Tyler had looked at his watch. One hour – it’ll be tight. ‘Yes, I’ll be there.’ He quickly shaved, dousing his face with cold water, then hastily dressed and left the house. The journey to Stanmore did not take long – half an hour if the roads were clear, and they usually were these days.
He was now Air Commodore Tyler – a promotion, and with it a new job on Air Chief Marshal Dowding’s staff at Fighter Command Headquarters. It had come about very quickly, a week before, with an unexpected summons to Bentley Priory, not by Dowding, but by Air Vice-Marshal Evill.
His new job was to be one of three duty officers overseeing the vast underground Operations and Filter Rooms. Each worked an eight-hour shift, during which complete concentration was of paramount importance.
‘This is the hub, Guy,’ Evill had explained as they’d sat on a bench underneath a large cedar tree in the Bentley Priory grounds. ‘As you well know, all the different pieces of information we get about the enemy’s movements are delivered to the Filter Room. Signals from every RDF station, every Observer Corps sector station, and every other piece of intelligence, like the information from the bods we send up to thirty-five thousand feet to stooge about and spot enemy raids forming up over France – it all feeds into the Filter Room. There it’s checked and cross-referenced, then the enemy movements are plotted in the Operations Room and passed on to the groups, who in turn pass it on to the sectors and then the squadrons. The system is so refined we can get the information to the squadrons in about three minutes and our boys in the air in a further three. So that’s information received to airborne in six minutes. Your task, Guy, is to oversee it all – make sure information is acted upon. Don’t get involved in the tactical running of the squadrons – we leave that to the group commanders. Your job is to ensure everything runs smoothly.’
He had then been taken to see Dowding. The C-in-C looked strained and tired, Tyler had thought, more than once removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. Neither Dowding nor Evill seemed hopeful; pilot shortage was their concern.
‘I brought with me a brief appreciation of the German situation, sir,’ Tyler told the chief. ‘The Luftwaffe is suffering. Aircraft production is running at about a third of the rate of our own, and some squadrons seem to have no more than half a dozen aircraft. One prisoner revealed that his squadron spent two days last week with only two aircraft available. It’s meant that their senior pilots have been flying more than they should.’
‘Don’t want the new chaps let loose in their precious aircraft, I suppose,’ said Dowding, allowing himself a slight smirk.
‘Exactly, sir,’ agreed Tyler. ‘But it also seems we were wrong in our estimation of enemy strength. Prisoner interrogations have shown that their squadrons are not as large as ours. We have twenty-two pilots and eighteen aircraft, with an optimum of twelve airborne, but the Germans only have twelve aircraft per squadron, and rarely have more than six airborne at any one time. We’ve been overestimating their strength by at least a third, if not more.’
Dowding had sat back in his chair. ‘Hallelujah!’ he said. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard this past month.’
‘If the Luftwaffe keep losing fighter aircraft at the rate they are doing, sir,’ Tyler had continued, ‘I think Göring will call his battle off in the next two weeks or so.’
A week on, Tyler hoped he had not given false hope. The Luftwaffe had kept coming – he’d been able to see them on the huge plotting table in the Operations Room. From his balcony view, he’d looked down on the huge map, the plotters calmly, efficiently pushing plots across the Channel. Fifteen-plus bombers would be picked up by radar in St Omer and a further thirty in Lille. As they neared the French coast, they would be joined by fifteen-plus, then thirty-plus fighters, until a mass of seventy or even a hundred aircraft was moving across the Channel.
A clearer picture of the size of enemy raids and the direction they were heading would be picked up by the Observer Corps as they reached the English coast. A number of different observer posts would report the same plot, which would then be compared and cross-referenced. In response, their own squadrons would also be plotted. It was all done so quietly, so calmly. So efficiently. Yet Tyler knew what it was like for those boys who were scrambled to intercept – the fear, the confusion, the moments of panic. So far, 337 Squadron had been called into action just once from Boscombe Down, but he dreaded the moment he would have to see his son’s squadron moved across the map towards one of the Luftwaffe’s largest raids.
