Rolling forward, slowly at first, then faster as each of the Merlin II engines drove their respective airframes along with 1,030hp unleashed.
Faster, and faster still, pushed back hard in the seat, one eye on Smith, stay in position, the other on the instruments…
One moment they were speeding along the runway, everything to either side a blur, and the next they were airborne, like horses leaping a fence, they seemed to jump, float, and were slicing quickly and effortlessly through the air, airscrews spinning.
They retracted their undercarriage, the ground dropping steadily below them, the airfield disappearing behind, and the wide open rich and lush land stretched before them, a stunningly diverse range of natural colours, the horizon sinking away below.
The R/T crackled, “Yellow Leader to Yellow Two, take a good look around. We’ll nip up to 5,000 feet, then stooge around for a few minutes or so. Keep your eyes and ears open, and I’ll just show you what and where everything is. OK?”
“Yellow Two to Yellow Leader, received and understood.” Rose looked around, trying to imprint as much as possible into his mind. As he stared out a sudden flash of light caught his eye, and he looked up to see a pair of racing silvery dots in the distance. His heart suddenly began to beat faster, and his mouth felt dry.
Bloody hell…
“Yellow Two to Yellow Leader, bogies at four o’clock high, descending, over.” He forced his voice to remain calm. ‘Bogies’ was the term for unidentified aircraft, whereas ‘Bandits’ were enemy aircraft. He found himself hoping that the dots were friendly.
“Yellow Leader to Yellow Two, well spotted. Don’t worry, it’s a couple of Spits,” Rose looked carefully, but they still looked like a pair of distant unrecognisable blobs. Smith must have very sharp eyesight, he decided.
“Probably back from a patrol over the Channel, might think we’re Jerry, or they may just want to show us who’s the top dog here. The silly buggers’ll try and bounce us, I fancy. We’ll go to a head on interception, OK? If they see us like that they’ll break off. They’ll see they can’t catch us napping. They’ll not want a fight after their patrol. They’re just after a quick bounce. No harm in being a bit careful, though. Wouldn’t be the first time Spits have attacked Hurris.”
Sure enough, as they turned towards them, the blobs rapidly turned into a pair of Spitfires, and as Smith had predicted, they curved away as soon as they saw the two Hurricanes turn towards them. The Spitfire leader waggled his wings as they flew back to the airfield, and Smith waggled his own in reply.
“Yellow Leader to Two, let’s finish off our geography lesson, then climb to Angels Twenty for a little re-familiarization with the controls, a bit of formation flying, then for a spot of interceptions and dogfighting. OK?”
“Yellow Two to Leader, Wilco.”
For a few minutes more the two Hurricanes circled the area of Foxton in a wide, graceful arc, as Smith pointed out all the salient features that Rose would have to learn.
“Remember where the sun is whenever you take off…”
All the while his eyes automatically flicked from land to sky, quartering the sky, searching for an enemy that may suddenly appear.
Given time, and a little luck, Rose would come to know the surrounding area as well as the palm of his hand. But time was a commodity they had precious little of, for at any moment the Germans could begin their final push.
Britain was next on the tyrant’s list.
Then, one lesson over, Smith led Rose in a powerful, steep power climb to 20,000 feet, to begin the next, more important, one.
CHAPTER 7
It was a sober and exhausted Harry Rose who dressed for dinner that evening.
What a day!
He had learned a lot in the short period of flying above the fields of southern England today, about how to hunt, and how it felt when it had been his turn to be the one hunted. He had also been able to see that Smith’s Hurricane, with its variable-pitch propeller was an improvement in performance over the fixed-pitch prop kite he had had to fly.
Luckily though, additional variable-pitch replacement aircraft for the squadron were to be delivered to them over the next couple of days.
His arms and legs still felt bruised and sore from the extreme manoeuvring in the arena high above, the tiredness from turning, diving, climbing, and the horrible sensation when grey out began, and consciousness began to fade.
Luckily, he hadn’t blacked out, but his body complained now, and he ached as if he had swum ten miles.
But he welcomed the pain, for it was little enough to pay in comparison to what he had learned already in that first session, and he felt the first creeping shoots of confidence inside now.
Even Smith had seemed pleased with his performance, “But you must try and look in your mirror more often, every couple of seconds at least, if not less! Keep a good lookout all around! Mirror! Mirror! Mirror!”
He had grabbed Rose’s arm to emphasise the point, “And when I say look, I mean you must really look. Not just a quick glance, but a proper check of the sky behind you. Jerry can appear out of what seems to be a clear, empty sky in just a few seconds. One second the mirror’s empty, and then, before you can say ‘bugger me with a broomstick,’ he’s there, and he’s trying to pump lead right up your arse. Not the best cure for constipation, believe me.”
Granny had wiped the sweat from his nose, “in between checking the mirror, keep sweeping your eyes all around the sky, ‘cause the bastards may try and fillet your backside from the side…and when you’re not checking all around or looking into your mirror, then you can try taking the odd pot-shot back at them. Nothing to it, really…”
Rose realised there was so very much to learn, but fortunately, Excalibur squadron had been taken off operations for a week as it absorbed the new intake of pilots that were to make up for the losses suffered by the squadron over Belgium and France and finally at Dunkirk.
