The Last Secret of the Deverills

by Santa Montefiore

  Chapter 17

  The Battle of Britain had indeed begun and, at Biggin Hill, JP was on the front line. The RAF base in the south-east of London was built on a plateau that was known throughout Fighter Command as ‘Biggin on the Bump’. Responsible for protecting the approaches to the capital, it already bore noticeable signs of war: craters where bombs had eaten chunks out of the ground, wrecked Spitfires and Harvards abandoned on the grass like fallen beasts, hangars burnt to the bone. But JP was now eighteen years old, a young man with a strong sense of his own immortality, a young man hungry for action. He’d trained for this. He’d worked hard for his wings. He was eager to play his part, even though he was aware that it could be the last part he ever played.

  At first light he walked to his Spitfire with his squadron, which included Jimmy and Stanley. The plane looked almost delicate in comparison to the Harvard, like a mosquito as opposed to a fat fly. With his parachute slung over his shoulder and his helmet on his head JP made his way towards the two ground crew, who had been busy removing the cover and plugging in the starter trolley. This was his moment. The moment he had been waiting for since he joined the RAF the previous autumn. The adrenalin was pumping through his veins but his nervousness was fuelled by excitement, not fear. He was ready to turn all his fury at the unfairness of love onto the Germans.

  The sky was clear, the air damp. There was a stillness to the morning as if it was holding its breath for the battle ahead. JP walked across the grass and the dew collected on his flying boots. For a moment a memory surfaced, of walking across the lawn outside the White House in Ballinakelly, but the shoes on his feet then were small and laced, those of a young boy.

  The sound of Spitfires starting up broke the silence and JP’s memory, which dispersed like a reflection in a puddle that is briskly agitated. The engines exploded to life with a burst of flame from the exhaust stubs. The air vibrated with the noise, behind the planes the grass was flattened by the slipstream and all around the ground trembled. JP glanced at Jimmy and Stanley and nine other men in his squadron and wondered which of them would fail to come back.

  Leaving his parachute on the wing, he climbed into his cockpit and gave the plane a quick once-over: fuel, brake pressure, rudder, elevators, airscrew, then he had a short chat with the fitter and the rigger who had been waiting to brief him. The preparation completed, he returned to the hut, put on his life vest and lay on a bunk to wait for the call to scramble. Some of the men read magazines, others slept, no one talked much. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with anticipation. A few hours later the telephone gave a shrill ring and they all jumped. Those who had been sleeping awoke with a start. JP’s heart dropped like a cold weight. He looked at Jimmy, but Jimmy did not catch his eye.

  ‘Squadron scramble base angels twelve,’ said the orderly.

  It was time.

  JP ran towards his Spitfire. The ground crew were starting it up. He could see the engine fire. He found his parachute on the wing where he’d left it and climbed into the cockpit. The crew strapped him in. He put on his helmet, fixed the oxygen mask and felt the familiar vibrating of the engine as he took off the brakes and eased open the throttle. The squadron were all taxiing at once. He could see Jimmy and took up his position beside him, on his left according to his instructions.

  Over the R/T Jimmy’s voice was reassuring. ‘You ready, sprog?’ – which was the Aussie’s particular nickname for him.

  ‘Ready, Jim,’ JP replied.

  ‘Okay, here we go.’ And together, with all pilots’ eyes on the leader, the planes accelerated over the airfield and took off.

  The Spitfires ascended into the skies. Cloudless, bright blue skies as dawn gave way to day. The controller’s voice came over the R/T: ‘Gannic leader, this is Sapper. One hundred and fifty plus approaching Dungeness at angels twelve. Vector 120. Over.’ JP looked into the clear azure – the vast canopy of serenity and beauty that would at any moment become a battlefield of smoke and fire. It didn’t seem right to mar God’s magnificent sky in that violent way. It didn’t seem right at all. But JP didn’t have time to dwell on the heavens. The enemy was approaching. He saw them, like a swarm of hornets buzzing out of the blue and turning it black.

