Since then, he had thought of her frequently. He wanted to ask Ted about her, but that would make an issue of it, and open himself up to a ribbing from his friend, and he didn’t want that. And what if he was reading more into it than he should? What if Tess was simply being friendly? He realized just how little he knew about life. It was strange: he was expected to fly against the enemy, to take the lives of German pilots and aircrew, and yet he himself had barely lived at all.
He folded away the letter. He would say nothing to Ted, not yet, but secretly he hoped that as soon as they were given the time, the two of them would head back to London and then he could see Tess again. In the meantime, there were letters. If he wrote back to her, then perhaps she would write back to him. Surely that was all right. She could not take a letter the wrong way. Could she?
Archie stretched and yawned, and then got up and went back inside the hut, took some writing paper from his gas-mask bag and sat down to write at one end of the table.
Dear Tess,
Thank you for the scarf. It was a lovely surprise and very clever of you to remember. It’s also a much better scarf than the one I lost. I shall wear it every time I fly. Actually, you were right – we have been quite busy, but Ted and I are OK. Poor Ted had a slightly hairy time yesterday flying back with a u/s engine, which decided to cut out before we reached our ’drome. Fortunately, he glided in the last bit and landed all right. Our CO was shot down the other day, but plenty of people saw him bail out, so I’m sure he’s fine. Poor Will Merton-Moore bought it yesterday, which was very sad, as he was a good friend. Oh, well, I suppose you have to accept these things. Anyway, Ted and I are fine and this morning are making the most of not flying.
I’m not sure when we’ll get some time off, but I hope it will be soon and then we will come into London and hopefully we can see you. I would like that very much.
Outside, an engine suddenly started up, its deep, guttural roar tearing apart the peace and quiet that reigned over their corner of the airfield. Archie cursed to himself – the sound would wake up those who were sleeping. Sure enough, a moment later Ted appeared.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Catching up on some letters.’
Ted stood over him. ‘Who are you writing to?’ He peered down at Archie’s scrawling handwriting.
‘Your sister, if you must know. Thanking her for the scarf.’
Ted looked at him and grinned. ‘I see.’ He picked up a magazine and sat down in one of the deckchairs. ‘Better let you get on with your love note, then.’
‘It’s not a love note,’ Archie retorted, too quickly, and felt his cheeks blush.
Ted held up his hands. ‘All right, all right. No need to be so touchy about it.’
Archie sighed. He signed the letter, folded it and put it in an envelope, then took out another sheet of paper. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’m writing home. Long overdue.’
‘Are you going to wear it, then?’
‘What?’
‘The scarf?’
‘It’s a nice scarf. Of course I am.’
Ted was quiet a moment. ‘I don’t mind, you know.’
‘Mind what?’
‘If you and Tess – you know.’
‘She’s just being friendly.’
‘She’s got the hots for you, Archie! Course she has, or else she wouldn’t be sending you swanky silk scarves.’
‘Look,’ said Archie, putting down his pen. ‘I spent a few hours with her while you were chatting up Polly, and now she’s sent me a scarf. I like your sister very much but at the moment nothing’s happening.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Ted, holding up his hands again in mock surrender. ‘I’m just saying I don’t mind, that’s all.’
Archie turned back to his letter. He had neglected his family – he’d not written all week, and they would be worried about him. He suddenly felt a flush of irritation – cross with himself for forgetting them and with Ted for embarrassing him.
Dear Mum, Dad and Maggie,
I hope you are all well. Sorry I haven’t written for a little while, but it’s been very busy here. No doubt you’ve heard about the evacuation that’s been going on. Well, we’ve been flying over it and it’s quite a sight, I can tell you. I had a bit of an adventure the other day. I managed to bag a couple of Huns, including one of their fighters, a Messerschmitt 109, but then got hit in the engine and crash-landed in a field. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I managed to get home again OK, with nothing more than a scratch on my forehead. Since then, we’ve flown almost non-stop this past couple of days. Ted and I shot down a Jerry bomber and it dived down into the cloud, its engine on fire. Although Ted and I know perfectly well that that Junkers could do nothing but plough into the ground, because we can’t prove it, the IO says its only a ‘possible’. Since then, I’ve shot down another 109, which was seen, so my confirmed score is three. I got a few bullets in my kite yesterday, but it didn’t really cause any damage. We’ve lost a few good chaps, including the CO and Will Merton-Moore. Do you remember me telling you about him? He was a good sort and will be missed.
