Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Not my destiny. He sighed and ended his musings. Most of the morning passed uneventfully. He went about doing his other duties, analyzing reports and the like, bringing them to the gallery to read and make notes.

  Then, at 1100 hours, markers representing an estimated one hundred enemy aircraft appeared on the board. As they made their way across the British coastline, they were identified as forty Ju 87 Stukas with a heavy escort. They attacked the forward airfields at RAFs Hawkinge and Lympne on the east end of Kent.

  At the latter airfield, the dive bombers cut power and water supplies, bombed the station sick quarters, and damaged several other buildings. The foray put the field out of action for an indeterminate period.

  At Hawkinge only one hangar was hit and a single barracks block destroyed. Fighters from 54 and 501 Squadrons flew up to meet the invading force but were unable to stop the destruction.

  Then the Luftwaffe attacked twice simultaneously in the north and northeast. At 1208 hours, a formation of twenty aircraft at a range of over ninety miles appeared on the map across from Edinburgh and the Firth of Forth estuary. As the raid drew closer, more markers appeared, indicating that the estimates had grown to thirty.

  Joel watched with intensified interest. Apparently oblivious to Chain Home radar, the formation split into three sections and thrust deep into British airspace, flying southwest past Tynemouth.

  Friendly aircraft markers appeared on the map board. Joel watched with keen interest as Spitfires from 72 Squadron moved into the enemy’s path off Farne Island and Hurricanes from 79 Squadron took up positions over Tyneside. Markers showed that fighters from 79 and 607 Squadrons also took to the air, with 79 Squadron blocking the hostile formations. Unfortunately, 607 Squadron was too far north to do any good.

  Confusion on the map meant muddle in the air, and Joel watched with increasing concern as the causes became clear. The fighters from 72 Squadrons out of RAF Acklington made first contact. The “approximately thirty” German aircraft had actually been ninety-nine, with sixty-five of them being Heinkel 111 bombers, and thirty-four of them being ME 110 fighter/bombers.

  Joel gasped as he realized the audacity of what happened next. After only a brief pause during which he assumed that the squadron leader must have been re-assessing, the twelve fighters of 72 Squadron attacked the German flank, one flight going after the fighters and the other assaulting the bombers.

  The ME 110s stayed close to their Heinkels and formed a defensive circle. However, the bombers broke formation and headed back for their home station in Stavanger, Norway. Several never made it, having been intercepted and shot down over the sea by 79 Squadron as they fled north. Others met their fates at the hands of 605 Squadron, their debris left spread out over the English countryside.

  Meanwhile, 607 and 41 Squadrons waited over Sunderland and found several Heinkels fleeing without fighter escort. The bombers had jettisoned their cargoes for maximum power to gain height, but the effort was futile. Their war ended abruptly.

  Anxiously, Joel awaited the battle damage reports. When he received them, he had to read and read yet again, disbelieving his eyes. The Germans had lost eight bombers and seven fighters, with several more damaged. The RAF had lost no aircraft, none of their airfields were damaged, and the only losses from the entire raid had been a few houses in Sunderland. May any civilian losses rest in peace.

  However, fighting for the day had not ended.

  While the battle had raged in the north, farther south, a formation of fifty Ju 88s flew toward Flamborough Head in 12 Group’s area across the Channel from Bremen. Spitfires from 616 Squadron, Defiants from 264 Squadron, and Hurricanes from 73 Squadron were dispatched immediately to meet them. Shortly thereafter, they were joined by Blenheims from 219 Squadron.

  The enemy split into eight sections. One flew north and bombed Bridlington, hitting homes and blowing up an ammunition dump.

  The main force dropped munitions on the 4 Group Bomber Station at Driffield, Yorkshire, damaging four hangars and destroying ten Whitleys on the ground. Heavy anti-aircraft brought down one enemy bomber.

  Once more, Joel sought the damage reports. Again, he had reason to be pleased: six of nine Ju 88s had been brought down.

  In the south, the battle still thundered. Twelve ME 109s attacked RAF Manston yet again, with wing-mounted cannon and machine-gun fire. Two Spitfires were destroyed, and sixteen people killed.

