Battle of Britain

by Chris Priestley

  RAF fighters buzzed the bombers, firing into the pack. All around me I could see our fighters climbing and diving and German planes falling and burning. We were getting through. We were finally getting through.

  Edith told me later how she had stood in a crowd and watched the fight, cheering as German planes fell from the skies into the Thames and into the city they had attempted to destroy. All across London people did the same.

  The battered German formation retreated back to France and I flew back to base. Fighter Command had lost over 50 planes. But we’d destroyed a quarter of theirs. If they thought we were going to roll over and die, they were wrong.

  I got a letter from Mum and Dad telling me that they’d had a bit of excitement in the village. A German pilot had parachuted in to the field at the back of the churchyard and the local Home Guard had sent for Dad as the German had been a bit knocked about.

  When Dad had got there they’d put a road block up and the Home Guard had asked Dad for his ID. Dad said it was ridiculous because he’d known the men who’d asked for it all their lives. In fact he’d helped to deliver one of them as a baby!

  The pilot was being held in the church hall. A couple of old-timers had their guns trained on him, the local bobby was there, and the army was on its way.

  He had a shrapnel wound on his elbow from the dogfight that brought him down, and a nasty crack on his forehead courtesy of the Home Guard. I told my dad on the telephone that it was typical – I shot them down and he patched them up.

  Not that that pilot would be getting back into a Messerschmitt. He would be shipped off to Canada, double-quick, and he was lucky. At least if we came down we were on home soil – that’s if we didn’t end up in the drink of course!

  Dad had been determined to hate him, but found himself thinking of me as he tended the wounds. He said he had been expecting to find some sort of monocled character in jackboots with a sneer on his lips and a scar down his cheek. Instead there was a young chap not much older than me, trying to look brave when in fact he had no idea what was going to happen next.

  “Will I be shot?” the pilot had asked my father, apparently. My father told him that of course he wouldn’t be shot and cleaned him up the best he could. The pilot thanked him and Dad told him about me being a fighter pilot.

  One of the Home Guard told my dad that he shouldn’t be telling Germans that sort of thing, but Dad told him not to talk such nonsense. The pilot asked what I flew.

  “Spitfire,” said Dad.

  “Ah yes,” said the German. “The famous Spitfire.” Dad smiled proudly. “I shot one down only yesterday,” said the pilot.

  My folks also told me they’d taken in an evacuee. A kid called Peter. Edith asked Mum and Dad if they’d have him as his mum worked at the hospital and was frantic with worry. He’d already been evacuated once and had such a horrible time of it, they’d brought him back.

  In fact, most of the kids who’d been evacuated at the beginning of the War were back by the following Christmas. No bombs fell, so they all came home. It made it all the worse when Jerry did start bombing, of course.

  I got a chance to drop in on my folks for a day on the 22nd and the first person I saw when I opened the door was this evacuee of theirs. He was a funny-looking tike, thin as a rake with bony legs sticking out of his shorts. He stared at me from under a flop of blond hair.

  “Peter, isn’t it?” I said. He didn’t reply. He just stood there staring at me. Mum came out of the kitchen.

  “It’s all right Peter,” she said. “It’s only Harry. Are you going to say hello?” But instead of saying hello, he turned on his heels and ran as fast as his little legs would take him up the stairs.

  “He’s still very shaken by all this,” said Mum.

  “It’s good of you to take him in, Mum.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Anyway, sit yourself down and relax. It’s so lovely to see you.” She gave me one of her bear-hugs. I swear she could crush an ox. “Your father will be back soon,” she called from the kitchen. “And you look tired!”

  I was tired, too. I flopped down in the armchair and closed my eyes. Then I realized Peter was standing in the doorway.

  “You fly Spitfires, don’tcha?”

  “That I do,” I said. Peter walked a little closer.

  “Shot down many Jerries?” he said.

  “A few,” I said.

  “I’d like to be a Spitfire pilot, I really would.”

  “It’s not as much fun as it probably seems,” I said. “So how do you like living in the country?”

  “It’s great. All the fresh air an’ that.”

  “Your parents must be glad to know you’re safe, out of harm’s way? With all the bombing I mean.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “They’re getting bombed every bleedin’ night, they are.”

  “Not sure my mother would approve of the language, old chap,” I said.

  “She’s a nice lady, your muvver,” he said. “Kind an’ that.”

  “She is. You must be missing yours,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “An’ me dad, too. ’E says them Jews are in the shelters all day.”

  “Does he now,” I said frowning.

  “Yeah,” he carried on. “Says they’re all cowards an’ all this is their fault. ’E says we shouldn’t be fightin’ Hitler at all, we shouldn’t—” And then I just saw red. I suddenly thought of Lenny and what had happened to him fighting for the likes of this boy. It seemed a waste and it made me mad.

  “Why you little. . .” I grabbed him by his jumper and pinned him against the wall. He was gasping and clawing at my wrists and his feet were six inches off the ground.

