Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  He banked, circling in a wide arc, and eventually spotted the smoke cloud above Dunkirk some way to the north. How long had he been in that swirling melee? A few minutes? Nothing more. And what about Will? Where is Will?

  He looked around once more, saw the skies were still clear, then opened the throttle and headed for home. Time to check his gauges: oil pressure still OK, fuel low, but there was enough. Manifold pressure OK too. He’d been hit in the fuselage, he was sure, so checked the rudder, yawing the Spitfire from side to side, then pushed the stick from side to side. All in working order. Good.

  He sped on, then saw a Spitfire below him. Was it the one he had seen a little earlier? Smoke was trailing in thin puffs, so he dived down, circled around it and drew up just behind him off his port wing. BM-W were the squadron markings on the fuselage. Ted.

  ‘Please let him be all right,’ he said out loud, then inched forward until his Spitfire was level, and waved. To his relief, Ted waved back, and then he heard his voice.

  ‘I got hit in the engine,’ he said, ‘and now it’s making strange noises and losing power.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m with you,’ said Archie. ‘How’s your oil pressure?’

  ‘Rising but not critical yet.’

  Archie looked ahead. There was the tip of Kent. Ten miles perhaps?

  ‘It’s not far. From this distance we can probably glide.’ He looked at his altimeter. Six and a half thousand feet.

  ‘I don’t want to. I want to try to stay at this height.’

  Archie glanced around again, then saw the engine belch another gust of thick smoke. He heard Ted cough and saw him pull back his canopy.

  ‘Temperature’s rising now,’ said Ted.

  ‘Keep going, just keep her going.’

  The coast was getting closer, inching towards them. Archie could see the cliffs now and then there was Ramsgate – two boats approaching, their wakes bright across the dark sea.

  ‘I’m losing speed, Archie,’ said Ted.

  ‘Nearly there, nearly there.’ Archie pulled back on the throttle, watched the air-speed indicator approach two hundred miles per hour. Much slower, and his Spit would stall. He opened the throttle and climbed, banking in a lazy circle over Ted’s stricken plane. The coast was now no more than a couple of miles away, and Manston was only three miles beyond that. So near!

  He flew back alongside his friend. ‘You’re home and dry now,’ he said.

  A moment later, there was another belch of smoke and Ted cursed. ‘You spoke too soon! She’s gone! She’s damn well gone and cut out on me! Damn it, damn it!’

  ‘No, Ted, you’ll be fine. Listen to me: you’ll be fine. You’re still in the air, aren’t you? You can glide her in. Just glide – it’s a few miles, that’s all.’

  He wove back and forth. His friend was losing height now, but the Spitfire was still in the air.

  ‘Christ, if I get out of this,’ said Ted, ‘I never want to have to do it again.’

  ‘Nearly there – I can see Manston. You’re nearly there, Ted. You’ve nearly made it.’

  They passed over Ramsgate at just one thousand five hundred feet. Archie prayed it was enough.

  ‘You’re doing well, Ted,’ he said, as he wove over him again, and then he heard Ted say, ‘Mongoose, this is Nimbus Red Two. My engine is cut, permission to land.’

  A pause, a crackle of static, then Archie heard, ‘Roger, Nimbus Red Two, this is Mongoose. Permission to land. Suggest keep undercarriage up.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Ted. ‘All right, Mongoose. Roger, over.’

  Archie flew alongside him again and now pulled back his own canopy and waved once more.

  ‘I’ve never done this before,’ said Ted over the R/T.

  ‘I did in France,’ Archie told him. ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘Except you got knocked out and cut your head open.’

  ‘But it was a field, not an airfield. Just really concentrate, Ted, and you’ll be fine. Come on – you can do it. You know you can.’

  They were now approaching Manston; ahead, they could see the by-now familiar buildings, and aircraft parked up around the perimeter of the North Field.

  ‘I’m too high!’ said Ted.

  ‘Push the stick forward.’

  ‘All right, she’s dropping – Christ, Archie – ah, that’s better.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Archie, opening the radiator and lowering his flaps and undercarriage. He glanced across, saw Ted wobble, then correct himself.

