Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  He knew that Ted was cut from the same cloth as himself. They even looked much the same, although Tyler’s once-dark mane of hair was now rapidly greying; he guessed he would be quite white before this war was over. But he recognized in his son the same spirit of adventure and hunger for excitement. By all accounts, he was proving to be a first-class pilot, although being a very good pilot was not quite the same as being a very good fighter pilot. He’ll be all right, he told himself. He has a good eye, he’s got plenty of flying hours under his belt. Impatience – that was the one trait Ted needed to rein in. Surviving in the air was about constantly keeping your wits about you – watching your back.

  There was a knock at the door, and Squadron Leader Mulligan walked in.

  ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘It’s time.’

  Tyler looked at his watch, nodded wearily, then, gathering his intelligence summaries, put them into a briefcase and headed for the door.

  Mulligan was his right-hand man, his assistant deputy director, tall and thin, and some years younger than himself, but a good sort – reliable, discreet and, like him, a naturally positive person. It was hard, though, to keep cheerful when they knew what they knew.

  They reached Headquarters RAF Fighter Command at Stanmore, on the north-west edge of London, a little under half an hour later. Bentley Priory, once an eighteenth-century country house, then a hotel and then a girls’ school, had been bought by the RAF some fourteen years earlier, and when Fighter Command was formed just two years ago, it seemed an ideal place to house the new command’s headquarters. Close to London, it was none the less away from the hubbub of Whitehall, close to Northolt and Uxbridge, and, from the hill near Harrow on which it was perched, it had commanding views south towards Britain’s capital. It was light and airy too – Tyler had always liked it, and reckoned Air Chief Marshal Dowding had one of the best offices in the country.

  They were ushered into Dowding’s office straight away. Air Vice-Marshal Park, commander of 11 Group, was already there, and stood up as they entered, even though he outranked them. A tall man, with a trim moustache and twinkling, pale blue eyes, he said, ‘Good to see you, Tyler – and you too, Mulligan.’

  Dowding, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, remained seated behind his desk.

  ‘Good morning, chaps,’ he said brusquely, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands brought together as though in prayer.

  Tyler had known both men since the last war. In fact, he had strongly supported Dowding’s efforts to try to get parachutes introduced. ‘Boom’ Trenchard, commander of the Royal Flying Corps and then of the RAF when it was formed in 1918, had vehemently opposed Dowding, and it had almost cost the latter his career. But Dowding was a dogged, determined old fellow and had risen through the ranks during the years of peace, and thank goodness too. Tyler rated both men highly – at least, thank God, they had the best two men in the most important jobs: Dowding co-ordinating and overseeing the whole show, Park commanding south-east England, the group in Fighter Command that would undoubtedly see the heaviest action should Britain come under attack from the Luftwaffe. It was certainly Park’s squadrons that were the most busy at the moment.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ said Dowding, ‘what glad tidings do you bring us today?’ Just the faintest flicker of a smile creased his lips.

  ‘Nine Fighter Command aircraft lost yesterday and three damaged but repairable,’ said Mulligan. ‘A total of sixteen aircraft lost yesterday. So all in all, not too bad.’

  Dowding drummed his fingers on the leather-topped desk. ‘Hmm,’ he said, ‘but it’s not going to stay that way, is it? We may have stopped sending more fighters over to French airfields, but we’re going to have our work cut out over the next few days if this evacuation really does get underway.’

  ‘It’s going to, sir,’ said Tyler. ‘Operation Dynamo will start tomorrow night. The plan is to start lifting men in the early hours of Monday the twenty-seventh.’

  ‘At least if we’re operating from bases in the south-east,’ said Park, ‘then they won’t be destroyed on the ground. As we know, most fighter losses in France have been at the airfields rather than in the sky.’

  Dowding’s brows knotted into a frown. ‘It’s just so damnably frustrating. Fighter Command’s job is to defend Britain. We’ve built our air-defence system around operating over our own territory. We have radar, we have the Royal Observer Corps, there are General Pike’s anti-aircraft gunners, we have the Defence Teleprinter Network, we have Huff-Duff, ground controllers and a centralized and standardized operating system that every Tom, Dick and Harry in Fighter Command knows and understands. And yet we can’t use any of it over Dunkirk.’

