Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  ‘Well done,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Safe and sound. If you’re not being shot at by the Luftwaffe, it’s our own mines, eh?’ He chuckled, then said, ‘Look here, let’s get you back to our HQ, then we can get you some dry clothes and a drink of something and get you back to your squadron. Where are you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Archie. ‘I’m at Biggin Hill, but my forward base is Hawkinge.’

  ‘Hawkinge? Got a pasting this afternoon.’

  ‘I saw the smoke. I hoped I was wrong.’

  ‘’Fraid not. Not sure what the damage is yet. Anyway, we can get you back there – that’ll be no trouble.’ He turned to his men. ‘Stay here, chaps, and I’ll sort out Pilot Officer Jackson.’ He set off, then suddenly stopped and turned to Archie. ‘You’re not injured or anything, are you?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine. Not a scratch.’

  ‘Lucky you. Saw a chap get his parachute blown in earlier. Straight in I’m afraid.’

  ‘That was Ginger,’ said Archie. ‘He was a friend of mine.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I didn’t see what happened to the blighter that did it.’

  ‘I shot him down and killed him, actually.’

  Masterton looked at him and frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, well. One less to worry about, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Archie.

  He was back at Hawkinge by half-past six and was shocked by what he saw: one hangar completely wrecked, machine-gun bullet marks across a number of the buildings. The main stores had been partially burned to the ground – the fire had been put out but it looked like a blackened wreck, the air was thick with the stench of burning and smoke. Craters pitted the airfield.

  He found the pilots at dispersal.

  ‘Archie – you’re back!’ Ted sprang up and vigorously shook his hand. ‘We heard you were all right. Some army wallah rang through. What happened to you?’

  A number of them clustered around him now.

  ‘I went after that Nazi that blew in Ginger’s parachute,’ he said. ‘I know we’re not supposed to follow anyone down, but I’m afraid I saw red. He killed Ginger with his prop wash – I saw it all.’

  ‘And you got him?’ asked Charlie.

  Archie nodded. ‘But not before he got me in the engine. I managed to get back to the coast and bailed out, but the wind took me back out to sea. Then I nearly walked on a mine on the beach. Fortunately, some army chaps saw me and got me safely off.’

  Jock patted him on the back. ‘You’ve the luck of the devil, Archie. I think you should be called “Lucky” from now on.’

  Archie looked around at the scene of devastation. Hawkinge had seemed so quiet, so peaceful earlier on. Now it appeared utterly wrecked. Following his gaze, Jock said, ‘Can you believe what we were saying before we were scrambled?’

  ‘Nazis,’ muttered Archie. ‘They’re murderers.’

  ‘Five killed here this afternoon, six more injured,’ said Merriman. ‘A couple of Spits damaged. And no less than twenty-eight craters.’

  ‘Made landing a bit hairy,’ said Ted. ‘Couldn’t see much because of the smoke, and then we all had to dodge the pot--holes.’

  ‘Any prangs?’ asked Archie.

  Jock shook his head. ‘Jimmy and Dougal bailed out too, but they rather sensibly managed to do so over land.’

  Archie looked at Dougal, who grinned at him. ‘Piece of cake,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Jock, ‘we’ll be staying at Biggin tomorrow while they patch this place up. We’re being stood down, so we’re about to fly back. You can get a ride with Dougal and Jimmy in Happy’s car. See you in the pub – you know the rules, Archie. You’ve a song to sing. And anyway, we need to raise a glass to Ginger.’

  Archie smiled weakly and thought about Ginger and his appalling singing the last time. It made him sad. He didn’t feel like going to the pub at all; he felt exhausted. He thought: I want to get back to Biggin and go to sleep.

  ‘You’ll all have new kites tomorrow,’ said Merriman as they set off for Biggin. ‘The ATA are bringing in three more.’

  ‘My sister’s joined the ATA,’ said Archie. ‘I got a letter from her yesterday – on headed paper from her EFTS. She’s learning to fly.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I think. My parents weren’t terribly keen to start with, but I gather they’ve come round. It really is amazing, you know, how these new kites keep appearing. One day four get lost, and the next morning there are four new ones. Lord Beaverbrook must be performing miracles.’

