The New Kid
By Don Patterson
Illustrated by Sonny Schug/Studio West
Edited by Mary Parenteau
Production by Kline/Phoenix Advertising Graphics
© 2002, 2010 Hindsight Limited
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.
Published in Minneapolis, MN by Rising Star Studios, LLC.
Picture Credits
Many thanks to the following organizations for giving permission to reprint illustrations and text used in the “In Hindsight” section of this book.
The BBC WWII Home Life Interactive exhibit. The Imperial War Museum, London. Additional information courtesy of Alan L. Putland from Remembering the Blitz in 1940.
Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Patterson, Don, 1961-
The new kid / by Don Patterson ; illustrated by Sonny Schug.
p. : col. ill. ; cm. -- (Tales of the RAF ; bk. 6)
Originally published in 2002 by Hindsight Ltd.
Summary: Twelve-year-old Harry Winslow wants to help his pilot friends by joining the RAF. When a new pilot replaces an injured Lt. Tate, Harry and his friends recognize Danny Fitch and know he is only 15 years old. Can Harry use Danny's age to convince his mother to give permission for him to enlist in the RAF?
Interest age level: 007-010.
ISBN: 978-1-936770-17-5 (epub)
1. Great Britain. Royal Air Force--Juvenile fiction. 2. Fighter pilots--Great Britain--Juvenile fiction. 3. World War, 1939-1945--Children--Great Britain--Juvenile fiction. 4. Great Britain. Royal Air Force--Fiction. 5. Fighter pilots--Great Britain--Fiction. 6. World War, 1939-1945--Children--Great Britain--Fiction. I. Schug, Sonny. II. Title. III. Series: Patterson, Don, 1961- Tales of the RAF ; bk. 6.
PZ7.P3884 Ne 2010
[Fic] 2009942885
To my daughter
Elaine.
You’ll always be
my little girl.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
"THE NEW KID"
1 BIRDWATCHING
2 THE DANGEROUS UNKNOWN
3 AIRFIELD FOLKLORE
4 TIME TO JOIN
5 THE SEND-OFF
6 "THE NEW KID"
7 TOO YOUNG
8 THE FAMILIAR STRANGER
9 IN OR OUT
10 QUALIFICATION FLIGHT
11 THE REAL THING
12 A NEW MEMBER
13 GETTING TO THE BOTTOM
14 PATIENCE IS THE KEY
IN HINDSIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
BIRDWATCHING
"Tag, you're it, Stuart!" young Harry Winslow shouted in a winded voice.
"I didn't feel a thing, Harry," Stuart scoffed. "You must have missed me."
"That's because he tagged you on your thick head," Stuart's little sister, Erin, hollered.
Stuart stooped over, as if to catch his breath. Then, a devilish grin flashed across his face and he tore after Erin and Harry. While the children chased each other, their playful shrieks of laughter carried over the fields.
Twelve year old Harry Winslow and his best friends, Stuart and Erin Bentley, enjoyed a warm summer day playing on a small hill in the pastures of Harry's family farm. The rolling countryside was always inviting, and this was their favorite place. What made the grassy knoll special was the view. On the other side of a bushy hedgerow fence bordering the Winslow property lay Hampton Airfield, home to a Royal Air Force fighter squadron.
Suddenly, the thunder of powerful engines echoed. Out on the neighboring airfield, twelve RAF Spitfires scrambled down the runway and lifted into the air. Climbing to altitude, the mighty fighter planes gathered in close formation and raced off into the distance. Harry and his friends stopped everything to watch, awed by the sight.
When the war in Europe first threatened England, two things changed in young Harry Winslow's life. His father was called away to serve in the British Intelligence, and the empty field next to his home was made into a landing strip for the RAF's 14th Fighter Squadron. Amazed by the pilots and planes, Harry quickly befriended the men, growing especially close to the Squadron Leader, Captain Ted Dawson. In his father's absence, Dawson and the others filled a particular emptiness in the boy's heart.
