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From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 23:07:16 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Like Father Like Son - Part Eight ( Conclusion)
Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 21:10:05 -0500
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Part Eight



December 1939 - The Bore War


The hut was freezing despite the efforts of the pot-bellied stove that
glowed cherry red in the darkness. David groaned as he woke and someone
snapped on the lights.

"All right you lot, hands off cocks and on with your socks. Let's be having
you, gentlemen! Parade outside, working dress, twenty minutes."

The door slammed as Sergeant Rutter crashed his way out and down the path to
the next hut where his voice could be heard repeating the same instructions
to the inmates, like some absurd echo. David flopped out of bed and stood in
his pyjamas, blinking in the harsh light. The others, too, were getting up
and they stared at each other with bemused expressions. David grabbed the
wash bag and towel from his bedside locker and made his way out to the
ablutions. He showered and shaved quickly and hurried back into the main
room to dress.

"For crying out loud! D'you know, it's only 4.30! Don't they have any
consideration?"

Mark Chapman sounded deeply aggrieved. David had to smile. Typical Mark! All
the same, it was unusual. He dressed and started to make up the bed in its
'boxed' blankets. He didn't have to think about it any more, it was a reflex
action. Sometimes he would pause and wonder at how quickly he seemed to have
been absorbed into this new life but for most of the time he was either too
busy or too tired. War had changed everything. The tight discipline had been
replaced by a sense of urgency. David and his fellows had found themselves
plunged into basic flying training within days of the declaration of war.
They had done their initial flying in open-cockpit biplanes, Tiger Moths,
that his father would have been totally at home in. They had flown every
available hour permitted by the weather and at times the sky had seemed so
full of aeroplanes, he'd had the feeling he could have walked across the sky
using them as stepping stones.

David had loved every second of his time in the air. Eight of his entry had
been 'chopped' already - sent home, unable to make the grade, and the one
topic of conversation in the hut each evening was the dread prospect of
being thrown out. Aubrey Maitland was definitely struggling. On the ground,
he was all easy confidence but he froze once airborne. He confided in David
that it wasn't a question of being afraid of flying but that he was
terrified of failing. David sympathised; everyone felt the same. Aubrey was
convinced he was next for the chop. Now, after forty flying hours, Aubrey
was just starting to relax and his instructor had given him the glad tidings
that he thought Aubrey 'just might make it after all.'

Mark Chapman, by contrast, had proved himself to be a 'natural' and had been
the first to go solo. David was somewhere in the middle, slow to start with
but improving rapidly. His instructor encouraged him to fly more gently, not
to overpower the aircraft. He had been clumsy at first, his feet had seemed
too big for the rudder pedals and his movements were exaggerated. The tiny
Tiger Moth had lurched about the sky to accompanying bellows of anguish from
the instructor in the rear seat. He had settled down, though, and now felt
that he had begun to 'feel' the aeroplane instead of trying to master it. He
finished his bed-making and stood back. The others were ready now and they
moved outside into the freezing darkness. A mob of cadets was slowly
organising itself into a semblance of order and once they had formed up,
Sergeant Rutter marched them off to the parade square. A small group of
officers waited for them, huddled against the cold. They straightened
visibly as the cadets marched on and formed up to their front.

It soon became clear to the cadets that this break with normal routine
signalled something momentous. The officers were now holding a hurried
conference, sheaves of paper were being consulted and there was much arm
waving and urgent whispering. At last, the senior officer, Squadron Leader
Bridges, moved forward.

"Good morning, gentlemen. So sorry to have dragged you from your beds at
such an ungodly hour but, you see, there is something of a flap on. We have
been ordered to send your entry elsewhere for advanced flying training. Some
of you will be going to 6 SFTS, Little Rissington and some to 14 SFTS,
Kinloss and the remainder to 15 SFTS, Lossiemouth. Transport leaves at 0730.
Fall out when your names are called and get your kit packed. I'm going to
call the Little Rissington contingent first."





Aubrey Maitland's name was called for Little Rissington and he shrugged as
he walked away. David and Mark Chapman were both selected for Lossiemouth in
Scotland.

"Harvards," said Mark. "They fly Harvards at Lossiemouth. Little Rissington
does too, of course but they also have Ansons. Looks like we're going to be
single-seater pilots, David."

"Golly, I hope so! I'd hate to spend the war stooging around in a bomber -
far too dangerous!"

Aubrey Maitland looked desolate.

"I can't believe they're splitting us up. I bet I get Ansons."

"They have Harvards at Little Risington, too, you know." David did his best
to cheer him up.

"I know, but I'm such a ropey pilot, they're bound to give me the big stuff.
Of course, Chapman's the ace of the base. He's bound to be a fighter pilot."

"Jealous are you, Maitland? How unbecoming."

"Leave it out you two. Aubrey, Mark can't help it if he is a natural. I
expect that I'll soon get found out and posted to Risington or somewhere to
convert to the big stuff, too."

They completed their packing is silence. Mark and Aubrey exchanged glares
and David made sure he stood between them whenever possible. The animosity
between the two young men had grown worse during their flying training.
Aubrey resented Mark's ability. David came to the conclusion that Aubrey was
something of a snob and that Mark's humbler origins were seen as an affront
to Aubrey's aristocratic ego. As a consequence, David had become less
friendly with Aubrey and closer to Mark. Mark never flaunted his superior
ability and was always willing to offer encouragement to those for whom
flying did not come as naturally. David liked it that Mark never offered
advice - that would have been to rub salt in already tender wounds. Instead,
he would claim that he was just lucky to have been placed with such a good
instructor. It was also noticeable that Mark was no longer getting himself
in trouble. Now the serious business had begun, he worked with a will.

The long journey northward took almost two days. The trainee pilots were
crammed into a couple of compartments of an ancient railway carriage that
seemed to have been added as an afterthought to a slow goods train. They
then spent a cold and very uncomfortable six hours on Edinburgh's Waverly
Station, waiting for the connecting train to take them to Elgin. At Elgin
they were met by transport to take them to No 15  Service Flying Training
School. The aerodrome at Lossiemouth and its neighbour at Kinloss had been
only been open since the spring of that year and consequently, they were
delighted to find the Officers' Mess building was modern, warm and
comfortable. David and Mark signed in.  Acting Pilot Officers Chapman and
Riley 'on posting' and grinned at each other. Now the really serious
business could begin.

************************

Back home in Dorset, Peter was experiencing another bout of intense
frustration. Since the declaration of war, he had been trying to get back in
uniform. He'd hoped that his engineering expertise would now be recognised
and that he could be of some service to the RAF. Once more, he found his
pleas falling on deaf ears. Someone in the Air Ministry was pathologically
opposed to the technology of fuel injection; that was the only conclusion.
Pinky Harris hadn't been able to help much. Bomber Command had been in
action since the first day and Pinky had been kept busy. In the brief
conversation that Peter had managed to have with Pinky, he learned that the
politicians were still interfering with the RAF's efforts. No bombs were to
be dropped on Germany in case 'private property' was destroyed. Bomber
Command was limited to dropping leaflets urging the German people to
overthrow Hitler and come to their senses. The only raids of note had been
anti-shipping strikes. The Blenheims and Wellingtons had showed themselves
to be vulnerable to the German fighter defences and the bomb loads carried
were too small to inflict serious damage.

Only the Royal Navy seemed to be taking the war seriously. Already they had
experienced both triumph and disaster. The German pocket battleship, Graf
Spee, had been run to earth off Montevideo by a Royal Navy Cruiser force
and, after a sharp sea-fight, had sought respite in the port. Her captain,
mistakenly believing the smaller British ships had been reinforced, had
scuttled the ship rather than resume the battle. It was being hailed
everywhere as a great victory and welcome news for the first Christmas of
the war. Churchill, recalled to the government as First Lord of the
Admiralty, was cock-a-hoop. Less pleasing was the loss of the aircraft
carrier, HMS Courageous, torpedoed in the Irish Sea by the German submarine,
U29, with heavy loss of life.

Worse was to follow. On the night of Friday 13th October, U47, commanded by
Gunther Prien, penetrated the main fleet anchorage at Scapa Flow and
torpedoed the battleship Royal Oak. Prien had made his getaway as skilfully
as his daring attack and returned to a hero's welcome in Germany. Over 830
British sailors had died. It was already clear that the U-Boat menace would
be every bit as dangerous in this new war as it had been in the last. In the
opening three months of the war, the Royal Navy had managed to destroy seven
enemy submarines with a further two being lost to mines. On the debit side,
the Royal Navy had lost two capital ships and many, many merchant ships. If
nothing very much was happening in France, the Navy already knew this was no
'phoney war.'

***********************

Michael's squadron flew standing patrols and continued training hard for the
battle to come. There was still much dissatisfaction with the Blenheim F1.
It was fast enough to take on unescorted German Bombers but already, in
training exercises against the Hurricanes of 56 Squadron, it was shown to be
relatively ponderous and no match for a modern true fighter. 56 Squadron had
endured troubles of their own. In the infamous 'Battle of Barking Creek' in
September, they had lost two aircraft to the Spitfires of 74 Squadron sent
to intercept them following a mistake by the radar operators of 'Chain Home.
' This led to the invention of an 'Identification Friend or Foe' system. The
RAF hurriedly fitted these IFF devices to all its aeroplanes and it was now
common to hear a controller instruct an unidentified aircraft to "squawk
your parrot."

The pilots were getting used to the battle control system that 'Stuffy'
Dowding was rapidly now perfecting. Sir Hugh Dowding may not have been the
best squadron commander in the Royal Flying Corps in Peter's day, but he had
come into his own as the Commander of RAF Fighter Command. The command was
organised into three Groups numbered 11, 12 and 13. 11 Group covered the
whole of the south of England and Wales. 12 Group then covered the Midlands
and East Anglia, where most of the bomber bases were situated, and 13 Group
was responsible for the north of England and Scotland. Each Group was
divided into sectors with a main RAF base designated as the 'sector
airfield.' Each sector airfield had a number of fighter airfields under its
control.

The key to Dowding's defensive plans was the 'Chain Home' radar system. This
had been augmented by a further system called 'Chain Home Low,' which
covered the identified gap in the main system. Whilst radar was in its
infancy, the Chain Home systems gave the fighters valuable warning and
could, in the hands of a skilful operator, provide quite detailed
information on numbers of enemy aircraft as well as height and bearing. It
was then up to the ground controllers to 'vector' the fighters to intercept
an incoming enemy. The system had already proved its worth with successful
interceptions of German bombers over Scotland and the east coast of England.

Dowding's real worry was the number of trained pilots. Aeroplanes,
particularly the Hawker Hurricanes, were now coming off the production lines
at a satisfactory rate. The RAF had expanded rapidly during 1939 but there
was a serious shortage of experienced men to fly the new machines. This
accounted for David's sudden removal from Cranwell to the North of Scotland.
The RAF could no longer afford the luxury of extended training periods.
Basic flying courses had been cut back to five weeks and advanced training
reduced to twelve weeks from fourteen. A sense of urgency pervaded
everywhere but the Air Ministry, where red tape and bureaucratic muddle were
still the order of the day. After three stultifying months, Peter finally
secured an interview for the 28th December in London. Bethan was relieved.
It had been like living with a ticking time bomb. Now, she hoped, Peter
would be satisfied at last.

She dreaded the idea of having all 'her men' involved in the war but was
astute enough to know that Peter would never settle for the status of casual
observer. Albert was far more philosophical:

"I don't have the Captain's 'ighly developed sense of duty, Missus. If they
want me, well, they know where to find me."

Bethan wished that Peter could be similarly relaxed and let things take
their course. She had the strong feeling that this war would be over no
quicker than the last one. She also sensed that everyone would have a part
to play before the end. If someone had questioned her on this, she would
have been able to give only the vaguest of answers. The world had changed,
was all that she knew. The twenty-one years between the wars had seen
seismic shifts in society and technological innovations happening at a
frenetic pace. Back in 1914, when she had first volunteered her services,
aeroplanes were considered a novelty, radio communication was embryonic and
even motorcars were a comparative rarity.

Now, every home in the land seemed to have a radio set, aeroplanes were
flying at the phenomenal speed of 400 mph and there were motor vehicles
cluttering up the roads wherever one looked. The old social order of squire
and villager, master and servant had vanished with an entire generation in
the trenches and mud of the Western Front. Britain had even had a socialist
government - something utterly unthinkable before the First War, as people
were starting to call it. There was a very different mood. The wild,
uninformed patriotism of 1914 was no longer evident. No crowds had thronged
the London streets on September 3rd 1939. Instead, there had been a sombre
acceptance of the inevitable. To Bethan, this did not signal a lessening of
love for one's country in any way. It was more a case of the country having
grown up, she felt. The experiences of four terrible years had touched every
home in the land. Now it was starting all over again, well, small wonder if
there was less enthusiasm than in those far-off days of innocence and
ignorance.

She found the change welcome. It accorded with her own mood. She saw Hitler'
s Germany as something loathsome and evil. The pillaging and destruction of
first Czechoslovakia and then, in far more dreadful circumstances, Poland,
was an act of barbarism perpetrated by a madman. Much as she hated the idea
of war, she accepted its necessity. If we don't stop them, who will? That
was the way most people put it. There was no shortage of confidence in the
country; that was for sure. At the same time, and possibly as a result of
Peter's influence, she could not quite suppress the sinking feeling that
perhaps this confidence was somewhat misplaced. In her darker moments she
was consumed by doubts and felt the icy touch of fear; fear for her children
and her husband. It was all very well for Peter to say he was too old for
flying duties. She knew her man and if there was any way he could find to
play an active part in the coming struggle, she had no doubt he would be
there at the forefront yet again.

Most of all she feared for David. Michael was self-sufficient somehow, a law
unto himself. David, on the other hand, she felt was vulnerable. He was such
a gentle soul. In many ways he reminded her more of Phillip than anyone
else. There was that innate sense of fairness, a willingness to see the
other person's point of view. He lacked a little of Peter's steely resolve.
Then there was Phillipa. What would become of her? Her heart lurched at the
thought of Phillipa having to endure the pain and loss that she had been
through when Phillip had died. And yet this was likely. Almost all eligible
young men would be in the forces and already there had been casualties from
among the families in the village and the Army hadn't even begun to fight!
How terribly wasteful it all was.

At other times she was proud of her sons; proud to have two young men in the
Air Force, ready to defend their loved ones and their country. It was all so
confusing. Peter didn't really understand - couldn't. He saw everything in
terms of duty. Duty, the curse of his generation! Duty had led them to hang
on the barbed wire, to burn in a fiery comet-tail across the skies of France
or to drown in the icy waters of the oceans. She was a harsh mistress, this
duty. Where did love and the comfort of family come into it all? Nowhere,
that's where! So she kept her counsel and endured in silence, weeping
soundlessly in her bed after Peter had gone to sleep, as doubts and fears
assailed her.


February 1940 Pieces on the board

David glanced up as he heard the snarl of the Harvard's engine. Someone had
ballsed-up their approach and was having to go round again. He could picture
the scene perfectly. First there would be the cold voice of the instructor:

"I have control."

The poor student would then have to suffer a blistering tirade enumerating
every single mistake made. Then the instructor would hand back control and
another attempt, further hampered by shattered confidence, would begin. The
attrition rate amongst the student pilots was high. Some were sent to nearby
Kinloss to try their luck on the twin-engined Airspeed Oxfords or Avro
Ansons. Others, less fortunate, were offered only the option of re-mustering
as Equipment Officers or similar. David had already resolved that, if his
name was called for the chop, he would not stay with the Air Force but would
join the Army instead. What was the point of being in the Air Force if one
couldn't fly? He might accept becoming a navigator at a pinch but it wouldn'
t be the same. His heart was set on being a fighter pilot.

He had learned to respect the North American Harvard advanced trainer. It
was a hell of lot more sophisticated than the Tiger Moths he learned to fly
on. It had a retractable undercarriage and a variable-pitch propeller as
well as five times the horsepower and enough vices to keep a pilot very much
on his toes. The Harvard was also fully aerobatic and Peter had learned the
joy of throwing a responsive aeroplane around the sky. His instructor had
constantly encouraged David to be very accurate in his manoeuvres and had
made him repeat the various evolutions over and over until David felt he
could do them in his sleep.

