Half an hour after the raid had begun, the bombers were gone, the lights were suddenly switched off and darkness fell on the city, but away to the east they could still see the flickering glow of fires.
‘It’s like the Great Fire all over again,’ said Tess. She wrapped her arms around her. Archie shivered too. It had grown cold. ‘To think they’re actually attacking London,’ she added. ‘It’s incredible. I can hardly believe what we’ve just seen.’
Mrs Atkins had done her best, but the cutlets were lukewarm by the time they sat down again. Archie no longer felt particularly hungry. He sensed the others felt rather the same. Even Mary’s determination not to be cowed seemed to have been dented by this third raid of the day, and so they sat around the table, picking at their food, the conversation subdued.
They slept little, the bombers returning throughout the night. And each time the city again became alive to the sound of sirens and explosions. Air Commodore Tyler arrived back just before one in the morning, a grim expression on his face.
‘Why aren’t you all in the shelters?’ he asked as he confronted his family and Archie, all wearing nightclothes and dressing gowns.
‘It’s the east they’re after, Pops,’ said Ted. ‘Nothing’s fallen near us yet.’
Tyler rubbed his brow and poured himself a drink, then joined them in the drawing room. As he sat down, the all-clear siren wailed over the city.
‘A grim night, Pops?’ said Ted.
His father nodded and smiled weakly. London was now under attack, just as he had known it would be. The RAF had bombed Berlin four times now, and Hitler’s patience had finally snapped. He wondered how long the Luftwaffe’s bombers would be turned on the capital. Another night? A week? Longer? He wondered how he was going to protect his family. Later that day, his only son – his beloved son – would be thrown into the jaws of the beast once more, but now he had his wife and daughter to worry about too. How easy it would be for a stray bomb to land on their house, and he would be powerless to stop it; all he could do was watch the battle from the safety of an underground concrete bunker.
And there was worse, something he knew he could not share with any of them. Large numbers of troop-carrying barges had been spotted in Rotterdam, Dunkirk, Calais and Le Havre; the weather, tides and moon over the next three days and nights were all favourable for a crossing; and German troops were known to be massing along the continental coast.
At seven minutes past eight on Saturday evening, as the third raid on London began, the signal ‘Cromwell’ reached him at Fighter Command Headquarters. Cromwell: the code word that warned all troops in Britain to go at once to their battle stations. An invasion was now considered imminent.
27
The German Pilot
Sunday 15 September, 10.30 a.m. At their dispersal hut at Kenley, the 599 Squadron pilots continued to wait. It had been cold at first light, so they had lit the stove in the centre of the room, and now the last of the embers were dying out. Lingering smoky air filled the hut, a mixture of beech and tobacco. A number of the pilots had ventured outside, but Archie stayed sitting in the armchair in the corner, beneath the poster that said, ‘It’s better to come back with a probable than to be shot down with the one you’ve confirmed.’ A mug of coffee was balanced precariously on the arm, while on his lap lay his journal. He’d not written much in it this past week, but as the long morning hours of inactivity continued, he’d decided it was time to add to it once more. Perhaps if he did, something would happen.
We’ve now been at readiness since five this morning. It was pretty hazy to begin with – Chalkie, the IO, seems to think it’s partly the smoke from the fires in London. At any rate, it’s beginning to disperse now and it’s turning into a beautiful late summer’s Sunday, which means that Jerry’s bound to be over before long.
He paused, the first knots of apprehension twisting in his stomach.
It’s been a quieter week than we had all expected. We arrived at Kenley a week ago to discover we were on invasion alert – it was news to us, but as Ted and I were driving up to the airfield we were accosted by a number of Home Guard types who were manning a road block. Ted had lost his identity papers – not for the first time – and to begin with they wouldn’t let him through. They said, ‘How do we know you’re not a spy?’ Ted got very cross and asked them whether he looked or sounded like a Hun. Another of them told us we were all on invasion alert. I said, ‘We’ve been on one all summer,’ but their commander then said that we were now on a high-level alert, whatever that is. Ted then rather lost his rag and told them in no uncertain terms that he and I were supposed to be shooting down the enemy and stopping the damned invasion, so could they stop wasting our time and let us get on with it. He pointed out that they’d seen my papers and that should be enough. They all looked at each other for a while, wondering what they should do, then eventually waved us on. I sometimes think the Home Guard are just itching for the Germans to invade – after all, it must be pretty boring being on invasion alert if nothing ever happens. But nothing has happened, and actually we’ve not even flown that much – a big raid on Monday, but otherwise it’s been quite quiet. Two sorties a day for the most part and mostly that’s been stooging about on X raids.
