Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Since the evacuation of Dunkirk two months ago, the Luftwaffe had attacked British ships and ports. Each time, the RAF had met the threat swiftly and effectively to the extent that intelligence reports had come across revealing German frustration with British prescience. They also informed of angered curiosity among Hitler’s high command to know how the RAF managed such foreknowledge and tactical agility. British authorities had anticipated the German desire to know, and as a result, every detail of its air defense system was a state secret of the highest classification, including the mere existence of this bunker in which Joel now stood, as well as that of each of the subordinate Group bunkers.

  What Joel found unbelievable was that Adlertag was apparently going forward today. He glanced across the filter room at a set of vertical boards that posted the current weather for individual sector control airfields within each of the Group’s areas. Along the length of the United Kingdom, the weather was terrible for cross-Channel air operations originating from France. Elements required for German success would be crippled by it. Perhaps it would clear later, but for now low clouds and poor visibility did not favor an attack.

  And yet, as he examined the board, markers had been placed on the map representing Luftwaffe aircraft grouping over Belgium where its border with France trailed southeast inland of Dunkirk. Unbelievably, the formation was large and proceeded across the Channel where the thick cloud cover must have been visible to the pilots.

  Joel looked at the clock. It read 0510 hours. The way the markers were clustered together, he guessed that the aircraft were bombers in tight formation, yet no fighter escort had materialized. Until they came within view of RAF’s coastal observers, he could know only their position and height, not their type, and under these weather conditions, he doubted that spotters could identify them.

  Seven minutes later, the markers on the map crossed the coastline. The bombers must be in the cloudbank, and still no escort. However, the same conditions that inhibited an attack also interfered with defense, and so far, no friendly markers had appeared on the map, meaning no British fighters had been launched. Shortly, the enemy bombers were shown returning across the Channel to their home bases.

  Within an hour, Joel read the initial damage assessment. The bombers had been Dornier 17s. Seventy of them had flown unimpeded through the cloud cover, hitting RAF Eastchurch and Sheerness Dockyards, eight miles apart.

  They had dropped over two hundred high-explosive and incendiary bombs on Eastchurch, delivering extensive damage; destroying hangars, an ammunition dump, and six aircraft parked on or near the runways; and killing sixteen airmen. Damage reports on Sheerness had not yet come in.

  However, the bombers did not get away clean. Spitfires belonging to 74 Squadron had joined with Hurricanes of 111 and 151 Squadrons to intercept the Dorniers over the Channel, shooting five into the turbulent, cold water and sending six others limping home.

  Joel glanced at the clock again and then back to the map. His jaw dropped in disbelief. The time was 0540 hours, and another large formation had massed southeast of Cherbourg. They would cross the coast from the south this time. Minutes later, they headed across the Channel almost due north, and the weather must have cleared to an extent, because they were identified as one hundred and twenty Junkers 88 bombers escorted by thirty ME 109s and thirty ME 110s. Fortunately, the RAF had prepared to receive them, launching Hurricanes from 43, 87, and 601 Squadrons and Spitfires from 64 Squadron.

  The phone rang in the 601 Squadron dispersal hut. Jeremy, Fiske, and Brody jerked their heads around from a card game they had been playing. The rowdiness in a corner of the hut fell to silence while pilots who had been dozing came awake and sat up. Sandy raised his eyes from a book he had been reading. At the door, two men leaned inside, while behind them, some lying in the grass climbed to their feet, and others sitting in raggedy upholstered or wooden chairs came upright.

  All eyes and ears waited for Squadron Leader Hope’s order. “Right,” was all he said into the phone. Then he whirled. “Scramble. Rendezvous with 43, 87, and 64 Squadrons at Angels 25. Control will vector to coordinates.”

  Immediately, someone grabbed the short strap on a bell hanging just outside the door and began clanging vigorously. Those pilots still inside the hut bolted out while those out front already sprinted while pulling their Mae Wests over their shoulders. They reached their Hurricanes, grabbed their parachutes from the left horizontal stabilizers, and pulled the straps into place. A crewman on the left wing of each plane helped his pilot climb into the cockpit and finish tightening the parachute. On the opposite wing, another crewman helped with goggles, connected the helmet to the radio, and slid the plexiglass canopy into place.

