Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  ‘Roger, Moonstone,’ Dix replied. Suddenly they were thundering across the grass, and then the next three, Green Section, were moving up to take their place. Moments later, they too began hurtling across the field, and then it was Blue Section’s turn and Archie was turning to the left of Drummond, just a little behind him, with Ted on the right.

  ‘Blue One,’ said the ground controller, ‘you may scramble now.’

  With his heart hammering in his chest, Archie felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. He touched his scarf, looked anxiously at Cotton, then, seeing him nod, glanced at his engine temperature – 105 degrees – and opened his throttle. The noise was immense, and the airframe seemed to shake violently as the plane bumped and surged across the field. Archie pushed forward with the control column – just a bit – and felt the tail lift and the cowling lower. Good. He could see now. Faster and faster. Eighty miles per hour, ninety, and then suddenly, as he pulled gently back on the stick, the rattling bumping stopped as the beast glided into the air. Archie looked out to his right, saw the huge elliptical wing scything through the air and, behind him, his shadow retreating, and managed to smile to himself. Swapping hands so that his left was on the stick, he began pumping the undercarriage as the Spitfire continued to climb. A click, a green light – wheels up. Keeping his left hand on the stick, he slid the canopy forward, and felt himself enclosed in the machine, his shoulders almost touching the sides of the cockpit. He and the plane had become one.

  Ahead, Dennis Cotton was curving his Spit gently to starboard. Archie followed, looked across at Ted, then swivelled his head and looked around. It had only been eight weeks since he had first flown this wonderful machine, and he never ceased to be amazed at how quick it was. It was as though they had barely taken off, and yet already they were climbing high, Rochford far from view. Below lay the wide expanse of the Medway estuary, dark and twinkling, while away to the right he could see London, shrouded in haze, and all around the chequered expanse of southern England.

  But it was slipping ever further away. As they continued to climb, Archie watched the altimeter turn – five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand, until some twelve minutes after take-off they were at fifteen thousand feet – angels fifteen. And now the long tongue of Kent slid beneath them so that moments later they were out over the English Channel. Away to his left, he saw a convoy moving down the East Anglia coast, a series of white streaks following the ships, and below him were several heading back from France.

  France. Archie swallowed again and felt his chest begin to hammer once more. Ahead, the vast flat continent stretched endlessly beyond. The continent where the war was being fought, where enemy aircraft and anti-aircraft guns lurked. An enemy who would try to kill him. His life had gone by in a flash. When he was a boy, being an adult had seemed an eternity away, but now it felt as though he’d barely lived. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. Oh, help, Archie thought to himself.

  2

  First Combat

  They were flying in four tight vics of three in line astern, one vic behind the other, their formation flying impressively steady and tight. Up ahead, near the French and Belgian coast, lay a bank of fluffy cumulus, rising high and white. In a trice, they had flown into it, the bright morning light changed into a strange milky glow and all sense of speed stopped. Beside him, Dennis’s Spitfire wisped through the cloud. It looked rather ghostly, Archie thought, then wondered whether it was an omen. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said to himself out loud. Then the cloud thinned, the huge power of the Spitfire obvious again as the knife-like wings sped on over the Channel.

  Ahead, Archie could now see Dunkirk, a giant column of thick, oily smoke rising high into the sky, obscuring much of the town and beaches below. In fact, the smoke was so high it had dispersed into a kind of dark shroud that seemed to lie just beneath them. It was worse than the thickest pea-souper he’d ever seen in London and a renewed sense of dread washed over him; he couldn’t help it. The dark cloud of smoke seemed so sinister.

  ‘My God,’ muttered Archie to himself, and he felt his heart lurch. His mouth, he realized, was horribly dry – as dry as chalk. The only war he’d seen so far was what they showed on the newsreels at the cinema; and now here was the evidence of it, stark and real. But what were you expecting? he asked himself.

