Channel Dash
As one, the four guns, two at the bow and two at the stern, opened fire, the 4.7-inch shells hurtling into the sky with a deafening boom, while the pom-pom, in the centre of the iron deck and the only weapon able to fire independently at will, pumped away. The terrible wail of the Stukas was getting ever louder, but then the ship suddenly lurched as she changed course, so that Archie nearly lost his footing. A moment later, the first whistle of a falling bomb – men cowered and clutched their heads. The whistling of the missiles could be heard over the ear-shattering din of guns, then huge fountains of spume and spray erupted like sea monsters into the sky. One bomb hit the sea no more than seventy yards away on the starboard side, spray lashing across the deck. Archie ducked as water drenched him. His wound stung painfully, and he cursed.
He could see three of the Stukas now, just a thousand feet or so above them, pulling out of their dives. Christ, he thought, they’re almost standing still.
He glanced back at the gunners, traversing and elevating their 120 mm tube in response to orders from the DCT. One man was gathering the shell, the loader placing it in the breech, and the layer giving the signal that the gun was ready to fire. When all four guns were ready, the gunnery officer in the DCT triggered each of them as one. Another deafening boom as the guns fired, the breech recoiling, and the empty casing clattering out on to the metal deck behind.
The ship swerved violently again as the bombs continued to fall. How many was that? Seven? Eight? Behind him, the pom-pom continued to pound, black smudges of flak peppering the sky, but none of the Stukas appeared to have been hit. But then the dive-bombers hadn’t hit their ship either. A further bomb whistled down, this time landing even closer, just fifty yards from the stern of the destroyer. A fountain of water erupted a hundred feet into the air, lashing the men once more. A few seconds later, a third salvo was blasted by the ship’s guns, but the Stukas were now on their way.
A lot of noise, a lot of water, but neither dive-bombers nor ship had hit their target.
‘Christ!’ muttered the man beside Archie. ‘Christ Almighty! Oh my God!’ He was crouched down, clutching his helmet.
‘All right, Sid,’ said the man next to him. ‘They’ve gone now. You’re all right.’
Archie felt inside his Irvin and fumbled for his tunic pocket, then pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes. Despite the soaking, the thick sheepskin Irvin had done its job: the cigarettes were quite dry.
‘Here,’ he said, offering the packet.
The man slowly looked up. With a shaking hand, he took one, as Archie felt in his pocket again for his matches. His fingers touched the cool metal of the small silver matchbox his parents had given him on his eighteenth birthday.
‘Thank you,’ said the man as Archie struck a match and cupped his hand, lighting the fellow’s cigarette and then his own. ‘I never thought I’d be this twitchy,’ he added. ‘But we’ve had a bit of a pasting these past few days … It’s got to me, rather.’
‘Well, with a bit of luck, that’s the last of them,’ said Archie. He stood up, smiled weakly at the man, then made his way to the railings. The attack had lasted less than a minute – so quick, he had barely had time to feel frightened. In fact, he had been pleasantly surprised to discover how calm he had felt. His ears were ringing, and his head throbbed with renewed vigour, but he could not help feeling a sense of exhilaration. He had watched those Stukas carefully. When they’d come out of their dives, they had been so slow they were almost hovering in the air for a moment, and then had slowly – very slowly – climbed back into the sky again. That, he reckoned, was the time to try to hit them. It would be like shooting rats in a barrel. When he got back, he would tell the others.
His trousers and hair were damp, but he moved himself into the sun, joining several other men leaning against a locker near the stern of the ship. One of them looked at him suspiciously, but the man next to him had his eyes closed, seemingly asleep. Good, thought Archie. He did not feel like talking very much. A group of others had begun playing cards. The destroyer was steaming full speed ahead, the wake furrowing behind blindingly white.
Not long after, a glint of light twinkled high overhead and the distant but unmistakable thrum of Merlin engines could be heard. British fighters heading over to France. Archie closed his eyes again. He had always loved planes, ever since he was a boy. He had been captivated by the thought of being able to take to the air, to be part of an entirely new and different world. The sense of freedom it promised. It was why he had also loved spending so much time as a boy tramping the hills above the Tay Valley, making dens in the woods and dams across the little brooks that ran off the mountains; it was that same freedom, and sense of space.
