“What do you say, Lenny?” I said, giving Lenny a tap with my foot.
“What? About what?” he said, looking up from his book.
“Merle Oberon.”
Lenny looked thoughtfully off in to the distance. We waited expectantly. Then he looked back at me. “And Merle Oberon is. . .?”
“Oh come on,” I said. “You must know who Merle Oberon is. She’s in Wuthering Heights.”
“Well I’ve read the book,” said Lenny. “But I can’t remember anyone called. . .”
“The movie, you chump,” I said. “She’s an actress!”
“Ah, I see. She played Cathy presumably,” he said.
“I don’t remember who she played. We’re not arguing about who she played, we’re arguing about who is the most. . .”
“Hey, shut up you lot and listen to this!” shouted a chap over by the wireless. He turned the volume up.
“Somebody’s hit a German,” said the voice on the wireless. “And he’s coming down with a long streak . . . coming down completely out of control . . . and now a man’s baled out by parachute. It’s a Junker’s 87 and he’s going slap into the sea. There he goes – smash!”
It turned out that a BBC reporter, Charles Gardner, had just set up his equipment on the cliffs at Dover when by complete fluke all this action started right in front of him. Out at sea, about 40 Stukas with an escort of Me109s were laying into a convoy. Antiaircraft guns on the coast were blasting away at them.
He described it just as if it was a football match or something. You could hear bombs; you could hear the rattle of machine-gun fire from the fighters. There was something so odd about listening to all this on the wireless. The whole mess went totally silent.
Dad told me later how he and Mum had listened to it on the wireless. My dad had reached over to switch it off, but my mum said, no, she wanted to hear. She said it made her feel closer to me. She held my dad’s hand and carried on listening.
Gardner sounded a little disappointed when the bombers headed for home, but he got very excited again when the fighters reappeared. He was like a kid. He was almost giggling.
“There are three Spitfires chasing three Messerschmitts now. Oh boy! Look at them going! Oh yes. I’ve never seen anything so good as this. The RAF fighters have really got these boys taped.”
When he finished we all cheered. We loved it, of course, but not everyone was so keen. Dad told me there were angry letters in newspapers complaining that this just wasn’t the way to go on when lives were at stake. Gardner was rapped across the knuckles and told not to do it again. But I think it made the people at home feel part of it all. It did for my mum, anyway.
Then Adolf got up on his hind legs and made some crazy speech on the 19th, blaming the war on Jews and Freemasons and arms manufacturers – which was odd, because we’d all sort of thought he was to blame. The newsreel showed him ranting and snarling as always.
“A great Empire will be destroyed. An Empire which it was never my intention to destroy or even to harm. . .” We could make peace, he said, or he would destroy the British Empire.
Well old Chamberlain had shown what happened if you gave in to bullies when he made the mistake of listening to Adolf in ’39. Churchill wasn’t about to make that mistake again and we told him where he could stick his peace offer.
I groaned as the airman orderly patted me on the shoulder. I gingerly opened my eyes. It wasn’t yet light. I groaned again. My shoulder ached. I felt like I was a hundred years old.
“Oh hell,” I said. “I was hoping it had all been some terrible dream.”
“’Fraid not, Sir. War’s still on. Jerry’s still expecting you.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m – yawn – ready for action.” Then I pulled the blanket back over my head for a couple more precious minutes.
I climbed reluctantly out of bed and I got dressed over my pyjamas and put my leather Irvin jacket on to fend off the cold. Then I pulled my flying boots on and tried to focus my tired eyes, squinting into the surrounding murk.
The sun was just beginning to send out a queasy glow to the east as I stepped outside to check my aircraft. The grass was covered in a heavy dew, so heavy it looked like frost. A cockerel was crowing somewhere off in the world beyond.
I said hello to the crew who were working on my Spit. I stepped up on to the wing and then into the cockpit. I checked all the instruments, making sure I had a full tank of fuel, connected the oxygen and R/T leads of my helmet and left it on the stick. OK, I was ready.