  The 74 Squadron pilots had warned them of the smoke at Dunkirk, but he felt shocked by what he saw. It was a stark reminder that he was now, at long last, after months of training and then sitting on his backside waiting for things to happen, on a combat sortie. Not for the first time that day, he felt overwhelmed by an urge to flip his Spit on its side, bank hard and head for home.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, chaps,’ the CO’s voice crackled in his ear. Archie craned his neck, glad to feel the soft silk of his new scarf against his neck.

  He was still looking around keenly when suddenly he saw them, a dark formation of, he guessed, around thirty Stukas, and above them the same number of fighters, twin-engine Messerschmitt 110s. He recognized both types immediately – the Stuka with its distinct gull-wings and static undercarriage, the 110s with their twin engines and twin tail fins. A bolt, like an electrical charge, coursed through him. Fear? No, something more – excitement too.

  ‘There!’ he shouted out. ‘Below us!’ Then, remembering he was supposed to use the correct code, he added, ‘Bandits, angels twelve!’ Already he could see the Stukas beginning their dives, peeling off one after the other.

  ‘Roger, I see them,’ crackled Dix. ‘Red and Yellow Sections head straight for the Stukas, Blue and Green go for the fighters. Number One Attack, go!’

  Archie dropped into line astern behind Dennis Cotton, then saw the CO peel off and dive down, leading Red and Yellow Sections. Following Dennis, Archie pushed the stick forward and to the right and felt himself thrust back into his bucket seat as the engine whined louder and the Spitfire hurtled down. Fifteen thousand feet to just twelve in a matter of seconds, the Messerschmitts suddenly looming larger so he could now clearly see their grey mottled camouflage and the stark black crosses on the wings. It seemed unreal, and for a moment Archie felt as though he were somehow not himself at all, but a spectator watching the scene unfold. He glanced at his speedometer – almost four hundred miles per hour! – and eased the stick back towards him. The enemy fighters appeared not to have seen them yet and Archie now felt another surge of adrenalin.

  Without thinking, he flicked off the gun safety catch at the top of the oval handle of the control column, and held his thumb poised. A quick glance at Dennis, then Archie picked out the 110 in the middle and carefully lined himself up. He was gaining on the Messerschmitt. Wait, he told himself. Let him fill the gunsight.

  He was now just seven hundred yards away and still rapidly closing, but that was not yet close enough. Four hundred yards was the prescribed distance, but he had never forgotten what his instructor had told him at flying school – that a fighter pilot should always get as close as he possibly could before firing. Archie had listened to that advice – Mick Channon had been an ace in the last war. He’d listened to the advice of Ted’s father too. ‘The closer you are, the more your bullets are going to hurt,’ Group Captain Tyler had told them both. ‘And the more you hurt them, the less time you spend firing. The less time you spend firing, the less chance you have of being surprised by some sneaky Hun coming up behind you.’

  Since rejoining 629 Squadron, Archie had listened to Dix’s oft-repeated line about firing at the prescribed four hundred yards, and had read the various discourses on fighter tactics issued by Fighter Command, but it had always seemed to him that four hundred yards was quite some distance. Secretly, he’d told himself he would try and get closer if he ever had the chance.

  He had that chance now, as his Spitfire screamed towards the formation of 110s at nearly four hundred miles per hour. Another quick glance behind – fleeting – but the skies seemed clear, and now he fixed his eyes on his target. Still the 110s had not se
en them. Six hundred yards, five hundred, and then Dennis began to fire, beads of tracer flicking from his gun ports.

  ‘Too soon,’ muttered Archie to himself. Where was Ted? He couldn’t see. Another quick glance behind. Nothing, and now, ahead of him, the enemy fighters had spotted that they were under attack. The Messerschmitt in front of him began to weave, then banked to port and at the same time the rear gunner opened fire. Archie saw orange sparks of tracer arcing towards him, slowly it seemed, but then suddenly they seemed to flash wide past him.