Not that there seemed much time for sleep. When there was no flying, there
was ground school and many of the students found this the most onerous task
of all. David's years of playing with model aircraft stood him in good
stead. He already knew much of the theory of aerodynamics and impressed his
tutors with his ready grasp of mechanical details. Mark Chapman managed well
enough and David was always on hand to help out with any complexities that
Mark struggled with. The two of them became inseparable and spent what
little free time was afforded to them in each other's rooms, discussing the
finer points of the day's lessons, their flying experiences and the general
state of the war. David was also able to snatch odd moments in which to
write to Johanna. This was the one part of his life that he did not share
with anyone. Jo was his one release from the toils of the day. He had even
managed to telephone her a few times and he lived for the day he would see
her again. Now, over halfway through his course, that day was drawing ever
closer.

***************************

Johanna had finished school the previous July and had immediately announced
her intention to join the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. Her parents
vehemently opposed such a move. They wanted her to continue her education,
her father harboured fond but vain hopes that she would be attracted to a
career in medicine. Jo was not a girl to be put off easily and her home life
resembled nothing so much as guerrilla warfare as she kept her determined
campaign to be allowed to enlist in the forces.

"But I want to do my bit, Mummy. Loads of girls are joining the forces now,
you know. I feel it is my duty."

"There are plenty of other ways, dear. All those girls do is menial labour.
We didn't spend all that money on your education for you become to a driver
or a typist."

"Well, if a girl does one of those jobs then it means that a man is released
to do something more useful! Surely you must see, we're all involved this
time?"

"Johanna, it's no good arguing with your mother about this. When you are
twenty-one we will not be able to prevent you from doing as you wish. Until
that time, you are our responsibility and I forbid it. That's flat."

"But."

"No 'buts' and no 'ifs,' Johanna. You have my final word on the subject.
Anyway, I expect that we'll make peace soon and it will all be for nothing."

"Make peace? How? Daddy, you don't think the Germans are suddenly going to
change their minds and march out of Poland, do you? You must know that it's
impossible to make peace with that horrid man. Look at all the promises he
made and never kept."

"There's a lot more to it than you understand. All I know is that I went
through the last lot and I don't want to see it happening again. I would do
anything in my power to stop this war. If that means letting the Germans
have Poland, so be it."

"What a dreadful thing to say! How can you simply forget about all those
poor people? And what about what they did to Warsaw?"

"I don't want to see the same happen to London or Birmingham or even
Dorchester. We can't stop bombers with fine sentiments, Johanna."

"But we can help if we try. That's why it's so important that we all do our
bit."

"Enough! The subject is closed."

But it wasn't. Johanna returned to it again and again.

Peter was back in uniform. He had accepted a commission in the rank of
Flying Officer - one down from his old RFC rank - but, if the truth were
known, he'd have enlisted as a lowly aircraftman simply to get involved. He
wore his old RFC Observer's badge and First war medal ribbons with a quiet
pride. As he had predicted to Bethan, he was considered too old at 44 for a
flying appointment but had been pleased to be posted to the Head Quarters of
12 Group, at RAF Watnall in Nottinghamshire, as a junior staff officer. He
was due to take up his duties at the beginning of March and was arranging
with Bethan for them to move to a rented house nearby. Bethan had taken the
news philosophically. Her one concern was Beatrice, who had gone downhill
markedly over the last year and now seemed to be living in the past
permanently. She scarcely recognised Bethan these days and when she did,
asked why Phillip never visited. It broke Bethan's heart to see how frail
the old lady had become.

After one such visit, she broached the subject with Peter:

"Peter, I don't know what to do about Beatrice, do I? She isn't at all well,
you know, and I dread to think what will become of her if we're not around
to keep an eye on things. I feel like I'm abandoning her, see?"

"I don't know what to suggest, my love. We can ask old Hepworth-Lloyd to
keep an eye on her, I suppose."

"I'm not sure it's a doctor she needs. Maybe we could find her a companion?
It would have to be someone we can trust, mind."

"Anyone particular in mind?"

"Well, now, I was thinking just the other day. What about Marjorie Hallam?
She's retired now and I think she would like something useful to do. She
never married, you know."

"I didn't realise you were still in touch. Where is Sister Hallam these
days?"

"She lives with her sister near Reading, isn't it? I think I'll write and
ask if she's interested."

Marjorie Hallam arrived a week later, as formidable as ever. She hadn't
changed much to Peter's eye, perhaps a little stouter, and her hair, still
swept into a severe bun, was grey now. But there was still that faintly
humorous twinkle in her eyes that belied her stern demeanour. Bethan took
her to Pitton House and she immediately took charge in a very unobtrusive
but no nonsense fashion. Beatrice, somewhat bewildered by the rapid turn of
events, was acquiescent. Bethan felt a weight lifting from her as she drove
back home with Peter. Beatrice would be well looked after, that was for
sure. Now she could concentrate all her energies on supporting her own
family.


***************************

At the end of that month, Michael's squadron scored their first success. Two
Blenheim F1s on patrol over the Thames estuary had been vectored to
intercept a German raider. They shot down a Heinkel 111 that was attempting
to lay mines in the approaches to Tilbury docks. Michael wasn't involved,
but he joined enthusiastically in the celebratory party that followed. For
the first time in his life he was really enjoying himself. War had lent an
urgency, an immediacy to things that had always been missing before. He was
learning to trust others a bit more. His sense of superiority had been
severely challenged as the flying had intensified. The slight edge of danger
thrilled him. He didn't feel fear exactly. It was more a sense of heightened
awareness. His superiors noted the change in his attitude approvingly.

He would never be a popular member of the squadron. His colleagues found him
somewhat disconcerting. There was a brittleness about him that made others
wary. It was as if he were barely contained, always teetering on the edge of
violence. His rages were legendary. Most of the time he managed to remain
silent, white faced, eyes blazing with murderous intent. Very occasionally
he was unable to restrain himself and would vent his fury in a high-pitched
voice, crackling with rage and dripping vitriol. A fighter squadron is a
fairly tolerant place but there is little room for prima donnas. Michael
learned this the hard way. After one such episode in a local pub he was
seized bodily by a group of pilots and flung head first into an adjacent
pond to cool off. That night he had prowled the streets of Soho, looking for
a prostitute to take out his anger and frustration. After the incident with
Maisey, he found himself increasingly drawn to rough sex and more than once
his victims ended up in hospital claiming to have 'fallen down stairs.'






He heard the news of Peter's appointment to 12 Group with something like
disbelief. He told anyone who could be bothered to listen that his
step-father was a washed up old 'has-been' who had no place in the modern
Air Force and would be soon be exposed as the liability that Michael knew
him to be. He learnt to keep such opinions to himself when an elderly
reserve officer called 'Tiny' O'Rourke flattened him with a single punch
after Michael had ventured to suggest that 'dug-outs' (former offices
recalled to the service) were a waste of time. O' Rourke's nickname was
ironic. He was around six foot six and possessed of a temper to rival
Michael's.


Michael avoided confronting him directly again but lost no opportunity to
goad the big man. He was always careful, however, to do so only when senior
officers were present. Now, with the war hotting up, he gave up on such
puerile pass-times and everyone was relieved. The best news was yet to come.
One morning, the Squadron Commander announced to the assembled crews that
the squadron was to re-equip with Hurricane Mk1s the following month. The
pilots greeted the news with much enthusiasm. Of course, it would mean that
the rest of the crews would have to be posted elsewhere, but, to Michael,
this was an added bonus. Now the squadron was deemed fully operational, they
had already shed the navigators and were flying with two man crews of pilot
and wireless operator/air gunner. Michael suspected that the news would also
be welcome in the Sergeants Mess by at least one NCO. His Wop/AG, Sergeant
Braithwaite, was not exactly Michael's greatest admirer and had
insubordination down to a fine art. Braithwaite had been the target for
Michael's rages too often.

Had Michael but known it, the NCOs had received the news before the pilots
and a party of epic proportion was in full swing. 'Kiwi' Braithwaite sank
another pint of bitter and grinned at his mate, a black Jamaican air gunner
who went by the nickname 'Snowball.'

"Christ, Snowy, old mate, it's the best news I've heard since getting off
the boat. That little shit Mr Welford-fucking-Barnes can go root himself
blue."

"Ya got your chit, yet, Kiwi, man?"

"Yep, 264. Defiants. How 'bout you?"

"'Cross the road, man. 600 Squadron. More bloody gentlemen."

"Ow! Tough shit, mate. At least 264 are proper Air Force and not bloody
nobs. I reckon the Defiant's good kit, too."

"Me, I prefer two engines, Kiwi, man. One more to get you home when the
other gets shot up. At least it will be better than bombers, man. My pal
from Kingston, Alfie, he's on a Hampden squadron. I don't give much for his
chances, man."

"Too right! Give me fighters any day. The kiwi is not a nocturnal bird,
Snowy. At least we get home for supper."

"From what I heard, the kiwi can't fly at all, man. The aerodynamic
properties of a brick."

"True, my wise and educated friend. I sometimes think I should have
remembered that when I get into the kite with that young prick."

"Well, man, maybe you'll get somet'ing worse next time."

"Christ, it's being so bloody cheerful keeps you going, mate. Anyway, I
heard that it's the gunner that's the aircraft captain in a Defiant."

"Tell that to the officers."

The two men exchanged wry smiles. The social order was very much maintained
in the 'Millionaires.' Kiwi Braithwaite had heard that, in pre-war days, a
prospective officer was deliberately encouraged to drink a large amount of
alcohol over dinner, to see if 'he still comported himself like a gentleman.
' The Auxiliary Air Force was too much like a gentlemen's club for the taste
of most regular servicemen and 'Empire' volunteers like Kiwi and Snowball
were considered way beyond the pale. Kiwi had once overheard Michael
complaining to his flight commander:

"Can't I at least get rid of that bloody man Braithwaite? He doesn't even
speak a recognisable form of English, for God's sake!"




Kiwi Braithwaite had stored this away and teased Michael mercilessly over
the intercom.

"Tickle your arse with a feather, sir."

"What?"

"I said, particularly nasty weather, sir."

"Braithwaite, if you have nothing sensible to say, pipe down."

"Up yours, sir."

"What did you say?"

"I said, of course, sir."

And so it went on.



April 1940 Storm Warning

"Riley!"

Peter looked up from the 'plot' - a giant map of eastern and southern
England - and drew himself up to attention. Wing Commander Adams stood in
front of him, his eyes just about level with Peter's chest.

"Yes, sir?"

"The balloon has gone up, Riley. Norway is on."

"Very good, sir. I'll see to it right away."

Peter's heart sank. The government had been vacillating for weeks over
whether or not to land a force in Norway to secure the iron ore deposits and
prevent Germany from getting hold of this valuable source of raw material.
 From what Peter could gather, the idea was Churchill's. Chamberlain and the
Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, had hesitated, afraid of the impact on
world opinion of occupying a small neutral country.

"You should know, Riley. Intelligence reports that the Huns look like they'
ve beaten us to it. We're getting reports of a large German force already on
its way."

"That doesn't sound too good sir."

"Indeed it doesn't. Still, make sure we hold our end up, Riley, there's a
good chap."

"Of course, sir."

Peter sighed inwardly. In the six weeks since taking up his appointment at
12 Group HQ, he had become increasingly aware that the country was still not
on a proper war footing. It had more to do with the mentality than anything
else. Too many people still believed that the Germans would wait for the
British to act, would somehow oblige in conforming to the laborious British
plans. Once again, it appeared, the enemy had anticipated British actions.
Peter had no doubt that the Wehrmacht would be ashore in Norway before the
British convoy carrying the troops had even sailed. For all Wing Commander
Adams's sense of urgency, all Peter had to do was to warn 46 Squadron that
they were now on standby for operations with the Royal Navy in Norway. He
drafted the appropriate secure signal and handed it to one of the WAAF
clerks for transmission. In due course, no doubt, someone would come up with
an aircraft carrier to ship the Hurricanes to the battlefront. He checked
the air movement orders - copies of signals sent to the various units of
Fighter Command. 263 Squadron to embark HMS Glorious. Fuck! Gladiators! They
were sending biplanes to take on the most powerful Air Force the world had
ever seen! He felt the touch of despair.

Later that night, in bed, he spoke quietly while Bethan listened:

"Things have to change soon, love. We're playing at it. Bombers can't drop
bombs; fighters aren't allowed to fight unless the Huns come over here. We
seem to lack the will for real war. I bet the Hun high command are laughing
up their sleeves at us. I bet they can't believe their luck! If the time
ever comes when they do attack us, about half of our pilots will be totally
new to the job."

"Like Michael and David, you mean."

"Uh, not so much Michael, he's got a fair few flying hours under his belt by
now, but like David, fresh out of training certainly."

"So he doesn't stand much chance, is it?"

"No, no, I didn't say that. It's more that we could be preparing our pilots
so much better than we are. Look at David. Straight out of training and
straight to a squadron. We should have some sort of programme where the boys
get to fly operational types before they ever see a real front line unit."

Bethan's silence was eloquent. The realisation slowly dawned on Peter that
he had said the very words his wife least wanted to hear. He wanted to speak
out, to reassure her but he knew instantly that the damage was done. David
had recently joined 264 Squadron at RAF Martlesham Heath in Suffolk and was
now learning to fly the Boulton Paul Defiant fighter. To his disappointment,
he had been told he was too tall for Hurricanes or Spitfires. He soon
reconciled himself to the Defiant, however. At least it was a fighter and
that was what he had set his heart on - to be a fighter pilot. Peter had
reservations about the Defiant as a concept. It was a two seater with all
the armament concentrated in a hydraulic turret that sat immediately behind
the cockpit. The turret carried four browning .303 machineguns. Delays in
production meant that there were only two squadrons equipped with the
Defiant. It was slower than the Hurricanes and Spitfires but faster and more
manoeuvrable than the Blenheim F1s. From what Peter had seen and read so
far, only the Spitfire was the true equal of the German Me 109.


**************************

An improvement in the weather meant that David was able to spend every
possible moment getting to know his new aircraft. Like most RAF Fighter
squadrons, 264 had an establishment of twelve aeroplanes but sixteen crews.
It was squadron policy not to match crews on a permanent basis so any pilot
could fly with any air gunner. As luck would have it, David's first pairing
was another new arrival to the squadron, Sergeant 'Kiwi' Braithwaite. David
had made a couple of flights 'in the back seat' and had spent hours poring
over the 'pilot's notes' for the Defiant. Like the Spitfire and Hurricane,
it was powered by a Rolls-Royce Merlin Engine, and was fitted with the De
Havilland three-bladed variable pitch propeller. It was undoubtedly the most
powerful machine that David had flown to date and was a further step up from
the Harvard trainer. His flight commander assured him that the Defiant was a
well-mannered aircraft, easy to fly and lightly responsive on the controls.
The time had come to put it to the test.

David took his time over all the pre-flight checks. They were as yet
unfamiliar to him and he was conscious of the sergeant gunner's scrutiny.
David recognised that he was being weighed up - that was entirely to be
expected. He just hoped he wasn't found wanting. He gave the 'thumbs up' to
the waiting ground crew and he heard the clunk as the starter trolley was
engaged. The Merlin coughed a couple of times and the cockpit filled
momentarily with blue exhaust fumes. The engine picked up and he heard the
sweet snarl of the V12 Merlin. He checked the magnetos and oil pressure and
temperature, gave another 'thumbs up' and stood hard on the brakes as the
chocks were removed from the undercarriage.

The 'plane eased gently forward out of its blast pen and David waved away
the two airmen guiding the wingtips. He spoke briefly to the controller:

"Harper, this is Blue two. Single flight air test, over."

"Blue two, Harper. Clear to climb angels five, steer zero-ninety to clear
the coast, over."

"Roger, Harper. Any aircraft in the vicinity?"

"Negative, blue two. You're on your sweet little ownsome."

"Roger, Harper, Blue two out."







David selected 'fully fine' on the pitch control and opened the throttle.
The Defiant accelerated forward and David had the impression of the earth
rushing by as they hurtled down the strip. He was dimly aware of Kiwi
Braithwaite humming a tune to himself. He ignored the gunner for the moment
and concentrated hard on the controls. The torque from the propeller
threatened to push the nose to one side and he applied a touch of opposite
rudder to keep the machine straight. He felt the control surfaces bite
increasingly as the speed increased. He deliberately held the 'plane down
until he was ten knots over the minimum take off speed before easing back on
the stick and letting the Defiant gently take to the air. He climbed slowly;
there was no rush and visibility was very good, for a change. He reached the
designated height of 5000 ft and throttled back, made sure he was now in
coarse pitch, and started to relax.

