David was exhausted and had forgotten his own rule about the 'Hun in the sun'. As he pulled up from the dive, a cannon shell exploded behind the armour-plated seatback, punching him forward with the impact. A bullet whistled as it cut through his helmet, grazing the top of his head before smashing his gun sight. Other bullets punctured the oil and glycol tanks, and David watched through a red mask as a 109 flashed by.
Trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, he fought desperately to turn the damaged plane away from the enemy. Fumes were filling the cockpit causing him to cough. His blood filled eyes began to sting, and he fought frantically against an overwhelming dizziness. The plane had had it, and he was too low to jump. Praying that the enemy would leave him alone for long enough, David headed for a field where it looked as if he might get away with a forced landing. Stick-like figures ran from the centre of the field to take cover in the hedgerows as the plane screamed towards them. At one hundred feet the engine blew up.
David felt himself being thrown through the air, the wind of his passage roaring through his ears, and he knew this was the end. Unable to see through the curtain of blood which covered his eyes, David was unaware of the haystack until he hit it. Instead of hard unyielding earth, he fell through the softness of the hay and lay still.
Minutes that seemed like hours passed before hands reached down to pull him clear.
"Are you all right, mate?"
David nodded, still a little groggy. Someone prodded his head.
"It's all right. Just a flesh wound. There's a lot of blood, but it looks worse than it is."
A jug of water was proffered, and David drank gratefully.
"The police will be here soon, they'll get you back to your base."
David nodded his thanks, and slipped into oblivion.
Whoever had looked at his head was right. The wound was not serious, and David came to as it as being bandaged by the local police. With grateful thanks, the pilot allowed himself to be led to a patrol car. It ferried him back to Manston where he sank gratefully into his bed and slept the night through.
Within a period of little more than seven hours on 11th August, No. 74 Squadron had fought four engagements with the Luftwaffe. They had destroyed thirty-eight enemy aircraft, as well as damaging many more. The battle for air supremacy over Britain was now raging. Civilians were becoming more aware of just how much depended on these brave men, who went up time after time to do battle with the an enemy determined to add their country to its long list of conquests.
David was pronounced fit for action again immediately. There were few enough pilots without giving sick leave to those with only minor injuries. At the airfield, no-one now grieved openly for the dead. Deaths were inevitable during such concentrated fighting. None of the airmen doubted that the RAF would be victorious in the end, but would they personally be there to enjoy the victory celebrations? David found himself secretly watching the others, wondering who would be next, searching their faces for signs of fear. He thought they were looking at him in the same way too, but no-one spoke about their fears. They were all afraid that, if they did, it would give such nightmares a living, breathing reality, and leave them unable to do their job. As he sat in the Dispatch Room two days after his crash landing, watching the early morning mist rising from the damp grass, David wondered if he would ever see his home and family again. Fear gripped him tightly, yet it allowed him to be totally honest about his feelings for the first time in weeks. He recognised his own fear, his desperation to see his family again, his longing for a return to the peace he had known in his youth. All these things helped him to see that although he would never be able to forgive Tony for his cowardice, he still loved the younger brother who had always been such an important part of his life. He was determined to give Tony the support to face up to his own fears, and to try to get him to do something a little more worthwhile in this war. At peace with himself, David leant back in his chair and relaxed.
"Scramble! Scramble!"
The Tannoy howled and twelve pilots ran for their machines. Moments later, the squadron rose into the air, like giant birds of prey lusting for their next meal.
"Dysoe Leader to all Sections." Reynolds’ voice came over the RT. "There are about seventy bombers over the estuary without fighter cover. Let's go get them!"
The Squadron headed out for Whitstable. The early morning sun was low in the sky and obscured their vision. At last the enemy were sighted.
"Tally Ho! It's everyone for himself today!"
The Spitfires broke formation and dived at the bombers who returned fire, though not as effectively as they would have been able to if they had fighter cover. As David entered the fray, he was conscious of individual combats all around him. Reynolds was carrying out a beam attack on three bombers, Taylor had disabled the port engine of the first plane he attacked, Freeman hurtled through the cloud to attack a plane from behind and send it crashing into the sea.
David fired into one of the bombers from slightly above and astern, riddling it with bullets. Two of the crew bailed out, and he watched the pale mushrooms of their parachutes as they followed the plunging death-dive of their burning plane at a more leisurely pace. David found it almost relaxing. It was easy to attack the bombers with all the speed and manoeuvrability of the Spitfire, without having to constantly look over his shoulder for an attacking fighter. Although the bombers could, and did, fire back, the damage to 74 Squadron was slight and they returned to Base able to claim five bombers destroyed and seven damaged.
In the bar that evening Reynolds set up the drinks. "Well, lads, a good days work. And I've got some good news for you too." He smiled at the ring of expectant faces around him. "We're being withdrawn to RAF Wittering in Northamptonshire for a rest period."