  Three hours later, Ju 87s, ME 110s, and ME 109s attacked ninety miles northeast of London at RAF Martlesham Heath without being intercepted. At the same time, a mass of aircraft estimated at roughly one hundred approached Deal on the coast of Kent, followed a half hour later by one hundred and fifty more over Folkestone.

  Only four fighter squadrons were sent up immediately to meet the invaders, and they were soon followed by three more, but they were overwhelmed by the huge numbers of enemy fighters. The Luftwaffe formations split up to take different targets at Short Brothers and Pobjoy factories at Rochester. Several diverted to bomb RAF Eastchurch again, as well as the radar stations at Dover, Rye, Bawdsey, and Foreness.

  Joel shook his head when he read the damage reports. The factories suffered setbacks of at least six months. Together, they built four-engine Stirling heavy bombers, with Short Brothers producing the airframes, avionics, and controls, and its subsidiary, Pobjoy, providing the engines. Six completed bombers had been destroyed along with the inventory of finished parts, representing a clear victory for the Luftwaffe. However, damage at Eastchurch and the radar stations had been negligible.

  Fighter Command lives to fight another day.

  26

  RAF Middle Wallop, UK

  The bell clanging outside the dispersal hut woke Red with a start. He stared around momentarily. Shorty and Andy sat up, eyes wide but still groggy. Then, all three jumped to their feet from their cots and sprinted to their Spitfires with their British cohorts, most of whom were fresh replacements. The three Americans had so far had little interaction with them. Having seen the demise of so many fellow pilots, they avoided social exchanges.

  The sun had started its descent on the western horizon when their Spitfires leaped into the sky two minutes later, and none too soon. Almost immediately, Ju 88s attacked their airfield.

  “Blue Leader, this is Blue Three,” Red said. “We have bandits at three o’clock high. Coming this way.”

  “This is Blue Leader. Roger. I see them. Be advised that they came across with a force of two hundred and fifty. They have ME 110s escorting 88s. They flew across the Isle of Wight in two columns and spread over Hampshire and Wilshire. We’re seeing the remnants, but bandits are still over Portland and Worthy Down. We have seven more friendly squadrons in the area. Be sure to shoot at black crosses only.”

  An image of Jeremy in his Hurricane flashed through Red’s mind. He grinned and impulsively pushed the transmit button. “Does that include our pals from 601?” With that many squadrons in the air, he knew the answer.

  “Keep the channel clear for combat,” came the terse reply. “Tally-ho.”

  Red searched the western sky but saw no enemy aircraft. He pulled his Spitfire’s nose into a steep climb. Below him, Shorty and Andy banked into wide circles, keeping the incoming bandits in sight. The three of them engaged in a joint maneuver that they had worked out in dogfights since arriving at 609 Squadron eight days ago. One would go high, the other two would keep watch on the enemy. When the first was in attack position, one of the others would join him, and then the third. Who went up first was purely a matter of who was in the best position to do so when they heard tally-ho.

  They had misgivings on employing the tactic because it implied leaving their fellow pilots to their own devices. “But we can’t watch them all,” Red had stated. “If they get in trouble and we can help, we’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot, to use their lingo.” He grinned.

  “If we can keep the three of us alive, we can help more of them survive,” Shorty agreed.

  “And we can add ot
hers to our maneuver as they come in and last more than a week,” Andy had added, and then looked glum at the implication.

  The net effect was that the three of them had survived in a squadron that had seen more than its fair share of action, and they had each shot down a good number of German aircraft.

  Almost as soon as Red reached altitude and reacquired the enemy fighters in his view, he saw one of them fly in behind Shorty. “Blue Four, a bandit’s on your tail. Tighten your turn. I’m on him. Blue Five, go high. Watch for more.”

  Below him, Shorty and Andy immediately reacted. Shorty banked steeper, pulled his stick back, and jammed on his pedal. The Messerschmitt started into the turn behind him but fell back as the turn tightened. Meanwhile, Red swooped in behind the German and fired a burst. The bullets burrowed through the enemy’s left wing, but almost immediately, Andy transmitted in his ear, “His buddy’s behind you, Blue Three. Keep following Blue Four. I’ll get this one.”