His shift during this past week had been from 4 p.m. until midnight, which was why, when Evill had rung, he had still been in bed. There was no question of even a second’s sleep while on duty, and Tyler had discovered that by the time he arrived back home, he slept like the dead. Evill had warned him that it was essential he should get enough rest. ‘We need your mind fresh and alert each day, Guy. You’re no use to us if you’re overly tired.’ And so far, enough sleep and plenty of coffee had done the trick.
Reaching Bentley Priory with five minutes to spare, he made straight for Dowding’s office and was soon ushered in. Evill was already there, then Douglas, the Deputy Chief of the Air Staff, arrived and then finally so did Air Vice-Marshal Park.
‘I’ve asked you to join us, Tyler,’ said Dowding, ‘because of your intelligence background. Now I heard what you had to say last week and all of us here have read your report. What you wrote about Luftwaffe strength may be quite correct, but I’m rather more concerned about our own situation. If we can keep our squadrons in decent shape, then we don’t need to worry about what the Luftwaffe may or may not have.’ He paused and looked at them all over his half-moon glasses. ‘The fact is, our squadrons are falling under strength. So far, we’ve been able to rotate the hardest hit and most exhausted squadrons out of the front line and put fresh ones in, but the pace of the battle has increased so much that some of the new squadrons are falling behind after just a few days. I’m determined to keep 11 Group at full strength come what may, but I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to be able to do that. Not without severely weakening other parts of the country.’
Sholto Douglas cleared his throat and took his pipe from his mouth. ‘I think you’re being too pessimistic. I’ve been looking at the pilot figures this morning and we’ve got plenty coming through the OTUs who can cover the shortfall.’
‘Forgive me, Sholto,’ said Dowding, ‘but I think you’re missing the point here. It is one thing to be a trained pilot, and quite another to be a combat-ready fighter pilot. At current rates, we are losing one hundred and twenty pilots a week, which is outstripping the number of pilots coming out of the OTUs, according to the figures that I have. We’ve already cut the OTU course by two weeks. Squadron leaders are receiving pilots with just fifteen to twenty hours on Spitfires and Hurricanes – and, quite understandably, most are refusing to send them into battle because they know they usually get shot down in a trice.’
‘I agree,’ said Park. ‘You can’t expect COs to send these sprogs straight into the air. They won’t do it. It’s little short of murder to them.’
‘I think we all have to accept, gentlemen,’ said Dowding, ‘that right now we are going downhill.’
Tyler now interjected. ‘Excuse me, sir, but so are the Luftwaffe.’
‘Exactly,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes, but the Luftwaffe still has many more aircraft than us,’ said Dowding, ‘and while I accept that, as it stands, we now probably have more single-engine fighters than they do, that counts for nothing if we don’t have skilled fighter pilots to fly them.’ He looked at Tyler. ‘You said last week that you thought the Luftwaffe would be forced to call the battle off by the middle of the month. That’s still a week away and they won’t do so without a maximum effort. We have reached the critical moment in the battle, gentlemen. Never have we needed experienced pilots more than now.’
‘I think I may have the answer,’ said Park. ‘We can send our new pilots straight out of OTU to the north or
to the far south-west. They can join operational squadrons but, because they are likely to see little action, they can use the time to build up their flying hours. Should a lone raider appear from Norway, for example, they can be scrambled and go after it. They will get some invaluable operational experience but at limited risk. At the same time, we can send fully trained and experienced pilots south.’
‘But we need fresh operational squadrons to exchange with your own battle-exhausted squadrons,’ said Dowding.
‘The two schemes could run in tandem,’ Park replied. ‘I’m only suggesting importing individual pilots in 11 Group squadrons, and this might only take place if a squadron’s number of fully trained pilots falls below, say, fifteen in total.’
‘Go on,’ said Dowding.
‘We will categorize squadrons,’ said Park. ‘Class A are those in 11 Group and one or stwo in 10 and 12 Groups that have fifteen or more combat-ready pilots. Class B squadrons could contain up to six non-operational pilots from OTUs, and a final category, Class C, would retain at least three fully operational pilots who will teach the sprogs the ropes.’
Sholto Douglas nodded. ‘Good idea, Keith. Seems sound to me.’
‘So Category C squadrons would mostly be in 13 Group in the north,’ said Dowding.
