‘I was much the same,’ admitted Archie. ‘It all feels very real now, though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes – yes, it does. At least we’ve shot down some of theirs. Avenged Dennis.’
‘Yes, but don’t you feel – I don’t know … We’ve killed people now, Ted.’
‘But they were trying to kill us. It’s war.’
‘I know. I don’t feel any different. I’m the same person, but … Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying, really. My brain’s gone to pot. I love flying, that’s all I ever wanted to do – fly. Not kill people.’
‘Or get killed.’
‘I’d really rather not.’
Another pause, then Ted said, ‘What did those Tommies who rescued you think was going on?’
‘I don’t know. They said it had been chaos. They blamed the French – they said it was the Frogs withdrawing either side of them that meant they then had to pull back too. The despatch rider who gave me a ride to Dunkirk reckoned we were done for.’
‘Do you think he was right?’
‘I don’t know. It did seem pretty chaotic. Refugees everywhere, Jerry dive-bombers attacking at will. We missed a Stuka attack by a whisker. One bomb fell only a few hundred yards behind us. It was pretty hairy, I must admit.’
‘Blimey.’
‘There were Jerries right where I came down. I was so lucky, Ted, really I was. These Tommies pulled me out. I was out cold at the time and when I came to, there were Jerry machine guns firing at us, bullets whizzing over our heads. I thought we’d never get away. But we did. Our chaps had set fire to my Spit and the smoke gave us cover.’
‘Must have been terrifying.’
‘I was still a bit too dazed to feel really scared.’ He sighed. ‘What a day! Honestly, I can’t believe I’m here.’
‘So do you think France will throw in the towel?’
‘I don’t know. I always thought France was supposed to be pretty strong, but when you have Jerries firing at you and bombing you, it does make you think it’s all going rather badly.’
‘We’ll be next.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. And it’ll be up to us to try and stop them. I think that’s why I can’t sleep. I’m scared, Ted. To tell the truth, I feel out of my depth. I’ve been lucky today, but even if I was a cat, I reckon I’ve used up at least three lives today.’
‘Look on the bright side – at least you know how to get out of a vertical spin with your engine on the blink.’
Archie laughed. ‘That’s true. Every cloud has its silver lining. And actually, talking of Stukas, I must talk to the skipper tomorrow. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be, you know.’
‘Really? They looked pretty damn ferocious to me.’
‘Well, yes, maybe if you’re underneath one when they’re dropping bombs, but they’re sitting ducks when they come out of a dive. They go so slow they’re almost at a standstill. I reckon you watch them attack, then pounce. We could slaughter ’em.’
He yawned, then heard Ted follow suit. A moment later, he finally drifted off to sleep.
Archie slept in, not waking until nearly nine o’clock. There was no sign of Ted – his bed was made and only a damp, scrunched up towel showed that he had been in the room that morning. A quick shower, and then Archie dressed and went downstairs, checking his pigeonhole before heading off in search of some breakfast. There was one letter for him, from his mother, in her familiar, slanting handwriting.
He was ravenous, and, having persuaded the cooks to make him some tea and toast, he sat down to read the letter.
Dear Archie,
I hope this finds you well. All is fine here, I think. The May dawn chorus is louder than ever and the hill is full of spring flowers. How is your flying? I do hope you are being careful. Your father has joined the Local Defence Volunteers, and has brushed down his uniform from the last war and managed to dig out an old service revolver and his shotgun. He says the uniform still fits him like a glove, but Maggie and I have been teasing him and telling him it’s far too tight and that he needs to lose weight. As you can imagine, he’s getting very cross with us and says that in a time of war there are more things to worry about than an old service tunic being a little bit tight around the girth. God only knows what good he’ll be if he and the others ever come up against a German paratrooper, because they are mostly men over fifty and, to be fair to your father, he’s about the fittest. Maggie says they ought to be called the Old Age Defence Volunteers. Your poor father – he’s feeling very outnumbered at the moment. He needs you back to balance things out. Do you think you might get any leave? I suppose it is unlikely at the moment, what with everything that’s happening in France. We’ve been listening to the news and reading your father’s Times, and praying things improve over there.
