Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  “They appear as lines of white light that travel across the screen as the aircraft travels. It takes some analysis to figure out how many aircraft are out there. Most days we don’t see much. Well, we haven’t until three days ago when the battle started heating up. We can see out a hundred miles and our fields of view intersect with the stations to our left and right, so we might see things that don’t directly affect us, but we report it all.”

  “Is that by radio or telephone?”

  “By a dedicated open telephone line into the filter room at Fighter Command. I wear a set of earphones and a microphone, so my hands are free. I tell them how many aircraft are coming, from which direction, at what altitude, and traveling at what speed.”

  “You tell them all of that?” Paul said, obviously impressed.

  Heather nodded, equally pleased. “I leave it to the coastal observers to identify the type of aircraft as they fly across the coast. At the moment radar doesn’t tell us that.” She showed him a sheaf of papers resting beside the scope. “We had a bit of activity early this morning. A bunch of aircraft flew in fast. I’m guessing they were fighters because they flitted about so that counting them was impossible. Thirty-eight slower aircraft flew in behind them—probably bombers.”

  “This morning?” Paul said, surprised. “And you called that in?”

  “That’s my job.”

  Paul stepped outside and looked out to sea. His eyes scanned the horizon.

  Heather followed him. She laughed. “If I can’t see anything on my scope, you certainly won’t see anything out there.”

  Looking sheepish, Paul re-entered the hut. “So, I guess the battle is really on. This morning, when the enemy raid came in, were you scared?”

  “Of course I was. They flew by southwest of here, but I could still see them, on the screen and out there. I went to look. They roared by, so many of them. And I heard the booms when they dropped their bombs.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I watched them on my scope and reported in.” She glanced at her scope. “Here come some more now.” She pulled out a chair in front of the scope and sat down, studying it.

  Startled, Paul leaned over her shoulder. A bunch of undulating white lines had appeared on the scope. He glanced at his watch. The time was just past 1100 hours.

  24

  “Three Hurricanes went down,” Squadron Leader Hope informed 601 Squadron. He had no specifics to divulge. “Get some rest. Intelligence says that this is supposed to be a big day—the Luftwaffe’s long-awaited Adlertag. It seems to have gotten its wires crossed this morning. It sent in a wave of bombers up north without fighter escort. That can’t have been the plan, although they managed some damage around Eastchurch.”

  Jeremy listened dully, wondering if the downed Hurricane pilots had parachuted to safety, and glad in a way that made him immediately ashamed that none had been in his squadron. He tried to block the image of the Messerschmitt shooting tracers at him, but it would not leave him.

  Fiske sought him out, but Jeremy moved away. He found an empty cot outside in the shade, lay down, and snoozed fitfully, his mind replaying the sights, sounds, and smells of this morning’s battle.

  Then, just after 1100 hours, the bell clanged, loudly and incessantly. Jeremy jumped to his feet and ran, pulling his Mae West over his head. Like Pavlov’s dogs.

  Fiske caught up with him and ran alongside. “Are you all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Jeremy responded, but his voice lacked his customary enthusiasm.

  Fiske clapped his shoulder. “Don’t let this morning get to you,” he shouted just before turning off to mount his own kite. “We’ve all had close calls.”

  Hope briefed them as they climbed out of the airfield. Alone, the twelve Hurricanes of 601 Squadron were to engage twenty-three ME 110s in combat.

  At Poling Radar Station, Corporal Heather Bell studied her scope. “Twenty-three of them, and they’re moving fast. Looks like they’re headed toward Portland, so we won’t see much activity here. They’ll disappear from our screen. I pity the poor blokes under those falling bombs.”

  “Have you got something?” another voice asked from behind Paul.

  He turned and found another WAAF standing there. She was roughly the same size and shape as Heather, with brown hair. She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Jessica Chapman. Corporal, that is.”

  Paul took her hand and exchanged greetings.