There had even been a couple of Fleet Air Arm pilots and an Army co-operation pilot. All of whom had thus far only been flying low-performance aircraft by comparison to the high performance Hurricane fighter.
As usual, there had been the usual share of duffers and rejects that no-one else wanted, so the CO, Donald, swiftly sent them back whence they came.
Rose applauded the possibility to continue his training with Smith for as long as possible, the whole week if at all possible, although Donald would ask Smith of his opinion after another five days. He could see now how much there was yet to learn, and a week seemed too little time to squeeze in all that learning.
A young Pilot-Officer who was also to be in Yellow section, as Yellow Three, had turned up whilst they had been flying that afternoon, so now Rose would have to share Smith’s time.
Less time with Smith for me, he’d thought morosely, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He fancied that his eyes looked a bit more practised than before.
He set a suitably heroic pose, and admired himself for a moment.
The newcomer was called Barsby, and was a tall, thin, youth with straw-coloured hair and quiet, almost reserved disposition.
Rose had thought him sullen, conceited, and hadn’t liked him at all.
Barsby already had twenty-five hours on Hurricanes, and like Billy, had recently converted from Gladiators. He seemed to see the training schedule for new pilots as a total waste of time. “I think I know how to fly a Hurryback, old man.” He had drawled to Rose, waving a fragrant Turkish cigarette for effect, “I’ve had quite a few hours flying one already. Talk to me later, I’ll give you some hints and tips.”
Smith would love him…
Rose had also met his new rigger and fitter, Aircraftsman Baker and LAC Joyce. They were both from the East End of London, Baker from Whitechapel, and Joyce from the Isle of Dogs. Although they came from the same part of the world, they were completely unalike.
Baker was short, sturdily built and dark haired, with a penchant for crunching boiled sweets (which likely acco
unted for his gap-toothed yellow smile).
Joyce, on the other hand, was tall, painfully thin, and had a thatch of fair, almost white hair on his head. He whined endlessly about everything. Despite this, Rose had found them both friendly and pleasant. He resolved to spend time getting to know them, and more about the jobs they did. They were the ones who made sure his Hurricane worked the way she should.
Without them he could not fly.
It would be Barsby’s turn to fly T-Tommy first in the morning, and he could show Smith just how well he could fight, but first there would be another ground-based tutorial, for two this time, on tactics at 8 am sharp.
Smith was slouched in his favourite battered armchair, nursing a half-empty glass, brooding. The other pilots could see he was preoccupied, so they left him alone.
He had determined that he was going to make the two young men who had been entrusted to him, Rose and Barsby, as ready for combat as much as was humanly possible before the squadron became operational again, and the inevitable fighting that they would soon experience, for it was coming, and quickly.
The lull in fighting that they were currently experiencing was permeated with a heavy pervasive dread.
Smith almost wished the fighting would start. This waiting was very wearing on the nerves, but at least Rose looked promising, he was competent, and he learned quickly. He’d done well today. God-willing he would be a good, reliable, wingman.
As for Barsby…well, time would tell. The lad was capable, but he knew it too and more than once Smith had wanted to deliver a hefty kick up that smug little beggar’s backside.
Time would tell.
Smith sighed, and rubbed his tired eyes wearily.
Just give us a few more days, he prayed silently.
All of them could sense the heavy atmosphere of dread and expectancy that hung over the country. It was the expectant moment before the storm, but the calm was a falsehood, for the storm was coming, and it was going to break soon, very soon.
Rose, too, was experiencing the strange feeling of strange expectancy, like one of being under siege, and he was also desperately keen to enter the fray, if only to know that he would be able to deliver that what was required when the time came, and to take part in what could well be one of the last battles of the war, if the speed at which the Germans had bulldozed their way through the Low Countries was anything to go by.
The yoke of fascist oppression may well be upon them all even before the onset of autumn.
In the last war they had boasted it would all be over by Christmas.
Time had proved them tragically wrong.
It looked as if it could easily be over for Christmas 1940, but this time, unlike as in 1918, might it be possible that Germany and her allies were the unbeaten ones?
God forbid.
Rose shuddered at the thought, as he fastened the tie, automatically folding the Windsor knot. He ran a finger around the collar, his neck still sore and chafing where it he had rubbed it raw against his collar by the continuous swivelling of his head in flight during the mock fights with Smith.
He made a mental note to purchase a silk scarf at the first possible option.
Preferably a nice bright one resplendent with polka-dots (white and red perhaps?), yes, dashing, like the one which Smith wore. Or stripey? Only to protect his neck of course, nothing whatsoever to do with cutting a dash with the ladies.
Good Heavens, no.
Never.
He was greatly in awe of his trainer, wished to be like him, yet Rose could not imagine himself ever to be like Smith, so coldly calculating and yet so thoughtful, throwing the Hurricane around so casually without apparent consideration for safety parameters, but with such cold fluidity and precision, so quick to teach, firm yet fair.
The man was both an extraordinary, skilful pilot and a patient teacher who did not tire at the simplest mistakes of his pupil, although Rose suspected that a slow student might soon arouse Smith’s ire. He determined to be a fast learner.