But aeroplanes also offered excitement and speed. His parents always used to tell him the story of how he had been sitting out in the garden one day as a very small boy – he’d been only three or four at the time – and had seen an aeroplane fly over, only a few hundred feet above their house. He had pointed and laughed and jumped up and down. He could not remember it, but apparently from then on, aeroplanes had been his first love. Certainly, he could not recall a time when he had not been interested in them. As he had grown older, he had devoured the Biggles books, and anything else he could read about the Royal Flying Corps and the RAF. He knew all about the aces: Mannock, McCudden, Ball, Richthofen, and had wooden models, painstakingly made, hanging from the ceiling of his bedroom.
He developed a fascination with machinery – motorcycles, cars, even ships. Speed. The thrill of going fast. His father had had a car for as long as Archie could remember, much needed for his numerous house calls in their remote part of Scotland. But although his father had shared his son’s fascination with engines and machinery, and had taught him to drive from the day he had been tall enough to reach the pedals, Archie had longed for a machine of his own.
It was his father who had told him about the Norton in McAllister’s garage. McAllister was one of his father’s patients, and had kept the motorcycle and its boxed-up bits of engine aside for young Archie until he had saved enough to buy it. That had taken more than a year of window cleaning, clearing out of sheds and yards and other tasks, but now, thinking back, Archie guessed his father must have accepted the Norton as a form of part-payment for some visit or cure. Certainly, it had been worth more than the few pounds Archie had managed to scrape together.
He smiled to himself. Those had been happy days – tinkering in the shed, slowly putting the engine and the Norton back together. When the bike was ready to ride, it had given him even greater freedom, going further afield to the mountains around Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch, sometimes with friends from school, sometimes on his own.
Speeding along the winding valley roads, the wind in his hair, had been great fun, but he had never lost his desire to fly. Throughout his early teens, he had been determined to join the RAF and become a pilot. On leaving school, he had fully intended to apply for a commission and hoped he would go to Cranwell, but his parents had dissuaded him. ‘Get a degree first,’ his father had urged. ‘You’re a bright lad, Archie, and you’re good with your hands. Why not get an engineering degree, then, if you still want to join the RAF, we’ll not stop you.’ Archie had resisted at first, but his father had pointed out that flying was a young man’s game. ‘When you’re older, you’ll be grateful for that degree. It’ll give you more choice.’ Archie had taken off on his motorcycle, played a round of nine holes at Strathtay, and, by the time he returned home, had decided his father was right.
High above, and a little way off, he suddenly heard the distant sound of an aircraft. He looked up but could not see it at first. Ah, yes, he thought, when at last he spotted it, although he couldn’t see quite what it was. Not an enemy plane at any rate – or at least not one intent on attacking them. He thought about the others. He hoped Ted had got back all right, and then felt a sudden flutter of anxiety. He’d hardly given Ted a moment’s thought until then, but it w
as, he now realized, quite possible that others had been hit too. No, he thought, not Ted. His friend was one of the best pilots he had ever come across, which, admittedly, was not saying much, but it was widely accepted that Ted was among the very best fliers in the squadron. A natural, who had received an ‘Exceptional’ mark in his wings examination.
Archie looked back across the Channel. The French coast – or was it Belgian? – was now just a faint strip on the horizon. Earlier, he had been relieved just to be alive, then grateful to get away from Cassel. Now he felt nothing but impatience. He wanted to be back at Northolt, in the Mess with the boys.
The man next to him had begun snoring. Archie gave him a gentle nudge, the man snuffled, opened his eyes briefly, then went straight back to sleep.
‘Can sleep anywhere, can Norm,’ said another of the men to Archie. He snapped his fingers. ‘Out just like that.’
‘I wish I could,’ said Archie, although, in truth, he’d been quite enjoying thinking about the past. He closed his eyes again. His eyes stung with fatigue, his head ached, but sleep eluded him because he began thinking about when he and Ted had joined the squadron.
