Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  “Blue Three, this is Blue Four. Good that you saw the bandits but take care. You’re getting too close to me.”

  “Roger.”

  Listening to the radio traffic, Jeremy scanned below but saw nothing. He had reached the right edge behind the formation. Time to bank to his left, and still he had seen nothing. Uneasily, he pulled the stick, and his right wing lifted, blocking his view of precisely the area where the bandits had been spotted.

  “This is Red One. I have the big boys in sight. Follow me in a shallow dive toward them now.”

  Jeremy began his dive with the formation, a tricky maneuver since it was descending to his right and he was maneuvering to the left of it.

  Then Brody, stepping into Fiske’s place, radioed, “Blue Four, watch them. Blue Six, keep a sharp eye when they get behind us. Blue Flight, stay on course to the objective.”

  “This is Blue Six. Roger,” Jeremy called, his uneasiness growing with the idea of an unseen enemy passing to his rear below him.

  “Turn right, ten degrees,” the controller called. “You’ll intercept in two minutes at Angels 20.”

  “Keep calm and carry on,” Jeremy muttered to himself. He searched the skies but saw nothing. Then, intending to loop horizontally behind the squadron, he banked hard left and entered a tight turn. As he did, a group of specks appeared, barely visible, climbing into the sun at west-southwest. He blinked to be sure he had not imagined them, but in that flash of time, they expanded to dots, and then rapidly morphed into objects with protruding wings and tail rudders.

  “The 109s have seen us,” he reported, his voice cracking despite his attempt to mimic Red One’s composure. “They’re climbing behind us. Looks to be a squadron.”

  “Right. Outnumbered,” Hope responded. Then he ordered, “Red Flight, continue to objective. Blue Flight, circle right. Maintain current altitude. Prepare to engage attackers.”

  “Roger,” Brody called. “Blue Flight, follow me.”

  On the outer edge of Jeremy’s loop, the enemy fighters flashed by, still climbing, then they arced backward, rolled, and dived straight toward Jeremy and Blue Flight of 601 Squadron.

  “This is Blue Six. Bandits diving on us from seven o’clock high.”

  “Roger. Blue Flight, tally-ho.”

  Brody’s calm voice hardly matched the wave of terror that swept over Jeremy. For an instant, he froze. The flight leader had given the command that signaled every man for himself in a life-and-death struggle with an implacable and determined enemy. Even as he heard it, the lead ME 109 headed straight toward him, streaming tracers.

  Two rounds smacked Jeremy’s left wing, spurring him to evasive action. Instinctively, he dived to gain speed. “The basic rule to stay alive in aerial combat,” he heard Eddy say at the back of his mind, “is to fly no more than twenty seconds in any given direction.” And then, “Remember, the ME 109 will take you in a dive, but he can’t match you in a turn. His wings are weak. They can’t stand the stress.”

  A thought struck him: Eddy had trained him on the Spitfire. Jeremy now flew Hurricanes. Fiske taught—

  Jeremy forced thoughts of his fallen mentor from his mind while holding to the tactics he had taught. He knew he could not match the ME 109 in a dive. He pulled the stick hard right to get out of the line of fire. He’s in a dive at a faster rate. Climb and turn.

  He mashed hard on his right pedal and pulled back and to his right on the stick. The Hurricane responded, turning its nose to the sky and then rolling out of the way of the attacking Messerschmitt.

  Jeremy continued his ascent and turn, remembering to lean over the stick, jamming his chest against his knees and breathing deliberately. He scanned the sky, seeing the fighters’ contrails tracing white abstract art against the blue sky.

  “Blue Six.” Jeremy recognized Brody’s voice. “He’s coming around on your tail again. Keep your turn but come out of your ascent. He’ll fly past you going high. Then go nose up; you’ll be behind him and have a clear shot. Do it now.”

  “Roger.” Jeremy pushed the stick forward. The Hurricane’s nose fell. He tightened the turn, and just as Brody had predicted, the ME 109 sailed past on a steep trajectory. Bobbing his head all around to keep his foe in sight, Jeremy noted that, so far, the hits taken had resulted in only negligible damage to his aircraft.