  “Stop it! Stop that at once!” yelled my mother coming out from the kitchen. I let go and he dropped to the floor, slumped against the wall and the skirting board. I just stood there. I looked at Mum and I looked down at Peter. They both looked terrified. Terrified of me.

  My mother darted forward and pulled the boy away to the other side of the room shielding him from me like I was a rabid dog. Now she looked angry.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. “He’s a boy! He’s just a boy!”

  “You didn’t hear him.” I muttered. “You didn’t hear what he was saying!”

  “He’s just a boy!” she yelled again.

  My mother turned her back on me and comforted Peter, who stared out from behind her arm in absolute terror. I turned on my heels and left the room; left the house and the garden, walked up over the back fields to Hunter’s Hill.

  I sat on the fence that borders the copse. What was happening to me? I looked down at my hands. I felt ashamed of myself. The whole thing with Lenny, the constant tension, the exhaustion – it was getting to me far more than I’d realized.

  I looked up. Housemartins hunted for insects around the oaks and beeches. I’d never noticed before how much like fighters they were as they wheeled about together. It looked like a dogfight up there.

  Two land girls were walking across the meadow below, talking and giggling. A farmer was feeding his horse in the shade of a huge ash tree. Suddenly Dad was standing next to me.

  “Look Dad, I’m sorry about Peter. I was an ass, I’m sorry. But you should have heard what he said. . .”

  “I think I can guess,” said Dad. “His father is a Fascist, a Mosley supporter. By rights he ought to be in prison. Peter is just parroting his father’s prejudices.”

  “Even so. How can you let him get away with that?”

  “Look, do you think I only treat people I like?” said Dad. “There’d be fewer people round here if that was true, I can tell you. We don’t get to choose who needs our help.”

  “I suppose not.” I said with a shrug.

  “And I’ve got news for you, son. You’re in the same boat.”

  “How do you mean?
” I asked.

  “You’re fighting for everyone, not just the people you know; not just the people you like. You don’t get to choose, either.” He grinned at me. “It’s a pain isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is,” I said, grinning back.

  “And you’ll apologize to Peter, won’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I said.

  “Good lad. Shall we head back?”

  “I’ll follow you down. I just want a few minutes.” Dad nodded and walked off down the hill.

  My mother was standing in the kitchen washing up some cups and saucers. She didn’t look round when I came to the door.

  “I’m sorry, Mum,” I said.

  “So am I, dear,” she said. She turned to face me with a weak smile.

  “Just a bit tense at the moment,” I said. “Things getting me down a bit.”

  “Then why won’t you talk to me about them?”

  “You’d only worry,” I said.

  “I worry anyway,” she said. “Talk to me.”

  So I filled her in about Lenny. She wanted to cry, I could tell, but she stopped herself. When I’d finished she came over and kissed me on the cheek like she used to do when I was a little boy.

  “How’s Peter?” I asked.

  “A little bruised. A little frightened. He’ll be all right. But he’s not as tough as he’d like to seem. This is hard for him.”

  “That doesn’t give him the right to—”

  “No,” she said. “It doesn’t. He’s wrong and we tell him he’s wrong. And maybe, just maybe, we can change his mind. I hope so.” She paused and adjusted some flowers in a vase on the table. “Or, of course, we could just strangle him and have done with it.”

  I smiled. “Point taken, Mum,” I said. “I’ll try not to throttle him again.”

  “You’ll do better than that, young man. You can take him to the pictures.”

  “But, Mum. . .”

  “Never mind ‘But, Mum’. Pinocchio is on at the Plaza. You know – the new Walt Disney film. Mrs Harris says it’s marvellous.”

  “But, Mum. . .”

  “Go on,” she said, pushing me through the door towards the stairs. “It’ll do you good. If you hurry, you’ll make the next show.”

  I shrugged and began to climb the stairs, knowing full well that I was never going to get out of it. I stood in the doorway of the bedroom and Peter lay playing with a toy Spit and a toy Me109. He pretended that he hadn’t heard me.

  On the floor was a copy of Picture Post. The cover showed a mother hugging her young son, both looking terrified. The headline was “THE EAST END AT WAR: Two of Hitler’s enemies.”

  “Peter?” I said.

  “Yeah?” he said without looking up.

  “Look, sport,” I said. “Sorry about before, you know. Uncalled for.”

  Peter carried on playing with his toy planes. I almost walked away. There seemed no way he was going to go anywhere with me. But I owed it to Mum to give it a shot.

  “Who’s winning?” I said, watching the pretend dogfight.

  “The Spit of course,” he said without turning round. “Spits are the best.”

  “Me109s can fly higher.”

  “Spits can fly faster and turn quicker.”

  I smiled. “I say, fancy coming to the flicks with me to see Pinocchio?”

  I’d hardly finished speaking when he was off his bed, barging past me and bounding down the stairs.

  “Come on!” he shouted. “Or we’ll miss the start!”

  We didn’t miss the start. When we were going to our seats, a couple of people shook me by the hand and a couple more patted me on the shoulder. Everyone loved the RAF now.

