Battle of Britain

by James Holland

  The melee was breaking up. A quick glance around – the 109s were turning back – Good – but up ahead he could see a number of Ju 88s pushing on. Just fourteen thousand feet now – and where was he? Ah, there’s London. He opened the throttle wide and dived after the Junkers. As he neared, orange flashes of tracer arced towards him, but the rear gunner’s aim was high. Archie dived below them, then pulled up and pressed his thumb down on the gun button, raking two of the bombers as he sped past them.

  He continued his climb so that the sky and earth swivelled and for a moment he flew inverted, looking down on the Junkers below. One was falling away with smoke gushing from one of the engines, while the other two were dropping their bombs and turning for home. Far below, over the fields of Kent, a ripple of explosions – flashes of orange and smoke – and then Archie half-rolled and swept down towards them again. Another pass, he thought, but as the nearest filled his sights, he pressed down on his gun button. Only a second’s worth of bullets spat from his guns and then there was silence. Out of ammo! Damn it all!

  Archie banked, opened his throttle and sped away, marvelling again to find himself in a suddenly empty sky once more.

  Only a few bombers had reached Biggin and they had caused little damage – a handful of craters, that was all. The squadron initially claimed twelve aircraft shot down, although this was reduced to eight after careful interrogation by Happy. Three from 337 had been shot down: Joe Mazarin, the American, had been seen falling in flames, but had bailed out and was apparently safe; Harry Pierce in A Flight had broken a leg bailing out; and Billy Barrow had also been forced to jump for it.

  ‘All in all,’ Archie wrote in his journal, ‘a pretty successful engagement.’

  It was now around four in the afternoon, the sun still high in the sky. A number of the pilots were asleep, but Archie had brought one of the tables out of the dispersal hut and set it in the shade of the hut and the horse chestnut behind. On the grass in front of him the dappled shadows of the leaves flickered slightly in the breeze and, although there was a residual whiff of smoke and cordite hanging over the airfield, Biggin Hill was otherwise a picture of peace and tranquillity once more.

  No one said much. Archie could hear the gramophone playing from inside the hut – an American dance band – and the low hubbub of Jock talking to Charlie and Happy. In front of him, half in the sun, Ted was asleep in a deckchair, head lolled on one side, hands folded across his lap. Flying boots on, Mae West over his shirt – ready to fly again.

  Archie paused, and read back over his past few entries. My word, but they’d done a lot of flying. Since bailing out six days before, he’d flown twice the following day, once on Wednesday 14 August, three times on the Thursday, and four times on the Friday. On 15 August he had written:

  Got up 4 a.m. Mug of tea, then hastily got dressed. We all stamped around outside the Mess, waiting for the tumbrel. Looked like being a peach of a day as first light began streaking across the airfield. It’s always rather chilly, though, at that time of day, and made worse by the thought of having been snug in bed just a short while before. The tumbrel drew up and we clambered in. As we neared dispersal, the erks were already firing up our Spits, the noise of sixteen Spits tearing apart the morning calm. 4.45 a.m., take off and fly to Hawkinge. Pockets of mist in the valleys. England looking peaceful and very beautiful. Probably most of the country was still fast asleep, but I don’t mind being awake on mornings like this. A couple of deep breaths of oxygen usually wakes me up anyway. It’s good to fly at this time: no Jerries to worry about. Just me and my Spit. 5 a.m., touch down at Hawkinge, still looking a bit battered. We clamber out and wander over to our second home from home, the dispersal hut. Some new posters have been put up inside, pictures with captions: ‘The Hun is always in the sun.’ ‘Never go after a Jerry you have hit. Another will get you for certain.’ They are next to the aircraft recognition posters: black shapes of Me 110s and Ju 88s and so on. We all know them pretty well by now.

  The food wagon comes round with tea and coffee and bacon sandwiches. The bacon’s a bit fatty and cold, but the bread’s thickly cut and not bad at all. I never used to be able to stomach it, I was so nervous, but now I wolf mine down like an old hand. You need food, and I’ve not once been sick since that Jerry blew up in my face.

