Battle of Britain (3 page)

“Come on, Yanks!”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up the lot of you!” said the CO.

“
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 say: This was their finest hour
.”

 

Edith had sent me a cartoon from the
Evening Standard
. It was by someone called Low, showing a Tommy shaking his fist at a sky full of German bombers with the words “
Very well, alone
.”
It seemed to capture that mood, that feeling of having our backs to the wall. I thought it was first rate, but Lenny was quick to point out that we weren't
quite
alone.

“How come?” I asked.

“Well, think about it,” he said. “Just in the RAF, the Australians, New Zealanders and Canadians have all joined in. Then there are the Yank and Irish volunteers. And the South Africans. And what about the Czechs and the Poles. . .”

“OK, OK, I get the message!” I said, putting my hands over my ears.

Lenny had a point, though. 11 Group was commanded by a Kiwi, Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park, who was terrific, flitting about between bases in his Hurricane, wearing his trademark white helmet, and 10 Group – the group north of London – was commanded by a South African, Air Vice-Marshal Leigh-Mallory.

Canadian pilots had seen plenty of action in France, and now we had Czechs and Poles training to fly our aircraft. These chaps had managed to evade the Germans all across Europe. They had seen the power of the Luftwaffe at first hand and were out for revenge.

We even had some Yanks at the base. Some Americans were so fed up with the USA staying neutral, that they came and joined up anyway. We were glad to have them. Come to think of it, Churchill was half American himself!

 

 

As I reached our front door, I heard an incredible racket coming from the hall, like a suit of armour falling down a flight of stairs. When the front door opened I saw Edith standing there with an armful of saucepans.

“Edith!” I shouted. “I didn't know you were home.”

“Only arrived an hour ago. Can't stop. Mum's in frantic mode.”

“Hello dear!” called Mum. “Get a move on, Edith.”

I squeezed against the wall as Edith and Mum edged past with what looked like every kitchen utensil in the house. They tossed them all into an old pram and went clinking and clanking down the drive towards the village.

My dad was reading the paper in the sitting room.

“Good to see you, son. You're looking well.” I looked terrible. “Sit yourself down.”

“What's going on?” I said.

“Aluminium Fever,” said Dad.

“Aluminium Fever?” I asked, picking up a copy of
Picture Post
. Dad handed me a scrap of paper torn from a newspaper. It showed a picture of a woman holding saucepans next to a picture of some Spitfires in flight. It was addressed to “The Women of Britain”. It said:

 

GIVE US YOUR ALUMINIUM

We want it and we want it now. New and old, of every type and description, and all of it. We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires and Hurricanes, Blenheims and Wellingtons. I ask therefore, that everyone who has pots and pans, kettles, vacuum cleaners, hat pegs, coat hangers, shoe trees, bathroom fittings and household ornaments, cigarette boxes, or any other articles made wholly or in part of aluminium, should hand them over to the local headquarters of the Women's Voluntary Services. The need is instant. The call is urgent. Our expectations are high.

 

The Daily Sketch
had a headline saying, “
From the frying pan into the Spitfire!
”

“Clever that, don't you think?” said Dad, “From the frying pan into the Spitfire. Like out of the frying pan and into the fire. . .”

“Yes, I get it, Dad,” I said, smiling. “They do know that this is all baloney, don't they?” I said. “None of those pans will ever be used in a Spit,” I said. “They're precision machines, you know. They're not going to make them out of old saucepans. It's all propaganda.”

“Keep that thought to yourself will you, son,” said Dad. “Your mother is very keen on all this. She's head of the local Women's Voluntary Service you know.”

“Really? Good for Mum. But it's true though,” I said.

“Maybe so, maybe not. I don't know. What I do know is that it does your mother good to feel like she's doing her bit, so let her be. As far as she's concerned, she's building you a Spitfire. What harm can it do? Every little helps.”

“Point taken.”

“Good lad.”

“Were those your fishing rods I saw being hauled off for scrap?” I said, picking up a copy of the
Radio Times
.

“Fishing rods?” said my father with a rather shell-shocked expression on his face. “My . . . my fly-fishing rods?”

“Every little helps,” I said smiling behind my magazine.

 

Over lunch I entertained the family with tales of life in the RAF – heavily censored tales, of course. I couldn't really talk very much about the fighting, because I knew Mum just didn't want to hear about it. She had seen something in the paper showing our aircraft.

Mum asked me to describe the base, because she said I was always talking about it in my letters, but she had no idea what it was like.