I jumped down and walked back to the hut. I warmed my hands by the stove. I looked around the hut at the pilots slumped about the place. A couple of them looked about fifteen.
Operational training had been dropped from six months to four weeks. A lot of these sprogs never got to fire their guns until they went on their first sortie. Sometimes this was the last time too. At nineteen, I felt like a veteran.
The press called us “Dowding’s Chicks”. The “Chick” part was because of our youth, the “Dowding” part was after our boss – Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, the head of Fighter Command. Dowding was a terrific fellow, actually, though he was a bit severe. They called him “Stuffy” Dowding, though not to his face, obviously.
Lenny was asleep in his favourite chair, snoring gently. I sat down, closed my eyes and instantly went back to sleep. Sleep just closed in over me, as if I was sinking into a deep black ocean. I felt as though I could have slept for a thousand years.
Off in the distance I heard a bell ringing. It sounded like the bell my teacher used to have in the playground to call us all back to the classroom. Ring, ring, ring. I saw her standing there, ringing the bell, faster and faster, more and more frantically.
Then I was running out over the wet grass, out into the cold dawn light. Chute on, harness on, gloves and helmet on. Engine roaring. Taxiing out. Taking off. I woke up somewhere over Maidstone.
This routine would happen day after day. Ten minutes later the sky would be heaving with aircraft, friends and foe, and we were all of us fighting for our lives. Ten minutes after that the fight would be won or lost. Then, back at base, we’d do a quick headcount to see who was missing.
Then I’d give my report and the crew would run all over the Spit checking for damage, refuelling her and the like. Armourers fed the guns. I’d go to the loo and wash. Then I’d sit back down in my chair, close my eyes and wait to go up again. This was how we lived then, patrol after patrol, scramble after scramble.
One day I was having a running battle with a wasp that was pestering me. Lenny was sitting next to me, reading a book (as always). I grabbed it off him and with one movement thwacked the wasp to the floor and squashed him with the heel of my flying boot.
“Do you mind?” said Lenny, grabbing his book back.
“Sorry. Wasps. Hate them.”
“Can’t imagine they’re too keen on you either,” he said looking down at the squashed wasp and snatching his book back.
“So – what’s the book?” I asked.
“Metamorphosis.”
“Come again?”
“Metamorphosis.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Any good?”
“It is rather, yes.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, funnily enough, it’s about a man who wakes up to find he’s turned into an insect.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound very funny,” I said.
“Not your cup of tea, I shouldn’t think,” he said with a smile.
“Hmm. . . Who’s it by, then, this book of yours?”
“Kafka. Franz Kafka.”
“Sounds German.”
“Czech, actually,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“He did write in German, though. Maybe you should turn me in.”
“Very funny. You think yo
u’re so clev—”
“Squadron scramble!”
We were at 20,000 feet when we saw them. I came down out of the sun and let off a burst of fire at one of them. Smoke started out of its starboard engine. I saw the flicker of flames. The Me110 fell away, down towards the bank of clouds. But like an idiot I followed it down.
And like a complete and utter idiot I didn’t break away. Suddenly there was series of bumps as the cannon on the back of the 110 hit home. I cursed myself long and loud, but had to face facts. The control column was useless. I would have to bale out.
I slid back the cockpit cover, undid my harness and pushed myself clear. The air seemed to scoop me up as the Spit fell away from me, sinking out of sight into the clouds below. I tumbled over and over, pulled the ripcord and up went my parachute.
I was swung about rather wildly for a while, but gradually things calmed down and I found myself floating down through the cloud layer, expecting any moment that a German plane would appear out of the swirling blankness like a shark in milky water.
Then the clouds began to break up and then, quite suddenly, I was looking down on the world, like a traveller looking at a map. I looked about me for Jerry aircraft but they were all heading back to France.
