Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  “That’s a key issue that’s probably solved,” Paul said. “I met with Lord Beaverbrook, the man Mr. Churchill put in charge of aircraft production. Since he’s taken over, the speed of output is greater by several factors.”

  “And what about the Stukas? Didn’t we see a few of those at Dunkirk?”

  “We did,” Paul said grimly. “They strafed and bombed our forces on the beach repeatedly. Those were defenseless men, their weapons deliberately destroyed because we had no room to bring them on the evacuation flotilla. Our soldiers could shoot back only with small arms fire.

  “The Nazis did the same thing in Poland, strafing convoys, civilian refugee crowds, women, children, and private homes. Those people were completely defenseless, and the Luftwaffe chewed them up like a meatgrinder. But back to the Stuka, it’s a capable aircraft, best in a dive where it is highly accurate, and built to be both a dive bomber and a fighter, but it’s slow.” A sudden thought crossed Paul’s mind. “But surely, sir, you don’t need me to explain all of this to you. I doubt I’ve told you anything new.”

  Menzies repressed a rare smile. “I told you your report was adequate. What do you make of Dowding’s strategy?”

  “The man is brilliant,” Paul stated without reservation. “But for him, I doubt we would have had a fighting chance against Göring’s Luftwaffe. Even with our Bletchley asset, if we had no ability to defend and strike back, the war might have been over. I was surprised to learn—”

  Menzies started to speak but changed his mind and just said, “Go on. What surprised you?”

  “That Sir Dowding was instrumental in having radar developed. His pushing of Robert Watson-Watt’s radar development and designs for Chain Home against stiff opposition is why we now see the enemy as it starts forming up over France. And he organized our airspace into sections and matched each of them with the radar towers for support. That gave us the ability to send our fighters up at a moment’s notice to meet the enemy on our terms. I understand the air marshal also played a big part in the Spitfire’s development.”

  “True, but you strayed from my last question. What about Dowding’s air war strategy—going for the bombers and not chasing the fighters back into France? What about Lee Mallory’s big wing theory?”

  A sudden sense of walking on thin ice overtook Paul. He took a deep breath and proceeded cautiously. “I am aware, sir, that there is a strenuous difference of opinion between Sir Dowding and the 12 Group commander, Sir Mallory. I’m sure that’s an issue best left to the senior levels and that I should probably address only what is current doctrine.”

  Menzies returned and sat behind his desk abruptly, then leaned forward and pointed his finger. “You work for me, Lieutenant,” he snapped. “I asked for your opinion, and I will have it. Rest assured that your comments will not leave this room.”

  With the sense of ice cracking and melting under his feet, Paul waded into an area of discussion that he knew only peripherally. He furrowed his brow. “Sir Dowding’s methods are proven. They put the fighters where they need to be at a moment’s notice, conserving time, fuel, pilot energy, and wear and tear on the aircraft. He obviously thought through and built an entire integrated early warning and air defense system that incorporated radar development and deployment; fighter aircraft design, production, and tactics; alert and rapid reaction procedures; the central command and control system; and the communications networks to support all of that.

  “He even thought through how best to engage the Luftwaffe. They initially tried to draw our fighters out, obviously to attrit them. Not taking them on then was good. Our radar gave us a true picture of the actual situation.” He chuckled. “I saw a destroyed ME 109 in front of a market along a road the other day. It had a sign over it that read, ‘Manufactured in Germany. Finished in England.’”

  Menzies broke a smile that even reflected a twinkle in his eyes. “British humor. Stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing.” Then he returned to his normal inscrutable expression. “The blokes who analyze the Bletchley intercepts would agree with you. A big mistake for Göring was when he chose to stop targeting our towers. Without them, we would be fighting blind. Go on. What about Mallory’s concept?”

  “Sir, this is my opinion only, and since it’s not in practice, I have no data by which to support it. However, reflecting back on the Germans’ disadvantages, we create those same disadvantages for ourselves with Sir Mallory’s big wing concept.”

  “In what way?”

  “His idea is to gather a huge force in the air and then attack a bomber formation en masse. The trouble with the notion is that he expends those resources that we have in such short supply: time, fuel, pilot energy, and combat-ready aircraft. The big wing might work for short engagements, but if they are long ones, we’ll have to bring our pilots back to base for refueling after a much-reduced time in combat because of having loitered aloft so long while forming up. We give up precisely the advantages gained by Sir Dowding’s tactics. And while we’re taking time to build the formation in the sky, the Germans are getting closer and closer to their bombing objective, thus increasing their probability of success.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. And what of Sir Dowding’s overall strategy? Why are we not pursuing Messerschmitts across the Channel?”

  “The answer to the second question is easy. We conserve fuel, keep our pilots alive to defend the homeland, and keep our planes healthy for the next missions. The idea is to beat them by attrition. We win by staying alive, and annual weather patterns will prohibit their invasion plans from being executed in the very near future—at least for this year.

  “They have many more bombers than we do, but in the skies over England, ours would be in the way. Taking them out of the equation releases more fighters that would otherwise have to provide security escort. Throw in that we can sortie ours several times a day against their attacking force, which is limited by fuel consumption, and we multiply our capability while they burn up their own. In spite of their numerical superiority, our home advantage brings the resources closer to equal.”