  There was a newsreel showing Londoners getting on with it in spite of the bombers. It was pretty corny stuff, but it went down well and there were plenty of cheers at the mention of the “boys of the RAF” and plenty of boos every time the Germans were mentioned. It was like being at a panto.

  Well, I have to say Mrs Harris was right for a change. It was pretty first rate, actually. Amazing to think that it was just a lot of drawings we were looking at, although I did think it was all a bit typical that while we were being blasted to Hell and back, the Yanks were making cartoons!

  There was this terrific bit where a huge whale called Monstro was chasing Pinocchio and his father. Well, when that whale was bearing down on them, Peter squeezed up against me and peeped over my coat sleeves, grabbing my arm and jumping every time the whale made a move. Mum was right – Peter wasn’t half as tough as he made out.

  And when Jiminy Cricket sang “When You Wish Upon A Star” I thought the whole cinema was going to burst into tears. I felt a little tearful myself. Embarrassing really. I suppose we all had a lot to wish for.

  “Here,” I said, the next time I visited Lenny. “I brought you some books. I got them from that old secondhand place near the station. They looked dull so I thought you’d probably like them.”

  “Thanks,” said Lenny. “You didn’t have to waste your money on me, you know.”

  “What else am I going to spend it on?”

  “Thought by now you’d be dating one of those WAAFs you’re always talking about.”

  “No,” I said. “Not while all this is going on.”

  “Live for today, old chap,” he said. “You don’t know what’s going to happen.” He glanced down at his leg.

  “I know,” I said. “But I don’t want to think about anyone when I’m up there. I don’t want to be careful. Being too careful is as bad as being careless. You just have to do what feels right, regardless. Otherwise you get. . . Sorry, Lenny, listen to me going on. . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. Honestly. I don’t want you feeling sorry for me, Harry. I won’t have it.” I smiled. He smiled back, a little weakly.

  “So,” I said. “Are they treating you well? Any good-looking nurses?”

  “Not bad,” he said. “On both counts.” Another weak smile. “How are things back at base? Are they managing without me?”

  “Just about, just about.”

  “They’re fixing me up with a desk job, you know.”

  “That’s great. A brainbox like you should be running the show, not being a donkey like the rest of us.”

  “Thanks Harry. I’ll be glad of the work. Too much time to think here, if you know what I mean.” I nodded and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned away.

  “Hey,” I said. “We’ve got a film crew coming to the base – you know, one of those Ministry of Information set-ups.”

  “That’s something I would like to see,” laughed Lenny.

  “Less of the giggling,” I said. “Who knows. When all this is over I just may have a career as a movie star waiting for me.”

  Then a nurse came in with some food on a tray.

  “Visiting time’s over, I’m afraid.” I got up.

  “Sorry. I’ll leave you to it, then,” I said.

  “What do you think, Nurse,” said Lenny. “Can you see him in the movies?” She looked me up and down as she was leaving.

  “Comedies maybe,” she said, and disappeared through the door.

  I rang Edith when I got back. She was having a pretty rough time of it, by all accounts. She sounded older.

  She asked me how Lenny was – Mum and Dad had told her about him in their last letter. I said I had taken some books in for him. She asked what they were and I said the only one I could remember was Moby Dick because it had a picture of a whale on it. I suppose I had whales on the brain after Pinocchio.

  “Oh no!” she said. “You idiot!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, a bit taken aback.

  “Moby Dick, you twit! Captain Ahab! Captain Ahab!”

  “Sorry, sis. What are you talking about?” She sighed a very big sigh.

>   “You don’t have a clue, do you? Don’t you ever read a book? Captain Ahab in Moby Dick only has one leg, you chump. The other is bitten off by a whale!”

  “Oh no,” I said. “What am I going to do? I. . . I. . . Oh no, Edith. What an idiot!”

  But when I spoke to Lenny on the phone he could hardly stop laughing. He said it had cheered him up no end. He said only I could have done something that stupid.

  “Glad to have been of service,” I said. And he collapsed into laughter all over again.

  October 1940

  The film crew arrived on the 5th October. It was a lark at first. All the attention was pretty head-swelling, I have to admit. We were like a bunch of school kids, clowning about. The director got rather cross actually and the CO came and tore a strip off us.

  Well, all thoughts of Hollywood soon went out of my head. It was tedious in the extreme. The whole process was painfully slow. If this is what movie stars go through every day, then they can keep it, they really can.

  The chaps from the film crew briefed us about what they were going to do and what they wanted us to do. It was all incredibly simple, but they still felt the need to tell us over and over again as if we were idiots or something.

  They spent an age rearranging furniture and waiting for the light to be just right and so forth. One chap pointed out that he usually played a few hands of pontoon with some of the others, but the director said that chess would give a better impression.

  All this nonsense was bad enough, but the filming itself was even worse. No sooner had the director yelled “Action!” than he yelled “Cut!” One minute he didn’t like the way someone was standing, the next he didn’t like the chair someone was sitting in.

  One of the chaps had to pretend to be asleep until he heard the siren and then jump up and dash for his Spit. The director made the poor fellow do it over and over again. First he said he didn’t look asleep. He said he looked like he was pretending.