"Nicely done, Skip."

David almost jumped. He had entirely forgotten that there was someone else
aboard.

"Thank you, sergeant. What should I call you, by the way?"

"Well, Skip, you could call me Sergeant Braithwaite but that might be a bit
of mouthful if we ever get busy. Most blokes call me 'Kiwi.' It's 'cos I'm
from God's own sheep farm, see?"

David chuckled. "Right-O, Kiwi it is then."

"Suits me, Skip."

Once clear of the coast, David called control again and received permission
to climb to 10,000 feet and start his test. He eased the Defiant through a
variety of manoeuvres, slowly intensifying them as he got used to the
machine. His flight commander was right; it was responsive and didn't seem
to have any vices that he could find. Like most propeller-driven aeroplanes,
it would turn slightly quicker one way rather than another, favouring the
direction of the propeller's rotation, but it wasn't unduly marked, as the
Harvard had been. David executed a half-loop and roll off the top followed
by a slow roll and then a few really tight turns. Kiwi was singing happily
in the rear and when David finally levelled out to head back to Martlesham,
he asked if David wanted to test the guns. David readily agreed and they
went around a few more times, swinging the turret left and right and firing
short bursts into the sea.

The clatter of the guns seemed strangely muted to David although Kiwi did
assure him it was 'bloody deafening' back in the turret. The recoil of the
guns made the airframe shudder and the 'plane seemed to twitch slightly each
time the turret swung. Kiwi reassured him that this was normal for a
Defiant. They were both well satisfied when the Defiant touched down back at
the base. David's landing was a little bouncy but safe enough. They taxied
back to the blast pens and handed the machine back to the tender care of the
ground crew. David and Kiwi walked together to the flight hut. Kiwi pulled
out a packet of Players and they both smoked contentedly as they walked.

"So, what do you think, Skip? She's a good old bus, ain't she?"

"Lovely, Kiwi, just lovely."

"First squadron, Skip?"

"Yes, how about you?"

"Posted in from the 'Toffs' at 601. Didn't need any peasants once they got
their 'Hurribacks,' did they? I wasn't sorry, mind."

"My half brother's on 601, Michael Welford-Barnes, do you know him?"

David sensed Kiwi Braithwaite stiffen beside him. The sergeant's demeanour
changed instantly.

"Yes, sir, I was on his crew."

"Bad Luck, Kiwi," David kept his voice light. "The man's a total shit."

"You may say that, sir, I can only think it."

"I preferred 'Skip,' Kiwi. As I said, he's my half-brother. We aren't at all
alike."

"Well, Skip, you certainly don't look like him and, from what I can tell,
you don't act like him, neither."

David laughed. "Kiwi, if I ever start to act like Michael, turn the turret
round and blow my bloody head off, won't you? Put me out of my misery!"

"Roger, Skip, will do!" It was Braithwaite's turn to laugh.


**********************


Michael flung the Hurricane into a steep turn and shouted aloud for joy. By
God, he loved this aeroplane! Two thousand feet below and about a mile away,
the aged Avro Anson towing the target drogue appeared bang on the nose of
Michael's aeroplane. He throttled back slightly as he eased the stick
forward and began his run on the target. The last attempt had been a failure
as he'd come down far too fast and overshot wildly. The Hurricane was armed
with eight Browning .303 machine guns, four in each wing. The on board
ammunition was sufficient for only twenty seconds of sustained firing so
this called for short bursts of no more than three seconds each. Michael's
guns were 'coned' for the stream of bullets to converge at a range of 550
yards. This meant opening fire slightly outside this range. At an approach
speed of 300 mph, the Hurricane covered a quarter of a mile in the length of
a single burst. He opened fire on the towed drogue at about 900 yards,
leading the target by a fraction to compensate for the Anson's stately
progress. The Hurricane staggered under the recoil of the guns. Michael
pushed the stick further forward to dive sharply beneath the target and
pulled away in a climbing turn to start another run.

He was already aware that he'd missed again. Still coming in too fast! He
made one final pass, this time at 250 mph, and he had the satisfaction of
seeing the fabric of the drogue twitch as the bullets struck home at last.
He waggled the Hurricane's wings at the retreating Anson and headed for
home. His mind was in turmoil. How the hell would he ever manage to shoot
down an enemy aeroplane that was dodging about all over the place when he
could barely hit a towed target flying straight and level? He resolved to
view the on-board gun camera films and see if he could find a solution
there. It was strange the way the target seemed to swell so quickly once you
began the attack. Two or three miles out, everything happened at a leisurely
pace; once inside 1,000 yards, everything speeded up, almost exponentially.
It was as though time suddenly compressed as soon as he looked through the
reflector gun site.

As son as he landed, he instructed the ground crew to refuel and re-arm the
machine and made his way to the flight hut.

"I've got to have another go, Boss."

"Another, Michael? That will be your fourth today. There are still three
others waiting to take their third shot."

"Yes, I understand. It's simply that I need to get the hang of it, d'you
see? Sometimes I think I'm almost there and then I go and find some new way
of ballsing the whole thing up."

The squadron commander looked at him appraisingly. Welford-Barnes had
definitely changed. There had always been something driven about him but,
these days, he looked to have found a focus for his almost manic energy. All
he wanted to talk about was flying. He no longer baited his fellows and was
even heard to speak civilly to the ground crews. The Squadron Leader was
also an Auxiliary Air Force man. He had seen the change from light-hearted
self-indulgence to concentrated professionalism overtake many of his pilots
but Michael Welford-Barnes was something else again. An elderly member of
the old, pre-war, squadron had once remarked that Michael was not quite a
gentleman.  Now, maybe, that might be a good thing. He had taken to the
Hurricane like a duck to water. If the truth were told he was an outstanding
pilot but, currently, he was a poor shot.


"Very well, then, Michael. You can go again. Let Red Flight finish their
turn and follow on as arse-end Charlie. I'll tell Bill there will be four,
this time."

"Yes, sir. And. thank you, sir."

The Royal Air Force standard fighter formation at this time was for a 'vic'
of three - one leading aircraft flanked by two wingmen in a 'V' formation.
This evolved with the Royal Flying Corps in the previous war and was laid
down in the standard manual of air tactics. Michael would take station
behind one of the wingmen in echelon. It would be up to the flight commander
how loose or tight the formation was but the normal practice was to get in
as close as possible. First War experience had shown that once the combat
started, such niceties as formation flying went completely out of the
window. In the thick of a dogfight, it was every man for himself.

As Michael strode away to try again, the squadron commander concentrated his
attention back on the sheaf of signals and intelligence reports received
from 11 Group Head Quarters. It was already clear that operations in Norway
were not going well The Germans had landed troops in the south of the
country and were swiftly pushing north. The Norwegian Army and Air Force
were seriously over-matched. The Royal Navy was doing what it could but its
own aircraft were needed to protect the fleet from air attack. 263 Squadron'
s Gladiators had flown off from HMS Glorious successfully but now all the
squadron's aircraft were out of action after only three days of operations.
Disquieting reports of mess and muddle were slowly filtering through. One
French regiment of ski-troops had been disembarked only to find that their
ski bindings were still on the dockside at Rosythe. There were also stories
of regiments being separated from their equipment and the wrong ammunition
arriving for the few heavy weapons that they had managed to deploy. The Navy
achieved the only success of note at Narvik, where a small force of British
Destroyers had taken on and beaten a larger German flotilla. He rubbed his
eyes and sighed aloud. Sooner or later we'll have to sort ourselves out, he
thought.


*********************


Johanna finally got her way and applied to join the Women's Auxiliary Air
Force. She was accepted and told to report to RAF Swinderby for 6 week's
basic training on 28th April. The news came as a relief to all concerned.
She'd driven her parents to distraction with her insistence on her chosen
course and, of course, she had been bored stupid at home, which added to her
general frustration. Part of the problem was David - or rather his absence.
She had seen him just once since he joined the RAF. It wasn't his fault, she
knew. They had barely two days together immediately prior to David joining
his new squadron. And, of course, he'd had to spend some of that precious
leave with his parents who were now absolutely miles away in
Nottinghamshire. He'd managed to come south to see her as soon as he'd been
able and she still cherished the memory of it.

Her mother had encouraged her to 'play the field' a bit; there were plenty
of nice young men out there. Johanna reluctantly accepted a couple of
invitations from sons of her mother's friends but it had felt all wrong. It
wasn't the boys. They were probably nice enough; but none of them looked at
her like David did; none of them ignited that special little spark in her
breast. She had leapt like a scalded cat when one had tried to kiss her. He
became stammeringly apologetic but it was too late. She didn't want to be
touched by anyone but her David. She dreamily remembered their last evening
together.

He had taken her to dinner in Dorchester. Albert had obligingly loaned David
his car for the occasion. In Peter's absence, but with his wholehearted
agreement, Albert had secured some precision engineering contracts and the
little Riley-Armitage works was now turning out gun parts for the Royal
Navy. As a consequence, Albert always had a bit of extra petrol - an
important consideration now that rationing had been introduced. Johanna had
insisted that David wear his uniform. He hadn't needed much persuasion and
was immensely proud of the bright new cloth 'wings' that sat above his
breast pocket. Johanna thought him very handsome; even when he had removed
his hat to reveal the shock of untidy sandy hair. She felt sure that the
other women in the restaurant had been looking on with envy.

Although the war was now in its eighth month, men in uniform were still a
comparative rarity in Dorchester. Of course, most of the Army were over in
France with the British Expeditionary Force and Dorchester was not such a
metropolis as to attract servicemen in from far and wide. Johanna had worn
her sole cocktail dress. She thought it old fashioned but David's reaction
had suitably reassured her. His eyes went wide with awe on seeing her come
down the stairs to greet him in her parents' hall.

"Gosh, Jo, you look fantastic."

She still glowed inwardly at the memory. Her mother frowned when she'd first
bought the dress. It showed off her cleavage to advantage. If it hadn't been
for David, she would never have dared to wear such a thing. She hated her
freckled skin but David loved it, so that was all right. David insisted on
buying champagne. It made her feel light and giggly at the same time. When
he'd stopped the car in the darkened lane on the way home, she moved to him
eagerly, enfolding herself in his arms and drifting into a warm,
champagne-flavoured kiss. She hadn't meant to do it, but somehow she found
herself with the top of her dress around her waist and David's lips striking
feathered lightning from her nipples. Not that she let him go all the way.
She wasn't that sort of girl! She'd been both relieved and disappointed,
though, when he readily acquiesced once she called a halt to proceedings.
One day, she promised herself; soon, perhaps, but not yet!

He'd been deliberately casual afterwards; had lit a cigarette and tapped the
ash out of the window, his other arm still about her shoulders.

"Of course we must wait, Jo. It would spoil everything if we rushed it."

But there had been an echo of desperation in his voice that secretly pleased
her. It was a memory to be hugged in the long nights at Swinderby as she and
the other volunteers learned to march and salute and to do all those other
'necessary' tasks that the armed forces prized so highly. David, alone of
her intimate circle, was enthusiastic about her joining up.

"I think it will be splendid, Jo. Maybe we could even end up on the same
station."

"Wouldn't that be wonderful? Although, I don't expect you'd be allowed to
speak to me as you're an officer."

"Just let them try and stop me!"

"Mutiny, Pilot Officer Riley?"

"If that's what it takes, by all means!"

He drove her home. The silence stretched between them as each anticipated
the pain of another parting. At her door he said, "I won't come, in Jo, if
you don't mind. I've an early start in the morning."

She understood the real reason was that he didn't want to engage in small
talk with her parents. He wanted, she knew, to remember the two of them
alone, without any intervention from the rest of the world. She kissed him
then; a gentle, slow kiss. Her long red hair had come loose and tumbled
about her shoulders in disarray. She stepped back, suddenly shy and toyed
with the rebellious locks.

"Golly, look at me! Mum's sure to think we've been doing what we shouldn't."

"I want to, Jo," David said softly, holding her eyes. She nodded.

"I know, my love." Her face was solemn and her eyes looked huge.

They stared at each other for a few moments as the implication of their
words resounded in the quiet. There was nothing else to say so they bade
each other 'Goodnight' and promised to write every day. David moved
reluctantly into the darkness as she turned to open the door. It was too
dark for her to see that spring that returned to his step a little further
down the road. He had no doubts at all, now; he was happily, gloriously and
irreversibly in love.

May 1940  Be Ye Men of Valour

May 10th 1940 would always be engraved indelibly on David's memory. It was
the day the German war machine turned its attention to the west; it was the
day that 264 squadron moved hurriedly from Martlesham Heath to RAF Duxford
and was declared 'fully operational.' It was also the day that Winston
Churchill became Prime Minister. David had little time to think much about
politics as he drove to Duxford that Friday evening. He hadn't been one of
the pilots nominated to fly the Defiants to their new home and, instead, was
driving one of his colleagues' cars with both of their luggage crammed into
the 'dickie seat' at the rear. The reports from France had been very
confusing. It appeared that the Germans had made a simultaneous strike into
the Low Countries and that the British and French armies were advancing into
Belgium to meet them.

Unbeknown to David, Michael was on the move, too, and much further afield.
Michael's flight was detached to France to reinforce the Advanced Air
Striking Force already in situ. By one of those strange coincidences, the
Flight was to be based at the French airfield of Bellevue - the very field
from which Phillip had flown his last mission. Bellevue was also home to a
squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers. Pinky Harris's prediction that the
Battle was a disaster waiting to happen had already come true. The Battle
squadron was sent to attack the German spearhead that very morning. The
Luftwaffe fighters had shot the unescorted Battles from the sky with ease.
There was an air of gloom about the place when the Hurricane pilots arrived.

Intelligence was fragmentary and wild rumours were circulating. The
Hurricane flight commander sized up the situation in a moment and resolved
to keep his pilots as far away from the influence of the demoralised units
as possible. Supporting ground crews and materiel arrived by transport,
elderly Bristol Bombay aeroplanes that looked as if they belonged to a
different generation from the Hurricanes.  As soon as it was possible to do
so, the Hurricanes were refuelled and fully armed to await orders. They flew
standing patrols all the next day and were twice ordered to intercept enemy
aircraft attacking French positions, but each time they found only smoke and
empty sky. The German bombers had been and gone before they arrived.

If preparation for war had wrought a welcome change in Michael, it was
encountering the harsh realities over the coming days that completed the
process. It was on Tuesday, 12th May, that Michael first experienced the
madness and elation of air combat. Almost all the remaining British
Blenheims and Battles were ordered to attack the German positions along the
River Meuse. Michael's flight was detailed to provide close fighter escort
to the vulnerable bombers. They took off shortly after first light and
steered northeast towards the target. As they approached Sedan, a voice
crackled in Michael's headphones:

"Red Leader, Red three. Bogeys, two o'clock, low."

"Roger, Red Three, I have them. Me 110's.Red leader to Red Flight, prepare
to attack. Tally Ho, Red Flight!"

Michael was designated 'Red Five', he flew in the second 'vic' of three. The
first section dived away. Keeping station on his section leader, Michael
followed them down. Four Me110's, twin-engined fighters with a rear gunner,
were aiming to intercept a flight of three Fairey Battles. So intent were
the Luftwaffe 'planes on their prey, they didn't notice the approaching
Hurricanes until the latter were almost upon them. Michael again experienced
that strange feeling of time compression. The enemy fighters had looked like
distant black dots for the longest time. Suddenly, he could make out the
pale face of the rear gunner in one of the German aircraft, could see the
man feverishly swinging his defensive machine gun to face the diving threat.
Michael flicked the safety catch away from the gun button on top of the
Hurricane's joystick and pressed hard.

He felt himself grow rigid with concentration as he spun the Hurricane
around to follow the Messerschmitt, which was diving away in an effort to
avoid the plunging British fighters. Michael realised with horror that he
was still firing and he quickly released the button. How long was that?
Five, maybe six seconds? At least a quarter of his ammunition in one futile
burst. He swore richly at himself and reversed his turn as the 110 tried to
claw its way free of the melee. Suddenly, it seemed to fill his windscreen
and he thumbed down on the button again: one, two, three, stop! He yanked
back hard on the stick and zoomed over the enemy 'plane. He felt bullets
strike the Hurricane somewhere behind him and he flicked left. Bugger!
Forgot about the gunner, the bastard was on the ball! He was sure he'd seen
his tracers strike the target and he pulled up sharply, rolling off the top.
A quick glance in the mirror. Fuck! Where they did come from?

