Father had finally died in the winter of 1928, when Rose had been eight years of age, yet another of the countless victims of the ‘War To End All Wars.’
Smart and solemn and cold to the touch, father had been a waxy stranger, lying in a casket in the living room, all the laughter drained from Rose’s home, with a mourning mother who rarely smiled thereafter.
Rose sighed and pulled on his tunic, buttoned it up, the bright splash of his AFC beneath his wings making him seem much more than he really was, demanding from him that which he desperately feared he lacked.
He undid the top button, did it up again immediately. He hadn’t earned the right to be a fighter pilot yet, so much yet to learn.
Despite her husband’s loss, and her fears, mother had sent her son unflinchingly to fight in this new war, for although she loved him and dreaded the likely consequences, she recognised that it was something that he had to do, and it was something that their country needed. Proud, brave and terrified, her heart hollowed by fear, but buoyed by pride, she accepted what she might need to sacrifice.
Will I fear death, or will I be able to handle the danger with a careless smile like the boys in the Mess? They seem so cool, indifferent to the dangers. I want to be like this.
Will my first time in a fight panic me, or will I be able to keep a cool head and an objective mind?
He played with his top button again.
His wonderful, beloved sister was a Second Officer WRNS, based at the Naval Dockyard of Portsmouth, and she’d already experienced how it was to be under fire.
She had the resolute heart of a lion, the spirit of a warrior. He smiled fondly; the little girl she had once been had always been a fighter, having a fearsome reputation in the village, following the scrapes with local bullies.
Once, when a boy had said something derogatory about Rose within her earshot, she had sent him home with a black eye and two less teeth than he had had minutes earlier.
She’d not hear a thing said against her own.
I hope I have half your courage.
Although he still felt apprehensive that he may fail at the vital moment, he tried to control the fear.
He felt the same as he had that night less than a year ago.
The night in question had been the one before his first flight at the Elementary Flying Training School; and then he had felt the same, cloying fear again when the time came later in the course for the instructor to pass control of the Tiger-Moth over to him for his first solo. The flights before had been fine, but his fears had resurfaced once more.
Like a cold murmur, the thoughts coalesced in his mind, telling him that he could not do it, and the treacherous whispering fears of his mind that had almost immobilised him.
Whilst his friends had slept undisturbed by such thoughts on either side of him, he had thrown back the rough grey blanket, got up from his iron cot with its’ hard ‘biscuit’ mattress, dressed, and gone out. Unable to sleep, he had walked for a while, savouring the iciness of the air on his skin.
The first time he had driven a motorcar had been an experience of confusion and downright terror. Which way should the wheel be turned, what gears engaged? His limbs had frozen in terror and his mind had become blank, much to his chagrin.
Had there not been an instructor in the car, he would have fetched up in hospital, or worse.
Would he be the same in flight? Would he freeze at the vital moment, and shatter the dream?
After walking for what seemed like hours, he had returned, and sat watching the stars on the step of the hut which he shared with three other cadets.
Occasionally the distant barking of one of the perimeter guard dogs or the calling of an owl would float across the night air, to remind him that there were others awake this night, but most of the time it was quiet, almost silent. There was only a faint rustling, which he fancifully thought was the grass growing, and the low, rhythmic snoring from Cyril Newton, an ex-office boy from Darlington, who was now with a squadron flying a new type of two-seat fighter made by Boulton-Paul, the innovative single-engine Defiant.
In the mirror, his forehead ridged as he tried to remember the number of the squadron. Was it 141? He couldn’t recall. Perhaps they would meet in the air.
He had stayed there on the step, huddled in his greatcoat, with his smart new cap with its white band jammed onto his head, into the small wee hours of the morning.
At one point he had taken out the big red apple his mother had given him on his last day at home on his last visit.
He had taken great bites out of the fruit, unmindful of the juice that dripped onto the step, watching the leisurely passage of the moon across the dark blue heavens, and the dancing moths illuminated in the moonlight as they pirouetted gracefully, chasing one another in an unceasing dance.
