David was just dozing off when the phone rang again. This time the operator called his orders before replacing the receiver.
"Blue Section Scramble. Lone enemy fighter over the Norfolk coast!"
As the members of Blue Section leapt to their feet and raced for their aircraft, the remaining nine pilots relaxed again.
David smiled across at Lewis from Yellow Section. "Looks like things are going to be fairly easy for us here, if we only have to face the Hun one at a time."
Lewis nodded. "Yes. But let's not forget that these planes must have got past the front line squadrons to reach us. It must be hell for the boys in Category A."
David stood up and stretched. "You know, I think I'd rather be with them at the moment. The sooner we smash the Luftwaffe, the happier I'll be."
Blue Section returned in time for lunch after bringing down the enemy plane, and in the early afternoon it was the turn of Yellow Section to scramble. David watched the three planes speeding off in the direction of Great Yarmouth to intercept another lone fighter. He turned to Lewis.
“God, but I hope we’ll be going up soon. You know it’s funny, but when I went home on leave I wouldn’t have minded if I’d had never flown against the enemy again. Now here I am feeling jealous of those boys who get to go up instead of me!”
The rest had left him clearheaded and ready to do his bit once more. He waited eagerly for the 'Scramble' alarm; but when it came it was Green Section who headed off in the direction of Suffolk. With a sigh, David turned back to the other two pilots of Red Section, and joined them in a deck chair in the shade cast by the Operations Hut. It was cooler there, offering some relief for the men who, still wore their heavy fur lined flying jackets which would be so essential to them when flying at height. Freeman took a pack of cards from his breast pocket.
"Anyone for a game?"
David nodded. "It'll help pass the time." He pulled his deckchair closer to Freeman. "I hear that Green Section ran out of fuel and had to land at Wattisham.”
Freeman nodded as he shuffled the cards. "That's right. We seem to be spending all day chasing individual raiders all over the place. What I wouldn't give to be in a big fight again, it's far more exhilarating. I..."
"Red Section Scramble! Bomber in the vicinity of Lowestoft!"
The three pilots were in their planes and taxiing away before the Tannoy had ceased to blare. David felt the familiar rush of adrenalin as the wheels lifted, and he took his plane to its position in the formation. The new Spitfire Mk. IIs performed well, bringing them over Lowestoft in record time.
"Tally Ho!" Freeman's voice signalled that he had sighted the Hun. "He. III at eleven thousand feet. He's just above that thick cloud-layer, lads so let's get him before he has a chance to duck in there."
Freeman opened the attack from astern, closely followed by David. The bomber returned fire from the fringes of the cloud, where it was only intermittently visible. The two Spitfires fired again and again as the plane came into view.
"I keep hitting the damned thing, but it just doesn't seem to be doing any good!" David was frustrated. "If only we could get it out of the cloud!"
"It's all academic to me." Freeman broke contact with the raider. "I'm out of ammo."
David fired a half-second burst into the tail of the plane. "Me too. Let's head for home."
"Red One to Red Three. It's all yours Ted, we're heading back to Duxford."
"Roger."
The two Spitfires headed back to base while Ted followed the He. III out to sea. He chased it in and out of the cloud until, twenty-five miles further on, he lost contact and returned to Duxford, leaving the damaged bomber to limp home.
Life continued in this vein for 74 Squadron for the remainder of the month. Time and again the sections were sent up to intercept lone enemy planes, rarely flying as a full squadron. Their only losses were when two of their number were posted as instructors to Operational Training Units, and one to take command of a squadron. So, while the battle for the airways of Britain was at its height, David remained comparatively safe at Duxford.
27
Tony gazed out of the window at the russet-coloured bracken that stretched all the way to the pine forest on the horizon. He had been at Arisaig, on the western coast of Inverness-shire, for four weeks now, learning the tools of his new trade. Days were spent on small arms training with every imaginable weapon - German, Italian, British and American - ranging from pistols through rifles, machine guns and sub-machine guns. After his initial confusion, Tony was now able to strip, reassemble, load, fire and maintain any weapon the staff gave him; and after hours of working blindfold, he could strip and load them all in total darkness with little loss of speed. Knowing the names of weapons and how to maintain them was not, however, enough. The trainees practiced firing on a small range and also at snap targets, after a long and arduous obstacle course that left them breathless and shaking. Unnecessary aiming was discouraged. All potential agents were taught to fire with knees bent and two hands on the pistol, which was aimed by instinct from the waist. The action of pulling the trigger twice in succession was almost second nature to Tony now; there was no chance of him risking his life on one shot which might miss.
Tony found the silent killing the most difficult, yet most rewarding, part of the course. At first the thought of using his bare hands to kill a man sickened him, but as he became more skilled he found his self-confidence increasing, along with his feeling of power and security.
Any task which might face Tony in France, from blowing up a train to storming a house, or laying a simple ambush, had been practiced constantly, along with intensive map-reading and cross-country work. Tony now felt ready for anything, and was anxious to prove himself. He looked down at the piece of paper on his desk.