"Red Leader, Red Five. Bandits, repeat bandits, at six o'clock. High but
coming down fast."

Even to his own ears, his voice sounded high-pitched and shaky.

"Roger, Red Five. I have them. Attention Red Flight, Bandits bearing zero
ninety, let's meet them."

The Hurricanes left the retreating 110s and turned to face the new threat.
About a dozen single-seater Me 109s were screaming down towards the
now-scattered Red Flight. Michael gave the Merlin full positive boost and
tried to close up on his section leader. The two sets of aircraft had a
closing speed in excess of 600 mph. The Germans opened fire first. They
carried the heavier armament, with a 20mm firing through the propeller boss,
in addition to their machine guns. Tracer bullets started lazily towards the
Hurricanes and seemed to rapidly accelerate to the speed of lightning as
they came closer. He jinked the Hurricane slightly to put off the German
gunnery and then thumbed his own guns into life. A camouflaged 109 flashed
by his cockpit so close that afterwards, Michael swore he could have touched
it. Then everything dissolved into chaos. The sky appeared full of
aeroplanes. Michael was vaguely aware of the shouts of his fellows but it
was remote from him, somehow; he was fighting for his life.

He got a quick burst in at a flashing 109 and then broke hard to the right
as he caught the twinkling flash of a 20mm cannon in the corner of his eye.
The Messerschmitts were undoubtedly faster than the RAF fighters, but it
soon became apparent that the Hurricanes had the better turning radius.
Michael twisted this way and that. He was so caught up in evasion that he
rarely had any chance to go onto the offensive himself. He was aware of
feeling calmer now. The initial shock of the sneak attack had left him. He
found he was able to think straight again. He spotted a Hurricane falling
away from the battle, trailing a fiery scarf in its wake. Another was
blowing heavy blue smoke from its exhaust stubs and a third simply blew up
directly in front of him. Two Messerschmitts were stalking the same
Hurricane that was weaving about the sky in a desperate bid for escape. A
cold rage seized Michael and he flung his 'plane towards the unequal combat.

This time he waited until he was very close before opening fire. His tracers
flew straight and hammered into the cockpit area of the rearmost German. The
109 seemed to leap upwards and then rolled onto its back and dived steeply
towards the earth. The other Hurricane had spotted Michael's intervention
and a calm voice said:

"Red leader. Thank you Red Five. He was starting to get on my tits."

Michael held back a grin.

"Red Five, Red leader. Glad to be of service. I'm 'bingo' fuel and
ammunition, Red Leader. Time to go home."

"Roger, Red Five. Red Leader, Red Flight, let's make tracks."

But only one other Hurricane responded.


**********************


Of the 73 Blenheims and Battles that attacked the German Army that day,
enemy fighters and anti-aircraft fire shot down 34. Half of the Advanced Air
Striking Force was lost to enemy action in the first three days of the
Battle of France. As the week went by, it was clear that the French Army was
being defeated in detail. Resistance ended in Holland and Queen Wilhelmina
and the rest of the Dutch Royal family fled to London. The German 7th Panzer
Division, led by a young General by the name of Erwin Rommel, had smashed a
wedge between the main French Army and the forces on the left flank,
including the B.E.F. At RAF Bentley Priory, 'Stuffy' Dowding gave the orders
to prepare the withdrawal of the battered Fighter Squadrons from France.

Dowding now faced, and passed, his first great test as Commander in Chief,
Fighter Command. Faced with demands that he reinforce the squadrons at the
front line, he wrote to Churchill on 16th May:

I would remind the Air Council that the last estimate, which they made as to
the force necessary to defend this country, was fifty-two squadrons, and my
strength has now been reduced to the equivalent of thirty-six squadrons.
I must therefore request that as a matter of paramount urgency the Air
Ministry will consider and decide what level of strength is to be left to
the Fighter Command for the defence of this country, and will assure me that
when the level has been reached, not one fighter will be sent across the
Channel however urgent and insistent the appeals for help may be.

I believe that if an adequate fighter force is kept in this country, if the
Fleet remains in being, and if Home Forces are suitably organized to resist
invasion, we should be able to carry on the war single-handed for some time,
if not indefinitely. But, if the Home Defence Force is drained away in
desperate attempts to remedy the situation in France, defeat in France will
involve the final, complete and irremediable defeat of this country.

It was a brave man that refused a request from the irascible Churchill. To
his credit, however, Churchill accepted Dowding's reasoning and all but
three of the front line squadrons were withdrawn from France. From now on,
the RAF would continue the battle from its bases in Southern England.


On 19th May, Churchill made his first radio broadcast as Prime Minister. He
concluded it with the words:

"Behind them - behind us- behind the Armies and Fleets of Britain and
France - gather a group of shattered States and bludgeoned races: the
Czechs, the Poles, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Dutch, the Belgians - upon
all of whom the long night of barbarism will descend, unbroken even by a
star of hope, unless we conquer, as conquer we must; as conquer we shall.

"Today is Trinity Sunday. Centuries ago, words were written to be a call and
a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: "Arm yourselves, and
be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better
for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and
our altar. As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let it be."

Peter and Bethan sat holding hands, listening to the strong voice with its
characteristic lisp. Their eyes met and Bethan gave a tight smile as the
Prime Minister finished his peroration.

"I suppose that's it, isn't it? I mean, we've no choice now, have we? I just
wish I knew the boys are safe."

"Oh, I can put your mind at rest on that score. David's squadron have been
having quite a bit of success but as far as I know, he hasn't been action
yet. As for Michael, well I understand his lot have been ordered home today.
I expect we'll hear from him soon."

Peter was being kept busy. In accordance with Dowding's plan, the fighter
squadrons were rotated between the three Groups to ensure the squadrons that
had seen heavy action in France were rotated from the front line to a
quieter sector to rest and re-equip. The RAF had endured heavy losses in the
invasion of France. Much needed experience had been gained - but at a
terrible cost. Some aircraft had been found wanting in the extreme. The
Fairey Battle was withdrawn from frontline service and the Blenheim was
exposed as useless against modern fighters. On the positive side, the Hawker
Hurricane had shown itself to be a match for the Luftwaffe and, with its
rugged but simple construction, it could take a great deal of punishment and
was easy to repair. There were, however, severe doubts now being expressed
as to the RAF fighter tactics.

Of the six aircraft and nine pilots detached to France with Michael's
flight, only two Hurricanes and five pilots made it back to the squadron.
Two pilots were missing, believed killed, and two more, although wounded,
had made their way back to the UK, but were unfit for action. The Squadron
Leader assembled the entire fighting strength in the briefing room to hear,
at first hand, the experiences of those who had been involved in the hard
fighting. Michael had scored two confirmed 'kills' - a Me 109 and a Heinkel
111. His flight commander had achieved a similar score and overall, the
flight had accounted for nine enemy aircraft for the loss of four
Hurricanes. Michael was called upon to speak.

"Well, chaps, I don't know what I can add to what you've already heard.
There is one thing perhaps. The Luftwaffe fighters tend to act in pairs. The
basic formation is a four like this."

He spread the fingers of his hand to show them.

"It's very flexible. One Hun attacks and his wingman watches his back. They
don't fly as close together as we do and, when they get the chance, as we
saw against the bombers, they split their attack. One comes in from the back
and the other from abeam. It divides the defences and was pretty bloody
effective.

"When it comes to a dog fight, you always have to watch out for the wingman.
Oh, and another thing, the Messerschmitt Bf 110 isn't all that it's cracked
up to be. It's tough all right, but it's slow in the turn and the rear
gunner has a bloody great blind spot if you attack from behind and slightly
below.


"When it comes to the bombers, I don't rate the Heinkel and the Dornier but
the Ju 88 is good kit. Those bastards can dive like a bat out of hell and
leave us standing. I only saw the Stukas once and didn't get close enough to
have a go."

"Anything else to add, Michael?"

"That's about it from me, sir."

"Thank you. And well done, by the way."

The pilots trooped away from the briefing with much to consider. From now on
they would be taking the fight to the enemy across the English Channel. The
situation in France was deteriorating rapidly. The Germans succeeded in
driving a wedge between the British, French and Belgian Forces in the north
and the main French Armies in the south. The much-vaunted Maginot Line was
simply bypassed. The race was on to seize the Channel ports. The B.E.F.,
together with what remained of their allies, withdrew to Dunkirk to await
evacuation.


***********************

For the third time that day, the Defiants of 264 Squadron were sent to
patrol the evacuation beaches at Dunkirk. David was flying with Sergeant
Wilmott as his gunner. Wilmott, a taciturn Yorkshireman, kept the turret on
the move as he scanned the skies behind them. The voice of the Biggin Hill
controller cut through the background throbbing of the Merlin engine:

"Rogue Squadron, this is Sapper."

"Rogue Leader. Go ahead, Sapper"

"I have some trade for you. Twenty Plus bandits assembling over Gris Nez.
Vector one-four-zero, angels fifteen."

"Roger, Sapper. Vector one four zero. Rogue Squadron, climbing to angels
fifteen."

David opened the throttle and began the climb to 15,000 feet. He turned up
his oxygen slightly and craned his neck to left and right, searching the sky
ahead. Away to his left, a vast pall of smoke stretched into the heavens
from the area around Dunkirk. Toy ships moved on a calm blue sea. He couldn'
t yet see the actual evacuation beaches but he made out the vapour trails of
air combat further to the north. Then he spotted the enemy bombers. There
seemed to be two distinct squadrons, separated by perhaps a mile. The
Defiants moved to intercept.

Unteroffizier Helmut Graube was flying his first combat mission. He was
detailed as 'katschmarek' - wingman to Leutnant Muller in a 'schwarm' of
Messerschmitts from Jagdgeschwader 26. He was both scared and excited at the
same time. The German Fighters were some 7,000 feet above the ponderous
Heinkel Bombers and quickly spotted the Defiants as they moved to intercept.
Graube followed his leader faithfully, keeping station about thirty yards to
his right and just behind the senior man.

"Hurricanes! I don't think they've seen us."

Leutnant Muller was wrong on both counts. The plunging Messerschmitts,
convinced that their attack from astern of the British aircraft had gone
unnoticed, flew into a storm of tracers from the Defiants' rear turrets.
Graube watched in horror as Muller's plane seemed to fall apart before his
eyes. He had been hit by the concentrated fire of at least three British
fighters. Graube pulled up and away, hearing the bullets strike his own
machine as he did so. A solid thump immediately behind him told him that the
armour plating protecting the cockpit had just done its job. He smelt
burning and saw that his engine was leaking oil, the temperature gauge
already beginning to climb. He turned for home, a bitter taste in his mouth.
What were these 'planes? Hurricanes with turrets?  Five of his staffel were
down and another trailed thick smoke as it headed back for their new base at
Quevaucamps. Meanwhile, the Defiants flew on towards the bombers.


The debriefing was a riotous scrum. Excited crews vied with each other to
press their claims for enemy aircraft destroyed. Even the normally silent
Wilmott was animated and yelling to all who would listen that he was
claiming three Huns, one Bf109 and two Heinkels. The Intelligence Officer
tried to make sense of all the claims. At last he held up his hand for
silence:

"Gentlemen, if I am to believe all of you, you have just shot down half the
bloody Luftwaffe. We have Heinkel claims totalling thirty-one. That's bloody
good going out of two squadrons of twelve each, particularly as you also
report about ten getting away. We also have claims for eight Bf109s plus six
damaged out of a possible twelve."

 He then began a painstaking interrogation of each crew. At the end of it,
David and his gunner had been awarded one Heinkel and a share of a 109.
David was delighted but Wilmott brooded, claiming he's been robbed of at
least another Heinkel. As they left the room, David spotted Kiwi Braithwaite
standing alone. He went up and clapped Kiwi on the shoulder.

"Wotcha, Kiwi. How did you make out?"

Braithwaite turned a grim face towards David.

"OK, I guess, skip. It was bloody pandemonium up there, wasn't it?"

"It certainly got 'interesting' at times." He noted Kiwi's sour expression.
"What's up?"

"Just heard my mate 'Snowball' bought the farm. He was a gunner on 600
Squadron." Kiwi indicated a piece of paper balled in his large fist. "One of
his pals wrote to let me know. They bought it over Rotterdam, on the 12th.
Six Blenheims went to attack the airfields; only one came home. This bloke
reckons it certain that Snowy got the chop. He says he saw them go down and
nobody got out."

David's mood instantly sobered. He was aware of the RAF's losses, of course,
but this was closer to home.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry, Kiwi."

"Yeah, Skip, so am I."



June 1940 Taking Stock

It was hard to see how things could much worse, thought Peter, as he cycled
to 12 Group Head Quarters. The French had collapsed entirely, utterly
crushed in the space of three weeks. OK, granted the evacuation form Dunkirk
was an amazing feat, but the truth was that although 330,000 men had been
taken off the beaches, most of them had no weapons or equipment. The RAF
casualties had been high. Over 1100 'planes were lost, 477 of them fighters,
in the debacle. As far as one could tell the Luftwaffe had been hit pretty
hard too, but then, they'd had a lot more to start with. The big worry was
pilots. Fighter pilot losses during the campaigns in France and Norway
amounted to over 280. That didn't count those who'd either been wounded or
captured. Replacing the 'planes would be a Hell of a lot easier than
replacing the men.

Still more bad news awaited Peter when he got to his office. HMS Glorious,
the aircraft carrier bringing back 46 and 263 Squadron from the mess in
Norway, ran into two German 'pocket battleships' and was sunk with heavy
loss of life. Peter scratched 46 Squadron from the Group's strength. Another
body blow. He spent the first part of the morning going through the squadron
daily returns. Each day, the front line units submitted a report to the HQ
detailing the number of aircraft serviceable, the available crews and the
fuel, ammunition and spares states. Peter smiled with satisfaction when he
noted that 264 were at full strength and readiness with only two pilots
reported unfit for duty.

David was in bed with tonsillitis. His temperature had rocketed overnight
and now his throat felt like he had been swallowing barbed wire. Quite how
he'd come to be in this state puzzled him. Yesterday he'd felt as fit as a
flea and now he was utterly wretched. The Medical Officer called on him
briefly, peered into his raw throat with a grim smile and had left muttering
something about 'having those out.' David dozed fitfully for most of the
day. He couldn't eat and lacked the concentration to read or listen to the
wireless. In his waking moments, he replayed the intense air battles of the
previous couple of weeks in his head.


264 had acquitted itself well. The Squadron had destroyed nearly seventy
enemy aeroplanes and suffered few losses. Morale was good and the men had
confidence in their Defiants. David would be the first to admit that the
'plane wasn't the fastest thing in the sky, but it had been very effective,
particularly against the slower German bombers. Despite official policy, the
Defiant crews had evolved into unofficial 'teams.' Most days, David flew
with Kiwi Braithwaite, an arrangement that they had arrived at by mutual,
unspoken, consent. Between them, they had three confirmed 'kills.' This was
not among the highest in the squadron; one pairing had eleven to their
credit.

David reflected on his feelings about the fighting. It was hard not to dwell
on the death that one was one causing. Like when you shot down a Heinkel.
There were four or five men whose lives you had just snuffed out. Of course,
they had no bloody business being where they were and doing what they were
doing but all the same, it was a sobering thought being responsible for
another human being's death. David knew that Kiwi had no such qualms. The
big New Zealander had conceived a rare hatred for the enemy and revelled in
the fighting. David frequently heard him muttering, "another one for Snowy,"
as a Heinkel or Dornier turned into a blazing pyre for the men inside.

True to his word, the Medical Officer returned later and David was whisked
off to the civilian hospital in Ipswich. Before he had time to think, he was
anaesthetised and taken to the operating theatre to emerge fifteen minutes
later sans tonsils. After three days on the ward, he was discharged with a
supply of painkillers and sent back to Martlesham Heath. The MO gave him a
swift check-up and despatched him on a week's sick leave. It was an ill
wind..