Cheers and whoops of delight greeted this remark while uniform caps were hurled into the air. Reynolds laughed. "That's not all. Everyone gets one week’s leave before we have to begin training the replacement pilots in the way we like to do things. Now, pick up your drinks and let's celebrate!"
The pilots needed no second bidding. Glasses were raised in hearty toasts and more drinks were downed than would normally be acceptable in the Mess. But who cared? No-one needed to stay sober, for tomorrow they would be out of it, able to sleep well at night and relax during the day, without the scramble alarm lifting them from their seats at a moment’s notice. Knowing that he would finally be able to relax, David began to realise just how much pressure he had been under for the last few weeks. Many of his colleagues had shown signs of cracking, and he wondered if he had appeared the same to them. A spot of leave was just what they all needed.
23
David drove home the following morning in the small red sports car that had been his coming-of -age present from his parents. As he turned into the sweeping driveway that led to Heronfield House, the young man found his eyes pricking with tears, and roughly dashed them away with the back of his hand. It would not do for the homecoming hero to be seen crying like a baby. David parked outside the lodge, still feeling uncomfortable at being denied access to the big house, yet proud of the sacrifice his father was making. Not bothering to open the low-slung door, he climbed out of the car just as his parents appeared on the top step of the flight leading up to the door of the lodge. The three people looked at each other, too full of their emotions to do or say anything, then Louise Kemshall rushed down the steps to embrace her son. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him.
"I am so proud of you, David." She hugged him again, as though afraid that he would be called away before they had a chance to spend some time together. Sir Michael followed his wife more sedately down the steps and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Well done, lad." Sir Michael waved a hand at the blue and purple-striped ribbon sewn beneath the wings on David’s uniform. "The day I heard you’d got the DFC was the proudest day of my life." Throwing all decorum to the wind, he reached out and embraced his son. "It's good to have you home again
."
"Let us have our lunch in the garden!"
David noticed that his mother’s gaiety was forced, and raised a questioning eyebrow at his father. Sir Michael shook his head as if to say 'not now'. Louise seemed not to notice this exchange as she started back into the house.
"You two go round to the side. I have laid a table in the shade. It is a cold lunch, so I will join you soon."
She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
"Come on, lad." Sir Michael led his son round to the side of the house. "You'll have to bear with your mother, David. Although she hasn't said anything, I know she's been really worried about you. The newspapers are full of how you boys are fighting the Battle of Britain alone, and we can't switch on the radio without hearing more news. Each morning your mother waits for the post, hoping for a letter from you. And every time the doorbell rings during the day she jumps like a scalded cat. I'm sure she expects to get a telegram, because when it turns out to be a friend or neighbor, not the postman, the relief on her face is enormous."
"I'm sorry, Dad. The last thing I want to do is make Mamma suffer like that, but it's all part of the job. I don't think I'll tell her much about it though, if that's all right with you.”
His father nodded. "Yes. I think the least said about it the better. This week will go too quickly as it is. Just try to forget and enjoy yourself."
"That's easier said than done, Dad."
David sat down, his back to a tall pine tree, and Sir Michael noticed the tiredness and strain etched on his eldest son’s face.
"It's that bad, is it?"
David nodded. "The losses are so high. Planes are repaired and replaced quickly enough, but it's harder to replace pilots. They take a year to train, and even by cutting the courses at Operational Training Units from four weeks to two, we can't fill all the places. So many of the new pilots sent to us are unready for combat, and we don't have time to train them. You know, some of the new lads never return from their first sortie. I don't even remember the names of some of them, they weren't with us long enough for me to get to know them." He closed his eyes as though to shut out the world. "Some of them are so young, Dad, not much more than boys." His voice was soft, and he felt himself near to crying again as he thought of Andy. Fighting to get his emotions under control, he opened his eyes and listened to the homely sounds coming from the kitchen.
"You look tired, lad." Sir Michael remembered his service in the trenches, and knew just how hard it was to constantly face the enemy without any hope of respite. Unaware of his father’s thoughts David nodded.
"Yes, I'm tired. You can't know what it's like, Dad. We can fly up to half a dozen times a day. We often fly when we’re totally exhausted or wounded. We try to snatch a few moments’ sleep between emergencies, but it’s hopeless. While it's daylight we have to be ready to fly, and the days are awfully long at this time of year. Sixteen hours on duty seems to be the norm at the moment." He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. "I know we'll win, Dad, we shoot down far more of them than they do of us, but we get so tired. I sometimes think it will never end."
Unsure of what to say to comfort his son, Sir Michael sat in silence. When he looked back, he saw that David had fallen into the sleep of the exhausted.
Cups rattled on a tray as Louise made her way around the side of the house.
"Here I am at last. Sorry I took so long but..." She stopped speaking as Sir Michael held a finger to his lips and took the tray from her, placing it gently on the table. He inclined his head towards their sleeping son.
"Let him rest."
He took his wife in his arms and this time the tears came freely.
"I am so frightened for him, Michael. I wish he did not have to go back."
