by Lee Jackson
“Your move,” Jeremy said. “I just took your king’s bishop with my queen’s knight.”
Red stared at the board. “How can you concentrate on chess at a time like this?”
Jeremy grinned. “My British side’s stiff upper lip, I suppose.”
“You need to let some of your honorary American red blood circulate,” Red said. “Get emotional.”
“He’s just belly-achin’ cuz he doesn’t have your cool,” Shorty told Jeremy.
“I got plenty of cool up there,” Red retorted, pointing skyward. “They need to cut me loose to take care of business.” He ambled over and sat down across from Jeremy, ignoring the board. “What do you think is going on with these raids on London? Hitler’s attacking the people now, directly.”
“A few days ago, Andy said he thought that bomb dropped on London was done in error,” Jeremy replied. “I think Andy was right, and I think it caused a strategic change that was also a mistake. Hitler wanted a negotiated peace. He always said that the United Kingdom and Germany should be natural friends and go after Soviet Bolsheviks together. That would have been an alliance made in Hades, but he ruined that prospect, meager as it was, when he signed the non-aggression pact with Moscow last year.”
“I’m with you so far,” Red said, “but don’t go getting all academic on me.”
“Here in England,” Jeremy went on, “he started out bombing our ships, ports, and factories, trying to starve us by cutting supply lines after Churchill refused his overtures. When that didn’t work, he tried to destroy our planes on the ground. We learned from the war in Poland, though, dispersing our aircraft, getting most of them in the air at a moment’s notice, and hiding the rest. I think his new tactic of sending bombers over London came about from a comedy of errors.”
“Excuse me?” Red said, and now Shorty and Andy were listening closely. “This fight ain’t funny, and his bombs are very deliberate.” Despite the seriousness of the topic, he chuckled. “And besides that, Andy can’t be right about anything.”
Andy punched his arm in mock indignation.
“You’re right that this battle isn’t funny, and the destruction is deliberate,” Jeremy said, “but I’m convinced, as Andy said, that the first bomb that hit London on August 24 was dropped by accident.”
Red pulled his head back with a disbelieving expression. “You’re coming to Andy’s defense? Are you smokin’ hemp?”
Jeremy laughed and shook his head. “All their munitions hit airfields that day, except that one. The weather wasn’t great, night had fallen, and visibility was poor. Several airfields are located close to London. One in particular, RAF Croydon, was not hit, but it lies close to where the bomb struck. I think that was the target; that the pilot got lost, couldn’t find it, and dropped his load on the way out.”
“I see that,” Andy interjected, “but why would that change Hitler’s strategy.”
Jeremy pursed his lips. “Churchill sent ninety-five bombers over Berlin the very next night in retaliation. The Berlin newspapers claim the damage was not extensive, but the strike infuriated the führer. Then Churchill hit two more at night on the 26th and 27th. An enraged Hitler made a speech about what he would do to London, and last week, he started fulfilling his promise. But he had painted himself into a corner.”
“How’s that?” Red cut in. “His corner extends to this side of the Channel.”
“Because of the promise he made that Berlin would never suffer an attack. When Churchill bombed there, Hitler had to act.”
“I see that,” Shorty said, “but what was his strategic error?”
“With that shift to nighttime bombing and leaving our airfields and fighters alone, he gave us time to rest our pilots and crews, repair our hangars, runways, and aircraft, replace our destroyed fighters, and replenish our pilot ranks. We’re a stronger force than we were a month ago. Don’t you feel better rested?”
Red grunted. “Too rested.” He pointed at the contrails in the distant sky. “But since we’re being serious, I have another question I keep meaning to ask.” His face took on a quizzical look. “You’ve flown the Spitfire and the Hurricanes. Which do you prefer?”
Jeremy grinned. “Whichever one I’m flying at the moment.”
“I’m serious. Which one, in your opinion, is the better aircraft?”