  He watched the enemy fighter soar to the east, avoiding his shot. Jeremy throttled forward and raised his nose southwest into the sun, seeking invisibility while keeping sight of the German plane. It reached its apex, leveled out, and took short dives, circling, apparently searching for Jeremy’s kite or another more promising target.

  Jeremy judged that his Hurricane flew at the highest altitude of any plane in the dogfight, and that against the sun, his pursuer could probably not see him. Below, trails of smoke followed smoldering aircraft to the ground. From this distance, Jeremy could not tell if the stricken aircraft were friend or foe.

  He had no feeling, not even to wonder or agonize over which one of his mates might have gone down. Fear had vacated, not because he felt brave, but because he had no time for either sense. He was now an integral component of the Hurricane, its brain center, seeking, calculating, initiating, reacting, aware each second of myriad details and data points that fed into his mind to detect danger, protect this weapon system, and execute offensively to destroy the enemy and remove the threat.

  “Blue Six, there’s one coming up behind you,” Brody called. “He’s to your west. Dive, dive, dive and turn.”

  Jeremy thrust the stick forward and saw his hunter below closing in on another Blue Flight fighter. He set his nose toward it and throttled up. As he did, the Messerschmitt spit streamers, and its quarry erupted in smoke and fire before splitting apart. Suddenly furious, Jeremy slammed his throttle’s combat booster and closed the distance to the German fighter in a shallow dive.

  “Pull out, pull out,” Brody yelled. “The one behind you is lining up.”

  Ignoring Brody’s warning, Jeremy locked his jaw and narrowed his eyes. The Hurricane screamed toward its opponent.

  It appeared in his gunsight and then bounced out.

  Jeremy made slight corrections to stay on its tail. Again, he heard Eddy’s voice at the back of his mind. “He gets the advantage in a steep dive.”

  The Messerschmitt dove.

  It was still in Jeremy’s gunsights. He pushed the firing button on his stick. The Hurricane shuddered as the eight Browning machine guns in his wings spit out a two-second burst of De Wilde incendiary rounds.

  Smoke trailed behind the Messerschmitt.

  It jinked to the left.

  Jeremy followed. Once more it appeared in his gunsight. Once more he pressed his firing button.

  The bandit erupted in flame, broke apart, and entered a spin toward the earth.

  Jeremy had no time to watch for a parachute. Many rounds struck through his Hurricane’s skin with lightning strikes. Almost immediately, his cockpit filled with smoke. His engine coughed, sputtered, and seized. The propeller groaned to a halt. He tried to call over the radio, but it was dead. Pressing the ignition switch resulted in no response. The stick was useless on his left. Only the rudder worked, and that was not enough to glide the aircraft.

  The nose fell, and the Hurricane started into a spin. Jeremy pulled the latch, pushed the canopy back, rolled the aircraft upside down to its right, and dropped out of the cockpit.

  32

  As Paul and Joel watched the map, a WAAF plotter manipulating the plastic representing 601 Squadron did something to it and returned it to its previous position on the map.

  Paul whirled around to Joel. “What did she just do?” he demanded.

  Joel stared at him, masking his concern. “She updated the number showing squadron strength,” he said, obviously reluctant to talk.

  “In what way? Tell me.”

  “She’s showing that two fighters from 601 Squadron were removed from the fight. They must have been shot down.”

  St
ung, Paul struggled to keep mental balance in a room that appeared to swirl before him. His lungs seemed incapable of taking in enough air.

  “Steady,” Joel called, his voice seeming far away. “Steady,” he repeated. “Do you need to sit down? I’ll fetch some water.”

  Paul didn’t move. He closed his eyes and controlled his breathing until the room stopped spinning and he could see and hear better. “I’ll be all right,” he gasped.

  Joel brought a cup of water and watched closely until color returned to Paul’s cheeks. “We’ll find out about your brother as soon as we can.” He grasped Paul’s shoulder. “If you’d like to leave, no one will think less of you under these circumstances.”