  ‘But lose the entire BEF and we won’t be fighting an air battle over Britain or anywhere else, sir,’ said Park.

  ‘That’s true,’ muttered Dowding. ‘There’s panic among the politicians. There are some – whose names I won’t mention – who are already muttering about suing for peace.’

  ‘And it’ll give some of our squadrons important experience against the Hun,’ added Park. ‘Don’t forget that if we can shoot down some of theirs, they’ll have fewer too. How’s Beaverbrook getting on?’

  ‘Very well. He might be a press baron, but Winston was absolutely right to put him in charge of aircraft production. He’s got things moving already. He told me he’ll have four hundred new fighters a month by the end of June and is increasing the output of repaired aircraft fourfold. The trouble is, can we wait until then? It might all be a little late.’ He sighed, then sat up. ‘Ah, well, we can only do what we can do. The rest we must place in the hands of God.’ He turned to Tyler. ‘So what are the latest figures for the Luftwaffe, Tyler?’

  ‘The latest intelligence we have suggests the Messerschmitt factories are only producing two hundred or so new fighters per month,’ he said. ‘Production appears to be concentrated on bombers – the Ju 87 Stuka and the Ju 88 medium bomber. We’ve still got a very clear picture of all their units, and I’m afraid that it’s rather sobering, sir. Our estimates are that they have around four thousand front-line aircraft.’

  ‘And we have five hundred and seventy-four fighters in the Command,’ interrupted Dowding.

  ‘Yes, sir. But as the air vice-marshal says, the numbers are growing all the time.’

  ‘So long as production does not exceed wastage.’ Dowding stroked his moustache a moment, then said, ‘Remind me, Tyler, on what are you basing this figure of four thousand?’

  ‘Assuming their Staffeln are the same as our squadrons – that is, with around twenty aircraft and twenty-four pilots – then we have our figure. They have further units still in Germany, though.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dowding, ‘let’s hope you’ve overestimated rather than underestimated that figure.’

  ‘Our intelligence suggests their units operate in similar ways to ours, sir, which is why we have assumed they are the same size. I don’t think they would be bigger. In my estimation, four thousand is the most we would find ourselves up against.’

  Dowding nodded. ‘All right. Well, thank you, gentlemen. On that cheery note …’ He let the sentence trail, then turned back to his papers. It was the signal for Tyler and Mulligan to leave. They stood up, saluted, then turned and left.

  In the car on the way back, Tyler and Mulligan sat in silence, smoking, both deep in thought. Swirls of tobacco smoke clouded the rear of the Wolseley before being sucked out of the narrow slit of the open window.

  ‘We need to understand their squadron make-up, Mully,’ said Tyler at length. ‘There must be a way. Some snippet of information, some reference – somewhere. There has to be.’

  ‘Nothing has come up yet, sir.’

  ‘Because we’ve been assuming they’re the same as us.’ He clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘But we operate with a very generous overlap, don’t we? We never have more than twelve aircraft from one squadron airborne at any one time, but there are usually twice as many pilots as that and al
most twice as many aircraft. What if the Luftwaffe don’t allow for that? What if they have just fourteen or fifteen aircraft and men per squadron? That would change the equation considerably.’

  ‘They’d still have an enormous advantage.’

  ‘Yes, but not overwhelmingly so. We must find out, Mully. We really must. Confidence is half the battle. We’ve got to believe we’ve got a chance. Without that … well, let’s face it, Mully. We’re probably finished.’

  8

  Bag o’ Nails

  A little after midnight on Sunday 26 May. In the cab on the way back to Pimlico, Archie felt a little drunk, but enough in command of his senses to know he felt absurdly happy. Happy because he’d had a night he felt sure he would remember always; happy because he was alive.

  Beside him was Ted’s sister, Tess. She had been with them all evening, which was why they had not gone to a show, but had instead headed to Shepherd’s, a pub just off Piccadilly, where she had planned to meet another pilot friend she knew. ‘Don’t go to some boring silly old show,’ she had said. ‘Come with me to Shepherd’s.’

