Volk (14 page)

Lane went out the following day. The German positions were not where he had been told; they were closer. In fact they were rushing west at an alarming rate, directly toward the Air Component base. Caught by surprise, Lane and the other planes of his squadron tried to attack the Luftwaffe bombers, but could not even get close before being engaged by the snarling ME-109's. He quickly discovered that he was up against a superior plane; the Messerschmitt could outclimb, outdive, and outspeed him. But he was able to turn inside it, and that was his one advantage. Lane wanted to make a scrap of it, but he saw two of his companions go down, and the others turned to flee. He was in danger of being isolated in the midst of the enemy, which was sure disaster. He had to turn tail himself.

And the retreat was worse than the brief battle, because the Germans pursued, shooting down two more before quitting the chase. It had been mostly chance, Lane realized, that had saved him from that fate. He just had not been among those targets chosen by the hunters.

But there was no safety back at the field. No sooner had he landed than he had to refuel and take off again—for a field farther to the south. Because it was apparent that the Germans could not be stopped, and would soon overrun this field.

That was the beginning of a continuing disaster. The unit was reinforced by several more fighter squadrons, but communications were poor and coordination with the ground forces was worse. Contact with the Advanced Air Striking force was lost; the Germans had driven a wedge between the northeast and northwest of France. The lack of ground transportation was another critical problem; many units were forced to abandon equipment and burn planes which were too damaged to fly safely. There were stories of other squadrons which would retreat one day, fly a mission the next, and retreat again that night. Lane's unit retreated to an airfield near Amiens, bedded down for the night, and woke just in time to take flight before Guderian's advancing tanks. They were shunted from one airfield to another, receiving scant welcome anywhere. It became every man for himself, with each pilot scrounging for his own food, servicing his own plane, and sleeping under its wing. They had to search for enough fuel to take off and fight. And still the Germans came on, relentlessly.

By May 19 the AC was forced to retreat entirely from the continent. The squadrons were posted to Kent in England, their pilots abandoning everything but the clothes on their backs as they fled. They had lost half of their planes at that point. It wasn't better for the land forces; they were coalescing about a town at the seacoast named Dunkirk, hard-pressed by the Germans.

They hoped to continue flying missions over France, but the range of the Hurricanes was not enough for them to fly prolonged missions across the channel. They were unable to coordinate properly with the other units. About all they could do was harass the Germans who were closing in on Dunkirk, and try to protect the boats that were carrying the allied troops across to England. That was a horrendous business; there were well over three hundred thousand stranded men, and every type of boat was being marshaled to bear them to safety.

But the fact was that none of the unit's planes were considered truly flightworthy at this point. Not one had escaped France unscathed, and the pilots were demoralized. They had given what was best described as a poor account of themselves. Seven of them had died, two were wounded, and one had a nervous breakdown.

As the Dunkirk evacuation was nearing completion, because by some miracle the Germans were not bringing full force to bear, the remnant of the 242 was transferred a hundred and fifty kilometers north to Coltishall, a place so small it wasn't on the map. There they had to share quarters with the 66th Squadron. It was near Norwich, where they had to go for any big-town action.

The new Squadron leader was Douglas Bader, a man who had lost both his legs because of an accident in 1930. The pilots expected him to fly very little, because of his handicap. They were afraid that he would be just another figurehead.

Douglas Bader, they soon learned at a detailed briefing, had crashed his bulldog fighter while attempting a dangerous aerobatic maneuver. The surgeon was forced to amputate his right leg above the knee, and his left leg about six inches below the knee. They fitted him with metal artificial legs, and he proceeded to rebuild his life. His determination was amazing. He taught himself to walk again, and to dance, to play golf—exceedingly well— to play squash, and above all, to fly. In fact he flew as well as he ever had. But the R.A.F., more conservative than Bader, decided that we was medically unfit for duty and forced him to retire. Only after Britain entered the war did the R.A.F. decide to allow him back in the service. His obvious qualification finally prevailed against their prejudice.

