Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  ‘You’re working such long hours, Pops,’ said Tess, sympathy etched on her face.

  ‘There’s a lot to do.’ He smiled weakly and rubbed his eyes, then turned to Archie. ‘So how have you been getting on? What happened to your head?’

  Ted came back in with his father’s Scotch at this moment. ‘He pranged his Spit over in France. Not before he’d shot down a 110 and a 109, though.’

  The group captain nodded. ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘And I got a couple too, Pops,’ added Ted, grinning.

  ‘Don’t get overconfident,’ said his father. ‘Overconfidence is deadly. But well done. Well done, the pair of you.’

  Archie looked down at his glass and felt a flush of pride.

  ‘What happened, Archie? When you were hit? Take your eye off the ball?’

  ‘No, sir – well, I was bounced rather. Suddenly I had three 109s swarming all over me, but I managed to get one and then got a cannon shell in the radiator, I think. At any rate, there was white smoke, the oil temperature went mad and the force of the shell knocked me into a vertical spin.’

  Tyler winced. ‘Nasty. But did you spot the 109s diving down on you?’

  ‘Not until too late.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve been told this a hundred times, but you’ve got to keep looking round all the time. I know it’s hard to see right behind you, but keep scanning the skies. Even those with the very best vision can’t see a fighter more than a couple of miles away. With the kind of speeds you’re all flying at these days, that means you’ve got around five to ten seconds, depending on which direction they’re coming from, in which to see them.’

  ‘So look around every three seconds or so,’ said Archie.

  ‘Absolutely. And if you’re outnumbered, don’t try to take them. Get the hell out of there. Turn into them or dive away and hit the deck. Better to live to fight another day. You’ll always have other chances. In the last show, it was all about manoeuvrability, and of course the speeds involved were a lot less. That’s all changed, as Dowding has realized. Now it’s about speed of climb, speed of dive and packing a short, sharp punch when you have the chance. Nine times out of ten, you’ll be hit because of a mistake you’ve made, not because of the other chap’s flying brilliance. Cut out those mistakes, and you’ll have a much better chance of staying in one piece.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Ted, ‘we’ve been taught how to fly but not really how to fly in combat. Archie and I both had Mick Channon as our instructor at FTS, and he used to pass on a few words of wisdom, but since we’ve been back with 629, we’ve mainly practised formation flying and the six standard attacks. Having been in our first scrap, I’m not sure how effective they are, to be honest.’

  Tyler smiled. ‘You’re both good pilots. You know how to handle your kites. I’m going to give you three rules. One: keep watching all the time – every few seconds. Two: don’t fly straight and level in the combat zone for more than two seconds. And three: get as close as you possibly can to the target before opening fire. This is really important. If you open fire too soon, you won’t hit him and at the same time he’ll know you’re behind him. What’s more, you’ll be tempted to keep firing. You’ll think, a couple more seconds, I know I can get him, and then bang! Some blighter’s come up behind you and hit you instead. Trust me on this: to get the best from your guns, you need to be within one hundred and fifty yards.’

  ‘But ours are harmonized at four hundred yards, Pops,’ said Ted.

  ‘Well, that’s one point on which I disagree with Dowding. Change them.’

  Archie and Ted nodded.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Archie. ‘We will, won’t we, Ted?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Tess, a pained expression on her face. ‘This makes it all seem so horribly real. I can’t bear the thought of you boys being up there and being shot at.’

  Her father smiled. ‘They’ll be all right. I’ve every faith in them. It’s not so dangerous when you know what you’re doing, you know.’

  Tess sat there a moment, looking at them, then said, ‘I suddenly feel rather tired. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Call in on me in the morning, sis,’ said Ted. ‘Before you go.’

  She nodded, then kissed them all in turn. ‘Come and see me again when you can, Archie. I’ve had a lovely evening.’

  Archie felt his cheeks redden and hoped that Ted and his father had not noticed.

  ‘I should be getting some sleep too,’ said Tyler. ‘We all should.’

  ‘Before you go, Pops,’ said Ted. ‘Archie – tell him about the Stukas.’

  His father turned to Archie, an eyebrow raised inquisitively. ‘Oh, yes?’