‘Exactly. And we can act on this right away. We’ve sent a number of squadrons out of 11 Group in the past week.’ He reeled off several numbers, using his fingers to count them off. ‘There’s 32 Squadron at Acklington. They’ve had ten days out of the firing line. Several of their experienced pilots can be posted back to squadrons in 11 Group.’
Tyler sat there, rigid, waiting for what was coming.
‘And there’s 337 Squadron at Boscombe. Strictly speaking, they might be considered a borderline Class A, but they’ve not done much this past week. And there are men coming back from convalescence. Good, experienced pilots. These men could make all the difference.’
‘All right,’ said Dowding. ‘So are we all agreed?’
Reluctantly, Tyler nodded his head.
‘Good. Douglas, can you and your staff draw up moving lists and send a note out in my name to every squadron?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Dowding took off his spectacles and stroked his trim moustache thoughtfully. ‘God willing, this scheme of yours might just work, Keith.’
‘Let’s hope so, sir. Let’s hope so.’
An hour later, having agreed to the transfer of over a hundred new pilots to new Class C squadrons in the north, and posted more than forty combat-ready pilots back to the south, Evill turned to 337 Squadron at Boscombe Down.
‘We need to do something about 599 Squadron at Kenley. They’ve lost their CO and a flight commander and three others this past week. Can we reinforce them from 337?’
A call was put through to the squadron adjutant by Group Captain Saunders, one of Evill’s staff. Tyler listened, a sickening feeling creeping over him. They were running through the entire squadron: age, experience, date when joined. Number of kills.
‘Really?’ he heard Saunders say. ‘That’s rather good. Yes, I’m sure you’d be sorry to lose them … No, look, I’m awfully sorry about this, Wheeler, but that’s all there is to it … They’re desperately needed back in 11 Group. Yes … yes … All right, Wheeler. Yes, so that’s four, and who’s this other chap?’ A pause. ‘And when is he due back? Oh, good. Well, we can get him checked by an MO at Kingsway then send him straight on to Kenley with the others … Tomorrow, yes … All right, goodbye.’ He put down the phone. ‘Not a happy fellow,’ he said, ‘but that’s Flight Lieutenant Bannerman, Flying Officers Macfarlane and Mazarin, and Pilot Officer Tyler and, all being well, Pilot Officer Jackson.’ He stopped a moment. ‘Tyler – is he your boy, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Tyler. He felt numb. They’re sending him back.
‘And we need to get a telegram to this chap Jackson. Apparently, he’s on convalescence leave but due back tomorrow.’
Tyler rubbed his brow. ‘It’s all right, I can tell him. He’s staying at my house tonight.’
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Evill standing beside him. ‘I’m sorry, Guy,’ he said. ‘Now, why don’t you go home and get some rest?’
Of course Archie had managed to get the bike running. He’d worked hard in the shed at home, but it had brought him many contented hours, in which he had been able to put the war to one side and return to the pleasures that had filled his boyhood. He loved that shed, with its workbench and smell of dust and oil. His father had helped too, and even his mother had scrubbed and cleaned the Steib sidecar.
His leg had also improved with every day, so much so that he had even walked halfway to the top of the hill behind the house. There he sat and marvelled at the view and vowed that if he managed to survive the war, he would come back and live out the rest of his days there. And who with? Tess? Perhaps.
His mother wept when he left, early on Saturday morning, and he had again felt like crying himself. With his case in the sidecar and wearing his Irvin and flying helmet and goggles, he had rumbled off down the drive, feeling a lead weight heavy in his throat. It was as though he had been given a brief chance to return to the life he had left at the start of the war, but which he knew he could never return to again. He must go back to the war and to an adult life; in a few months he would be twenty. It was a strange feeling; he yearned to see Tess, and to be with Ted and the boys, but it was as though he were leaving a part of himself behind for ever.
It was a long journey, and, if he were honest, he supposed he’d been foolish to try to ride such a distance in one day, but his leg, although stiff and itching rather, was not causing him any pain. Fresh air and plenty of rest had been as wondrous a medicine as any.
It was around seven o’clock when he crested Hampstead and saw huge clouds of smoke billowing high into the sky from the east of London, the black and grey of the smoke darkly sinister against the deep azure blue of the canopy above. They’ve hit London, he thought. Guy Tyler had been right. He pressed on and saw that the fires were not only in the docks. Smoke was rising from Tottenham too. A fire engine hurried past, its bells clanging. My God, he thought.