Bethan was overjoyed to see him. She thought he looked pale and thinner but
more grown-up. It was difficult to remember he was still only nineteen. When
Peter returned that evening he grinned broadly. He didn't tell David that he
read every combat report submitted by 264 Squadron with an almost fanatical
devotion. Peter had been promoted to Flight Lieutenant recently. He was
still one of the oldest in that rank but had taken it as a sign he was
proving his worth. He was able to tell David that his squadron would be
moving from Duxford shortly and going to RAF Foulmere. After dinner, they
gathered around the radio and listened to a broadcast from the Prime
Minister. Churchill repeated a speech he gave to the House of Commons on
18th June. David was profoundly moved as the elderly statesman concluded:

"What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the
Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival
of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the
long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might
of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have
to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all
Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad,
sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United
States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the
abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by
the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our
duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its
Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, "This was their
finest hour."

David glanced at his mother and saw her eyes glistening with tears. It wasn'
t difficult to read her thoughts. No one could doubt that Churchill was
right. The whole might of Nazi Germany was about to descend on Britain and
her boys would in the thick of it. He leaned over and squeezed her hand; a
huge lump in his throat prevented him from speaking a word.


********************


Johanna completed her basic 'square bashing,' as she had learnt to call it
and was posted to RAF Tangmere on the South Coast of England, near
Chichester. There she would assist in the operations room, the nerve centre
for the Tangmere Sector control system. Her duties would mainly involve
keeping up the 'plot.' This large map covered most of the floor of the ops
room and was a constantly updated display of enemy forces and the RAF
dispositions available to counter them. Her first impressions were
frightening. How would she ever make sense of it all? One of the more
experienced girls reassured her.

"Oh, we all felt like that when we first started. Don't worry, you'll get
the hang of it."







Jo certainly hoped so. She had been lectured repeatedly since her arrival as
to how vital the task was. The sector ops room exercised tactical control
over the fighter squadrons. It was kept up to date by reports from the
'Chain Home' stations and the many volunteers of the Royal Observer Corps.
These men and women, armed only with binoculars and a telephone, would
monitor enemy movements once the incoming intruders had passed inside the
'sight' of the coastal radar stations. In addition, the plot showed which
fighter squadrons were airborne, which at instant readiness or thirty
minutes' stand-by plus those that had recently landed and needed to be
refuelled and re-armed. It was a daunting task for a novice. On her third
day, the ops room was conducting an exercise to simulate a full-scale attack
on the naval installations at nearby Portsmouth. A group of fighter pilots
from the newly arrived Hurricane Squadron were ushered into the ops room to
observe proceedings. Michael Welford-Barnes had come to Tangmere.

The exercise was suddenly interrupted by a real alert from the 'Chain Home'
station at Ventnor on the Isle of Wight. Instantly the call went out to 43
Squadron to 'scramble.' The radar had picked up an enemy formation building
up in northern France, It seemed likely that their target was a small
in-shore convoy heading down the Channel from Dover to Portland. Jo's heart
was in her mouth as she pushed the telltale counter denoting the German
bomber formation into place on the plot. "Not there, Jo, left a bit. That's
it." She gave a grateful smile to the girl who had whispered the correction.

The voice of the controller echoed from the control room loudspeaker.

"Cameo Squadron, this is Heartbeat."

"Roger, Heartbeat, Cameo Leader."

The fighter pilot's voice was distant and distorted. Jo could barely hear
his side of the exchanges. The controller instructed the fighters to climb
to 12,000 feet and head 165 degrees. The minutes ticked slowly by until
there was a sudden burst of noise from the speaker.

"Red Three, Cameo Leader, bandits twelve O'clock level."

"Roger, Red Three. Cameo Leader to all Cameo aircraft. Blue flight to
maintain present height and watch out for fighters. Red Flight, line astern,
line astern go! Tally -ho Red Flight!"

After that the ops room was filled with the excited and sometimes desperate
transmissions of the pilots.

"Break Red One, for fuck's sake, there's one on your tail!"

"Got one."

"Red six, I'm hit. Glycol tank's gone."

"Break right!"

"Who the fuck?"

"Oh no! Red six down, leader."

Jo could barely imagine the mayhem taking place a few miles out to sea. The
pilots' transmissions were crackly and garbled. Fragments of yells and
screams and the distant rattle of gunfire when someone attacked while
transmitting. She gazed about wide-eyed while the experienced girls calmly
shuffled the markers over the plot. A Spitfire squadron joined in the battle
and there was a brief exchange between the two leaders. She worked out that
the Hurricanes had been 'bounced' by some Me 110s and the Spitfires were now
wading into these newcomers with a vengeance. The whole thing was over in a
little more than ten minutes. The Bomber formation had been broken up and
the British fighters were on their way back to base. Calm returned to the
control room.

Jo became aware of someone staring at her. She turned to find a young, dark
haired Flying Officer just behind her. He was one of the new pilots form 601
Squadron. There was something in that gaze that made her shiver inwardly.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"You don't know me, do you?"

"No sir, I don't."

"But I know you. You're the Hepworth-Lloyd girl."

"Yes sir, but how.?"

"I'm Michael Welford-Barnes, I think you know my. step brother."

It seemed to Jo that he almost spat the words.

"Oh! You mean David Riley! Yes, sir, he's a friend of mine."

"How very . charming."

He smiled but there was no warmth in his eyes. Jo felt cold under his
watchful stare.

"What do you say we have a drink Miss Hepworth-Lloyd? We can, um, catch up
on the family, what?"

"That's really very kind of you, sir, but no, thank you. Our 'mother hen' is
frightfully strict on that sort of thing."

He shrugged and turned away but Jo had the sensation that he was watching
her until the squadron were called away to go on thirty minutes' standby.

Michael was gleeful as he hopped on the transport to the squadron dispersal.
What luck! David's popsie here, of all places. Now he could plan some
serious revenge on that miserable streak of piss that bastard Riley had
whelped on his mother. He wondered idly if David had fucked her yet. If he
hadn't - so much the better!

Throughout June and into July, the RAF slowly increased its strength. On the
other side of the Channel, the Luftwaffe, too, were steadily repairing the
damage done during the bloody battle for France. They had been hit hard
during May, harder than the RAF even, but they had greater strength in
depth. Unteroffizier Graube had learned swiftly since his first battle. The
squadrons of Jg26 had been replenished with both pilots and machines.
Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they were required to take
the fight across the English Channel - the Kanal, as the Luftwaffe men
called it. Helmut Graube was no fanatic. He flew because he loved flying and
fought because he must. He was glad he flew an 'Emil' - the pilots' name for
the Messerschmitt Bf109E. He had seen the slaughter of the bombers - both
British and German - and couldn't imagine what it would be like to waddle
about like that; a big, fat target.


August 1940 The Cauldron

Michael was tired, bone weary. His head ached and he felt lethargic. Too
much bloody beer last night. They'd all been down to the Coach and Horses,
the nearest pub to Tangmere. Never mind, a few whiffs of oxygen would set
him straight. It seemed that the enemy attacks had been intensifying day by
day since the middle of July. Christ was it only really four weeks? It felt
like years. Their only respite had come on the odd days when the weather
clamped and there hadn't been many of them. He gazed around the flight hut.
The squadron pilots were sprawled every which-way. Some drank tea, others
read while the odd hardy soul tried to snooze. The telephone orderly sat at
his table, ready to take the call that would have them sprinting for their
aeroplanes to take off into the clear blue of the English summer skies. Even
though it wasn't yet eight o'clock, Michael felt warm. His Sidcot suit -
named after its inventor, Sidney Cotton, was undone and his fleece-lined
flying jacket hung on the back of the rickety chair he occupied.

Like most of his colleagues, he had taken to leaving his parachute on the
wing of his Hurricane. It was bad enough trying to run weighed down by the
rest of the kit and heavy flying boots without the additional weight of his
silk 'brolly.' 11 Group's squadrons had been in the thick of it since July
10th. They'd learned quickly, they'd had to. The old 'vic' of three
formation had been abandoned. They now used the Luftwaffe's 'finger fours.'
Michael now had six confirmed kills - two more and he'd be in line for the
DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross.) He stretched and lit a cigarette just as
the phone gave out its distinctive tinny tinkle. Oh, fuck! Here we go again.

Jo arrived at the ops room just as 601 were given the order to scramble. The
personnel going off duty looked drained. It had been a busy night with
widespread raids to the west. Although Tangmere had not been called upon to
assist, the ops room had automatically tracked the events and relayed such
information as came their way to the recently-formed 10 Group, which had
taken over responsibility for Wales and the West back in July. The bruise on
Jo's face was fading now. She had told her friends that she had tripped in
the blackout and hit her head, but the truth was it was that bloody man,
David's brother.

It happened a few days earlier. Jo had been on the late shift - 4pm to
midnight. She was making her back to the WAAF quarters when Michael had
materialised out of the darkness.

"Ah, the fair Johanna, out on your own so late?"

"Oh golly! You made me jump, sir. I'm just going off shift."

"Time to relax, then, don't you think?"

Before she could respond, he lunged forward, grabbing hold of her arms and
forcing himself on her. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. She tried
to twist away from him but he was too strong.

"Stop struggling, bitch. You know you want it. I bet you've never had a real
man, have you?"

He forced her back against some sandbags that surrounded one of the
makeshift air raid shelters. His arm was across her throat now and he tore
at her blouse with his free hand. She shoved him away as hard as she could.
He staggered back and then ran at her with a roar, punching her in the face.
She saw the blow coming and half blocked with her forearms, but still she
saw stars. Desperate now, she lashed out with her foot and felt a satisfying
jolt as she made contact with his shins. Rage filled her. She was a tall
girl and quite strong from years of enforced sport at school. The drink had
made him slow and he hopped about unsteadily, rubbing his shin, She took aim
deliberately and kicked him straight in the crotch as hard she could. He
seemed to deflate before her eyes and sank to knees, retching and gasping
for breath. She stood over him.

"Don't you ever come near me again, you bastard!"

She shrieked at him, her voice loud in the darkness. Someone called 'That
told him, love!' She stood, gasping for a breath as the panic subsided, then
turned and ran, leaving Michael crumpled on the gravel path. Her anger gave
way to fear and self-loathing as she neared her barracks. Fortunately it was
late and it was easy to avoid the few girls who were still up. She locked
herself in the bathroom and wept as she scrubbed herself, over and over
again.

In the morning she had gone to her commanding officer. The older woman had
sat silently as Jo recounted what had happened. Once Jo lapsed into silence,
sobbing quietly, the Officer had stood and laid a comforting hand on Jo's
shoulder.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Hepworth-Lloyd. If this goes
outside this room, it will cause the most dreadful stink and that is
something we can ill afford at this time, do you agree?"

Jo made no reply but a cold knot of dread was forming in the pit of her
stomach.

"If I make sure that there is no repetition of this unhappy incident, will
you promise me that it stays here, between us?"

"But how can you make sure he doesn't try to . rape me again?"

"Rape? My dear girl, I hardly think so! The man was patently drunk, as you
yourself admit. Those boys have been under a lot of strain, you know. I
suspect it was just an amorous advance that got out of hand."

Jo wanted to respond, to rail against the unfairness of it all. The woman
was making her feel like she was to blame, had encourages the swine!
Instead, she shrank a little more inside herself and sat, silent and
unmoving, avoiding the officer's eyes. I won't give her the satisfaction,
she told herself. I know what he was after. The Officer took her silence for
acquiescence. She gave Jo another pat on the shoulder and dismissed her. She
thought hard for several minutes after Jo had left and then picked up the
telephone and called the squadron commander of 601.

"Edward? Felicity here. It appears we've had a little unpleasantness
involving one of your chaps and one of my girls. Who? Flying Officer
Welford-Barnes.. Oh yes, quite sure. It seems they know each other from
before. I want him warned off, Edward, in no uncertain terms.. Yes I agree,
we don't want a fuss but I want no repetition either. Good, I knew you'd
understand."

She hung up, satisfied. Unfortunately for her, the Squadron Leader was
posted away that very day. He meant to leave a note for his successor but it
slipped his mind.

*********************

The 11th August was a day of frantic activity after three relatively quiet
days when poor weather had limited operations for both sides. Three Tangmere
Squadrons were scrambled to meet a large enemy raid attacking the Royal Navy
base at Portland. 601 got involved in a huge dogfight with Bf109s from Jg2.
The squadron claimed nine enemy aircraft shot down plus three 'probables'
but none of these claims was confirmed. What was certain, however, was the
loss of four Hurricanes and their pilots. As a consequence, 601Squadron was
stood down for the following day to recoup. If the attacks on the 11th and
12th were severe enough, they were nothing compared to the storm unleashed
on the 13th. This was 'Adler Tag' - Eagle Day - the date originally selected
by Hitler for the invasion of Britain. Eagle day started early for the men
of 601.

Jo was on the night shift, Midnight to 8am. Just after six the first reports
started coming in of a massive raid building up over northern France. 'Chain
Home' reported 150 plus aircraft. 43 Squadron were the first to scramble
followed five minutes later by 601. Jo watched in horrified fascination as
the plot developed. It was soon clear that the big raid was headed their
way. The number of enemy 'planes was revised upwards; there were now 250
coming in on a broad front from Selsey Bill to Portsmouth and this time, the
RAF themselves were the target. Jo listened avidly to the loudspeaker.
Updating the plot was now second nature to her. She could scarcely believe
that she had been only doing the job for two short months. It was clear from
the radio traffic that the fighting was intense. A total of seven squadrons
were involved before the enemy were finally dispersed after an hour of
brutal fighting. 601 mixed it with a formation of Ju88s and this time came
off much the better.

They were sent up again just before midday to intercept an attack by Me110s
and then again in the afternoon at around 3.30 when another enemy force
approached the Coast near Portland. Raids poured in up and down the coast
and heavy attacks were reported against the Fighter bases at Dettling and
Eastchurch as well as against a number of aircraft factories. At 11 Group
Head Quarters, Air Vice Marshall Keith Park picked up the telephone to
Dowding. He was now convinced the enemy was determined to blow the RAF from
the skies - at whatever cost. Dowding, as always, was cool and aloof. This
didn't bother Park. He knew Dowding well, having been his Chief of Staff
immediately before his posting to 11 Group. The two senior airmen got on
well and respected each other's abilities. Park told Dowding what he
believed the enemy tactics would now be. Dowding listened in silence and
then concurred. "It's what I'd do," he said.

Over the next few days the fight for the RAF's bases intensified. Other
targets included the 'Chain Home' radar stations along the South Coast and
the Isle of Wight. Each day was, for Michael and his colleagues, an endless
round of combat interspersed with periods of waiting, on edge, for the
telephone to ring and the shouts of "Scramble!" Death was commonplace and
Michael discovered that he no longer cared . It was a matter of simple
arithmetic. If one stayed at the front too long, it was simply a matter of
time. On the 16th Tangmere was attacked heavily by Stukas and a number of
aircraft were destroyed or damaged. Jo had remained at her post throughout
the attack. She was frightened but the calm activity around her was
reassuring. The ops room shook to the crash of bombs and above all, she
would always remember the unearthly scream of the sirens fitted to the
German dive-bombers.


On the 19th August 601 was withdrawn from Tangmere and sent to RAF Debden.
It was a quiet day, as if both sides were pausing for breath like a couple
of heavyweight boxers in the middle rounds of a brutal title fight. Jo was
happy to see them go. 601 would always be synonymous with Michael. She knew
the squadron had suffered in the fighting and had given a very good account
of themselves but, for the first time in her young life, she felt real
hatred.

********************

In accordance with Dowding's plan, hard-hit squadrons were withdrawn from
the south east of England to quieter areas and replaced by fresh formations.
So it was, on the 21st August that David's squadron were sent to RAF
Hornchurch to replace 266 Squadron. The Defiants hadn't been heavily engaged
since the fall of France and were raring to go. Little did they suspect that
they were about to experience their own small Calvary.

Helmut Graube was once again 'katschmarek' to the schwarm leader. After two
days of low cloud and squalls, the 24th August dawned clear and bright.
Graube's staffel was detailed to escort an attack by Heinkel Bombers to be
delivered against the RAF base at Manston. Graube was relaxed. Sure, the
fighting had been hard, but he was now an experienced Kanalflieger - the
Luftwaffe nickname for those who daily crossed to England to fight the hated
RAF. Graube had five 'kills' to his credit and had long since learned to
conquer the fear that had almost paralysed him the first time he flew in
combat. He yawned prodigiously as the pre-flight briefing droned on. The
salient points had come early - two staffeln of Bf109s would escort a mixed
force of Heinkels and Ju88s. The bombers would assemble over Cap Gris Nez at
midday and climb to 4,000 metres. The fighters were scheduled to take off
some twenty minutes later and rendezvous with the bomber stream. One staffel
would fly just ahead of the main formation at 4750 metres while the other,
Graube's staffel, would fly directly above and 1,000 metres higher.