Today is a lovely morning and we’re not flying, so I’ve at last got a chance to catch up on my letters and write to the folks back home. How is home? I miss not being there. It’s my favourite time of year. Are you getting enough petrol coupons, Dad? And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Mum, but I think Maggie should join the ATA if she wants to. Flying is the best thing in the world and it’s not as though she would have to tussle with Huns or anything like that.
No one’s sure what will happen after France. Personally, I hope we’re given some leave. Being a fighter pilot is tiring work!
All my love,
Archie
He put down the pen, read it through, then folded and sealed it in an envelope. The tone was about right, he thought. Not too much detail – he didn’t want to worry them too much – but he did want to tell someone about his score. He couldn’t talk about these things in the squadron, but it was all right to tell his own family.
He wondered whether they would be flying that day. They were still on standby, ready to be scrambled at a moment’s notice, with Pip acting CO. But the squadron was now badly under strength. No replacements had come through yet, so they were down to just fourteen pilots. Perhaps they would be stood down. He wondered what would happen, then chided himself. What would be, would be. Right now, he decided, it was better to live in the present.
They were finally scrambled at four o’clock that afternoon and ordered to fly to Rochford once again. From there, having refuelled, they were ordered into the air at 7.30 p.m., once more to patrol Dunkirk. The skies were clear apart from the smoke cloud over the port and, after half an hour flying up and down the patrol line, they spotted a flight of enemy bombers. Before they could take them on, however, there were a dozen Me 110s to deal with. Rather than dive for the bombers, Pip chose to confront the fighters. Archie fired at several, saw strikes on two, but could claim nothing. He escaped the dogfight unscathed, as did Ted. The squadron claimed three shot down – Archie certainly saw two diving out of the fray trailing smoke – but they lost two more of their own. Hank McNair, the American, was seen bailing out over the sea, while Paul Hunt, a B Flight pilot, was seen going down in flames.
That night, when they finally reached Northolt once more, they all went to the Mess at Pip’s insistence. Lined up along the bar were eight upturned pint glasses.
‘To our friends and comrades in the best squadron in the RAF,’ said Pip, raising his tankard. ‘May they live on and never be forgotten. And,’ he said. ‘And.’ He touched the corner of his eye. ‘Let’s hope this past week has been the squadron’s darkest hour. From now on let’s pray things start to get a little bit better.’
Yes, thought Archie. Let’s hope so. Because if they continued losing pilots at their current rate, within a couple of weeks there wouldn’t be one man left standing.
12
Victo
ry Roll
Tuesday 4 June, around 6 a.m. A beautiful morning already, just a light haze over the Channel but it was dispersing fast. Away to the east, Archie could still see the smoke cloud over Dunkirk, that ever-present marker rising high, high into the air, but beyond, in the east, the sun was already well clear of the horizon, and the sky above was clear blue, with nothing more than a few wisps of high cirrus.
It was the squadron’s first sortie in three days, but it already felt like a long morning: up at three, before first light, down to dispersal, where their Spitfires were already being run up, the cacophony of Merlins tearing apart the pre-dawn. Then at first light they’d taken off, all twelve aircraft, this time to Eastchurch, known only to Gordon, Tony and Colin who had accidentally flown there five days before. Five days! Archie thought as they approached the airfield. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
A quick mug of coffee at Eastchurch, a slice of buttered toast and marmalade, and then a mixed flight of two sections had been sent over to patrol Dunkirk once more, Archie flying as Pip’s wingman at Blue Two. They had climbed to eighteen thousand feet, and once again Archie had marvelled at how small the world seemed from that height. As they headed north, then turned south, with France and the sun on their port side, he glanced across at southern England, and there it was, stretching away, the finger of Kent, the Medway and Thames estuaries, the curve of East Anglia, just as it was on the maps. How did they make maps? he wondered. How did they do it before there were aeroplanes? Concentrate, he chided himself.
