Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Billy – his parachute didn’t open – and one of the new boys. He’s alive, but badly burned. He’s been packed off to the burns place at East Grinstead.’ Jock rubbed his brow; he suddenly looked exhausted. ‘So we’re a few pilots down, which means more flying for everyone else. We keep being sent new sprogs, but I can’t send them up. They’ll be more of a hindrance than a help and will get themselves shot down in a trice. At least at Boscombe we might get a chance to train them up a bit.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’ll be that easy there, Skip,’ Archie had said. ‘Our old pals at 629 Squadron have been pretty busy.’

  ‘Not so much now the fighting’s moved inland,’ said Ted. ‘It’s down here that the Jerries are really interested in.’

  ‘It should be a bit easier,’ said Jock. ‘I don’t think we’ll be called upon so much, but we’ll be there if we’re really needed. That’s what Happy told me.’

  ‘How do you think it’s going?’ asked Archie. ‘The battle, I mean? Do you think Jerry really will invade?’

  Jock smiled. ‘He’s not doing that well so far, is he? We’re still here. We’re still fighting.’

  ‘There’s the Navy too, don’t forget,’ said Charlie. ‘And all those mines in the Channel. I’m telling you, an invasion won’t be easy.’

  Jock pushed Charlie gently. ‘We won’t need to call on the Navy. We’ll see them off on our own. Look,’ he added, ‘they’ve not even knocked out one airfield yet, have they?’

  ‘I thought Manston had been abandoned,’ said Charlie.

  ‘All right – but that’s only one. It’s been hard going, I’ll admit, but I can’t see Jerry beating us. I can’t see it at all.’

  ‘So there’s your answer, Archie.’ Charlie grinned.

  Jock had yawned and stretched. ‘You know what? I should get myself a little flesh wound. A few days being looked after by the nurses and a bit of time off to convalesce would suit me to a tee right now.’

  ‘You didn’t mention you got shot down yesterday, Skip,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Sadly for me, I was unscathed,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Did you sing a song?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Did he sing a song? Did he ever!’ said Charlie.

  ‘My favourite ever Cole Porter,’ said Jock. ‘“Anything Goes”. Went down a storm, though I say it myself.’

  ‘Skipper’s got a surprisingly good voice,’ agreed Charlie. ‘I almost think he got shot down on purpose, just so he could show off.’

  Jock held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ve been found out.’

  ‘Just think, Skip,’ said Archie, ‘you wouldn’t have been able to do the song if you’d got yourself wounded.’

  ‘That,’ said Jock, ‘is a very good point.’

  Then Ted had said, ‘By the way, apparently a 109 can turn inside a Spitfire.’

  ‘I know. I saw it.’

  ‘They’ve been testing one at Farnborough,’ Ted continued. ‘The 109 has got slats to help it land and they can be released at around one hundred and forty miles per hour.’

  ‘And when you’re circling you lose speed.’

  ‘Exactly. So the canny Hun can drop his slats and out-turn a Spit. Doesn’t seem like a lot of Jerries have worked this out, though, but it’s worth bearing in mind.’

  ‘We learn something new every day,’ said Jock.

  They had left soon after, driving back in the skipper’s car for one last night at Biggin. Archie thought of them all now, away in the west: new digs, a new Mess, new dispersal. And a small part of him felt slightly left out.

  His father was there to meet him at Waverley. Archie stepped down on to the platform, having had a surprisingly good night’s sleep, and looked around at the dark red buildings that towered over Edinburgh’s station and then up at the castle, as immovable as ever, and felt time shrink. It all looked so familiar, so unchanged; it was as though he had never been away, and yet it had been three and a half very long months, before 629 Squadron had been posted south from Drem.

  As the steam cleared, he saw his father wave and stride towards him.

  ‘Dear boy!’ he called out.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Archie, grinning bashfully.

  His father embraced him, then, still clutching his son’s arms, said, ‘Let me look at you. How do you feel? You don’t look too bad.’

