Battle of Britain (4 page)

Lenny was asleep in his favourite chair, snoring gently. I sat down, closed my eyes and instantly went back to sleep. Sleep just closed in over me, as if I was sinking into a deep black ocean. I felt as though I could have slept for a thousand years.

Off in the distance I heard a bell ringing. It sounded like the bell my teacher used to have in the playground to call us all back to the classroom. Ring, ring, ring. I saw her standing there, ringing the bell, faster and faster, more and more frantically.

Then I was running out over the wet grass, out into the cold dawn light. Chute on, harness on, gloves and helmet on. Engine roaring. Taxiing out. Taking off. I woke up somewhere over Maidstone.

This routine would happen day after day. Ten minutes later the sky would be heaving with aircraft, friends and foe, and we were all of us fighting for our lives. Ten minutes after that the fight would be won or lost. Then, back at base, we'd do a quick headcount to see who was missing.

Then I'd give my report and the crew would run all over the Spit checking for damage, refuelling her and the like. Armourers fed the guns. I'd go to the loo and wash. Then I'd sit back down in my chair, close my eyes and wait to go up again. This was how we lived then, patrol after patrol, scramble after scramble.

One day I was having a running battle with a wasp that was pestering me. Lenny was sitting next to me, reading a book (as always). I grabbed it off him and with one movement thwacked the wasp to the floor and squashed him with the heel of my flying boot.

“Do you mind?” said Lenny, grabbing his book back.

“Sorry. Wasps. Hate them.”

“Can't imagine they're too keen on you either,” he said looking down at the squashed wasp and snatching his book back.

“So – what's the book?” I asked.

“
Metamorphosis
.”

“Come again?”

“
Metamorphosis
.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Any good?”

“It is rather, yes.”

“What's it about?”

“Well, funnily enough, it's about a man who wakes up to find he's turned into an insect.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Doesn't sound very funny,” I said.

“Not your cup of tea, I shouldn't think,” he said with a smile.

“Hmm. . . Who's it by, then, this book of yours?”

“Kafka. Franz Kafka.”

“Sounds German.”

“Czech, actually,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“He did write in German, though. Maybe you should turn me in.”

“Very funny. You think you're so clev—”

“Squadron scramble!”

We were at 20,000 feet when we saw them. I came down out of the sun and let off a burst of fire at one of them. Smoke started out of its starboard engine. I saw the flicker of flames. The Me110 fell away, down towards the bank of clouds. But like an idiot I followed it down.

And like a complete and utter idiot I didn't break away. Suddenly there was series of bumps as the cannon on the back of the 110 hit home. I cursed myself long and loud, but had to face facts. The control column was useless. I would have to bale out.

I slid back the cockpit cover, undid my harness and pushed myself clear. The air seemed to scoop me up as the Spit fell away from me, sinking out of sight into the clouds below. I tumbled over and over, pulled the ripcord and up went my parachute.

I was swung about rather wildly for a while, but gradually things calmed down and I found myself floating down through the cloud layer, expecting any moment that a German plane would appear out of the swirling blankness like a shark in milky water.

Then the clouds began to break up and then, quite suddenly, I was looking down on the world, like a traveller looking at a map. I looked about me for Jerry aircraft but they were all heading back to France.

The patchwork of fields below me looked rather wonderful. The cloud shadow moved away to the east and I tugged at my chute to make sure I didn't drift out to sea. The fabric fluttered and flapped like a flag.

I pulled my mask off. I heard the all-clear sounding. I heard a whistle blowing. I looked up at the blue sky and whistled back. The sun was bright now and I saw a twinkling star-like glint as a windscreen of a distant vehicle caught the light. Two gulls flew by beneath my feet. A car horn tooted.

Houses loomed into view as I descended. Trees too. What had seemed like a map now seemed like a child's model – a toy tractor on a farm track, a hump-backed barn with some milk churns outside.

The field I was heading towards had a lone white horse in it. As I got closer it whinnied and shook its head and then set off around the field at a mad gallop. I saw a land girl standing by a car and I waved and shouted, “Hello!”