He looked around – behind to his left, to his right, up and then down. Below, steaming across the sea, were two ships, the vivid lines of their wakes white against the deep blue sea. As usual, the ships were taking a circuitous route – to avoid minefields, apparently – and so were well north of Dover and still far out at sea.
He looked around him again, then at his dials, then at Pip up ahead, the Spitfire bowing up and down slightly; it was hard to fly perfectly straight and level. Another glance around, and this time he saw a formation of aircraft, about two miles away, he guessed – he could only just make them out. They were heading north-west, in the direction of the ships.
‘Nimbus Leader, this is Blue Two,’ said Archie over the R/T, remembering his radio procedure for once. ‘Twelve bandits, angels twelve, crossing the coast now at ten o’clock.’
‘Good spot, Archie.’ Pip’s voice crackled in his ears. ‘We’ll turn back north, dropping height, then attack out of the sun. All of you keep a close watch out for the snappers. Over.’
Archie, on the port side of the formation, followed Pip as they banked and turned north. Where were those snappers, those Messerschmitts that always seemed to turn up and spoil the party? He swivelled his head, glad to feel the soft silk of Tess’s scarf against his neck. They flew on, the sun bright to the east. Archie felt his heart quicken once more. If the enemy fighters turned up, it would almost certainly be from straight out of the sun.
On they flew, heading north-east, then, keeping themselves between the sun and the advancing enemy aircraft, banked again. As they manoeuvred, Archie lost sight of the enemy bombers – they were still some way off and the sky was a big, big place. It was often hard to spot tiny aircraft until one was almost right on top of them, but then he saw a glint of sunlight on metal or perhaps the perspex of the canopy, and immediately spotted the wake of the two ships. The enemy were almost over the vessels.
‘All right, chaps, here we go,’ said Pip. Archie glanced around once more – still nothing. The Stukas were now just a mile or so away and a couple of thousand feet below. Another glance behind – my God, that sun is bright – and then they were gently diving down towards them and Archie saw to his delight that the enemy formation were Stukas. Good, he thought, now’s the chance to test the theory.
The Stukas were only a mile ahead and about fifteen hundred feet below them, and, it seemed, still oblivious to the threat above and behind them.
‘This is Nimbus Leader,’ said Pip over the R/T, ‘get ready.’
Archie squeezed his legs against the control column, then with both hands lowered his goggles over his eyes and switched the gun button to fire. Suddenly the first of the Stukas began its dive, then the second and third. They had split into flights, one group attacking one ship, the second the other. In front of him, Pip flipped over and dived and he now followed him down. As the first Stuka emerged from its dive, he saw Pip open fire, and saw smoke burst from the dive-bomber’s engine. ‘Ha!’ he said out loud, as he homed in on the second of the Stukas. There went its bomb, way wide of the lead ship, and then the Stuka pulled up and tried to bank away out of trouble. Archie followed, watching it fill his reflector sight. Hold on, hold on, he told himself, and then, at less than two hundred yards, with the waddling Stuka big in his target circle, he pressed his thumb down on the tit.
The Spitfire juddered, and wispy tracer fizzed across the sky and appeared to strike the cowling. A moment later, he hurtled over it, thundering past the stricken machine. Archie craned his neck, saw a puff of smoke from the Stuka’s engine, then put on full boost and climbed vertically, feeling himself slammed into the back of his seat, until he was upside down. Then he rolled the Spitfire, the sky and sea swivelling the right way up, and dived back down. His Stuka had banked and turned in towards the ship, diving down to the deck, its only chance of escape.