“Well,” I said, “there's a runway, of course – a grass one – and around that there are crew rooms and dispersal huts. That's where we sleep and sit around when we're at ‘readiness'.”

“Readiness?” said Edith.

“Stand-by. It means we're ready to scramble.” I smiled. “Take off at the double.”

“I know what scramble means,” she said, slapping me round the shoulder.

“Then there's the anti-aircraft guns – ack-ack we call them – to protect the base. There's a parade ground, naturally, and a church. A mess for officers like myself and one for NCOs. Let me see . . . barracks, armoury, parachute store. Most important, actually, is the Ops Room.”

“Ops?” said Edith.

“Sorry,” I said. “Operations Room. It's where all the info comes in about enemy positions and so forth. They get all the up-to-the-minute info, and telephone through to dispersal and send us on our way.” I did an impression of someone talking into the telephone. “50 bandits, angels 20.” I said. Everyone looked blank. Then Edith laughed.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she said.

“So bandits are Germans?” suggested Dad.

“Enemy aircraft, yes,” I said. “Could be Italians of course, now.”

“Well why don't you just say Germans?” said Edith. “It isn't any quicker to say ‘bandits'.”

“It isn't meant to be quicker. It's kind of a code.” Edith shook her head.

“And angels are RAF aircraft?” said Mum.

“No,” I said. “Angels are thousands of feet. Angels 20 means 20,000 feet. Fifteen thousand would be angels 15 and so on.”

“I've never heard such nonsense,” said Edith and everyone laughed.

Mum and Dad had seen a newsreel clip showing Goering, the head of the Luftwaffe. He'd been a crack pilot during the Great War, but looked like he would have a bit of a problem getting into a cockpit now.

“He's so fat,” said Mum. “And so ugly.”

“He is a bit of a sight,” I agreed. “He's stinking rich apparently, though. He's got his own personal train.”

“They're all a ghastly shower, if you ask me,” said Dad. “Goebbels, Himmler . . . Hitler for that matter. Like something from a horror film. It beats me how anyone could ever listen to a word they say.”

“I saw some of those WAFE girls at the cinema,” said Mum. “They do look very smart, don't they?”

“WAAFs, Mum,” I said. “They're called WAAFs. It stands for Women's Auxiliary Air Force. We've got them at our place of course. Some of them are not bad lookers, actually, but goodness knows what they are going to do if bombs start falling. . .”

“What on earth do you mean?” said Edith crossly.

“Well, I just mean . . . you know . . . girls aren't used to that kind of thing,” I said, wishing I'd never started.

“And you are, I suppose?” said Edith.

“Yes . . . I mean, no. Look, it's what all the chaps are saying. . .”

“Oh do shut up,” said Edith suddenly. “You are talking the most awful rot!”

“Edith's right, dear,” said Mum. “You are talking rubbish.” Dad laughed.

“OK! OK!” I said, holding up my hands. “It was a casual remark for goodness' sake; no need to shoot me down in flames!”

“Don't say that!” shouted Mum. I shrugged and laughed.

“It's just an expression. . .”

“Don't ever use it again,” she said coldly and got up from her chair. “I'm going out into the garden.” Edith and Dad looked at me.

“What?” I said.

“You idiot!” snapped Edith, and she got up to follow Mum.

“It's just an expression, Dad,” I said. Dad just shook his head and sighed. Then he got up and went to his armchair to read the
Radio Times
.

“It's just an expression,” I said quietly to myself.

 

Back at base it was the same mix of boredom and frantic activity. Jerry was launching attacks on convoys and ports on the south coast. Me109s would come over first, looking for a fight, and then Junkers 87 dive-bombers – Stukas – would swoop down on the ships in the Channel.

Most of the time we would get there too late and the damage would be done, with the Germans already high-tailing it back to France. It was frustrating to say the least. We all wanted to take on the 109s, but Fighter Command wanted us to save ourselves for the fight to come.

And when we weren't in the air we were engaged in endless debate. . .

“All I'm saying is, Vivien Leigh's all right. . .” I said.

“All right?” one of the chaps said. “All right? Have you seen
Gone With the Wind
?”

“Of course I have. But Merle Oberon is on a different level altogether.”

“Rubbish!” he said.

“She is just
so
much better looking,” I said. “Ask anyone.”

“Absolute nonsense!” he said.

“What do you say, Lenny?” I said, giving Lenny a tap with my foot.

“What? About what?” he said, looking up from his book.

“Merle Oberon.”