Archie smiled. Poor Dad, he thought. Still, he guessed his father and his friends would be enjoying strutting around in their uniforms, feeling as though they were doing something important for the war effort.
He read on.
Your sister has got it into her head to become a pilot too, and join what is called the Air Transport Auxiliary. Will you write to her, Archie, and make her see sense? I’ve never heard of anything more ridiculous, but she’s absolutely determined to apply. She needs our approval at the moment, but she’s eighteen next week and can then do as she pleases. Don’t forget her birthday, will you? I know you have a lot to think about, but it would mean a great deal to her if you remembered.
Mrs McDuff and I were cleaning your room the other day and found that little toy dog you loved so much as a boy. Do you remember the tears when you lost it? My, we turned that room upside down looking for it, but there it was, wedged behind the chest of drawers, there all along! Anyway, I’ve washed him and he looks much better. I’ve put him on top of the chest of drawers, where he sits watching over your room.
Do take care, Archie.
Your ever loving,
Mum
P.S. I saw Mr McAllister the other day. He asked after you and wants to know if that motorcycle of yours is still going strong.
Archie finished reading and put the letter into the top pocket of his tunic. Leave – fat chance! He wished he could go home – May was his favourite month. When he had last been back, before rejoining the squadron, there had still been snow on the hills and it had been cold. Spring always arrived late in Perthshire and then summer arrived with a gallop. He shook his head. A year ago, he’d been back for the Easter holiday, without a care in the world.
Wandering over to dispersal, he found the rest of the pilots. It was a warm day and some were already sitting outside on the grass in deckchairs.
‘Ah, here’s our wounded hero at last,’ said Pip, looking up. ‘How’s the head, Archie?’
‘Almost right as rain,’ he replied. ‘Where’s the skipper?’ Then he saw Ted standing in the doorway looking restless.
‘In the hut,’ said Pip. ‘Doesn’t look like we’re needed today.’
Archie found Dix sitting in one of the battered leather armchairs, talking to Will and Calder, the Intelligence Officer.
‘Just the man,’ said the CO, looking up. ‘You can tell Cally about your 109.’
‘I’d forgotten about that,’ said Archie.
‘Such modesty,’ said Will. ‘No line-shooting from Archie.’
‘So,’ said Calder. ‘You reckon you got an Me 109, do you?’
‘I’m certain,’ said Archie. ‘I saw bits of it flying off and smoke poured out and then it began diving towards the ground.’
‘But did you actually see it hit the ground?’
‘Well, no, because by that time I was in a vertical spin myself, but –’
‘Can’t give it, I’m afraid,’ Calder cut in.
‘Hang on,’ said Archie. ‘What I was going to say was I heard from at least four different men of the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers that it had gone down and exploded.’
‘I’m convinced,’ said Dix.
‘How did they know
it was your one?’ asked Calder.
‘They all said so. They saw me shoot it down then saw me get hit myself. I was practically over Cassel at the time. I’d say ask them, but they’re probably a bit busy fighting the Germans at present.’
Calder rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Oh, all right,’ he said at length. ‘You know we’re supposed to have proper corroboration, not second-hand confirmation, but you’ve such an innocent face, Jackson, I’m willing to believe you this time.’
‘Thank you,’ said Archie. He turned towards Dix. ‘Actually, Skip, I had something to tell you. From yesterday, that is.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes, it was on the trip back across the Channel. We were attacked by Stukas.’
Will raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything else happen to you yesterday, Baby?’
Archie explained. ‘It’s just a thought,’ he said when he’d finished.
‘You obviously have to make sure there aren’t swarms of Messerschmitts about, but, yes, it’s a thought,’ Dix said. ‘I’ve already seen more than I care to of them on the newsreels. Jerry obviously thinks they’re the bee’s knees.’