He was posted to a Spitfire squadron, where he soon became a flight leader. But he was impatient with the R.A.F.'s tactical methods. The Fighter Command theoreticians believed that modern fighters were too fast for dogfight tactics. (At this point Lane and the other pilots burst out laughing, somewhat bitterly. They had been virtually annihilated by German fighters who had practiced dogfighting.) The only approved method for a fighter attack on a bomber formation was for each three plane vic to line up and play follow-the-leader, firing in orderly turns during the run. Bader argued that these tactics exposed the fighter's vulnerable belly to the bomber's tail-gunner. (“Now he tells us!”) He favored the use of dogfight tactics similar to those found effective in the War, and the use of several fighters to gang up and join fire against a single bomber. (“
What
single bomber?”) He advocated using the controlling aspects of height and sun in aerial combat.

During the evacuation of Dunkirk, Douglas Bader saw his first combat. He vindicated his views by scoring his first three enemy kills.

So it was that he was given command of the 242nd Hurricane squadron, the only Canadian squadron in the R.A.F. It was obvious that he was being safely put out of the way, just as was the squadron: a man battered into uselessness, in charge of an essentially foreign squadron battered into uselessness. It was an insult to each of them.

Lane and the other pilots were ready in one of the two dispersal huts when Bader came to take command. He was unannounced, but there was no mistaking the lurching walk of the man. He had to kick his right stump forward to move the leg, then kick it down to straighten the hinged knee. But he did move along well enough.

No one moved. The pilots just studied him quietly. They could do this because they had not been introduced; theoretically they did not know who he was.

“Who's in charge?” Bader demanded.

A heavyset young man rose slowly. “I guess I am.”

“Isn't there a flight commander?”

“There's one somewhere.”

“What's your name?”

At this point the man realized that he had carried the masked insolence about as far as he dared. “Turner. Sir.”

Bader turned angrily and left the hut. He lurched to the nearest Hurricane and strapped himself in. He started it, taxied out to the field, took off, and proceeded to give a display of aerobatic flying that drew them all from the hut to watch. Lane was amazed. This man was
good
!

When he landed, Bader did not take any further notice of the Canadian pilots. He walked to his car and drove off.

“I think maybe we have a commander,” Lane remarked. The others nodded. The next time Bader appeared, he would be treated with proper respect.

The next morning Bader called all of them into his office. They reported with alacrity, and were absolutely respectful, but the man was unforgiving. “A good squadron looks smart. I want to see no more flying boots or sweaters in the mess. You will wear shoes, shirts, and ties.” He glanced at Turner. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yes, sir. Most of us don't have any clothes except what we're wearing now.”

Bader stared at him. “I am not a man for humor. Is this the truth?” He looked at the rest of them.

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

“How did this happen?”

They told him of their disastrous flight from France, and their treatment since. “Our requests for allowance due to loss of kit have been turned down,” Lane said. Ordinarily those who had lost their uniforms and personal things in the line of duty were allowed to draw replacements.

“Well, that will change,” Bader said. “Order new uniforms, all of you, from the local tailors. I will guarantee that they are paid for. Meantime, for tonight, you beg or borrow shoes and shirts from someone. I've got some shirts, and you can borrow all I've got. Okay?”

“Okay,” they agreed, taking heart.

“Now I want to hear about your engagements in France.”

They told him, and he listened attentively. His open and friendly manner transformed their attitude toward him; not only was he an expert pilot, he was a decent person. They had judged him by his metal legs, and he had judged them by their sloppy clothing, but those judgments had evaporated.

Next came spot flight testing. He took them up in pairs, and discovered that all of them flew well (those who hadn't, had not survived), though their formations were somewhat sloppy by his standards. The next few days took care of that. When Lane's turn came, he looked down and was amazed: the airfields were camouflaged so as to be nearly invisible from the air. This had not been the case in Canada or France—but Canada was not in immediate danger of being bombed, and France—well, everything about that had been a disaster. When landing at night an R.A.F. pilot would give the colors of the day with a flare gun, or flash the letters of the day in Morse code from an amber light in the tail assembly to authenticate his identity. This was no casual thing; an enemy plane could cause a great deal of damage if allowed to sneak in unchallenged.

