raged and the disaster of Dunkirk loomed, the squadron had moved south to Biggin Hill to relieve embattled RAF units of Eleven Group, already in the fray against the Luftwaffe over Britain and in France. France had subsequently fallen, the seemingly-invincible Germans had arrived at the eastern shores of the Channel and the Battle of Britain had begun. The savage intensity of Luftwaffe attacks from the outset against major airfields and sector stations across southern England quickly made Biggin Hill and many others untenable as a permanent bases of operations, and 610Sqn moved to Tangmere for a while. There, much like at Biggin Hill, there’d been billets and messes and full maintenance facilities and, more to the point, a full complement of state-of-the-art fighter aircraft to complement the rest of it. Trumbull had been a relatively inexperienced flight lieutenant then, and that had only been a month or six weeks ago.

  The twelve aircraft carefully dispersed at the perimeter of the open fields around him – many of them positioned under or close to tree cover where it was more difficult for a raider to catch them on the ground – did nothing to instil confidence in the young man. The squadron had once flown only the mighty Spitfire – arguably the best single-engined fighter the world had at that point seen.

  …And what do we have now…? There were just three ‘Spits’ left – including his own – along with four Hurricanes, three obsolescent Gladiator biplanes and two new ‘prototypes’ from Hawker Aviation, the experimental Typhoons run hurriedly off the production lines and pressed into service due to the severity of the situation at hand. The heavy hitting power of the six machine guns in each of the Typhoon’s wings was more than counterbalanced by some serious design flaws there hadn’t as yet been time to iron out, most notorious of which was an infamously weak tail empennage. As this had an occasional tendency under stress to cause the tail to come completely off, it was needless to say a less than a popular aircraft with most pilots.

  The airfield seemed deserted that afternoon, but Trumbull knew that was merely a façade. Should the alarm be raised to a scramble – something that was far from unlikely – pilots and ground crew would appear instantly, pouring out of the multitude of personal and group tents that were scattered about behind the briefing area. They could be in the air within a few moments, and if an attack was inbound and Fighter Command could give them enough warning, that’d be fast enough. But there was a very big ‘if’ in that situation that’d been seen to be less than reliable in the recent past. They’d been hit a number of times already with insufficient warning, and one of those raids had ended up with him receiving his ‘promotion’ to squadron leader. He could still remember the sight of his then commander and good friend literally disintegrating along with his Spitfire as a German bomb struck the taxiing aircraft a direct hit. Only six had managed to get into the air that day, and Squadron Leader Alec Trumbull could think of better ways to gain rank in the Royal Air Force, all things considered.

  The sound of a vehicle approaching broke through his introspection for a moment and he turned his head to catch sight of an RAF supply lorry beyond the tent ‘town’, bouncing its way toward him along the dirt road that led back to Westhampnett, the green Bedford ambling along at what couldn’t have been more than five miles an hour in the pilot’s estimation. He recognised Fullarton, one of the base Quartermaster’s staff at the wheel, crouched behind his little windscreen and squinting out through spectacles with small, circular lenses that probably had thicker glass.

  The 15cwt truck was standard War Department issue, with a canvas-covered cargo area and a pair of small, individual windscreens and canvas ‘doors’ for the driver and front passenger that had earned the hardy and useful vehicle the nickname of ‘pneumonia wagon’ among the troops. Trumbull checked his watch as others in their tents and around the airfield also heard the Bedford and seemingly appeared out of thin air. He realised it was actually later in the day than he’d originally believed and that the truck was arriving with the afternoon mail run along with other supplies, stores and such.

  Many members of the unit were eager to see if there were any letters from home, family and/or loved ones, and Trumbul
l was no different: still single, Alec was nevertheless concerned for his parents. His father had remained in London, his work in the War Cabinet requiring his presence there, while his mother had moved back out to their family estate in Leicester with his younger brother and sister. Plans were already in the wind for a full-scale relocation to Australia for the duration of the current crisis, although his father would most likely remain in London until the last possible moment should a feared invasion materialise and look likely of being successful.

  He knew his lot was no worse than that of any other man under arms or otherwise in Britain at that point: squaring up against the might of the Luftwaffe across the Channel was something that couldn’t be taken lightly even at the best of times.