  “I don’t dispute anything you’ve said, but tell me more about the weather factors pertaining to Hitler’s invasion plan.”

  Paul viewed the director skeptically. “With all due respect, I feel like I’m defending a doctoral thesis more than informing you of something you don’t know.”

  “Just answer my question, Lieutenant.”

  Paul inhaled. “We’re approaching mid-September,” he said with a sense of explaining the obvious. “Autumn and winter storms will soon form over the Channel. Their ferocity will obviate Hitler’s ability to invade without drowning his army. I’m sure he knows that. He only has about a week left before that becomes the case.”

  Menzies acknowledged Paul’s response with a nod. Then, he peered at him through squinted eyes. “And what do you think of Mallory and Dowding as individuals?”

  Surprised, Paul rocked back on his feet. “Are you asking me to assess them?”

  “I’m telling you to do precisely that. If you were their superior, how would you evaluate them. I’m interested in particular in how you see their abilities.”

  “Wouldn’t I be impertinent to answer that?”

  “You’d be impertinent not to, Lieutenant. We are at war. You and I are in the intelligence business. Our duty is to question everything. What are the pilots saying?”

  “They’re very supportive of Sir Dowding,” Paul replied without hesitation. “They see the intricacy of his system and they know the bruising political battles he fought to get the funding and put it in place. Without him, we would be finished. In the final analysis, the pilots know he loves them and is in their corner, come hell or high water.”

  Menzies chuckled and then caught himself. “Isn’t that an American expression?”

  “It is. My father was born American.”

  “Ah, yes. I had forgotten. He and your mother are on Sark.” He reflected in silence, a flash of regret crossing his face. “Go
on. Tell me about Lee Mallory.”

  Paul hesitated. “Must I?”

  “You must.”

  “Then, simply put, he is seen as ambitious. My father would use another expression: showboating. Where Sir Dowding took personal risks to save the country, the gentleman you mentioned seems intent on seeking the Chief Air Marshal’s job, the one now held by his boss. His posturing is not a secret.”

  Menzies stared at Paul wordlessly. Then he shifted his attention to the written report again, flipped to the last page, and sat quietly reading.

  “I should tell you, sir,” Paul broke in, “that there is likely to be an addendum to my report.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “Sir Dowding arranged for me to observe inside the Group 11 Bunker at Uxbridge tomorrow. If I see anything of significance, I’ll write it up and forward it.”

  “All right, Lieutenant.” Menzies looked at his watch. “I’ll go over this more thoroughly later, but I have to get to a meeting in a few minutes.”

  Thinking his session with the director was ending, Paul started to rise.

  Menzies stopped him. “Before we finish, is there anything I should know that I haven’t asked about?” As he watched Paul contemplate, he added, “I see that you made some recommendations. Any that are pressing?”

  After a moment, Paul replied, “There are two, and they come from the pilots. I briefed the chief air marshal on them before submitting my report to you.”

  “And a good thing you did. He doesn’t like people prowling in his yard. Will the recommendations cost money?”

  “On the contrary, we could save money and pilots’ lives.”

  For the first time that Paul could recall, Menzies’ eyes widened in surprise. “Let’s hear them.”

  Paul cleared his throat. “May I take that tea now? My throat’s a bit dry.”

  Menzies waved him to the serving tray across the room.

  Paul kept talking as he poured, doctored his cup, and returned to his seat. “I’m not a fighter pilot, but I am a pilot, so I understand their concerns. In my view their recommendations have merit.”

  “Then I’m all ears.”

  Paul stared at Menzies, unable to discern if the comment had been sarcastic or sincere. “The current practice in shooting at the enemy is to set the gunsights so that pilots fire at a target from six hundred and fifty yards.” He chuckled. “The Polish chaps are an odd lot, but they are incredibly tenacious in fighting the Germans. They’re determined to win the war and get their country back. The tactics they use are what they developed in Poland defending against the invasion there. They swoop in and fire at two hundred and fifty yards, and they are the most effective pilots in the RAF.”

  Menzies tucked in his chin and adjusted his glasses. “And you told Dowding this? What was his reaction?”

  “Positive, I think, although he had studied the issue.”

  “Hmph. Well, I didn’t know that. If the recommendation is to shoot from two hundred and fifty yards, that sounds bloody good. What was the other recommendation?”

  Paul wetted his throat with tea. “This one’s more complex, but I’ll break it down.”

  “I understand complexities.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”

  “You didn’t. Go on.”

  “This issue was raised by veteran pilots who fought in France, but the newer ones are seeing and agreeing to the sense of the concept. It boils down to infantry tactics—”

  “We’re talking about an air war, Lieutenant. What does that have to do with infantry?”

  “Any infantryman knows that when soldiers are grouped together, they are more easily seen and form a larger target. The same holds true for aircraft. Currently, our fighters are trained to stay in tight formations at the same altitude, and almost abreast of each other. They call it the vic formation. Depending on the size of the sortie, some unlucky pilot will find himself assigned behind the other planes in the position of a ‘tail-end Charlie.’ His job is to fend off enemy attacks from the rear. To do that, he flies back and forth behind the formation, burning a lot of fuel, and he’s easy to pick off because no one is defending behind him. We’re losing a lot of new pilots because that’s where they’re placed.”