'You will come ashore from a submarine and destroy the local train tomorrow. It will be carrying senior SS officers.'
The times of the trains were laid out in front of him, as were the maps of the locality. Tony knew that attempts would be made to stop him, and he had only twenty-four hours until the train was due. With a frown of concentration he picked up a pencil and began to make his plans.
Tony paddled the tiny one-man canoe silently towards the shore. He had disembarked from a small fishing boat, the training course’s substitute for a submarine, now he made his stealthy way towards the rocky cove he had chosen as his landing site. Although there were no lights to be seen, Tony knew that between him and the railway track were a number of army personnel posing as Germans; their brief was to guard against attack on an important train due to pass through their area. Although it was only a test, Tony's heart was racing. 'This is what it will be like in France,' he thought, 'only there I’ll be facing real Germans, and real bullets.'
The bottom of the canoe grated against the shingle as Tony climbed out, dragging the boat ashore and stowing it behind a boulder. Dried seaweed, left high up the tideline after the winter storms, festooned the rocks, and Tony used it to camouflage his canoe. Then he shouldered his heavy pack and began the slow ascent of the low cliff.
It would not have been a difficult climb in the light of day, but on such a moonless night it was difficult to find hand and footholds amongst the rocks. He slipped a number of times, and wondered if his time in the SOE would end here and now with a broken leg if not something worse. At last, Tony dragged himself over the edge of the cliff and lay concealed behind a bush, as he carefully surveyed the area. He was just about to move on when he heard footsteps. Peering into the blackness on his right, he saw two men walking slowly along the cliff path, rifles slung on their backs. A cliff patrol! He waited silently, hardly daring to breathe, but the two men passed by without seeing him. As soon as they were out of sight, Tony ran for the cover of the pine trees.
The railway he was looking for was some three miles away on the other side of the woods. It took him the rest of the night to get there, for although the woods were not patrolled, it would have been all too easy for him
to get lost amongst the dark, crowded trees. The rosy light of an early Scottish dawn found him crouched on the edge of the wood, surveying the railway half a mile away over the bracken-covered ground. It was three hours before the train was due, and he wondered if the track had been checked. Almost in answer to his unspoken question, four men made their way along the line, looking carefully at the tracks to see if they had been tampered with. Tony watched them until they were out of sight then, conscious of how conspicuous he would be if he stood up, he crawled slowly through the bracken until he was close to the rails. Taking off his pack, he removed the small packet of plastic explosive. He moulded it around the tracks before inserting a detonator and retreating towards the trees, playing out the line behind him as he went. It was then a matter of waiting.
He waited as patiently as he could beneath the trees. The time the train was due came and went, but there was no train. Tony found it difficult to control his nerves. He wanted to jump up to see if he could see the train coming, or maybe abandon the task, as it seemed that the train might not come at all. Then there it was, the obsolete rolling stock which was often used in SOE training. The throttle was jammed open to allow the train to move down the track at a reasonable pace without the need for a driver. Behind it came another engine and carriage, carrying soldiers. They would be the guards on the SS train for the purpose of the exercise. Tony knew that if he managed to destroy the train, they would be after him.
As the train approached the position of the explosives, Tony nervously licked his lips and tightened his grip on the detonator handle, then the moment came. With a quick downward thrust, he detonated the explosives. The whole front end of the engine was lifted from the rails and fell to one side, dragging its single carriage off the rails with it. With the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears, the scream of tearing metal shrill in the still air, Tony quickly re-packed his haversack before looking once more at the train. It had come to rest with the carriage at an obscene angle, lying against the boiler of the engine. Tony smiled, but as he put his pack on his back and watched the second engine screech to a halt, his smile faded. Between twenty and thirty soldiers leapt from the carriage and fanned out, heading for the trees which were the only place a saboteur could be concealed. Tony grimaced. His task would not be over until he had reached his designated safe house, without leading the 'enemy' there. He turned and ran swiftly into the trees.
To right and left of him, Tony heard the crackling of undergrowth as his pursuers searched for him. Shunning the pathway ahead where he would be all too easily seen, Tony ran on through the trees, hoping that his noise would be mistaken by the following men for one of their own. The would-be spy slowly turned his path southwards, making for the edge of the forest. Finally, across the wide space of bracken ahead, he could see a small village. Somewhere over there was his safe house.
Turning back towards the trees, Tony listened carefully. The sounds of pursuit were still well north of him, and seemed to be moving away. He waited a moment to make certain, then ran out from the cover of the trees. The half-mile to the village was the longest he had ever covered. He pushed himself on and on, not daring to slow in case the pursuit turned his way and he was seen. By the time he reached the shelter of the first houses, his breath was coming in painful gasps and his head was reeling, but he had made it. He carefully scrutinised the tree line for long minutes which seemed like hours until, with no pursuit in sight, he felt that it was safe to move on. Trying to compose himself and blend into the surroundings, Tony sauntered down the main street until he came to a small house, number 25. He walked up the pathway, knocked on the door and anxiously awaited a reply.
