It was the 31st. I’d flown many times before, but suddenly it dawned on me that this was it. The practice was over. This was the real thing. My guts suddenly felt cold and heavy, like I’d swallowed a rock. I felt dizzy, doubled up and vomited.
“No time for that, old chap,” said a passing pilot cheerily, and I pulled myself together and made for my aircraft. I cringed with embarrassment but the sick feeling wore off as I walked towards my Spitfire. Then I noticed something odd: each of the other pilots in turn patted Lenny on the shoulder as they were passing. It was done almost absent-mindedly and there was no kind of reaction from Lenny at all. He just carried on getting his stuff together and climbing up into his aircraft.
As for me, I stepped up on to the wing, patted my Spit on the flank like I used to do with Blackie, our old horse, and I whispered to it. I can’t tell you what I whispered, it was just stuff. It probably sounds like I’m crazy, I know, but it was just something I did. Everybody did something.
I put on my flying helmet and plugged in the R/T – the radio telephone – and my oxygen. I glanced nervously around me and checked my instrument panel over and over again. I signalled to the airman below and he yanked the chocks away from my wheels. We taxied off in formation and then gathered speed.
As we moved off across the grass in the early morning light, the clumsy bumping finally gave way to that great feeling of floating: dull old earth giving way to air and soaring flight. It got me every time, every single time.
Off over the rooftops and steeples, the orchards, the hedgerows in blossom, the hop fields; over the cliffs and the closed-off beaches, out across the sea to the War beyond the slate-grey waters of the Channel.
We flew in tight formation and I tried to concentrate on maintaining my position as we approached the soot-black skies of Dunkirk. A huge wall of black smoke rose in front of us, a filthy cloak that turned day into night. Then a shaft of sunlight cut a slit through the clouds, hitting the sea like a searchlight. In the sea there were boats and big ships and wrecks sticking out of the waves like jawbones. Near the beach the water was flecked with the floating wreckage of ships and men, the beach studded with those who were waiting for escape. It was a Bible scene, if ever I saw one. Like the Israelites at the Red Sea with Pharaoh at their back, waiting for some kind of deliverance.
We patrolled the coast, but though we saw plenty of action going on on the ground, we saw no sign whatsoever of the Luftwaffe, though we could see evidence of their handiwork all around. We were at the limits of our range here and we got the order to return to base before we ran out of fuel.
I have to say I felt relieved. Good, I thought, it’s over and not a scratch. I banged the inside of the cockpit and grinned. I’d heard of chaps in France who only went up the one time and got blasted; bang, end of story. Not me, though.
Then a Messerschmitt shot straight past in front of me, blasting away at the Spit to my starboard. Then there was another, and another. I looked wildly around me. The radio was full of shouting and swearing. “Behind you!” someone shouted. Behind who? Behind who?
Me109s were coming down on us from all over the place, dropping out of the clouds above us. I found myself ducking, ridiculously, inside my cockpit, twitching nervously as if I was being buzzed by hornets.
A sixth sense told me there was one on my tail and I lurched wildly to avoid it, almost crashing into another Spit as I did so. I decided to loop back and try and get some kind of view of what the heck was going on.
The sea and sky spun round together like a kaleidoscope until I righted myself. I tried to get my bearings, but I couldn’t see a thing. I heard someone screaming. Screaming and screaming in my headphones.
I looked about, craning my neck. Nothing. Then I saw it: an Me109 coming straight at me from above. I rolled away as it blasted at me. A Spit shot by, coughing smoke, with flames in the cockpit. A German aircraft following behind, blasting like fury. I fired at him but missed by miles. Debris was flying past, clipping my wing.
They were all around me but never in my gun sight. I could feel myself almost crying with the frustration of it. It just felt like sooner or later I was going to get hit and go down. They were better than me. It was as simple as that. The Spitfire might have been the better plane, but not with me in the cockpit.
I swung round and suddenly a Messerschmitt shot across in front of me. I fired off a quick squirt and caught the tail fin. Then there was nothing to fire at. As fast as the Germans had come they were gone, and we were left to limp back to base.
When my plane came to a halt, I found that I couldn’t move. I just sat there holding the stick. Then someone slid back the cockpit canopy.
“Are you hit?” he said, but I just sat there staring out through the gun sight.
“Are you hit?” he shouted.
“No,” I said, suddenly coming to. “No, I’m fine. I’m OK.”
I hurriedly clambered out of the cockpit and jumped down, eager to be back on the ground. My legs felt as though they belonged to someone else and I thought for one terrible moment that I was going to keel over. But I didn’t.
“Hit anything?” said one of the chaps.
“Well, actually, I did get a crack at an Me109.”
“You did? Fantastic!”
“Yes, just clipped its tail. No idea what happened after that. Fuel was getting so low, I had to get back.”
“Good show!” he said. “I didn’t hit a thing – not a sausage!” I grinned. “Good for you!” he said.
“Thanks. Listen,” I said, “what’s that business with Lenny? You know, that thing everyone does before the patrol?”