  ‘You’re nearly there, Ted, nearly there.’

  ‘I’m going too fast!’

  ‘No, no – you’re fine. Glide in, just glide in.’ But his friend was going faster than he was, and now Ted was ahead of him, rushing towards the ground. For a moment, Archie thought he was going to plough into the ground but then, at the last minute, Ted lifted the nose and the Spitfire slid on to the grass, the propeller snapping and splintering and the plane yawing as it slid across the grass.

  A moment later, Archie felt himself touch down with a jolt – hardly his smoothest – then bounce lightly back into the air before touching back down again.

  ‘Ted? Ted? Are you all right.’

  He heard his friend laughing. ‘Oh, my God, I’m alive! I’m alive!’ he was saying. ‘Oh, my God! We did it, Archie – we blinking well did it.’

  Archie could say nothing. He breathed out heavily and for a moment thought he might cry. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he told himself. But the relief. They were back. They had made it. They would live to see another day. He taxied, parked and cut the engine and slowly took off his leads and helmet and unclipped his Sutton harness. A fire truck was rushing towards Ted’s Spitfire, its bells clanging unnecessarily. Archie closed his eyes a moment, then gingerly clambered out, lowered himself on to the wing and slid on to the ground. His legs nearly buckled, and he grabbed the edge of the wing to steady himself, then saw a row of seven bullet holes across his fuselage. How had they not hit one of the cables that connected the controls to the rudder and elevators? By God, but he’d been lucky. Lucky. It was a word people kept using about him. He kept using about himself. But how long would it last?

  11

  Darkest Hour

  Later that same evening, Friday 31 May, Group Captain Guy Tyler sat in the office of his boss, Air Chief Marshal Sir Cyril Newell, the Chief of the Air Staff, at the Air Ministry in King Charles II Street. Next to him was the Deputy Chief of the Air Staff, Air Vice-Marshal Sholto Douglas. For a moment, no one spoke as Newell perused the latest signal intelligence, or ‘sigint’ as it was known. Outside, it was a beautiful early summer’s evening. The light was beginning to fade, casting a golden glow through the twin windows. Newell had kept one of them half open, allowing just the faintest of breezes. On the ledge outside, some pigeons were cooing rhythmically.

  A scene of utter peace, thought Tyler, but for how much longer? Earlier that day, Newell and the other chiefs of staff had given the prime minister and his War Cabinet a report entitled ‘Invasion of the United Kingdom’. The report had been put together over the past couple of days, largely on the basis of information given to the chiefs by the Joint Intelligence Committee, which in turn drew on intelligence gathered by all three services – the Army, Air Force and Navy. Some of the finest brains in the country were now working around the clock, trying to crack enemy codes, attempting to glean as true a picture of what was going on as was humanly possible. They had a good idea of German strength, and now, given the speed with which the Low Countries and half of France had been rolled over, a clear appreciation of how quickly the Germans could operate. It was the speed of this juggernaut that had caught the Allies so off guard. Pre-war planning by the French had suggested there would be another long drawn-out, largely stationary war – much the same as the Great War a generation earlier, but with more intense firepower. The Germans had obliterated that theory, as they had thundered west, troops, tanks, artillery and air force all working together in a co-ordinated strike. The world had se
en nothing like it. The Germans seemed unstoppable.

  Tyler had read the report earlier that morning. The Germans, it suggested, had two options. Either they could continue the battle against France in an attempt to knock her out of the war completely, or they could stabilize the front over there and launch a major assault on Britain. This struck the chiefs of staff as the more obvious option and Tyler, for one, did not disagree. The French were finished – that was obvious – and were incapable of mounting a counterattack of sufficient strength. Britain was Germany’s main enemy – her most dangerous enemy; there was plenty of intelligence to support that.

  The conclusion of the JIC and of the chiefs was that the Germans were very probably preparing for an all-out strike against Britain. The Navy was still strong, and the air-defence system that Dowding had established to protect Britain was a good one, but the RAF was short of aircraft compared with the Luftwaffe, and the Army was beaten. It was true that already more men had been lifted from Dunkirk than had ever been thought possible, but all their equipment – their guns, their vehicles – had been left behind. The British Army was in no position to fight anyone – not for a while. Old men with shotguns were not going to stop the Nazis.

