“You poor thing, Harry,” she said. “Is it really dreadful?”
“Yes, it is a bit. Can be, anyway,” I said. “We’ve been fairly lucky. One squadron lost all its pilots on their very first sortie.”
“Oh my God, Harry. I had no idea. . .”
“Why should you?” I said. “It’s not going to do morale any good to hear what’s really happening out there.”
“What about you, Harry?” she said. “What about your morale?”
I smiled. “You get used to it somehow,” I said. “But it is hard, seeing chaps you had breakfast with not turn up for lunch.” She stopped and looked at me. I could hear jazz music rising up from a cellar bar.
“Are you frightened, Harry?” The question took me back a bit. It was one I’d always avoided asking myself.
“Frightened?” I said. “I suppose I am, yes. Sometimes. You’d have to be a fool not to be.”
“Poor Harry,” she said, and she hugged me. A couple of sailors nearby cheered drunkenly. “But it’s not going to last long, is it? The War, I mean.”
“Well. . .” I said. “The Germans have had a bit of practice at this game. They seem to have got the hang of it.”
“But they shan’t win. They must know that,” she said.
I smiled again. “No,” I said. “Of course not, sis,” I said. “We’ll show them a thing or two.”
“One of our doctors says the Americans will come into the War soon and it’ll all be over by Christmas.”
“Could be,” I lied.
Well, we were in the queue, laughing and joking. We were reminiscing about when I’d fallen out of the apple tree at home and been left dangling by my braces. Dad threatened to leave me there but I started crying, so Mum made him fetch a ladder and get me down.
“You were such a cry-baby,” she said.
“I was not!” I protested, though it was all too true.
“And a mummy’s boy,” she said.
“That is such rot,” I said, laughing. Just then, two soldiers walked past.
“Bloody, ’ell, Paddy,” said one of them. “Look what we’ve got ’ere. One of those brave pilots we’ve ’eard so much about.”
I told him I didn’t want any trouble, but he grabbed me by the lapel. He was a big lad, I realized – a little too late. He pulled me close. His breath stank of booze. His voice reeked of contempt.
“I was at Dunkirk. I had to wade through dead bodies. Where were you, eh? Where were you?” I was about to answer, when he hit me – thwack – right in the jaw. It was a heck of a punch, actually. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. Before I could decide whether to risk hitting him back, Edith jumped in front of me.
“How dare you!” she yelled at him. “Call a policeman, someone.”
“Come on, Paddy, let’s get out of ’ere. ’E’s not worth it.” And the two soldiers walked away.
“What a horrible man,” said Edith, but then I heard someone further back in the queue shout “RAF cowards!” I could see by people’s faces that they took the soldier’s part, not mine. I was only too happy when I reached the darkness of the cinema.
There was a newsreel about the Dunkirk evacuation. The soldiers looked grim and exhausted. On the wireless it said that they came off the boats smiling, but I didn’t see anybody smiling. It was a miracle they’d got so many off, but it was still an awful mess.
All the pride I’d felt at bringing down that Me110 slipped away and I felt myself sinking lower and lower into my seat. To cap it all, the film wasn’t up to much anyway. And the tickets had cost five bob!
Mum told me on the telephone that she and Dad had gone round to Mr Jenkins’ house to congratulate him when they heard that his son Bob had got off Dunkirk beach unscathed. But Churchill’s speech hadn’t hit home with Mr Jenkins either.
“Just wanted to say how glad we were that Bob’s home safe and sound,” Dad had said.
“Hmmph!” snorted Mr Jenkins. He didn’t invite them in.
“You must be so relieved,” said Mum.
“My son was stuck on that Godawful beach for days. . .” said old Jenkins.
“It must have been terrible,” said Mum. “But at least it’s over. . .”
“Being strafed by Jerry aircraft, he was, and he says there was no sign of the RAF.” Mum and Dad looked at each other. “Says he never saw a single British aircraft the whole time he was there. Plenty of German ones, though.”
“Well I’m pleased Bob is home safe,” said my dad, trying to keep the peace. “We just thought we ought to pop round.”
“Yes,” said Mum. “We’re just happy he’s home safe.”
“No thanks to your son,” added Mr Jenkins, poking Dad in the chest.
“Now just a minute. . .” said my dad, taking a step up towards the door.
“Don’t you ‘just a minute’ me,” said Mr Jenkins. “My son could have died on that beach. . .”
“And mine could die every time he takes off!” said my dad. “The army might be back home, but the RAF are still in France.”
“Not your son, though, eh?” said Mr Jenkins. “Bunch of pansies.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Dad.
“The RAF. A bunch of pansies! They’re no match for Fritz and everybody knows it!”
“How dare you!” said Dad. “I ought to punch you on the nose!”
Mum had had to pull him away. She said she’d never seen him like that before. She said it was like he turned into Jimmy Cagney right before her eyes. I was proud of him. I’d have paid five bob to see him take on old Jenkins, any day of the week. Bob Jenkins was a rotten cricketer anyway.