  There were more than a hundred and fifty, JP thought, accompanied by Me 109s covering the bombers. The sight was breathtaking and frightening all at the same time. He glanced at the eleven little Spitfires and his resolve weakened. How could they take on that lot, he thought. But they were together; they were a team and they were the only thing standing between the Germans and England.

  ‘Gannic from leader. Okay, boys, in we go. A good first burst and away. Watch for 109s.’

  JP looked down to see the German formation of Dorniers. Big beast aeroplanes but not as fast and nippy as the Spitfire. Noticing one was slightly out of line with the others he thought he’d have a crack at him. There were no 109s visible so he focused on his target and went in for the chase. Closer, closer and then he put his finger on the button and fired. His guns made a noise like tearing calico. His bullets made holes in the plane’s fuselage. Got him! JP thought triumphantly. He watched the plane break away then spiral towards the sea, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him.

  The squadron had dispersed now; it was every man for himself. JP was now at 3,000 feet below the Germans and racing at a terrific speed. He pulled the stick back and returned to the battle, flying in zigzags to avoid giving the Hun an easy target. There was chaos up there: planes everywhere, flying in all directions, men swinging on the ends of parachutes, black smoke, the odd burst of flames and planes plummeting towards the sea like shot birds.

  JP fought for his life, remembering the golden rule not to fly straight and level for more than twenty seconds – if you did you were dead. He managed to hit a Heinkel, causing it to limp towards home with bullet holes in its belly. He missed a few and ducked the odd bullet himself and yet, in the middle of combat, JP thought of Martha. He thought of her and of not being allowed to love her, and a recklessness came over him in a furious red mist. He felt no fear. He didn’t even fear dying. At that moment, with a hundred enemy planes all around him, he almost welcomed it as a respite from his sick heart.

  Then JP spotted an Me 109 on his tail, turning as he turned, the glint from his cannon shining in the sunlight. He didn’t feel terror. The anticipation of death stilled the world around him. The sound of his engine became muffled as if it were very far away already. He felt as if he were out of his body and someone else was doing the flying for him. Someone else was gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes and smiling. Yes, someone else was smiling as if he was actually taking pleasure in the possibility of death.

  Then JP was back in his body and he was turning the plane in tight circles, pursued closely by the 109. Knowing that the Spitfire could turn more tightly than the bigger German plane, he pulled it in even further, challenging the German to follow him if he dared. The little plane juddered but it didn’t protest. JP’s forehead began to perspire. He grew unbearably hot, but he was flying for his life and relishing the drama. The Hun fired at him again and missed. JP was elated. ‘Just you bloody try!’ he shouted, even though the pilot couldn’t hear him. The German tried to tighten his turn but to no avail. That big plane was no match for the agile Spitfire, or the pilot for the daring of JP, who had been seized by wild fury, possessed by the indomitable Deverill spirit.

  At last, when JP was beginning to panic that he was pushing his plane beyond its limit, the German plane was forced to bail out. It broke away and, most likely low on fuel, headed back out to sea. JP gave a manic laugh. He had won this small battle. He took a deep breath, shook his head and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. He glanced at his own level of fuel. It was time for him to head back to base as well. He’d survived his first battle.

  When he landed, he discovered, to his horror, that Jimmy had not.

  Losing their friend was a terrible blow to JP and Stanley. They had been a clique of three; now t
hey were two. In that moment, when the reality of Jimmy’s demise sunk in, JP felt that he had transitioned from a boy, a ‘sprog’ as Jimmy had called him, to a man; a man in a man’s war. But he didn’t dwell on Jimmy’s death. None of them did. Losing comrades was soon to become too frequent to give in to grief. He just had to try to survive and then, when it was all over, he would take the time to mourn those who hadn’t. In the meantime he had a war to fight and he had no other option than to get on with the job.

  JP was in the Mess when he received Kitty’s letter. He didn’t realize how much he missed home until he read it.