Harry tried to do as much as he could for his adopted RAF family, often assisting in ways well beyond his years. Stuart and Erin were eager to help as well. They savored the excitement of being around the squadron. When the children weren't actually with the pilots, they could be found waiting on the hilltop ready and willing to serve their heroic special friends.
Even with the 14th Squadron away, Harry, Stuart and Erin liked to keep an eye on the airfield. There was always something to see. Down on the hardstand, aircrews were busy repairing damaged planes and servicing new arrivals.
When a lone Spitfire landed on the field, the children dropped in the grass to watch. Visitors to Hampton were much more apparent in the absence of the squadron, especially to the spying eyes of Harry and his friends. They had become experts at identifying newcomers. By keeping a record of the serial numbers painted on the planes, sometimes famous pilots could be found. Working together, the vigilant young team had already spotted two well-known RAF combat aces in just the past month.
Harry clutched a pair of binoculars and focused on the arriving Spitfire, trying to read the numbers painted by the tail. Erin held a weathered scrapbook in her hands, and Stuart waited with pencil and paper to take notes.
"There it is," Harry mumbled. "It starts with a... W."
Erin leafed through her notebook filled with pictures of RAF airplanes, newspaper clippings, and pages of scribbled entries.
"Maybe it's Ginger Lacey!" she shouted, excited at the prospect of discovering a national hero like RAF fighter ace James "Ginger" Lacey.
"W..., 2..., 5...,"
Harry continued, struggling to follow the moving airplane and read the serial numbers at the same time.
"Harry," Erin demanded impatiently. "Tell us, W25 and then what?"
"Yeah, Harry," Stuart added. "Erin's right, if you can't read the whole thing, give us a look."
Amidst some playful shoving and grabbing for the binoculars, Harry pleaded, "Cut it out, guys. I can't see the rest until the plane turns. Besides, it's not Lacey, his serial number doesn't start with a W."
Caught up in the excitement of identifying the mysterious visitor, the children hardly noticed when Harry's mother stepped up from behind. In a gentle voice she asked, "Is anyone hungry?"
Stuart and Erin spun around. Mrs. Winslow pulled some fresh biscuits from a basket and waved them in front of the startled children. Tempted by the delicious offer, Stuart and Erin abandoned the game and clamored to her side. But Harry clung to his binoculars, determined to catch a glimpse of the last elusive serial numbers.
"Before I give you one, tell me what you've been doing all morning," Mrs. Winslow teased, and handed a biscuit to each of the two hungry children.
"We're birdwatching," Erin quickly announced.
Harry's mother looked up, surveyed the empty sky, and reported, "I don't see any birds."
"Not those birds, mum..., those," Stuart corrected by pointing at the planes down on the airfield. "We watch the planes and try to figure out who the pilots are. It's good fun."
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Winslow chuckled. "I'm sure it is."
While Erin and Stuart chatted with Mrs. Winslow, Harry continued studying the airplane on the field. Steadfast, he narrowed in on the rema
ining numbers.
"Children," Mrs. Winslow announced, "I have wonderful news. There's a carnival coming to town this weekend. I've made plans for us all to go."
"We can go to the carnival with you and Harry?" Stuart asked excitedly.
"That's right, dear," Mrs. Winslow replied. "I've cleared it with your mother so you and Erin can come along."
"Harry," Erin shouted, "we're all going to the carnival. Won't that be glorious?"
Still fixed on the Spitfire, Harry suddenly shouted, "I've got it! The serial number is W2535. See if you can find anything on W2535."
Erin quickly stuffed the biscuit in her mouth and scrambled back to her scrapbook. She raced through the pages searching for some record of the serial number. Coming up empty, Erin sat back on her feet and huffed, "Nothing."
The disappointed children eyed each other. This time, the visiting plane wasn't the mount of some famous fighter pilot. It was most likely just a messenger or replacement of some sort.
Mrs. Winslow sensed a lull in the action and seized the opportunity to try and pry Harry away from the airfield to have lunch.
"Come along, Harry, I've made a bite for you and your friends."
"But, Mom, the squadron isn't back yet," Harry impatiently complained.
