Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  19

  Cannon Shell

  Saturday 20 July, around eight o’clock in the morning. A bright day, but with plenty of cloud. Down below, Archie could see the convoy as it inched its way along the south coast of England – half a dozen ships sailing so slowly it would be impossible to tell they were moving, were it not for the smoke from the funnels and the stark white of their wakes.

  ‘Hello, Clover, this is Bison.’ Jock’s voice over the R/T. ‘We’re at angels eighteen.’

  ‘Roger, Bison. Bandits, forty plus, crossing the Channel now.’

  ‘OK, we’ll keep our eyes peeled.’ A crackle of static and then Jock said, ‘All right, chaps. You heard him. Jerries on their way.’

  Archie swallowed and checked his dials. The squadron was spread out in an open formation – four loose vics of three Spitfires. The day before, they had been scrambled to intercept an attack and had arrived too late, but this morning they had flown down at first light to Hawkinge, near Folkestone, and an hour later had been ordered up on a patrol. By chance, the Luftwaffe had played ball. This time the squadron would be waiting.

  Archie had discovered that no matter how scared he felt before going into combat, once he was in among the enemy, his fear seemed to melt away. He was too busy concentrating on what he had to do, too charged with adrenalin. There were heart-stopping moments when his heart seemed to lurch and his body jerked with a pulse of terror, but for the most part it was the thought of going into battle that he found the hardest. He could feel his heart racing again now, could feel the dead weight of dread pressing down on him; and there was that knot of nausea in his stomach too.

  Forty plus! And there were just twelve of them. He breathed in a lungful of oxygen. The squadron was circling, hovering high over the convoy way below. A bit of turbulence, his Spitfire wobbled, then he was through it. Where were they? He stared as hard as he could towards France, sprawled towards the horizon, patchy green between the cloud.

  Then all of a sudden, there they were, like a swarm of insects, tiny black dots, stepped up in layers.

  ‘Bandits, three o’clock!’ he said from Green Section’s position at the starboard edge of the formation.

  ‘All right, I’ve got them,’ came Jock’s reply.

  Archie looked across at them as Jock led the squadron into another climb and began turning them west so that by the time the enemy arrived they would be attacking with the sun behind them. It was still quite low in the sky, but any advantage, however slight, had to be taken. The bombers were at the bottom, then the Me 110s and, above them, the Me 109s. The 110s, Archie noticed, appeared to be swaying from side to side, as they tried to keep pace with the much slower bombers – Stukas? He couldn’t tell yet. But above the 110s, the German single-engine fighters were, he now realized, flying at a more normal speed, ahead of the others.

  ‘Spread out a bit, chaps,’ said Jock.

  Good idea, thought Archie. The further apart they were, the harder they would be to spot.

  The 109s were almost beneath them now, heading west between light banks of white cloud, but at least two thousand feet below them. That was something, thought Archie to himself. He could feel himself tense. Any moment now.

  ‘OK, tally ho!’ said Jock, and Archie watched Red Section peel off and begin its dive, then he was pushing his stick over and forward and diving too. Twenty thousand feet to fifteen in a matter of moments, the speed on his air-speed indicator flickering at nearly four hundred miles per hour. Suddenly he was into cloud, the Spitfire was buffeting and screaming but the sense of speed was momentarily gone as the light changed from bright morning sunlight to that strange, milky glow. Then the cloud thinned, the intense speed evident once more as the wings sliced through wisps of white, and there were the 109s, a dozen of them at least, spaced wide apart in groups of four. Out of the corner of his eye, Archie saw tracer spitting across the sky and to his left an aircraft was peeling off – A 109? Yes! – and diving, smoke trailing. A second later, another 109, with its dark green mottled paintwork, filled his sights and he was firing himself, the Spitfire juddering, his body vibrating, glued into the bucket seat, as bullets and tracer flashed across the sky.

  Had he hit his target? He thought so, but it had flipped on to its side and, with a puff of grey smoke, had dived away. Don’t follow it, he told himself, as he glanced up into his newly fixed mirror and then either side of him. A Spitfire flashed past in front of him as he banked into a tight turn and felt his vision blur with the force of negative gravity. As he pulled himself round back into the fray, he looked down at the tumble of aircraft and saw another Spitfire hammering at a 109.