  Ted’s mooning about Jenny. Swears he’s going to marry her. I pointed out that he’s still not quite twenty. Sometimes I still feel like the kid I always was, and sometimes I feel a lot older.

  Archie paused. He remembered those soldiers who had rescued him in France – one had been just sixteen. Sixteen! Even Jock was only twenty-four, and he was a squadron leader and CO. He thought of home, and the childhood he had had. A happy childhood – a very happy childhood of wonderful freedom. Never once had it crossed his mind that just a few years later he’d be flying for his life – flying for Britain – and trying to shoot down and kill Germans. It was incredible, almost impossible to take in. Was he a different person now? He didn’t think so. Not really, and yet he had shown that he was capable of taking another man’s life, something he would never have thought possible when he’d been a teenage boy tramping the hills or trying to put a motorcycle engine back together.

  His mind turned back to three days earlier: 15 August. That had been some day. First scramble at a little after eleven in the morning and a short, sharp tussle with some 109s in which Gordon Hemmings in A Flight had been killed. When they got back to Hawkinge, it was to discover the airfield shrouded in smoke and another mass of craters. Archie had found it surprisingly easy to dodge the bomb holes as he landed, but a barracks block had been destroyed and another hangar damaged.

  The second scramble had been a little after two in the afternoon, to intercept a raid that looked like it was making for the south coast but which then headed towards the Thames estuary. They’d been vectored north, across the north Kent coast and had eventually seen a number of 109s near Harwich, but the Messerschmitts turned back before they could engage.

  Finally, they had been scrambled again at 5.20 p.m. and ordered to try to intercept a raid on Selsey Bill, near Portsmouth. They had spotted around thirty Ju 88s and had attacked, only to be attacked in turn by the same number of 109s. Archie had taken bits out of a Junkers but had been forced to break off to deal with two 109s that got on his tail. They had woven and turned about the sky, Archie pushing further and further inland until Charlie and Dougal had chased them off and the 109s had cut and run for home. Ivo Rainsby had bailed out, landing unhurt on the cricket field beneath Arundel Castle. When they landed again, they discovered Hawkinge had been hit for the second time that day – not hard, but there were a few more craters on the airfield.

  Later that day, he had scribbled in his journal:

  No one who hasn’t flown in combat can understand how tiring it is. You might think three combat sorties in a day doesn’t sound much – perhaps four hours’ flying. But each one means constant concentration, which in itself is tiring. Sometimes I get out of my Spit and my brain can hardly think straight at all. It is also physically exhausting. Flying straight and level is one thing – stooging about the sky is a cinch. Any fool could do it. But every time you bank your Spit and pull a tight turn, the centrifugal forces really weigh you down. The controls become incredibly heavy, the blood drains from your head, your arms and legs ache, your neck doesn’t want to move – it’s as though it’s been clamped in a tight lock. These dogfights don’t ever last long – five minutes, maybe ten – but, boy, at the end of them, you’re washed out. Your head is damp with sweat, your back drenched. Your whole body aches, and when you finally land again and clamber down, it’s all you can do to stand up and not fall over.

  It’s also very frightening, I don’t mind admitting it. My stomach starts to feel knotted and sometimes I find I’m shaking. I can’t help myself. Then there are moments of feeling wonderful, of incredible exhilaration. It’s strange.

  Ivo had bailed out, so we had to go to the pub and hear hi
m sing his song. I didn’t feel like going, but then I was glad I did. It takes your mind off things. I think it helps to have a sing-song and a laugh and not think about flying for a couple of hours, even if it does mean not getting to bed until midnight. At least we can sleep between sorties. We’re all so dog-tired, most of us can drop off at the click of a finger.

  Archie looked at his watch: 4.20 p.m. He prayed they would not be scrambled again that day. He and Ted were due twenty-four hours’ leave that night when they were stood down, and planned to go straight to Pimlico to have dinner with Tess and Mary Tyler. Archie couldn’t wait – both to see Tess and to be back within the comforting surroundings of the Tyler home. The thought of that bed! Crisp, clean sheets, a mattress deep and wide enough to stretch out in. Bliss.

