Like Father Like Son Parts six to eight

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.