“What thing?” he laughed.
“You know. You all patted him as you passed. I saw you.” He seemed a little embarrassed.
“It’s for luck, old stick,” he said.
“Luck?” I said. “But why Lenny?”
“Well,” he said, “it all goes back to a little incident there was a week or so back. A few of the boys were up getting a bit of practice in – Lenny was one of them. Anyway, something happened to his Spit. The engine cut out completely and it started to fall out of the sky. None of the controls would respond, and he had no choice but to get out.”
“He slid back the hatch and climbed out, but somehow got caught up in the cockpit and he was stuck there, half in, half out. He could see the ground hurtling towards him as the Spit started to spin.”
“As the plane turned over, he was thrown clear and managed to open his chute at about 1,000 feet. The Spit crashed into an empty field, Lenny hit a copse of trees at a fair old rate of knots, and that slowed him down. Then he tumbled through a thicket, through a hedge and into a pile of . . . well, manure, actually.”
“Manure?” I asked, smiling.
“Yes – a ruddy great pile of the stuff. Broke his landing, that’s for sure. And that’s all that was broken. He didn’t have a scratch on him.”
“That’s incredible,” I said.
“And that’s why, you see. A chap like that has got to have a bit of luck to spare, don’t you think? We’re a superstitious lot, I suppose, but ever since then it’s been a habit to pat him as we leave. One of the young chaps started it and it just sort of caught on. Silly really, I suppose, but we need all the luck we can get in this game.”
“And Lenny doesn’t mind?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said with a smile. “Never thought to ask, now you come to mention it.” He walked off and I was left standing with some of the others, watching a kestrel fluttering over the edge of the airfield.
Just then I noticed a Hurricane pilot striding across the aerodrome towards us. He didn’t look too happy either. It looked like someone was for it and I looked around to see who he was heading for. Then I realized it was me.
He grabbed my lapel with one hand and looked as if he was going to swipe me with the other. Lenny stepp
ed in between us.
“I hope you’re not thinking of striking a fellow officer,” Lenny said. The Hurricane pilot looked at me, then looked at Lenny, then back at me. He let me go.
“Look,” I said. “What am I supposed to have done?”
“You damn near shot my tail off, you silly idiot! Damned Spitfire pilots,” he snorted. “You think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?” He stormed off.
It turned out that it wasn’t an Me109 I’d shot, but this chap’s Hurricane. I could have killed him. I felt terrible. And despite the fact that I could not see anything remotely funny about this at all, I thought that Lenny might never stop laughing about it.
“Come on,” he said, finally pulling himself together, “I’ll buy you a drink.”
We walked across to the mess, Lenny chuckling to himself most of the way. I was smiling a little myself, by now.
“I hear you’re a lucky man,” I said as we sat down.
“I hear you talk to your Spitfire,” said Lenny. I laughed and went a little red. “Don’t blush,” he said. “Barnes over there carries a bit of cot blanket in his pocket from when he was a baby. And you’ve never seen so many lucky rabbits’ feet.”
“Never really understood that,” I said.
“What? Rabbits’ feet?” he said.
“Well, if rabbits are so lucky,” I said, “they wouldn’t have lost their feet in the first place, would they?”
“Good point,” said Lenny, laughing. “So,” he said, “what were you going to do before the War came along?”
“Architecture,” I said. “I was training to be an architect. How about you?”
“I was studying History, but I’m not sure what I want to do. My dad wants me to teach like him, but I’m not cut out for that. I don’t know what I’ll end up doing. Journalism maybe. Or maybe I’ll go into politics, who knows? It’s a bit hard to see very far ahead, isn’t it?” I nodded.
“Listen, thanks for taking my side back there,” I said.
“It was nothing,” he said. “And sorry again about before. I just hate that ‘Phoney War’ business. There’s nothing phoney about this war. Maybe if some of the chaps here read newspapers a little more and played ping-pong a little less. . .”
“They’re not a bad lot,” I said. “I’m not a great one for newspapers and politics myself.”
He smiled. “I just think you ought to know what’s going on, that’s all,” he said. “I think you should know what you’re fighting for.”
“I’m fighting for my family, I suppose,” I said. “I can’t say I think about anything much beyond that.” He nodded.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Me too. But all I’m saying is this is not just about us and our families. We’re fighting for something bigger than that, aren’t we?”
“We are?” I said. “And what’s that? King and Country, you mean?”
“No, no,” he said with a smile. “I’m talking about freedom. Does that sound corny?”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.” His smile disappeared and he leant forward to whisper.
“Look,” he said. “They think they’re right. They are so sure they’re right. The Nazis I mean. They think they’re right about all this master-race business and the only way to prove they’re not is to beat them. Do you know what I mean? They have to be stopped.” I nodded. “And we are going to stop them, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I said, raising my glass. “Yes we are.”
“To freedom,” he said.
“To freedom.”
June 1940
On 1 June, we woke before first light. The ground crew already had the engines going on our Spits. I could see the blue glow of the exhaust flames glimmering from the familiar silhouettes. I shivered and flapped my arms up and down to get my circulation going.