He had wondered what the next day would be like, wondering about that dreaded first solo flight. It had been one of the coldest winters on record, and his breath had come out as billowing white clouds of steam, that were caught on the wind and whipped away, dissipating into the icy night air, like dreams evaporating from promise into nothingness. It would be even colder up there in the sky.
It was this same fear that had now returned. He had thought himself ready for the great test, but Smith had shown him that things might never be what they seemed. There was much for him to learn, and he was eager to prove himself, confident in his abilities, after all hadn’t he flown well? But the treacherous apprehension would come again, and make him wonder, was it enough?
He wanted to prove himself a worthy wingman to Smith. He could not bear to be sent back to the O.T.U., or worse still to a Group where all he would have to protect would be empty fields, a few sheep and little else.
Rose was desperately keen to fly operationally in 11 Group, the group at what would be the frontline. It was similar to the hungry desire he’d felt to wear the silken wings with the RAF emblem embroidered on.
The immediate award of the AFC he’d received so very recently was still like a dream to him, still unreal, but it was the wings that meant so much.
He’d later dreaded the solo flight as well, and had he known the experience that was to occur with his instructor in the preparatory flight before the solo, he might never have stepped into the aeroplane, might never have received either the coveted wings or the medal.
Instead there had been the shocking emergency, he had taken over, the worries and fears evaporating as he struggled to return and land his damaged aeroplane, the injured and unconscious instructor helpless.
The nerves had gone and he’d done well, he knew. And when he landed, the visiting Air Marshal had been standing there with the ambulance and fire tender, wearing a smile and the news that he would be rewarded for his bravery and skill in the air.
Of course, the wings and the AFC were both a huge source of pride to Mum, but he felt a fake, the panicky minutes of ‘heroism’ just blurred and confused images in his mind.
And now, the next step in his life, operational flying and the terrors of war. Once more he questioned his abilities.
Again he was on the verge of new understanding, of combat, and the thought of it simultaneously terrified him and thrilled him. He wanted so desperately to be able to face the experience with fortitude, yet the apprehension of failure in the face of the unknown was like a heavy knot in his stomach, almost uncomfortably heavy so that his spirit felt weighted down, and it was this apprehension that made him appear so reticent, so aloof.
There were footsteps outside, then a crashing knock on the door, which made Rose jump. Fine warrior you’ll be, he thought. The bang had been so loud he thought the door would come off its hinges, or at the very least, thump open. He looked around, to see if it was chipped or dented.
“Are you ready yet, Harry? Are you dressed yet?” Billy squawked from outside. “Christ! I swear you take longer to get yourself dolled up than any Popsie I’ve ever known! We’re only going for dinner, you know, not for an audience with the King,
y’know! There won’t be any crumpet on offer downstairs, so don’t dandy up too much, for Heaven’s sake!”
He sounds like a schoolboy banging on the loo door, desperate for a pee, thought Rose with amusement, and chuckled, all the maudlin thoughts and fears of before dispelled.
His mind made up, he finally undid his top button. He would face all that came his way, and do battle with all his heart, as best he could. His fate lay ahead, and possibly his death, but he would do all that he could to fight and to survive.
To the death, then, if needs be. It may sound dramatic, but it was how he felt.
For he was an RAF Fighter Pilot, and all that he had, he’d give gladly for those he was sworn to defend.
There was another bang on the door. “For goodness sake, Harry, have you got a girl in there?”
Rose smiled. He would be in good company, whatever happened.
CHAPTER 8
Rose sat back in the armchair shyly.
Around him the conversation was muted. Billy sat across from him, deep in conversation with Flying Officer Tim ‘Fatty’ Barrow. Like Billy, he too came from a biplane squadron. But, instead of Gladiators, he had flown Gloster Gauntlets with 13 Group. He was a tall, wan young man with prematurely grey hair and a stoop, presumably from trying to hide from the cold gusts in the open cockpits. Despite his appearance, he was a very amicable young man with a wicked sense of humour.