  ‘A lot of people working round the clock,’ said Happy. ‘Those damaged Spits looked a right mess, but they’ve already been taken by the CRU, and will be made to fly again. So perhaps Jerry won’t beat us after all.’

  ‘Ted’s father says it’s pilots that we’re a bit short of, rather than planes.’

  ‘Which, if the Luftwaffe ever ventures inland, will give us a huge advantage,’ said Happy. ‘Look at today. None of the pilots and crews of the seven aircraft you all shot down will ever fly against us again, but we lost just the one pilot.’

  ‘Poor Ginger,’ said Archie. ‘He was a good fellow. He made me laugh.’

  ‘We don’t know the German did it deliberately, though,’ said Dougal.

  ‘I saw it,’ said Archie. ‘He flew straight over him. Of course it was deliberate. Anyway, I got him back.’

  ‘And lost your Spit in the process,’ said Happy.

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ He knew he sounded petulant. He sighed and leaned against the window. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all. And I don’t want to have to sing a song in the pub.’

  Happy smiled. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. It’s far better to get off the station and all go out together and have a few drinks than to mope about at the Mess. Jock’s a terrific CO.’

  ‘I know. We’re lucky to have him.’

  ‘Go out tonight and try having a bit of fun, Archie. It’s good for you to let your hair down a bit after a hard day like this.’

  Much later, just before midnight, Archie stumbled back out of the Old Jail pub with the rest of the pilots. He’d sung ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’, pointing to all of them as he’d done so, and had been drowned out with cheers for his pains. It was good to take one’s mind off things, he thought to himself as they rumbled home in the tumbrel. And what better way to do so than to sing and be merry? The IO, as usual, had been quite right.

  About the same time as the boys of 337 Squadron were heading back to base in the truck, singing Archie’s song at the top of their voices, Group Captain Guy Tyler put the key in the door of his house in Pimlico and stepped into the darkened hall. He put his cap on the small semicircular cherrywood table, then went into the kitchen to fix himself a drink. A generous measure of Scotch, a squirt of soda from the siphon, and then he wandered into the drawing room, switched on a lamp, and sat himself down in his favourite wing-backed armchair.

  Tyler rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was exhausted, but knew he could not sleep – not yet. It was, he reflected, so much easier when he’d been flying. In the last show he’d known so very little of what was going on, and only towards the end, when he’d been given his own squadron, had he had any responsibility to anyone other than himself.

  Now he felt consumed by a sense of helplessness. His task was to accumulate information; information about the enemy, an enemy that seemed so much stronger than their own RAF. For the past few weeks, they’d been holding on, desperately trying not to get drawn into an air battle over the Channel in which precious pilots shot down over the water would most likely never return. But that phase of the battle was over. The all-out attack that Hitler had been boasting about, that had been so inevitable since Dunkirk, was about to start.

  Reconnaissance aircraft, flying over France, had now identified a large number of enemy airfields in northern France. No wonder it had taken the Luftwaffe a while to get themselves organized; since the fall of France, the Germans
had built some ten new airfields, complete with anti-aircraft defences, blast shelters, vast repair tents, fuel supplies and camouflage netting. Fighter aircraft were now massed in the Pas de Calais and in Normandy, while the Luftwaffe’s bomber force had taken over a large number of airfields a little further inland, all the way from Brittany to Holland, with a further air fleet operating from Norway.

  It was true that the RAF’s Bomber Command were flying over these airfields and trying to bomb them daily, but these were nuisance raids and little more. The Luftwaffe had now massed a large proportion of their air force along the continental coast, all ready for their assault on Britain. Air Intelligence not only had aerial photographs of all these airfields, the Y Service – the radio listening service – had also pinpointed which unit was where. Tyler knew, for example, that the bomber group KG4 was now based at Schiphol, near Amsterdam, in Holland, and that the fighter group JG2 had squadrons at Cherbourg and Beaumont-le-Roger in Normandy. He knew that JG3, JG26, JG51, JG52 and JG54, with four squadrons each, were formed up and ready in the Pas de Calais. To have this information, yet be unable to act upon it, was a heavy burden to carry.