  He began to doze, then slumped forward, his head in his arms on the table. Around him the low chatter from the hut, a blackbird singing nearby, a bee buzzing busily, the warmth of the sun lulling him to sleep …

  Someone was shouting, a bell was clanging loudly, and Archie woke with a start.

  ‘Wake up, Arch!’ Ted said beside him, tugging him up from his chair.

  ‘All right, all right.’ Chair pushed back, and then he was running, engines starting up and the airfield suddenly alive with activity. On the far side of the airfield, the Hurricanes were also bursting into life, pilots running towards their machines.

  Archie grabbed his parachute, hurriedly stepped into it, then leapt up on to the wing and hoisted himself inside. Helmet and goggles snatched from where they had been hanging on the mirror and hastily shoved on to his head. Harness in, leads in, check dials – all OK – then a thumbs up to Bufton and Lewis, and he was rolling forward. A quick rub of the eyes – I was asleep two minutes ago – and then switch on R/T, his IFF and Huff-Duff, check gauges and turn for take-off.

  Blue Section all in a line, a glance across – Yes, all four there – and then throttles open and bumping across the grass. Fifty, sixty, tail up, seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour, pull back on the stick, throttle open and gently ease the plane into the air, over the valley at the far end of the runway, the shadows of their Spitfires getting smaller and smaller.

  ‘Hello, Bison Leader, this is Turban. A hundred plus bandits heading your way, steer 010, zero one zero, angels eighteen.’

  So much for getting to London early, thought Archie, as they climbed once more to meet the enemy.

  24

  In a Spin over Kent

  Sunday 25 August. Another lovely summer’s morning and as Group Captain Tyler had walked to work, he wished he could spend his Sunday with Mary and Tess – a walk in St James’s Park, then a roast for lunch, out in the garden, perhaps. The capital seemed calm enough that morning, yet bombs had fallen on the city the night before – for the first time. Three suburbs had been hit: Millwall, Tottenham and Islington; word had reached them at the Air Ministry late the previous night before he had left for home.

  No doubt the bombers had dropped them accidentally – at any rate, it had hardly been a concentrated attack. A number of houses had been destroyed, but casualties were few. Still, it was a new experience for Londoners in this war.

  Over Whitehall huge, bulbous, silvery-grey barrage balloons hung suspended. Sandbags were stacked up beside every entrance, guards stood watch, no longer in scarlet tunics but in khaki battledress; the visual reminders that London was at war. But in other ways, there was little to suggest Britain was fighting for her life.

  What’s more, Tyler was beginning to feel faint stirrings of hope. Two weeks earlier, it had all seemed impossibly bleak. The next fortnight, he’d told Tess, would be decisive. Yet here they were, Fighter Command still fighting, her numbers of fighter aircraft barely dented thanks to the speed with which new ones were being built and damaged ones repaired. And miracle of miracles, the Luftwaffe had almost immediately called off their attacks on Britain’s RDF stations. Why? It was unfathomable. What’s more, Fighter Command’s airfields were holding up well. Only one – Manston – had been made inoperable so far, and that was just two days ago, when it had been pummelled during a particularly heavy raid. Fighter Command could manage without Manston, however. Nor were the Luftwaffe targeting Fighter Command airfields only. It was now quite clear that Luftwaffe intelligence was faulty in the extreme; they seemed to have no idea that the RAF was split into three commands and that it was Fighter Command they needed to destroy in order to win air superiority. A third of the airfields hit had been Coastal Command and Fleet Air Arm. Tyler felt Fighter Command was doing a lot right, but also that the Luftwaffe were making many mistakes. He had said as much to AVM Sholto Douglas that morning.

  ‘Well, let’s hope they keep doing so,’ he’d replied with a chuckle.

  The intelligence summaries that morning had brought even better news: first, that Göring had expected to destroy the RAF in just four days, and, second, that the Stukas were being withdrawn from the battle.

  ‘It’s incredible!’ Douglas had exclaimed. ‘The much-vaunted Stuka dive-bomber! What can Göring be thinking?’

  ‘Presumably he feels he’s lost too many, sir,’ Tyler replied.

  ‘And remind me,’ said Douglas, as he stood by his window, glancing over the summaries Tyler had given him, ‘how many Stukas did we think they had two weeks ago?’

