‘Clover, this is Bison,’ he heard Charlie say over the R/T to the ground controller at Manston. ‘There’s nothing to report. We’re heading back to base.’
Archie looked around, craning his neck, but there was nothing, and so, following Charlie’s lead, he led Green Section back down in a gradual dive over the north Kent coast. Fifteen minutes later, they landed.
As Archie reached dispersal, Ted looked up. He was sitting outside in the sun, flicking a pack of cards into an upturned Tommy helmet.
‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Nothing doing,’ Archie replied.
Ted nodded and went back to throwing his cards.
It had been like this for the past three weeks: the two of them barely talking to one another – the odd word here and there, a shared conversation in the Mess, but, on the whole, they avoided one another. Archie had felt saddened by this sudden estrangement from his friend, then angered, then saddened again and finally, a kind of resignation had settled over him. He had become pals with Dougal and Charlie and a Canadian in B Flight called Mick Donnelly, and he had reached the point where he wondered whether he and Ted could ever be good friends again, even if they had wanted to be.
‘He’ll come round,’ Tess told him. ‘He can be a moody so-and-so. He once didn’t talk to me for almost the entire summer holidays.’
‘Why?’ Archie had asked. ‘What did you do?’
‘I think I told on him about something to Mama and Pops. I must have been twelve at the time. There’s a brooding side to Ted, you know. Always has been.’
Archie had never realized that. He missed their friendship – Ted had always made him laugh – but there was a coolness between them now, an iciness that would not thaw.
The same day, 12.20 p.m. Suddenly some action. In the dispersal hut, the telephone rang, the orderly answered and then there was shouting, ‘Squadron, scramble!’ and ringing of a handbell. Cards were thrown on the ground, books dropped, cigarettes flicked away as both flights hurriedly got to their feet and ran towards their Spitfires.
Engines were already starting up, and, as Archie reached his, he saw Bufton clamber out of the cockpit. ‘She’s all ready for you, sir,’ he said as Archie grabbed his parachute pack from the wing. Fumbling fingers brought the straps over his shoulders and between his legs and clicked them together, then he was clambering on to the wing, the paintwork not quite so pristine now, rather chipped and flaked. In less than a minute Archie had strapped himself in, plugged in his leads and given the thumbs up to Lewis, who hastily pulled away the chocks. Release the brakes, push the throttle forward a little and then he was moving, taxiing towards the edge of North Field.
A Flight took off first, then Blue Section and then Green. With Mick on his port side and Geoff Williams, one of the sergeant pilots, on his starboard, Archie opened the throttle and followed Blue Section, and, moments later, they were airborne, their shadows below growing smaller and smaller as they rose higher into the air.
Jock’s voice over the R/T: ‘Clover, this is Bison. Squadron airborne.’
‘Roger, Bison,’ came the reassuringly calm voice of the ground controller. ‘Proceed zero one five, angels fifteen. Bandits, thirty plus. Big jobs attacking Dover, keep a look out for snappers, over.’
‘Roger, Clover.’ Silence, a crackle of static, then, ‘OK, chaps, eyes peeled.’
They were out to sea already, Blue Section two hundred yards ahead. Below, the tip of Kent was disappearing. A glance at his altimeter – climbing steadily. Archie glanced south, towards Dover, and saw smoke rising from around the port. Damn it, he thought to himself, they’re there already.
Geoff was now on the R/T. There was something wrong with his oxygen; he was turning back. Archie watched him peel off and head home, then looked to his left and saw Mick, who waved. Don’t worry – I’m still right here.
Archie felt his heart quicken. It had been a while since he had been in action, but now the blood was pumping once more. The sky was particularly bright, the sun high above them as they continued their climb, glaring off the perspex of the canopy and off the cowling in front of him. Where the hell are those Mes? he wondered. They could be bounced by them at any moment. He craned his neck and tried to scan the blue expanse above him, but it was almost impossible, even with his goggles. Please don’t attack out of that, he thought. Then, up ahead, a small layer of cloud. He watched Blue Section fly into it, and he and Mick soon followed, bursting through the other side and then levelling out.