He had met Ted Tyler in his first week at Durham University, more than a year and a half ago now. Ted was in a different college, but next door to Archie on the Bailey, and studying engineering too. It had been during their first tutorial, when Ted had made some reference to the differences between an air-cooled and liquid-cooled engine, that Archie had suddenly taken notice of this dark-haired young man sitting near him. ‘Like the new Rolls-Royce Merlin, for example,’ Ted had said.
‘As opposed to the Bristol Pegasus air-cooled radial engine,’ Archie had replied. They had looked at each other and grinned.
Afterwards they had discussed their mutual love of machinery and flying. Archie could remember that conversation as though it were yesterday.
‘Why didn’t you join the RAF straight away?’ Archie had asked him.
‘My father said I should get a degree first,’ Ted had replied.
‘So did mine,’ Archie had laughed.
It seemed Ted had been every bit as obsessed with flying since he was a boy, although, unlike Archie, he had already flown a number of times and even had his civilian licence. His father was still serving in the RAF – a group captain at the Air Ministry.
And then it had suddenly dawned on Archie. ‘Your father,’ he had said, ‘he’s not by any chance Group Captain Guy Tyler DSO and Bar, MC, DFC?’
Ted had laughed. ‘Yes! Yes, he is.’
‘My God, but I know all about him. I read about him in my Air Aces of the Great War. That’s incredible! He’s one of my heroes. He’s only got something like thirty-one victories to his name!’
‘Thirty-one exactly. You’ll have to meet him,’ Ted had grinned. ‘He’s a good sort is Pops.’ He had raised his glass. ‘You know what, Archie? I think you and I are going to be pals. Great pals.’
Ted had been right: they had become the best of pals, and almost from the moment they had first met. Archie smiled, remembering. The very next morning his new friend had come and found him in his digs in college, bursting into his room in great excitement.
‘I’ve got a plan, Archie,’ he said. ‘It suddenly occurred to me last night in the pub, but I didn’t want to say anything until I’d spoken to Pops.’
‘What?’ Archie had said, bemused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well,’ said Ted, pausing to stand still. ‘Have you ever heard of the Auxiliary Air Squadrons?’
‘Of course, they were founded by Trenchard just after the war. A kind of yeomanry of the air.’
‘Exactly. The “Weekend Fliers” as they’re known. Well, there’s sadly no University Air Squadron here, but there are two Auxiliary Squadrons – 607 County of Durham and 629 City of Durham. And my old man knows the CO of 629.’ He sat down on the edge of Archie’s bed.
‘You mean we can join them?’
‘I’m hoping so. At least, I think so.’ He stood up again and paced the room. ‘Or rather, I’m praying so, Archie!’ He now turned and faced Archie once more. ‘Do you have any wheels?’
‘I have a motorcycle.’
‘Good, that’ll do. Will it take me too?’
‘At a push, yes.’
‘Excellent. Apparently, the CO has strict criteria for who joins. You’ve got to be the right sort – have your own transport, outgoing, like sport. Do you play anything?’
‘Golf. Rugger, football. Cricket. Played it all at school.’
‘Even better. We’re the right age too – he won’t take on anyone older than thirty-four, even though he’s thirty-eight himself. He doesn’t want anyone to come from too far either. Wants local types.’
‘Where are they based?’
‘Spennymoor. It’s only six or so miles south of Durham. Christ, we could almost walk it! A grass ’drome, used in the last war and then turned back to farmland, but it’s on Fitzwilliam’s land.’
‘Fitzwilliam?’
‘The CO. He served under my father in the last show. Anyway, he’s turned it back into an airfield and that’s where 629 City of Durham Auxiliary Squadron is based.’
Archie ran his hands through his hair, then breathed out heavily. He could scarcely believe what Ted was telling him. ‘And they really can fit us in? Aren’t they massively oversubscribed with local landowners’ sons?’
Ted shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Pops thinks there will be room for us. Squadron Leader Fitzwilliam is going to see us next weekend.’