  Menzies rubbed his chin, concern evident on his face. “I’m aware of that issue. Good observation, but what is the cure.”

  “Solve the issues of our current formations, and the tail-end Charlie problem goes away. Our formations are easily spotted from a distance because they’re closely packed together. A squirt of hot enemy lead could take out several kites. Also, when the whole formation turns, the inside planes have to slow down in order for the outer ones to keep up. That means the formation slows down, and its vulnerability increases. Individual pilots can forget having a go at any Huns making haste back across the Channel.”

  Paul paused, formulating a thought. “My final comment comes from veteran pilots, and I believe it to be critical. They say they must expend more effort to maintain position in a tight formation than scanning the skies for bandits. Only the squadron leader can concentrate on spotting the enemy. The rest of the fighters are making sure they don’t crash into one another. That’s a lethal error.”

  Menzies’ expression turned grim. “I see that. Keep talking.”

  “The pilots want to adopt the German formation—the finger-four. It’s built on the idea that two fighters form a basic team. Where one flies, the other does too, and they watch out for each other. Two such teams form a flight of four aircraft. The Huns call it the Schwarm. They fly in loose formations, spread out like infantry, with their wingmen closer in at staggered altitudes. From a distance, the formation is much more difficult to spot, and when it turns, the outer planes move to the inside. No one slows down. The maneuver takes practice, but it’s effective.”

  “And the tail-end Charlie?”

  “There is none. The position is eliminated.”

  “Huh. That simple. And that’s what the pilots want to do?”

  Paul broke a mischievous smile in spite of himself. “They’re going to do it, sir, regardless of orders. When they’re convinced that they can stay alive longer and shoot down more enemy that way, no one will be able to stop them.”

  Menzies’ head bobbed as he once again stifled a smile. “You just can’t dismiss your independent streak, can you?”

  That brought a sharp reaction from Paul. He sat up straight and met Menzies’ eyes with a steady gaze. “I give it my best.”

  The director shot him a skeptical glare. “I’m sure you do.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get to that meeting, and you’re coming with me. Anything else before we go?”

  “Just one thing, sir. I make note of and emphasize in my report the incredible work done by our women in the WAAFs. I found nothing to recommend in that regard because they’re—”

  “I know. I read that and agree, but time is short. Now listen to me carefully. You are to tell no one about this get-together. After your previous debacle with secrecy regarding the Boulier network, I should have canned you, but your services are still needed, and they might now be required in a specific regard. Can you handle that?” Irascibly, he added, “Can you keep a secret?”

  Unnerved, Paul stuttered, “I-I’ll do my best.”

  “Well your best had better be better than the last time. Here’s the thing. I will not be in the meeting, and I know nothing of its subject other than that you will be offered a mission. If you decline, you will return to your post and we will never speak of it. Should you accept it, you’ll be absent from London for a considerable time, possibly the duration of the war, and no one can know of your whereabouts or what you’re doing. Do you understand all of what I just said?” He did not wait for a response. “And finally, knowing nothing more on the matter, do you wish to proceed to the next step? I should tell you that you were requested by name against my advice and recommendation.”

  Paul stood rooted in place, dumbfounded. “I hardly k
now what to say.”

  “Your answer should address only going to the next step. Say yes or no but get on with it. I don’t have time for dithering.”

  “Will this mission help the war effort?”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course it will, or it would not be contemplated. You have exactly thirty seconds to make up your mind or I will decide for you, and you will return to the billet you occupied before doing the air marshal’s study.”

  Paul’s heart raced, but he dared not take additional time to contemplate. “In that case, sir, I accept. I’d like to learn what this is about.”

  Menzies smacked his lips. “Hmm. Let’s be sure we understand each other. If your response is merely to satisfy your curiosity, then let’s call this off. If we proceed, you will be asked to undertake a task that I know nothing about. You should go forward only if you have a genuine desire to contribute to a high level of significance and with the mindset that, barring something unreasonable or outside your ability, you will accept. Is that understood? If so, do you still wish to go forward?”

  “Yes, sir, on both counts.”

  “Then come with me.”

  44

  Paul scarcely believed that he followed Brigadier Menzies out a side exit of the old MI-6 headquarters. They walked briskly along the street for three minutes to the architectural wonder that was the War Office building on Whitehall. Scarcely having a chance to take in its stately features, which in any event he had passed many times with barely a sideways glance, he found himself inside a maze of corridors and then tromping downstairs into a tunnel. Whether the atmosphere felt ghostly or stuffy, he had no time to discern, for Menzies made a quick right turn and motioned Paul into a room that was nearly dark.

  “Here he is, sir. He’s yours,” was all that Menzies said, and then closed the door, leaving Paul inside.

  The lieutenant staunched a gasp. The room was a small office, and sitting on the opposite side of the desk was none other than Prime Minister Winston Churchill.