It was different on the 31st, although enemy activity was very light. The first fight of the day was actually one in which a RAAF Short Sunderland four-engined flying boat chased off a Ju88 that was sniffing around the refitted merchant cruiser SS Mooltan.
Stukas bombed small convoys around midday, but managed to get away without RAF interception.
Later, in the mid-afternoon, Bf109 raiders were intercepted by 74 Squadron, and a dogfight developed over Dover and its environs.
Again a day of inactivity for Excalibur. But one appreciated greatly by the pilots.
Despite the continuous and busy programme of flying, the poor weather meant that the squadron managed to get some free time.
As was normal in Fighter Command at that time, usually the pilots received two days on duty and one day off. The days were a whirl of danger and flying during the day and wild mess parties or forays in the evenings.
Whilst not being stretched too hard, the pilots were flying far more sorties than were usual in a peacetime fighter squadron, and the tiredness was telling. So the day off was a valued time for the pilots.
They were also days of great satisfaction and pleasure for Rose.
His days off were ones spent with his friends, with the ground crews, or flight testing. The best part of his day off was sharing the preciously little free time that Molly had available.
He spent as much time as possible with her, enjoying moonlit walks through dispersals and companionable silences over tea. Yet they had not crossed the line into full physical intimacy as they were still, paradoxically perhaps, deeply in love whilst still desperately shy with one another.
For the moment, the kisses, hugs and caresses were enough. Rose was content, his tired mind soothed by the peace of her presence.
Nonetheless, on one occasion, he had been unable to resist running a hand momentarily over one smooth, slim calve, up her thigh and onto her rounded buttock, revelling in the exciting firmness of her flesh.
He remained the true gentleman, despite the raging ache in his loins.
She was a source of peace and happiness for him, and he valued the contentment he found with her more than anything else in his life.
More often than not, he would fall asleep in her embrace.
“It says a lot for my conversation,” she would joke. But she would let him sleep, for the tiredness was already plain to see in his eyes.
He had written a long letter home about Molly to his family. He even learned the words to ‘You’ve Done Something To My Heart,’ and sang it tunelessly to her whenever he could until he decided to sing it to her in front of a truck load full of grinning erks.
Despite the dirge-like nature of his rendition, or perhaps because of it, they appeared to have greatly enjoyed it.
Molly was mortified beyond words. A little part of her was pleased, too. But it was a very little teeny-weeny part.
Understandably, she begged him to stop. “I love you, Harry, but you’re no Al Bowlly.”
He stopped. But only because she asked him to.
Granny was upset, because, being unable to sing to her, Rose now began to sing the song when he was with his friends.
Excalibur had flown many patrols that July.
The boys of the squadron would behave themselves in the presence of Molly, Dolly and the other WAAFs usually associating with the squadron, as the girls spent more time with the tired young men.
They were particularly bashful under the calm gaze of Rose’s Flight Officer, although it did not prevent them from gathering around her whenever opportunity permitted. Not often enough for them, but far too often in Rose’s opinion.
They were also frankly envious and fascinated by Rose’s good fortune with Molly. She had seemed so cool and out of reach. How had Rose won her?
Out of bounds to them, yet along had sauntered this shy single-striper with his quiet ways and taken her from under their admiring gaze, and into his embrace. How on earth had the young devil managed to net such a prize?
“She only feels sorry for you, sweet boy, as you’ll be dead soon,” Ffellowes had considerately said, and offered him a cigar.
“Oh, well. At least I’ve still got my showgirls,” Farrell had sighed.
“Damn lady-killer. You keep your eyes off my Dolly,” Denis had shouted at him cheerfully.
“Good thing the Commandant of the WAAF ain’t here,” Billy had quipped, “’else Harry would be after her, an’ all. I think he likes popsies with a few rings on their sleeve. Cheeky rascal.”
Not only did he receive respect for his success against the enemy, but now he had notoriety as a lady-killer, too.
However, there was no one else but Flight Officer Molly Digby for him. In public, she maintained a professional distance, concerned about the possible erosion of her authority, especially with her girls.
Rose had also been out into London with Molly twice. The first time it was to dinner at the Savoy Grill, a favourite hang-out for RAF personnel, but it was not the preferred choice for Molly, and she’d decided they would eat elsewhere.
So, instead, Molly drove Rose in her smart little sports car (“Don’t ask about the petrol ration!”) to a Kashmiri restaurant that she knew of in London, for a spicy eastern meal.
Although it was packed with uniforms, a table was cleared immediately after Molly had a few quiet words in Hindi with the head waiter, who seemed to know her. It was the first time Rose had eaten anything that resembled an authentic Indian curry, and the memory of it alone was sufficient to make his tongue tingle.
The whole of the journey back, feeling rather less of a man, he had found it difficult to talk, his mouth and sinuses feeling inflamed, his eyes red and still watering, despite the copious amounts of water he had drunk. He was grateful for the darkness. Molly did not seem to mind his quietness, but rather, she seemed amused by the effect of the meal on him.
He’d also learned that Molly’s paternal grandmother had actually been an Indian princess, which explained her lustrous black hair, exotic beauty, and her apparent immunity to the effects of spicy food.