  ‘He’s firing at me!’ Archie said out loud. He opened the boost, felt the Spitfire surge forward as he swept across the sky, still just managing to keep the Messerschmitt in his gunsight. And he was gaining on him, the height advantage giving him the extra speed he needed to catch the 110. Four hundred yards, three hundred, two hundred and fifty. A bit more … Now! Archie pressed his thumb down on the tiny red button. A long burst of his eight Browning machine guns and the Spitfire shuddered from the recoil, jolting Archie in his seat. The Messerschmitt ahead seemed to wobble and now, within just two hundred yards, the 110 huge and close, Archie opened fire again, his mouth set in a determined grimace as he did so. The return fire stopped immediately and he saw from his own lines of tracer that he had raked the fuselage. Have I killed a man? he thought, but then a puff of dark smoke came from the Messerschmitt. It banked to the right and stalled, and for a split, heart-stopping second, Archie thought they were going to collide. Instinctively, he ducked his head – not that it would do him any good – as his Spitfire flashed past a huge grey wing, missing it by what seemed like only inches.

  Boy, that was close, thought Archie, gasping heavily, his chest hammering. But he’d shot down an enemy plane – his first combat sortie and he’d scored already! A wave of exhilaration consumed him. He glanced around and saw a Stuka diving down away to his right, a long stream of smoke following behind. Archie banked and began to climb once more, thinking he should try to rejoin the fray, but he was amazed by how far away they already seemed – distant specks towards the coast. Could it really be? He watched another plane dropping from the sky – another Stuka he thought – and so pulled back on the stick and began to climb towards them.

  Orange flashes whipped past his cockpit and he heard machine-gun fire crackling in his ears. Momentary panic gripped him as he frantically looked behind him – there was nothing, but a moment later he saw two Messerschmitts diving at him from the north, and more tracer curling towards him. And these were not twin-engine 110s, but single-engine fighters, Me 109s. Archie cursed, the words of the station commander at Northolt ringing in his ears: ‘Watch your back!’ he’d said. Archie had been – repeatedly – but in the excitement he’d briefly forgotten and now he had two 109s diving down on him. The hunter had become the hunted.

  Momentary panic. His mind went completely blank. What the hell do I do? He could hear his breath, laboured and heavy, in his oxygen mask, but then another piece of advice suddenly forced its way into his addled mind. ‘Always turn in towards your attacker,’ Channon had told him. His breathing heavy, his heart hammering, Archie now did so, and felt his harness cut into his shoulders and his goggles slip down from his helmet and partially cover his eyes. Frantically, he pushed them back, and saw he was now heading straight for one of his attackers. He pressed down on the gun button, the Spitfire jerked, and to his utter amazement the Messerschmitt belched a gush of black smoke and dropped out of the sky. Another flush of elation, only to be instantly replaced by raw fear as he saw a third 109, this time attacking from the right.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he said out loud as more tracer hurtled past him. Where is everyone? There was a sudden clatter, the Spitfire jolted, and he saw a line of bullet holes across the wing, but his machine still seemed to be flying all right. A Messerschmitt thundered over him, its pale underside streaked with oil, the black crosses vividly clear, the wash of its passage jerking his Spitfire with sudden turbulence. But no sooner had it gone than more tracer whipped past him. Archie banked again, as tightly as he dared, and felt himself pressed hard into his seat, his vision blurring and greying. As he emerged from the turn, sweat now pouring down his face, he glanced in his mirror and saw the 109 still doggedly on his tail.

  ‘Damn it! Damn it!’ exclaimed Archie. More tracer curled towards him, and he flung his Spitfire one way then another, radio static and chatter still crackling in his ears, the horizon sliding back and forth, his stomach whirling and churning. Frantically, he kept glancing back, the Messerschmitt just visible in his peripheral vision, but no matter what he did the 109 was still on his tail. Archie felt helpless, unsure what he should do, but then there was an ear-splitting crack, and the Spitfire jolted.

  ‘Christ!’ whispered Archie. Where had he been hit? Another punch as a cannon shell tore into his plane, so hard it was like a giant fist ramming into him. Smoke now burst from the engine and flooded into the cockpit. His Spitfire was knocked upside down and he was spinning, the control column limp in his hands. He was falling out of the sky, his plane out of control and smoke billowing behind him, the sky and the ground spiralling, his altimeter spinning backwards too fast to read. I’m going to die, he thought to himself.