Then came the detailed stuff; call signs, weather reports, primary and
secondary targets. Graube smiled to himself. A lot of it was academic. As
soon as the Tommies came up to defend their airspace, it would be every man
for himself. The latest briefings form Luftflotte HQ, handed down from no
lesser a personage than Goering himself, said the RAF was on its last legs.
According to 'Grosse Herman,' the RAF only had the equivalent of ten
squadrons left. This announcement had been greeted with jeers of derision by
the assembled fighter pilots. As one had remarked, those ten Tommie
squadrons must be able to fly like lightning to get from Portsmouth to Dover
and back again so quickly. And was it true that the Tommies had an engine
that could run on fresh air? If there were only ten of them, they never
needed to refuel! Sometimes, Graube thought, the High Command lived in
dreamland.

Graube woke up when the Intelligence Officer started to give a briefing on
the different RAF Fighter types. The pilots were already very familiar with
the Spitfire and Hurricane and recognised them as worthy foes. Goering had
asked Major Adolf Galland, Graube's personal hero, what he needed to win the
battle. Galland had replied, "give me a squadron of Spitfires!" Goering had
not been pleased. The only good news was that the Tommies didn't have too
many Spitfires. The Hurricane was the main British Fighter. They might be
slow compared to an 'Emil' but the bastards took some knocking down. Graube
had seen one Hurricane with the fuselage so riddled with bullet holes that
he could see daylight through it. Of course, the back end of the Hurricane
was made of fabric so punching holes in it had little effect. It also made
damaged 'planes easy to repair. Sometimes, one could see the patches.

The Intelligence Officer was now talking about another fighter - the Boulton
Paul Defiant. Apparently an earlier raid had encountered a squadron of these
'planes earlier that day. They hadn't come to grips, the bombers turned back
after being heavily attacked by Spitfires. Another Jagdgeschwader had
encountered a squadron of these fighters back in July and had discovered
they had no forward-firing armament. "The sting is in the tail, yes?" The
pilots had laughed. Helmut Graube remembered the late Leutnant Muller's last
mistake. So! No guns at the front. That could make it interesting. The
briefing was over. The pilots got their feet as the senior officers made
their exit. Graube's schwarm leader was beckoning him. He crossed the smoky
room to where his three comrades waited. Two hours to take off. No doubt
Leutnant Freund, the schwarm leader, wanted to have his say now the 'brass'
had departed. Graube looked attentive but his mind was elsewhere.

Helmut Graube was in love! Well, not really love, perhaps, but he'd found
himself the most delightful young lady. Her name was Michelle and she was
French. At first, Graube had found it difficult. After all, he was the
embodiment of the enemy that invaded her country and slaughtered her
countrymen. But he was nothing if not persistent. He had courted her
assiduously, he spoke fluent French; after all, his mother was from Alsace.
Michelle Boissin was just seventeen and a real beauty. Dark hair and eyes
and a seductively, if somewhat artful, shy manner. And Graube could pass for
a Frenchman. He had inherited his mother's looks; not at all the image of
the 'Aryan superman' so beloved of his country's new leaders. At the age of
twenty, Graube was not much concerned with politics. Life was too exciting
as a fighter pilot to waste time on such dull stuff.

Michelle lived in the village at the edge of the airfield. Graube felt sorry
for the French. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to have your
country occupied by a foreign power. For the most part they were a sullen
bunch, but that was understandable. Michelle, however, was different. He'd
been taking a stroll one day back in June and had come across her. She'd
been out visiting some relatives and was on her way home when he'd stopped
to pass the time of day. Once she was over the initial shock of his being
able to speak such good French, he swore she started to flirt with him! He'd
only really spoken to her to practice the language but he was quick to pick
up the signals. She fancied him! Well, why not? He knew he was a
good-looking young man. He'd had his successes back home; although he would
be the first to admit, the Luftwaffe uniform helped.

One thing had lead to another and he'd arranged to see her again, duties
permitting. Since then, their affaire had slowly blossomed. Michelle was
nowhere near as shy as she pretended and had responded enthusiastically to
his embraces. She had always resisted bestowing the ultimate favour,
however, until last night! Replaying the scene in his memory now, he found
he was becoming aroused and hastily switched his concentration to what Herr
Leutnant Freund was saying. He didn't much care for the officer. Freund was
inclined to bluster and was too boastful for Graube's liking. Nothing like
Major Galland; now there was a true pilot. Under Galland's leadership, the
Jagdgeschwader would achieve great things, of that there was no doubt.
Freund was too much for the poseur; too inclined to emphasise his own
prowess and too slow to recognise others. Oh well, it was a small price to
pay for flying an 'Emil' by day and fucking Michelle by night.

The time passed slowly. Graube wandered over to chat to the mechanics that
were putting the finishing touches to his Messerschmitt. They were good
guys, these mechanics, salt of the earth. Everything was top line. They'd
found the cause of his high oil pressure -  a defective cooler - and
replaced it. Yes, they'd run the motor for half an hour and it behaved
perfectly. Everything was in order - alles in ordnung, Herr Unteroffizier!
"Great," he told them, "I don't want to get my feet wet!" They laughed
dutifully, it was an old joke between them.

He climbed into his machine and ran through the pre-flight checks. The 'Emil
' was a great aeroplane to fly but a pig to taxi on the ground. The
undercarriage was its weakest link. The bloody 'plane was inclined to wander
all over the place until you got near flying speed. The staffel took off in
pairs. Graube was sixth in line. He followed Freund's aircraft in the climb.
That man could make 'katschmarek' sound like an insult and Graube wasn't
about to give him any reason to issue one of his hectoring lectures. The
staffel formed up, four flights of four, a 'maximum effort' job today.
Surely it must be over soon. The RAF couldn't have that much left, could it?


********************


Air Vice Marshall Keith Park was having an acrimonious meeting with his
opposite number from 12 Group, Trafford Leigh-Mallory. There was little love
between the two group commanders. Leigh-Mallory had wanted - expected -to
get 11 Group and disliked both Park and Dowding. That wasn't the cause of
the current argument, however. Park had requested assistance from 12 Group.
He had wanted their fighters to protect his airfields while the 11 Group
fighters engaged the enemy bombers. While this had been agreed more than
once, the reality was that the 12 Group squadrons had persistently abandoned
this task to get 'stuck in' to the fighting. Leigh-Mallory was constantly
urging Dowding to make Fighter Command more offensive in its operations. In
his mind, it didn't matter when and where you attacked the Luftwaffe; it was
quite simply a case of shooting down as many of the enemy as possible.

Park disagreed. His priority was to prevent the bombers from reaching their
targets. Lately, those targets were 11 Group itself. Park had seen the
destruction for himself. He was a regular visitor to the frontline bases,
flying his own personal Hurricane. Park, a New Zealander, was a fighter
pilot by inclination. He's been a First War 'ace' flying Bristol Fighters in
the air battles of 1918 and had commanded 48 Squadron, Phillip's last unit.
He knew that the Germans were now engaging in a war of attrition against the
RAF and he recognised that this was a war he could not win. Leigh-Mallory
now wanted to adopt new tactics. Under the promptings of one his squadron
commanders, Squadron Leader Douglas Bader of 242 Squadron, Leigh-Mallory was
proposing that Fighter Command should start attacking the enemy in massed
formations of up to five squadrons at a time - so called 'Big Wings.'

The flaw in this suggestion was obvious to Park. He patiently explained that
it wouldn't work. It takes time to assemble such a large number of fighters.
The Germans would reach their target before the defenders could be ready for
them. Leigh-Mallory brushed the objection aside. What did that matter in the
scheme of things? It made no difference in the long run if the enemy were
destroyed going to or returning from the target; all that mattered was
destroying them in large numbers by overwhelming firepower. Park demurred.
The British fighters would lose the one tactical advantage they had - that
of operating close to their bases. The German fighters frequently had to
break off their action because of low fuel. If the RAF took to following the
bombers all the way back to France, the boot would be on the other foot.

Dowding remained silent throughout the conference. If Park was disappointed
in the lack of support from his chief, he didn't show it. The meeting broke
up without agreement. Park again extracted the promise that 12 Group
squadrons would protect his bases but he accepted this with little
satisfaction. After Leigh-Mallory left with his entourage, Park turned to
Dowding.

"I think we're close to the limit, sir."

Dowding nodded gravely. "The problem is pilots, Keith. We simply cannot
train them fast enough to replace the casualties. All I ask is that you do
your best."

Park gave a tight smile. The strain of the battle was immense and he saw its
imprint on Dowding's tired face. He relaxed for a moment into informality:

"We'll do it, Stuffy, we'll do it because we bloody well have to."


*****************

"Green Flight, Scramble!"

The telephone orderly's bellow sent them running for their aircraft once
again. David was half way through his starting checks before Kiwi was
strapped into the turret and plugged into the intercom. Moments later, six
Defiants were rumbling down the take off strip on full throttle.

"Rogue Squadron, Green Flight airborne."

"Roger, Green Leader. Climb to Angels one-nine and vector 105 degrees,
thirty plus bandits reported headed for Dover."

The Defiants climbed steadily, orbiting over the Thames estuary as they
gained height before setting course for the interception. David noted the
flow of radio traffic with half an ear, picking out the salient messages and
sorting out the picture in his mind. Two big raids were in progress, Manston
was catching it. Green Flight were ordered to look out for a squadron of
Hurricanes in the area, call sign 'Kestrel Squadron.' He also heard the
controller speaking to the other flight from 264, presently heavily engaged
over North Foreland. It was another busy day!

Shortly after 12.30, the Defiants spotted the enemy formation. Heinkels and
Ju88s in three groups, 109s above them. Spitfires rose past Green Flight to
engage the fighters. David and his colleagues were to concentrate on the
bombers. David and Kiwi had a brief discussion. David was flying Green
three, his wingman, a novice fresh from training was Green four.

"Green three, Follow me, Green four and stick like bloody glue. Target is
the 88s."

"Green four, wilco, green three."

David eased the big fighter into a slow turn. The plan he'd agreed with Kiwi
was for a quick diving pass under the Junkers formation. This would give the
turret gunners their best shooting opportunity. He selected maximum boost
and climbed higher before throttling back slightly to begin his attack. The
enemy bombers thundered on, straight and level. The air was filled with
yells and warnings, instructions and reports, he ignored everything but the
targets in front of him. Kiwi was singing a filthy song as they hurtled down
on the Ju88s. David caught a glimpse of a 'plane spiralling down out of
control. He couldn't tell whose it was. Tracers arced towards him, first
lazily then zipping by. He weaved slightly to spoil the gunner's aim. He
pushed forward on the stick a touch to steepen the angle and then they were
flashing beneath the bombers. Fire poured out of the ventral gondolas but
David ignored it. The Defiant shuddered as Kiwi opened up on his chosen
bomber. Two short bursts and then the whirring of the turret mechanism as he
shifted to the next; another two short bursts and then they were through,
pulling into a sharp climbing turn to make another pass.

Helmut Graube saw two Defiants thunder out from beneath the Junkers
formation. Freund had seen them also and was yelling at him to follow. The
Schwarm swept down on the British pair. Freund was screaming at them to
attack. Graube ignored him and concentrated instead on the second of the
British 'planes. He kicked the 'Emil's' rudder furiously to slew his plane
round into position. The Defiant's gunner was frantically swinging his
turret to try and track the incoming Messerschmitts. Graube smiled. Too
late, Tommie. He opened fire at three hundred metres, saw the cannon shells
strike. A cloud of thick smoke burst from the target's exhausts. It
staggered visibly under the impact of the explosive 20mm rounds. A kill! The
first Fighter was flying for his life. He couldn't help but admire the way
the Tommie pilot flung that thing around. His gunner was a cool one, too;
holding his fire and only letting go with a quick burst when he had a good
chance of scoring. Freund was hit! The leader's 109 was falling away,
flopping limply. Either the controls had been shot through or the pilot was
dead. So! He glanced about.

Two Spitfires were screaming down towards him. Too far away to worry about,
ah, the other pair had turned to engage them, good. That left the remaining
Defiant all to him. He opened the throttle and dived steeply, building up
speed to close with the British plane. God! He was brave, this Tommie, he
was going back after the bombers. Graube calculated that he couldn't attack
while the enemy was under the formation, they might end up hitting him in
the crossfire. He prolonged his dive, deciding to attack from below when the
Defiant re-emerged from its own attacking pass. He watched dispassionately
as a Ju88 pulled sharply up, out of formation. Smoke streamed from its
engine and there were flames licking at the wing. Someone was going to get
their feet wet. Then he saw his chance.

David was sweating profusely as he hauled the big fighter around for another
attack. He checked with Kiwi what the ammunition state was.

"200 rounds per gun I reckon, Skip."

"Game for another pass, Kiwi?"

"Let's dance, Skip."

A 20mm cannon shell erupted from the floor of the cockpit between David's
feet and smashed out through the canopy above him without exploding.
Instinctively he flung the aeroplane over on one wing, ramming open the
throttle to the maximum before reversing his turn and slamming the stick
into the pit of his stomach. The Defiant rose like a rocket and then flopped
onto its back. Kiwi fired two long bursts and then the guns fell silent.
Something warm was trickling down David's legs. The engine cut. Damn! He'd
flooded the carburettors. He pulled further back on the stick to push the
nose towards the ground. The Plane stalled and fell out of the inverted turn
in a spin. Kiwi's voice came from the back.

"Skip, Skip! Are you OK?"

"Fine, Kiwi, just dandy. Where did that bloody 109 come from?"

"Underneath, I reckon, Skip. I think I got him though. Oh, and we're ;'bingo
' ammo, Skip."

David let the speed build up before applying opposite rudder to correct the
spin. The Defiant slowly eased out into a controlled dive. David reset the
switches and tried to start the Merlin. It coughed a couple of times and
died. Oil smeared the windscreen in front of him.

"Sorry, Kiwi, old mate. The motor's broken. Time to get out."

"Skip, I can't! The turret's jammed. You get yourself out."

"Nothing doing Kiwi. We'll just have to pancake in a field."

As David fought the stricken Defiant, Helmut Graube was having troubles of
his own. His engine was running distinctly rough and the oil temperature was
climbing as steadily as the pressure was falling. He'd turned for home as
soon as he'd realised he's been hit. Come on, Baby, he thought, don't let
Papa down now. I have a great aversion to wet feet. He suddenly found this
amusing and laughed out loud.







The Defiant staggered over the orchard at barely 80mph. It wallowed like a
sick pig. Three and a half tons of fighter was not meant to glide. The other
side of the trees was a ploughed field. Someone had got the harvest in
early, David mused. It was strange, he felt light-headed; it was as though
he was watching someone else trying to land the 'plane. He warned Kiwi to
brace himself and tugged on his own harness straps. It was going to be a
'wheels up' job. Whatever happened, this kite would be a write-off.

The crash, when it came, was an oddly muted affair. There was an initial
crunch on impact as the propeller blades folded and then a low sort of
grinding noise as the Defiant slithered and skidded over the muddy earth.
Kiwi's head banged against the side of the turret - he'd been jammed at an
angle of 45 degrees - and then it was over; just the ticking of hot metal.
David wrenched the canopy open and climbed unsteadily out of the wrecked
machine. He staggered to the turret and grabbed one of the gun barrels,
pushing with all his might. The turret moved and he collapsed into the mud.
He assisted a groggy Kiwi from the wreck and the pair of them, supporting
each other, stumbled away from the ruined aircraft. David collapsed against
an earth bank at the edge of the field and closed his eyes.

"Christ alive, Skip! You're wounded."

Kiwi was staring aghast at David's legs. Shrapnel from the cockpit floor had
embedded itself in the backs of David's calves from knee to ankle, shredding
his Sidcot suit and heavy flying boots. Only the steel of the seat had
prevented worse injury. Even so, he was bleeding profusely. David opened
weary eyes and smiled at Kiwi.

"Thank God for that, Kiwi. I thought I was losing it back there. You don't
look so good yourself."

Kiwi's nose was broken and there was a livid bruise on one side of his face.
He started to laugh.

"Christ, Skip, what a sorry pair! Still, we're alive, though, eh?"

