Smith was aware that the increasing activity over the Channel and the coast were likely just the beginnings of a more intense campaign that could escalate any day.
Hitler’s so called offers of peace were not going to bear fruit, and the time for more fighting was drawing closer, and so he trained his students with a greater will. And although the efforts he put into the training drained him, desperation gave him greater strength.
It would not be long now before the storm broke. Soon his young apprentices would be thrust into the ferocity of the storm.
Thank God they weren’t a pair of fools who would throw themselves away at the first opportunity. These boys flew with thought and consideration, and they would be a worthy opponent for the victors of the Blitzkrieg. They just needed a chance.
Please, God, give them that chance.
Please save them.
One evening later that week, long after dinner, when most of the other pilots had adjourned for a ‘beano’ at the local Inn, the Horse and Groom, followed by a trip to the Palais, Rose went back to his room to relax, and go over the day’s training in his mind.
The pilots of Excalibur had welcomed him warmly, and they liked the quiet, shy young man with the AFC, but he was not a drinker, and he did not feel he could truly be a member of the Squadron until Donald had told him that he had passed his period of training.
He would not join them until he felt he was worthy of their company.
This reticence, however, had not been shared by the other pilots of Excalibur squadron, and Rose had been forced to escape more than once from the ribaldry that all groups of young men, the world over, engage in, when they embrace one into their group.
But as they were fighter pilots, they misbehaved even more so.
More often than not, he had not been able to avoid his pursuers, and had been debagged once, thrown in the river once, and forced to listen to an execrable rendition of ‘If I only had you’ once, sung by a tipsy and haughty Ffellowes, bumpily riding his ‘borrowed’ tricycle.
The last was, without doubt, the worst experience of the three he had suffered.
He had been able to escape the wild mess games, though. One of the other new pilots had not been so lucky, and now lay in hospital with a broken ankle and wrist. He’d not be trying any of his patter on the WAAFs of Foxton for some time.
The CO, Donald, had been mightily annoyed with them, and there had been a (slight) reduction in high jinks since.
But these gave him no cause for concern.
Initially, he had been more fearful of the threat of being sent back to the O.T.U., but now he felt quietly confident in his abilities, and was sure that he had satisfied Smith. After all the training he had received to date, he was infinitely more sure of himself, and he knew himself that he could now fly (and hopefully fight) a Hurricane far better than he had been able to a mere week earlier.
The tomcat that lived with the Squadron pilots was a large jet-black creature named Hermann, in honour of the Luftwaffe Field Marshal that he resembled so much in shape. He was as well known amongst the local female cat population as were some of the pilots of Excalibur Squadron amongst the showgirls of London.
For some incomprehensible reason, Hermann had taken to Rose, and demonstrated his affection by taking up permanent residence in Rose’s room.
Every evening before bed, Rose would sit in his battered, threadbare armchair (since made even more threadbare by the not-so gentle ministrations of Hermann’s long claws), with Hermann sleeping contentedly in his lap, and occasionally suck his unlit virginal pipe, for an hour or so.
He had tried a cigarette once, but the effects had put him off, so he avoided actually putting any tobacco into the pipe and lighting it.
The illumination in his room was poor, so he would usually sit in the dark, resting his body and mind (If he could stop thinking about the day’s lesson), with his window open and uncovered. The liquid lustre of moonlight would spill in, and the fragrances of the gardens would flood in with it.
It was also a good time in which to formulate a letter home, and tell his mother he was well and enjoying himself. He wanted to able to write more, but the official Station Censor would take a dim view of his writing all his experiences to her.
Every word nowadays had to be watched, for spies could glean much from a few, careless words. Of course, there was always the telephone, but Rose had an aversion to speaking on it, and his telephone conversations were always stilted and cold, no matter how much he tried to sound animated. He felt he could be more himself on a piece of paper.