  Heather looked up. “There’s some fast traffic from the south heading northwest. Twenty-three of them.”

  “Must be ME 110s,” Jessica said. “They’re the only ones they send in without escort—of course, with this weather, the bomber force might have missed its queue.”

  “All right, Captain Paul,” Heather said, grinning. “You’re on Jessica’s shift now, and I’ll be off. Please do come back and visit us again.”

  “You’re a merry lot,” Paul said after Heather had left.

  “We have to be, doing this job. Hours and hours of boredom interspersed with minutes of frantic activity.” Jessica called in the data on the latest enemy sighting to Fighter Command. “We don’t even see each other that much,” she continued when she had finished. “Just at shift changes and when we happen to be off at the same time. We vary up our schedules to break the monotony.”

  “It’s likely to get a lot more active in the days ahead,” Paul observed. “If Hitler has his way.”

  The patrol was quick and fierce, the fight playing out mostly over the water toward Portland. When it was done, 601 Squadron had shot down six German aircraft and damaged three more, but they had also lost one of their own.

  The mood was muted when Jeremy arrived back at the dispersal hut. With one Hurricane not returning, the ground crew quickly absorbed the pilots’ haunted mood and spoke little among themselves or with the airmen.

  “Keep calm, and carry on,” was all that Hope said.

  Captain Joel Peters watched with trepidation the battles unfold on the map in the Fighter Command filter room at Bentley Priory. How much can we ask of these pilots? They’re flying multiple sorties in a day, for days on end. And then they have to contend with losing mates.

  He had watched the markers on the map indicating squadrons along the south coast of Britain taking off into the skies for the second time that day to face superior forces, and then land again after delivering and receiving punishing blows. The Germans were supposed to have the advantage by virtue of larger numbers and combat experience, but this young flock of unseasoned pilots was knocking them out of the sky by force of will, tenacity, and the genius of the Dowding system.

  The bell clanged yet again outside the dispersal hut of 601 Squadron, just before 1600 hours. Once again, the young pilots, looking prematurely aged, ran to their Hurricanes and took off, line-abreast across the airfield.

  Anyone watching would see the precise teamwork that made possible such coordinated action of intricate and deadly machines having narrow mechanical tolerances. They would not see the young men inside who now squinted with tired eyes; who, if they smiled, did so through lines of fatigue; who flew with dulled minds, controlling their fighters from practice rather than conscious thought. Adrenaline would kick in by the time they reached their stations, but for the moment, their bodies responded automatically to take them aloft to skirmish among the clouds with an enemy bent on killing them.

  Standing next to Jessica, Paul stared in disbelief into her scope as, at 1530 hours, two large clumps appeared on the screen. Jessica worked furiously, typing rapidly on her keyboard with her earphones clamped to her ears, staring into her screen, and speaking into her microphone.

  “Two groups heading north, one with fifty-two aircraft, the other with fifty-eight, both with heavy escorts,” she reported in a steady, businesslike voice.

  In a slow moment, Paul said, “Do I understand that the observer corps will identify the specific type of aircraft, weather permitting.”

  Jessica turned to him, nodd
ed, and held up a finger while listening intently.

  As the formations proceeded across the screen, more signals appeared.

  Jessica turned to him. “Those are ours,” she whispered between slips of conversation with the filter room.

  And then signals began disappearing.

  A sudden thought flashed through Paul’s mind. I don’t know where Jeremy is.

  Adlertag finally happened. Dread and excitement competed within Joel as he watched markers representing fifty-eight Ju 88s escorted by ME 109s and 110s cross the map toward airfields at Boscombe Down, Worthy Down, and Andover. Simultaneously, fifty-two Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers escorted by more ME 109s and 110s headed toward Warmwell and Yeovil.