On Monday 10 June, the Italians declared war on us as well – as if we didn’t have enough on our plates with the Germans. Now we had to fight on two fronts, and we’d been stretched to the limit before. Thousands of Italians living in Britain were promptly rounded up and interned, just as the Germans had been at the start of the War.
Edith told me that an Italian restaurant in London had had its windows smashed the same night. The owner changed the flags outside, swapping them for Union Jacks. She passed by when he was doing it and she saw tears running down his cheeks. Her friends said they’d never eat there again, but she said she felt sorry for him. Typical Edith.
Four days later and the Nazis rolled into Paris. There was something about the idea of them goose-stepping about in that city that made me feel angry. I had always wanted to go there and now I felt they were spoiling it, that it would never be the same again. But then I supposed nothing would.
Then the French threw the towel in. The northern half of the country – the bit nearest to us – was occupied by the Germans. Captured Luftwaffe pilots were freed and put back in the cockpit to face us across the Channel. Now we were for it.
“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over,” said Winston on the 18th. I was sitting right by the wireless with Lenny. “I expect the Battle of Britain is about to begin. . .”
“We’re ready for ’em, Winston!” shouted one of the chaps at the ping-pong table.
“The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the War. . .”
“Never!” shouted someone at the back.
“If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the life of the whole world, including the United States. . .”
“Come on, Yanks!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up the lot of you!” said the CO.
“Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say: This was their finest hour.”
Edith had sent me a cartoon from the Evening Standard. It was by s
omeone called Low, showing a Tommy shaking his fist at a sky full of German bombers with the words “Very well, alone.” It seemed to capture that mood, that feeling of having our backs to the wall. I thought it was first rate, but Lenny was quick to point out that we weren’t quite alone.
“How come?” I asked.
“Well, think about it,” he said. “Just in the RAF, the Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians have all joined in. Then there are the Yank and Irish volunteers. And the South Africans. And what about the Czechs and the Poles. . .”
“OK, OK, I get the message!” I said, putting my hands over my ears.
Lenny had a point, though. 11 Group was commanded by a Kiwi, Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park, who was terrific, flitting about between bases in his Hurricane, wearing his trademark white helmet, and 10 Group – the group north of London – was commanded by a South African, Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory.
Canadian pilots had seen plenty of action in France, and now we had Czechs and Poles training to fly our aircraft. These chaps had managed to evade the Germans all across Europe. They had seen the power of the Luftwaffe at first hand and were out for revenge.
We even had some Yanks at the base. Some Americans were so fed up with the USA staying neutral, that they came and joined up anyway. We were glad to have them. Come to think of it, Churchill was half American himself!
July 1940
As I reached our front door, I heard an incredible racket coming from the hall, like a suit of armour falling down a flight of stairs. When the front door opened I saw Edith standing there with an armful of saucepans.
“Edith!” I shouted. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“Only arrived an hour ago. Can’t stop. Mum’s in frantic mode.”
“Hello dear!” called Mum. “Get a move on, Edith.”
I squeezed against the wall as Edith and Mum edged past with what looked like every kitchen utensil in the house. They tossed them all into an old pram and went clinking and clanking down the drive towards the village.
My dad was reading the paper in the sitting room.
“Good to see you, son. You’re looking well.” I looked terrible. “Sit yourself down.”
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Aluminium Fever,” said Dad.
“Aluminium Fever?” I asked, picking up a copy of Picture Post. Dad handed me a scrap of paper torn from a newspaper. It showed a picture of a woman holding saucepans next to a picture of some Spitfires in flight. It was addressed to “The Women of Britain”. It said:
GIVE US YOUR ALUMINIUM
We want it and we want it now. New and old, of every type and description, and all of it. We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons. I ask therefore, that everyone who has pots and pans, kettles, vacuum cleaners, hat pegs, coat hangers, shoe trees, bathroom fittings and household ornaments, cigarette boxes, or any other articles made wholly or in part of aluminium, should hand them over to the local headquarters of the Women’s Voluntary Services. The need is instant. The call is urgent. Our expectations are high.
The Daily Sketch had a headline saying, “From the frying pan into the Spitfire!”
“Clever that, don’t you think?” said Dad, “From the frying pan into the Spitfire. Like out of the frying pan and into the fire. . .”
“Yes, I get it, Dad,” I said, smiling. “They do know that this is all baloney, don’t they?” I said. “None of those pans will ever be used in a Spit,” I said. “They’re precision machines, you know. They’re not going to make them out of old saucepans. It’s all propaganda.”
“Keep that thought to yourself will you, son,” said Dad. “Your mother is very keen on all this. She’s head of the local Women’s Voluntary Service you know.”
“Really? Good for Mum. But it’s true though,” I said.
“Maybe so, maybe not. I don’t know. What I do know is that it does your mother good to feel like she’s doing her bit, so let her be. As far as she’s concerned, she’s building you a Spitfire. What harm can it do? Every little helps.”
“Point taken.”