  Red banked left and tightened his turn, watching in disappointment as the ME 110 he had pursued turned south and, with smoke trailing behind it, headed out to sea.

  Moments later, Andy spoke again. “The second one gave up. He’s either out of ammo, low on gas, or he didn’t like the odds. Anyway, he’s headed home.”

  “Let’s get him,” Shorty called.

  The three of them chased after the Messerschmitt, which jinked left and right, executing quick climbs followed by shallow dives until it was over the coast, out to sea, and beyond the imaginary line where RAF fighters would turn back.

  The radio crackled again. “Blue Leader here. The battlespace is clear. Head for home.”

  Joel watched the fighting move northward while reading reports of the battle and enemy damage estimates. Altogether eleven RAF squadrons were put up against these raids, including 32, 43, 111, 601, 604, 609, 87, 152, 213, 234, and 266 Squadrons. The Luftwaffe had lost twelve bombers and thirteen fighters. Three of the latter had been brought down by a single Belgian pilot, Lieutenant J. Phillipart, flying for 213 Squadron. Meanwhile, RAF Fighter Command had lost thirteen fighters. At the same time that he mourned the losses, Joel sat dumbfounded at the tenacity that had brought such success against overwhelming odds.

  But the day’s fighting was not over. Joel groaned when, at 1815 hours, over seventy aircraft flew in from Calais. Most of the forward squadrons in 12 Group were refueling and rearming, so Air Vice-Marshal Park sent four squadrons from his eastern sectors forward, and as more became available, four and a half squadrons followed.

  Intercepted over the coast by two squadrons, including 501 Squadron, which was almost out of fuel, the Germans changed course and bombed RAF West Malling in Kent from altitude, damaging runways and buildings.

  Other bombers flying over Surrey dropped their payloads on RAF Croydon, home to 111 Squadron, which was not yet operational but nonetheless took to the skies. Just after 1850 hours, ME 110s with ME 109 escorts dropped their bombs from two thousand feet, destroying two aircraft factories, Rollason and Redwing, including trainers and a manufacturer of radio components.

  As evening settled, markers disappeared from the map in the filter room at Fighter Command, the plotters, radar specialists, analysts, and controllers settled down for night watch, and Joel took one more look at the damage and casualty reports. His heart hung heavy as he flipped the switch to dim the lights in the gallery. To be sure, the RAF had once more repelled the would-be conquerors, but the price had been terrible. During this attack, the second of which dropped lethal munitions over the civilian population of Greater London, over eighty casualties had been realized, but reports Joel read did not yet identify how many among them were dead or wounded.

  27

  August 16, 1940

  RAF Tangmere, England

  Jeremy joined in as pilots of 601 Squadron enjoyed a midday party of sorts with a group of WAAFs and pilots from other squadrons based at Tangmere. This was no planned event, just men and women taxed to the limit finally enjoying a day off ready status with time to relax.

  Suddenly, the front door swung open, and the station commander hurried in, grim-faced. “601 Squadron, you’re back on readiness. Everyone else out. An attack is coming our way.”

  The airfield was rutted and pockmarked, the result of overuse and an attack the day before, causing the squadron to take longer than usual for takeoff. To compensate, they climbed steeper and faster than normal to gain height before engaging with the incoming enemy, at the cost of burned-up fuel. Then they orbited the airfield, scanning for bandits and listening to their controller. His instructions were firm. “Engage the big boys. Leave the little ones alone.”

  Jeremy’s heart beat faster than at other times when they had scrambled. Always before, they were sent to meet the enemy, first flying to altitude, then vectoring to intercept them. This time, they had almost been caught unawares, and now they circled, waiting for an impending attack on their home field.

  He scanned the southern skies, saw nothing, and scanned again. Then Fiske’s voice came across the radio. “Bandits at ten o’clock, low. Going for Tangmere.”

  Having deserted the vic formation in preference for the more flexible one copied from the Luftwaffe, all eyes focused on that section of the sky. “I see them,” Jeremy called. “Estimate fifty. No big boys.”