So, almost one week after arriving at Foxton, he sat with his eyes closed in his usual place in the corner beside the bed, Hermann sleeping on his lap, one hand on the warm, coarse fur, the other holding his pipe.
All was quiet. Not even the crunch of army size nine boots on the gravel outside. The sentry had been banished back to the airfield, as the pilots had complained that his crunching around and nocturnal whistling prevented them from getting a decent night’s sleep.
His secretive rendezvous’ with a local girl had not helped, particularly now she was in the family way.
Only Fricker seemed to be sorry to see him go. He didn’t mind that the sentry had fired a warning round at a drunken Wilson. This had been because Wally had taken a pot-shot at his tin hat, with his service revolver, instead shooting out the stag heads’ remaining eye. “I wanted to see if the helmet’s bullet-proof.”
Oh well.
On his bed were the crumpled, precious sheets of his most recent letter from home. Mum wrote of the mundane goings-on of the local branch of the WVS, how she had carefully packed away her precious Pye television console in the basement, and also of her worries about her decision to keep Tinkles, her little cat. With rationing in place, hundreds of pet cats and dogs were being put down all around the country, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, follow suit, despite her feeling that she were being unpatriotic.
But Rose was glad, because it would have been too much like murdering a close relative.
She had managed to avoid giving voice to her worries for her son, although reading between the lines, he could feel her anxiety for the dangers she knew he must face.
It was good to hear from home, and know that life went on as normal, or at least as normal as was possible in these times.
He felt tired but also relaxed, for the day had been a pleasant one.
He had spent an exciting time with Smith and Barsby that afternoon, on yet another training flight, pursuing and trying to shoot down a rogue barrage balloon they had been vectored onto by sector control. It had torn loose of its moorings and was leisurely drifting along the Thames Estuary and out to sea, like a jolly old gent out for an afternoon stroll on the pier.
They had made repeated interceptions and attack runs on it as Smith used it for an impromptu training session. They had also been given more practice in deflection shooting as they had finally sent the great flabby silver monster flaming into the water below.
Doubtless the ten or twelve men and women responsible for raising and lowering the balloon would get a rocket for allowing it to break free. On the flight back Granny had made a detour to show them the mysterious masts of an RDF station, although he had seemed more interested in waving at the tiny figures of a pair of WAAFs on bicycles below. Back on the ground, he had said enigmatically, “Those masts will win the war for us, you know.”
Barsby and Rose had looked at one another and wondered.
It was all very hush-hush.
Yes, it had been a good day.
The others must have driven to London by now, to a dance at the Hammersmith Palais. Billy had tried to bundle him into the car, but Rose had managed to escape his clutches.
Although the entrance fee at the Palais was far more than a ticket to the pictures, Farrell of B’Flight was (currently) seeing one of the girls who worked at the Palais, and she managed to get all the pilots in for nothing.
Apparently, Geraldo and h
is Orchestra (whoever they were) were going to be playing there, and the house was quiet.
There was a light knock at the door.
Surprised, Rose opened his eyes. Who on earth could that be?
“Come in!” he called out.
The door opened to reveal Smith. He came into the room, blinked a few times to try and adjust his eyes to the darkness.
“Hullo, Granny, what can I do for you? I thought everyone had gone to the Palais.” Rose indicated Hermann, “I’m afraid I can’t get up, but you’re welcome to take a seat.” The cat stared unblinking at Smith, stretched, adjusted its position, and then curled up again, purrs rumbling loudly.
“Hello, Harry. No, I thought I’d let the other boys have a crack at the crumpet for a change, poor sods. Thought I’d turn in early for a change, must be getting old.” He smiled to show he wasn’t being serious.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought I’d nip in and have a quick word with you before I pop to bed.” He sat down gingerly on the wooden chair, brushed it.
Rose noticed that the seat of Smith’s trousers was stained with engine oil (at least he hoped it was engine oil).
Pilot Officer Granny Smith DFM and Bar, RAF.