Rose was seated with the other officer pilots in the Mess as they waited for dinner to be served.
Excalibur squadron still consisted of only eleven officer pilots and three NCO pilots. The normal complement should normally have been twenty pilots altogether.
Apparently, they were to receive more pilots over the next few days. Granny had even mentioned that a pair of Fleet Air Arm pilots would be arriving the next day.
He had sounded horrified.
Sailors in his beloved air force?
Whatever next? Nuns?
Donald stood at the fireplace with his two flight commanders (there were not enough pilots to form a C’Flight yet), Uncle the adjutant, and the other three pilots that had taken part in the May fighting in France, Wilson, Ffellowes and Farrell.
Sitting separately in the armchairs around them, listening quietly, were the new boys.
Apart from Rose himself, there were two other pilots straight out of O.T.U. They were both pilot Officers.
One was an ex-bank clerk from Hilltown in Dundee. He was a friendly boy with a wispy fair moustache that only served to make him look younger.
The other pilot was from the Midlands. He was a fashionable and worldly wise man of twenty-four named Renfrew, apparently an ex-used car salesman. He had already, in only two days on the squadron, been seen walking out with two separate WAAFs.
No problem with confidence there, and he had a good line in patter, which explained his success with the women, and senior officers.
The remaining pilot officer, a young bewildered looking specimen named Cavell, was also a regular transferred from a biplane equipped squadron. Like Barrow, he too had flown Gloster Gauntlets. Thank Heavens I don’t have to fly one of those things, thought Rose with a shudder.
Hurricanes are a far nicer aeroplane to go to war in.
Dinner was another delight to the tastebuds, and a far more carefully prepared meal in comparison to his first on the squadron. To be fair, though, Fricker’s sandwiches of the previous evening had tasted pretty wonderful, too.
At the head of the table, Donald sat, still chatting quietly with his two flight commanders, seated either side of him. B’Flight was commanded by a humourless Flight Lieutenant named Sinclair. Like a small number of the pilots who made up the core of the squadron, he too was a newly-promoted veteran of France with the DFC.
On either side of Rose sat the other members of A-flight.
Granny sat to his right, clearly enjoying the last of his Spotted Dick, whilst on his left was seated the French Air Force officer, Capitaine Phillipe Desoux.
Desoux was a very dapper young man with slicked back hair and a pencil moustache, and hailed originally from just outside of Paris. He had arrived in Britain with the remnants of the Hurricane squadron with which he had been liaising. He had been flying Morane 406 fighters up to one month before the end had come in France. Barsby sat beside Desoux, idly picking at his teeth with a silver toothpick.
And of course there was Flying Officer ‘Wally’ Wilson, Rose’s round-faced companion at breakfast, looking far more relaxed than he had earlier.
For the next few days of early July, 1940, there were some attacks by small formations of Luftwaffe fighters and bombers on coasters and other small vessels in the English Channel. The Junkers 87 Stuka particularly showing the effectiveness of dive-bombing against shipping, whilst also showing how exposed and unprotected the coastal convoys that hugged the coastline of Southern England were to airborne assault.
At the same time there were some low and medium-level intrusions by German fighters over Kent and Sussex, with the intention of luring RAF fighters into combat, and reducing the defending fighter force piecemeal.
These fighter skirmishes usually ended with losses.
On the 4th of July, a Spitfire from 97 Squadron was bounced and shot down by a Rotte of Bf109’s, the pilot being killed as his aircraft blew up. The mood fell at Foxton as his loss was reported.
Other squadrons also lost pilots, an example of which was the loss of three Spitfires of 65 Squadron and their pilots when they too were bounced. However, the losses of early July were not all due to the enemy.
No. 79 Squadron lost their CO, Squadron-Leader Joslin, when he was shot down into the Channel by Spitfires who misidentified his Hurricane as a Messerschmit 109.