  ‘Oh, Tess, don’t be so bossy,’ Ted had retorted. ‘We rather want to go to a show.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe Swinging the Gate at the Ambassadors. Someone told me it’s very funny.’

  ‘I’ve seen it and it’s awful. You’d hate it, darling, I promise you. Hermione Gingold being decidedly unfunny. Come to Shepherd’s with me instead.’

  Ted had looked at Archie. ‘What do you want to do, Archie?’

  ‘Honestly?’ Archie had replied. ‘I’d rather go to Shepherd’s.’

  The pub was already a well-known fighter pilots’ haunt not far from the RAF Club, down a narrow side street that led to Shepherd’s Market. Archie had been there once before and liked it, and, in truth, he had wanted to spend the evening with Tess as much as her brother, not that he would ever admit as much.

  Her pilot friend had been at the pub with a group of other friends, and after a few drinks they had all gone on to the Bag o’ Nails club in Kingly Street in Soho. Someone had said that Al Bowlly was playing; he was not, as it happened, but there had been a live band all the same. Someone had produced a bottle of champagne, and Ted had got chatting to a young girl he vaguely knew and had disappeared on to the dance floor. Tess’s pilot friend had vanished, and that left Archie and Tess alone, sitting at their table, drinking the champagne and talking.

  Tess was eighteen, a year younger than her brother. Archie had last seen her the previous autumn, after he and Ted had finished their square-bashing in Cambridge. She had left school that summer, and was very much the younger sister – always chirpy, always bright, friendly enough on the few occasions Archie had met her, but a girl still.

  Something had happened over the intervening months. The rather plain dresses and loose teenage hair had gone, and in their place were silk stockings, mascara and crimson lips. She had joined the WAAF – the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – and was working at the Air Ministry like her father. ‘It’s become quite a family business, joining the RAF.’ She laughed. ‘Poor Mum feels a bit left out.’ It was secretarial work, but she seemed to find it interesting enough. She had seen Archibald Sinclair, Secretary of State for Air, and Sir Cyril Newell, Chief of the Air Staff, and even, fleetingly, the prime minister himself – enough important people to make her feel as though she were at the centre of things, even if most of her day was spent taking notes and typing.

  Tess used to be pretty, but, Archie thought, she had now been transformed into someone quite beautiful: a young woman with the same raven hair as her brother, but with a sleeker, more finely sculpted face and a pair of pale blue eyes that Archie found quite bewitching.

  Later, they had danced together, his hand on her waist, her fingers in his. It had been one of the most intoxicating moments of his life. Now, in the cab, he felt her hand reach for his once more, and as her warm, smooth fingers folded around his, a new spark of pleasure coursed through him.

  She held up his hand, then that of her brother too. ‘Thank you, boys,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a lovely evening.’

  ‘So have I,’ Archie grinned.

  ‘Me too,’ said Ted. ‘I think I might be in love with Polly.’

  ‘But you’ve only just met her,’ said Tess. ‘You’ve had too much beer and champagne.’

  ‘No,’ said Ted. ‘I’ve met her before. Once. For about three minutes. She’s what’s-his-name’s sister. Chap I was at school with. He was a bit dull, to be honest, but Polly’s lovely. I think I might marry her one day.’

  ‘You are ridiculous,’ Tess laughed. ‘She might be awful in daylight.’

  ‘Polly? No, not possible.’ Ted sighed happily. ‘To think you almost made me go to that silly show, Archie.’

  ‘I did no such thing. I never wanted to go.’

  Ted laughed. ‘You were quite right, sis. Thank you for saving us from the terrors of Swinging the Gate.’ He sighed happily again, then suddenly sat up. ‘Whatever happened to that pilot chum of yours?’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ she said. ‘I thought he seemed quite nice last time I saw him, but I was wrong.’

  ‘I thought he seemed awful. Poor little sis,’ said Ted, resting his head on her shoulder. ‘Snubbed by a first-class bore.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Archie looked after me.’ She patted his leg. ‘We had a lovely time together, didn’t we?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Archie, meaning it.