“Hmm. Honestly, I hadn’t given the matter much thought. Let’s see.” He rubbed his temples. “For sheer thrills, I’d have to say the Spitfire. It’s an aircraft that never lets you down and always gives fair warning when you’re pushing it beyond its limits, and the Hurricane can’t match it for speed.”
“But…”
“It’s nose-heavy, and that narrow undercarriage is just begging for a mishap on takeoff or landing. If you’re coming in wounded or exhausted, that landing gear could be what does you in. Plus, you can’t see where you’re going when taxiing, which results in quite a few collisions, as you know.”
“He sure as hell does know,” Shorty chimed in. “He banged into me last week.”
Red shot him a mock glare and turned back to Jeremy. “And what about the Hurricane?”
“It’s a sturdy, robust fighter, quite maneuverable and will also outrun an ME 109 in a tight turn. It’s much easier to repair than a Spitfire. Within minutes, we can fix a big hole in the wing or fuselage right here with a piece of Irish linen and some thread, whereas the same damage on a Spitfire would send it to the metal shop for several days. Besides, the Hurricane costs only about two-thirds as much to manufacture, and it can be built much more quickly. That’s why we have so many compared to the number of Spitfires.”
“That British tycoon, the one who owns the Hawker Hurricane factory,” Andy cut in. “I read that he put in a million pounds sterling of his own money to produce a lot of them when the government didn’t buy any immediately after performance trials. He said he knew the war was coming and the RAF would need his fighters.”
Jeremy nodded. “Which is why we went into this war with a hundred and sixty more Hurricanes than we would have had. And I saw in the paper the other day that the Hurricanes had so far shot down sixty percent of all destroyed German aircraft. You could make the case that the Hurricane is the thoroughbred and does the work while the Spitfire is a racehorse and gets the glory. That might be a little unfair—the forty percent that the Spitfire gets is quite significant.
“In any event, Fighter Command employs them in complementary roles: the Spitfires go after the fighters, and the Hurricanes go after the bombers. That makes sense to me.”
“So, again I ask,” Red prodded, “which do you prefer?”
“Whichever one they strap on my back,” Jeremy replied, grinning.
“I wish they would strap us in soon,” Red said impatiently. “There’s a battle raging just over the horizon, and we should be in it.”
“They’ll call when they need us,” Andy said. “We’ll be ready.”
No sooner had he spoken than the phone rang. They looked anxiously toward Squadron Leader Darley. When he said, “Right,” and hung up, they leaped to their feet and bolted for the door with the other pilots in the room. Outside, someone started clanging the bell, and their squadron mates who had been lounging there sprang up and sprinted to their fighters.
Two minutes later, the full 609 Squadron of twelve Spitfires taxied in groups of four abreast at full speed, bounded into the air, and climbed rapidly. “Spread out into our new formation, as we practiced,” Darley intoned on the radio. “No tail-end Charlie. Climb to Angels 25. We’ll engage bombers southwest of London. Remember, we head straight into their formation to disrupt it. Other Hurricane squadrons will join us to take care of the bombers. Make sure you’re shooting at black crosses. Be disciplined on two-second bursts. Pick your targets and make your bullets count. When you’re out of ammo or low on fuel, head for home, reload, and rejoin.”
They raced to altitude and turned onto their vector as directed by their 11 Group controller in the bunker at Uxbridg
e. Over London, clouds had gathered, ranging well above their altitude of twenty-five thousand feet. Darley spoke over the radio again. “They’ve turned, dropped their bombs, and are heading back to the coast. They’ll be going northeast of us. Most of their escort has turned for home. Controller is vectoring to get us in front of them.”
“Red Leader, this is Blue Three. I see them. Breaking out of the clouds at eleven o’clock.”
“I see them. Move in closer. Watch for fighters.”
“None sighted.”
“Keep an eye on the eastern sky. Controller advises that fresh bandits are on the way.”
“This is Blue Three. Roger.”
As the rest of the squadron acknowledged the squadron leader’s warning, all the planes circled as a body to the front of the German formation. They banked into the oncoming path at the same height, and when they were within a half-mile, Darley called, “Tally-ho, happy hunting,” and throttled up.
