by Ian Lindsey
“Of course, that must be it.” Squadron Leader Phillips really did chuckle this time. “We’ve been down several men since flying cover in Dunkirk, so we’re glad to have you, even if you are Yanks.”
“I’m sure the evacuating men appreciated the cover.” Payton said while intentionally leaving out their role in the rescue. Both twins knew from WestPoint and from their father that junior officers should always stay modest and humble. They wanted to the Squadron Leader to know that flying and helping the war effort topped their priorities, not making heroes of themselves. Only those that come to war to serve become heroes. Those that come to be heroes died relatively quickly.
“Now then, we’ve got two relatively new Spitfires waiting for you. Let’s show you off to your planes.” Squadron Leader Phillips said as he turned nonchalantly towards the hangars and sauntered away from the barracks with a yawn. “We are on call whenever we are on base, so when you hear the claxons you scramble to the planes without hesitation. Whoever gets to the planes first takes off first so we aren’t waiting around on the ground. Once four planes are together, you head to the target. Chain Home command will order your intercept coordinates and away you go hunting. It’s all very informal.”
“How often do you scramble?” Dylan asked.
“We try to get some rest in between sorties, but we fly whenever we have to. If they keep coming, then we’ll just re-fuel and fly again. To date, I’ve only had one instance of going up twice in a day. It’s quite draining. Seconds count, though, so you must never hesitate.” Squadron Leader Phillips answered.
“Yes, sir. Who maintains the planes?” Payton asked.
“Excellent question, the maintenance crew is headed by Flight Sergeant Blinn. They think of these as their planes, and despise when they get shot up.” The Squadron Leader chuckled again.
“I’ll be fairly upset if I get shot up too.” Dylan noted dryly.
“Yes, of course.” The Squadron Leader returned the dry note.
“Forgive the directness, but what’s the best way to make friends with Flight Sergeant Blinn?” Dylan followed up his brother’s question. When someone else took charge of maintaining the planes their lives would depend on, the twins wanted to make sure it was someone they could trust, someone that knew them and would take extra care on their planes. And, they knew a friend might be able to get their planes fixed faster if they needed it.
“I’m told he likes whiskey.” The Squadron Leader grinned back, most likely because he’d used the same trick.
“We know just the man to help with that.” Dylan said as he made a mental note to call Timothy later in the day for a case of Bushmills, the fine Irish whiskey.
“Here we are, your aircraft. All the eighth squadron planes start with ST. One of you will be ST-C and the other will be ST-A. Unfortunately, from our standpoint, you are a bit interchangeable at the moment. I can’t imagine anyone other than your mother being able to tell you apart, so choose whichever plane suits you. These Spitfires just arrived, so your luck runs you into brand new aircraft of the highest quality.” Squadron Leader Phillips finished.
“These are splendid, sir, thank you.” Dylan said with true admiration for the war machine in front of him.
“Don’t thank me, thank the factory workers.” Squadron Leader Phillips said. “I’ve a report to write this morning, and then I will meet you two for lunch to talk about dogfighting. My understanding is that you received very little instruction on anything other than the basics of flying and gunnery, correct?”
“Yes, sir, that is correct.” Payton affirmed.
“We’ll talk it over this afternoon and see if we can keep you alive until the end of the week, then.” Squadron Leader Phillips said lightly, never changing the mood of his voice despite his dark prognostication.
Left again with no direction until the afternoon Payton and Dylan took the chance to go over every detail of their new planes. They walked around the elliptical wings scanning for any cracks or inconsistencies in the metal. They pulled and tugged on the flaps and ailerons to insure that they moved freely. They pushed the tail rudder back and forth. They looked for ways to improve the planes, even if just a little. They sanded small metal burrs off the leading edge of the wings, and they greased the hinges of all the control surfaces just to get the extra swift movement that might lead to an advantage in the air. Payton even hit on a simple idea to add a touch of sharpness to their reflexes. They found a can of hydraulic fluid sitting near their planes and filled the reservoirs to their tops. By increasing the amount of hydraulic fluid they ran the risk of bursting the lines, but with a light touch they could move the control surfaces with smaller, more precise movements. In essence, they could save the split second required to move the stick or pedals a half inch further. The planes would respond more quickly, so the twins would have to be careful not to overcorrect or push too hard, otherwise they would lose control and fall from the skies.
After walking through the outside of the plane, the twins crawled in to their cockpits. The planes sat side by side in the hanger with only the wingspan separating them. They left the wind shields open and talked back and forth to reaffirm the details of their training in their minds. They double checked the sighting on their guns, though all they could do was line up the crosshairs and hope that the machine guns did the same. They wouldn’t learn how accurately the factory workers had done their work until a German Messerschmitt sat in their bullseye. After a while they both just sat, quietly, in their planes and contemplated what it would mean to fly them. What it would mean to see a Luftwaffe insignia on another plane with cannons and machine guns pointed not just at each plane, but also at the plane carrying their brother.
“Dylan” Payton said.
“Yeah” Dylan answered.
“If I go down you keep fighting.” Payton said, stating simply the hard truth about their situation.
“Same for you.” Dylan said quietly back.