Helmut Graube's engine quit just as he crossed the coast near Calais. He
pointed the 'plane back out to sea and bailed out - no point in hitting
anyone on the ground with a falling Bf109 'Emil.' He quite enjoyed the
descent after the initial tumbling panic had subsided with the 'chute
opening. He landed in someone's garden, crashing through a cold frame and
ripping his flying suit on the shards of glass. He staggered to his feet and
winced. It felt like his ankle was broken or, at least, badly sprained. He
hobbled to the house and asked, in exquisitely polite French, to be taken to
a doctor.


*******************

Only Two Defiants returned to Hornchurch from Green Flight. Apart from David
and Kiwi, the squadron lost two pilots and three gunners killed and two
other pilots wounded. The enemy had found the Defiant's Achilles heel. After
a similar mauling on 28th August, both the RAF Defiant squadrons were
withdrawn from operational flying by day. They would return before the end
of the battle as night fighters and once again prove their worth. RAF
Manston was so heavily bombed on the 24th August that the RAF had to
evacuate the base entirely. Douglas Bader's 242 Squadron successfully
attacked the retreating enemy formations. He reported to Leigh-Mallory that
he could have done even better if he'd had another couple of squadrons at
his disposal.. Once again, the 12 Group fighters had failed to protect the
11 Group bases.

David and Kiwi were taken to hospital in Canterbury. Kiwi was found to be
suffering from concussion and had also sustained a broken collarbone. The
surgeon removed forty-one steel fragments from David's legs. His left ankle
was dislocated, probably by the blast effect of a 20mm canon shell smashing
past his feet at over 1,000 mph. Neither Kiwi nor David played any further
part in the Battle of Britain. Their final score was five confirmed 'kills'
and two 'probables.'  David was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross on
30th  August. Kiwi later received the NCO's version, the DFM, following
strong representations from his squadron. He threw it in a drawer and never
looked at it.



September 1940 The Crisis

Michael Welford Barnes and 601 Squadron returned to Tangmere on Monday 2nd
September. At least one person did not welcome them back. Johanna
Hepworth-Lloyd was less than happy to learn Michael was back on the station.
She had managed to put the incident out of her mind when the squadron had
left but, now they were back, it was like a raw wound to he psyche. Jo
learnt of David's last action in a telephone call from Peter. She broke down
in tears of relief once she established that he was not too badly wounded.
It was all she could do to thank Peter for his kindness in letting her know
before she hung up the receiver with a shaking hand.

The girls had grown used to death but not inured to it. She had often seen
the WAAFs in the ops room with silent tears streaming down their faces as
they listened to the combat far above. Sometimes you would hear someone
screaming; that was always the worst. It made you picture some poor boy
roasting to death as his stricken fighter fell from the sky like some
modern-day Icarus. At other times you felt their elation as they yelled
their triumphs. You silently shouted with them when they urged a comrade to
'jump' as his 'plane tumbled from the tumult. Jo felt emotionally drained
and physically exhausted at the end of every shift.

In her heart, Jo was glad that David was now out of the battle. She knew it
was selfish; other women were going through the same thing, day after day as
their husbands, lovers or sons rose to meet the German menace. She searched
herself for sympathy and was saddened she could find none. The knowledge
that her man, at least, was safe for the time being, was more than enough.
She had seen one young WAAF collapse on being told the news that her husband
of three weeks had died in his Spitfire over Folkestone. It left her feeling
oddly guilty and wicked that all she could think was 'at least it wasn't
David.' The Luftwaffe intensified its attacks against the fighter bases.
Biggin Hill, Manston, Hawkinge, Eastchurch - the list went on and on. In a
strange way, the girls in the ops room welcomed such attacks. It gave them a
fellow feeling with the young men who rose each dawn to face the enemy. Now
they were sharing the danger. It wasn't much, but it was something.

On 6th September, the day dawned bright but with an early haze. 601 Squadron
was  scrambled at around nine o'clock to assist with a big raid over Kent
and Sussex. Around 300 enemy aircraft were attacking and the raid fanned out
on reaching the coast to attack a number of separate targets. Jo listened to
the fight in the ops room. It was desperate stuff. The Hurricanes were
heavily engaged by the covering Bf109s. She heard the casualties reported.
Four 601 'planes were downed in the space of a couple of minutes. It was
noticeable that this raid had a preponderance of fighters. The only bombers
were the Luftwaffe's fastest machines, the Ju88s. The remnants of the
squadron landed at 10.30. Four Hurricanes were missing.

Michael looked around the flight hut as the pilots came into to make reports
to the 'spy.'  There were not many of the old club left, now. The Squadron's
replacements were not of the same ilk as the original members. There were
Poles, South Africans, Canadians plus those who'd joined since war broke
out. Two more 'originals' had 'gone west' that day. Carl Davis, an American,
had joined 601 in 1936. He hadn't been called for operational service until
the previous month, though. Now he was dead, shot down over Tunbridge Wells
along with Willie Rhodes-Moorhouse, the son of the first ever airman to win
the Victoria Cross. It seemed unreal. All those cheerful young men: alive,
vibrant one minute, and now gone. Forever. His head ached and he felt
slightly sick. A change had come over him during the past few weeks. He was
reluctant to acknowledge it. It was uncomfortable. He was starting to feel a
connection to his fellows. Christ! Wasn't that ironic? All the years when
there had been time, he hadn't taken it. Now, when time was the one
commodity none of them had, he suddenly wanted it. He wanted his time again.
It hit him like a punch in the guts. Michael sighed and made his report. The
Intelligence officer gave him a tight smile.

"I've some news for you W-B, you've been awarded the DFC. So has your
brother, by the way. He put up a good show with 264. Got shot down over
Folkestone but he's OK. I'd thought you'd like to know."

Michael shrugged. The part about David was old news. Bethan had telephoned
him. God only knew why she thought he'd be interested. He couldn't care less
about the little shit. Except that wasn't right. He did care. He found
himself glad that David was alive, happy almost. He examined this new
feeling with interested detachment. He couldn't put his finger on it.
Christ! He was feeling guilty! He hurried away from the 'spy' to write up
his report. He needed time to think. It had to be the fatigue! Yes, that was
it! But the feelings wouldn't go away. Images from his past kept pooping
into his head like ghosts, elusive, insubstantial but real, somehow. He
shook his head to clear it but they wouldn't go away. Someone spoke to him,
asking if he was all right. He shouldered past them and out into the fresh
air. That was what he needed. He walked unseeing towards the dispersal. The
ground crews stiffened at his approach, Michael had the reputation of being
a 'right bastard.' He wasn't aware of their relief when he shambled on,
beyond the fighters in their blast pens, beyond the NAAFI wagon delivering
'tea and wads' to the hard-working mechanics. He walked over the grass only
stopping when he reached the chain-link fence. His hands contorted like
claws as he gripped the wire. Then he began to weep.







Jo ran to the barracks telephone. It only took 'internal calls' so she
supposed it must have been put through by the station switchboard. The girl
had yelled, "Jo, call for you! It's a man!" She screamed David's name in her
head. She had rushed from the showers and was wrapped in a towel, her red
hair a wet ruin around her face and neck. She had almost vomited with the
shock when the clipped, precise voice had said:

"Miss Hepworth-Lloyd? Michael Welford-Barnes. No! Don't hang up. It's very
important. I . I need to see you. Um. I owe you a very deep apology. Please!
Don't go, just listen to me. I've had rather a strange experience - you
could call it a conversion on the road to Damascus. No, I'm sorry, I'm not
making sense."

His voice tailed off. There was a strange quality to it. Could it be
desperation? Jo steadied herself. She tried as hard to keep her voice level
and cool.

"Go on, sir, I'm listening."

"Christ! Look, this is frightfully hard for me. I can't do it on the phone.
Can you meet me by the entrance to the number three shelter in about five
minutes?"

He felt Jo's hesitation.

"Please? Look, don't worry, there's loads of people about and the NAAFI van'
s due any minute. It really is important."

To her great surprise, Jo found herself agreeing.  She hurried back to her
room and towelled her hair frantically  and hurried to dress. There were one
or two raised eyebrows as she rushed out of the barracks but no one said
anything. He was standing there looking diminished somehow, a little lost.
She still approached him warily. God! Why am I doing this, she thought. She
didn't have a convincing answer. He wouldn't meet her eyes as she
approached. He barely nodded, keeping his face averted and indicated that
she should walk with him. She fell in beside him, making sure to keep a good
gap between them. He walked a few paces in silence then he stopped and faced
her. She was surprised to see his face was wet with tears.

"Something odd happened to me this morning. Just after we landed, it was.
This is going to sound utterly mad, but have you ever seen yourself really
clearly? I just did. I didn't like it. Johanna, do you mind if I call you
Johanna? I owe you, and a lot of other people, a huge apology. I have been
such a shit for the longest time. I've been mean and spiteful and. oh, just
fucking awful!

"And today, it hit me. What a bloody waste! All you good people out there
and all you ever got from me was just shit, shit, shit! And d'you know the
worst part? I really haven't the foggiest notion why. I only lashed out at
you to hurt David. No, don't ask me why, I can't tell you. He never did
anything to me, quite the reverse. I did my best to make his life Hell at
school, y'know. He did nothing to deserve it, it was just me!"

Michael's voice trailed off into a wail. His shoulders shook as he sobbed
silently. Then he composed himself and turned to Jo again.

"I can't explain why I've acted the way I have. Jealousy, I suppose, 'though
God knows I never had cause. And Peter! Christ, I was a bastard to him and
he deserved none of it. And my poor mother! Oh I wish I could take it all
back and start again but I can't, can I? I mean, who'd believe me?"

"I do, Michael," Jo said quietly. And she did, every word. Instinct made her
pull him towards her, place her arms around him and croon soft nonsense
noises to soothe him as he was wracked again by sobbing. At length, he drew
back.

"I haven't cracked, you know, if that's what your thinking. It's just that I
've suddenly realised what's important in life and how much time I
absolutely wasted."

He stepped back from her, calmer now.

"Thank you. You know, my brother's a very lucky man. Tell him from me, will
you, when you see him?"


Jo smiled. Her heart went out to him. She had no doubts now about his
sincerity. She hadn't known him long but she could see his face was
different in some way. His eyes! The cold, imperious stare was gone. He
looked vulnerable, not weak exactly but, well, human.

"I think David would like it very much if you were the one to tell him."

Michael gave a taught grimace.

"I'm not saying this for sympathy but I have this feeling that I'm never
going to see David, or any of them again. Don't look at me like that! I'm
not scared or anything. I worked out months ago that the odds are stacked
against us. Willie Rhodes-Moorhouse went this morning. I was with him in
France! Christ, France! That's a lifetime ago, don't you see?

"Johanna, you're the only one I can talk to; to say how I sorry I am. Think
of yourself as a proxy for all the rest. I. I'm sorry, I have to be getting
back. Sorry.."

With that he turned on his heel and strode off. Jo watched him go, noted how
his head came up and his shoulders straightened as he moved away. She turned
back. She'd be on shift later and still had things to do. She fought back
her own tears as she walked.


****************

"Well, Bader's got his way. Today's the day for trying out the 'Big Wing.'
Well, Riley, what do you think?"

Peter suppressed a sigh as he turned to face Wing Commander Adams. Adams,
like most of 12 Group staff, had swung into line behind their commanding
officer. Peter pondered his reply for a second or two. Fuck it, he thought,
why not?

"If you want the truth, sir, I think it's a mistake. Squadron Leader Bader
is letting his considerable ego get the better of him."

Adams stiffened, his face grew red.

"Really, and, pray, what do you know about such things?"

Peter bit back the urge to say 'a damn sight more than a 'wingless wonder'
like you.' Instead he drew a deep breath and said:

"I think it might just work for 12 Group, sir. We have the luxury of a
little time. The boys on the coast, well, sir, they don't. 11 Group are
right up against it. They don't have time to form up if they're to stop the
bombers getting through."

Adams gave him a haughty look and stalked away. Oh well, looks like I've
blotted my copybook. Maybe it's time I asked for a posting anyway, he
thought. He was damned if he'd be a 'yes-man' for anybody. He said aloud,
for anyone who was listening, "I suppose I'm fortunate. This isn't my idea
of a career. I'll do my duty to the best of my ability but I won't toady to
anyone."

He heard a deep chuckle.

"Flight Lieutenant Riley, isn't it?"

He spun around. Air Vice Marshall Trafford Leigh-Mallory was gazing at him
with obvious amusement.

"Yes, sir, sorry sir. I let my temper get the better of me for a moment. It
won't happen again, sir."

"Meaning that you won't say it out loud again, eh Riley? Well it's either a
brave man or a bloody fool who disagrees with his superiors, Riley. Which
are you?"

"It depends on your point of view, I suppose, sir."

Leigh-Mallory laughed out loud. He grinned amiably at Peter and said:


"Well, Riley, if you're not on my team then it will probably suit us both
best if you move on, don't you think?"

"Yes, sir, if you say so."

"Oh, Riley, I do say so and my word is law. Shame! You've done well but I
can't afford to harbour the disaffected. I'll arrange for your posting."

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm. Squadron Leader Riley, I think. I wouldn't want you to believe me
ungrateful."

Typical of the man, thought Peter. Get rid of you if you don't agree but
promote you to sweeten the pill. In for a penny, in for a pound:

"I'd be grateful if I could go to an operational station, sir, if that's at
all possible."

"Why not, Riley? I'll see what I can do. And by the way, I think you fall
into the 'brave man' category. You, sir, are nobody's bloody fool."

What on earth did he mean by that? Peter thought, as the senior officer
wandered away. Someone clapped on the back and whispered "God, that took
balls, old man." He shrugged. What did it matter? He'd survived the worst
that the Western Front could do. What could touch him now?


********************

The following day, Saturday, 7th September, was to be the turning point,
though nobody knew at the time. Michael's Squadron was withdrawn from Tangme
re and sent to Exeter to recuperate. 213 Squadron replaced them. Peter
received a movement order for Acting Squadron Leader Riley to report to
Biggin Hill as OC Operations. His predecessor had been killed in an air raid
on the base. David underwent further surgery to remove some deep-seated
fragments from his left knee. Kiwi Braithwaite was discharged from hospital
and sent on sick leave. On David's insistence, he went to visit Bethan and
Peter.

Winston Churchill visited 11 group HQ at RAF Uxbridge. He inquired of Keith
Park what reserves Park had. Park answered truthfully and promptly. "None,"
he said.

In France, Helmut Graube was pronounced fit for duty. He had mixed feelings.
His badly sprained ankle had allowed him to spend a great deal of very
satisfactory time with Michelle Boissin. At the same time, he was bored with
inactivity. The award of the Iron Cross, 2nd Class, had been a great excuse
for a party. He was so hung-over, he felt worse than he had immediately
after his heavy landing. The spirit is very resilient at the age of twenty,
however; he sneaked into the cockpit of his new 'Emil' and took a few whiffs
of pure oxygen. He felt immediately better.

There was some surprise and consternation later that night when word
filtered down from on high that the Luftwaffe was to change tactics. 'Grosse
Herman' had lost his patience with the battle of attrition. He'd decided to
switch the raids from the RAF stations and Radar sites and attack England's
very heart. From now on, the main target would be London. It would force the
RAF to commit their last reserves, Goering reasoned. Then his beloved
fighters could destroy them in a single set piece battle. After that, well,
the invasion, of course. He could picture himself in London in a matter of
weeks. For now, his squadrons needed some breathing space. He set the date
for the great all-out attack for September 15th.

Dowding and Park could not believe their luck. There were some heavy raids
on 8th but poor weather and Goering's plans gave Fighter Command a whole
blessed week to recover. Dowding knew, better than anyone, how close the RAF
had come to defeat. If the raids of the 6th and 7th had continued, 11 Group
would have virtually ceased to exist as an effective force. At a meeting on
10th September they had almost been lost for words. The switch of targets to
London had brought the Germans into effective range of all 12 Group's
strength. Furthermore, London was at the extreme limit of the Me109's combat
range. Could the tide be turning?







It all started very slowly. Peter was in the ops room at Biggin Hill well
before eight. He was glad, seeing the damage to the base and surrounding
area, that he'd insisted that Bethan stayed back in Nottinghamshire. A few
reports came in from those 'Chain Home' stations still operating. The odd
enemy patrol or reconnaissance flight but nothing significant. It wasn't
until 11 O'clock that reports began to filter through of a big formation
building up over Gris Nez. Peter chewed his knuckles and thought hard. He
ordered off all the sector fighters. It was a gamble but something told him
that this was the moment.