I landed well, sending up a fluttering skylark. It was very calm so I didn't get dragged along the ground by the chute. As I got to my feet the land girl walked up to me.

“You
are
English aren't you?” she asked nervously.

“I certainly am,” I said. A huge smile lit up her freckled face. The skylark twittered above our heads. I had never felt so alive.

 

 

I managed to persuade Lenny to get out and go to a local dance one summer night. It was great fun, actually. We were celebrities now. You couldn't open a newspaper without seeing a Spitfire pilot grinning back at you. We were a big hit with the girls and we danced ourselves dizzy.

We managed to get a lift as far as the crossroads, but forgot that they'd taken down all the signposts to foil any Jerry paratroopers. Our navigational training came to nothing and we ended up completely lost. Lenny blamed me, of course, for suggesting the dance in the first place.

“Happy now?” said Lenny.

“Look, it's not my fault, old chap,” I said.

“You said you knew the way. Of course it's your fault.”

“Look, if you moaned a little less and tried to help me find out where we are. . .”

“And how are you going to do that? It's pitch black and you haven't the faintest idea what direction we're heading in.”

“Oh, will you please. . .”

Suddenly we heard a rumble, a drone, getting nearer and nearer. I couldn't see a thing, but I dived headlong into a ditch anyway and Lenny followed close behind. The noise got louder and louder until whatever it was suddenly stopped right next to us.

I peered out. Instead of a Panzer division of invading Germans or whatever I'd expected, there was a tractor in the field next to me. The farmer had climbed down and was just lighting his pipe. I felt a complete fool. Still, at least he hadn't seen us.

“Er. . . Excuse me,” I said, trying not to startle him.

“You lost?” he said with a smile.

“Yes. Yes we are.”

“You're a young flyer, ain't you? One of them there Dowding's Chickens.”

“Chicks,” I said.

“You what?” said the farmer.

“Dowding's Chicks. It's on account of how we're so young,” said Lenny.

“Not on account of how you can't fly then?” he said. He grinned. “Just kidding. Come on, I'll give you a lift.”

“What are you doing, driving round in the middle of the night, if you don't mind me asking?” said Lenny.

“Doing my bit, ain't I,” he said. “Doing my bit for productivity and all that. We all got to do our bit, now, eh?” We nodded. “Safer too, at night.”

“You must see a lot of action from these fields,” I said.

“Oh yes. I had one of those Hurricanes in my top field the other day. Made a right mess of my wheat.”

“Sometimes we just have to land where we can, I'm afraid, Mr. . .”

“Oh 'e didn't land,” he said. “'E just come down, if you get my drift.”

Just then there was droning noise coming from the south and heading our way. There was no mistake this time. This time it was definitely a bomber. And it wasn't one of ours. Once again, Lenny and I jumped in the ditch and put our hands over our heads.

The droning got nearer and nearer until it was right over our heads. We closed our eyes, gritted our teeth and held our breath. Then it just as quickly moved away into the distance. Very slowly we climbed out of hiding.

The tractor driver hadn't moved, and was puffing quietly on his pipe.

“One of those Jerry bombers. Junkers they call 'em, don't they?” He pronounced Junkers with a hard “j”, like in junk.

“Yunkers,” said Lenny. “It's pronounced Yunkers.”

“Junkers,” repeated the farmer in the same way as before. “Even if those so-and-sos take over, I ain't going to be speaking no German.”

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a strange fluttering. There it was again. And again. Slowly, right in front of my face a piece of paper drifted back and forth like an autumn leaf. I plucked it from the air.

“What the. . .” said the farmer. “Let's 'ave a look at that there.” He flicked his lighter and the three of us crowded round.

On the paper was written, in large capital letters A LAST APPEAL TO REASON BY ADOLF HITLER. Underneath was a reprint of the speech he'd made back in July. The farmer chuckled.

“'E's a rum 'n', ain't 'e though?” Then he set the leaflet on fire, dropped it on to the road and then stamped it out with his boot. “Come on, Chickens,” he said. “Hop aboard.”