  And one couldn’t call these the best of times, to be certain, he thought darkly to himself as he rose awkwardly from his chair and began to join the small but growing crowd of men making their way to the nearing vehicle. England was in serious danger and it didn’t take any great intelligence to know that. Two or three months ago, the story had been different. The RAF had at that time still possessed the forces necessary to take to the sky against the Luftwaffe with something resembling parity.

  “Only four to one…” he remembered Air Chief Marshal Hugh Dowding say once on a visit to his unit, then at Biggin Hill, and for a while they had risen to the call, meeting and exceeding those ratios in enemy aircraft shot down. But that’d been some time ago, now. As he walked toward that truck, a cold and biting wind cutting through the grey overcoat he wore over his fight suit, Tangmere lay in ruins and most of the airfields they’d used since were no better. Relentless, almost daily attacks by the Luftwaffe had continued without respite and the subsequent strain on men and materiel was quickly becoming more than the RAF could endure for much longer.

  Strategic bombing against British industry was also taking a heavy toll, not just on the Royal Air Force but on the nation as a whole. The Royal Arsenal at Enfield Lock was in ruins and the production lines for the all-important Spitfire and its Rolls Royce powerplant had also taken a beating. Although secret new factories were being established elsewhere in areas further away from the might of the Luftwaffe, it was a slow process that left Britain suffering as a result. Heavy industry generally was taking a pounding, and the Germans had also taken to hitting transport centres over the last month or so. Anything resembling a medium to major railhead anywhere in the southern half of the country had been battered to the point that coherent travel by rail was now almost impossible. Add to that such fiascos as the BEF’s shattering defeat in France, culminating in the mass surrender at Dunkirk at the end of May, and there was no way to avoid some damnably unpleasant conclusions.

  “Coming up for mail call, sir?” An unexpected voice snatched his attention back to the real world and he turned to find a pilot officer at his left shoulder, matching his stride. The young man was a recent addition to the unit – a replacement for one of their many casualties – and it was a moment or so before Trumbull remembered his name.

  “Thought I’d ‘try my luck’, yes…Stiles…” he added finally with a half-forced smile.

  “Hoping to hear from my mother, sir,” Stiles offered with the kind of broad, beaming expression only inexperienced youth could produce. “Family’s moved up to York with my cousins for a bit…just ‘til this is over.”

  “Can’t say much for the weather up there,” Trumbull shrugged, trying to be amiable, “but I’ll warrant it’s friendlier than around London at the moment…” or here, for that matter, he admitted silently.

  “Your mother and family have moved out to the Midlands haven’t they, sir?” Stiles inquired, catching the officer by surprise. For the life of him, Trumbull couldn’t remember speaking to the young man of his family before, but it was difficult to know for certain. Days tended to blur into one now and much as Trumbull wouldn’t wish to be unkind, the new pilot wasn’t a particularly memorable chap. Smallish and slight of build, with a bland face and lifeless, brown hair, he might well have acquired some type of moderately hurtful nickname by now among the older pilots had this been a year ago.

  No time for nicknames now, though, he thought sadly as they continued walking and he simply smiled and nodded in reply. There were too many people with nicknames whose real names were now nothing more than lines on a casualty list, and it was easier not to think of a ‘Johnson’, ‘Rogers’ or ‘Harris’ who was no longer there than it was to remember ‘Stinky’ or ‘Dodger’ or ‘Cubby’. The human mind learnt to adapt quick enough – don’t get too close to the men you work with and it won’t hurt as much when they don’t come back. That was the theory, at least…Trumbull had discovered it was impossible in practice. Many drowned their sorrows and numbed their crises in alcohol, but he was a squadron leader now and even if he had felt the urge to drink to excess, which he didn’t – at least, not yet – he’d have had to resist. His men needed him to be able to command them, now more than ever.

  The pair were within twenty metres of the slowing mail truck when the alien, ear-piercing wail of the dreaded air-raid siren wound up and split the air about them. The reaction was instantaneous: the gathering group of men couldn’t have broken apart faster if a bomb had exploded in their midst. Pilots began racing straight for their aircraft, ground crew close behind as appropriate equipment appeared suddenly in their hands as if by magic. All fliers were on constant standby in case of attack and all wore flying suits and parachutes and such like in readiness for just such a situation.

