Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  ‘What?’ asked Archie.

  ‘We fly over to the Pas de Calais and strafe a couple of Jerry airfields.’

  ‘No, Ted,’ said Archie.

  ‘We could be over there at first light. Those Jerry fighter boys wouldn’t know what’s hit them.’

  ‘No, Ted,’ said Archie again.

  ‘Well, I’m going. I’m going to do it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t do that. If Mac finds out about it, he’ll give us the chop.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know about it. We’ll get permission to go on an early morning practice flight. We’ll only be gone an hour.’

  Archie sat up. ‘Please, Ted,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Archie. It’d be easy. I know where they are. I saw a map of them in Pops’ study. There’s about six of them around Calais. We’ll fly in low, strafe them to hell and fly back. We could knock out lots of Hun fighter planes, which means there’d be fewer to attack us with.’

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ said Archie. ‘It’s madness.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Ted. ‘You stay. But I’m going.’

  Archie let his head fall back on the pillow. No, he thought, please, no. Ted was his best friend, but he could be maddening. But, because he was his friend, Archie also knew he could not let him do this on his own. He would need someone to watch his back.

  A sinking feeling swept over him. Sleep, he thought. We need to get to sleep. Perhaps by the morning, Ted would have changed his mind. But he was kidding himself. Once Ted got an idea into his head, he never changed his mind. Not ever …

  15

  Channel Dash

  Monday 24 June, around 8 p.m. The Chief of the Air Staff was out that night and so Group Captain Guy Tyler was having a drink with Wing Commander Fred Winterbotham, who headed up an air intelligence section within MI6. They were sitting in Tyler’s office in King Charles II Street, both smoking, both clutching a tumbler of Scotch. Tyler had known Winterbotham for some years. He was tall, good-looking, charming and exceedingly clever. And a very useful friend.

  ‘I’m afraid that I simply don’t know,’ said Winterbotham. ‘Before the war I was given a number of tours around airfields and met a number of their squadrons, but I was never told details about an individual squadron’s make-up.’ Winterbotham had spent much time in Germany before the war, posing as a Nazi sympathizer. In reality, he’d been nothing more than a spy. ‘One thing I do know, though,’ he continued, ‘is that Ernst Udet is no Beaverbrook. A lovely fellow, actually – for a Nazi – but he’s a flier. He lives for planes and making jokes and having fun. He’s all at sea in the cut-throat world of Nazi politics. Worst appointment Göring ever made. You want a businessman running the aircraft industry, not an airman.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘And it’s even more astonishing when one considers that Göring is in fact a far better businessman than an airman, even though he was a fighter ace in the last war.’

  Tyler smiled. ‘But if he’s such a good businessman, why did Göring, as commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe, appoint an old flying chum to head up such a critically important job as the procurement and production of new aircraft? Makes no sense.’

  ‘Because he wants to be surrounded by yes-men. People he can trust. People who will do what he says. General Milch is actually rather competent and rather efficient and, as Göring’s deputy, would have been a much better choice, but that would have made him too powerful. Göring doesn’t want any threat to his authority.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’

  ‘That’s what you get with a military dictatorship like the Nazis. Anyway, the long and short of it is that Udet’s making an absolute balls-up of the Luftwaffe’s production. Too many private firms and not enough big factories. That, at least, is in our favour.’

  Tyler slid across his desk the latest production figures from Lord Beaverbrook’s Ministry of Aircraft Production. ‘Have a look at these.’

  Winterbotham whistled. ‘Over four hundred new and repaired aircraft last week. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Sixty-one new Spitfires this last week alone.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you this. Production of Me 109s is much, much lower. Less than half that.’

  ‘Trouble is, they’ve got so many more aircraft than us at present.’

  ‘But presumably with every day that passes, the gap is closing.’

  ‘Gap? More like a giant chasm. But yes, I suppose so.’ Tyler took a sip of his Scotch. ‘This delay is incredible, though.’

  ‘Hitler’s sightseeing, you know,’ said Winterbotham. ‘Been to look at the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘I suppose now that France is out of the war, he wants to savour his victory. He’d be far better off turning on us without delay, though.’