***
The twins found Squadron Leader Phillips sitting at the bar of the officers mess waiting for a shepherd’s pie when they came around to discuss dogfighting. He sat by himself at the bar, but where one would expect to find a beer he simply had a tall glass of water.
“Sir.” Dylan and Payton said in unison as they came to attention despite the awkward idea of saluting another man at a bar.
“We have a rule around here, no saluting in the officer’s mess.” Squadron Leader Phillips said. “This is the one place we come to relax. Best just to show respect and go about your business in here.”
“Yes, sir.” The twins said in unison again.
“Curious habit, that.” Captain Phillips noted. “Do you do everything together?”
“No, sir. It just happens sometimes when we have the same answer.” Payton answered.
“Yes, of course. Now, to dogfighting. The easiest way to defeat another fighter is for him to never know you are there. Ideally you attack from above because you can use the altitude to gain enough speed to fall on your prey and maintain the speed to get away from anyone of his wing-mates lurking nearby. Altitude equals speed and speed means you stay alive.” Squadron Leader Phillips continued his abbreviated tutorial. “Failing the height advantage, your next best option is to sneak in from below. You’ll really have to push your airplane to gain altitude and still keep up with your prey, but the idea is to stay hidden below and behind him until the other fellow can’t do anything about it.”
“What do you do if you get spotted before you can take the shot?” Dylan asked.
“He’ll have to turn in to you to shoot, so do your best to stay behind. Turn with him. His best move is a loop to come down on you, so you might be able to loop too. If all else fails, dive for the waves and turn tail towards home, live to fight another day.” Squadron Leader Phillips responded.
“Thank you for the advice, Squadron Leader.” Payton said as the Squadron Leader rose to indicate the lesson was done.
“We’ll try to keep you aliv
e. We need all the pilots we can get. That is why a newly minted Squadron Leader such as myself is still flying, instead of commanding a whole group.” The Squadron Leader noted dryly. “One other thing, don’t drink beer unless it’s a day you know you won’t fly, and those days only come when you are on leave. Drink water, beer will slow you down. Don’t drink too much of anything, though. You can fly patrols for hours and urinating in your flight suit is frowned upon. At the very least take an empty canteen to use if necessary. It will probably freeze by the time you land, but at least it will allow you to relieve yourself if you keep it against yourself during the patrol.” The Squadron Leader then stood and clearly displayed what had brought his last point to mind by heading directly to the restroom. “Your first patrol is tomorrow morning. In your planes by 0700 please.” He finished over his shoulder as he wandered away.
***
The next morning dawned beautifully like every summer day seems to as a child. The air warmed as soon as the sun peaked above the horizon. By 0700 it glinted off the windshields of the spitfire cockpit canopies as it marched higher in the sky at the accelerated summer pace. No sirens cut the night before to send the men scrambling, so the whole squadron turned out relatively well rested for the morning patrol. The twins walked around their planes running through the pre-flight checklist as they always did. As the rest of the squadron turned out Squadron Leader Phillips motioned for everyone to come together before takeoff for a quick briefing.
“Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely” he started with a joke, “First, let’s welcome our fresh recruits. Flying Officers Anders. I’ll let them tell you which is Payton and which is Dylan, and I’ll ensure that their fight suits are thusly labeled.”
“Dylan.” He said raising his hand slightly.
“Payton.” He followed his brother.
“Thank you gentlemen. For the benefit of our new pilots, this is Blue Section of the squadron, we six. There are another six aircraft making up red section. We’ll take the first flight this morning and they’ll take the afternoon patrol. Now, we’ve been assigned sector 36, over the channel just outside of London. I’m sure most of you know the way. The new recruits will fly in formation with me.” Squadron Leader Phillips finished the very short briefing. “Off to your planes.”
The twins hurried to their planes to get the propellers spinning before the Squadron Leader could get out too far ahead of them. All six planes took off without incident and formed up to head southeast to the channel. The twins flew in tight formation with the Squadron Leader and elicited a mild “Well done” over the radio before they flew out over the water. The sun glinted off the shimmering surface below them reminding the whole of the fine midsummer’s day that lay before them. Blue section took station several miles above the English Channel and began making lazy circles in the sky waiting to either catch a stray German squadron or to receive directions from the Chain Home command radar center. However, on this day, Blue section merely flew in circles for four hours. On the return to Biggin Hill Squadron Leader Phillips decided to put the twins through their paces in a mock dogfight.
“Gentlemen, your job now is to kill me. You two against me with no real rules attached. In a true dogfight there is only one rule, kill or be killed. We start now.” Squadron Leader Phillips said and executed a steep turning climb to try and get behind the twins. Dylan immediately pulled back on his controls and followed the Squadron Leader as if he’d fought dozens of dogfights. Payton followed his brother in text book wingman position without requiring any direction.
Both Americans felt confident that they’d have the Squadron Leader quickly enough with their two to one advantage. The Squadron Leader held a few tricks up his sleeve, though. First he leveled off his climb and feinted left by dipping a wing without using the rudder before climbing again. The maneuver nearly shook the twins, as it had many Germans, but they were able to recover quickly enough to maintain the chase.