  And now the main assault was beginning. Adlerangriff, Göring was calling it, apparently. ‘Attack of the Eagles’ – the phrase had been picked up by the Y Service. His son had been fighting with some of the German fighters and bombers earlier that afternoon. Ted had rung home earlier – he’d shot down a Dornier and a 109, he had told his mother. Archie had been shot down, but word had reached the squadron that he was all right just before Ted had made his call.

  Mary had then rung Guy at the Air Ministry. ‘Ted says they were attacking Dover again,’ she’d said. ‘Our poor boy. I can’t bear the thought of him caught up in this. And if anything happens to Archie, I don’t know how Tess will survive. Or Ted, for that matter.’

  ‘They’re very good pilots,’ he had told her. ‘And experienced now. They’ll be just fine.’

  Except that he worried daily – hourly – that they might not be. Experience counted for a lot, that was true, but death in wartime could be quite arbitrary. A chance bullet, a momentary lack of concentration, mechanical failure – any one of these things could cut down the very best. What’s more, it wasn’t Dover the Huns had been going for – it had been the RDF stations at Dover. And not just Dover – other RDF stations had been targeted, as had Manston and Hawkinge.

  So that meant the Germans knew about their radar. It was true that the chain of metal lattice pylons strung out along the southern and eastern coasts of Britain were only one link in the chain of the air-defence network, but it was a critical link all the same. Without radar, they would be dependent solely on the Observer Corps to warn them of incoming raids, which would not happen until the enemy formations had almost reached the coast. And that would be too late. The only chance they had of stopping the Luftwaffe was to be in the air, ready and waiting to attack when the enemy reached England – and for that they needed radar, and both networks: Chain Home, with its hundred-mile range, and Chain Home Low, with its ability to pick up enemy aircraft flying at low level.

  By the grace of God – and perhaps because of the work done by 337 Squadron, among others, that day – the RDF stations in Kent were still working; damage had been slight. But they were clearly a prime target, and Tyler reckoned he had a pretty good idea of the pattern the battle would now take: first the radar stations would be knocked out by the Stukas. Without radar, Fighter Command would be virtually blind. The rest of the Luftwaffe would then be able to concentrate on the airfields, hoping to destroy Fighter Command both on the ground and in the air. It would be just like France all over again: Fighter Command constantly responding to enemy attacks rather than anticipating them. Their fighters would always be too late, or surprised entirely. And then they would lose.

  He took a sip of his whisky and rubbed his brow, then looked around the room. It was a lovely room, he’d always thought so, and over the years they’d collected some equally lovely things to adorn their house. Paintings, trinkets, some mementoes from their postings abroad, some wonderful pieces of furniture – the walnut bureau, for example, or the baby grand piano in the corner. This room, more than any other in the house, represented them – his family, their life. It was his castle, his piece of England, and the thought of some Nazi storming in and taking it from him made him quiver with rage.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ he muttered, his fingers gripping his tumbler.

  He looked up suddenly as the door opened gently.

  ‘Pops? Are you all right?’

  Tess. ‘Hello, darling. What are you doing up?’

  ‘I heard you come in.’ She came and sat next to him, on the arm of his chair. ‘You look tired, Pops. You should go to bed.’

  ‘I know. I just thought I’d have a quick nightcap before I turn in.’

  ‘Is it looking very bad?’

  ‘No – no, we’ll be all right. I’m sure of it.’ He forced a smile.

  ‘Darling Pops, I know you’re only saying that.’

  He breathed in heavily. ‘The next two weeks,’ he said. ‘We’ll know where we stand in a fortnight. If the Luftwaffe haven’t broken us by then, I’d say they’re never going to.’

  ‘And Ted and Archie will be in the thick of it,’ said Tess.

  ‘Yes,’ said her father, ‘they will. And we must pray they get through it.’

  23

  Attack of the Eagles

  Sunday 18 August. Second scramble of the day, the air battle frenetic once more after a day of rain and low cloud, and now here they were, at twenty-eight thousand feet, way higher than they had ever operated before, ready to intercept a large raid that the plotters on the ground reckoned was heading for Biggin and Kenley.

  And there it was, a far bigger formation of enemy aircraft than Archie had ever seen before. From their position high over Kent, he could see staggered layers of bombers and fighters crossing the coast near the Swale estuary.

