Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  Jeremy followed him to the door. There, Hope stopped as another thought struck him. “Did you say they were at Middle Wallop?”

  “Yes, in 10 Group’s area.”

  “You requested a front-line squadron. That’s why you’re here.”

  Jeremy nodded. “I know, but Middle Wallop is only sixty miles from here, and theirs is routinely one of the first squadrons called up to support us, which these days means any time that weather allows combat operations. That squadron racked forty-six kills in August alone. They didn’t do that by sitting around.”

  Hope arched his brows. “I should say not. That’s quite a record. Our ‘eagles’ must be doing something right.”

  “The squadron has had a high casualty rate, but those three are still standing tall, and as far as I’ve heard, so have the others—” He blinked as his voice tightened. “Since Fiske.” He regained emotional control.

  A quizzical look crossed Hope’s face. “If that Eagle Squadron is formed, how are you going to get in? Your father is your stepfather.”

  Jeremy stared at him. “My stepfather is the only father I’ve ever known,” he corrected firmly. “My biological father died when I was an infant.”

  “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

  “It’s all right,” Jeremy replied somberly. “You and Fiske taught me so much about tactics. I learned from the best. Maybe I can pass some of that along.”

  Hope extended his hand. “I shall miss you, Jeremy Littlefield.”

  42

  September 9, 1940

  RAF Middle Wallop, Southern England

  Jeremy’s welcome at 609 Squadron was enthusiastic, subdued by the news of a second straight night of bombings on London. “What happened,” Red teased, “they wouldn’t have you at the Millionaire Squadron?”

  Jeremy laughed. “As it happens, I wasn’t aristocratic enough. Another pilot came along with a more impressive pedigree, and that was that.”

  Andy looked him up and down with a dubious expression. “I’ve never met Squadron Leader Hope, but I know his reputation. He’s not like that, and he would never let that happen. The other guys in that squadron were nice to us in training. They lent us their cars, paid our bar tabs—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Shorty said, addressing Jeremy. “You’re here, and we’re glad to see you. How did you end up with us?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “Bad luck, I suppose.” He grinned. “Or maybe, since I was getting kicked out of the squadron, they let me choose my next assignment.”

  “And you picked us?” Red hooted. “I’ll believe the first reason: bad luck.” He clapped Jeremy’s shoulder. “We’re glad to see you.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “How’s the squadron leader here?”

  “Darley? He’s good. No complaints. His full name is Horace Stanley Darley, but he goes by ‘George,’ probably for the same reason that I go by ‘Red.’ I mean, who wants to be called Horace or Eugene? What were our mothers thinking?” He laughed heartily. “He doesn’t have Hope’s reputation, but he leads.

  “He’s kind of a Humphrey Bogart-looking guy with a ‘bit of dash’ as the Brits would say, and a devil-may-care attitude, but that can fool ya. He shot down a twin-engine Messerschmitt 110 fighter/bomber on the eighth of last month, right after he got here; and then a week later, he scored a probable on a Junkers 88. Then on the 25th he took down an ME 109 and another ME 110.

  “We like that record, and he teaches us a lot about tactics. He doesn’t like the vic formation, and we’ve been practicing the German one.”

  “That should be interesting,” Jeremy said. “I can’t wait to try it out. I was a tail-end Charlie once, and I don’t want to do it again. We’re tired of paying too much attention to not bumping into someone in flight. That keeps us from scanning for bandits. The Germans sneak up on us because we have only one chap watching for them.”

  “Amen to that,” the Americans exclaimed in unison.

  The four of them sat quietly at the table in the dispersal hut drinking tea. After a while, Jeremy asked, “What about Donahue and those other two Americans.”

  Shorty smirked. “Donahue was here for a while, but he decided that we were too wild for his taste, so he skied out to 64 Squadron. We wish him the best.”