  ‘Between five and six hundred, sir.’

  Douglas whistled. ‘And they’ve been completely withdrawn?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You may recall me mentioning a young pilot who pointed out how vulnerable Stukas were as they came out of their dive?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It seems he was quite right. Our boys have shot down more Stukas since Dunkirk than any other kind of German aircraft. They appear to work well in support of ground troops, but not so well independently.’

  Douglas chuckled. ‘Good. So we live to fight another day, eh?’

  ‘It would seem so, sir.’

  Douglas had sat down again behind his desk and, having lit a cigarette, said, ‘I’ve already had the PM’s office on the phone this morning about the bombs that fell on London last night.’

  ‘Almost certainly by mistake.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe. But it seems the War Cabinet want us to retaliate with an attack on Berlin.’

  ‘An attack on Berlin, sir? Is that wise?’

  ‘You don’t think so, Tyler?’

  ‘No, sir. Fighter Command is containing the Luftwaffe at the moment, but if we hit Berlin Hitler is bound to retaliate. If they send the full force of their air fleets over London, the devastation might be untold. The loss of life could be appalling.’

  Douglas looked thoughtful. ‘But if they retaliate on London then they can’t be attacking any airfields at all. It might give our boys a breather. I know Dowding is worried about pilot shortage. We’re all right for the time being, but in another week … well, it might be very different. Not even Dowding is convinced we can keep up this intensity for too much longer.’

  ‘I don’t think the Luftwaffe can either. We’re doing better than we could have hoped two weeks ago, sir,’ said Tyler. ‘Luftwaffe losses have been high – both in terms of aircraft and aircrew. Have you seen the transcripts from Trent Park, sir?’

  Douglas shook his head.

  ‘We’ve been taking Luftwaffe officers down there, sir, and not only interrogating them, but bugging their rooms. The conversations they have when they’re together have been most illuminating. Morale is taking a nosedive. The fighter pilots hate flying over water and they resent being ordered to stick to the bombers. It means losing their advantage of height and speed. Some squadrons have less than ten aircraft. Don’t get me wrong, sir, I still think they are immensely strong, but it’s not going their way at the moment, and especially not now that the Stukas have been withdrawn. Fighter Command is holding up. We don’t need to lure the Luftwaffe on to London in order to protect our airfields.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Douglas. ‘I take your point. All right, let me head
over to Number 10 myself. I think, on reflection, you might be right, Tyler.’

  Monday 26 August, around 12.05 p.m. ‘Christ, I can’t get this Hun off my tail!’ Muffled sounds of machine-gun and cannon fire, then, ‘Jesus, that was close!’

  ‘I’m on to him, Ted, hold on!’ Archie called back. Opening the throttle wide, he turned his plane on to its side and dived down towards the Spitfire and the 109 locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Archie could see it all: Ted’s Spit on its side, pulling as tight a left turn as he dared, the 109 following, firing short, sharp bursts of tracer that whipped past Ted’s tail but were getting ever closer. In a few more seconds they were going to rip Ted’s plane to pieces. It was all wrong: everyone knew a Spitfire could always out-turn a 109, and yet this German was gaining on him.

  But he hadn’t seen Archie, who now dived down on the German’s blind side and at a hundred yards pressed down on the gun button and gave him a two-second burst, until he was almost at point-blank range. As he hurtled over, the Messerschmitt exploded, knocking Archie’s Spitfire with its force.

  ‘You got him! You got him!’ shouted Ted. ‘Thank God, you got him!’

  Archie could hear the shortness of Ted’s breath – the panic, the relief – the fear. He looked down. A tumbling ball of flame and metal was plunging towards the ground, while a lone wing fluttered and twirled on its long descent.

  A loud crack, then another, deafening in his ears, and the Spitfire was knocked forward, as if smashed by a giant hammer. Smoke filled the cockpit, thick and swirling and hot, and Archie was blinded. He was spinning – spinning and falling, the centrifugal force pinning him to his seat, pressing down on his head as if two hands were holding it there. Panic. His eyes could not see, his mind could not think. I’m dying, he thought.