  ‘Good God,’ he mouthed to himself. He glanced either side of him: Geoff Williams on his left, Billy Barrow and Robbie Dinsdale, the new boy, on his right; the entire squadron had been scrambled, and that meant all available aircraft – sixteen in all. That also meant sections of four, not three. ‘They don’t want any shot up on the ground!’ Jock had yelled as they’d run to their aircraft. Jock was leading them now: Red and Yellow Sections were up ahead, about half a mile in front. Sixteen Spitfires turning towards the black swarm rolling towards south London.

  A day of dazzling hot sun, unthinkable just twenty-four hours earlier. Jock turned the squadron so that they could attack out of the sun. Perhaps there was an enormous advantage in attacking with height and out of the sun, but right now, looking at the mass of enemy aircraft – a hundred at least – Archie felt as though they were minnows attacking sharks.

  They completed their gentle turn, so that they were now facing the stacks of enemy formations – at the bottom there were the Dorniers and Ju 88s, then above them the twin-engine Me 110s, and above them, weaving from side to side, were the 109s, perhaps four thousand feet below them. And beneath them all, the familiar toe of Kent and the south Essex coastline, hazy through a filtered light, the English coast disappearing to a faint green curve on the distant horizon.

  A crackle in his headset, then, ‘Hello, Bison Leader, this is Turban. Jacko Squadron about to engage. Go for the big jobs too, over.’

  Jacko Squadron – the Hurricanes from Biggin.

  ‘Hello, Turban, this is Bison. Roger. We’re about to engage. Out.’ Another crackle and then Jock’s tinny voice said, ‘Red and Yellow Sections will dive down and fly through the 110s and go for the bombers. Blue and Green Sections distract the 109s.’

  Archie felt the familiar eruption of nausea in his stomach, then checked his dials – all OK – and glanced around. They were outnumbered, but if they broke up the formations and managed to shoot down a few, then perhaps they would have done their job. Even so …

  He lif
ted his goggles, and pushed his helmet back from his brow, then glanced in the mirror, but the sun flashed off the glass, making him squint. Damn! That was all he needed.

  ‘All right, chaps,’ said Jock. ‘Tally ho!’

  A Flight dived and now Archie looked around and saw Geoff, Billy and Robbie fall in line astern behind him. A deep breath, then he half-rolled and began his dive, his ears popping with the sudden drop in height, the 109s getting closer, his air-speed indicator rising. Throttle back slightly.

  Below, the bomber formation was breaking up as the Spitfires and Hurricanes swirled and turned among them. The tier of Me 110s also peeled off and dived towards them. Was that a 110 diving in flames? Parachutes were opening, white circles in the sky, two more aircraft were plunging downwards trailing smoke. Just seconds away now. Archie braced himself, tensing his stomach muscles to cope with any centrifugal forces. Find a target. Frantically, he scanned the sky as the 109s began diving in turn towards the massed melee. He picked one, followed it, but it banked suddenly and was attacked by a Spitfire – Billy? – he couldn’t tell. Then he saw a lone Me 110 crossing a few hundred yards ahead. Applying boost, he watched the Messerschmitt fill his sights – five-degree deflection – and opened fire, the Spitfire juddering as he did so. Tracer spewed towards it, but his aim was wide and now he had lost it. Damn! He pulled his plane into a tight turn, gasping as he was forced back into his seat, his arms aching with the effort, but then saw another Messerschmitt, a 109, only a hundred yards away, turning right in front of him – a sitting duck. He pressed down his thumb again – one, two, three seconds – saw the tracer sparking across the enemy’s cowling. A burst of flame and black smoke and it dropped away. Archie looked back up only to see a 110 hurtle past in front of him, so close that he ducked – not that it would do him any good.

  That was close. He gasped heavily into the rubber oxygen mask, his chest heaving.

  ‘Look out! Break! Break!’ someone shouted in his ear. You mean me? Archie broke left as tracer fizzed past his starboard wing and then found himself parallel with two 109s. He could see their squadron markings and black crosses stark on their fuselages, and he saw one of the pilots wave. Archie waved back, then turned to starboard and dived away.