  “He’s a terrific pilot,” Red added. “I think he’s an ace. He likes order, and that’s not us. Anyway, word is Darley was handpicked to handle this rowdy bunch.”

  “What’s wrong with you chaps?” Jeremy asked, laughing. “Have I joined a black sheep squadron?”

  “Our style is different than Donahue’s,” Andy replied. “We’re always joking and laughing, and Donahue’s always serious—somewhat of a loner. He didn’t complain, but we saw that he didn’t appreciate our ways. He never joined in. But hell, we’ve got to do something to break up the bad news, or we’ll all go crazy.”

  “To each his own,” Red cut in. “You mentioned black sheep. The fact is, the three of us would be rejects from the US Army Air Corps, and we don’t exactly fit the bill for what the RAF looks for. We came up barnstorming and putting on shows, flying by the seat of our pants. But our kind of flying is exactly what this war demands. When the leader calls tally-ho, every fighter pilot who survives flies the way we do—by the seat of their pants. Our squadron leader sees that. He keeps loose reins on us, and we respect him enough not to tug against them.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Jeremy said. “What about the other two American eagles?”

  “There are eight in the RAF now, all pilot officers. John Haviland is in 151 Squadron, Phil Leckrone is in 616 Squadron, and Hugh Reilley is in 66 Squadron. He’s listed as a Canadian because he went to Canada from the US, like the three of us did, but he managed to join there instead of fighting his way in after arriving in London.”

  “How are the discussions for an all-American squadron?”

  “There’s talk,” Red replied. “That’s how we know where the others are. The planners even refer to it as the ‘Eagle Squadron.’ But there aren’t enough of us here yet.” He chuckled. “Not even with your contribution of a half-American.”

  “I have an admission to make,” Jeremy said in mock-seriousness. His three companions regarded him expectantly. “My American father is my stepfather. Will you still let me in?”

  Red stood and paced the floor. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “We might have to put it to a vote.” Then his face broke into a grin. “But if you put in a good word for me with your sister, I’ll push to accept you as an honorary American.”

  “I’ll put in the good word,” Jeremy called after him, laughing. “But no promises about her affections.” He looked between them. “So, with the three of you added to the other Yanks, we have American eagles flying all over Britain.”

  Andy took a deep breath. “The war has changed for us,” he said somberly. “We came over for the adventure and flying experience. I’m not sure any of us believed we might get killed. But having been up there in the soup a few times—” His eyes sobered. “We know we’re vulnerable—that we could be killed on any day. We’re alive now as much from luck as from skill. We’ve accepted that we’re not likely to survive this war, and any pilot who doesn’t realize that is kidding himself.

  “Now, we’re in the fight for the sake of Britain. We saw what the Luftwaffe did in France and what they’ve done here.” He paused, his chest heaving. “That bombing in London the last two nights—there’s no earthly way to justify it. That was pure evil, an attack against the civilian population. People living ordinary lives who presented no threat. Hitler and his thugs are terrorists with advanced weapons, that’s all. And they killed over six hundred civilians the first night. About a third of them were children.” His mouth quivered. “God bless the children.”

  Jeremy studied the faces of the three Americans. They were lined with fatigue, dark circles under their eyes; their worn and soiled uniforms hung on thin frames. “We appreciate you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Thanks for coming. Tel
l me about August 18. That’s been our hardest day so far. How was that for 609 Squadron?”

  No one responded immediately, but finally Andy spoke. “We’re the only ones who survived in our flight,” he said, his eyes haunted. “We’d only been here a few days. Most of the other pilots had barely fifty hours of flying time and almost none in combat.” He stopped speaking and stared out the window.

  “It’s tough to talk about,” Red said. For a few minutes no one spoke, and then he broke the mood. “Hey, tell me about Claire. Does she ask about me?”

  “She has class,” Shorty retorted. “She wouldn’t have anything to do with you. Her eyes were on me.”

  “She liked me, I could tell,” Red asserted. “She went out with me twice. And then the war got in the way.”