‘So it would be even more satisfying to start knocking them out of the sky,’ said Will.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ Dix smiled. ‘Could you write me a little report, Archie? Then I can forward it to Fighter Command HQ. Actually, we could give it to Ted’s old man as well. He’s in Air Intelligence, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, Skip,’ said Archie.
‘Good,’ said Dix, clapping his hands together. ‘And I hear you’re grounded?’
Archie nodded. ‘But I’m fine. Honestly.’
‘I’m sure, but we’re not on ops today and it’s B Flight’s turn tomorrow, so I’m going to give you and Ted twenty-four hours. You’ve both got a couple of Jerries to your name, so I think you’ve probably earned it. Anyway, I’m not sure I can cope with seeing Ted hanging about here fidgeting all day long.’
‘Are you sure, Skip?’ said Archie.
Dix waved him away. ‘Go and have some fun, and come back tomorrow lunchtime ready for action.’
Archie grinned. ‘Thanks, Skip!’
An hour later, they were on their way, speeding out of Northolt on Archie’s Norton, and heading east along Western Avenue towards London.
‘You’re to come and stay at my place,’ Ted had told him, ‘and then tonight we’ll go out. We could see a show, or go to a club. We’ll decide nearer the time. The point is, we’re going to have some fun. God knows, if things are really that bad, we might as well while we’ve got the chance.’
‘All right,’ Archie had agreed. ‘For twenty-four hours, let’s forget about the war.’
7
Intelligence Brief
Saturday 25 May, around 11 a.m. Group Captain Guy Tyler sat at his desk in the main Air Ministry building in King Charles II Street reading through the minutes of the morning’s Joint Intelligence Committee meeting. As Deputy Director of Air Intelligence, he had a seat on the JIC. Every morning at eight, he and other members of Air Intelligence would meet with their counterparts in the Navy and Army and the previous day’s, and night’s, intelligence would be gathered together and discussed. It was then written up and sent as a single intelligence summary to both the War Cabinet – the prime minister and his four senior ministers – and the Chiefs of Staff, the heads of the British Armed Services. It was on the basis of these intelligence summaries that many of their decisions were made.
Guy Tyler sighed wearily, rubbed his forehead, then sat back in his chair and turned to look out of the window. His office was on the fourth floor and, from where he sat, he could see Whitehall a short distance to his right, St James’s Park away to his left, and in the distance, through the rapidly blossoming trees, Buckingham Palace and the golden Victoria Memorial. This was the heart of Britain – of her Empire – not much more than a stone’s throw from where he sat, and yet he wondered now whether he was about to witness its end, whether soon there would be Nazi swastikas fluttering overhead, not Union Jacks, or royal banners.
He remembered how, after the last war, as a twenty-seven-year-old squadron leader, he had nearly left the RAF, but then had had a change of heart and remained. As Britain had faced one financial crisis after another, as the nation was crippled by national strikes, he had found little cause to regret his decision. He had a job, a regular monthly income, could provide his two children with decent educations, and make sure his wife lived a comfortable and largely secure existence. It was precisely the kind of life he’d gone through hell for in the last war. What’s more, he’d been given the chance to see a bit of the world. He’d been posted to India, Iraq and then Palestine, before being posted home and given a job in Air Intelligence.
He’d been thrilled at the time. It had been the right moment to settle back in England, what with his children growing fast and his wanderlust satisfied, and the prospect of being able to help build a picture of what was going on in Germany, Italy and other European countries was both exciting and stimulating. It was vital work, after all.
But ever since the German invasion of Norway in April, Group Captain Tyler had found his job increasingly depressing. His task was to collate and co-ordinate all the latest knowledge they had on the German air force – its intentions, its strength, its dispositions, its reserves of both aircraft and aircrew – as well as their daily losses. Most of this came from the ‘Y’ Service, young men and women in Air Intelligence whose job it was to listen to as much intercepted radio traffic as they could. This might be a pilot talking in his aircraft, or a wireless station in Berlin, or some other signal.
