Like Father Like Son Parts six to eight

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