  Archie told him what he’d noticed on the trip back across the Channel.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Tyler. ‘Very interesting. Yes, thank you for sharing that, Archie.’ He got to his feet. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me. Goodnight, both of you.’ He embraced his son. ‘Look after yourselves. And remember what I told you. It’s important. Vitally important.’

  9

  Return to Dunkirk

  Thursday 30 May, around noon. They had been woken at dawn, Archie opening his eyes to the distant sound of the Spitfires being run up; it was important to have the engines warm before a flight. Half an hour later, they had been on their way, this time to Manston, on the tip of the Kent coast. Another long morning of inactivity had followed, although they’d seen a number of Hurricanes and Spitfires flying back and forth across the Channel.

  Then, eventually, the squadron had been ordered into the sky. Two flights of six, Dix leading A Flight and the squadron. Archie had been put into Yellow Section, with Will Merton-Moore leading and Ted on his port side. As they climbed, Archie glanced across at Ted, then behind him and watched the arrowhead shape of the east Kent coast disappear behind him. He looked back at Will up ahead, leading the vic. A check on his dials: oil temperature OK, manifold pressure OK. Fuel fine. The needle on the altimeter continued to climb. Down below, he saw the wake of several ships returning to England – ships that he knew were now crammed full of troops.

  The evacuation had begun, just as everyone had told him during his own return five days earlier. God only knew how many would be taken off, but by all accounts there was no let-up in the number of ships toing and froing back and forth across the Channel.

  Up ahead, he could already see the oil cloud over Dunkirk, like a black hole that seemed to be drawing them into a different world of war and mayhem. They levelled off at eighteen thousand feet and Dix now turned them northwards, leading them well to the west of the continental coast, so that they could turn and fly back down along the coast with the sun behind them. It was hard to see much now. Thick cloud covered most of the French and Belgian coastline, while the dark clouds of burning oil masked Dunkirk itself entirely.

  Lightly, ever so lightly, and without really thinking about it, Archie eased the stick to his left as they turned in a wide arc. It was amazing, he thought to himself, how they could be flying at around three hundred miles per hour, and yet, at eighteen thousand feet and all flying together, there was little to suggest such colossal speeds. The engine too, which made such a deafening roar on the ground, had turned into a muffled monotone, still loud in his ears even with his flying helmet on, but muted somehow, as though he were flying silently.

  This was the squadron’s third combat patrol – they had carried out a second, uneventful one two days before – but it was Archie and Ted’s second. Both had now harmonized their eight Browning .303 machine guns so that their combined fire met in a cone of bullets at just one hundred and fifty yards, as Ted’s father had suggested. Dix, to their surprise, had been against this. The order to have them harmonized at four hundred yards had been given by the commander-in-chief of Fighter Command for a reason, he said. ‘No offence to your father, Ted,’ he had said, ‘but Stuffy Dowding is a little higher up the pecking order.’ They could do as they pleased, he told
them, but he was keeping his at the prescribed distance. The rest of the squadron had taken the CO’s lead.

  There had also been time to practise. The squadron had been sent up in sections to simulate dogfights. The six prescribed attack methods, which mostly involved spotting a target and then following the leader in a dive or beam attack one after the other, had always broken up within moments, but both Archie and Ted had acquitted themselves well enough. No one else in the squadron had managed to get on Archie’s tail, at any rate.

  ‘Don’t get overconfident,’ Group Captain Tyler had told them, and yet that late-night conversation with Ted’s father had given Archie confidence. Before they’d taken off, he’d had that familiar nausea in his stomach and he’d felt tense and on edge, but, once he was airborne, his fear had largely left him, replaced by a strange sense of exhilaration – he was almost willing them to be drawn into action. And, of course, he now knew what to expect. Fear, he had once read, was of the unknown; at least he had tasted action, had experienced shooting down and being shot down. He was surprised, as they flew north-east, parallel to the coast, what a difference that made.

  They now turned, heading south-west. A slight gap in the cloud and there was the Belgian coastline – the dark of the sea, a strip of pale sand, and Flanders beyond – and then it was gone again.

  A crackle over the headphones, and Archie heard Dix’s voice.