For the rest of that week, Archie had thought of little else, and when Saturday finally arrived the two of them had ridden down on his Norton with mounting nervousness. What if the squadron had changed its mind? Or if Fitzwilliam did not like them? Archie was particularly worried that Ted might get in but not him. No, Ted had assured him: they would both be accepted or not at all.
Neither of them need have worried. They had gone to Fitzwilliam’s home, a large Queen Anne farmhouse on the edge of the airfield, and, having been given stiff drinks, had been sat down in two armchairs in his library. Squadron Leader Fitzwilliam admitted they had been inundated when they had formed the squadron a year earlier. ‘Enough applicants for three or four squadrons,’ he told them, but his strict criteria had brought that number down, and since then two of their members had dropped out due to illness and injury, another had gone to Cranwell to gain a permanent commission, while a fourth had joined the Guards. ‘You chaps are just what we need,’ he told them. ‘Young bloods with a bit of gumption.’ He had nothing but praise for Ted’s father and had been impressed by Archie’s mechanical skills. ‘Useful that – damned useful.’
Fitzwilliam promised to apply on their behalf for Auxiliary Air Force commissions for both of them; they were to become the fifteenth and sixteenth pilots in the squadron, along with some sixty auxiliary ground crew, all of whom were now receiving instruction in various aspects of aircraft service work. The squadron had two Avro Tutors for what Fitzwilliam termed ‘ab initio’ training, a Tiger Moth donated by himself, and two Hawker Hind biplanes handed over by the Air Ministry for service training.
‘I’m afraid you won’t get much flying,’ Fitzwilliam told them. ‘About five to twelve hours a month, but at least you will be flying. Next summer you’ll come with us on summer camp – a couple of weeks in tents where we all get up bright and early and fly as much as we possibly can, then have a bit of a laugh in the evening. Oh, and there’s an annual dinner too. Everyone present. You know, we all take the flying pretty seriously, but we’re here to have fun too. We’re all friends here.’ He had paused at this point, stretched, then grinned at them affably. ‘I’ve always loved flying. Not so keen on fighting. Tell the truth, it was pretty bloody in the last show, but this squadron now is what it’s all about. Flying over this beautiful country of ours, pirouetting about the sky, feeling a bit like a god or something, then having a good time with one’s mates when back on the ground. I’m proud of our squadron. It�
��s full of first-class fellows, all of whom I know will do more than their bit should it ever come to war, and all of whom share a great bond. In fact,’ he added, ‘you couldn’t have come to a better squadron. The best in all the AAF.’
Archie smiled again to himself, remembering. It had been such fun – fun and exciting. He recalled his first flight – with Fitz in the Tiger Moth, sitting up front with the CO behind. A beautiful aircraft, Archie had thought, even though it was made of little more than wood and doped canvas. There had been no wheel at the rear, just a little strip of metal, and as they had begun their take-off, they had rattled and bumped and Archie had wondered how such a flimsy thing could ever possibly get airborne. But then suddenly the shaking and bumping stopped, the hedge at the end of the field had disappeared, the ground had stretched away from them and they were effortlessly rising into the air. Archie had laughed out loud with the thrill of it all. He was flying! He was actually flying!
Fitz had turned north, climbing to around two thousand feet. They had circled over Durham. The great cathedral and castle dominated the countryside for miles around, so huge, so solid compared to the town that had built up around them, yet from the air they were dwarfed. Fitz had turned and Archie had marvelled at the silvery snake of the River Wear, the patchwork of fields, the small clusters of villages and towns. Away to the east, he had seen Newcastle and Sunderland and, beyond, the North Sea, stretched out so that Britain, which had always seemed so large on the ground, had, like the cathedral, shrunk into a much, much smaller place. It had been a cold day, that early November Saturday in 1938, but bright: tall banks of fluffy cumulus had towered above them, casting vast shadows on the countryside below. But then there would be gaps and the sunlight would pour down shafts of gold, bathing the fields and villages beneath them in glittering light. Fitz had said they were like gods up there, and he had been not far off the truth. Archie had felt empowered, intoxicated, as though he had been touched by God.
‘Well?’ Fitz had said as they landed and rumbled across the field.
Battle of Britain Page 4