"Well, Tony. Back from gallivanting about London, I see." His voice was gruff, uncompromising, and Tony steeled himself as he turned to face his father.
"Yes, and I've joined up. Jim's people did want me after all."
His father beamed as he stepped forward to shake his son by the hand.
"At last! I can't tell you how glad I am to hear it, my boy! Which regiment are you with?"
Tony licked his dry lips and took a deep breath. This was it.
"Actually, Dad, I'm not with any specific regiment. I have been made a lieutenant with the Ministry of Economic Warfare."
Sir Michael released his son’s hand, a frown beginning to furrow his brow. He slowly shook his head.
"Never heard of it. What's your job?"
"Well, they knew about my background, and thought I could be best used as a liaison officer between the military and the armament factories."
There was stony silence for a moment as Sir Michael took this in. His voice was tight with emotion when he spoke at last.
"You mean you won't be fighting?"
Tony nodded.
"I'll be doing much the same job Grandfather did in the last war. After all, it was his turning the bicycle factories over to the production of aircraft that made his fortune, and won him his knighthood."
"But your grandfather was old! I was your age and I fought in the trenches. It’s your generation who should fight, and leave the running of the factories to people like me who’ve already fought one war.” Tony watched the conflicting play of emotions on his father’s face as he spoke. “You know how worried I was when you were missing in France. I thought I’d lost you, and I was so glad to get you back alive. I don't really want to go through that again, but I must, that’s what war is all about. It’s my duty to be willing to give up my son for my country, and it’s your duty to be willing to fight, no matter how difficult we may both find it."
Sir Michael struggled to put across his mixed emotions, hoping that in some way he could influence his youngest son. Tony thought he understood his father, a man from a different generation where every action was based on honour and loyalty, a man who had lost family and friends fighting in the war to end wars. A war that had left him in no doubt that, if the younger generation did not fight to preserve their freedom, then the losses of his youth would have been in vain. Tony could feel the depth of his father’s emotions, it was not hard to sense how important it was for him to see his son fighting to defend his homeland, but the decision had already been made and could not be undone.
"I know, Dad.” Tony’s voice was conciliatory. “I want to fight, but I must accept that the military know what’s best, and if this is what they want me to do, then I shall do it."
Sir Michael was barely able to control his frustrated anger.
"The military know best? You should have been in the trenches, boy, then you’d have seen that the military often knows nothing! Certainly nothing of honour and loyalty; just glory and protecting their own positions.” He glared at his son. “You could have said no, couldn’t you? You could get a transfer now, if you wanted to? But you won't, will you?" Tony silently shook his head. "Then the only conclusion I can come to is that you somehow engineered this, because you’re afraid to fight. After all my generation went through, all the horror of war in the trenches to buy your freedom." He turned and strode angrily to the door before glaring over his shoulder at Tony. "I must face the fact that my youngest son is a coward."
With that he turned and left the room.
Tony was breathing heavily, fists clenched, his body rigid. It had been far worse than he had anticipated. To be called a coward by his own father, and not be able to defend himself. He had never imagined that, nor the pain it would bring, and it cut him to the core. Yet, for all that, he knew where his loyalties lay. He kept his silence for the sake of his country, though it broke his heart to do so.
15
David stared glumly at his half-finished pint of beer. 74 Squadron had arrived at RAF Leconfield in Yorkshire the previous afternoon, for a rest period after their action over Dunkirk. True to his promise to his dying friend, David had been to see Martin Richies' mother and had just returned. He had hated lying to her, but felt that he owed it to Martin to say that his death had been quick and painless; what was worse, he could see from the look in her eyes that she did not quite believe him, but was grateful for the attempt to ease her loss. Martin's home was very different from David's, a small trader’s house filled with inexpensive ornaments and pictures, yet steeped in a feeling of family love and unity. On the sideboard had been a photograph, draped in black ribbon, of Martin in his RAF uniform. Beside that was another photograph of a young man, so like Martin that David knew it had to be his younger brother. The young man was standing proudly beside a Tiger Moth, one hand placed possessively on the wing. Mrs. Richies had noticed David looking at the photograph and forced a wan smile. David could still hear the echo of her words in his head.
"That's Andy, Martin's brother. He's joined the RAF too, you know. He only has two more weeks of training then he'll be joining his squadron." She had stood and walked slowly over to the sideboard where she had picked up the photograph. Her fingers lovingly traced the outline of his face as she spoke quietly. "He was so proud of Martin, his death hit him badly. He's applied to join your squadron in some mad hope of being able to avenge his brother." Her eyes filled with tears as she picked up Martin's photograph too. "My boys were all I had, and now I only have one." She turned to David. "You were Martin's friend. If Andy does join your squadron, will you look after him for me? I couldn't bear to lose him as well."