  ‘This is Red One. Keep a good watch out, everyone. I know there’s plenty of cloud, but there’s sure to be Jerries about. Over.’

  Archie looked around him. Nothing. The cloud rose to around fourteen or fifteen thousand feet, he guessed. He glanced around again. Still nothing. Up ahead, the oil cloud darkened the sky. So we’re getting close to Dunkirk, he thought. They droned on. Archie glanced round again, and there was a flash of something, away to his left. He looked again. Yes, there it was: a flash of sunlight sparkling on something. Aircraft. Had to be.

  ‘Bandits, one o’clock,’ said someone. Tony Simmonds in Red Section up ahead.

  ‘And bandits at nine o’clock,’ said Archie.

  ‘I see them,’ said Ted.

  ‘One at a time, you lot!’ snapped Dix. ‘Remember your damned radio discipline! Yellow Two, I can’t see any bandits at nine o’clock.’

  Archie looked again, and this time saw several indistinct dots. ‘Red One, this is Yellow Two, they’re two miles plus. Six bandits, maybe more.’ He now looked ahead and below and saw a formation of bombers – Ju 88s or Dorniers, he wasn’t quite sure. They were close to the top of the cloud, wisping in and out of view.

  ‘This is Red One. We’re going for the bombers, but keep a close eye on those bandits away to port. Number One Attack – go!’

  They dived down in line astern, peeling off one after the other, the bombers getting ever closer. Junkers 88s, Archie decided, as his Spitfire screamed in its dive, but then the bombers disappeared into the cloud. He glanced back up and now saw half a dozen Me 109s hurtling towards them, perhaps only half a mile away.

  A moment later, they were all in cloud, scything through a mass of grey and white moisture. Archie could still see Will clearly enough but ahead, Red Three, Tony Simmonds, was nothing more than a faint outline, like a spectre.

  Archie’s heart began to hammer in his chest. He did not like this; he couldn’t see much and the altimeter was wheeling backwards: thirteen thousand, twelve thousand, eleven, then ten, nine, eight. Eight thousand feet and nearly four hundred miles per hour on the clock. His airframe was shaking, the engine screaming. Get me out of this cloud, he thought. Seven thousand, six thousand.

  Over the R/T, Dix was cursing, then someone else was shouting, ‘I see one!’

  ‘Watch out to port, bandits!’ yelled someone else. Static screamed in Archie’s ear. Flashes of light were pulsing through the cloud. What’s going on? What’s going on? He still had Will up ahead, and Ted behind him, but where were the others? Suddenly tracer was fizzing towards him, hurtling over his wing.

  ‘Watch it, Archie!’ yelled Ted.

  ‘Jesus!’ blurted Archie, pushing the stick even further forward and feeling the Spitfire dive down further, and a split second later a Messerschmitt flashed over straight above his head, making him duck involuntarily, and then was gone, disappearing into the cloud. Archie ripped off his oxygen mask and gasped. Christ! he thought, Christ! There were more voices in his ear, and Dix cursing, effing and blinding like Archie had never heard him speak before, and then the voices and static cleared and suddenly all three of them were out of the clouds. They were clear, he and Will, and, behind him, Ted, roaring over the beaches of Dunkirk. Archie gasped. Sunken ships lay half submerged off the shore. Swarms of men, nothing more than pinpricks, darkened the beaches. He could see lines of men snaking out towards several ships moored offshore. They went on and on, mile after mile. ‘My God,’ he muttered out loud, then realized he had stopped concentrating. Where was everyone? Where were those bombers? Ahead, the cloud base was lowering again. ‘This is no good,’ he mumbled to himself, but then Will’s voice filled his ears.

  ‘This is Yellow One, I’m just above you, Archie.’

  Archie looked up. There, a hundred feet above and a little ahead, was the pale underside of Will’s Spitfire, the wings streaked with oil.

  ‘I see you, Will.’ Radio discipline gone.

  Ted now dived down alongside him, and waved. Archie waved back, then glanced around. Keep looking, he told himself. His heart was still hammering in his chest and he was breathing heavily. Calm down, calm down.

  Another crackle in his ears. Will. ‘Bandits up ahead at eleven o’clock.’