  Tyler and his team had made it clear that if the Luftwaffe struck in force – now, or within the next week or so – sheer weight of numbers meant it would be unlikely that the RAF could hold out, no matter how good Dowding’s air-defence system was. He had told his colleagues in the JIC this, and he had told Newell. It was equally clear that if the Germans managed to get any troops across the Channel and secured a small toehold, it would be very difficult indeed to push them back into the sea. More and more enemy troops would follow and Britain would be overrun. Britain would lose the war.

  Air Vice-Marshal Douglas rammed a pipe into the corner of his mouth, felt for his lighter, then puffed as wafts of blue-grey smoke swirled and danced into the air, only to catch the faint breeze and quickly disperse. Tyler took a sip of his whisky.

  ‘So,’ said Douglas, ‘what are the evacuation figures for today?’

  ‘It really is incredible,’ said Newell at last, looking up at both men. ‘By noon, one hundred and sixty-five thousand men had been brought back. Winston thought we’d be lucky to get fifty thousand in total, and he’s an unashamed optimist.’

  Douglas smiled. ‘How much longer will it go on for?’

  ‘Well, there’s no sign of Jerry breaking through the perimeter yet, so another twenty-four hours at the very least. The big difference has been the use of the mole. No one originally thought it was strong enough to berth ships alongside – it’s only a rickety wooden thing, apparently, but it’s holding up nicely. The Hun simply can’t hit it. Too small a target, and what’s more the port’s covered with the smoke cloud. That smokescreen is a godsend.’

  Douglas chuckled. ‘I think that’s what’s called being hoist by one’s own petard. Jerry goes and bombs the oil depot and goes blind in the process.’ He relit his pipe. ‘And what’s the forecast for the next couple of days?’

  ‘Good, so from now on we’re limiting the evacuation to night-time only. Our chaps need to provide cover in the evening and at dawn only from now on. Even with the smoke cloud, it’s too risky by day.’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ said Tyler, ‘I wanted to mention something to you about the German dive-bombers.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘My son has a friend in his squadron, sir, who was shot down over France the other day but managed to get back. He noticed that the Stukas would hit a moving ship more through luck than judgement. He also noticed that they were sitting ducks as they came out of their dives. Our intelligence suggests the Stukas have suffered over Dunkirk. Not only are our chaps getting away, the Luftwaffe is taking some punishment too. If the Luftwaffe does attack Britain, sir, then I wonder whether it would be worth targeting their dive-bombers in particular. Knock those out and we would deliver an important psychological blow.’

  ‘The Hun air force won’t seem quite so invincible, you mean?’ said Newell.

  ‘Something like that, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Interesting. Thank you, Tyler. And how is your boy getting on?’

  Tyler scratched his brow. ‘He managed to nurse his Spitfire back across the Channel yesterday. His engine cut before he reached Manston, but he successfully belly-landed. They’ve lost their CO and their acting CO in the past two days, though.’

  Newell frowned. ‘I’m sorry. But he’s doing invaluable work. They all are.’

  ‘What are the latest figures, Tyler?’ asked Douglas.

  ‘Thirty-one lost today, sir, making one hundred and forty-four since the evacuation began.’

  ‘And how many from Fighter Command?’

  ‘Nineteen lost today and seven damaged.’

  ‘Beaverbrook’s figures look good,’ said Newell. ‘Here.’ He passed a sheet of paper to Douglas.

  Douglas puffed on his pipe as he scanned the grid. ‘So at 10.00 hours this morning we had forty Hurricanes ready to leave the factories, with a further fifty-nine in the next four days, and fifty-three Spitfires ready, with twenty-eight more in the same four-day period. So at current rates, production is outstripping wastage. And his boys are repairing nearly a hundred a month too.’