  My darling JP

  I hope this finds you well and in good heart. We all miss you terribly here in Ballinakelly and wish the war would come to an end so that you could come home and start your studies in Dublin. I know flying planes is what you wanted to do, but I would rather you rode a horse and got your kicks that way! However, let me share some news.

  Your great-aunt Hazel died yesterday, peacefully in her bed, but as you can imagine Laurel is beside herself. She says she wants to go too, even though she now has that old reprobate Ethelred all to herself! Our father is going to plant a hazel in her honour and Laurel says that when it’s her time to go she wants a laurel planted right next to it. Ethelred is not a shrub so I don’t suppose he’s included in the plan.

  Mama is furious because the Army has requisitioned Broadmere for a hospital and it’s going to be filled with wounded soldiers. It makes me smile because she can’t abide anything messy and all those bloodied bandages will drive her to madness. Perhaps she will return home after all, we all know that that is what Papa would like. God only knows why! I’m not sure why he thinks they could be happy after years of being very unhappy, but he is a law unto himself. Victoria is keen to roll up her sleeves and be of use in this war. I hear she has also taken a whole load of evacuee children and has them all working on the farm. Who would have thought the Countess of Elmrod would want to get her hands dirty? Charlotte writes to me often, complaining that Victoria marches about the place like a colonel bossing everyone around. She has found her calling and is taking it all very seriously. Apparently she has caught the eye of one of the recuperating officers so Eric had better watch out, but he is busy with the Home Guard, defending our coastline, so I don’t suppose he will notice.

  Robert sends you lots of love. He’s writing as usual. War puts him in a very bad mood because it reminds him of the last one, when he couldn’t fight because of his stiff leg. He feels useless all over again. Poor darling. I think that’s the subject of his new book. It will probably be his best. Florence misses you. Although we are neutral, war has touched us too. There is rationing and the Germans bombed Campile in Co. Wexford, killing three people. It was a great shock to everyone, as you can imagine, for no one believed that the Luftwaffe would drop bombs on the Republic. But there it is. We’re surviving here. Life goes on, albeit rather anxiously.

  Darling JP, I hope you have put your disappointment behind you. I won’t go on about it but I want you to know that you are in my heart and on my mind, constantly. I pray for your safety.

  Your loving sister, Kitty

  PS A sweet little girl called Alana knocked on the door the other day and gave me a letter for you. I asked her her name but she just said Alana. She spoke with a rather strange American accent so I imagine she must be Emer and Jack O’Leary’s daughter. Anyhow, she said you were her friend and would I make sure this letter gets to you. I think you have an admirer!

  JP enjoyed Kitty’s letter, except for the news of Hazel’s death. It was good to hear from home. Ballinakelly seemed so far away from Biggin Hill and another world entirely from the daily battles he was fighting in the skies above Britain. The bombing of Campile just made him more determined to blast the Luftwaffe off the face of the planet.

  He turned his attention to Alana’s letter, written in neat, looped handwriting, obviously with great care. He grinned as he remembered the little girl he had rescued from the hills and felt wistful for a moment as he recalled the peace up there in that wild green landscape. Those weeks before Martha had come to Ballinakelly had been innocent, full of anticipation and excitement. Then it had all changed. Martha had gone back to America, war had come and the world had slipped on its axis, leaving everything looking different, distorted and grim.

  He read the girl’s letter. It was long. There were pages and pages, so he skimmed most of it. The ramblings of an infatuated child, he thought, shaking his head in amusement. He’d write back to make her happy and because, while he waited in the hut to scramble, there was not much else to do.

  The summer passed and while JP took to the air in ever more intensive battles the Germans increased their attacks on British airfields and radar stations, pushing the Royal Air Force to the limit, outnumbering them four to one. Then in September the enemy changed tactic and turned their full might on London, blackening the skies with their bombers.

  Harry had never imagined it would get to this. He had never imagined that the enemy would strike at the heart of London. Before, it had been a battle fought over the water, but now the battle was happening all around him. The attacks were nightly and the people of the city took shelter underground like small animals, emerging bleary-eyed at dawn to assess the damage.