David shivered and drank the rest of his beer. He had promised to do his best to look after Andy, but he knew that there would be very little that he could do to protect the boy. He hoped that Andy would not be assigned to 74 Squadron, that way he would not have to feel responsible. With a strange sense of foreboding, David ordered another drink.
The week at Leconfield passed quickly; days spent at leisure at the airfield, nights in the local pubs or in the arms of the local girls at the dances held on the base. There was a feeling of excitement in the air. Now that Hitler had control of the Continent, he would be making his move against England, and the boys of the RAF knew that they would be in the front line when it came to defence. No one said anything, but they had all lost friends over Dunkirk, and knew that when the Luftwaffe came many more of the RAF would be lost. Would it be them? Their friends? How long had they left to live? 'Forget the questions and live life to the full' seemed to be the general conclusion. When the squadron returned to RAF Rochford on June 6th to await new aircraft and pilots, the men were ready for action.
Life on the front line continued in much the same vein as it had in Yorkshire; there was little combat, which gave the pilots time to get to know the local girls, and a chance to experience all that life had to offer. New aircraft and new pilots continued to arrive over a period of days, so the squadron was soon almost back to full strength. They were only waiting now for one more pilot to join Blue Section, and when the notice of the posting came through, David Kemshall felt a dull weight settle in the pit of his stomach. His prayers had not been answered. Andrew Richies was to join 74 Squadron.
David lay back in his deck chair, eyes closed against the harsh glare of the sun. A shadow passed across his face, and he opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a man standing beside him. Sitting up, he turned to face the young man who smiled down at him.
"Are you David Kemshall?"
David nodded. "You don't need to tell me who you are, I recognise you from your photograph. Welcome to Tiger Squadron, Andy." He stood and shook the young man by the hand as he spoke. "You've just finished basic training, haven't you? Have you seen any action yet?"
Andy shook his head.
"No. But I can't wait to get up there, and pay those bastards back for what they did to Martin."
David nodded and pointed over to the hangar.
"Come on, Andy, I'll show you around and explain how we do things here." He pointed to a row of aircraft, which stood gleaming in the intense sunlight. "They’re our new Spitfires. They haven't seen action yet, so they’re as new to all this as you." He smiled encouragingly at the young man, barely eighteen years old, trying to put him at his ease. "Each fighter squadron has sixteen aircraft and twenty six pilots, so we can maintain a standard combat formation of twelve fighters in the air. We’re part of Number 11 Group, and our assigned area is the air space over London and the southeast. The Squadron is divided into two flights. The inventive boys at H.Q. have called them 'A' Flight and 'B' Flight." David smiled as he continued. "When we’re operating at full strength, each flight is split into two groups of three aircraft which we identify by colour. A Flight is split into Red and Yellow Sections, while B Flight is split into Blue and Green. I'm in A Flight Red Section and you are in B Flight Blue Section."
"What was Martin in?"
David still found it difficult to talk about Martin in the past tense, and took a deep breath before replying.
"Red. With me."
"I don't suppose I can be in Red as well?"
David shook his head.
"Sorry, Andy. I don't have any say in the matter. Anyway, perhaps it's best that you don't follow too closely in Martin's footsteps."
David felt that Andy was tempting fate in wanting to emulate his dead brother so closely, and was glad that they would be in different sections.
"Let's get back to flight details," he said, wanting to turn the conversation away from Martin and the memories of their last flight, which still haunted him. "Pilots have to identify themselves over RT, Radio Telephone, by stating their position in the formation. For instance, your leader will be Blue 1; Blue 2 will be on his right and Blue 3 on his left. We never mention the squadron number when we're up in the air. That way the enemy are less likely to identify who we are. We are known as Dysoe."
They had reached the aircraft and were looking around at the peaceful scene. One or two mechanics worked on the planes, but nothing else moved in the hot summer sun. The pilots could be seen lounging in the shade of the buildings on the edge of the airfield. Even the squadron’s pet dog was lying in the shade, its only sign of life the slight movement of its tail.
"There doesn't seem to be much going on at the moment."
"We’ve had the odd encounter, but the main battle hasn't started yet. When it does, you’ll need to be familiar with the various states of preparedness. If you are 'Released' it means you’re not required for operations. 'Available', which is what we are at at the moment, means be ready to take off in twenty minutes. 'Readiness' is take off in five and 'Stand By' is take off in two, which means you must be strapped in your plane ready for the order to scramble. We need thirteen minutes to scramble and climb to twenty thousand feet, so every second counts."
"I've heard this new radar can see planes from miles away. How can it tell the enemy from us?"
"We carry a small transmitter called IFF which means Identification, Friend or Foe. It shows up on the radar screen so that the boys at Ops. know who we are. Whatever you do, don't forget to switch on your IFF when you go up, or you'll be in for some stick. We also have a device called 'Pip Squeak’ on board. It switches on a high-frequency radio signal for fourteen seconds every minute. The transmission is picked up by three ground direction finding stations, and they fix our positions by triangulation, so there's no chance of you getting lost up there."