  Jeremy hit his ignition switch. The big Merlin engine roared to life. He tested his controls and checked his gauges and indicators. All go. To his left and right, Fiske and Brody did the same. To his right front, a third crewman disconnected the umbilical.

  Jeremy revved the engine to power, set the trim, and signaled the fourth crewman to pull the blocks from in front of the landing gear. The Hurricane leaped forward, a thoroughbred ready to perform.

  In just over two minutes from calling “Scramble,” the squadron of twelve Hurricanes abreast lifted their noses and climbed into the sky.

  Jeremy felt an unfamiliar numbness. First time in combat. I thought I’d be more scared. He checked his gauges and his position relative to the other fighters. I’m petrified. I thought I’d be exultant. To his left, he caught Fiske staring at him with a big grin. I am exultant. Memories of being shot down on his first flight in the Miles Master flashed through his mind. Was that five years ago? Blimey, it was barely three weeks ago.

  Fiske had been an incredible mentor, taking him up when they were off of ready status and teaching him the finer points of aerial combat tactics, like how to take advantage of the sun when both he and his foe attempted the same maneuver; how to use clouds to change or extend maneuvers; how to move out of the line of fire of a bandit on his tail and reinsert himself to fire from the rear of the same opponent; how to convert from a dive into an accelerating turn and come out at the right time to frame the enemy in his sights. “And about those sights,” Fiske had said. “Don’t rely on the rangefinder too much. You won’t have time to reset it. Get in as close as you can, shoot off two-second bursts, and get out fast. You have to assume that someone is on your tail. That’s how you survive and dominate.”

  Fiske had taken Jeremy home for dinner on several occasions. Rose had been personable and gracious each time, curious about life on Sark Island, in awe of Jeremy’s escape from France, inquisitive about Amélie, and requesting that, at some point, he bring Claire and Timmy to the house for dinner.

  “You’ve had a remarkable year,” she said, “and it’s only August.”

  Jeremy had smiled wryly. “Haven’t we all.”

  The radio broke his slight daydream. “Blue Six, you’re moving in too close.”

  Startled, Jeremy looked sharply to his left. He had drifted forward relative to Fiske such that his own left wing floated only a few feet from Fiske’s right wing.

  He gulped. “Roger,” he called back, and adjusted his position. The last thing he wanted was to collide with someone in his own squadron, particularly on his first combat mission. He was supposed to have flown “tail-end Charlie,” but the 601 Squadron pilots, to a man, opposed having such a position.

  The RAF standard formation was called a “vic,” in which a squadron of two flights of fighters with six aircraft in each flight flew abreast of each other. They flew within a few feet of each other, except that one pilot was detailed to fly behind the formation to provide rear security.

  Having several vulnerabilities, not the least of which was the necessity of watching each other to keep a distance more than searching the skies for bandits, pilots hated the vic. Brody had volunteered to take Jeremy’s place as tail-end Charlie, arguing that a more experienced fighter should be there. “If we’re going t
o put someone where he can be so easily shot, it should be someone who’s been out there, or it’s as good as having no one at all.”

  Jeremy had resisted, but Brody insisted. And so, Brody was somewhere behind them, burning fuel and placing himself at risk, in the questionable practice required by doctrine, to act as rearguard.

  Squadron Leader Hope’s voice came through the headphones. “This is Red Leader. Friends in sight, and control says the bandits are five miles northeast at Angels 20. Set course for 045 and descend.”

  Jeremy sucked in a breath, suddenly and involuntarily. He banked, following the squadron on an earthward slant while realization seemed to have seized each cell in his body, all of them screaming, “This is it.”

  And there after the turn, at twelve o’clock low, were their targets.