  Friendly markers were placed on the map, showing Hurricanes from 213, 238, 257, and 601 Squadrons rushing with Spitfires from 152 and 609 Squadrons to meet the enemy. The opposing aircraft met them along the coast over Southampton and Portland. Once again, the engagement seemed incredibly short to Joel. Within minutes, the Germans’ vaunted aircraft fled back across the Channel, but not before the Spitfires of 609 Squadron had downed six of nine Ju 88s from a single Staffel.

  A bomber that broke through the defensive line dropped its bombs on Southampton, damaging the port and some residences. One dropped its ordnance near the important sector station at Middle Wallop, while those still in the air flew on and released their cargoes over Andover, damaging buildings and killing two people. Then once again, the markers disappeared from the map, and all was quiet.

  Jeremy tried to remember the last time he had been so exhausted, in body, mind, and spirit. He knew he must have been at some point. On the beach at Dunkirk? Off the coast of France in the estuary at Loire?

  His ground crew met him as he taxied into the parking area. He was aware enough to notice that they too were spent, physically and emotionally; that they went about their tasks automatically, without the vigor or humor of previous days. Their dedication manifested in their thoroughness despite conditions.

  On climbing out of his Hurricane, Jeremy started toward the hut. Then he stopped and observed the crew again through slits that were now his eyes. Without speaking, he returned to the aircraft and started helping with post-op tasks.

  The crew chief stopped him with a nudge. “No, sir,” he said. “You’ve done your part. We’ll do ours.”

  Overcome with gratitude, Jeremy shared his appreciation with each of the crewmen and once again started toward the hut. Fiske met him halfway there. Neither spoke, and then Brody and Sandy joined them, and the four walked to the tiny, lone building together. Jeremy, Fiske, and Brody sat down at the same table where they had started the day and resumed their card game, while Sandy picked up the book he had been reading and settled back into it. A few hours on ready status still remained.

  At Fighter Command, Joel watched as the map cleared once more, but even before all the markers had been removed, more formations appeared over France, this time heading for an aircraft factory at Rochester in the northwest of Kent. The coastal observers identified them as Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers escorted by ME 109s.

  Hurricanes from 56 Squadron intercepted and turned them away, shooting down one Messerschmitt in the process, but at a loss of four of their own.

  At that point, Joel thought that the day of battle must be drawing to a close, but then he saw that another attack was underway against a Coastal Command airfield at Detling. Before it was over, the operations block and all the hangars had been obliterated, and twenty-six people had been killed.

  Jessica and Paul saw no more activity that evening. Departing for London with enough daylight remaining before the dangers of driving through the blackout, Paul thought of the intricate system he had witnessed in use. We can see out a hundred miles. We put planes where we need them, when we need them. That’s an incredible advantage.

  He thought of Heather and Jessica on that desolate stretch of land overlooking the Channel, alone for so many hours at a time while operating their station with so much competence and dedication. When the history of the Battle of Britain is written, they too deserve to be honored. Historians can’t possibly record all the sacrifices made by so many people.

  A lump grew in his throat. And then he thought of Jeremy. I must find out which squadron he’s in.

  Several hours later, after night had fallen and a sense grew that the dreadful day was over at last, Captain Joel Peters tallied up what he knew of the losses. As best as he could deduce from reports still coming in, the Luftwaffe had flown 1,485 sorties to the RAF’s 727. They had destroyed thirty-one RAF aircraft on the ground, only one of which was a fighter. They had downed twelve Hurricanes and one Spitfire in the air. Four of those had crash landed, and three pilots had been killed.

  The melancholy over losing three men he knew nothing about aside from their ultimate sacrifices for Great Britain was only partially offset by the tally on the German side, and even for those casualties, he felt sadness. They were fathers, brothers, sons, uncles—doing what their country commanded.

  Seventy-one German aircraft had been destroyed, and a good number had limped back to France badly damaged. Joel had no idea how many of those resulted in death but surmised that the number was many more than RAF losses; the British aircraft shot down were single-seat fighters. Most of the downed German aircraft had been multi-crew bombers.