They were now around five miles to the east of Dover. Tiny dark puffs of smoke littered the sky above the harbour, where flak was bursting. Archie scanned the skies again and then spotted them, a group of some fifteen Me 110s, and a couple of thousand feet above them about twenty Me 109s, all protecting a group of Stukas diving on Dover. He could see them quite clearly – yes, there were the dive-bombers hurtling down towards several ships in the harbour. Huge columns of spray were erupting into the air.
The squadron was now circling, making sure it was up-sun, and then he heard Jock say, ‘All right, tally ho! Go for the fighters.’
A deep breath, an involuntary shiver, and Archie dropped a wing and dived after the others. Below, a squadron of Hurricanes, some three thousand feet beneath them, were tearing into the Me 110s. Immediately, the twin-engine German fighters split up as a large number of individual battles began. Now the 109s were diving in among them too.
My God, thought Archie, grimacing as his Spitfire hurtled down towards the melee. Aircraft swirled all over the sky. One plane – he couldn’t tell what – plunged towards the sea, trailing smoke. Another exploded mid-air.
Archie felt his airframe shake. Three hundred and fifty, three seventy-five, four hundred. Four hundred and ten miles per hour. To the left of the mass of aircraft he spotted a lone 109, turning – Back to France, or preparing to make another attack? – he couldn’t tell. Stay there, stay there. The Messerschmitt banked lazily, back towards the fray. It still hadn’t seen the Spitfires diving out of the sun. ‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Archie, flicking his gun button to fire. Thumb hovering over it, then a kind of strange vacuum. His mind had become closed to noise. Four hundred yards, three hundred yards, and then suddenly the Messerschmitt banked hard to the left as a Hurricane emerged from the melee, firing wildly.
Archie cursed, his chance gone. He was going too fast, and he now grimaced as he pulled out of the dive, the huge advantage of height and sun gone. Where were the others? Hard to tell, but as he levelled out and banked he saw the 109 – or was it a different one? – turning back towards a Hurricane that was firing madly at an Me 110. A quick glance behind – clear – and now the 109 was lining up to fire at the Hurricane.
‘Look behind you!’ Archie said, as he tried to line up the Messerschmitt in turn. Three hundred yards – too far – but tracer was now arcing from the German fighter. Archie applied boost, felt the Spitfire surge forward, but not before the Hurricane suddenly fell away, trailing smoke. The 109 dived after it, but Archie followed.
Come on, come on … Another glance in the mirror and behind – there was a parachute opening just below – and then the 109 was filling his sights. He pressed down on the gun button and felt the Spitfire judder and the eight machine guns clatter. Bullets and tracer hurtled through the air but a little too high.
The 109 banked sharply, but Archie followed, the horizon sliding again, and then pulled the stick towards him so that his body was pressed into the seat. He grimaced and pressed down on the gun button for a second burst. Bullets spewed again, but this time just ahead of the Messerschmitt. Archie eased back fractionally on the stick and a moment later it flew straight into his cone of fire. Smoke and flame flickered from the 109’s cowling, then a second later the aircraft exploded, jolting Archie in his seat. Debris hurtled through the air, Archie flinched, something smacked the canopy, and the stick was knocked from his hand. Archie gasped, grabbed the control column again as the sky and sea swapped places, felt his stomach
heave, then managed to right himself, and looked up to see blood trickling back across his windscreen and over his canopy hood.
Archie gasped again, and glanced around, then realized his mirror had gone – sheared clean off. His heart hammered and he was short of breath. He tried to breathe in a deep lungful of oxygen, but it was no good. He could hear his laboured gasps into the rubber mask as dark red blood continued to streak across the windscreen. Christ! Christ! Oh, my God! He tried to look around, but it was hard to see, so he pushed the stick forward and dived – dived out of the fray, the blood slowly clearing as he did so.
He was still gasping as he levelled out at two thousand feet. He could see more clearly now, although blood still streaked the canopy. Above him, the sky seemed strangely empty. For a minute, maybe more, he flew on, his mind still reeling from what had happened. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Air fighting was a detached form of warfare – machine against machine – but now the blood of a man he had killed was spattered across his canopy. It was still there, dried brownish rivulets across the perspex. Archie closed his eyes as a wave of nausea churned his stomach.