  A diamond-shaped formation of Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers/fighters flew into plain view with no escort. Squadron Leader Hope called the controller. “We see the bandits. No big boys but plenty of little ones. Request permission to attack.”

  “No.”

  As they watched, the Stukas flew over Tangmere and dipped their noses. Then their searing, signature whistle rode the winds as they plunged toward their targets, one bomb landing near 601’s dispersal hut and barely missing Squadron Leader Hope’s car.

  “Bloody hell,” he called, and against orders, uttered the command, “Tally-ho.”

  The delay was costly. Before the 601 fighters could get to the swarm of Stukas, it had destroyed seven Hurricanes on the ground at Tangmere as well as the officers’ mess and two hangars.

  Fiske’s voice came over the radio. Anger tinged it. “Blue flight. Follow me. Tally-ho.”

  With a fury, Jeremy and the fighters of Fiske’s wing dove into the flank of the Stuka formation, lining up, shooting, rolling out, and looping through tight turns to strike again and again. The Stukas, designed years ago as dive bombers, were slow and outclassed by advanced-design fighters, and were easy targets for the Hurricanes. Within minutes, they fled for the coast, only to be picked off by the pursuing, furious pilots of 601 Squadron.

  Jeremy climbed and dove, circled and looped, ignoring the stream of bullets from the Stukas’ rear gunners and delivering blistering fire on the slower aircraft, asking no quarter and offering none. The fight had become personal. These invaders had attacked his home base.

  He circled wide, scanning for more bandits, and saw one of 601’s Hurricanes struck. It had dropped its nose to go after yet another Stuka when a stream of tracers flew from the back turret, cutting across the nose of the friendly fighter and hitting the reserve fuel tank just behind the engine.

  Fire and smoke leaped from the Hurricane’s cockpit. Jeremy’s senses froze and his heart leaped into his mouth when he heard the next transmission.

  “I’m hit.”

  Jeremy recognized the voice he had come to know so well. Billy Fiske’s.

  “Bail out,” the controller called.

  “No, I think I can save the kite,” he replied. “I’m coming in.”

  “Bail out,” Jeremy yelled into his mic, and his earphones crackled with the voices of other 601 Squadron pilots urging the same action, but their calls went unheeded.

  The flaming Hurricane descended rapidly, leveled off, and settled to the field gracefully. Jeremy watched, his heart in his mouth, realizing with horror that the landing gear had not extended. Fiske’s plane landed on its belly and exploded in flames

  Jeremy watched an ambulance rac
e toward it. At the opposite end of the field, another Hurricane, preparing for takeoff, suddenly diverted and taxied toward the stricken plane.

  As the ambulance came to a halt, a medic jumped out and sprinted to the burning fighter. He leaped onto the wing, ignoring flames licking around him, struggling with and finally sliding the canopy back. More flames dived into the pocket that now had more air to consume.

  The second medic jumped onto the same wing, and together they struggled until finally they dragged an unresponsive figure from the cockpit. The pilot of the taxiing Hurricane halted, and Squadron Leader Hope jumped out and ran to where the medics had stretched the limp figure on the ground.

  Jeremy hurried his approach to the field, but he was slowed by the other Hurricanes attempting their own hurried landings, and by the time he had taxied to a halt by the dispersal hut, the ambulance had taken Billy Fiske away with third-degree burns to his ankles and wrists.

  Inside the hut, the 601 pilots gathered, awaiting word, but were unable to go to the hospital because they were still in a ready status. At last, the phone rang, and Hope took the call. He listened, mumbled a few words, then hung up and faced his pilots.

  “The word is not good,” he said, struggling to speak. “Rose is with Billy. Most of the flesh around both ankles is burned off. If he lives, his legs will have to be amputated below the knees. His hands and wrists are also badly burned, and he probably will not regain use of them.”

  The news was a dagger to the squadron’s heart. Stupefied pilots stood in shock, staring, speechless. They milled about searching for sense and meaning to emerge from the tragedy, but finding none, they tried to console each other. They found the effort empty, overwhelmed by the terrible reality of the loss of someone who had loomed so large in the world and in their lives; who had not only been a fellow flier and friend, but also a chum, ready to share their moments big and small.