If he had been born a German, would one of those Teutonic heroes of the Luftwaffe be as forgiving and patient an instructor as Smith was with him?
Unlikely.
It must be so grim living in Hitler’s Germany.
A number of Rose’s classmates at school had visited Germany in 1936 for the Berlin Olympics, and had spoken of the feeling of national pride, the resurgent vibrant economy, innovation and development, the Nazi rallies and the swaggering bands of uniformed young men and women of the so-called ‘Aryan Master Race.’
It had been impressive to see such a proud country rise triumphant from the ashes of defeat of 1918, its subsequent dismemberment, and the cruelty and suffering of the depression, to see so many radical ideas working in a modern society and the foresight of some, yet somehow the achievements were cast into shadow and belittled by the dreadful philosophies and dubious policies of the country’s arrogant leadership, and the apparent attitudes of a once more proud and strong people.
Rose found it impossible to see Britain like that, any different from the relaxed land that he knew. Of course there were the British Fascists, the Blackshirts, but Sir Oswald Mosley and his repugnant kind had been interned since the beginning of the war.
It was impossible to imagine Britain as a Fascist state. Yet if Hitler were to conquer Britain, he would conspire to create a Fascist Britain, a mere province of the empire of Greater Germany. With twisted ideals and a cold inhumanity, it would no longer be the gentle and tolerant land of his birth.
Hitler had spoken recently of peace, yet he spoke as the Commander in Chief of the German Armed Forces, and the carrot he held out was overshadowed by the size of the stick he held in his other hand. What kind of a peace offer was it when the alternative was to be bombed to submission?
Hitler did not want peace, rather, he wanted Britain to roll over and surrender itself to him.
No, he thought. I’ll not see it happen, for I’d rather die a hundred times than see my land stolen and turned into a organised reformatory for its people. How could one not sacrifice oneself to resist such a cruel and oppressive occupation, the theft of what was theirs?
He looked at himself in the mirror, at the steady, serious brown eyes. I will fight to the last for Britain, he thought. I’ll not see us prisoners or slaves in our own land. Winston Churchill had given his famous speech in the House of Commons less than two weeks previously, stirringly ending, “…We shall never surrender.”
The rousing words created such passionate emotions in Rose that he had sworn to himself that he would give his life to ensure the continued liberty of his country.
Things may look bleak now, but we’ve halted and beaten tyrants and oppressors in the past.
The Virgin Queen had trounced the Armada, and then Britain had stopped Napoleon when his Empire had stretched across Europe.
And when Germany had started beating the drums, Britain had stood against it, and given the Kaiser a drubbing.
And now we’ll do it again to bloody old Adolf.
He grinned as he saw the serious expression of his reflection, and it smiled back at him.
Listen to him! Here he was thinking like some great philosopher, but he was only a lowly pilot-officer, and nobody cared for his opinions.
He tried to push back his thatch of thick dark hair, but it just fell forward again, into an untidy fringe, as it had been since he was a little boy.
He sighed. It wasn’t easy looking like a hero. And at the moment, it wasn’t a hero who stared back at him from the mirror.
But the boy was now grown into the man. A man who was more than a little scared, certainly, but his fear of the danger to come was far outweighed by another fear.
The cloying fear, a constant undercurrent in his thoughts of every waking hour. It was the fear that when the time came he might be found lacking in the qualities he needed as a warrior.
The fear of cowardice.
He knew how to fight, but when the time came, would he, could he?
He was terrified that he would be unable to be the fighting man that Britain so desperately needed when the darkness that threatened to envelop them all finally came. He didn’t want to fail them all.
He looked critically at himself. At the pleasant face, the way the dim light of his room threw shadows onto his face. He quite liked the shadows, for they made him appear older than his twenty years, more of a man.
Was this to be the face of a proud warrior or a snivelling coward?
The nose was straight, a snub nose, and he felt, in personal moments of anxiety and self-doubt, that it may make him seem soft, not what you’d expect of a Nelson or Leonidas.
Wellington’s grand old beak was legendary.
His lips were soft, and he pursed them in dislike. Why can’t they be thinner, with a confident sardonic curl like the soldiers in the films? Like Denis or Granny?
“Some girl will see those lips, one day, and she’ll be unable to resist you.” His mother had once teased.
He was not reassured.
In his mind, he felt he would not measure up to his heroes of 1914-18, like Mannock, Ball, Barker and the rest of them.
His father had not shrunk from danger, had served in that same, terrible war with those heroes, a war where the casualty figures had been so great as to become incomprehensible in their enormity.
He, too, had been a hero, and the row of medals in the drawer, the uniform in the cupboard, the memories of the man she had loved that Mother kept so proudly was a sign that when his testing time had come, he had not been found wanting.
All that Rose could remember of his father was a kindly, tired man made prematurely old, with a hacking cough that could be heard faintly throughout the house at night, and a tremor that made it hard for him to eat or smoke his pipe when on occasion he had one of his ‘turns’. He would sit in his armchair, alone in the drawing room, arms clasped around him, eyes closed, shuddering and silent, face pale and drawn.
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