He paused again, and looked up. Charlie was talking to Chalkie and Dougal by the orderly’s table. Beside him, Ted was asleep, snoring lightly.
Charlie’s doing really well. He’s a natural leader. A bit like Jock, really, but he’s introduced new flying tactics, which I think are better.
The three-man vics had gone; instead, they were flying in fours and pairs, eight per flight, four per section rather than six and three.
‘But we’re trained to fly in vics,’ Pete Milner, the A Flight commander had said.
‘Well, now we’re going to train in finger fours and pairs,’ Charlie had told him. He had held up a hand. ‘Like this: the first pair ahead of the second pair, the leader ahead of his wingman on his port side, the wingman of the second pair behind his leader on his starboard side. Like four fingers, Pete.’
‘I’m not sure we’re allowed to fly like that,’ Pete had said.
‘Nonsense,’ Charlie had said. ‘I’m CO. We’ll fly how I want us to fly. Anyway, it’s what the Jerries do.’
And that had been that. Charlie had put them all into new flights and new sections, laid down a few laws and then, in the evening after they had been stood down, insisted they all go to the pub. The following day, flying in pairs, they’d claimed three Dorniers and two 109s and lost just one aircraft. ‘Buster’ Harvey had reappeared later that evening, having bailed out near Maidstone. That night they’d gone to the pub again, and Buster had been made to tell them a joke. ‘Not a song?’ Archie had said.
‘I’ve got to make my own mark,’ Charlie had replied, then, turning back to Buster, had said, ‘And it better be funny.’
Beside Archie, Ted now stirred, stretched and yawned, and then turned to Archie. ‘Fancy a wander?’
‘All right,’ he agreed.
‘Don’t go far,’ said Charlie as they brushed past him.
‘Aye, aye, Skipper,’ said Ted.
Skylarks were singing above them once more, but, despite the calm, the airfield looked a wreck. Patches of gravel and stone littered it where bomb craters had been hastily filled and rolled. Many of the buildings had been wrecked or destroyed. The operations room had been moved to the reserve building away from the airfield, while the pilots were in shared digs away from the Mess.
‘I wish Jenny’s transfer would come through,’ said Ted. ‘And Tess’s for that matter.’
‘Me too. I’m sure your father’s doing what he can.’
‘I just hate the thought of them being stuck in London with Jerry bombing it. I know the raids have been lighter this week, but it only takes one bomb, doesn’t it?’
‘They’ll be all right,’ said Archie. ‘They’ve good shelters at the Air Ministry, and don’t forget your father’s made Tess and your mother
promise to use the Anderson shelter if there are night raids.’
‘I know.’ Ted kicked the ground. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to have to worry about them. We’ve enough to think about trying to look after ourselves.’
‘It’s mid-September,’ said Archie. ‘Jerry can’t keep this up for ever. The evenings are really drawing in now. Before we know it, winter will be here.’
‘Good,’ said Ted. ‘Then maybe we can be given some proper leave. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m looking forward to a rest from flying. I feel exhausted, to be honest.’ He looked up. ‘But one thing’s for certain: we’ll be flying today. Look at that.’
Archie followed his gaze. Above lay an endless azure blue.
‘A perfect day for flying,’ said Ted. ‘There’s something brewing today, Arch. I can feel it in my bones.’
So could his father. Air Commodore Tyler had been on the 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. shift for the past two days, and since his drive up to Bentley Priory, with the morning haze dispersing before his eyes, he had known they could expect heavy raids that day. And now, at eleven o’clock, he was proved right.