The tractor rattled into life and off it went with us hanging on to the side. It wasn't much faster than walking but we weren't so very far away.

“I say!” I said suddenly. “How do you know we're not spies?”

“Oh,” he said. “Those Jerrys is 'ard as nails. No, I knew you was English the minute I sees you jump in that ditch.”

 

On Tuesday 13 August a fine drizzle fell from a cygnet-grey blanket of cloud. Jerry had been hitting some of the forward bases. I'd flown over one of them after a raid and they'd made quite a mess of it. Today, we'd hopefully get the jump on them.

We spent most of the day staving off boredom and thoughts of the next scramble, but at about four o'clock we were running hell-for-leather out of our dispersal hut and not long after we were up against a flock of Jerry aircraft – Stukas, Me109s, Me110s – the whole shooting match.

We climbed to 20,000 feet and watched the bombers sail by below us at about 15,000. The Squadron Leader shouted “Tally Ho!” and we arced around behind them and dropped out of the sun. They never even saw us coming.

The Me109s were higher as usual and dived across to meet us. I looped round and found myself jumping straight onto a 109's back. I gave him a quick squirt, the aircraft wobbled slightly, flipped on to its back and then burst into flames. It dropped out of the sky, spiralling crazily down, down, through the clouds and back to earth. My first 109!

I saw a Hurricane steaming towards an Me110, guns blazing. Then he just kept on going, ploughing straight into the German. Both planes exploded into each other, scattering flaming fragments across the crowded sky.

The sky was criss-crossed with vapour trails and snaking coils of black smoke. Planes flickered by like fish in a murky pond, darting this way and that. A parachute opened. A piece of wing fluttered by. Columns of smoke rose up along the horizon. I saw Stukas standing out white against it.

They were slow and I hared after them. I swept round behind one and came in from just below. I could see the big yellow bomb hanging underneath. I was so close I couldn't miss – but miss I did. Bringing down the 109 had made me cocky. I came in too fast, overshot and missed by miles. Out of ammo, I had no choice but to run for home. The Stuka carried on with its bomb.

 

“Just get it sorted out!” I snapped at the mechanic and stormed off. Lenny wandered up.

“Problems?” he asked.

“Just these idiots,” I said. I heard the mechanic muttering to one of the other airmen and swung back round to face him. He actually looked a little frightened. Had I changed so much?

“Look, it's my life on the line up there!” I shouted, pointing up to the sky. “If you screw up, it's me that pays the price, not you. Just do your job, OK?” I saw Lenny raise an eyebrow and I turned towards him.

“Steady on, old chap. We're all on the same side, you know.”

“Stay out of it, will you Lenny?” I said.

“OK, OK,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don't shoot. I'm a hero too, remember?” He grinned, but I wasn't in the mood.

“Look, Lenny. . .” I began. BOOM! “What the. . .?” BOOM! The whole place shook.

“Scramble! Scramble! Protect base!”

A Junkers 88 roared past above us. We both dived as the bomb dropped. BOOM! We picked ourselves up and ran to a trench near the ack-ack guns. The crew were already getting our Spits going and we grabbed our gear and made a dash for our aircraft.

Pieces of shrapnel and stones were raining down, pinging off the aluminium of my Spit. The take-off was total chaos, with aircraft jinking this way and that, lit up by blinding flashes. BOOM! We got away, though. Up and away and at those blasted bombers.

Below us the airmen and WAAFs were making for their shelters. The Ops Room was hit. So was one of the hangars. Smoke blinded me for a second and then I was through and out into the fight.

I chased after a Junkers but lost him before I could even think about firing. A Hurricane zipped by me, white smoke pouring out of its exhaust and the pilot climbing out of the cockpit. Ack-ack fire burst all around me.

Then I spotted an Me109 in my mirror, homing in for me. I rolled away just as he opened fire and he must have missed me by inches. BOOM! Another bomb exploded well wide of the airfield, sending clods of earth into the air.

When I righted myself I saw a Hurricane blasting away at a Dornier. He roared in so close I thought he hadn't left enough time to pull out of his dive, but at the last instant he did and the Dornier wobbled and then flipped down, nose first.