  It was the sounds of those raids that were the most terrifying. The menacing drone as the enemy planes approached overhead, the whistling of falling bombs, the banging of explosions, the rattling of anti-aircraft fire, the clattering of falling tiles, the crashing of breaking glass, the screaming of horses, the howling of dogs, the cries of people and the crackling of fires. Then the silence; the terrible silence in London’s blacked-out city where every ear was strained in anticipation, hearing noises that weren’t really there.

  There seemed to be a lull over Christmas. Some of the evacuee children returned to their parents for the festivities and the churches were full of people, celebrating their festival as they always had. Harry spent the day at Broadmere, attending the little family church on the estate with his wife Charlotte and their children. From there he wrote to Kitty, reporting on the various hilarities with their mother and on Victoria’s obvious infatuation with the now much recovered Army officer. Harry returned to London on Boxing Day and spent the day with Boysie.

  ‘I shouldn’t admit this, old boy, after all, there’s a war on,’ he said to Boysie over dinner at the Savoy. ‘But this year has been the best year of my life.’

  Boysie grinned. ‘Mine too. Let’s drink to that.’ They raised their champagne flutes. ‘How will we ever survive when everything returns to normal?’

  ‘Do you think it will?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I know it will,’ Boysie replied and because Boysie had an important job in intelligence, Harry believed he knew something. They drained their glasses and gazed at each other with shiny eyes.

  Harry put his hand on his heart. ‘I’m emotional tonight,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I can say the words.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Boysie replied. He put his hand on his heart. ‘And I shan’t either.’ They smiled at each other with complete understanding, their hands pressed to their chests, and anyone who might have been watching would have thought they were making some kind of military salute rather than a declaration of devotion.

  Boysie returned to his secret job at Bletchley Park and Harry to his desk job. Harry wondered whether the air raids were now over. Perhaps the Germans had turned their attention to another city, in another country far away, like Russia. There had been nothing for a fortnight and things were beginning to feel normal again. But then 29th December arrived.

  The raid began at 5.30 that evening.

  The city was in blackout, as usual. Darkness prevented the enemy from finding its target, but tonight they had a plan to light it up like a bonfire.

  Harry was in a West End cinema watching a matinée of the new Charlie Chaplin film with a couple of friends from work when the bombs started to fall. The reel was
stopped abruptly and a notice appeared on the screen, advising everyone to take to the shelters as quickly as possible. When they hurried into the street they discovered that they weren’t the normal bombs at all, but small incendiary devices designed to start fires. These miniature bombs fell onto the roofs and into the streets with a clattering sound before exploding into a yellowy light and bursting into flames. Harry ran to put them out one by one, smothering them with his coat. Others followed suit, throwing whatever they could get their hands on over the flames and stamping them out with their feet. But there were too many. It seemed that the planes were dropping them in their thousands and each little flame grew into a fire and soon it seemed that the whole of the city was burning.

  By 7.30 the first phase was done. Now London was lit up with hundreds of burning buildings the second wave of bombers could attack the city with ease. Thirty more planes approached London. Harry looked into the smoky sky to see bombs falling like giant hailstones caught in the spotlights being projected from the ground below. The sight stole his breath. He was awestruck and horrified. He wondered whether there’d be anything left of London in the morning.

  Propelled by a sense of duty, Harry hurried to help in any way that he could. Fires needed putting out, people needed rescuing from fallen buildings, apparently St Paul’s was in flames. The fire brigade’s Green Goddesses were struggling to cope with the spreading fires and it didn’t help that the wind was beginning to pick up.

  And still the planes came, wave upon wave. There seemed to be no end to them.

  Harry knew he should find a shelter but the thought of sitting it out was repugnant to him. London needed him. He thought of all those children who had come back from their temporary homes in the countryside to spend Christmas with their families and the desire rose in him in a great tide of humanity to save London from total destruction.