More regular breathing returned. Where am I? he thought. Looking at his compass, he realized he was heading almost due north. He banked and saw the coast, some miles away to the south-west. Opening the throttle, he lost more height, then pulled back the canopy, looked all around him and headed back to Manston.
‘Blimey, sir,’ said Bufton, as Archie switched off the engine and hurriedly clambered out. He leapt from the wing, looked back briefly, then felt another surge of nausea and, running to the hedge, vomited. Still leaning over, he dabbed his mouth, the bile sharp on his tongue, then felt a hand on his back.
‘Are you all right, Archie?’
He looked up and saw Ted standing over him.
‘Ted,’ he gasped. ‘I-I think so.’ He stood up. ‘He just exploded – just like that. Right in front of me.’ He leaned forward again, his hands on his knees. ‘Christ, it was horrible. There was blood – blood all over the canopy. I couldn’t see …’
‘Just get it off, will you?’ he heard Ted say.
‘Of course, sir, right away,’ said Bufton, and when Archie looked back, he saw his fitter busily cleaning the stained canopy.
‘Who was it? One of ours?’ asked Ted.
Archie shook his head. ‘A 109. He just blew up right in front of me.’
‘Come on,’ said Ted. ‘Let’s get to dispersal. You need to tell Happy.’
Excited pilots were recounting their experiences to Merriman with exaggerated arm movements, but the IO, like Calder at 629 Squadron, was hard to convince. Ivo Rainsby was convinced that it was he who had shot down a particular 109, but it seemed two others were also claiming it. Merriman awarded them a third of a kill each. Ted claimed an Me 110, which was confirmed, and then there was Archie’s 109. Others had seen it; there could be no doubt.
Mick had had half his rudder shot away and Joe Mazarin, the squadron’s lone American, had landed with a burst tyre and had nearly tipped over his Spitfire, but otherwise everyone had made it back – everyone except Ginger Clancy. There were various reports of a Spitfire going into the sea and Charlie swore blind that he’d seen someone bail out and a parachute drifting towards the coast – but whether this had been Ginger, no one could say for certain.
It was not until they were back at Biggin and having supper in the Mess that a car pulled up outside and Ginger stepped out. Through the windows, Archie watched him lean down to say something to the driver, wave cheerily, and then he sauntered in. Everyone clapped as he stepped into the dining room, and he grinned. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ he said as the CO and Charlie got up and hurried over to him. ‘Have you missed me?’
‘What are you wearing?’ said Charlie, laughing.
Ginger was wearing a pair of grey flannel trousers that were too big for him and an army battle blouse. In his hand was a small case. ‘What are you suggesting? You don’t like my new design for a uniform?’
‘Maybe if it fitted,’ said Jock.
‘I had a swim,’ said Ginger and, holding up his bag, added, ‘I’m afraid my kit got a little sodden with seawater.’ He looked around. ‘On the other hand, there’s some good news – I can confirm that both parachute and Mae West work splendidly.’
Everyone laughed, spirits suddenly lifted by his late appearance.
‘What happened?’ asked Charlie. ‘I saw a Spit go down and saw someone bail out. I thought it was you, but wasn’t sure.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. Got one in the glycol tank. It was a fluke shot, though – a one in a thousand chance.’
‘Of course it was,’ said Jock.
‘Anyway, in no time my engine was heating up like a pressure boiler and I thought to myself, Oi, oi, this old girl’s going to blow any moment. Better get out of here toot sweet, old chum. So I cut the engine, pulled back the canopy, undid all my clips, flipped her over and pretty much fell out. I pulled the cord, thankfully the parachute opened – they are marvellous those girls that pack ’em – and next thing I know I’m drifting down into the drink. Trouble was, I could see the white cliffs all right, but was that going to be close enough? Anyway, to cut a long story short, I needn’t have worried because I hadn’t been bobbing around for very long when a minesweeping trawler came along and hoisted me out. It was a fishing boat, but now, instead of catching hauls of mackerel or cod, they catch enemy mines instead. Amazing – I had no idea. They were a rough old bunch, absolutely insisted on plying me with rum, then took me into Folkestone. There I was taken to a hotel, given these clothes by some Home Guard wallah, given something else to drink and taken back to Manston, but by then you’d all scarpered, so I had to get another lift, and here I am.’