  As Trumbull reached his Spitfire, parked off to one side of the airfield beneath the overhanging branches of a clump of tall oaks, he could already hear engines starting elsewhere, but as he clambered up the side of the aircraft and into the cockpit he could also suddenly hear other engines – different engines. The sound chilled him as ground staff began to turn his Spit’s Merlin over: he’d heard those engines before, and their presence had never been good. He strapped himself in properly and carried out a quick instrument check as the Rolls Royce V-12 caught, spluttered then roared into life, momentarily pumping clouds of oily smoke back past his open cockpit.

  The aircraft began rolling the moment wheel chocks were pulled away, turning out from the cover of the trees and into the open expanses of the field 610Sqn used as a runway. Although it appeared flat as a snooker table to the untrained eye, the Spitfire bumped and trundled over a grass surface that was noticeably uneven beneath his wheels. Trumbull had to be careful – the fighter’s narrow undercarriage made the aircraft relatively easy to tip or to lose control of during taxiing should manoeuvres be too sudden or sharp.

  The surface of the field began to even up as he moved further out into the open and Trumbull gunned the Merlin to build speed. He found it difficult not to hurry more than he should; it was a matter of urgency, but take things too quickly and he’d ruin his ‘crate’ and maybe injure himself into the bargain. Of course, take too long in the current situation, and…well, that really just didn’t bare thinking about…

  Almost as if timing themselves to his thoughts, a battery of 40mm Bofors guns at the very far end of the open fields began hammering away to the south, the smoke of their muzzle blasts indistinct although the streaks of pink tracer across the horizon were unmistakable. Then, finally, he saw them coming in low over the far off trees at high speed: a flight of eight Junkers fast bombers in two tight, ‘finger-four’ formations that looked to have the airfield fairly well bracketed. They were no more than a mile away now by Trumbull’s reckoning, and he threw the throttles wide open at the sight of them.

  Caution be damned, he thought to himself with a rush of adrenalin, if I don’t get off the ground immediately, I’m jolly-well for it! “Tally ho, chaps!” He added verbally over his radio throat mike. “No time for dilly-dallying! Let’s get up there and have at them!”

  The Spitfire threw itself forward at his urging like a racehorse at the starting gun, the angry, uneven clatter of the cold Rolls-Royce engine transforming into t
he deafening, pedigree roar of full power as it started to gain desperate acceleration. It seemed like an age passed before the tail and then, finally, the main undercarriage lifted from the grassy ground. In truth, it was really just a matter of less than a minute before the Spit was clawing its way skyward, now a scant five hundred yards or so separating his fighter from the closest of the oncoming bombers.

  “Close enough, you filthy swine!” Trumbull snarled as one of the twin-engined Junkers crossed his gunsight for a bare split-second and he punched his thumb at his gun triggers out of sheer bloody-mindedness. The short burst of fire from the eight machine guns in his wings didn’t hit the bomber but it was close enough to give the startled pilot pause and take his mind off what he was doing. As tracer from Trumbull’s guns sizzled past his cockpit and wing to starboard, he banked away out of pure reflex, ruining his bombardier’s run on other aircraft below that were yet to take off.

  Trumbull kept his throttle jammed fully open and pushed his nose skyward as his wheels retracted and locked with a clunk. At sea level his Spit could climb at eight or nine hundred metres per minute at full power, but he wouldn’t need that kind of altitude. An almost evil grin spread across his face as any thoughts of the world outside air combat disappeared and he came into his own once more as a fighter pilot, pure and simple. He was no longer a vulnerable human being bound to Mother Earth, at the mercy of enemies and the elements. Now he was the master of his environment, flying one of the finest fighter aircraft in the world, and as so often happened in modern warfare, the hunters of just seconds before now became the hunted.

  The easternmost of the two flights of Ju-88s roared past a bare hundred metres above his cockpit, rear gunners from two of the closest quartet belatedly sending streams of machine gun slugs his way. The tracer passed uselessly beneath him as he turned his climb into a wide, banking turn that sacrificed little speed and brought him onto a good approach to the bombers’ rear, slightly above them and at an oblique angle. All in all, he couldn’t have asked for a much better line of attack under the circumstances. As he began to accelerate out of the turn, his fighter started to inexorably haul back the distance between himself and the enemy aircraft, which had blown out to almost a thousand metres.