But the bombers were getting through. Clouds of black smoke rose up from around the base. A Junkers suddenly appeared heading straight for me. Instinctively, I let off a burst. But I missed him by miles and then had to spin away.

Then, as always, they were gone and there was that gnawing frustration of not having done enough. When I got back to the base I found the place in chaos. A couple of the hangars were up in flames and there were pieces of aircraft scattered across the airfield. A dog went past, limping and whimpering.

I saw the mechanic I had torn a strip off, blood trickling from a head wound, trying desperately to fix a damaged Spit while fire-fighters tackled a blaze only yards away from him. A hanger roof collapsed to my left with an almighty crunch and clang.

An ambulance swung round in front of me, swerving to avoid the severed tailplane of a Hurricane. A German pilot parachuted slowly down into the midst of all this activity, but he was already dead, hanging limply from his harness. About 50 feet up, his chute caught a spark and burst into flames and he flopped to the ground.

One of our chaps was walking backwards and forwards along a stretch of about ten feet. He was wearing pyjamas with an Irvin jacket over the top and nothing on his feet. The all-clear wailed out over everything.

Civilians and Home Guard ran this way and that, carrying stretchers and buckets of water. Chaps from the Ops room, covered in dust, helped clear a bombed out trench with their bare hands. Spits and Hurricanes landed on the pot-holed strip.

A young WAAF staggered towards me supporting an airman whose face sparkled with broken glass.

“Well?” she yelled. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to give me a hand?”

 

“
The gratitude of every home in our island
,” said Winston on the 20th, his voice growling out of the mess wireless, “
in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion
.”

“Cheers!” shouted one of the lads, raising a glass.

“
Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few
. . .”

“He must have been looking at our mess bills!” shouted someone at the back.

Later that week I spent half an hour chasing a Dornier across Kent, amazed at the speed it seemed to be doing – only to find that it was not a Dornier at all, but a fleck of dirt on my screen. I was in a foul mood and almost out of fuel when I got back to base. As I walked into the mess, I saw one of the chaps look at me and then nudge another. They all turned to face me. All except Lenny, who wasn't there.

He'd been jumped by an Me109 over the Thames estuary. He'd managed to haul his Spit back to base, but with a hole the size of a cricket ball in the side of the cockpit. He was unconscious by the time they'd got to him and he had been taken to hospital. He was in a bad way – but he'd live, they said.

It was a couple of days before I could get to see him. Hospitals always give me the shivers and this one was no exception. Sunlight poured through the high windows in diagonal shafts. The glass had been crisscrossed with tape to stop it from splintering in an air raid, and the tape cast crazy shadows on the corridor walls. I could see plum-coloured hollyhocks growing between the sandbags outside.

I asked an Aussie nurse for directions and I eventually found Lenny's room. He was sitting up in bed – reading a book as usual. I knocked and walked in.

“Harry,” he said, looking up. “Good of you to come.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “How are you, old chap?”

“I've been better, I must say. But there are chaps a lot worse off than me.” We'd talked about burns before and I knew that's what he meant. We all had a dread of being burnt to death in our aircraft. And maybe even more of a dread of being burnt and surviving.

“Your folks been in?”

“Just missed them, actually. My mother's in a bit of a state. You know what mothers are like.”

“I do. I certainly do. Must be tough for them, though.”

“Yes it must.”

“How about your dad?”

“He never wanted me to go in the RAF in the first place, so it's difficult. He doesn't say much, but I know he thinks it's all my fault.”

“I'm sure he doesn't, Lenny.”

“So tell me about things. Are they coping without me back at base?”

“Oh, just about,” I said smiling.

“I hear things have been rather lively.”

“I'll say. But look, you don't want to talk about all that, surely. . .”

“No I do, I really do,” he said. “You've got no idea how boring it is here. Come on, what's been happening?”

So I gave him the gen on everything that had happened in the last few weeks. It was odd talking about it. I hadn't really had much of a chance to take it all in, but telling Lenny about it brought out what a wild time it had been.