It was not an uncommon mistake. It was an incident similar to those of earlier in the war that once more illustrated how easy it was to misidentify an aircraft in the heat of the moment, or when one was eager for a quick ‘kill’. Despite the tragedy of the ‘Battle for Barking Creek’, loss due to friendly fire was still a dangerous reality.
The ground crews did not escape the enemy’s attention. Manston was bombed by enemy raiders, but was not put out of action.
The losses were on both sides, but Lord Haw-Haw, the traitor ensconced comfortably in a Berlin studio, crowed gleefully as he made claims of inflated victories over the ether.
For the people of Britain, his broadcasts were as widely listened to as other, friendlier programmes, such as ITMA, or the ‘Radio Doctor’, broadcast by the BBC.
None of this really affected Rose very much as he was trained hard with Barsby under Smith’s tutelage, spending many hours first in the cockpit of T-Tommy, then in the new Hurricanes that were being daily delivered to the squadron.
The recently formed civilian Air Transport Auxiliary now ferried the new aircraft to Foxton, although Rose was allowed to pick up his personally from the Hawker airfield at Brooklands.
His new Hurricane was a pleasure to fly, and it was completely different from flying the ‘clapped-out old hurri-bag’ that Barsby had contemptuously termed poor T-Tommy. Rose had been quite fond of the veteran machine, despite the reduced performance in comparison to the variable-pitch Hurricanes that were now being flown by the squadron.
They had spent many hours sweating profusely as he strained in intensive high speed and low speed aerobatic combat exercises, at high altitude and at low level, whilst on the ground they would endlessly discuss tactics, some of the cardinal rules of air combat learned through harsh experience by the early combat pilots of the RFC, and sometimes, rarely, they would go over some of Smith’s own experiences in action.
Practising, practising.
As the days passed, and his hours on Hurricanes gradually increased, they rehearsed again and again, going over the same ground again and again, learning the art of aerial war. Rose began to gain in confidence, as he realised that he was able to thrust and parry attacks with more and more proficiency, to be able to actually counter attacks wi
th success. The first time he ‘shot down’ Smith in a mock dogfight, he shrieked with excitement, much to Smith’s quiet amusement.
Rose became a regular visitor to the hangars and hardstandings of Foxton. He came to know many of the groundcrews, as Smith had advised. As Smith had said, ‘“Groundcrew, aircrew, and aircraft are all vital components of the same machine. Without one part, the rest are useless. Never forget how important the ground crews are for us.”’
He had also become much more aware of the WAAFs on the station.
However, being young, and painfully shy, he was unable to muster the courage to actually engage one in conversation. So the tentative approaches by some of the young women interested in this quiet, shy and sincere young man remained unexploited. Even their dark-haired officer had noticed him, and wondered about the bashful young pilot.
Despite his reticence, and because of the natural thoughtfulness of his character, he was becoming very well thought of throughout the station.
Rose, being Rose, remained blissfully unaware of his acceptance and burgeoning regard, but instead concentrated on becoming better at the things that mattered to him.
Smith, meanwhile, was pleased at Rose’s progress, but continued to push hard, giving little praise and generous with his criticism, because he saw that Rose was not disheartened when he made mistakes, but instead the youngster was eager to correct them on the next occasion. Criticism only made him stronger.
He was a talented pilot with a natural flair, but even excellent pilots can make mistakes, can get shot down, can get killed; so Smith drilled his charges again and again. Rose became ever familiar with flying and fighting in the Hurricane, and this further helped to boost his confidence and abilities. He even began to recognize more than the rudiments of the Merlin engine.
Barsby, however, though a good, confident pilot, was resistant to change with regards to some of the new ideas that Smith was trying to instil in him.
He learnt what he was taught, flew well, but he did not appear as buoyant and enthusiastic as was Rose in the air. Nevertheless, he would make an appropriate addition to Excalibur Squadron. And truth be told, there was little choice in the matter. They needed pilots too urgently. Excalibur could no longer afford to be selective. Spaces needed to be filled, regardless.
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