The raid came on waves. A total of sixteen fighter squadrons rose from their
battered airfields to meet the intruders. 12 Group sent Bader's Wing, now of
five squadrons. It was utter mayhem. Around a hundred enemy 'planes made it
through to London. They were harried all the way there and all the way back.
Their casualties were enormous.

Another big raid was launched at around two o'clock. Peter repeated his
tactics of the morning, sending everything he had. Once more only half of
the raiders got through to London. By evening things were quiet in the
Biggin Hill sector. Peter felt the strangest sense of elation. It was like
electricity in the air. The intelligence reports were patchy and still being
compiled but it did look like that the Luftwaffe had experienced their
heaviest casualties of the battle so far. Something had to give, Peter was
certain. He was equally certain it wouldn't be Fighter Command. Now that was
something he couldn't have said even a week before.

Helmut Graube was exhausted. He felt angry, bitter, let down. It had been
sheer Hell over there! Great God! He'd never seen so many Tommie fighters.
Where had they all come from? They were supposed to be on their last legs,
it made no sense. He'd only just got back, flying on fumes. His tank had
been reading 'empty' as he started back across the Kanal. The 'Emil's'
engine had cut as he tried to taxi back after landing. That was a close! It
was time someone in the High Command started talking straight instead of out
of their fat arses. Oh well, he'd have a bath and go and see Michelle; that
always cheered him up.


*****************

Michael Welford Barnes was amazed. The Squadron Leader had sent for him and
made him flight commander of Blue Flight. He couldn't believe it. He decided
to do a quick 'hop' with one of the new boys, a Pole by the name of
Jazinski. They took off as a pair and Michael pushed the young pilot hard,
rolling and turning and insisting the novice stayed with him. Michael was
pleasantly surprised. Jazinski had some ability, good! He decided to make
one quick pass and then head for home.

"Blue Leader, Blue two. Follow me. Tally Ho!"

Michael dropped a wing and let the Hurricane sideslip into a screaming turn.
He noted with satisfaction that Jazinski was still with him, right where he
should be. He pushed the stick forward and began his mock attack. They
plunged down from 20,000 feet. He watched the altimeter unwind. He felt
good, clean, alive. As they passed 12,000 feet he called his wingman again.

"Blue Leader, Blue two. Break right, break right, go!"

Maybe Jazinski's English wasn't as good as his flying, maybe it was just a
mistake. As Michael jinked sharply to his right, the windscreen was suddenly
full of the Polish pilot's Hurricane. Only the Exeter controller heard
Michael's last words. They were: "Oh, fuck!"

















September 15th 1965 Reunion

Air Commodore David Riley waited to receive his luncheon guests. The parade
had gone well, he thought, and this gathering to mark the 25th Anniversary
of the Battle of Britain had been his idea. Invitations had gone out to as
many of the surviving RAF pilots and aircrew as could be traced. He was very
pleased with the turnout. There were over 200 veterans in attendance. He was
particularly pleased to welcome the small delegation of former Luftwaffe
flyers, who had also been invited. Getting Adolf Galland had been a real
coup.

Galland was a dapper, polite man a few years older and a good head shorter
than David. He was chatting to a slender, dark man of about David's age who
was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the present day German Air Force.
Galland switched politely into English as David approached.

"Ah, Air Commodore Riley. Allow me to present one of my old Jg26 comrades.
Air Commodore Riley, Oberst Helmut Graube."

David smiled and offered his hand. The German Colonel smiled back broadly.

"You will not know this, Air Commodore, but we met at least once before."

David shook his head, puzzled.

"Ja, it is so! On the 24th August 1940. I was the one who shot you down."

"Good God, really? How can you be sure? We lost quite a few Defiants that
day."

"I did some research, Herr Riley. You see, I am now the air attach� at our
embassy here in London. I have no doubt at all. Your serial letter was 'P,'
is that not so?"

"Yes, it was; P-Peter. Well I'll be damned! You know, we never knew where
you came from."

Graube turned to Galland.

"I will tell you, Herr General, the Air Commodore and his gunner were the
bravest enemies I ever saw. What happened to your gunner, if I may inquire?"

"Kiwi Braithwaite. Oh Kiwi survived the war, thankfully. He retrained as a
pilot in 1941 and wound up in Coastal Command as a Squadron Leader on a
Sunderland squadron. He went back to New Zealand in 1946. I still hear from
him. He's running an Insurance Company or something."

"I'm glad to hear he did not perish. He was a good shot, too, Herr General.
He put a few rounds into my motor while he was hanging upside down. That
day, I nearly got my feet wet!"

The two Germans laughed. Galland explained.

"Helmut here was always worried about falling into the sea."

"It is simple, Air Commodore, I never learned to swim!"

David found himself warming to the Colonel the longer they talked. He was
humorous, polite and obviously felt not the slightest embarrassment in the
presence of his former enemies. A thought struck him.

"I say, Colonel Graube. I would very much like to invite you to dinner. I
know my wife would love to meet you. Jo always says that whoever shot me
down that day saved my life. Do come and, uh, bring your own good lady?"

"Please, call me Helmut. I should love it. My own wife, she is French and
loves to socialise. With great pleasure, I accept, Air Commodore."

"David. My name's David."

"Ah. So it will be David and Helmut then. That is good. The very best of
enemies, ja?"

"Let's have a drink on that! Coming, gentlemen?"


Epilogue November 11th 2003

I reached the top of the hill a few moments before eleven o'clock. The
village below was barely discernible through the dank haze. I let the dogs
run ahead and paused by the iron railings. I hadn't brought a wreathe - that
would have been too pretentious - just a couple of the simple cloth poppies
that they sell as buttonholes to mark Remembrance Day. It was a simple
matter to twist the stems so that one could hang on each side of the gate.
One poppy for Phillip and one for Michael; father and son, who died in
defence of their country and my - all our - freedom.

The Church clock struck  the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the
eleventh month. There was no bugler at the war memorial this time, but he
had been there on Sunday. I observed the silence on my own. It seemed
fitting somehow. I'd got to know these men, their strengths and weaknesses;
their lovers and their friends. It was time to bid them 'farewell.'

It's all so terribly long ago. Men like David Riley are in their Eighties,
if they still yet live. Fewer and fewer veterans now parade on 15th
September, Battle of Britain Day. As I walked back down the hill over the
soggy grass into the sunken lane behind Pitton House, I couldn't help but
think of Churchill's words:


"The gratitude of every home in our Island, 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. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed
by so many to so few."







The End.











Historical Notes



I was born a few years after the Second World War ended but memories were
still fresh. The names of the great Fighter Aces were as well known to me as
modern-day sports stars are to the current generation. 'Sailor' Malan,
'Ginger' Lacey, 'Cats-eyes' Cunningham, Johnny Johnson, Al Deere and 'Lucky'
Bob Stamford -Tuck were household names. Of course, it helped that we were
an Air Force family and I was consequently equally familiar with the Bristol
Blenheim, Hawker Hurricane, Supermarine Spitfire and the rest. Some of my
earliest memories involve hours spent looking his photo albums with my
father. The photos, largely from his service during the 1920's and 30's were
mostly of antiquated biplanes that would make a modern child wonder how they
ever got off the ground.

Next came the age of aero modelling and my room was full of poorly-built
plastic kits. It was small wonder, then, that I followed my father and elder
brother into RAF service. I have to confess that modern jet aircraft fail to
inspire in the way that those famous old aeroplanes do. I suppose it was
inevitable that, sooner or later, I would fall into the trap of trying to
write an aviation story.

'Like Father Like Son' was inspired by coming across the graves of William
Barnard Rhodes-Moorhouse and his son, 'Willie' Rhodes-Moorhouse that lie on
a Dorset hilltop near the little town on Beaminster. This is not their
story. My characters are entirely imaginary and are not based on the
Rhodes-Moorhouse family in any remote way.

William was a fine aviator. He was the first airman to win the Victoria
Cross, Britain's highest award for gallantry. He also achieved a number of
other notable firsts: the first pilot to carry passengers across the English
Channel and the first man to fly under the Golden Gate Bridge! He was killed
in 1915 after a heroic bombing mission in a BE2c. 'Willie', who gets a brief
mention in the story, died on September 6th, 1940 when his Hurricane was
shot down over Tunbridge Wells in Kent. He flew with 601 Squadron - 'The
Millionaires' - and was part of a flight that was detached to France in May
1940. By one of those strange quirks of fate, Willie was based at Merville
airfield - the very place from which had father taken off on his famous last
flight.

It is inevitable when writing a piece of fiction based around real events
that actual people have to make an appearance. Below are some brief details
about these true-life characters. I had to invent some of the exchanges but
I believe I have been faithful to the record. I did not have to invent any
of the flying incidents. All of the tales in this story, even the more
improbable sounding ones, actually happened to someone.

'Stuffy' Dowding:  Air Marshall Sir Hugh Dowding was the Commander in Chief
of Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain. He commanded 16 Squadron
RFC during 1915 and 1916 and, as described, was not a great success. His
'finest hour' came later. The letter to the Air Ministry is quoted verbatim.
Dowding's greatest contribution was the establishment of the air defence
system that enabled the RAF to win the Battle of Britain.

Air Vice Marshall Sir Keith Park:  Keith Park was, perhaps, the true
architect of the tactical victory. He was adored by his pilots and was an
inspirational leader, frequently visiting the operational squadrons in his
own Hurricane. During the First War, he commanded 48 Squadron (after the
events described in this story) and was one of the top Bristol Fighter 'Aces
' with 20 victories to his credit. His clashes with Trafford Leigh-Mallory
are well documented. He went on to command the RAF in Malta and retired to
his native New Zealand after the War. His comment to Churchill regarding
reserves is a matter of record.

Air Vice Marshall Sir Trafford Leigh- Mallory: Leigh-Mallory was an able and
highly ambitious officer. He was the brother of George Leigh Mallory, the
mountaineer famously lost on Mt Everest, whose body was discovered only
recently. The dispute with Park over tactics is one of the long-running
controversies. The 'Big Wing' tactics, latterly favoured by 12 Group, were
fine in theory but difficult to put into practice effectively. There were
huge problems in trying to control such large numbers and often the
squadrons took so long to assemble that they failed to engage the enemy.
They did have their successes, though, notably on 15th September 1940.
Leigh-Mallory went on to command first Fighter Command and then the entire
Allied Air Forces for the D-Day operations. He was killed later in 1944 when
the aircraft taking him to the Far East crashed.

Sir Winston Spencer Churchill:  So much ahs been written and said about
Churchill that there is little point in me trying to supply a biography
here. All the quotations attributed to Churchill are verbatim except 'his
letter' to Peter, which is my own invention.

Captain William Leefe-Robinson, VC:  Leefe-Robinson was the first pilot to
shoot down a German airship over London as described. Although an
experienced pilot, he lacked experience of fighting on the Western Front. He
was shot down by Richtofen's Flying Circus as described. He survived his
wounds and was a prisoner of war. Ironically, he died of Spanish 'Flu
immediately after the First War ended.

Captain Albert Ball, VC: Albert Ball was the first RFC pilot to become a
national hero. He was brave to the point of madness and frequently took on
vastly superior enemy formation single-handed. The evening of his death in
1917, he was last seen chasing seven enemy fighters on his own. Photographs
of the time reveal an intense, boyish figure. He was renowned as a 'loner.'
He was just twenty years old when he died.

Major Lanoe Hawker, VC:  Lanoe Hawker was arguably Britain's best pilot and
a very successful RFC Squadron Commander of 24 Squadron, as described. He
was shot down and killed by the Red Baron after a long unequal fight during
which his engine was constantly cutting out. The description of the
collapsing wall of the officers' mess hut is factual.

Freiherr Manfred von Richtofen - The Red Baron. Despite being the highest
scoring 'ace' of World War I, 'The Red Baron' remains something of a
controversial figure. His critics point out that many of his victories came
about against very inferior aircraft and that he had the habit of 'finishing
off' enemy 'planes already damaged by combat with others. Even his death
remains a topic for dispute, although it seems most likely he was killed by
ground fire from an Australian machine gunner.

General Adolph Galland:  Adolph Galland is arguably the greatest fighter
pilot of them all. He commanded Jg26 in the later stages of the Battle of
Britain but his greatest triumphs came against the Red Air Force on the
Eastern Front. Highly intelligent, urbane and humane, he became a regular
visitor to Britain and made many friends among his former enemies after the
war. He did tell Goering that he wanted a squadron of Spitfires but this was
probably to annoy 'Grosse Herman.' Galland disliked the Nazi leadership and
thought Goering a posturing fool and was heavily critical of his tactics.

The Record Breakers:  Malcolm Campbell, John Parry Thomas, Henry Segrave,
Ray Keech and Frank Lockhart were all real people who made attempts on the
Land Speed Record as described.


Pinky Harris, Phillip, Michael and Bethan Welford-Barnes, Peter and David
Riley, Albert Armitage, Helmut Graube etc. are all characters of my own
fevered imagination. They bear no intentional resemblance to real people,
living or dead.

The Squadrons

14 Squadron, RFC, never served on the Western Front. This was a deliberate
ploy on my part, as I wanted the freedom to tell the 'story' without the
restrictions of real events.

48 Squadron, RFC was the first to be equipped with the Bristol Fighter.
Their experiences with the new machine are a matter of record and the events
took place much as I described them.

All of the squadrons named in Part Eight were real formations and their
story is taken from the official record. The incidents involving David and
Michael are, of course, entirely imaginary but are based, as far as
possible, on actual operations that took place on the dates stated. The
history of 264 Squadron and their Boulton Paul Defiants is a matter of
record. When the Luftwaffe first encountered the Defiant, they did make the
mistake of thinking it was a hurricane, to which it had a passing
resemblance. The first squadron to be 'found out' was 141 Squadron, which
was severely mauled in July 1940. 264 came to their Calvary between 22nd and
28thAugust, 1940.


The Battle of Britain

The Battle of Britain lasted from 10th July to 31st October 1940. To
paraphrase the Duke of Wellington, it was a 'near-run thing.' Had the
Luftwaffe not switched their attacks to London from the airfields and radar
stations after 7th September, it is quite likely that Britain would have
lost and the invasion would have followed. Whether or not the Germans would
have been successful can only be a matter of conjecture. After the huge air
battles of September 15th, the Luftwaffe turned increasingly to night
bombing. As the Official History remarks, fighting continued at a lower
level throughout October. The Battle did not so much end as eventually peter
out.

The 'Few', now sadly forgotten by many, were  2353 young men from Great
Britain and 574 from overseas, pilots and other aircrew, who are officially
recognised as having taken part in the Battle of Britain. Each flew at least
one authorised operational sortie with an eligible unit of the Royal Air
Force or Fleet Air Arm during the period 10 July to 31 October 1940. 544
lost their lives during the period of the Battle. A further 791 were killed
in action or died in the course of their duties before the war's end.

If you would like to know more about the Battle of Britain I recommend:

http://www.raf.mod.uk/bob1940/bobhome.html

For anyone interested in the Air War on the Western Front, I recommend 'The
First Air War,' by Richard Townsend Bickers. For a personal account of the
RFC, 'Sagittarius Rising,' by Cecil Lewis is a marvellous read. There are
many good books on the Battle of Britain, 'Fighter,' by Len Deighton stands
out, but my personal favourite is 'Nine Live.' by the New Zealand 'ace.' Al
Deere. Al was shot down no less than seven times but survived the War to
retire as an Air Commodore in 1977.

Finally, I have to acknowledge the contributions made in the writing of this
story. My heartfelt thanks go to Svend Raun, a fellow 'airman' and amateur
historian with a keen interest in the Battle of Britain, for his invaluable
assistance in keeping me on the right track and his technical input
concerning the Battle. I have, as always, to thank my editor, Denny Wheeler
for correcting all my dreadful typos and pointing out where I could express
things better. Denny also maintains my web pages and has helped to find some
of the photos that illustrate this story there.

Any errors, factual or otherwise, I claim entirely for myself.

Finally, my thanks also go to the very many readers who have encouraged me
with their kind comments and urged me on to complete this tale. Foremost
among these is 'cmsix,' a fine imaginative writer- go read his stories.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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