  They looked just like the silhouettes that Fiske had required him to view on flashcards ad nauseum along with all the other Luftwaffe aircraft expected to come against them. Looming large now, a mass of Ju 88s flew north, their glass noses exposing a gunner and their plexiglass cockpits distinguishing the pilots. He had never expected to see so many bombers at one time nor the swarm of Messerschmitt 109s flying above them. Then the squadron leader commanded, “Go after the big boys, tally-ho,” and the entire squadron leveled out in front of the bombers and flew directly toward them.

  The lead bombers broke formation, some diving, some climbing, others going left or right. Jeremy hardly had time to think. He flew so close to one of the Junkers that he saw the face of the nose gunner behind the machine gun, scrunched over his weapon, letting loose a stream of lead. But the airman was firing at another target and seemed surprised when Jeremy let loose a two-second burst that plowed through the transparent rounded nose plate. The course of Jeremy’s burst traveled up the front of the bomber into the cockpit. The enemy banked steeply left, entered a dive, and exploded.

  Jeremy found himself climbing in a gap amid two Junkers, one ascending, one descending, both close together with barely enough space to fly between them. He dropped his nose toward the one going down and let loose with another burst. The tail disintegrated, clearing his way. He shoved his nose down slightly, cleared the debris, and then climbed, suddenly seemingly alone in the sky, nothing ahead of him, and nothing he could see anywhere in his view.

  He banked to his right, attempting to catch sight of the formation, but aside from streams of smoke elongating toward the earth, he saw nothing in the sky.

  The sun had climbed, and he started toward it, intending to arc backward at the top of an inverted loop so that he could see the full battlespace. Then his radio crackled, and he heard Fiske’s calm voice. “This is Blue Leader. Blue Six, turn left, turn, turn, turn. Do it now. Full throttle. You’ve got a bandit on your tail. He’ll beat you in a climb.”

  Jeremy checked his mirror but could see nothing aside from the murky water far below. He pushed the stick left and slightly back, entering a wide circle that he then tightened further.

  “He’s chasing you, little brother,” Fiske said. “Tighten that turn.”

  Inside the bunker at Bentley Priory, Joel watched the friendlies and foes approach each other on the map. He could not determine with certainty what the German targets were, possibly the Royal Aircraft Establishment airfield at Farnborough or the army cooperation airfield at Odiham. Regardless, the British squadrons intercepted them at Southampton, and a German contingent then diverted to Portland. Sooner than Joel could believe, the fracas ended. The Germans flew back out to sea minus four bombers and one fighter.

  Three Hurricanes were down too, but he had no estimate of target damage yet.

  Jeremy’s legs wobbled when his feet touched the ground. A crewman hurried to support him, but Jeremy waved him away. “I’m all right,” he said.

  The call had been too close. Jeremy had pulled into the turn and then checked his rear. The Messerschmitt had not shown up in his mirror, but then it had loomed in Jeremy’s peripheral vision, a lethal, immediate threat. He had seen the flash of tracers, informing him instantly that he was out of the line of fire. Otherwise, I’d be dead.

  He had pulled harder on the stick and pushed the throttle.

  It was at its extreme, and his left foot had mashed the pedal all the way down. Feeling lightheaded, he jammed his chest hard against his knees, feeling the g-forces, and breathed deliberately and deep.

  Once again, he checked his mirror. Seeing only blue sky, he turned his head left toward the earth, and saw the bandit in his peripheral vision again. He pulled, pushed, and leaned, but he had no margin of performance remaining.

  Then, as he flew halfway around in his circle, he saw smoke in the sky below him, and a fighter, nose down and spinning in flames. His radio crackled again, and Fiske’s warm voice sounded. “It’s all right, little brother. He won’t bother you again. Let’s go home.”

  The squadron had landed together, intact. As Jeremy staggered toward the hut, Fiske sidled up next to him and threw an arm over his shoulder. “Glad you could make it,” he joked. “I was afraid we were about to lose you.”

  Jeremy took off in a run to the back side of the hut and emptied his guts onto the ground.