"Who's there?"
"The nine fifteen is running late," Tony replied.
"Then catch the nine thirty to Deauville."
Relief flooded through him as he heard the hoped for reply.
The door opened and Tony slipped inside. The man who had been waiting for him peered intently out of the window for a moment, then turned with a broad smile towards the breathless Tony. The young man smiled in return as the chief training officer took him by the hand.
"No sign of pursuit. Well done, Kemshall. You pass with flying colours."
28
September had been a quiet time for David. A few sorties were flown, but as back up for the front line they did not fly even a small percentage of the hours that Category A pilots put in. Then things began to hot up once again, as September turned to October and the air battle for Britain continued to rage.
“Still on standby. It’s getting frustrating.” David turned to Freeman. “Would you mind if I took up a training mission? Stanford has only been with us a few days. He could do with a bit of combat practice.”
Freeman grinned, recognising in David the same frustrated energy he felt himself.
“Be my guest.”
The men were soon suited up and on their way. David thrilled at the feel of the plane as its engine throbbed, ready for take-off. The power of the Merlin engine communicated itself to him through the fuselage, and David felt some of the excitement of his earlier flying days, when his only reason for taking to the air was to revel in the feeling of power that controlling a plane gave, and to enjoy the views of the land below him.
"Right, lads. Let's go."
David's plane shot into the air with Stanford on his right wing and Williams on his left. David pulled back on the stick and the Spitfire rose at a terrific rate.
"Come on. Up to twenty thousand, then we'll try some battle tactics. Stanford, you watch me and Williams first, get the feel of things, then you and Williams can have a go."
The three planes broke through a layer of cloud into the clear skies beyond, and David banked away to the left.
"Right, Williams. You're a Hun on my tail, and I'm going to break away from you. Let's get going."
The two planes roared off, Williams clinging tightly to the tail of the plane in front of him. David banked right and left, then put the plane into a steep dive before pulling up the nose and heading for the open spaces above. The g forces were terrific, causing his head to spin, but he held on as the plane went over onto its back, performing a perfect loop which placed him right on the tail of Williams’ plane.
"Bang. Bang. I've got you!" David's laughter echoed over the RT. "Right, Stanford, your turn now. Show us what you can do."
David watched as the two planes sped off. Stanford tried to turn to the right to avoid his pursuer, but with no success.
"You must make your turns tighter if you want to shake him off."
Stanford executed a sharp turn to the left, drawing away from Williams a little, but the more experienced pilot soon made up the lost ground.
"Well done, that was much better."
As David spoke Stanford began to pull his plane up into a steep climb, trying to force it over into a loop. David shouted a warning.
"Don't try to loop! You don't have enough speed!" But his warning came too late. As the plane reached the apex of its loop, the engine failed and it fell away.
"Williams! Look out! He's coming down on top of you!"
David watched in horror as the two Spitfires drew closer and closer together. He could hear no sound above the roar of his engine, but as he saw the two planes come together, he imagined the sound of tearing metal. Stanford's plane crashed directly into the cockpit of the other Spitfire, and pieces of plane began to fall away.
"Jump! Do you hear me? Bail out!"
David listened, but no sound came to him over the RT. He watched in speechless horror as the two planes fell rapidly towards the earth and disappeared into the layer of cloud. There were no parachutes.
The long summer was fading into autumn. 74 Squadron was back on the front line, and David stood at his Dispersal Point, once again experiencing the long hours, the tension, the fear and the exhaustion that went hand in hand with front line flying. Despite all that he was glad to be back in a position where he could feel part of the battle onc
e more. He wondered how much longer the battle would continue. He shivered. He did not relish flying against the enemy in the middle of winter. As he viewed the battered airfield, complete with bomb craters and damaged aircraft, he felt a great pride in the way the RAF had stood up to the superior numbers of the Luftwaffe. He knew he would remember these months of hardship and comradeship for the rest of his life.
"Scramble! Scramble! Enemy bombers approaching London!"
As the Tannoy blared, David broke into a run towards his waiting aircraft and was soon airborne. He followed Squadron Leader Reynolds into a position where the early afternoon sun was behind them, screening them from the enemy.
"There's ack-ack fire out over the estuary. Let's take a look."
Reynolds banked his plane to the right, and the other eleven planes followed closely behind. They were over Maidstone when the Squadron Leader sighted about sixty German fighters, all unaware of the presence of the Spitfires. Two Bf 109's flew across the front of the squadron. Reynolds surprised them, diving at them from out of the sun. He fired at the nearest plane, which pushed its nose straight down to avoid him. Reynolds followed him down, his engine cutting in the negative g's, then catching again. He fired at the enemy and saw it fall, smoking, as he pulled up from the dive. The air around him was full of bullets as the remaining planes in his squadron joined the conflict.
"Red Section, stick with me. We'll take on these four."
"Red Two to Red Leader. Roger." David took up his position as he spoke. He saw Red Three fly in close to Reynolds’ other wing. The three Spitfires opened up on the enemy.
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