The patchwork of fields below me looked rather wonderful. The cloud shadow moved away to the east and I tugged at my chute to make sure I didn’t drift out to sea. The fabric fluttered and flapped like a flag.
I pulled my mask off. I heard the all-clear sounding. I heard a whistle blowing. I looked up at the blue sky and whistled back. The sun was bright now and I saw a twinkling star-like glint as a windscreen of a distant vehicle caught the light. Two gulls flew by beneath my feet. A car horn tooted.
Houses loomed into view as I descended. Trees too. What had seemed like a map now seemed like a child’s model – a toy tractor on a farm track, a hump-backed barn with some milk churns outside.
The field I was heading towards had a lone white horse in it. As I got closer it whinnied and shook its head and then set off around the field at a mad gallop. I saw a land girl standing by a car and I waved and shouted, “Hello!”
I landed well, sending up a fluttering skylark. It was very calm so I didn’t get dragged along the ground by the chute. As I got to my feet the land girl walked up to me.
“You are English aren’t you?” she asked nervously.
“I certainly am,” I said. A huge smile lit up her freckled face. The skylark twittered above our heads. I had never felt so alive.
August 1940
I managed to persuade Lenny to get out and go to a local dance one summer night. It was great fun, actually. We were celebrities now. You couldn’t open a newspaper without seeing a Spitfire pilot grinning back at you. We were a big hit with the girls and we danced ourselves dizzy.
We managed to get a lift as far as the crossroads, but forgot that they’d taken down all the signposts to foil any Jerry paratroopers. Our navigational training came to nothing and we ended up completely lost. Lenny blamed me, of course, for suggesting the dance in the first place.
“Happy now?” said Lenny.
“Look, it’s not my fault, old chap,” I said.
“You said you knew the way. Of course it’s your fault.”
“Look, if you moaned a little less and tried to help me find out where we are. . .”
“And how are you going to do that? It’s pitch black and you haven’t the faintest idea what direction we’re heading in.”
“Oh, will you please. . .”
Suddenly we heard a rumble, a drone, getting nearer and nearer. I couldn’t see a thing, but I dived headlong into a ditch anyway and Lenny followed close behind. The noise got louder and louder until whatever it was suddenly stopped right next to us.
I peered out. Instead of a Panzer division of invading Germans or whatever I’d expected, there was a tractor in the field next to me. The farmer had climbed down and was just lighting his pipe. I felt a complete fool. Still, at least he hadn’t seen us.
“Er. . . Excuse me,” I said, trying not to startle him.
“You lost?” he said with a smile.
“Yes. Yes we are.”
“You’re a young flyer, ain’t you? One of them there Dowding’s Chickens.”
“Chicks,” I said.
“You what?” said the farmer.
“Dowding’s Chicks. It’s on account of how we’re so young,” said Lenny.
“Not on account of how you can’t fly then?” he said. He grinned. “Just kidding. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
“What are you doing, driving round in the middle of the night, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Lenny.
“Doing my bit, ain’t I,” he said. “Doing my bit for productivity and all that. We all got to do our bit, now, eh?” We nodded. “Safer too, at night.”
“You must see a lot of action from these fields,” I said.
“Oh yes. I had one of those Hurricanes in my top field the other day. Made a right mess of my wheat.”
“Sometimes we just have to land where we can, I’m afraid, Mr. . .”
“Oh ’e didn’t land,” he said. “’E just come down, if you get my drift.”
Just then there was droning noise coming from the south and heading our way. There was no mistake this time. This time it was definitely a bomber. And it wasn’t one of ours. Once again, Lenny and I jumped in the ditch and put our hands over our heads.
The droning got nearer and nearer until it was right over our heads. We closed our eyes, gritted our teeth and held our breath. Then it just as quickly moved away into the distance. Very slowly we climbed out of hiding.
The tractor driver hadn’t moved, and was puffing quietly on his pipe.