  Paul acknowledged Joel’s sentiment gratefully. “Stiff upper lip,” he said. “We don’t know yet that Jeremy went down.” His emotional state did not match his brave-sounding words.

  He peered at the map table below. The battle was in full swing, and he saw that 601 Squadron was fully engaged with the fighters and dive bombers at Thorney Island. Then, remarkably, he detected an upswing in mood across the filter room.

  “Look at that,” Joel said, pulling Paul’s sleeve. Cautious excitement laced his voice. “Your brother’s squadron and 43 Squadron are ripping into the Stukas. They’ve shot down six of them in two minutes. Looks like a couple of Messerschmitts too.”

  Paul’s eyes followed where Joel pointed, and he watched as eight German markers were removed from the map. “That’s good news,” Joel went on, “but look what the Stukas are doing to RAF Ford.” He did not try to hide his anger. “They’re hitting targets at will with no pressure from our side. They’ve dropped bombs on Poling too.”

  Once again, an image of Heather and Jessica flashed through Paul’s mind. He tried to put them aside.

  “The Stukas are heading back out to sea,” Joel observed. “The raid is essentially over.” The markers moved southward across the map. “It’s turning into a rout,” he said. “The Stukas are slow, and with their single rear-mounted machine gun, they’re no match for the Hurricanes or their firepower, and the Hurricanes are going after them while the Spitfires keep the Messerschmitts busy. Even from here, I can see that the Luftwaffe is taking a pounding.”

  They watched until the battle had moved well offshore, more German aircraft fell into the sea, and finally, the RAF fighters flew back to their home stations. Joel conferred over the phone with someone at the controller’s desk.

  “Here’s a summary,” he said. “Our pilots claim fifteen Stukas destroyed and seven damaged beyond repair. Nine ME 109s destroyed. That’s thirty German planes out of service. The long-range, high-altitude radar tower at Poling was damaged but will be brought back into operation soon, and we’ll put in a temporary unit, so it’s a minor inconvenience. The low-altitude radar is still effective.”

  “What about our losses?” Paul asked as he annotated his notebook. “How many did we lose?”

  “Five aircraft,” Joel replied, looking again at his notes. “We lost five aircraft.”

  “Any casualties?’”

  “I don’t know, Paul. I really don’t, but we’ve got our people calling down to ask. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  “What about damage to their targets?”

  “Cursory reports are all I have. I asked specifically about Poling radar station: there were no casualties there. Our WAAF radar operators stayed calm, and when the dust had cleared, they picked themselves up and carried on. We’re very proud of them.”

  “That’s some relief,” Paul said, exhaling.

  “That aggressive defense of Stoney Island saved it. We can thank your brother, the rest of 601 Squadron, and 43 Squadron for that. Two buildings were leveled, and three Coastal Command aircraft were destroyed on the ground, but that’s all.

  “At Gosport, several buildings were damaged, four aircraft were destroyed and five damaged.

  “RAF Ford took a beating. That’s an RAF airfield, but Coastal Command uses it. Sixteen of their aircraft were destroyed and twenty-six damaged, but the worst news is that, sadly, twenty-five people were killed and seventy-eight wounded.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “That many,” he murmured.

  “There’s no way to put a good face on that, but we’re fortunate that the losses to our fighters were so few.”

  Paul nodded without reply, added entries to his notebook, and stood back, watching the activity below. The battle wound down, with the squadrons returning to their airfields and the bandits to France. The WAAFs cleared the map and went about personal activities, munching on snacks, engaging in card games, conversing, reading books, or just relaxing in chairs. Paul observed that new faces appeared among the map plotters.

  He tried to push thoughts of Jeremy to the back of his mind, but memories of escapades back home on Sark Island with Claire and Lance interjected themselves unbidden, and he bit his lip to stave off a sense of overwhelming dread.

  He looked numbly at the clock. An hour and twenty minutes had passed since the Stukas had been spotted leaving Cherbourg. The day was still young.

  33

  Joel broke Paul’s reflections. “They’re starting up again,” he said.

  Reflexively, Paul glanced at the clock. The minute hand stood straight up, and the hour hand pointed at 5. Roughly an hour and a half had passed since the last raid had terminated along the southern coast.

