Authors: Alan Judd
The wing commander enumerated the likely strength of fighter defences in that part of France: getting on for two hundred FW190s and about another hundred ME109s
from farther away at Saint-Omer and Fort Rouge. Diversionary attacks by Typhoons and Bostons on Poix airfield and on the docks at Dunkirk would
absorb some of the defenders and, it was hoped, distract German radar from the forming up of
the Flying Fortresses. It was to be a big show.
The wing commander rearranged his notes, then rapidly read out detailed instructions for timings, call-signs,
compass-bearings, heights and homing course. Most pilots scribbled the figures relevant to them on the backs of their
hands; a few, including Frank, used notebooks. He usually memorised what he wrote but as a precaution would strap the book to his
thigh.
Finally, the wing commander said, ‘Right, synchronise watches.’ He raised his wrist and waited. ‘I have twelve hours fifty-one minutes, fifty-five seconds
. . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . twelve hours fifty-two minutes exactly.’ He looked up, again with the hint of a smile. ‘Stay alert, gentlemen, eyes peeled. Good luck.’
There was more scraping of chairs and shuffling of boots, then they clambered into the back of the Bedford
three-tonner to return to the Dispersal huts. There they emptied their pockets of names, addresses, money, tickets, anything that would indicate location, and put it
all in their lockers. Some took out lucky mascots – a lighter, an old coin, a teddy bear – before donning their thick white pullovers,
sheepskin waistcoats, thigh-length woollen socks and fleece-lined boots. Frank slipped into his right boot
the hunting knife he had brought from home and carried throughout his training and on
every mission. He had never crashed, been wounded or shot down and he feared not to take it now. Of course
it had no effect – how could it? – but why risk leaving it when everything had been all right so far? Yet he
didn’t think of himself as superstitious, unlike Tony who had the next locker and always flew with
a small, moth-eaten teddy bear. Frank counted that as superstitious. The knife might actually come in handy if he was
shot down and on the run.
He tucked his maps into his boot, then loaded his heavy Smith&Wesson revolver and stuffed the pockets of his life-jacket with emergency rations and his escape kit.
Fitters appeared with their parachutes and inflatable dinghies, fixing them in the seats of the aircraft along with helmets, earphones and oxygen masks.
Clambering into the cockpit, he felt as he imagined medieval knights must have when mounting their steeds, burdened and ungainly. But perhaps once
on their horses they would feel at one with their mounts, nimble, swift and deadly, as he
knew he would feel once his wheels left the runway and his Spitfire became an extension of his hands and feet
and will.
Tightly wedged, he tested radio, sight and camera-gun, armed cannon and machine-guns, adjusted rear vision mirror and
oxygen mask, checked pressure in oxygen bottles, and waited. The squadron call-sign that day was Shield, with Patrick as Shield One. They would start engines at 1322 hours,
take off at 1325, orbit until formed up, set course at 1332, fly at zero feet over the Channel, climb on full power to 10,000 feet when crossing the French coast, then
rendezvous over Amiens at 25,000 feet. There they would turn 90 degrees to port and steer 047 degrees for five minutes. On the way they would ditch their auxiliary fuel tanks after
twenty-five minutes at the signal to ‘drop your babies’, then take up battle formation.
Still they waited in silence on the runway. Fitters with screwdrivers went from aircraft to aircraft, slowly tightening the detachable panels.
Others stood by with their fingers on the auxiliary starter batteries, yet others knelt by the fire extinguishers lying in the grass beside each aircraft. The fire crew sat on the running boards of
their fire engine, the medics sat in their ambulance. There were no sounds, no radio chatter. It was as if a spell had been cast
upon the entire airfield.
Frank’s stomach felt light and empty, despite the recent lunch. He now thought he should have had another
pee when they returned to the Dispersal hut. He had thought of it at the time but hadn’t wanted one. He didn’t really now but worried that
knowing he couldn’t might persuade him he did. He tried thinking of other things – fishing, the
problem with the gears on Roddy’s bike, what Vanessa and her father might be doing at that moment. Having lunch,
presumably. Would they be sitting formally at that long polished table beneath the painting of the woman in the sun-dappled garden? Or would
they eat more humbly and informally at a table in the kitchen he hadn’t seen? What would they be talking about; what would they do that
afternoon? It was easy to imagine the colonel walking his land, but what would she do? Frank could no more imagine that than
he could imagine her dressed differently. She was like a dream figure, existing only as she had briefly appeared, untouchable, unchangeable. Yet they had touched
when they met. He recalled the feel of her hand, her warm hand – unless it was simply that his were cold after cycling. It was that hand that she had raised from the window when he left. Unless he had imagined it.