  The Messerschmitt was weaving and turning, the Spitfire glued to his tail, but another 109 was now homing in and about to get behind the Spitfire. Archie pushed his stick forward, applied boost, and pitched himself down towards the attacking German fighter. At a hundred yards, he fired a two-second burst, then realized he would not be able to pull up in time and that the two would surely collide.

  ‘No!’ he yelled out loud, pulling the stick towards him. There was the 109, just in front, so big he could see the pilot in his cockpit and the smoke-streaked wings and the stark black and white crosses. The Spitfire was screaming, Archie was pressed into his seat, and then the plane disappeared from view under him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion, the collision of two machines travelling at over three hundred and fifty miles per hour. A fraction of a second to realize his life was over.

  A moment later, he opened his eyes, startled to discover he was still alive and that the Spitfire was now climbing once more. He pushed the stick over and the sky swivelled. A quick look – there was the 109, plunging towards the sea, a long trail of smoke following it down – At least he didn’t explode – and now Archie pulled the Spitfire into a turn. He tried to look around, but his head was like lead from the force of negative gravity. Level out – the horizon swivelling again – and a glance around. Below him, a mass of tangling aircraft: Stukas diving, a ship on fire, Hurricanes tearing into the 110s, a Spitfire still tussling with 109s. He tried to pick out a 109, but then he felt and heard a clatter of bullets across his port wing.

  Christ, Christ! I’ve been hit! He’d taken his eye off the ball for a moment and he’d been hit.

  Instinctively, he pushed the stick over and back towards him, throwing the Spitfire into a tight left-hand turn, then frantically looked around him. He felt pressed into his seat, as though by a giant hand, but despite his panic, he remembered to look over his right shoulder, easier to manage than over his left when in a turn. The 109 was behind him, an ill-defined but menacing form at the periphery of his vision. A glance in the mirror – the Messerschmitt clearer now, like a grotesque giant insect. Flashes from its gun ports in the wings and cowling and now more tracer fizzed and whipped under his wings.

  Archie brought the stick in closer to his stomach, grimacing with the strain, the Spitfire on its side, almost beyond the vertical, turning, turning ever more tightly. His vision began to blur as the blood drained from his head. He strained to lean forward to ease the gravity loading. No more tracer. A glance in the mirror again, and he realized he was stretching away from his pursuer, that he was, incredibly, out-turning his enemy.

  Keep turning, he told himself, but for how much longer? Think, think! he told himself. His port-side aileron was sluggish, but otherwise his Spitfire seemed to be all right – dials OK, oil temperature a bit high, but not critically so. Suddenly he saw the Messerschmitt pull out of the turn and climb, ready to make another steep turn and dive down on him again, but now more tracer was hurtling past him. Another one – Where did that come from? He tried to think calmly, but his mind was racing – panic, terror, shock screaming in his brain, preventing him from thinking rationally at all. Calm down, calm down. Tracer fizzed beneath him, and suddenly his brain cleared. Pushing the stick forward and flipping the aircraft over on its starboard wing, he began a dive, the throttle still open, the engine screaming in pr
otest. Archie clutched the stick, and cried out as a stabbing pain shot through his ears from the sudden change in pressure. His air-speed indicator showed more than four hundred and sixty miles per hour, his altimeter needle was spinning, and he could see the wings visibly straining – bending – as he hurtled down past twirling Hurricanes and 110s, and on towards the rapidly closing sea. The noise was deafening. Sixteen thousand to six thousand feet in a matter of moments, and now he had to somehow pull out of the dive, but the full weight and momentum of the machine was hurtling towards the water. Could he stop it?

  Grimacing, his arms aching, his ears hurting like hell, he pulled back on the stick, but the gravitational force was making everything so heavy, so sluggish – so painful. The control column felt like lead as he heaved it into his stomach, the Spitfire desperate to continue its downward plunge into the water. Come on, come on! The blue-green sea getting ever closer. He cried out. His whole body felt crushed. Sweat ran down his face, his arms ached so badly he desperately wanted to let go but he knew he could not. Let go and he would die.