  ‘I’m fine. Leg twinges a bit. Itches more than anything and it’s a bit stiff, but otherwise I feel OK. Really.’

  ‘And you slept all right?’

  ‘Like a log.’

  ‘Well, your mother’s dying to see you. Has been preparing your favourite dinner especially.’

  ‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ said Archie. ‘I hope you haven’t used up too many petrol coupons.’

  His father waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. Doctor’s perks.’

  The drive took the best part of two hours, and then there they were, turning off the road from Aberfeldy, and running alongside the Tay.

  ‘You’ve managed to get some fishing in this year, then, Dad?’ said Archie.

  ‘A bit. I got a beauty one evening a few weeks ago – a lovely six-pounder. Fought like hell, but I landed him eventually. Tasted pretty good too.’

  ‘And is Strathtay still open? I wouldn’t mind a round or two if I can manage it before the week’s out.’

  ‘Yes, just about. But I’d take it a little steady, Archie. See how you go.’

  ‘I will,’ said Archie, although he was going to try his hardest to get at least one round of golf in.

  Nearly there, he thought, as they passed along the winding valley he knew so well, and then they were turning left up the track, bumping and jolting up the hill, past the farm and along the drive to their home. It was a glorious day; the house and the hillside on which it perched were bathed in sunlight. His father beeped the horn, Duff, their dog, began barking and running towards them, then his mother emerged, smiling, from the house. But no Maggie. He wished she could be there too – the whole family.

  ‘Hello, boy!’ he said, easing himself out of the car and making a fuss of his Labrador, who whined and turned in circles, his tail thumping against Archie’s leg. ‘Ow, Duff!’ he said, laughing, as his mother reached him. She hugged him tightly and for a moment Archie thought he might cry.

  ‘We’ve been so worried,’ she said, dabbing her eye. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you alive and looking so well – all things considered. I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her eyes again. ‘It’s just been such a worry.’

  ‘You’ll get me started in a minute,’ said Archie, laughing, but feeling a lump rise in his throat. ‘Anyway, I’m here, I’m all right.’

  She led him inside. It smelled just how it always smelled: of woodsmoke and bread, with a residual odour of damp dog, even in summer.

  ‘You’re limping a bit,’ said his mother.

  ‘Well, I did have six fragments of a Jerry cannon shell in my leg.’ He grinned. ‘But it’s getting better every day. I’m rather hoping Dad might take my stitches out in a day or two.’

  ‘Can you manage the stairs?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, and began climbing them, one at a time, his mother behind him.

  ‘Don’t fuss the boy, Kitty,’ said his father from the hallway.

  Archie turned and smiled. ‘You’re not fussing, Mum. It’s lovely to be here. To see you both. There are definitely advantages to being wounded.’

  His mother retreated all the same, and he was glad of that. He wanted to be alone when he went back to his old room. It had always been his: a room at the back of the house, that looked up to the hill behind, with stone walls and sheep on the lower slopes, and gorse and heather and bracken as it rose to the summit. There had been many times when he had lain in bed as a boy, the world beyond the window still bathed in golden summer evening light, the gentle bleating of sheep lulling him to sleep.

  Gently, he pushed open the door and stepped in. Everythin
g was as he had left it: his golf clubs in the corner alongside his fishing rod and cricket bat. On the chest of drawers were team photographs from school, a rugby ball, now soft, and a row of books: Biggles, Jeffery Farnol adventure stories, A Primer of the Internal Combustion Engine by Harold Wimperis. He picked it up – a dog-eared, battered copy, still smudged with oil stains. It had been a bible to him. Then he spotted the toy dog, long ago lost and then found again by his mother. On the walls were the same pictures: a framed map of the world, and a poster advertising the Schneider Trophy air races. And on his bed, there was Babbit – the worn and patched toy rabbit he had had since a baby.

  It was, he realized, the room of the boy he had once been – the teenager who had lived for machines and golf and tramping the hills. An innocent. A boy uncorrupted by killing and war.