Tyler knew there were also people busy trying to break enemy cipher codes, and some had indeed already been cracked, but he was conscious that code-breaking was only another strand in the intelligence network. There were also their own aircraft, taking photographs as they flew over France and the Low Countries and even Germany itself, just as he had done countless times himself in the last war. The film was then developed and carefully analysed. The results would then be sent to Air Intelligence HQ, here at the Air Ministry.
And he found they made for dismal reading. It had been bad enough in April, as the Germans had swept up through southern Norway, and the Luftwaffe had waltzed in and occupied the country’s airfields. By the time the RAF had reached Norway, it was too late. Their planes were knocked out barely before they’d touched down.
At the Air Ministry, Tyler had then watched it all get horribly worse. He wasn’t alone in thinking the French Army of the Air seemed incapable of doing anything much, while the Luftwaffe seemed to hold all the aces: they were the attackers and had concentrated their forces at the point of attack. As in Norway, by the time the Allies had responded, it was too late. On 10 May German forces had plunged forward through the Low Countries while the Luftwaffe had attacked the airfields. The Dutch air force had been knocked out on the ground, the French air force was spread all round the country, and the RAF could only respond belatedly to whatever reports came in.
If the air picture wasn’t bad enough, the story on the ground was worse. Guy Tyler almost wished he didn’t know, that he had been kept in the dark, but the JIC had met every morning for the past two weeks – meetings that had been held in an atmosphere of unrelieved gloom. Within five days, Holland had surrendered, as the Germans swept through the Netherlands and into Belgium. In the south, near Sedan, the Germans had breached the French defences. The day that Holland capitulated, the Germans punched a hole fifty miles deep and the French front had begun to collapse. As it did so, the Belgians and the British Expeditionary Force, the BEF, had been forced to pull back too.
Five days ago, the Germans had reached the French coast, south of Calais, and were turning north, squeezing the BEF and what French forces remained in the north into a narrow corridor. Soon the Belgians would surrender too – it was as certain as night following day – and then the BEF would be trapped in a giant pincer movement, with nowhere to go but back int
o the sea – that is, if the Germans didn’t link up behind their backs first, and with the fall of Calais, that seemed more than likely.
As Tyler was aware, plans were hurriedly being put in place to evacuate the entire BEF through Dunkirk. The Royal Navy was massing ships, and RAF Fighter Command, established purely to defend Great Britain, was now being forced to send more and more aircraft over to France to provide air cover. As the evacuation began, so Fighter Command’s precious fighters would be expected to protect the men and ships from the Luftwaffe. Tyler could see what would happen: far too many would be shot down or destroyed, leaving Britain’s air defence horribly weakened when Germany turned on England. And what was so terrible was that it would be a wasted effort in any case.
Tyler had always thought of himself as an optimistic fellow, a glass-half-full sort of chap, but that morning, as he read through the latest intelligence summary, it looked odds on certain that within a few days the whole British field army – men, guns, vehicles, ammunition, tanks, everything – would cease to exist. And to make matters worse, his son – his precious, adored only son – was one of those now expected to help the retreating BEF. To help save Britain.
Tyler sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face. He supposed his own parents must have felt every bit as worried about him during the last war as he did about Ted now. He’d not thought much about that at the time. Flying had been such an adventure. He’d enjoyed the war on the whole. It had been exciting, a thrill to fly ever-improving biplanes, and, because he had been both a good pilot and an excellent shot, he had always flown with a degree of confidence that he knew many others did not share. The losses had been appalling – of course they had – but one got strangely used to it; one learned how to become detached. And during the winter, when those poor beggars on the ground had been swilling around in the mud, he and his fellows had been twenty miles behind in decent digs and getting fed and watered pretty well.
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