  Winterbotham smiled. ‘I met him a few times, you know.’

  ‘And was he mad?’

  ‘Deranged is probably a better word.’ Winterbotham held up his glass, as though examining the whisky. ‘He’s a continental man, though. He’s read his history. Has a picture of that great warrior Frederick the Great of Prussia in his study. But it’s land war that he’s interested in, and his air force has been built to support the army, not to act independently. I think he’s stalling because he doesn’t really quite know what to do now. I suspect all his planning was for this great offensive he’s just won. He probably never really considered having physically to conquer Britain.’

  ‘Really? How else was he going to defeat us?’

  ‘By routing our Army. If you’re a continental man like Hitler, the army is everything. The navy and air force are merely extensions of that army. He would have thought that, with France out, we would sue for peace. But Winston has other ideas. “We shall never surrender!”’ Winterbotham said, in what Tyler thought was a rather good impression of the prime minister. ‘Hitler probably still hopes we’re going to come to the peace table. And, of course, he’s got to get his much-vaunted Luftwaffe ready.’

  ‘They’re certainly gradually moving up to the Channel coast,’ said Tyler.

  ‘This much I know is true, Guy,’ said Winterbotham. ‘If we can stop his Luftwaffe gaining air superiority over southern England, Hitler will never, ever be able to invade Britain. And if he doesn’t, he’ll lose the war.’

  ‘Is that a wager?’ asked Tyler.

  ‘If you like. Put it this way, I’m prepared to bet any amount you care to name.’

  Tyler smiled and raised his glass. ‘So, win the forthcoming air battle and we win the war.’

  Winterbotham laughed. ‘That’s the sum of it, Guy, yes.’

  As Tyler was sitting chatting in his office, above London his son was flying a Spitfire, climbing high into the sky alongside Archie. For two days, they had trained as hard as anyone, and Ted, especially, had gone out of his way to be as obliging and conscientious as possible. Nor had there been any further mention of them making a raid on German airfields in the Pas de Calais. Archie had been pleasantly surprised.

  They had taken to the air some ten minutes earlier to practise some dogfighting. The rest of the squadron had been stood down, but when Ted had suggested the practice flight, Mac had agreed. ‘Keep it local, though, all right?’ he’d told them.

  As they continued to climb in an easterly direction, Archie looked out. There was London, the River Thames a silvery snake in the evening light. He could see Kent stretching away from them, and all the way down to Sussex and beyond to the sea.

  ‘What about some dogfighting, then, Ted,’ said Archie as they finally levelled out.

  ‘A bit further,’ Ted’s voice crackled in his headset.

  They flew on, over London and above north Kent.

  ‘Um, this isn’t very local, Ted,’ said Archie.

  ‘Perhaps a little further than usual,’ said Ted. ‘But it’s useful to properly familiarize ourselves with this part of England, don’t you think?’

  Archie thought for a minute and then the penny dropped. Of course, he thought. How could he have ever thought Ted would forget ab
out it?

  ‘Ted,’ he said now, ‘are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?’

  There was silence for a moment, then Ted’s voice crackled, ‘Come on, Archie. We can really make a difference. A quick dash for it, under the radar, and give those Huns a bit of a dust-down.’

  ‘Are you mad? If Mac finds out, we’ll get the chop for this – and that’s if we haven’t already been shot down ourselves.’

  ‘Rubbish. He was just trying to put the wind up us. Shoot up a load of Jerry kites and he’ll be handing out DFCs.’

  ‘This is madness. Absolute madness. No, Ted – I’m turning round.’

  ‘Look, we’re almost at Manston now. Fifteen minutes and we’ll be there.’

  ‘No,’ said Archie, conscious that he was still flying on Ted’s wing.

  ‘Well, I’m going on. Turn round if you like. I’ll go alone.’

  ‘Ted, please. As your best friend. Let’s turn round.’

  ‘Go if you like, Archie – honestly, I don’t mind.’