Bader made good on his word about the uniforms, and they sharpened their appearance and their flying skills. Morale was restored, and the squadron began to thrive.

But there was another problem. The 242's engineer officer, Bernard West, told Bader that the ground crew's spare parts and supplies had been lost in France, and that his requests for resupply had been denied. They would be unable to keep the planes even remotely flightworthy much longer.

“Well see about that,” Bader said grimly. Lane was there when he put in a call to the supply officer.

“Coltishall is a new station,” the supply officer responded. “I literally haven't got enough staff to type out the forms.”

“To Hell with your forms and your blankets and your blasted toilet paper! I want my spares and tools, and I want ‘em damned soon.”

But nothing happened. Lane and the others waited with increasing interest; they knew that Bader seldom brooked being ignored. Sure enough: a few days later Bader sent a signal to the Group Headquarters. 242 SQUADRON NOW OPERATIONAL AS REGARDS PILOTS BUT NONOPERATIONAL REPEAT NONOPERATIONAL AS REGARDS EQUIPMENT. That was pretty blunt by R.A.F. standards, and could lead to trouble.

It did. Soon Bader was ordered to report to Air Chief Marshall Sir Hugh Dowding. Lane and the other pilots saw him off. “Sir, we just want you to know—”

“That you know I'll get those damned supplies,” he finished, and drove off.

They exchanged glances. That had not been their concern, at this point. They were afraid that he was going to be relieved of command for his impertinence.

But they had underestimated him again. It was the supply officer and his superior who were replaced. Next day the 242's supplies arrived.

An anonymous cartoon appeared on the bulletin board. It showed two airplanes being shot out of the air simultaneously by one. They were labeled “Supply.” Below was a scrawled “five” marker, suggesting that someone had upped his notches from three to five. If Bader noticed it, he gave no indication. That was significant, because he was a stickler for form, and would have removed anything he felt was inappropriate.

•  •  •

On August 13, 1940, the “Battle Over Britain” began. The Germans sent everything they had, determined to blast the British out of the sky so that they could bomb with impunity. The British met them bravely, refusing to be intimidated. Day by day, the battle in the air raged.

But the 242 squadron was stationed too far to the north to take part in that action. Its fighters were being held in reserve, to protect the northern industrial areas. Bader chafed at this, and so did Lane and the other pilots. Bader repeatedly asked for his squadron to be deployed to a more southerly base for combat duty.

He could not be denied. On August 30 the squadron was ordered to deploy to Duxford. But fifteen minutes after they took off, they were ordered back to Coltishall. Bader, furious, put in a call. An hour later they were ordered to deploy again, and this time no counterorder was issued. They arrived in Duxford by noon.

There they had lunch in the dispersal area, waiting impatiently for action. Finally, near five o'clock, the phone rang: “242 Squadron scramble!”

That was it. They were finally back in action, and this time they were far better prepared than they had been in France. The four vics, a total of twelve planes, took off in order: Red Section under Bader, called Laycock; then Yellow, where Lane was, Green, and Blue.

“Laycock Red leader calling steersman. Airborne. What height?” That was the query about the position of the enemy planes.

“Angels Fifteen. Trade approaching North Weald. Vector one-nine-zero. Buster.” That meant that the enemy planes were at 15,000 feet, heading toward North Weald. The squadrons were to go ten degrees west of south, at full speed.

The sun was in the west, and the enemy liked to try to come out of the sun. Therefore Bader ignored the steersman's instruction and moved in a direction calculated to negate that advantage. His sections checked in: “Yellow Leader—in position.” “Green Leader—in position.” “Blue Leader—in position.”