  He studied the map. “Do we know what they’re doing yet?”

  Joel shook his head. “They’ve just crossed the French coast near Calais and turned north. There are two groups, so I imagine one of those contains the bombers, and the other the fighter escorts. They must be going for northerly targets, maybe in 12 Group’s area. If that’s the case, they’ll stay out over the water and turn west when they’re abreast of the objective.”

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  “Here comes another group,” Paul said, watching the plotters place the markers on the map. “This one’s headed straight across the Channel.”

  “And the first group is turning west,” Joel replied. “Both have fighter escorts. They must be planning to cross the British coastline at the same time.” He looked up and grinned. “They think they’re going to split our forces by hitting us at two places simultaneously. They still don’t realize the capability of our radar and command system or the enormous advantage they give us. Our sectors are assigned. Those squadrons in the attack area will go up, and they’ll be reinforced as needed.”

  He peered through the plexiglass at the weatherboards. “Their calculations are off again on weather. I think the northern formation is headed to RAF North Weald, which has a thick cloud cover. That southerly formation is headed a little north of due west on a line that would bring it over RAF Hornchurch. That’s one of the main airfields protecting London on the east side. I’m guessing that’s their other target, and it’s also socked in with a thick cloud cover. Unless they’re intending to hit civilian targets, they’re trapping themselves. When they get there, they won’t be able to drop their bombs, and they’ll have to fight their way back over the Canterbury-Margate line.”

  “Why wouldn’t they jettison them?” Paul asked. “They might hit a target.”

  Joel grimaced. “That ‘something’ might be a civilian population. For the moment, at least, both sides have refrained from doing that. If they jettison, they’ll do it over water.”

  While Joel spoke, Paul watched the WAAFs adding indicators to the markers. On the other side of the map, they put up more of them representing friendly forces.

  “Here comes the cavalry,” Joel quipped. “11 Group just scrambled Spitfires and Hurricanes, a good number of them to patrol the Canterbury-Margate line, the rest to patrol and defend local airfields.”

  He glanced over at Paul and saw him staring at the map, but without apparent comprehension. He went to a phone at the back of the gallery and placed a call. He spoke quietly. “Please keep me informed, will you?” he said on ending it. “Call me
here.”

  Moving back to the plexiglass, he saw that Paul had not moved. Nudging him, he pointed below. “We’re seeing what’s in those formations now,” he said, “and it looks like I might have guessed correctly about their targets.”

  Paul rousted himself back to awareness and studied the map. “Yes, I see that,” he said. “Our squadrons are up to meet the challenge, that’s for certain.”

  “To the north, fifty-one Heinkel He 111 bombers are escorted by about seventy ME 110 fighter/bombers,” Joel said. “They’re aimed at North Weald, and the southerly formation must be headed to Hornchurch with fifty-eight Dornier Do 17 bombers escorted by seventy ME 109s.”

  He glanced around the boards on the wall and the markers on the map. “Our fighters aren’t waiting. 54 and 56 Squadrons are both attacking the Heinkels over water north of the Isle of Sheppey, and 11 Group has ordered up four more squadrons.”

  The phone rang. Joel went to answer it. Once more he spoke in low tones, and when he hung up, he approached Paul. “I have news,” he said.

  34

  An hour and a half earlier, while Joel and Paul had monitored the last skirmishes of Stukas and Messerschmitts versus Hurricanes and Spitfires over the water southeast of the Isle of Wight, Jeremy surveyed the ground north of Thorney Island as he floated down through the air under his open parachute. He scanned the skies above and around him. All about were the roars of engines, the staccato of machine gun fire, explosions of aircraft in their death throes, and the smell of gunfire, exhaust, and burning fuel. Miles away, two other parachutes floated to the ground, although whether they were friend or foe, he could not tell.

  Beneath him in a plowed field, a reception of sorts had formed. A farmer, his rifle at the ready, stood watching him descend. Two farm hands stood close by to assist in whatever manner was required. A short distance away, a crowd of curious people stood in a circle watching, some armed, and facing into the center.