  Then a glimmer of hope, as the Spitfire finally began to level. Please, please, come on, come on. The Merlin whined pitifully, and now, at last, the horizon rose before him and, instead of the deep dark sea, he saw the white cliffs of Beachy Head appear before him, felt the force that was thrusting him into his seat release its grip, and the unbearable ache in his arms relax with sudden relief.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumbled, and pulled back the canopy. Smoke rushed out and he looked around. High above, away to his right, a number of glinting flashes and white contrails streaking the sky, but around him the air was his own.

  Despite the damage to his port aileron, his flaps still worked and he was able to land back at Hawkinge without mishap. There were the Hawkinge ground crew, welcoming him back, directing him to his parking spot. Brakes on, engine off and sudden, delicious silence. Would it always be like this, now that the air battle appeared to be underway? Archie wondered how long he could keep it up, how long he could keep chancing death. As he pulled off his helmet, his hair was damp with sweat. Shakily, he got to his feet and eased himself out and down on to the wing and then on to the ground. His legs felt light and unsteady and he gripped the edge of the wing for support.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ asked one of the erks.

  Archie nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.’

  Another of the erks was on the wing now, looking into the cockpit. ‘Bloomin’ heck,’ he said, ‘someone’s looking after you all right, sir. I reckon that’s a cannon shell what’s gone up through that.’

  Archie looked up. ‘I did feel something hit me, actually,’ he said, and, taking off his gloves, felt the back of his head. It was damp. Sweat? No, he realized, holding up his hand. Blood.

  ‘I’m not bleedin’ surprised, sir,’ said the erk. ‘That was a cannon shell what hit your armour plating. If we hadn’t had that put in – well, I don’t reckon you’d have much of a head left, sir.’ He jumped down and opened the small hatch behind the cockpit, reached inside and a few moments later re-emerged, grinning, with a piece of metal between his forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Luck of the devil,’ he said. ‘Here, sir,’ he added, handing it to Archie.

  Archie looked at it. A flattened 20-mm armour-piercing shell. He breathed out heavily. It was unbelievable. I should be dead, he thought.

  ‘You should keep that, sir,’ said the other erk. ‘Might keep you lucky.’

  Archie nodded, then stumbled towards the dispersal hut. A number of others had already landed and more were doing so. Where’s Ted? he wondered. He felt numb, his legs still light, and his head throbbed. And then there was Mick, walking towards him, asking if he was all right.

  ‘Jeez,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d gone. I saw that 109 clobber you. Your Spit seemed to jolt in the air. I thought that was you gone, done and dusted.’ He stood back and looked Archie up and down. ‘But here you are, flesh and bones. It’s good to see you, buddy.’

  ‘And you, Mick.’ He touched his head again.

  ‘Here, let me see that,’ said Mick. He stood behind Archie and peered at his head. ‘Can’t see much. A nasty graze, I’d say. Reckon you’ll live.’

  Archie collapsed into a deckchair outside the dispersal hut, and felt the energy drain from his body. His eyes stung; it was a warm day, and he closed his eyes. Another Spitfire landed, but nearer to hand a bee was buzzing among the clover. A moment later, he was asleep.

  He was in the air again, firing at the plane in front and then it exploded, but it wasn’t a 109, it was a Spitfire and it was Ted hurtling towards him and smacking against his windscreen, his body mashed to a bloody pulp. ‘No!’ he shouted, then jolted awake. A dream. It was just a dream.

  ‘Easy, Archie,’ said Ginger. Archie looked up and saw him standing in front of him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I must have nodded off.’

  ‘You’ve been out cold for about three hours.’ Ginger laughed.

  ‘Oh,’ said Archie. ‘Where’s Ted?’

  ‘He’s gone over to his Spit. He got two today, you know. I wonder what he’s going to sing for us tonight. Happy’s here and he’s noted your one too. Mick and Geoff both saw it go down.’