  Archie cursed. He liked the CO. He liked what he was doing for the squadron and he absolutely did not want to be in trouble again. But on the other hand, he couldn’t let Ted go on his own. How would he feel if he turned round now and then Ted got in trouble, or, worse, was killed? No, Ted needed someone to watch his back. With his right fist clenched, and gnashing his teeth in frustration, Archie flew on, agonizing over what to do. And they were losing height too. Without even properly realizing it, they had slipped five thousand feet. Archie looked out. Beneath him was Beachy Head and there was Dover away to his left. Now they were at just seven thousand feet and out over the sea.

  ‘Blast you, Ted,’ muttered Archie. ‘If anything happens to us …’

  Ted laughed. ‘You’ll thank me for it one day. Come on, Arch, it’ll be great sport. We’ll be heroes for pulling this one off.’

  Archie kept silent. The sea twinkled beneath them like a burnished carpet. They were losing height rapidly now, so that as the French coast loomed, they were no more than a hundred feet off the water – dizzyingly close to the sea. A strong pocket of turbulence, a sneeze and a knock of the stick, and whoosh – it would all be over. Archie glanced at his dials. Good – still plenty of fuel. Everything else normal. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest and he felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face.

  ‘OK, Archie, follow me. We go in just south of Calais. The sun’s right behind us now. We’ll switch our R/T off after this. Just follow me and when we spot a Jerry airfield, we shoot up anything we can see, all right? There might be some ack-ack, but we’ll be too fast for them. Then we turn north out to sea and cut back again, following the Thames. OK?’

  ‘Let’s just get it over and done with,’ said Archie.

  ‘Roger, over and out.’

  The coast was now less than a mile away. Archie took a deep breath. Christ, what am I doing? Why am I tempting fate like this? The coast hurtled towards them and then they roared over land, just fifty feet above the ground. Archie glanced over at Ted and saw him wave. He took another deep breath, his oxygen mask now hanging free from his face. Below, brown cows began stampeding in a field; a man on a bicycle stopped and looked up as they thundered overhead. Dear God, thought Archie, glancing at his dials. Three hundred and twenty miles an hour and they were virtually hedge-hopping. At this speed, it was hard to see much – they were over any landmarks almost before they could be recognized. Up ahead, a village – a church with a spire – but then they were past it. We’re over France, he thought, and suddenly his fear had gone. Below were the enemy, but the speed they were flying at made him feel strangely invincible. He looked out either side – countryside hurtling by, the sharp, elliptical wings scything through the air. Just ahead of him, Ted climbed a little, then turned slightly to the left and Archie saw him pointing forward. With his thumb, he flicked the gun safety button off and kept his thumb hovering over the tit. Suddenly they were upon an airfield – nothing more than a hastily cleared field, by the look of it, but along one side were a line of 109s, all facing outwards.

  Breathing in and out rapidly, he muttered out loud, ‘OK, here goes.’

  He opened fire, the airframe shuddering as the eight machine guns drummed out bullets. Tracer pumped flashes of orange light as they tore over the line of machines, bullets still pouring from his wings. Men below ran, an explosion to his right – was that a bowser or a plane? A glance in the mirror as a Messerschmitt collapsed, broken. Just ahead of him, Ted banked round the edge of the field towards another row of aircraft on the far side. And there was a bowser, Archie now saw – quite definitely a fuel truck. Again he opened fire, saw bullets spit along the ground in line with the truck and then, with a whoosh of angry, billowing flame, it exploded. Archie ducked his head, banked to the right and sped on, away over open fields. A quick glance back. There was another explosion and then another. Ack-ack was hurtling above him now, but it was high and harmless. Ted was on his port side, and Archie quickly looked across and then back as thick smoke began rising over the airfield. He blinked. Christ, did we really just do that? A few seconds – that was all – and then they were away, leaving wrecked aircraft, fire and mayhem. Perhaps Ted’s idea hadn’t been quite so hare-brained after all. But we’re not clear yet.