Lenny looked thoughtfully off in to the distance. We waited expectantly. Then he looked back at me. “And Merle Oberon is. . .?”

“Oh come on,” I said. “You must know who Merle Oberon is. She's in
Wuthering Heights
.”

“Well I've read the book,” said Lenny. “But I can't remember anyone called. . .”

“The movie, you chump,” I said. “She's an
actress
!”

“Ah, I see. She played Cathy presumably,” he said.

“I don't remember who she played. We're not arguing about who she played, we're arguing about who is the most. . .”

“Hey, shut up you lot and listen to this!” shouted a chap over by the wireless. He turned the volume up.

“
Somebody's hit a German
,” said the voice on the wireless. “
And he's coming down with a long streak 
. . .
coming down completely out of control 
. . .
and now a man's baled out by parachute. It's a Junker's 87 and he's going slap into the sea. There he goes – smash!
”

It turned out that a BBC reporter, Charles Gardner, had just set up his equipment on the cliffs at Dover when by complete fluke all this action started right in front of him. Out at sea, about 40 Stukas with an escort of Me109s were laying into a convoy. Antiaircraft guns on the coast were blasting away at them.

He described it just as if it was a football match or something. You could hear bombs; you could hear the rattle of machine-gun fire from the fighters. There was something so odd about listening to all this on the wireless. The whole mess went totally silent.

Dad told me later how he and Mum had listened to it on the wireless. My dad had reached over to switch it off, but my mum said, no, she wanted to hear. She said it made her feel closer to me. She held my dad's hand and carried on listening.

Gardner sounded a little disappointed when the bombers headed for home, but he got very excited again when the fighters reappeared. He was like a kid. He was almost giggling.

“
There are three Spitfires chasing three Messerschmitts now. Oh boy! Look at them going! Oh yes. I've never seen anything so good as this. The RAF fighters have really got these boys taped
.”

When he finished we all cheered. We loved it, of course, but not everyone was so keen. Dad told me there were angry letters in newspapers complaining that this just wasn't the way to go on when lives were at stake. Gardner was rapped across the knuckles and told not to do it again. But I think it made the people at home feel part of it all. It did for my mum, anyway.

Then Adolf got up on his hind legs and made some crazy speech on the 19th, blaming the war on Jews and Freemasons and arms manufacturers – which was odd, because we'd all sort of thought
he
was to blame. The newsreel showed him ranting and snarling as always.

“
A great Empire will be destroyed. An Empire which it was never my intention to destroy or even to harm
. . .”
We could make peace, he said, or he would destroy the British Empire.

Well old Chamberlain had shown what happened if you gave in to bullies when he made the mistake of listening to Adolf in '39. Churchill wasn't about to make that mistake again and we told him where he could stick his peace offer.

 

I groaned as the airman orderly patted me on the shoulder. I gingerly opened my eyes. It wasn't yet light. I groaned again. My shoulder ached. I felt like I was a hundred years old.

“Oh hell,” I said. “I was hoping it had all been some terrible dream.”

“'Fraid not, Sir. War's still on. Jerry's still expecting you.”

“OK,” I said. “I'm – yawn – ready for action.” Then I pulled the blanket back over my head for a couple more precious minutes.

I climbed reluctantly out of bed and I got dressed over my pyjamas and put my leather Irvin jacket on to fend off the cold. Then I pulled my flying boots on and tried to focus my tired eyes, squinting into the surrounding murk.

The sun was just beginning to send out a queasy glow to the east as I stepped outside to check my aircraft. The grass was covered in a heavy dew, so heavy it looked like frost. A cockerel was crowing somewhere off in the world beyond.

I said hello to the crew who were working on my Spit. I stepped up on to the wing and then into the cockpit. I checked all the instruments, making sure I had a full tank of fuel, connected the oxygen and R/T leads of my helmet and left it on the stick. OK, I was ready.

I jumped down and walked back to the hut. I warmed my hands by the stove. I looked around the hut at the pilots slumped about the place. A couple of them looked about fifteen.

Operational training had been dropped from six months to four weeks. A lot of these sprogs never got to fire their guns until they went on their first sortie. Sometimes this was the last time too. At nineteen, I felt like a veteran.

The press called us “Dowding's Chicks”. The “Chick” part was because of our youth, the “Dowding” part was after our boss – Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, the head of Fighter Command. Dowding was a terrific fellow, actually, though he was a bit severe. They called him “Stuffy” Dowding, though not to his face, obviously.