Jeremy flew directly at the lead bomber, employing a tactic developed by RAF pilots over the course of the battle. It appeared suicidal, but, Darley thought, less so than attacking from the top or bottom where the combined machine gun fire from all the German gunners could be brought to bear. When flying at the same altitude to their front, only the nose gunners might have an effective shot, but they were typically unnerved by the sight of RAF fighters closing the distance at combined speeds of at least a thousand miles per hour, shooting lead, and this time, they would be met by 609’s Spitfires.
The German bomber pilots were also unnerved, and usually broke formation in attempts to save themselves. When they did, they became easy pickings for fighters, and now, without escort, they were—
“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” Red chortled over the radio. “I got mine.”
As he spoke, Jeremy watched the big Heinkels bank and dive, left and right, attempting to avoid the deadly tracers speeding toward them. The Spitfires drove on, diving, spinning, climbing to avoid mid-air collisions while delivering streams of hot bullets. Within moments, five bombers spun out of control on a headlong dive through twenty-five thousand feet toward the ground. More limped toward the Channel with smoking engines, shattered glass, slumped-over pilots and gunners, and damaged wings. Only a few flew with no damage.
“I sent another one down,” Shorty called.
“I saw it,” Andy replied. “I’m taking one down now.”
“I got one in that first pass,” Jeremy called. “We’ll call it a probable. He’s still flying, but losing altitude, and heading for the drink.”
“I see him,” Blue Leader said. “If he goes in, we’ll call it a kill.”
“Roger. I’ve taken a hit to my radiator. My engine is heating up.”
“This is Blue Leader. Head for home. If they can’t fix it, get another kite and rejoin.”
“On my way.”
“The bombers are getting through,” Ryan said. “We’ve downed a number of them, but as soon as we do, the Messerschmitts that had covered them turn to fight our Hurricanes and Spitfires. The anti-aircraft guns should be shooting at the bombers now. They’ll stop when our fighters get there, but meanwhile, they’ll upset the German pilots and act as a beacon for our fighters.” She saw Paul’s look of curiosity and explained, “All the pilots might see is a wall of smoke. They could pass within two miles of a formation of five hundred aircraft and not see them, but they will see the anti-aircraft explosions in mid-air, and they’ll fly toward it.”
She turned to him, unnerved but still composed. “I have to tell you, I’ve never seen anything like this. Our control system is almost overloaded. Nearly all the status lights are red.”
“What does that mean?”
As Paul asked the question, they all flashed red.
Ryan saw them, a look of horror fixed in her eyes. “We’re fully committed,” she muttered. “We have nothing in reserve. Every available 11 Group fighter is in the air.”
“What about from 10 Group and 12 Group.”
“They still have uncommitted squadrons, but we’re close to the margin, and they likely can’t get here in time.”
Stung, Paul looked again at Churchill and Park. They stood staring at the plotting board, grim-faced. Churchill turned and said something to Park, who immediately responded and shook his head. Churchill pulled his unlit cigar from his mouth, jaw set, and stared back down at the map.
The battle raged, represented on a plotting board in the well of this secret bunker on the northwest edge of London by small wooden cubes with multi-colored tags and little flags, pushed about by plotters with their croupiers. Raw nerves reigned over the atmosphere. Prime Minister Churchill watched the enemy swarm around the only force remaining between Great Britain as it had existed for a millennium and the sound of jackboots marching below Big Ben.
A vision appeared before Paul of goose-stepping soldiers parading past Westminster Abbey, through St. James Place, to the gates of Buckingham Palace. They were led by a strange man with a peculiar mustache riding in a roofless, black Mercedes-Benz 770 parade motorcar, his right arm held high at an angle, palm open, facing down. All along the way, more German soldiers lined the streets, coming to attention as their god passed by. They raised their arms in the peculiar Nazi salute, bellowing, “Sieg Heil!”
Paul cringed, imagining that the atomic research facilities in London, Oxford, Cambridge, and Liverpool could soon belong to Adolf Hitler.