  Archie pushed himself out of his chair, stood up and winced. His head was sore. He rubbed his eyes and said, ‘I’m going to find Ted,’ then stumbled towards the line of Spitfires, conscious that although the two of them had shaken hands the previous night, there was still much left unsaid. There hadn’t really been a chance until now: they had been in the pub with the others and had left all together around eleven. Back at the Mess, everyone had gone straight to bed, Archie and Ted included. Archie had felt so exhausted he had fallen asleep on his bed fully dressed. Four hours later, at 3.30 a.m., he had been woken by his batman and they had taken the tumbrel down to dispersal. No one had felt like talking much, least of all Archie. He had had a headache and his mouth had felt as dry as chalk.

  Then they had reached Hawkinge, had been given some coffee and breakfast, and soon after they were scrambled to patrol over the convoy that was clearing the Strait of Dover on its way to Portsmouth. Since he got back, he’d been fast asleep.

  He rubbed his eyes again, then spotted Ted, very much alive, standing beside OK-T, supervising the painting of two more swastikas on to the side of his plane.

  ‘Archie!’ he called out. ‘You’re awake at last.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Archie. ‘You got two more.’

  Ted grinned and pointed to the six little swastikas in a line beneath the cockpit. ‘They look rather good, don’t they? Still, a long way to go until I catch up with Pops. It’s a shame the ones we strafed don’t count.’

  ‘It might be a long war,’ said Archie. ‘I’m sure you’ll have the chance.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He scratched his head. ‘Look, Archie, I’ve been meaning to say, about – well, about us falling out – I’ve behaved like an ass.’

  ‘No, it was my fault. If anyone’s been an ass, it was me.’

  Ted held up a hand. ‘No, I was pig-headed and proud and I’ve been a prize fool.’

  ‘If anyone’s been pig-headed,’ said Archie, ‘it’s me.’

  Ted laughed. ‘You know, we can’t start arguing again over who’s most at fault.’

  Archie laughed too. ‘No, all right. How about we agree that we’ve both been foolish, and leave it at that?’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Ted eyed him, as though he were about to say something, but then stopped. He sighed heavily and said, ‘Oh, it all seems so silly now. I’ve been more cross with myself for letting my pride get in the way than I ever was with you. I’ve really missed not having you to talk to these past weeks. The chaps in the squadron are all good types, but it’s not been the same.’

  ‘Honestly, Ted, I agree with you. I think I knew it before, but for the past few weeks we’ve been doing nothing but stooging about the place, following convoys and chasing after no
n-existent Dorniers, and I started to forget that it’s a pretty serious business we’ve got ourselves into.’

  ‘It is now all right.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve realized that these past couple of days. God knows how I’m still here, but I can’t help thinking my luck will run out any minute. I don’t want bad blood with anyone, least of all you.’ He looked away a moment, then felt inside his trouser pocket. ‘Look,’ he said, passing Ted the remains of the cannon shell. ‘That hit my armour plating behind my head.’

  Ted whistled.

  ‘I had two 109s on me, and had to dive out of the way in a hurry. I thought I was never going to be able to pull out in time. I thought I’d had it.’

  Ted nodded grimly. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a wander.’

  ‘Ted?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About Tess …’

  ‘What about her? That my best friend has gone and fallen head over heels with my sister?’

  Archie looked down. He could feel the blood rising to his cheeks.

  ‘I admit, I did feel a bit jealous,’ said Ted. ‘I mean, you were supposed to be my friend. Suddenly it seemed you’d rather be with her and she with you. I’ve always got on well with my little sis. I felt a bit left out, I suppose.’

  ‘But how I feel about Tess is completely different. I still think of you as my best friend and I’m sure I always will.’

  ‘I know. And I’m used to it now. To start with, I wasn’t bothered because I didn’t think a night of dancing added up to much, but then it was suddenly a bit more serious. But I’m happy for you both now. Honestly I am. I know she’s crazy about you, Archie.’

  ‘I’m a bit crazy about her too.’

  ‘And I also know she’s been desperate for us to make up.’ Above them, a skylark twittered furiously. ‘He’s full of the joys of life, isn’t he?’ said Ted as he paused to light a cigarette. ‘Maybe he’s singing for all of us.’

  Archie did not reply, but perhaps Ted had a point. The skylark’s song was especially joyful, but he couldn’t help feeling rather sad. I’ve still got so much to live for, he thought to himself. I don’t want to die. I don’t want Ted to die.