Trying to strike a balance between her son's passion for the pilots and his need to eat, Mrs. Winslow offered, "I'm sure you can visit your pilots later. In the meantime, we'll make our carnival plans."
"Harry!" Erin begged. "We've been out here for hours and haven't eaten all day. Let's go with your mom and plan for the carnival."
"You go ahead," Harry replied, "I'll be there straight away, once the squadron lands."
Frustrated by her son's preoccupation with the airfield, Mrs. Winslow sighed, "Come along children. We'll have lunch and try to save him something, assuming he ever comes home."
With that, Harry's mother led Stuart and Erin back to the house. Mrs. Winslow worried about the amount of time Harry spent at the airfield. She couldn't help but wonder how much her young son was missing while watching and waiting for the pilots every day.
"Don't be too long, love," she called back.
"I won't, Mom," Harry shouted and then mumbled to himself, "I just want to be sure everything is all right."
CHAPTER TWO
THE DANGEROUS UNKNOWN
Flying twenty thousand feet above the choppy waters of the English Channel, Captain Dawson led his squadron home from an extended patrol. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when the coastline of England rolled into view. They had enjoyed the good fortune of an uneventful mission, but their Spitfires were low on fuel and the pilots were tired.
Suddenly, an urgent warning flashed through Dawson's headset like a bolt of lightning. One of his pilots, flying back in the formation, frantically called out, "Bandits! Bandits at three o'clock high!"
The veteran Squadron Leader glanced over his shoulder to search for the incoming enemy fighters. But, sunlight reflecting in the glass of his canopy practically blinded him. Lost in the bright glare, Dawson couldn't see the group of German planes dropping from above ready to attack his RAF squadron.
Another warning sparked across the radio. Dawson recognized the voice of his friend and second in command, Captain Simms, counting out loud, "Seven..., eight..., nine of them. Closing fast!"
Seemingly out of nowhere, nine enemy fighters ripped through the formation of Spitfires with startling speed. Dawson instinctively rolled his plane to avoid a flash of deadly gunfire and quickly ordered his group to do the same.
"Break, lads! Break!"
Twisting and turning, fighter planes spilled out in all directions. Engine exhaust and contrails traced white curling arcs against the blue sky as enemy planes stalked each other. Roaring guns filled the air with bright tracers and a hailstorm of bullets. The battle was on.
Captain Dawson's radio filled with a mix of frenzied messages to and from his men. They warned of danger and called for help. But, Dawson had his own problem. A German fighter had lined up on his tail. Preoccupied with evading the enemy determined to destroy him, there was little Dawson could do for the others.
The seasoned RAF Captain pushed at his controls and kicked his rudder, trying to escape gunfire from his adversary. Experience had taught him to anticipate the enemy's movements and use them to his advantage. Except, something was different this time. Somehow the German pilot was able to make his plane perform in ways Messerschmitt fighters had never been able to before.
For years, the RAF squadron scrambled to action in rugged Hawker Hurricanes. Only recently had their war-weary "Hurrybacks" been replaced by faster, more agile Spitfires. Over the last couple months Dawson had grown accustomed to the edge his new fighter provided over the German Me109s. Yet, for some reason, today he struggled to stay alive.
Spiraling through the air, Dawson ran from the stealthy German. The deadly chase etched curling trails of vapor all over the sky. Finally, he was able to cross back on the enemy fighter. Dawson triggered his guns when it passed in front of him. But, the sleek German plane nimbly dodged the stream of bullets and at full throttle sped out of sight.
Amazed, Captain Dawson realized he wasn't dueling with Messerschmitts. His squadron had stumbled into a fight with a group of something even more dangerous. Dawson shouted into the radio, trying to warn his men.
"Focke-Wulf 190s!"
The rest of the RAF pilots stiffened in their seats. They heard stories about the enemy's advanced fighter, but had never encountered them before. While combat was always hazardous, flying against new aircraft with unknown capabilities could have dire consequences.
The battle between the Spitfires and Focke-Wulfs raged on. Captain Dawson and his men fought valiantly, but the Germans seemed to hold the upper hand, enjoying the benefit of their new airplanes.