  ‘It’s still not enough, Sholto. Six hundred fighters can’t stop four thousand enemy planes. And certainly not if they go and attack right away.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘We’ve got to face facts, gentlemen. We’re staring down the barrel and that’s all there is to it.’

  Morning, around 10 a.m., on Saturday 1 June. The pilots of 629 Squadron sat at dispersal at Northolt, waiting for something to happen. It was a warm morning, so a number of them had brought deckchairs from inside the hut and set them up outside in the sun. No one said much. Some dozed, others read. In truth, most were still coming to terms with the events of the previous two days. Will was dead. Archie had lost sight of him, but Ted and two others had seen his Spitfire catch fire and plummet to the ground somewhere just south of Dunkirk; there had been no parachute. Pinky Parameter had also been killed, shot down and last seen plunging into the sea. There was no word from Henry Dix either.

  It all seemed so extraordinary, so impossible to accept. Dix, Will and Pinky had been in the squadron since Fitz had first formed it, two years before. They were the squadron’s lifeblood, its core. Its spirit. Archie had liked Will especially. He could be arrogant, and he had always had a waspish wit, and yet Archie had known that Will liked him, and had looked out for him. Not for nothing had Will put Archie and Ted in his section.

  And now Will was gone. Archie wouldn’t hear his clipped, dry voice calling him ‘Baby’ any more. For Pip, it was an even bigger blow; he’d known Will since they were kids. They’d even been at school together.

  ‘I’m sorry about Will,’ Archie had said to him the previous evening.

  ‘I know,’ Pip had replied. ‘I honestly don’t know what I’ll do without him.’

  Above the airfield a skylark was twittering busily, and closer by a bumble bee was hovering around the clover. The sounds of summer. The sounds of peace. Archie closed his eyes and a moment later was back in the air over Dunkirk, the tracer hissing towards him, and that Messerschmitt hurtling past, banking hard left and missing him by a thread. It was these extremes that he found so odd – one minute he was fighting for his life high in the sky over France, the next he was in the bar or sitting in a deckchair in the summer sun.

  He thought of Will and Pinky and Dix and Terry and Dennis – five good chaps all gone. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Change the subject. He closed his eyes and there before him was Tess, dancing with him at her house in Pimlico, her hand in his, his other on her waist. Archie smiled. Much better, he thought.

  And there had been a letter from her too, or, rather, a package. It had arrived the day before, but last night he and Ted had been so exhausted when they reached Northolt, they had gone straight to bed; he’d not thought to check his pigeonh
ole.

  ‘A parcel for you, Archie?’ Ted had said, looking over his shoulder as they went down to the dining room for breakfast. Then he added, ‘Hang on a minute, that’s Tess’s handwriting. What’s she writing to you for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Archie had replied, his heart beating suddenly much harder. He had torn the parcel open and pulled out a scarf – a silk scarf. Navy blue with tiny white polkadots.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Ted. ‘I think my sis may have the hots for you, Arch old son.’

  ‘It’s a very smart scarf, though, you’ve got to admit.’

  ‘A vast improvement. Pity Will’s not here. What would he have made of it?’

  Archie now opened his eyes again. Will. He cursed to himself. He didn’t want to think about Will; he wanted to think about Tess. He looked around, saw that Ted was asleep and felt inside his breast pocket for the letter that had come with the scarf. He unfolded it and read it once more.

  Dear Archie,

  I remember you said you had lost your silk scarf, so when I saw this yesterday I thought it might make a good replacement. Thank you for such a wonderful evening the other day. When do you think you might next get away? Pops says you and Ted have been busy flying over Dunkirk. Do be careful, both of you, and come and see me just as soon as you can.

  With love from,

  Tess

  He wondered if he was now dating Tess. Did an evening of talking and dancing mean that they were now ‘stepping out’? Was this gift a further sign? He had never really had much to do with girls – apart from his sister, Maggie, but she didn’t count. His school had been all boys, so had his college at Durham, and, in any case, he had spent most of his spare time with the squadron. There had been one or two dances in the holidays, and he had had dancing lessons – at his mother’s insistence – but not until his evening with Tess had he ever thought about girls in anything other than a rather abstract way.