  Archie spotted them immediately. In the distance, but rapidly getting closer, was the rising cloud of oily smoke over the port. That’s where they’re headed, he thought to himself. That was good – it would give them a chance to catch them.

  ‘Roger,’ said Archie, ‘I see them.’ He applied boost and felt the Spitfire surge forward. The bombers were now at just three thousand feet and dropped their bombs over the port. Two explosions, one after the other, both thankfully wide, but sending towers of water into the air. ‘Come on, come on!’ mumbled Archie. How far were they now? Half a mile perhaps, but already the bombers were turning to port and climbing away from them.

  Archie leaned forward, willing his Spitfire to catch them. The gap was closing. Seven hundred yards. Archie could see them clearly now – the distinct shape of the Junkers 88, just as it was in his recognition booklet. Six hundred yards, but now wisps of cloud were curling over the bombers. Will now opened up – too far – his tracer arcing well short of the target.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Archie muttered again. He could still see them – but only just. How far now? Three hundred yards. Will was still firing, pumping bullets towards them, but then stopped. Guns jammed? Two hundred yards, the rear bomber nothing more than a faint outline. Archie flicked the gun button to fire. ‘Damn it!’ he cursed, then pressed down on the firing tit. His Spitfire shook with the recoil, tracer disappeared into the cloud, and then the bomber was gone. ‘Damn!’ he said out loud. Where were they?

  ‘Ted, Archie –’ Will – ‘my guns have jammed and I can’t see a thing. Am heading for home.’

  ‘All right, Will,’ said Ted, ‘but I’m going after that Junkers.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Archie. ‘We’ve got to be almost touching them by now.’

  And suddenly there was one of them – huge and looming, just above them, just twenty yards ahead, the dark crosses on the underside of its wings standing out through the cloud.

  Archie throttled back, then pulled back gently on the stick, glanced around and opened fire. At almost the same moment, Ted began firing too. Just a couple of seconds and then they were in danger of colliding. Archie saw bits of aircraft falling off, a burst of flame, and then he had to yank hard on the stick to avoid crashing into the stricken bomber. His stomach rolled, he felt himself flung back into the seat, and then as he levelled out he realized he was quite al
one. There was nothing. Just cloud and the monotonous drone of his Merlin.

  Twenty minutes later, Archie was approaching Manston, Kent and southern England spread before him. There was cloud overhead, but nothing like the blanket there had been over France and Belgium; nothing like that black cloud of smoke billowing over the evacuation beaches. Ahead, shafts of sunlight poured down through gaps in the cloud, and Archie wondered whether his country was somehow blessed. It all looked so calm, so peaceful. Beneath him, a ship was pulling into Ramsgate; even that looked quite serene, belying the trauma those men had faced just twenty-odd miles across the sea.

  And over England, there were ground controllers too, men sitting in station control rooms, talking in precise, clear, calm voices. Reassuring voices.

  ‘Hello, Tartan, this is Nimbus Yellow Two,’ said Archie. ‘Permission to land, over.’

  A hiss in his ear, and then, ‘Roger, Nimbus Yellow Two, this is Tartan. Spitfire just ahead of you. Clear to land in North Field, over.’

  Archie looked around, saw Ramsgate disappear beneath him and up ahead, on the open high ground west of the town, the village of Manston, and beyond that the airfield, with its cluster of buildings, barracks blocks and hangars. Opening the radiator wide, he throttled back, changed his two-speed prop to fine pitch, pulled back the hood and began his approach, the cool air buffeting his cheeks.

  Directly in front of him, the engine cowling blotted out much of his view ahead, while the huge elliptical wings masked the ground either side. It could make landing difficult, especially at unfamiliar airfields, but the trick, Archie had discovered, was to keep the nose down for as long as possible and to look ahead either side of the cowling. He lowered the undercarriage and flaps, and felt the wheels click into place. Watching the air-speed indicator, he saw the needle falling. A slight wobble in the air, the ground rushing towards him – back on the stick a bit – nose up, throttle back some more, then a gentle bump and he was down on all three wheels and rolling along the grass field. A touch of left brake and the Spitfire swung round and rolled on towards dispersal and eventually came to a halt.