Next, the Squadron Leader pulled hard to starboard to try and get around the twins in the horizontal space, but again he was unsuccessful when the twins were able to keep up with his tight turn. With the horizontal maneuver out the Squadron Leader went vertical again and performed a half loop with a roll at the top to completely change directions, almost like a u-turn in a car. The twins nearly lost him again, but were able to climb just a little bit higher than the Squadron Leader before they rolled to stay on his tail.
Finding no room to shake the twins, but never giving them a clean shot either, the Squadron Leader decided that only an unexpected move might shake the precise flying of the Americans. So, the Squadron Leader dove hard in a downward spiral for the ground. The twins followed hoping to get the kill before the Squadron Leader could level out. However, to their great surprise, the Squadron Leader pulled out of his dive after only 10,000 feet and pulled hard back on his controls. The G-forces on him must have cause him to nearly black out, the twins though afterward, but Squadron Leader Phillips was able to use his downward momentum and fight his way through a tight loop and gain the advantageous tail position on the twins.
“With that, my young friends, let’s call it a day. Head back to base please.” The Squadron Leader ordered. “I may not have gotten a clean shot on you immediately, but we are running low on petrol.” He explained.
“Yes, sir.” Both twins replied over the radio hiding the disappointment in their voices at having been dispatched with the advantage on their first patrol.
***
“That was disheartening.” Dylan said as he and Payton walked back to the barracks from the airstrip.
“We’ve got to figure out the dogfighting pretty darn quick, or we’ll end up in the Channel, at best.” Payton answered. “The Squadron Leader beat us because he didn’t follow the book. He beat us because we were thinking too much.”
“Flying is the easy part. How do we get in the other guy’s head?” Dylan thought out loud. “It’s like playing chess with Dad. We have to think out past the next step.”
“And we need to do it as a team. Mom always said stick together.” Payton said. “I think we’ll have to start playing cat and mouse. One of us is going to have to be the bait.”
“That just might work. We’ll try it next time we’re up.”
Chapter 22
June 30th, 1940
For the past week Blue Section had flown several sorties, alternating between morning and afternoon, with nary a German in sight. The Luftwaffe had concentrated their efforts on other sectors leaving London relatively quiet. In fact, the Luftwaffe had focused heavily on shipping ports, relentlessly bombing Portsmouth and other vital harbors trying to blockade supplies and strangle the island nation in to submission.
With little fight in their sector, the twins had even taken a twelve-hour pass and snuck down to London to visit the girls. They caught Clara and Anne as they walked back to the dormitory after finishing their shift.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Payton called out before the girls saw them.
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Anne teased playfully as he reached out to pull her close.
“You’re not so bad yourself.” He answered as Dylan and Clara dispensed with the pleasantries all together and went straight for a long kiss. A little warm halo enveloped the four young people and pushed out any thoughts of the people around them, let alone the war surrounding the globe. However, the moment and halo broke quickly as the air raid claxons blared out their unwanted song again.
“This way!” Clara insisted as she grabbed Dylan’s hand. He hadn’t even said a word yet and she was ushering him towards their room. Payton and Anne followed quickly as they entered the door as the all too familiar sound of faint thunder indicated that bombs were falling on another part of the city. “Please tell me you don’t have to go.” Clara said as the four tumbled in to the small room assigned to the girls. “I could barely stand to see you go early last time. If you are only here for a few minutes I might lose my senses.”
; “No, we have a true pass for the next 10 hours. They don’t need us and we won’t rush to get back.” Dylan finally got a word in.
“I think the squadron might be upset if we got ourselves killed on the ground, too.” Payton added. “So, we’ll happy hunker down in here with you, and if the bombing gets closer we’ll find the nearest shelter. One thing we have learned, though, is always have food.” Payton said as he reached in to his knapsack and pulled out four sandwiches from the deli down the street and a bottle of sparkling cider. “No Champaign, but this will have to do.” He smiled as he poured the drinks in to four paper cups.
“A feast.” Anne smiled warmly. “We don’t even make it down the street that often. We usually end up with the cafeteria food. They’ve started rationing, so some days even the cafeteria is a bit bland.”
“I’ll never look at potato soup the same again. And I’m Irish!” declared Clara. “It could be worse. We’ve been treating men nonstop since we saw you last. I guess the motto around here is learn by doing. The older nurses teach as we go. The doctors are always rushing to the next patient.” Clara finished as the whole group fell silent. The happiness at the simple reunion came tinged with melancholy punctuated with each rumbled of a bomb finding its mark.
“Have you seen your brother?” Dylan finally asked Clara to break the low moment.
“Yes, he and Simone dropped by yesterday. He was rather cryptic though, saying that he wouldn’t see us for a month or so, but that Simone would come round to check on us while he was gone. Honestly, I’ve never really known what he’s up to our whole lives.” She finished with a chuckle. “I hope he hurries back and is alright, though.” She added.
“Timothy can take care of himself, of that I’m sure.” Payton stated simply. “Have you any word from your brother, Anne?” he finished.
“No, not a peep. I’m so worried about him, and that goes doubly for you.” She smiled, half sadly, half ruefully at the thought.