So, not only was she his senior officer, now he knew she also belonged (distantly) to aristocracy. He continued to wonder at his good fortune.
Despite the heat, and the tingling of his tongue, Rose had enjoyed the meal immensely, the food so unlike the milder ‘curries’ he was normally used to, although it had been necessary to dilute the spiciness with lashings of plain yogurt.
He had watched with envy (and not a little awe) as she had spooned the fiery food into her sweet mouth with no discomfort whatsoever, and manipulated the chapattis effortlessly with her fingers.
When he had tried to copy her, the thin pieces of unleavened bread had disintegrated into a soggy mess, leaving Rose with yellow, ghee-stained fingers and limp rags of bread.
By the end of the main course his mouth felt as if a tracer round had gone off and set fire to his tongue. He wasn’t quite sure it was all still there.
The Brigadier at the next table, like Rose, was dripping with sweat and red faced, but he ate everything that was placed before him (which was quite a lot, and without recourse to yogurt) with a fortitude and pleasure that was impressive.
Rose felt a positive weakling in front of her, especially when the sirens had screamed their warning outside. Molly and all the others in the restaurant had not batted an eyelid. She did, however cock an eyebrow in amusement as he gradually slid lower and lower beneath the table.
As it happened, no bombs fell near them, but by the end of the evening, the beads of sweat on his brow did not result from the food alone.
The journey home had been just as frightening, as Molly had thrown the open top little car headlong down the darkened roads, chatting happily all the while. The one shaded headlight of the car offering no discernible illumination that he could see whatsoever, and the trip had been a terrifying headlong high speed dash into the darkness.
Rose was mildly surprised that he had not screamed once when t
hey finally arrived back at the airfield. How she had managed avoiding an accident amazed him still.
And, incredibly, still in one piece, although he feared that he’d swallowed quite a number of insects on the journey back. He had prised his numb fingers from the dashboard and patted Genevieve thoughtfully and offered up a prayer of thanks. The skies above were not the only threat to life and limb.
Their second outing had been closer to home. Molly and Rose had both had an afternoon free, and so they managed to find time to watch ‘The Lady Vanishes’ in the small Gaumont cinema of the nearby market town of Damson-Le-Hope.
Much to his embarrassment and chagrin, he spent almost the entire duration of the film sleeping, dead to the world.
Molly had sat there with her hand in his, whilst the plot unfolded. The Lady and the whole film vanished as Rose slumbered unconcernedly, his strawberry ice forgotten and melting on the floor between them.
At least she had enjoyed the film. And better still, she had given him a photograph of herself looking very solemn and exquisite in the uniform of a Section Officer (“I was young and junior once, you know!”).
Immediately he had asked for more.
“This one’s for me, but I also need one for my room and one for my kite, and one for…” he had explained. Then another thought struck him. “Oh! Horatio Nelson used to carry a lock of Emma Hamilton’s hair. Could I have a lock of hair, too, please, my sweetest flower?”
“Where on earth do you expect me to find a lock of Emma Hamilton’s hair, you silly boy?” she’d scolded him mock-crossly.
Nonetheless, Molly duly supplied him with a lock of silken black hair (“I managed to cut this from the tail of that mangy old cow in the field over there”), tied with a bright pink ribbon, and one more photograph, in which her hair was shorter and in which she was dressed in a summery frock, smiling brightly into the camera.
“I was even younger then. Long time ago,” then, pointedly, “About the same age as you are now.”
He’d kissed her fondly, in reply. “Oh, Molly. You’re such a withered old thing. But I do rather like those old bones.” He’d laughed and jumped out of the way as she had tried to punch him.
The last six days were a quiet time for RAF Fighter Command overall, with minimal losses of Hurricanes and Spitfires.
So ended July 1940. In that time, Rose had become a seasoned fighter pilot and also found true love.
Very soon, the next phase of the battle would begin. One in which the squadron would play an even greater part.
CHAPTER 22
Thursday the 1st of August 1940 opened with fair weather, although at the beginning there was overcast and low cloud above the Channel, the Dover straits and the east coast. There were desultory raids on the Sussex coast, near some RAF airfields, and the goods yards at Norwich were hit.
Hitler, despairing of receiving a positive response to his ‘Last Appeal To Reason’ of July 19th, in which he had appealed to Britain to sue for peace, issued Directive number 17.
The war against Britain was to be intensified by both air and sea, with the end outcome expected to be that country’s inability to continue the war, and resulting in her complete defeat.
Secretly, he wanted to start a front with Russia. Britain would be isolated, and with no hope.
Der Fuhrer had also decreed that the invasion forces would land on many points along the south coast, between Ramsgate and beyond the Isle of Wight.
The invasion would be codenamed Operation Sealion.
The landings should occur on the 15th of September, and the Kreigsmarine and Wehrmacht stepped up their preparations, as well as their arguing. The soldiers were keen on continuing onto their next battle, but the sailors worried about RN destroyers and light coastal forces cutting bloody swathes through their plodding fleet of barges.
The Luftwaffe fliers said nothing, but dreamed of orderly ranks of RN warships lined up to be sunk to order by air-attack.