He mentally rehearsed the cockpit drills he had already been through – brakes, trim, flats, contacts,
pressure, petrol, undercarriage, radiator. They were all waiting for the signal from Patrick, sitting motionless in his aircraft a few yards away. At 1320 hours
his head moved as he glanced at each of the twelve in his squadron. Then his voice came through the still-connected intercom:
‘All clear? Switches to On.’
His starter coughed and his propeller began to turn. The fitters sprang to life as if electrocuted, pulling away
chocks and batteries, hanging on to wingtips to help the aircraft pivot. Frank was first
behind Patrick, who was already taxiing to the runway. The sound of his Rolls Royce Merlin engine, which he loved,
filled his head now as it filled the cockpit. There was no room or time for anything else.
The other squadron was already lined up at the end of the runway on either side of the wing commander’s Spitfire, their
propellers sending up clouds of dust. Patrick’s squadron fell in behind them in combat formation, Frank
now wingtip to wingtip with Patrick. Again they waited, twenty-six in all, engines roaring although on tick-over, their propellers spinning slowly enough to be visible. The sun broke
through the hazy cloud, glinting on the turning blades. In other circumstances it might have been the preliminary to a celebration.
At 1325 a white rocket streaked skywards from the flat roof of the control tower. The wing commander raised his arm and the first squadron moved off as one. Patrick raised his gloved hand and started forward after them, Frank keeping level, his eyes on
their almost-touching wingtips. Patrick’s tail went up as he opened his throttle. Frank did the same, his aircraft jibbing and
bouncing on its narrow undercarriage until the wheels left the ground and everything was smooth. He raised and locked the undercarriage, throttled back, adjusted
airscrew pitch, switched to auxiliary tanks. They crossed the road at tree-top height, the roar of their engines almost
flattening everything beneath them. A green country bus had stopped and a woman disembarking dropped her shopping
bag and clutched at her hat – too late – as wave after wave of aircraft created a thunderous whirlwind, shaking the trees. They skimmed the rooftops of a village,
below the top of the church spire, causing people to duck in the street, hands to their ears, and scattering nearby sheep and
cattle. They followed valley bottoms through the low wooded hills of the Sussex Weald, dived up and over the South Downs and quite suddenly were skimming the choppy
grey sea, leaving Beachy Head above and behind them.
The wing commander led them even lower, a few feet above the dirty fractious waves. It was uncomfortable and enervating flying, with
ceaseless nervous adjustments to maintain height and formation during the buffeting of slipstreams. At 350 knots a moment’s loss of concentration would send an aircraft bulleting into
the grey waves.
The French coast was a growing smudge through the haze. Their radios, switched to receive only, picked up shouts and calls from the escort squadron already over Amiens. It
sounded a hot scrap. At 1350 hours precisely the wing commander’s Spitfire rose abruptly and the rest followed as one, climbing steeply on full throttle as the
Somme estuary widened beneath them. At 15,000 feet the wing commander broke radio silence with the order to drop
babies. Frank pulled his handle and felt his plane jump as if someone had kicked it upwards. Twenty-six near-empty tanks tumbled and spiralled into the
woods and fields of France.
Then, as loudly and clearly as if with them in the cockpits, the crisp tones of fighter control in England instructed them to go over to Channel C
Charlie. The wing commander acknowledged and they pressed button C on their VHF panels. After some warbling, a familiar controlling voice, the man with the radar, told them
to steer zero nine six, adding almost casually, ‘Plenty of business over target. Fifty plus bandits fifteen miles ahead, angels three five,
over.’
The wing commander acknowledged again and the two squadrons drew apart into wider combat formation. Frank dropped back until he was behind and a little above
Patrick. Without turning his head, he could just see the Dodger way off to his right. They were approaching 30,000 feet in a now cloudless
sky of pitiless clarity. The ground was shrouded by haze but the limitless blue sky above was stunningly bright. It hurt to breathe and Frank’s fingers
and toes felt like heavy blocks of ice. In the rarefied air the aircraft rocked slightly, as if on a gentle swell. Along with the
cold and the rhythmic, enveloping sound of the engine, it engendered a dream-like unreality. Frank turned up the oxygen to rouse
himself.
Control came up again, with the same disturbing and intimate clarity. ‘Thirty plus bandits approaching you above. Out.’