The RDF had picked up a number of enemy formations massing on the other side of the Channel. This information had immediately been relayed to 11 Group Headquarters at Uxbridge as well as to 12 and 10 Groups. Air Vice-Marshal Park was now scrambling a number of squadrons. From the viewing balcony, Tyler watched silently as the plotters inched the enemy raids across the Channel, their croupier sticks pushing the little stands. On the ops board on the wall in front of him stood the list of sectors and squadrons. He could see pairs of squadrons being scrambled: 92 and 72 from Biggin, and now 605 and 599 at Kenley, the lights on the board changing from ‘Ordered on “I” Patrol’ to ‘Left Ground’.
Tyler clenched his fist, his cheeks flexing as he stared at the plotting table – at the air battle that was about to begin.
Ted was right. Barely had they stopped to look at the vast blue sky above them than the telephone rang and they were scrambled. Twelve aircraft, three sections, Charlie leading, with Ted and Archie as Red Three and Red Four. The familiar dash to their aircraft, and, minutes later, thundering down the airfield and into the air.
A gradual climb in a left-hand circuit, London away to their right, the Thames winding and silvery, although the city itself was still veiled in thin mist. Archie looked across, wondering whether Tess was at home still or at work. Barrage balloons hung listlessly over the capital, the sun glinting on their grey backs.
‘Hello, Tonto Leader, this is Carfax calling,’ crackled the ground controller in Archie’s ear. ‘RV with Tennis and Gannic Squadrons, then patrol Canterbury. Over.’
Charlie acknowledged, and they were soon vectored towards 92 and 72 Squadrons from Biggin, who had been scrambled at the same time. Climbing to twenty-six thousand feet, they levelled out and were soon over their patrol base, the finger of Kent stretching beneath them.
The airwaves crackled again. ‘Hello, Tonto Leader. This is Carfax. Two hundred plus coming in over Red Queen. Vector 120, angels twenty-two.’
Two hundred, thought Archie. Good God. Ahead and to his left, Ted’s Spitfire bobbing gently.
‘Hello, Carfax,’ Charlie replied, his voice as calm as ever. ‘Message received. Over.’
Archie’s heart began to quicken and his throat felt dry. There beneath his starboard wing he saw two huge Vs of enemy bombers. Puffs of flak burst around them as they crossed the coast. He glanced up, and could just see the ‘snappers’ – the 109s – glinting in the sun, white contrails following them.
‘Right, let’s go,’ said Charlie. ‘Tally ho!’
Archie watched Charlie peel off and begin his dive, then Ted was doing the same and Archie followed. The formation of Dorniers loomed suddenly and Archie was conscious of Ted opening fire. He flicked his own gun button off and watched a Dornier fill his sights. He pressed down on the gun button and bullets and tracer spat from his wings. He saw sparks strike the target and chew up the cowling around the port engine. The bomber hastily began dropping its bombs, then flames licked back across the wing. Archie glanced around and followed Ted as they banked and turned for another attack. Planes were dropping from the sky, parachutes opening, excited chatter shrieking in his ears. A glance up, 109s diving down towards them, but ahead was another Dornier. Archie pressed down again, felt the aircraft judder and saw bits of engine cowling flying off like flakes of old paint. As he thundered over it, he felt his Spitfire buckle in the slipstream. Behind, two 109s were lining up.
‘Break, Ted!’ he called out as tracer spat towards them. They dived again, firing at a lone Dornier as they descended. Had they hit it? Archie couldn’t see, but he was now almost out of ammunition.
‘I’m out of ammo.’ Ted’s voice in his ears. He saw Ted waggle his wings and then turn for home.
As more squadrons were committed to the battle, Air Commodore Tyler kept an eye on 599 Squadron’s column on the ops board. A little under an hour after they had been scrambled, he saw the lights brighten beneath ‘Landed and refuelling’. Ten minutes later, news arrived that 599 had suffered no losses. Thank goodness, he thought. Others that morning had not been so fortunate.