‘You’re not getting away from me,’ muttered Archie to himself. The dive-bomber was just a few hundred feet above the water, barely clearing the lead destroyer, but, swooping down, Archie carefully lined up his target once more. With the Stuka at just a hundred and fifty yards, limping large in his sights, he pressed down again on the gun button and watched bullets and tracer spew towards it. A second later, he was hurtling over the Stuka again. Craning his head, he saw a burst of flame and smoke. Archie banked again for a better view. It was as if the Stuka wobbled in the air, then it plunged into the sea. ‘That’s for Will,’ he said.
He continued his turn and, just a hundred feet off the water, he flashed past the lead ship. As he did so, something caught his eye.
‘No,’ he said out loud. ‘It can’t be!’
Archie flew on, climbed and rolled once more, then dived back down towards the destroyer. Although he knew he should climb back into the fray, curiosity got the better of him. Pulling back on the throttle, he slowed the aircraft, lifted his goggles on to his head and glanced out over his port wing. There, at the bow of the ship, he saw one of the soldiers waving an orange scarf. The orange scarf he had given them as he’d left them in Cassel.
‘Brilliant!’ he said out loud. They got away. He laughed and pulled back his canopy and waved, then, opening the throttle, sped on, climbing into the sky and rolling so that he was facing the ship once more. Where were the others? He saw another Stuka plunging into the sea a little distance away, looked up and spotted several wheeling, turning aircraft, then thought, Oh, well, what the heck. Archie laughed again, opened the throttle wide, and hurtled towards the starboard side of the ship. A hundred feet off the deck. Three hundred and forty miles per hour. As he went past, he eased back on the stick, felt the Spitfire start to climb, then pushed to the left and saw the horizon spin three hundred and sixty degrees. He whooped with joy, waggled his wings, then turned for home.
Later, in the early afternoon, they flew back to Northolt. The squadron had claimed four Stukas destroyed and two possibles. Archie now had four confirmed kills, Ted three.
‘You know what this means,’ Pip had said as they’d gathered at dispersal at Eastchurch, ‘one more and you’ll be an ace.’
‘I’ll tell you what it means,’ said Mike.
‘What?’ said Archie.
‘You’re buying the first round of drinks in the bar tonight.’
When they arrived back at Northolt, they were immediately stood down. ‘I’ve just been talking with the adj,’ Pip told them. ‘The evacuation’s over, chaps.’
‘So now what?’ asked Ted.
&
nbsp; Pip shrugged. ‘We wait for Jerry, I suppose. And in the meantime, we’re all going to have a party in the bar tonight.’
‘The PM’s speaking on the radio later,’ said Reynolds, the adjutant. ‘Addressing the nation. We should listen to that, don’t you think?’
‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Perhaps he can tell us what on earth is going on.’
They dined early and were in the bar for the prime minister’s broadcast. Archie had dutifully bought the first round for the pilots, as well as Calder and Reynolds, and now, with their pints in their hands, they huddled around the radio, listening.
Churchill recounted the events of the past three weeks in his low, rumbling voice, and they listened in silence until he said, ‘Meanwhile, the Royal Air Force …’ whereupon everyone cheered. Their fighters, he said, ‘struck at the German bombers, and at the fighters which in large numbers protected them. This struggle was protracted and fierce. Suddenly, the scene has cleared, the crash and thunder has for the moment – but only for the moment – died away. A miracle of deliverance, achieved by valour, by perseverance, by perfect discipline …’
‘He obviously hasn’t heard us on the R/T,’ said Pip.
‘… by resource, by skill, by unconquerable fidelity, is manifest to us all.’ He talked of the ‘great trial of strength’ that had taken place between the German and British air forces, and made it clear that the Germans had paid dear. The Luftwaffe might have four times as many aircraft, but Britain’s pilots had not stinted. He likened the young pilots of the RAF to knights of the Round Table, to crusaders. ‘May it not also be,’ he growled, ‘that the cause of civilization itself will be defended by the skill and devotion of a few thousand airmen?’
Battle of Britain Page 12