  He slept that night with the sheep bleating on the hill, with Babbit beside him on his pillow and with the hope that his youth had not gone for ever. The following day, the weather was once again fine. He dug out some of his old clothes – a pair of bags and a cotton shirt and pullover. He was glad to be able to put the uniform away.

  ‘What are you going to do with yourself while you’re here, Archie?’ asked his father at breakfast as they ate their kippers.

  ‘Get some rest,’ said his mother.

  Archie rolled his eyes. ‘Of course, but I’d like to see McAllister tomorrow. That is, if you could give me a lift, Dad.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said his father amiably, ‘although perhaps we should go this afternoon – after lunch. He’s usually tinkering with something and I’m sure he’d want to see you. I’ve given myself a day off today, but I’m afraid I’ve got my rounds and surgery tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Archie. ‘Sooner the better.’

  His father raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I want to get a motorcycle with a sidecar and I remember McAllister had one, stuck away at the back of his garage. I was hoping it might still be there.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling it is. I seem to remember seeing it not long ago – although what condition it’s in, I couldn’t say. Another of McAllister’s half-finished projects that never seem to see the light of day.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘He’s a good fellow, though.’

  ‘Well, if he’s willing to let it go, I thought I might try to do it up.’

  ‘What, in your condition?’ said his mother.

  ‘I don’t need my leg to take an engine to pieces, Mum.’

  ‘Why can’t you add a sidecar to your Norton?’

  Archie rolled his eyes. ‘I could never do that to my Norton.’

  ‘Probably not powerful enough,’ said his father.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Archie.

  His father said, ‘You might find McAllister could do with the money. Have you got some stashed away, then?’

  ‘Not very much. Twelve shillings a day doesn’t go that far, and, to be honest, we tend to spend most of it, because you never quite know if –’ He stopped, seeing his mother’s anxious glance at his father. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said his father. ‘Carpe diem, eh? Seize the day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Archie. ‘Something like that.’

  After breakfast, he went with his mother to the farm to get milk and eggs. The McAndrewses were pleased to see him, as was old Mrs Lyall, who had called by. Mrs McAndrews told him how proud she was of him, and that she was certain Britain could stop Hitler. Mrs Lyall berated Hitler. What did he want? Why couldn’t he go back to Germany and leave everyone alone? Had he heard Churchill’s latest speech, Mr McAndrews asked? He then did a decent impression of the PM. ‘Never was so much owed by so many to so few!’ he said with a flourish, then he slapped Archie on the back and said, ‘That’s you, Archie my boy. How does it feel to be one of the Few, eh?’

  ‘There was a bit of a joke about that, actually,’ Archie told him. ‘We thought he was talking about our Mess bills.’

  McAndrews laughed and laughed at that. ‘Ha, ha, very good, Archie! I like that!’

  ‘Everyone’s so proud of you,’ said his mother as they walked back along the track. ‘They’re thrilled to see you.’

  ‘It was rather embarrassing,’ said Archie. ‘I mean, I know they meant well, but we don’t feel like heroes, you know. In the squadron – well, no one’s allowed to get above themselves. And we’re pretty self-contained. We get up, go to dispersal, fly – do what we’re told – hope we make it back again and then perhaps have a few drinks in the evening. We don’t see anyone, really, outside the squadron. The only reason I reckon I know anything about what is going on is because of Ted’s father. To be honest, in many ways I’d rather not know either. We try not to dwell on things too much.’

  After lunch, Archie and his father drove back down the valley road to Pitlochry. As his father had predicted, the wooden sliding door at the front of the garage was open.

  ‘McAllister!’ called out Archie’s father. ‘I’ve someone to see you.’

  A head appeared from a dark cavity at the back, then McAllister emerged. He was a small, wiry man with dishevelled, greying hair and a face etched with lines, especially at the corners of his eyes. McAllister was never a man to take life too seriously.

  ‘Ah, young Archie!’ he said, wiping oily hands on his boiler suit. ‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.’ Then, noticing Archie was leaning on one of his father’s sticks, he added, ‘What sort of tomfoolery have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Archie, ‘it was some Hun. Riddled my leg with cannon shell splinters.’