My cup of tea was already cold and I tossed it on to the grass. A greasy rainbow shimmered in an oily puddle at my feet. I yawned so hard I almost dislocated my jaw.
“Get a move on, Woods,” said my squadron leader.
I jogged over to my aircraft and hauled myself up on to the wing. I patted her and whispered to her and climbed into the cockpit. I checked my instruments, checked my R/T and oxygen. Everything OK. I looked around. Everyone was ready. I gave a thumbs-up to the crewman, who pulled out the chocks. We were off.
I pushed the throttle right forward, I kept the stick nice and central and eased her off the ground. Throttle back and there was the double thud of the wheels pulling up and tucking themselves in. Airborne.
The scene was amazing now. The Channel was flecked with all kinds of vessels – ordinary people bravely answering the call to come to the rescue of those stranded soldiers. As well as Royal Navy ships, there were now fishing boat and tugboats, yachts, pleasure steamers and Thames barges. It was an incredible sight.
I was over the Dunkirk beaches at 5.00 a.m. We patrolled in formation, heading east along the coast towards the new day rising. A few thousand feet below us the beach looked almost purple in that strange light and a mother-of-pearl sheen polished the sea.
Men and boats still crowded the scene, shadowy figures moved about in the sand and along the shore. Vessels of all shapes and sizes sat offshore, waiting for the Stukas to arrive. There was a click on the R/T and then my squadron leader’s voice:
“Bandits dead ahead.” Sure enough, there were a dozen Me110s heading away from us. “Tally ho!”
Then it was every man for himself. The Germans saw us and scattered and we scattered with them. It was all nerve now, all reflexes and adrenalin. The world speeded up and you had to go with it, like some crazy merry-go-round.
I span out of formation. There were Me109s above us but I ignored them as much as I could. I took after a 110 that had banked off to my starboard. It disappeared into a cloud, but I kept right after it. I wasn’t going to be shaken off so easily. When the cloud broke again there it was.
I steered her into my gun sights and thumbed the firing button. Tracer shot out from my guns and headed off toward the German. At first nothing happened, but then smoke began to snake out from his port engine. I came in closer.
I fired off another blast and peeled away. A whole chunk of the cockpit canopy flew off and very nearly smacked straight into me. The Messerschmitt seemed to hang in the air for a second – then it exploded and broke into pieces. There was no chance for anyone to bale out. I saw it go down, down, down and smash into the sea.
“The Royal Air Force engaged the main strength of the German Air Force, and inflicted upon them losses of at least four to one,” drawled Churchill on 4 June. We were listening in the mess and there were a few sceptical snorts. Four to one? It hadn’t felt like four to one. “And the Navy, using nearly 1,000 ships of all kinds, carried over 335,000 men, French and British, out of the jaws of death and shame, to their native land and to the tasks which lie immediately ahead. We must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory.”
“Not much chance of that!” shouted someone.
“Wars are not won by evacuations. But there was a victory inside this deliverance, which should be noted. It was gained by the Air Force. Many of our soldiers coming back have not seen the Air Force at work; they saw only the bombers which escaped its protective attack. They underrate its achievements. . .” A huge cheer went up. Churchill was trying to give the RAF some credit.
Soldiers were telling their families they hadn’t seen the RAF at Dunkirk, but we were there all right. And they hadn’t seen our losses.
To tell the truth, Churchill laid it on a bit thick – but we didn’t complain. It felt good to be getting a pat on the back. He compared us to knights – to the Knights of the Round Table, even. It was fantastic.
“Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous states have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious ap
paratus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. . .” More cheers.
It was quite a speech all round. He could certainly talk, old Winston. One of the chaps in our squadron could do a terrific impersonation of him. Very funny. Not too respectful though, to tell the truth, so we had to make sure the CO wasn’t about.
On Saturday the 8th I got a lift up to London with a couple of the chaps. They were off to a club, but I’d arranged to take Edith to the flicks in Leicester Square. Confessions of a Nazi Spy was on and we’d both heard it was good. I hadn’t seen a film in ages.
I met Edith in the Strand and we walked up through Covent Garden. London was its usual lively self, despite the rationing and blackouts and all the other things that war had brought. The place was full of servicemen, soldiers, sailors – even a few RAF here and there.
Nobody really had any idea of what was going to happen next, except that whatever it was, it was unlikely to be pleasant. Everyone was out to have a good time in whatever way they could, because it might be the last good time they had.
Even so, I was a little edgy to tell the truth. Despite Churchill’s speech, the RAF was coming in for a lot of stick over Dunkirk. As far as most people were concerned we had let the side down. I could see it in the faces of the people we passed as they looked at my uniform.
Edith didn’t seem to notice – or if she did, she didn’t say. She was a fully fledged nurse now. She looked pretty glamorous actually, hair up, tons of make-up. Mum wouldn’t have approved, but I thought she looked great. I told her a little of what I’d been through since I last saw her.
Battle of Britain Page 2