And the dictator already owned the heavy-water plant in Norway.
49
Jeremy’s muscles felt heavy as he clambered onto the wing of his Spitfire. He had managed to wolf down a sandwich and drink enough water that he would not dehydrate, but not so much that he would regret having done so later in the sky.
His crewmen had refueled and pulled his kite around so he could taxi straight out to the runway, now filled with ruts and skid marks to the extent that describing it as “grassy” might be generous. They helped him don his parachute and strapped him into place.
Less than two minutes later, he was airborne and climbing to rejoin his squadron. He pulled his goggles to his forehead and rubbed his eyes, his vision blurred with fatigue. Nonetheless, even at this distance from London, he saw the lacy patterns drawn by contrails against blue sky. The battle still moved toward the capital, the bombers visible in close formation, the fighters swarming around them. But their momentum had slowed.
“Blue Leader, this is Blue Six, rejoining.”
“Roger. We’re in tally-ho. Jump in where you can. Be careful to shoot only at black crosses.”
Jeremy chuckled in spite of the grim fight he was entering. “Approaching London. Very cloudy. Will fly to the flak.”
“Roger. The big boys are turning. Watch for them. Some bandits left. The battle will move southeast. You might circle ahead and catch them.”
Even as the leader spoke, Jeremy saw several bombers emerge from the clouds flying toward the coast and France. They had no fighter escort. The mid-afternoon sun had moved high to the west. He banked to his left and climbed while keeping sight of the bombers until he was well above them. Then he turned behind them, throttled up, and dove.
They flew straight and level, but their numbers had decreased from a full squadron to only nine aircraft flying three abreast and three deep. Sizing up the opportunity, he wondered if he could fly in steep on a trailing bomber, fire on it, shallow out, fire on the next, and be in position to hit a third from the rear. It’s worth a try.
While descending, he modified his concept to hit at one corner of the formation of nine Heinkels and shoot diagonally across it. That should give more surface area to hit.
He came in above the first, expecting that at any moment, the top gunner would fire on him, but that did not happen. He flew close enough that he saw the gunner looking at him, but still the man took no action. He’s out of ammo.
Jeremy opened up with a two-second burst and saw the incendiary rounds strike through the wing, slicing across the top of the fuselag
e and into the cockpit. Immediately, dark smoke streamed from the bomber, and then it exploded in a ball of fire.
Jeremy continued his run, his bullets striking the middle bomber, but he had to pull up quickly to avoid debris from the first. He heard pinging against his windshield and the skin of his fighter from small bits of wreckage, but looking down, he saw the second bomber plunging toward the ground, spinning out of control.
“Blue Leader, this is Blue Six. I just took out two. They’re falling out of the sky.”
“I see them. Good shooting.”
“That formation is still moving toward the coast. I’ll loop around and try to get more, but if anyone is nearby, they’re easy pickings.”
“The lot of them are returning to the coast. Their escort is vacating. This a target-rich environment. Beware of fresh enemy fighters reinforcing from France.”
“Roger. Out.”
Jeremy had turned a tight horizontal loop and come around behind the same formation of bombers. Their numbers had decreased yet again; they were down to six. Either I hit that third bomber, or someone else did.
They approached the coastline. His window of opportunity would disappear at mid-Channel.
He circled and climbed again, seeking to dive out of the sun. Something glinted in the distance. Friend or foe? He saw another in his peripheral vision, both much higher than he. Changing course, Jeremy darted behind some clouds and climbed to gain a better view.
He came out high, but not high enough. The two glints had transformed into ME 109s. They had spotted and dived on him.
Jeremy pulled nose-up and hard right as the MEs fell in under him and pursued. Then he heard loud thunks against his Spitfire’s skin. A round had penetrated the canopy. It had been stopped by the armor plate that Dowding had insisted be placed behind the back of the seat for pilot protection, but a fragment had bored through and struck his shoulder. Two more rounds had cut through the control cables in his left wing.