The following two days were also ones with changeable weather over the channel, allowing attacks on northern cities, as well as attacks on a number of airfields in Essex.
One of these was against RAF Foxton.
The raiders attacked from low level, and there was little early warning.
Rose was walking to the fighter pen to check his beloved kite, and to chat with the ground crews.
Behind him, a Spitfire of 97 Squadron began its take-off run, and he turned to watch, never tiring of the glorious sight of a fighter taking off, all grace and strength and glinting edges.
The first that he knew was a strange faraway crackling in the distance. He cast a glance casually in that direction, saw a single-seater dip down and fly low over the grass at the far end of the field, and he shook his head to himself.
Silly sod, he thought. They must all be asleep in the watchtower. He looked back at the speeding Spitfire on the grass. Watch out, chum. One of your bods is about to buzz you.
Those Spit boys fly far too low. Someone’s going to catch it. Don’t they know one of their own is departing? Don’t they care? Donald would have our hides if we did it…
Then he looked again, for the engine tone was wrong.
And he saw five more fighters emerge from behind the trees at the boundary, almost bounding over them like race horses at the Grand National.
Tiny lights flickered in their noses and along their wings, and strange lines of silvery wire seemed to reach out from them.
“What the…” his words trailed off as dreadful realisation hit him, like a machine gun bullet.
Sudden and awful.
They looked horribly familiar. He had seen something similar in his rear-view mirror.
The bloody things were Messerschmitt Bf109s!
And they were heading for him!
He stood transfixed in shock for one disbelieving instant.
How had they managed to get so close? There had been no warning whatsoever.
Where the hell were the air defence gunners?
All the questions suddenly disappeared as a petrol bowser exploded with an eye-searingly bright yellow-white flash, the crew around it enveloped by the fireball, followed by a bone trembling THWUMPHH!
A wave of sweltering hot air swept over and past him, and he became aware, nakedly aware, of his exposed position.
Tearing his eyes away from the sight of the oncoming enemy aircraft, he turned and ran for the nearest slit trench.
It was so far away!
His muscles pumped, legs pistoning and arms working, as if the force of his desperation may carry him faster. Each footfall jarred his spine as he ran.
He could almost feel the bullets and cannon shells tearing up the ground behind, and his world became a silent one, save for the pounding of his heart and the torn gasping of his breath.
At any moment he expected to feel the terrible lancing pain as the shells tore through him, or as an airscrew carved into his back to fling him high into the air. He did not know it, but he was screaming as he ran, bracing himself for the horrid impact.
Would he even know it when it happened? What must it be like to be torn apart?
But the seeming inevitable did not happen.
Instead he had a vague memory of throwing himself headfirst into the trench that was suddenly before him, dark and earthy, and oh so welcoming!
He fell in a heap onto the floor of the trench, and there was earth in his mouth. He spat out.
He was alone.
But he had managed to outrun the bullets, and Rose gasped with relief. Thank God. He was safe.
Hopefully. But what if they carried bombs?
Sounds suddenly crowded in on him, like a solid wall.
He tried to press his back further into the earth, cowering as the sound of British gunfire (at last air defence had opened fire!) chattered, the rising angry snarl of enemy engines and the shouting and screams (of warning or pain?) beat at him. In the distance, the climbing and falling of the siren wailed disconsolately.
G
od! How much safer it felt in the cockpit of a Hurricane, with a gun-button beneath one’s thumb! Rose thought longingly of his revolver.
He could hear the whine, howl and thumping as bullets and cannon shells stitched the ground nearby, clawing deep furrows into the ground.
The sound rapidly grew louder and nearer, a shower of pebbles and clods of earth turning the trench into a churning thing of choking soil and sound, an airless world of terror.
An enemy fighter shot past overhead, a blurred shape flashing past (so low!), blotting out the light for one awful instant. So close, he feared it would crash into the trench.
Involuntarily, he ducked his head, covered his face with his hands.
He was buffeted by a whirlwind of sound and slipstream from the German fighter, air sucked away, unaware and unmindful to the dirt and grass that whirled around and covered and clothed him.
And then it was over. He opened his eyes, breathed in raggedly, trying to calm his racing heart.
And then something thumped into the trench beside him.
Rose recoiled in terror, thinking that it was a bomb before he realised that it was simply a fragment of shrapnel from the ack-ack.
It smouldered red hot, a jagged piece of twisted metal with razor edges six inches long, not a yard from his left foot.
He stared at it in horror, as it hissed evilly in its mound of disordered soil.
He began to move weakly away from the shrapnel, brushed away the loose earth, stones and grass that partially buried him. He spat out again, aimed at the shrapnel.
Thank Heavens he had not been hit by that! It would surely have killed him!
There was the sudden sound of running feet and two men threw themselves into the trench. One landed on top of him and knocked him flying, so that he landed, winded, on the floor of the trench. His cap skittered off and rolled down to the other end.
The man who had landed on him helped him back into a sitting position. Rose felt as if his body were made of jelly.
Bloody hell! What now?
“Sorry, sir. Din’t see you.” The eyes were wild and staring, a trail of saliva at one corner of his lips.
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