  “You mean Donahue got in the way,” Andy chimed in.

  “Ah, he wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

  “To be honest, I haven’t seen or spoken with Claire since the last time I saw the three of you,” Jeremy cut in. “The same with Paul. Like everyone else, we’re each occupied with our own corners of the war.”

  Red laughed. “Well then, I guess there’s something to be said for keeping your wife near the airfield, like Fiske does. We heard about that.” Seeing a somber look cross Jeremy’s face, his expression immediately became serious. “What’s wrong?”

  “I guess you hadn’t heard. It was in the news because he was so famous.” He told them of Fiske’s demise. “He mentored me in combat tactics. I got to know him well, and his wife.” Stillness hung in the air.

  “I’m sorry,” Red said. “We haven’t paid much attention to the news. We fly and sleep. That’s about it.”

  “One thing I’ve noticed,” Andy said, interrupting the somber atmosphere, “we haven’t had any attacks against our airfields for the last two days. We’ll see what happens, but if Hitler keeps bombing the cities and leaving the RAF alone, he might be making a serious strategic error.”

  “How so?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yesterday and today,” Shorty replied, “we filled in the bomb craters on the airfield. The mechanics fixed our aircraft without being interrupted by attacks or having damaged fighters coming in for repairs. We got two replacement Spitfires this morning and you arrived this afternoon. If this keeps up, this squadron will be back to strength quickly, and if it’s the pattern across Britain, we’ll have our full force back up and ready to fight. And you know that Dowding won’t let them keep bombing at night without some kind of response.”

  “That’s Sir Dowding,” Jeremy cut in.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We call him Sir Dowding, out of respect.”

  “Sir Dowding,” Shorty corrected himself, sincerity marking his tone. “He’s the man who had the plan. He sure earned my respect and deserves all he can get.”

  43

  September 13, 1940

  London, England

  MI-6 Director John Menzies glanced up from his desk as Paul entered his office. “I’ve read your report,” he said briskly. “I’m rather surprised at some of your conclusions.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “Did I not do an adequate job, sir?”

  Menzies turned his implacable eyes on him. “It was adequate. Take a seat. I want to go over it with you.” He picked up a document and thumbed through its pages. “This is it here. You mention that one of our tactical advantages was that our pilots were fresher than the Germans, but as the battle drags on, the rest factor would even out. Would you expand on that?”

  Before Paul could respond, Menzies spoke again. “The Luftwaffe bombed London for the seventh straight night last night. From reports out of Bletchley, I see no end to it. Hitler plans on going ahead with his Operation Sea Lion invasion. They’ve lined up their army along the French shore, and they’ve moved high-speed barges into place to transport their assault forces over here.” He stood and moved to his window, where he stared across the smoldering city. “Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  Paul hid his consternation. “The observation about that advantage was made a month ago, just after you assigned this task to me. I explained in the discussion that while Germany improved its tactical positions against us by taking all those airfields in France, their pilots, ground crews, mechanics, and all the support were exhausted from fighting in Poland. We know about that from messages decoded out of Bletchley. Many of the aircraft were in poor states of maintenance, and the fighters were flying multiple sorties per day when weather permitted. That continues, so while our pilots have been run ragged, theirs have too, and that adds up to an air force that is probably closer to the end of its effectiveness than is generally thought.”

  “Our fighters and pilots returning from France were also quite beaten up.”

  “True,” Paul said, “but the contingent that Sir Dowding insisted on keeping in Great Britain for home defense was still fresh when the Germans started coming across. They’ve been in our first line while we rested those coming back from France.”

  He paused, contemplating how best to proceed. “As you must know, Sir Dowding created three categories of squadrons that should keep pilots rested and the planes maintained while keeping firepower at critical places. Should I describe them?”

  “Go on,” Menzies replied, still staring out the window.