‘And very glad we are to see you too, Ginge,’ said Jock, then announced that the entire squadron was going to head to the pub – attendance compulsory. They could all do with getting off base, he told them, and in any case, they had cause to celebrate: their first major engagement since Dunkirk and all had made it back.
After supper, they clambered into a truck – the tumbrel, as they called it, which normally took them from the Mess to dispersal – and headed out of the gate to the Old Jail, a mile or so down the road. Tumbling out, shouting and laughing excitedly, they burst into the pub, crowding around the low-beamed bar. The first round, the landlord told them, was ‘on the house’. More cheers.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ said Jock, holding up a hand to silence them.
‘Shhhh!’ said Ginger loudly.
‘I’m introducing a new rule,’ Jock told them. ‘We now have our first official member of the Goldfish Club.’ More cheers, and Ginger raised his arm in mock acknowledgement. ‘From now on, anyone who gets shot down and lives to tell the tale has to sing a song in front of everyone. And it’s got to be a song by Cole Porter.’
‘Why Cole Porter?’ asked Ivo.
‘Because I like Cole Porter and because I’m the skipper and I say so.’
‘Fair enough, Skip,’ said Ivo.
‘But I can’t sing,’ said Ginger.
‘No getting out of it, Ginge,’ said Jock.
The others began chanting and stamping their feet on the wooden floorboards. Archie laughed as Ginger swayed and put his pint down on the bar.
‘All right, all right,’ said Ginger, ‘but you might want to put your hands over your ears.’ He put one hand on his chest, his other outstretched, then began singing ‘Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye’, but quickly forgot the words, finishing with, ‘I can’t remember the words, hum dum-di-dum …’
Everyone started laughing. ‘That,’ said Jock, ‘was the worst rendition of a song I’ve ever heard in my life.’
‘I did warn you,’ said Ginger.
Jock held up his hands again. ‘I’ve got another new rule to announce.’
‘As long as it doesn’t involve Ginger singing anything,’ said Charlie.
‘No, not Ginger, but we’ve got another reason to celebrate ton
ight.’
‘Have we?’ said Ivo. ‘What?’
‘The squadron’s first ace,’ said Jock. ‘Archie Jackson. Five confirmed kills.’ Cheers and wolf whistles. Archie looked down, embarrassed and happy at the same time.
‘And Strafer Ted’s just behind,’ said Jock. ‘One to go, Ted!’
‘So what’s he got to do?’ asked Charlie.
‘Exactly the same, but afterwards he’s got to buy everyone a round. We don’t want him getting big-headed.’
Archie laughed and was pushed forward towards the bar.
‘And now the song!’ called out Jock.
‘Song! Song! Song!’ chanted the others.
Archie wracked his brains for Cole Porter songs, then suddenly knew which one to choose – it was a recent number, but he and Ted had played it a lot since they had first heard it. He cleared his throat in an exaggerated fashion, then began to sing ‘Let’s Be Buddies’.
As he finished, everyone cheered and began joining in chanting lines from the chorus over and over. Archie glanced at Ted and caught his eye as the others yelled, stamping their feet at the same time so that the floorboards were vibrating.
He saw Ted push through the others and move towards him.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
‘I told you I used to be in the choir when I was small,’ Archie replied.
Ted smiled. ‘I haven’t heard that song for a few weeks.’
‘Me neither.’
Archie looked down and saw Ted was holding out his hand. He took it, gripping it firmly, relief coursing through him. Thank God.
‘I’ve been a fool,’ said Ted. ‘I’m sorry.’
Archie grinned and clasped Ted’s hand.
‘So, what do you say?’ said Ted. ‘Let’s be pals?’
Archie laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Battle of Britain Page 18