“One of those Jerry bombers. Junkers they call ’em, don’t they?” He pronounced Junkers with a hard “j”, like in junk.
“Yunkers,” said Lenny. “It’s pronounced Yunkers.”
“Junkers,” repeated the farmer in the same way as before. “Even if those so-and-sos take over, I ain’t going to be speaking no German.”
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a strange fluttering. There it was again. And again. Slowly, right in front of my face a piece of paper drifted back and forth like an autumn leaf. I plucked it from the air.
“What the. . .” said the farmer. “Let’s ’ave a look at that there.” He flicked his lighter and the three of us crowded round.
On the paper was written, in large capital letters A LAST APPEAL TO REASON BY ADOLF HITLER. Underneath was a reprint of the speech he’d made back in July. The farmer chuckled.
“’E’s a rum ’n’, ain’t ’e though?” Then he set the leaflet on fire, dropped it on to the road and then stamped it out with his boot. “Come on, Chickens,” he said. “Hop aboard.”
The tractor rattled into life and off it went with us hanging on to the side. It wasn’t much faster than walking but we weren’t so very far away.
“I say!” I said suddenly. “How do you know we’re not spies?”
“Oh,” he said. “Those Jerrys is ’ard as nails. No, I knew you was English the minute I sees you jump in that ditch.”
On Tuesday 13 August a fine drizzle fell from a cygnet-grey blanket of cloud. Jerry had been hitting some of the forward bases. I’d flown over one of them after a raid and they’d made quite a mess of it. Today, we’d hopefully get the jump on them.
We spent most of the day staving off boredom and thoughts of the next scramble, but at about four o’clock we were running hell-for-leather out of our dispersal hut and not long after we were up against a flock of Jerry aircraft – Stukas, Me109s, Me110s – the whole shooting match.
We climbed to 20,000 feet and watched the bombers sail by below us at about 15,000. The Squadron Leader shouted “Tally Ho!” and we arced around behind them and drop
ped out of the sun. They never even saw us coming.
The Me109s were higher as usual and dived across to meet us. I looped round and found myself jumping straight onto a 109’s back. I gave him a quick squirt, the aircraft wobbled slightly, flipped on to its back and then burst into flames. It dropped out of the sky, spiralling crazily down, down, through the clouds and back to earth. My first 109!
I saw a Hurricane steaming towards an Me110, guns blazing. Then he just kept on going, ploughing straight into the German. Both planes exploded into each other, scattering flaming fragments across the crowded sky.
The sky was criss-crossed with vapour trails and snaking coils of black smoke. Planes flickered by like fish in a murky pond, darting this way and that. A parachute opened. A piece of wing fluttered by. Columns of smoke rose up along the horizon. I saw Stukas standing out white against it.
They were slow and I hared after them. I swept round behind one and came in from just below. I could see the big yellow bomb hanging underneath. I was so close I couldn’t miss – but miss I did. Bringing down the 109 had made me cocky. I came in too fast, overshot and missed by miles. Out of ammo, I had no choice but to run for home. The Stuka carried on with its bomb.
“Just get it sorted out!” I snapped at the mechanic and stormed off. Lenny wandered up.
“Problems?” he asked.
“Just these idiots,” I said. I heard the mechanic muttering to one of the other airmen and swung back round to face him. He actually looked a little frightened. Had I changed so much?
“Look, it’s my life on the line up there!” I shouted, pointing up to the sky. “If you screw up, it’s me that pays the price, not you. Just do your job, OK?” I saw Lenny raise an eyebrow and I turned towards him.
“Steady on, old chap. We’re all on the same side, you know.”
“Stay out of it, will you Lenny?” I said.
“OK, OK,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m a hero too, remember?” He grinned, but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Look, Lenny. . .” I began. BOOM! “What the. . .?” BOOM! The whole place shook.
Battle of Britain Page 4