Almost simultaneously someone in the other squadron shouted, ‘Bandits three o’clock closing fast above!’ Patrick shouted, ‘Bandits above and
behind break right!’ Frank recalled afterwards that he had begun to call out, too, having glimpsed the first group as the first pilot
shouted, but he never got beyond the word ‘bandits’ because the roundels of Patrick’s Spitfire filled his screen as Patrick
banked and climbed. Frank avoided him only by banking sharply left, then heaving on the controls to bank right and follow on full throttle. The centrifugal force pushed him so
hard into his seat that for some seconds he could move neither hands nor feet, following Patrick’s turning
and climbing Spitfire with his eyes only. His goggles pressed painfully on his nose and felt as if they were slipping down his face and skinning it.
He couldn’t even see the enemy.
He still hadn’t seen them when red streaks of tracer flashed between him and Patrick. Patrick abruptly dropped out of sight, leaving Frank climbing almost vertically into the
vast and seemingly empty blue. But for the shouts and calls in his headphones, he could have been alone in the universe.
The Hun is always in the sun, it’s the one you don’t see who gets you; if you don’t spot the one who is going to get
your mate you’re a criminal.
The posters on the briefing room wall echoed distractingly in his head. He kicked violently on the
rudder bar and heaved with all his strength to get the plane round. As he skidded sideways, more tracer streaked
over his dipping right wing and he almost collided with the big black crosses of a Focke-Wulf. He pressed
the trigger but his cannon blazed into empty sky.
The next few minutes – perhaps just one, it was impossible to tell – was a fast-moving maze of Spitfires and Focke-Wulfs,
criss-crossing lines of tracer, puffs of black smoke, white condensation trails, dirty grey exhaust trails, flashes of cannon and, in the middle, a
solitary parachute swaying gently earthwards above a dark, unmoving figure. No one knew where anyone else was or where they themselves were; no one kept the same trajectory for more than a few seconds; no one had a target in his
sights for more than one. Way out to Frank’s left, level with him, another Focke-Wulf turned towards him. Frank
pulled up into a half-roll and briefly, upside-down, had the FW in his sights. He pressed the firing button to give it a prolonged burst, tightening his turn
to get enough deflection, his cannon shaking the plane. The FW dived and disappeared, leaving him firing again into emptiness.
He dived after him but the German was out of range and faster, anyway.
Frank pulled sharply up and round again, his arm muscles quivering and sweat misting his goggles. He searched the sky for the next enemy but
there were none, nor friends either. The scrap had ended as quickly as it had begun; he and the FW must
have been the last two in it. He turned again, climbing, and now could see disappearing aircraft in all directions. It was
tempting to set a course for home, but for the small matter of the bomber force they were supposed to escort. The scrap
had used a lot of fuel but he had enough left not to worry just yet.
There being no point in radio silence now, he called up Patrick. There was no response. It was barely conceivable that Patrick had bought it; he not only
led but embodied the squadron with his laconic and paternal style. Brave beyond question, he was more experienced than any of them. But it was more than possible that he would buy it one day. He must know that
better than they did. Frank, worried now, was about to call again when Patrick’s leisurely
tones came reassuringly over the airwaves.
‘Delighted you’re still with us, Shield Two. Our sheep are scattered and most of the other dogs have gone
home. Steer original course and hope we meet up. Over.’
Frank steered 320 degrees, descending to 15,000 feet where the bombers would most likely be. The minute or two of
hectic action had dispersed and damaged the escort force before it arrived; radio traffic suggested a much bigger scrap over the target itself
and it was likely that the bombers were badly mauled and making their way home piecemeal and unescorted. He felt miserably dissatisfied with
his own performance, not because of any particular lapse or error but because he had at no point felt in control of anything. He had been merely reactive,
buffeted and knocked about by the actions of others, which he had had no time to anticipate. Perhaps it had been like that for everyone,
a messy scrap with neither winners nor losers, but he was not convinced. Pilots like Patrick and the wing commander,
perhaps even the Dodger, would come away with at least a rough idea of what had happened, what led to what, why they broke off when they did, what tactics the enemy had adopted. They could somehow be detached while engaged and assemble a picture of the whole. But to Frank it had
been as confusing and bruising as the one game of rugby he had been cajoled into during training. Now, with the adrenalin draining from
him, he was aware of the cold again, the pains in his feet and fingers, the throbbing in his head and a dangerous sense of detachment from cockpit realities.
He was aware, too, of the stealthy and irresistible encroachment of his old enemy, one of his two great secrets, his fear.
There was never time for it in action but before and after it could spread from within, a cold, creeping paralysis
that tempted him not so much to run away – though he would have loved to do that, to flee somewhere where no one knew
him, no one asked anything of him – as to do nothing at all, just to continue as he was, flying on and on until it all stopped.