His leader, his friend, his hero. Great leader, formidable fighter pilot, and absolutely rubbish at keeping himself smart. Rose smiled affectionately.
But why was he here?
Smith noticed the curiosity in Rose’s eyes.
“I just wanted to tell you about what I shall be saying to the Old Man tomorrow.” Smith spoke formally, but smiled again; a sight that Rose was seeing more and more often in the last few days. It converted the cold, skilful killer into a pleasant faced young man.
“I’m sure you know that I think you’ve done satisfactorily,” Rose grinned, elated, but not surprised, “and I shall be advising Squadron-Leader Donald that I consider you an adequate pilot,” Granny returned his smile.
Adequate! Cheeky bugger!
“And I believe you are now ready to fly operationally in combat. I’m sure he’ll also be pleased that you’ve managed to increase your flying hours considerably. You’ve managed to become sufficiently familiar with your Hurricane, and I think you’ve got a pretty good idea now what its strengths and faults are.”
He leaned forward, held out his hand. “Well done, Harry. I shall be very pleased to have you in my section. I reckon you’re ready.”
A thrill of fear and anticipation ran through him, yet Rose grinned and shook hands with Smith.
“Thanks a lot, Granny. I can’t begin to thank you for all the time you’ve spent teaching me.” Rose was embarrassed. “I want you to know that I will be very proud to fly with you. I will do my very best. Dingo seemed happy yesterday when we went up together. I’m really grateful.” The words came out sounding hackneyed, and he cringed at how they sounded, but Smith only smiled.
“Harry, I want to take you and Barsby to the Armoury tomorrow, because you should have one of these,” He reached into his tunic pocket, and pulled out a revolver. It glistened silver-blue in the moonlight as he passed it over to Rose.
“This is an old friend of mine. I take care of it, and once or twice, it’s taken care of me.”
Rose hefted the gun gingerly. He was fascinated by the feel of the weapon, by the faint aroma of oil and metal that came from it. It felt heavy, solid. As he turned it, he noticed the scratches and dents on the surface of the weapon.
Like its owner, it was obviously a veteran. Although he had had a basic course in weapons instruction whilst a cadet, he was more used to the idea of using the guns on his aeroplane. The revolver felt strange and warm, but exciting to hold, like holding a girl’s hand in the stalls at the cinema in the dark, during a film. Warm and smooth and ever so slightly slippery in feel.
“Every pilot should carry one of these. Old Winnie said we need to drill with rifles, but I prefer carrying one of these. We usually fight with our kites, so we tend to neglect our skills with side-arms, but, it’s something we need to be capable of. You’re not bad with a rifle; I’d like to see how you are with one of these.”
He took back the gun, “I found it very handy when it comes to learning deflection shooting, and shooting at moving targets. You can practise for hours. I’ll show you and Barsby, and it’s actually a lot of fun, too.” He looked at it reflectively, and then put it back in his pocket.
Smith had flown with Rose and Barsby on to RAF Sutton Bridge in their new Hurricanes for some gunnery practice, and he had spent considerable time explaining how a pilot should correct his aim according to the speed, angle and direction of flight of the target aircraft. The mysteries of deflection shooting could take some learning.
They would have to learn to shoot at the spot where the enemy aircraft was likely to be when the ordnance reached it, not where it had been.
Enemy aeroplanes only went down if bullets actually hit it.
The busy training station at Sutton Bridge had been a miserable, muddy place, but the experience invaluable. A Czech pilot had crashed into the marshland and rescuing him had been a tense, drawn-out affair.
Rose had initially come closer to shooting down the drogue-towing aeroplane, a Hawker Henley, than hitting the target being towed, but he had quickly managed to grasp the principles behind leading with his shooting, and his gunnery had improved drastically. Barsby, to his very vocal chagrin, had not been much better.