“Good lad.”
“Were those your fishing rods I saw being hauled off for scrap?” I said, picking up a copy of the Radio Times.
“Fishing rods?” said my father with a rather shell-shocked expression on his face. “My . . . my fly-fishing rods?”
“Every little helps,” I said smiling behind my magazine.
Over lunch I entertained the family with tales of life in the RAF – heavily censored tales, of course. I couldn’t really talk very much about the fighting, because I knew Mum just didn’t want to hear about it. She had seen something in the paper showing our aircraft.
Mum asked me to describe the base, because she said I was always talking about it in my letters, but she had no idea what it was like.
“Well,” I said, “there’s a runway, of course – a grass one – and around that there are crew rooms and dispersal huts. That’s where we sleep and sit around when we’re at ‘readiness’.”
“Readiness?” said Edith.
“Stand-by. It means we’re ready to scramble.” I smiled. “Take off at the double.”
“I know what scramble means,” she said, slapping me round the shoulder.
“Then there’s the anti-aircraft guns – ack-ack we call them – to protect the base. There’s a parade ground, naturally, and a church. A mess for officers like myself and one for NCOs. Let me see . . . barracks, armoury, parachute store. Most important, actually, is the Ops Room.”
“Ops?” said Edith.
“Sorry,” I said. “Operations Room. It’s where all the info comes in about enemy positions and so forth. They get all the up-to-the-minute info, and telephone through to dispersal and send us on our way.” I did an impression of someone talking into the telephone. “50 bandits, angels 20.” I said. Everyone looked blank. Then Edith laughed.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she said.
“So bandits are Germans?” suggested Dad.
“Enemy aircraft, yes,” I said. “Could be Italians of course, now.”
“Well why don’t you just say Germans?” said Edith. “It isn’t any quicker to say ‘bandits’.”
“It isn’t meant to be quicker. It’s kind of a code.” Edith shook her head.
“And angels are RAF aircraft?” said Mum.
“No,” I said. “Angels are thousands of feet. Angels 20 means 20,000 feet. Fifteen thousand would be angels 15 and so on.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense,” said Edith and everyone laughed.
Mum and Dad had seen a newsreel clip showing Goering, the head of the Luftwaffe. He’d been a crack pilot during the Great War, but looked like he would have a bit of a problem getting into a cockpit now.
“He’s so fat,” said Mum. “And so ugly.”
“He is a bit of a sight,” I agreed. “He’s stinking rich apparently, though. He’s got his own personal train.”
“They’re all a ghastly shower, if you ask me,” said Dad. “Goebbels, Himmler . . . Hitler for that matter. Like something from a horror film. It beats me how anyone could ever listen to a word they say.”
“I saw some of those WAFE girls at the cinema,” said Mum. “They do look very smart, don’t they?”
“WAAFs, Mum,” I said. “They’re called WAAFs. It stands for Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. We’ve got them at our place of course. Some of them are not bad lookers, actually, but goodness knows what they are going to do if bombs start falling. . .”
“What on earth do you mean?” said Edith crossly.
“Well, I just mean . . . you know . . . girls aren’t used to that kind of thing,” I said, wishing I’d never started.
“And you are, I suppose?” said Edith.
“Yes . . . I mean, n
o. Look, it’s what all the chaps are saying. . .”
“Oh do shut up,” said Edith suddenly. “You are talking the most awful rot!”
“Edith’s right, dear,” said Mum. “You are talking rubbish.” Dad laughed.
“OK! OK!” I said, holding up my hands. “It was a casual remark for goodness’ sake; no need to shoot me down in flames!”
“Don’t say that!” shouted Mum. I shrugged and laughed.
“It’s just an expression. . .”
“Don’t ever use it again,” she said coldly and got up from her chair. “I’m going out into the garden.” Edith and Dad looked at me.
“What?” I said.
“You idiot!” snapped Edith, and she got up to follow Mum.
“It’s just an expression, Dad,” I said. Dad just shook his head and sighed. Then he got up and went to his armchair to read the Radio Times.
“It’s just an expression,” I said quietly to myself.
Back at base it was the same mix of boredom and frantic activity. Jerry was launching attacks on convoys and ports on the south coast. Me109s would come over first, looking for a fight, and then Junkers 87 dive-bombers – Stukas – would swoop down on the ships in the Channel.
Most of the time we would get there too late and the damage would be done, with the Germans already high-tailing it back to France. It was frustrating to say the least. We all wanted to take on the 109s, but Fighter Command wanted us to save ourselves for the fight to come.
And when we weren’t in the air we were engaged in endless debate. . .
“All I’m saying is, Vivien Leigh’s all right. . .” I said.
“All right?” one of the chaps said. “All right? Have you seen Gone With the Wind?”
“Of course I have. But Merle Oberon is on a different level altogether.”
“Rubbish!” he said.
“She is just so much better looking,” I said. “Ask anyone.”
“Absolute nonsense!” he said.
Battle of Britain Page 3