David looked at his watch. "Almost lunch time. I'll take you over to the mess to meet the rest of the boys, then give you the rest of the low-down this afternoon."
It was a pleasant lunch. Reynolds welcomed Andy to the squadron, and introduced him to the other members who were relaxing at the bar. Dysoe Squadron had seen little action since returning from Leconfield. Although they were expecting the main battle to begin soon, they still had time to relax and fly training flights, one of which would be going up that afternoon with Andy as Blue 3.
After lunch David took the new recruit back out onto the airfield and led him across to his Spitfire.
"Each fighter has its own ground-crew, an air-frame rigger and an engine fitter who check over the plane after each action. There are also armourers, wireless, electrical and instrument mechanics allotted to each flight. So unless a plane is really badly shot up, we should be able to get it back up into the air again, if the ground-crew work through the night."
Andy had donned flying overalls and Mae West life jacket in the crew room. He carried his helmet, gloves and parachute with him, and David showed him how to stow his gear in the Spitfire and arrange his straps for a quick getaway. After being introduced to the ground crew, Andy climbed up the wing root and into the cockpit. By the time he was strapped in, the rest of B Flight were taxiing out; he turned to David.
"Aren't A Flight going up?"
David shook his head. "No. It's only a training flight. We stay here in case there’s a scramble." He noticed the young man’s nervousness and smiled encouragingly. "I know it’s your first time in a Spit, but just stick with your section leader and, if you should come into contact with the enemy, don't forget the 'Hun in the sun'."
David turned and ran, as tongues of flame and clouds of smoke burst from the exhausts of the Spitfire. Andy spotted his section leader and taxied across to take up position. B Flight lined up in battle formation across the width of the airfield then opened up their engines. With an ear-splitting roar, the planes rolled forwards together and then were airborne. David watched the planes circle the airfield, then turn south and climb swiftly into the clear blue sky.
16
Sir Michael, Louise and her mother were in the drawing room when David arrived on leave. Sir Michael merely smiled warmly at his eldest son but his wife could not contain her feelings, and rushed over to embrace him.
“It’s so good to see you, mon cher. But why are they giving you leave now? I thought that Hitler was planning to invade? Should you not be ready to fight?”
David smiled. “We are ready, Mamma, and they can call me back at any time.” He walked over to the window where he looked out over the peaceful gardens of his home, He wondered what was happening in the occupied lands, less than an hour’s flight away. “We don’t know much about what’s happening out in France at the moment, but we do know that the Luftwaffe are building up their numbers just beyond the coast. I don’t think Hitler will begin the full invasion until his air force has done as much damage as they can to our ports, airports and radar stations in the south.”
“Will the invading forces come soon?”
“Our squadron leader doesn’t think so. He thinks Hitler will try to wipe out all our air resistance before sending his invasion forces across the Channel.”
“So shouldn’t you be with your squadron?”
David turned to his father. “He thinks Hitler’s almost, but not quite, ready. That’s why Fighter Command have given us front-line pilots forty-eight hour passes. It might be the last chance we get for some time.”
“I wish you could stay for longer.”
David turned back to his mother and smiled. “So do I. It’s so good to be back home again after the action we saw over Dunkirk. You won’t believe how much I’ve missed you all.”
"We are so glad you came safe through all that." She tilted her head back to look up at her son and smiled. "I am so proud of you David."
"Yes. So am I, son." Sir Michael indicated a chair as he spoke. "Sit down and tell us all about it."
David went across to Chantrelle de Thierry, and bent to kiss her cheek.
"Hello, Grandmamma. I'm glad to see you safe."
The old lady hugged her grandson tearfully.
"Welcome home, David."
The young man made his way across to the chair, sat down and smiled at his assembled family. "There's not much to tell, really. I'm sure I told you everything in my letter. The RAF saw a lot of action over the beaches and kept t
he big bombers away, but the soldiers down below couldn't see us because of all the smoke. We've taken some stick for that from the army over the past few weeks."
Sir Michael nodded.
"Yes, Tony said he saw little of the RAF from the beaches."
"Tony?" David was stunned. "He was at Dunkirk? But I thought he came home with Grandmamma?"
Chantrelle de Thierry shook her head and smiled wistfully. "Your younger brother packed me off on a boat, then went to see what was happening further east. It is a long story and you must ask him all about it yourself."
"Where’s Tony? Has he joined up yet?" the elder brother asked eagerly. "I can see that I've got a lot to catch up on."
Sir Michael frowned, and David wondered what was wrong.
"You certainly have got a lot to catch up on," his father said at last, his voice bitter and harsh. "Tony is in the army; in a strange capacity." He could see that David wanted to ask a question, and held up a restraining hand as he shook his head. "No, don't ask me. It will be better coming from your brother. He's out in the gardens somewhere at the moment. Why don't you go and look for him?"
David rose with a puzzled frown.
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