But thankfully, they had both learned so much, and had become capable shots. Not quite the dead-shots of the movie westerns, but good enough. At least that was how Rose felt now.
He had shown it this afternoon in the attacks on the barrage balloon.
“The three of us will be going tomorrow after breakfast to sign out a revolver for each of you.” He stood up. “In the afternoon we’ll go for a little flight, and then when we get back, we can do a little shooting practice with some tennis balls, OK? Well, I’m off now.” He paused. I’m going to ask the CO to make Barsby operational tomorrow as well, Harry. I’ll tell him at breakfast, if he wakes up in time for it. We should be available as Yellow section when the squadron is back on operations. I’m just glad the new Hurricanes arrived when they did. You two needed to get used to flying the variable pitch model. Definitely an improvement on poor old T-Tommy.”
He turned to go again, “Well, good night then, Harry. Sleep well. Enjoy it, because there’s no reason for you to miss a beano again. The boys will be glad. Tomorrow is a new day for us all. Cheerio, chum.”
He nodded amiably at Rose and closed the door quietly.
Operational! Even though he had expected it, and had worked so hard for it, Rose glowed with a warm, self-congratulatory feeling of achievement. Smith thought him ready, and he felt it.
Bring on the Messerschmitts, he thought, bravely.
I’m ready for you now, Adolf.
I’m ready.
CHAPTER 9
The morning of the 10th of July, 1940 dawned with rain and cloud driving in from the south-west. It was a dirty, grey start to another lovely summer’s day.
It looked as if there would be no flying with conditions such as these, but nonetheless, B’ Flight of Excalibur Squadron was slated for dawn readiness. Billy had woken bleary eyed to a cold and wet darkness, as if the world had disappeared into an empty windswept void, leaving only the Station in the midst of lonely grey countryside, so that he felt as if he were lost in the midst of a desolate wasteland.
Whilst Rose slept peacefully in his bed, Hermann a silent companion curled comfortably beside him, the service car slowly crunched its way up the gravel path that led to the Manor House, to take the yawning pilots to an early breakfast of a steaming cup of sweet tea and a toasted crumpet scrimped with butter, before the inevitable journey to readiness.
“Bloody Harry Clampers, again,” moaned Flying Officer Warburton, eyeing the morose clouds. “I hate bloody cloud, especially low bloody cloud, that bastard. Can’t see bugger all.” He flung the last of his crumpet at a
crow that was eyeing him and his breakfast. “Here, have it then, you sod!” It landed on the grass, and the crow ran to it eagerly.
Billy collapsed tiredly onto a wooden park bench that bore the legend ‘Shoreham Parish Council.’ It was dark with moisture from the early morning air, and it creaked disturbingly.
Billy didn’t care. Despite the wetness seeping through the seat of his trousers, he could feel his eyes closing with tiredness. He put down his mug and closed his eyes, sat back. Warburton moaning again! Why, if it wasn’t the weather, it was the brass, or the kites, or the food or it would be something else.
“Oh Lord, Burt, put a sock in it.” Warburton made a face, threw the dregs of his mug of tea onto the grass, and walked off towards Flight-Lieutenant Spink, the new C’Flight commander, who was chatting with the airman manning the telephone.
Early morning was no time for jokes, and Billy was in no mood for making any. All he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep, but at any moment he may have to get into his aircraft and chase one of the Hun recce planes that flew over the channel or Southern England every day, gleaning intelligence. With the amount of cloud up there, they would be lucky to make an interception successfully.
Although two days had passed since the squadron had been made operational again, there had not been any contact with the Luftwaffe, Billy and his squadron-mates had only been involved in convoy patrols and fruitless interceptions, which had ended with the Hurricanes usually being vectored onto an enemy aeroplane that had dived for home well before they were able to get anywhere near.
Billy had yet to see an enemy aircraft, and the excitement of being on active service again had now dulled somewhat. The thought of a warm bed seeming far more attractive at this time of the morning.
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