  McAllister shook his head. ‘Well, you’re in one piece still, so that’s something, and by the look of things it’s earned you a wee bit of time off from larking around the sky too.’ He winked. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you. How long have you got?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘And you’ll be needing something to do, no doubt.’ He grinned at Archie’s father.

  Archie looked sheepish. ‘That old Royal Enfield you had with the sidecar – have you still got it?’

  McAllister was rolling himself a cigarette. ‘Follow me,’ he said, leading them to the back of the garage. Archie loved the place. It was lined with workbenches filled with bits of engine, wrenches and other tools, there were old bicycles, and oil cans, and it smelled of oil and rubber and wood and dust. At the rear stood a dusty Model T Ford on blocks, but behind, in a dark corner, was a tarpaulin, which McAllister now pulled off to reveal the Royal Enfield with its sidecar still attached.

  ‘You mean this one?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Archie, his face breaking into a smile.

  ‘There’s a strange story about this one. A fellow brought it in, way back in – oh, let me see …’ He thought for a moment. ‘Must be 1932. Said it wasn’t firing properly. Anyway, I did some work on it and then wrote to him at the address he left and waited for a reply. I’m still waiting. The beggar’s still not paid me.’

  ‘So it’s not really yours, then, is it?’ said Archie’s father.

  McAllister lit his cigarette. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s been eight years. And he never paid me and never showed his face again. I reckon it’s mine all right now, don’t you? Mind you, Archie, you might not want the sidecar.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘It’s a Steib. German. Made by the enemy.’

  ‘I don’t give a fig about that,’ said Archie. ‘It’s perfect. And a 976 cc V-twin Enfield – it’s an absolute beauty. But the thing is, would you be willing to sell?’

  McAllister narrowed his eyes. ‘Would I be willing to sell? Hmm …’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘I’ll admit, I’ve not touched her in eight years now. And will I in the next eight? Probably not, truth be known. I tell you what, how about this: if you can get her up and running before your leave’s over, then you can take her with you. Consider it a kind of permanent loan, but if that mister ever shows his face again and de
mands his motorcycle back, then we might have to talk terms. But if you don’t get her going, then she stays here. That seem fair?’

  ‘Fair? That’s incredible! Wonderful! McAllister – thank you!’ Archie shook his hand vigorously.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve got someone to go in the sidecar, then?’ Another wink at Archie’s father.

  Archie felt himself redden. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. And I’ll bring her to see you.’

  ‘If you get the bike working again.’ He smiled and said, ‘Well, let’s wheel her out.’

  A number of boxes and old engine parts had to be moved, but eventually the path was clear and, between them, they rolled the bike out on to the forecourt.

  ‘She looks pretty good to me,’ said Archie’s father. ‘A bit dusty, the wheels need some air, and the sidecar could do with a spruce, but otherwise …’

  ‘She’s a beautiful bike, all right. “Made like a gun, goes like a bullet.” That’s what they say about these,’ said McAllister. ‘But you’ll need to strip that engine down. It’s been sat idle too long, and I reckon I thought one of the piston rings might need replacing. It was burning too much oil. I’ll bring her up to yours tomorrow morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘On second thoughts, let’s do it now, while the Doc’s here to help. We’ll get her on to the back of the pick-up.’

  Archie could not stop grinning. ‘I can’t thank you enough, McAllister. Really I can’t.’

  ‘So you think you’ll manage it, then? By Saturday?’

  ‘I know I will,’ said Archie. ‘I’m not going to let this one slip through my hands.’

  McAllister chuckled. ‘Good for you, Archie. Good for you.’

  26

  Black Saturday

  Saturday 7 September. A call at home at eight in the morning. It was Douglas Evill, Dowding’s Senior Air Staff Officer, on the line.

  ‘I’m sorry, Guy,’ he said. ‘But Stuffy needs you here by nine. He’s called a meeting with Park and Sholto Douglas and wants you there too. Can you get here?’