  As they reached the house in Winchester Street, the cab driver nearly hit a car parked outside the house next door.

  ‘Blast it!’ he cursed.

  ‘Blackout, eh?’ said Ted.

  ‘Oh, it’s terrible,’ answered the cabbie. ‘Bloomin’ terrible. The lights they allow us now are hardly enough to see three yards in front. A mate of mine hit a horse the other night. Just didn’t see ’im till it was too late. I reckon more people will be killed in this war because of the blackout than by Jerry bombs.’

  They paid him and then Ted struck a match, lighting up his face in an orange glow. The key was kept in a conch shell at the foot of the steps that led to the front door.

  ‘Don’t you worry that someone will find it and break in?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Ted, ‘there’s far greater chance of my sister losing the key if she kept it with her than of any would-be burglar finding it.’ He held it up. ‘Anyway, in this blackout you’d never know. I find it hard enough finding it with just a match.’

  Archie breathed in deeply. The cool night air smelled sooty, and he immediately thought of his burning Spitfire in that field near Cassel. He wondered about the men there; wondered whether they were still alive.

  ‘Come on, Ted,’ said Tess. ‘I’m cold.’ She gripped Archie’s arm as they waited for Ted to fumble the key into the lock, and Archie felt another spark of pleasure.

  The door opened and they stumbled in, closed it behind them, and only then switched on the lights.

  ‘Mama’s asleep,’ said Ted.

  ‘It is half past midnight, you know,’ said Tess.

  ‘Early!’ said Ted, and Archie smirked, familiar with his friend’s ability to make a rare night out last as long as possible.

  They went into the drawing room, a comfortable, high-ceilinged room just off the hallway at the front of the house. There was a gramophone there on a table in the corner.

  ‘I’ll get the drinks,’ said Ted. ‘You put on some music, Archie.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’ said Tess. ‘I want to dance again. Put on Al Bowlly, Archie. He might not have been at the Bag o’ Nails but we can have him in the drawing room.’

  Archie laughed. ‘All right,’ he said. There was a stash of records on a stool under the table and he soon found the record he was after. He liked Al Bowlly too. His parents had hardly ever played music at home – only what was broadcast on the radio, and that was always classical; there was no gramophone in the Jackson household. But sin
ce going to Durham and joining 629 Squadron, he had discovered the magical new world of dance music. Al Bowlly, Cole Porter, even comic songwriters like Noel Coward – they had been played continually. The squadron had had a battered old gramophone that Fitz used to bring down to dispersal; it had followed them to Drem, bequeathed to the squadron pilots by their former CO, and then to Northolt when they had moved down a week ago.

  He pulled the record from its brown paper sleeve, placed it on the turntable, wound up the gramophone and then gently lowered the needle. A crackle, and then the opening bars of the piano rang out.

  With Ted still fixing the drinks, Tess held out her hand to Archie.

  ‘Dance with me,’ she said.

  Archie grinned, took her hand and they began gently turning around the room.

  Tess sang along softly. Archie, who knew most of the words, and with his confidence buoyed, joined her. He was pleased not to have made a fool of himself by standing on her foot as they danced. Ted re-entered the room with two tumblers and a glass of wine, and then they were all singing, no longer softly, but more loudly.

  Suddenly the door opened and standing there was Group Captain Tyler.

  ‘What a racket you’re all making,’ he said.

  ‘Pops!’ said Ted, hurrying over to him. ‘We didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘No, well, unlike you lot, I’ve learned to come in quietly and not disturb your poor mother.’ He kissed his daughter, then turned to Archie. ‘Hello, Archie. How nice to see you.’

  ‘And you, sir,’ said Archie.

  ‘Poor Pops,’ said Tess. ‘Always home so late.’

  ‘Let me get you a drink, Pops,’ said Ted.

  Their father looked at his watch. ‘It’s awfully late … well, go on, then. Just a quick one. I need to see my son and his friend when I get the chance.’ He took off his cap, smoothed his hair and sat down in one of the wing-backed armchairs. ‘Ah, that’s better.’