  “The first are the front-line squadrons, and they are to be kept at full strength and fully operational. Replacement aircraft and pilots will be fed to them as needed. The second category squadrons are located back from the front. They also are to be kept at full readiness and will support the front-line squadrons when needed. The units in the third category are well behind the fighting. There, planes can be repaired completely rather than being bandaged with expedient fixes and sent back out. Pilots can rest, and while there, they can pass on their experiences to new pilots still in training.

  “Squadrons pass through each category based on what is happening at the front. As the front-line units are exhausted, they move to the last category, and the other two move forward.”

  “That’s a reasonable plan. I imagine that the logistics can get complicated.”

  “They do. But pilots and crew travel light these days. The planes fly to their new bases, and the ground crews follow.”

  The director returned to his seat and sat in concentrated silence, reading pages from the report.

  “Shall I go on?”

  Menzies nodded.

  Paul took a breath. “Another major issue is that German aircraft must carry enough fuel to make their run, drop their bombs, and get home. That leaves them only minutes over a target. If they make an error in navigation, they have no time to correct. Their fighters, on average, have about twenty minutes to engage one of ours in a dogfight before they have to return to France. When they go, they have no spare fuel to turn and engage pursuing aircraft.”

  “How do we fare on our side of the equation?” Menzies continued scanning the report while Paul spoke.

  “We have several difficulties. The benefit of having comparatively fresh pilots was offset by the combat experience German fliers gained in the Spanish Civil War and in Poland. As they refreshed their pilots in France and brought up their maintenance status, they degraded our advantage as our fresh pilots turned into exhausted ones. The equalizing grace is that pilots and crews will drain themselves on both sides of the Channel. Also, they use up a huge amount of fuel coming here and getting home, and they can’t land and take off again after replenishing the way that our chaps do.”

  “How do our aircraft stack up against theirs?”

  “A lot of what I’ve written is taken from our pilots’ observations. Of course, they love our Spitfires and Hurricanes, but we don’t have nearly enough of them.”

  “Why the shortage?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “It’s a manufacturing and logistics problem. The Spitfire is highly advanced, which means complicated. That adds to production time. Its wings are the most difficult component to produ
ce because they are very thin and formed by fusing two ellipses together, shallow on the leading edge and deeper on the trailing edge. The resulting wing shape provides maximum lift, and because they are so strong and thin, the Spitfire does incredibly well in a turn. An ME 109 that follows a veteran Spitfire pilot into a turn will soon depart—it can’t keep up, its wings are weak, and the Spitfire will soon lap it and fire from behind. Their pilots balk at going into those turns.

  “On the other hand, if a 109 catches a Spitfire from above, our chap had better get out of the line of fire in a hurry because the German fighter dives hard, fast, and accurately. In a dive, our Spitfire’s engine will likely conk out for lack of oxygen because we use carburetors. The 109 uses fuel-injection, so it has no problem with the dive.”

  “And the Hurricane?”

  “We have many more of them, and we’ve had it a few more months than the Spitfire. It’s a rugged plane, highly maneuverable, not as fast as the Spitfire, but it has the same advantages on a different scale: better than ME 109s in tight turns, not as good in dives. They are much more easily maintained than the Spitfire, so they remain in the fight better. To date, they’ve accounted for roughly sixty percent of downed German aircraft, and some pilots prefer it over the Spitfire.

  “It’s tough, and comparatively simple to build, fly, maintain, and repair. It can go up against a Stuka easily, and in the hands of a seasoned pilot with his wits about him, it can do well against a 109. In a straight-out speed race across the Channel, though, it’s no match.” He paused. “One final thought on the matter: because the Spitfire is faster and more maneuverable, the practice of sending them after German fighters and letting the Hurricanes get the bombers is a sound one.”

  Menzies stretched, stood, and walked across the room to fetch a cup of tea. He offered some to Paul, but the lieutenant declined. “What do you think we can do in the factories to move the Spitfires out more rapidly?”