Suddenly, Dawson's radio flared with another alarming message, "They're all over Tate!"
Two of the powerful, snub-nosed German fighters pounded on Tate's Spitfire. The anxious lieutenant spiraled his plane earthward along a dizzying path, desperately trying to escape.
"I could use a little help here, lads," Tate radioed the others, trying to sound calm.
Captain Dawson hurled his plane in hot pursuit, responding to his Lieutenant's call. Quickly cutting in behind the Focke-Wulfs, Dawson fired his guns and drove off one of the German fighter planes.
"Tate," Dawson called, "I got one. Pull up to a stall and let the other cheeky devil pass under you!"
On his Captain's command, Tate pulled back on his stick, hard. The Spitfire lurched up and almost stopped in midair. Shocked by the surprising maneuver, the German pilot dove under the RAF plane and veered off into the distance.
The sudden brake of Tate's Spitfire may have saved it from the menacing Focke-Wulf, but at great cost to the pilot inside. The violent force from pitching up and down tossed Tate about the cockpit, knocking his head against the glass canopy. Unable to regain his senses, the dazed pilot sat helplessly while his plane began to twist and tumble through the air.
Watching Tate slowly spiral in a freefall, Dawson called on the radio, "Tate, take control, lad. Tate..., you must take control!"
Dawson followed the failing Spitfire and continued calling to the injured pilot inside. Time was running out. Tate's plane was dropping through the air like a rock. Determined to save his young pilot, the Squadron Leader barked into the radio, trying to snap Tate out of his haze.
"Regain control of your aircraft immediately, Lieutenant, or I'll throw you in the stockade!"
Responding to either the volume or sheer determination in Dawson's voice, Tate reached for the controls. The groggy pilot held fast to the rattling stick and started to kick at his rudder. Finally, by rolling the battered plane over, he wrestled back command of his wayward Spitfire.
"I'm on top of it," Tate radioed back, trying to shake the numbness from his head. "Just going to level out a bit."
Relieved for the moment, Captain D
awson relaxed in his seat. The rest of his squadron had managed to clear away the remaining Focke-Wulfs and Tate was still flying. The battle with Germany's newest weapon was over, without the loss of one of their own. They been lucky enough to fight to a draw. Hopefully, the experience and knowledge gained by the RAF pilots would help them next time.
"All right, gentlemen," Captain Dawson called to the squadron, "the excitement's over, it's time to go home. We have a lot of explaining to do."
CHAPTER THREE
AIRFIELD FOLKLORE
It quickly became apparent the German Focke-Wulfs had taken a toll on the 14th Squadron. Not only was Lieutenant Tate's Spitfire coughing smoke from a sputtering engine, the man inside was struggling as well. A cloud of concern followed the RAF pilots on their return to Hampton Airfield.
"Steady up, lad," Captain Dawson radioed to Lieutenant Tate in a matter-of-fact tone. "Keep your wings level, and your bearing straight."
"Roger," the injured Lieutenant weakly replied, "wings... level, go... straight."
The rest of the squadron remained silent while Lieutenant Tate's faltering Spitfire strayed in and out of formation, hardly flying level or straight. Captain Dawson shadowed the young pilot, constantly calling out encouragement and correcting his course. When the green fields of Hampton came into view, everyone quietly cheered.
"Andy, take the rest of the lads in," Dawson ordered. "Land, and then clear the field. I'll stay with Tate and make sure he remembers to lower his landing gear."
Captain Simms nervously chuckled at Dawson's attempt to lighten the tense situation. As second in command, he understood the danger of bringing in a damaged plane or an injured pilot. A failed landing could be disastrous for the pilot and the airfield. The best course of action was to safely land everyone else first. Straight away, Simms led the rest of the squadron ahead to land at Hampton.
When the two remaining Spitfires finally neared the airfield, Captain Dawson checked to make sure the runway was clear of the other planes. Tate's concussion blurred his vision, leaving him entirely disoriented. Thanks to Dawson, he had somehow managed to fly back to Hampton. But, landing the lumbering Spitfire in his condition would prove to be an even greater challenge.
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