“I know. I’m as frightened for him as you are, Louise, but we both know that he must go back.” He looked down at the sleeping form. “I’m proud that David is willing to give so much for his country.”
Holding his wife close he gently wiped away the tears, and prayed this would not be the last time that they would see their son.
Nothing more was said of the pressures under which David was working. His parents tried their best to make him forget, to divert him with trips to his old haunts, or just spending time quietly with him. Outwardly, David seemed to be recovering. He was no longer so tired, and was able to spend less time catching up on the sleep he had missed at Manston. But the worry lines still etched his face. His eyes held a haunted look, as though even away from his squadron, David was still fighting the battle.
Five days into David’s leave, Tony arrived home from his physical training course. Despite his anger at his brother’s choice of duty, David was immensely glad to see him. Maybe he could share his experiences with his younger brother, just as he had done when they were boys. Maybe it would help him to exorcise some of the ghosts that haunted him, and maybe it would bring the two brothers closer together again. He certainly hoped so.
The atmosphere at home was tense, as though Sir Michael was comparing his two sons and one of them was found wanting. It was impossible to talk.
“Shall we go out for a drink tonight?” Dinner was over and David smiled across at his brother. Tony nodded.
“Come on, then.” David led the way from the room. “It’ll be good to see the old places and old faces again.”
“If there are still any here. I would think most of them have joined up by now.”
“Well, we won’t know if we don’t go and look!”
The two young men climbed into the red sports car and David headed off towards the local pub in the village. On the way he stopped, got out of the car and leant on a gate, gazing out over the beautiful countryside. After a moment’s hesitation, Tony climbed out of the car to join him. There was silence for a time, not the companionable silence of their childhood but one filled with expectancy, waiting for words to be said that could never be taken back. At last David broke the silence, his words soft, questioning.
"Were you afraid at Dunkirk?" He continued to gaze across the fields as though he had not a care in the world, but Tony could see how tense he was.
"Yes. I was afraid. The beaches were so open, and there was nowhere to take shelter. But I didn't show my fear, if that's what you're thinking." Tony’s voice was filled with hurt and anger and David turned to face him.
"No, that wasn't what I was thinking; but it sounds as though Dad must have said something like that."
Tony nodded. "You must have noticed the atmosphere at home. He still hasn't forgiven me for accepting my present job."
"I can understand that."
Tony tensed at David’s words, waiting for the attack, but it never came. Instead... "I can also understand how fear might have played a part in you deciding to take the job. You see, Tony, over the last few weeks I've known what it is to feel fear." David took out a cigarette and lit it, hands shaking. "I've lost a lot of friends in this. I told you about my friend who died. I tried to talk him home over the radio but he was wounded, and all the time he was talking his blood was pumping out of him. His cockpit must have been awash with it. Eventually he passed out and crashed into the sea." Tears appeared in David’s eyes, but he ignored them, desperate to unburden himself to Tony. "That friend’s brother then joined my squadron. He was shot down in flames. I was told that he was conscious but couldn't get out. I don't know if it was the flames or the crash that killed him. He was younger than you, Tony."
David buried his head in his hands, forgotten cigarette falling to the ground where Tony swiftly stamped it out.
"I dream about those deaths. Then I dream that it's me in those planes." He looked up, and Tony was shocked by the pain and loss in his eyes. "We've lost so many men. There are hardly any of the original squadron left, and most of the new boys are so inexperienced that they don't last for long. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive you for not making a stand and fighting for your country. But in a purely selfish way, I'm glad you didn't."
Tony frowned, puzzled by his brother’s contradictory words. "What do you mean?"
"There won't be many of us left by the time this is all over. I want to live, but being realistic I know my chances aren't that good. If I die, that means that you’re all Mamma and Dad will have left. If doing an office job will keep you safe for them, then I'm glad. Though saying that makes me feel like a traitor to all the other young men who have died.”
Tony did not know what to say. He wanted to comfort David in the loss of his friends, tell him that he wasn't going to die and that there was no need to be afraid, tell him that far from being ashamed of Tony, he should be proud of the job he had taken on. Yet the words would not come. There are no words to say such things. Tony reached out and put an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
"You'll be all right, David," he said softly, "and I want you to know that I'm not a coward. This job isn’t totally lacking in danger. Although I may not be at the front shooting at the enemy, I’ll have to travel abroad to some war zones, to liaise with the army and find out what they need." Tony found the words of comfort flowing from some inner source, and prayed that he would be forgiven for what he saw as necessary lies. "There will be danger involved for me, though perhaps not as much as being in the front line. I still believe this is what I’m best suited for in this war."
David seemed to relax a little, leaning against his brother, and Tony wondered at this strange trading of places. In the past it had always been David who was the strong one, David who comforted little Tony. Now the roles were reversed.
"You should have told us more about your job. Maybe Dad would have been more understanding then."
Tony laughed bitterly. "I don't think Dad will be satisfied unless I’m driving a tank through Berlin in an attempt to capture Hitler myself!"
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