  Archie followed Ted as they turned for the coast, but then there ahead of them was a second airfield. Another? So close? Archie took another deep breath and hovered his thumb over the firing button. This time, most of the German fighters appeared to be better sheltered, parked against a wood that ran along one side of the field, but there were two aircraft which looked as though they were about to take off, taxiing around to the end of the field. Archie and Ted flew straight at them. The panicked German pilots hurriedly began to take off, but it was too late: in a couple of seconds, the Spitfires were upon them, opening fire, lines of tracer hitting the ground first and helping Archie and Ted get a bead on the enemy machines. Archie saw smoke and flame burst from both planes as their full fuel tanks were hit and ignited by the tracer. Then the Spitfires were past and there ahead was the sea. Enemy anti-aircraft fire opened up, but again the flak was too high and too late. Archie looked behind and saw slow tracer pumping into the air. A glance at the dials: fuel OK, oil pressure OK – everything OK. Thank God. Beneath them, the coast. A bit of boost – three hundred and forty miles per hour – the ground below a blur, and suddenly they were out over the sea, which twinkled benignly as the sun, like a huge orange, cast its evening glow across the water.

  Archie followed Ted as they sped on over the English Channel, still at just a hundred feet above the waves, and only when they were several miles out to sea did Ted begin to climb once more.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked Ted, finally breaking R/T silence. ‘Didn’t get hit at all, did you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ Archie replied.

  ‘And that’s at least ten less 109s to worry about. Not bad going!’ He whooped with excitement and joy. ‘You can’t tell me that wasn’t exhilarating.’

  ‘Let’s just get back, Ted,’ said Archie. His heart was still thumping in his chest, his mouth was as dry as sand, and he felt more alert and alive than he had ever been in his life, and yet he dreaded what faced them back at Northolt. Ted had not thought that part through at all, he knew. What were they going to do? Pretend they’d chased after an enemy intruder? Somehow hide the fact that the red patches covering their gun ports were shredded and that gun smoke had streaked back and stained their wings?

  As they crossed over Kent, Archie hurriedly switched on his IFF – identification friend or foe – a transmitter that gave a distinct ‘blip’ and told those manning the radar and sector stations that his was a friendly not a hostile aircraft. He breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, glad that he had remembered in time, then they flew on, at around eight thousand feet, back over English soil once more. But as Kent slipped by and they neared London, so Archie’s heart grew heavier and heavier. What have we done? he thought.
He felt sick with dread.

  16

  Fall Out

  In the Mess that night, neither Archie nor Ted said a word about what they had done. Of course, it was obvious that they’d fired their guns, but Ted had told the others that they’d just been practising against patches of cloud, doing beam attacks and sharpening their deflection shooting. Archie said little. He hated lying, always had done, and he left early, muttering about having a headache and wanting an early night. But he knew the CO knew: he’d caught his eye at one point, and had looked away guiltily, but not before seeing the flexing cheek muscles of a man barely able to contain his anger. Darn it, darn it, he thought.

  He struggled to sleep. He couldn’t believe he had actually flown over to France and shot up those enemy aircraft. Had that really been him in that Spitfire, hurtling over the French coast at a hundred feet and more than three hundred miles an hour? I must have been mad, he said to himself again, for about the hundredth time. And then there was Mac. My God, but they were for it, no doubt about it. He clutched his hands to his head. No, no, no! He realized he was more terrified of facing the CO than he was of being confronted by a horde of enemy fighters.

  Ted stumbled in an hour later.

  ‘You see, I told you it would be fine. Mac didn’t say a thing!’

  ‘It’s not fine, Ted. He knows.’

  ‘Rubbish. He’d have hauled us in already if he did.’

  ‘Ted, he knows. I saw his face and he was absolutely livid.’

  ‘You’re imagining it. Relax! We’ll be fine. You’ll see.’

  Archie rolled over. What was the point of arguing? But he knew. He knew that Mac knew. And he also knew that, come the morning, they would be for it. Mac had threatened them with the chop and Archie was certain he would stick to his word.

  A little while later, as he lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the dark wall and listening to Ted’s light snoring, Archie could not remember ever having felt so miserable.