He wondered what the Germans were making of this battle. Two hundred plus meant it was among their bigger raids, and yet here they were, in the middle of September, facing more British fighters than they had ever seen in the air before. In pairs, and singly, every squadron in 11 Group had been thrown into the battle. From what he could follow, it appeared that the large bomber formations had broken up well before they reached London. Pressing on towards the capital were smaller enemy formations, those that had managed to keep going. It was hard to tell from the plots exactly how many had managed to hit London, but he reckoned it could not be more than about twenty. From 12 Group, the Duxford Wing of three squadrons operating together had now joined the battle from the north, while from 10 Group, 609 and 629 Squadrons were also entering the fray, harrying the bombers as they turned back. He had to take his hat off to Park: the battle had been brilliantly co-ordinated; he’d never seen so many squadrons brought together for one action. From the moment the German formations had crossed the coast to the moment they flew back over it, they had been harried continually. And if the reports coming in from the pilots and ground controllers were anything to go by, the RAF had been successful too: German aircraft dropping out of the sky like ninepins, as far as he could make out.
Is this the crux of it? he wondered. The culmination of the summer’s air battle? He glanced at the clock. Half past twelve. There was still a long afternoon and evening to go. Only time will tell, he thought.
2.05 p.m. The squadron was scrambled again, although this time they were to rendezvous with one of the Kenley Hurricane squadrons and climb to angels eighteen. Another massed raid was reported, this time four hundred and fifty plus.
‘Go for the big jobs,’ the ground controller told them. ‘Repeat, attack the big jobs.’
They were over Ashford when they saw them, between eighty and a hundred bombers, Archie guessed, but it was the ‘snappers’ that worried him: hundreds of them, stacked up in tiers above them, like a swarm of wasps.
‘Watch out for those little jobs,’ Charlie called out. ‘We go in, hit the bombers hard, then make sure we’re ready for the snappers. All right?’
They were diving now, hurtling towards the bomber formations. Below, the Hurricanes were already in among them, and Archie spotted another pair of fighter squadrons approaching from the north. Below and ahead, a formation of Heinkels – bulkier, with larger, rounder wings than Dorniers or Ju 88s – but already they were scattering.
Charlie was leading them down to the rear of the formation – diving down lower, below the bomber stream, so they could then climb back up, losing speed as they did so and giving them more of a chance to rake the undefended undersides of the bombers. Tracer from the Heinkel rear gunners fizzed towards them, but they were too far away and now dropped b
eneath their line of fire. Several Heinkels were dropping their loads, and rising with the sudden loss of weight.
Ahead, Charlie and his wingman opened fire as Archie lined up his own target, a big, fat, grey-green Heinkel. From the corner of his eye, he saw a bomber drop, trailing smoke. Press down on the gun button – bullets spewing towards the target, sparks, a fizz of electrics from the cockpit, a puff of smoke from the port engine and the Heinkel tipped and fell, its pale underside streaking in front of his nose, so that he ducked, his heart hammering in his chest. Where was Ted? Ah, yes, there. He followed him as Ted banked, tightly, and grimaced as he pulled the stick towards him, negative-G pressing him into his seat – vision greying – then easing again. A glance up – Christ! – 109s everywhere, tearing down towards them.
A Hurricane hurtled in front of him, followed by two 109s, and now Ted was turning towards two more as they closed in on a Spitfire. Archie followed, frantically craning his neck. Aircraft were falling from the sky, someone shouted, ‘I’ve been hit!’ Someone else, ‘Break! Break!’ There were German voices too – and there was a parachute opening. A glance at the dials – all OK – and now Ted was opening fire and the two 109s were banking right, turning away from the fray. What were they thinking?
As the leader banked, Ted turned inside and opened fire. Bullets streaked across the sky and a split second later, as Archie fired an unsuccessful two-second burst at the wingman, the lead 109 flew straight into Ted’s line of fire. Bits of cowling fluttered off, the engine exploded and the Messerschmitt fell away, but as Archie heard Ted cry, ‘I’ve got him! I’ve got him!’ he also saw the German’s wingman barrel roll under Ted’s flight path.
Battle of Britain Page 27