  Joel finished his duties and departed the bunker for the day. As he passed the relief staff taking up their positions for the night watch, he took solace that tonight, at the end of Göring’s Adlertag, Great Britain and the Royal Air Force still stood.

  25

  August 15, 1940

  Bentley Priory, England

  Joel Peters entered the gallery overlooking the filter room at Fighter Command carrying a cup of strong black coffee and feeling hungover. Not that he had been drinking, although the urge to do so had come over him at the end of his shift the day before yesterday. Watching the incursions of Göring’s air force into Britain and the valiant fighting of the RAF to expel them had taken its emotional toll. Exhaustion had proven a stronger impulse than drinking, and he had collapsed onto his bunk. Fortunately, weather had largely prevented a repeat of the attack yesterday, but today’s forecast appeared to favor another countrywide bout. He settled into a chair in the gallery, sipped his coffee, and prepared for whatever would come.

  Yesterday had not been entirely without action. At 1140 hours, roughly one hundred Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers escorted by ME 109s formed over Calais. Hurricanes from 32 and 615 Squadrons with Spitfires from 65 and 610 Squadrons scrambled and met them over Dover. In fierce combat, one ME 109 went down. On the British side, three fighters were shot down and two more damaged.

  Then, at 1215 hours, ME 110 fighter/bombers attacked RAF Manston, destroying four hangars and three Blenheim bombers on the ground. Anti-aircraft fire took down two of the German fighters.

  Not yet done, at 1745 hours, the Luftwaffe sent one Ju 88 and a small formation of He 111 bombers to attack RAF Middle Wallop, destroying a hangar and killing three airmen. Spitfires of 609 Squadron intercepted them and shot down the Ju 88 and one of the Heinkels.

  Joel took a breath and diverted his mind from the carnage. At least it wasn’t like the day before.

  Officially, he was an RAF intelligence officer assigned to Fighter Command headquarters. His job was to accomplish critical analysis of air operations, looking for flaws in the overall system. In practice, that meant that he watched the battles played out on the map and remained prepared to brief in the minutest detail.

  He reported directly to the chief of RAF intelligence at the headquarters, but on any given day he was required at a moment’s notice to brief Chief Air Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding on goings-on in the battlespace. Dowding had designed, built, and now commanded Britain’s air defense system.

  Joel’s task could sometimes be daunting, for Dowding was direct and uncompromising, demonstrated little humor, and was awkward at social gatherings, earning him the nickname
“Stuffy.” But having worked for him for some months now, Joel knew him to be gracious to a fault, and imminently caring about his entire subordinate staff, and especially his pilots.

  Joel’s job was made easier in that, next to Dowding’s office was a status room very much like the control rooms in the Group headquarters bunkers. Unlike those, its map showed the full length and breadth of the United Kingdom and western France. It was staffed with plotters to keep it updated with filtered information. Dowding kept an eye on it but left the running of the battle to his subordinate commanders, stepping in only as needed.

  From Joel, Dowding required estimates and analyses of information gaps that could not be easily seen from a quick glance at the board, such as likely targets as enemy markers advanced across the map, or the possible makeup of formations before they had been identified by coastal observers.

  Just above medium height with a slender build, Joel handled the pressures of the job by jogging whenever he had the chance, which lately, had been scarce. His hair was dark, and a set of round, thick glasses gave him a bookish appearance. By nature, he was pleasant with a good sense of humor, but his job and dedication obscured his natural self so that casual acquaintances were often surprised to see his lighter side in social settings.

  He had joined the air force intending to fly fighters, but his eyesight had deteriorated rapidly from macular degeneration shortly after receiving his commission. He had proceeded in flight training to the point that he had handled the controls of a Tiger Moth with an instructor on board, but then he had been sidelined. As a result of his brief flight experience, when he viewed the friendly markers on the map in the filter room below, he visualized the fighter pilots in their cockpits opening the throttles, handling the stick, and maneuvering around in the skies.