  A moment later, the control column hit his leg and, clutching it once more, he felt the stick respond after all. Pushing it forward and applying the left rudder hard, he was amazed to feel the Spitfire miraculously recover from the spin. He gasped, opened the canopy so that the smoke whipped out, then wiped his brow, pulled off his oxygen mask, pushed his flying helmet back off his forehead and glanced upwards. Two 109s were still circling but they were several thousand feet above him.

  He sighed and briefly closed his eyes, but then, with a splutter and a cough, his engine died and he was left gliding. After the constant deafening roar of the engine, there was now a startling silence, save for the wind whistling through the cockpit.

  ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed again. Where on earth was he? Away to his left he could still faintly see the coast, but was that Allied or enemy land below? He glanced at his altimeter – eight hundred feet. Could he bail from that height, or was it too low? While he wondered, his mind addled once more, he lost another three hundred feet. Well, that was that. Five hundred feet was definitely too low.

  For several moments he sat there, unable to think clearly, but then realized there was only one option. He would have to crash-land somewhere. Sweat ran down his neck and his back. His free hand was shaking. Four hundred feet, the ground getting ever closer. To the north, he saw a town, on a high promontory that stood out from the largely flat surrounding countryside, but before it the ground looked flat enough. If he could just find a big enough field, but his sense of scale and proportion was warped by the height he was at. Below there were a couple of villages and then further to the south puffs of smoke – guns? – and suddenly a renewed sense of dread swept over him as he realized that even if he did survive he would probably find himself in the middle of a battle.

  Archie sighed – a helpless, resigned sigh. He could not imagine dying – that was impossible to think of – but he could not see how he would ever get out of this mess. Or perhaps he would die. Perhaps this was it. One sortie, and he would be gone.

  A strange sense of calm now glided serenely over him. It had been a good life, after all. Too short, but pretty decent as far as it had gone. And he wasn’t dead yet. Would it hurt? Don’t think about it.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said out loud, ‘hope for the best. Here goes.’ Banking the Spitfire, he lowered the flaps, praying he’d judged it correctly. Just three hundred feet now, the village away beneath his port wing, but there was a field, a lush grass field, and about as flat as he could hope for. At one end was a wood, and to the left a thick hedge and a barn, but the field looked to be long enough. He hoped it was long enough.

  He pressed down the undercarriage lever, but nothing happened. The hydraulics must have been damaged. He cursed, but there was nothing for it: a belly-landing it would have t
o be. Checking the buckle on his Sutton harness and tightening the straps, he watched the ground loom towards him. Moments earlier, he had thought he would die, then he’d thought he’d been spared. Now he wondered whether he would die after all, or be horribly maimed for life, or shot at the moment he clambered out of his stricken aircraft. Over some trees, a hedge, grass rushing towards him, and then crack …

  3

  Cross-country on a BSA

  The motorcycle sped on, its engine throbbing as it roared down the long, straight road that led north, away from Cassel. Archie clutched the waist of the despatch driver, a blur of poplars rushing past him on either side of the road. A glimpse of a large concrete blockhouse away to the left, and a vague impression of some Tommies nearby, then an old brick farmhouse, and over to the right a windmill – no, two – sails out, turning slowly. A pothole, nearly avoided, which made the motorcycle jolt, knocking Archie upwards and then hard back down again on to the small second seat. Archie gasped, felt his head throb again with renewed intensity. He had his flying goggles over his eyes, but it had been too painful to get his leather helmet back over his scalp as well, and he was now glad he had not: the wind through his hair was soothing.

  It was just a couple of hours since he’d brought his Spitfire down, and had survived the crash with nothing more than a nasty gash to his head. Unfortunately, it had been in no-man’s-land, right smack between the outposts to the south of Cassel and the advancing Germans. Fortunately for him, however, Tommies from the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers had got to him before the Germans, had pulled him out of his plane and set it on fire. Despite coming under heavy machine-gun fire from the woods beyond, under the cover of the smoke from the burning Spit, they had managed to get him back to their farmhouse outpost.