It was after half past seven when he finally pulled into Winchester Street and drew up outside the Tylers’ house. Stiffly, he eased himself off the Enfield, and, grabbing his bag, climbed the steps to the front door.
A rap of the knocker and, a moment later, footsteps within, and then the door opened and there was Tess.
‘Archie! You’re back!’ She flung her arms around him, then Ted emerged too.
‘Archie, old chap – welcome back.’
‘What’s been happening? When was London hit?’
‘This afternoon – it’s been awful,’ said Tess. ‘Nothing here, thank goodness.’
‘But they’ve hammered the East End,’ said Ted. ‘We watched it from the roof.’
‘Pops said this would happen,’ said Tess, then she saw the bike on the road outside. ‘My gosh, Archie, where did you get that?’
Archie grinned. ‘A friend. I’ve been doing it up all week. He’s given it to me on a kind of permanent loan.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be convalescing,’ said Ted.
‘I was. The best rest I ever had, doing that up. Isn’t she a beauty?’ The bike gleamed in the evening light. ‘Built like a gun, goes like a bullet,’ he said, repeating McAllister’s phrase.
‘Good,’ said Ted, ‘you can give me a lift to Kenley tomorrow.’
‘Kenley?’
‘We’ve been posted – and promoted. We’re both Flying Officers now.’
‘Posted? From 337 Squadron? Why? What have we done this time?’
‘Nothing. I’ll explain later, but we’re joining 599 Squadron. Dougal and Jimmy too, and Charlie Bannerman. He’s been made CO – Squadron Leader now.’
‘What about Jock?’
‘He’s staying at Boscombe. Apparently, they need more experienced pilots in the fron
t line. They think a week of having it quiet is rest enough.’
Archie was ushered inside to where dinner was almost ready – his timing, Mary told him, was perfect.
‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘I’d rather forgotten about dinner. I assumed that with the bombing –’
‘We still need to eat, bombing or not,’ said Mary. ‘And I imagine you must be ravenous. Scotland to London in a day! My goodness!’
‘Well, yes, I am rather,’ Archie confessed. ‘Thank you.’
‘I, for one, intend to carry on absolutely as normal,’ said Mary. ‘It seems to me that if we all turn into cowering wrecks, Hitler will know he’s won half the battle.’
No sooner had she said this than the baleful whine of the air-raid siren started up again.
‘Not again,’ she said.
‘That’ll be Pops,’ said Ted. ‘Part of his new job is to give the signal for the air-raid sirens to be sounded.’
‘Well, I can’t hear anything yet,’ said Mary. ‘I suggest we sit down and have our soup before it gets cold.’
They ate the soup, but ten minutes later they heard the distant muffled blasts of anti-aircraft fire and a moment later the dull explosion of bombs.
‘Let’s go to the attic and watch,’ said Ted. ‘Would that be all right, Ma?’
‘What about your cutlets?’
‘D’you think we could ask Mrs Atkins to keep them warm for a bit? This will probably be over in ten minutes or so.’
‘All right,’ said his mother. ‘You three go on. I’ll be up in a minute.’
The three of them hurried to the attic. There was a dormer window facing east around which they crowded. Dusk had settled over the city; the long, summer nights were beginning to draw in at last. Anti-aircraft fire peppered the sky, black smudges of smoke where the shell had detonated still visible in the gloaming, but large fires gave a flickering orange glow to the horizon, while the moon had turned blood red. Relays of bombers, mostly in twos and threes, droned overhead.
Searchlights suddenly criss-crossed the sky, anti-aircraft guns continued to burst like fireflies, and then over the boom of guns and the drone of engines came the whistle of bombs, the dull blast of the explosions and another pear-shaped burst of orange light rose above the rooftops. Smoke lay heavy in the air, even where they were in Pimlico, several miles from the focus of the Luftwaffe’s attack. As the bombers continued droning overhead, so the smoke thickened and the light faded. The searchlights stood out more sharply, vivid beams of light crossing the sky but unable to penetrate the thick roof of smoke. Fire engines clattered through the streets, their bells near one moment, then gradually fading as they sped towards the burning East End.
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