  23

  Poling, Southern Coast, United Kingdom

  Paul’s drive to the radar station at Poling had been a pleasant one despite being overcast, with spots of horrible weather along the way. The trip had taken only a little over two hours from London. With wartime rationing, traffic was sparse, and he drove through unfamiliar towns and villages, each uniquely charming, with twisting main streets, stone houses with slate or thatched roofs, and very British gardens behind wicket fences.

  Some towns, like Ashington, had large buildings with architectural finesse, its streets lined with shops, its citizens bustling about their errands without visible signs of stress stemming from the war, although he did see an occasional squad of Home Guards drilling with poles and broomsticks.

  He made a mental note that he should like to take the same drive in better times when he could enjoy it at his leisure. For the moment, the trip took his mind off his meeting with Menzies. Why the director had assigned Paul this study was a mystery. But maybe some good will come of it.

  He found the radar station just before 1000 hours on a flat, bleak field two miles west of Clapham with a clear view of the Atlantic just over a mile to the south. It was easily recognizable by seven steel-girder towers rising into the sky, three taller ones with massive crossbeams over halfway up and at the top, oriented southeast toward France. The others were shorter and placed together on the opposite side of the field.

  The compound also contained several buildings, none very large, and with the exception of two, they were set away from each other. A single bicycle was parked next to the largest one, a Nissen hut. At the front end, a brick blast wall protected the door.

  Paul walked the short distance to the entrance and knocked. Moments later, a young WAAF opened it. Her eyes were bright and smiling although she looked tired. She was shoulder-height to him, and her blond hair was cut to military length. She held her hand out to shake his, and she spoke in a bubbly way. “We’ve been expecting you, Captain. We’re glad of the company. I’m Heather. I guess I should introduce myself as Corporal Bell.” She shrugged in a self-effacing manner. “We haven’t had much military training, and I haven’t gotten used to all the RAF ways yet. Being isolated out here, I sometimes forget.” Her cheeks turned red as though she was suddenly embarrassed. She came to attention and saluted. “Corporal Bell at your service, sir.”

  Paul held his amusement in check as he returned the salute. “Carry on, Corporal.” He entered the hut and looked around. “We?”

  Heather followed his gaze. “Ah, yes. It’s just me.” She chuckled again in her friendly way. “I like to think of the job as ‘we’ for the sake of my sanity, and I’m tied to Fighter Command by dedicated phone line. I’ll be relieved around noon by Corporal Chapman. There are two other WAAFs assigned here, but you’re not li
kely to see them unless you stay late.”

  She glanced at him shyly. “We don’t receive many visitors. Fighter Command told us you were coming. I’m supposed to help you in any way that I can.”

  Paul stepped back outside the door and pointed at the towers. “Can you tell me about those, and how this all ties in. How does the radar see the planes?”

  Heather grew serious. “I’m no radar specialist, mind you, but I’ll explain as best I can what we’ve been taught.” She pointed to the taller towers with the cross beams. “Those are transmitters, and the others are receivers.” She indicated the shorter towers.

  “The transmitters send out a radio beam that bounces off objects in its broadcast field. The bounced signal is picked up by the receivers. And if you’ll follow me…” She led Paul back inside the hut to a desk with an electronic screen set on its surface. “This is my radar scope. There’s a lot of mathematics involved that I don’t quite grasp, but the bounced signal shows up here.”

  Paul viewed the screen with interest. It was black, with no depth, and with a keyboard at its base. “And this tells you where the aircraft are?”

  Heather nodded. “You saw that we have three transmitting towers. When an aircraft comes into our field of view, so to speak, they interrupt transmissions along straight lines from our tower. The signal reflects off the skin of the aircraft. Our receivers pick up the reflected signal and register it on our scopes, showing horizontal coordinates and altitude. The distance is calculated from the time lapse between sending the signal and receiving the reflected response. Of course, the system does all of that for us.”

  Paul looked around at the electronics in the room and then studied the scope again. “So how do you see an aircraft? How does it appear on your screen?”