Battle of Britain Read online

  JAMES HOLLAND

  PUFFIN

  Contents

  Fighter Command July 1940

  Port Side of Cockpit

  Starboard Side of Cockpit

  Spitfire Mark I

  1. Scramble

  2. First Combat

  3. Cross-country on a BSA

  4. Channel Dash

  5. First Flight

  6. Grounded

  7. Intelligence Brief

  8. Bag o’ Nails

  9. Return to Dunkirk

  10. Melee

  11. Darkest Hour

  12. Victory Roll

  13. Ring the Changes

  14. The New CO

  15. Channel Dash

  16. Fall Out

  17. 337 Squadron

  18. Attack on Dover

  19. Cannon Shell

  20. Forty-eight-hour Leave

  21. Never Follow an Enemy Down

  22. Massing of the Eagles

  23. Attack of the Eagles

  24. In a Spin over Kent

  25. Convalescence

  26. Black Saturday

  27. The German Pilot

  28. Getting to the Party

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Historian and bestselling author James Holland was born in Salisbury, Wiltshire, and studied history at Durham University. He is the author of numerous historical non-fiction titles and the Jack Tanner fiction series, and presented Battle of Britain: The Real Story and Dam Busters: The Race to Smash the German Dams for the BBC.

  A member of the British Commission for Military History, his many interviews with veterans of the Second World War are available at the Imperial War Museum and are also archived at www.secondworldwarforum.com.

  Find out more about the Duty Calls series and the Second World War at www.dutycallsbooks.com

  For Jude Petrie

  MAP I

  Fighter Command July 1940

  1. Flare release control, 2. Map stowage box, 3. Rudder trimming tab control, 4. Pressure head heating switch, 5. Camera-gun master switch, 6. Writing pad container, 7. Elevator trimming tab control, 8. Throttle and mixture friction adjusters, 9. Push switch for silencing warning horn, 10. Throttle lever, 11. Mixture lever, 12. Airscrew control lever, 13. Connection for cine-camera footage indicator, 14. Boost cut-out control, 15. Landing-lamps dipping lever, 16. Landing-lamps switch, 17. Main magneto switches, 18. Brake triple pressure gauge, 19. Wireless remote controller, 20. Clock, 21. Elevator trimming tabs position indicator, 22. Undercarriage position indicator, 23. Oxygen regulator, 24. Navigation lamps switch, 25. Flaps control, 26. Instrument flying panel, 27. Air-speed indicator, 28. Artificial horizon, 29. Altimeter, 30. Direction indicator, 31. Setting knob for , 32. Compass deviation card holder, 33. Cockpit lamp dimmer switches, 34. Brake lever, 35. Landing-lamps lowering control, 36. Control column, 37. Fuel cock lever (top tank), 38. Fuel cock lever (bottom tank), 39. Radiator flap control lever, 40. Rudder pedals, 41. Rudder pedals leg reach adjusters

  29. Artificial horizon, 31. Direction indicator, 34. Cockpit-lamp dimmer switch, 38. Fuel cock lever (top tank), 39. Fuel cock lever (lower tank), 41. Rudder pedal, 43. Brake-relay valve, 44. Priming pump, 45. Compass, 46. Fuel contents gauge, 47. Engine starting pushbutton, 48. Turning indicator, 49. Rate-of-climb indicator, 50. Reflector sight main switch, 51. Reflector sight lamp dimmer switch, 52. Lifting ring for dimming switch, 53. Reflector gun-sight mounting, 54. Dimming screen, 55. Ammeter, 56. Generator switch, 57. Ventilator control, 58. Engine-speed indicator, 59. Fuel-pressure gauge, 60. Spare filiments for reflector sight, 61. Boost guage, 62. Cockpit lamp, 63. Radiator temperature guage, 64. Signalling switch box, 65. Oxygen socket, 66. Wireless remote contactor mounting and switch, 67. Oil-temperature gauge, 68. Engine data plate, 69. Oil-pressure gauge, 70. Cartridge starter reloading control, 71. Height and air-speed computer stowage, 72. Control locking lug, 73. Harness release, 74. Slow-running cut-out control, 75. Undercarriage control lever, 76. Undercarriage emergency lowering lever, 77. Control locking lug,

  1

  Scramble

  Around 10 a.m., Friday 24 May 1940. The sun was already high, and warm too. The early morning mist that had shrouded London when the squadron had flown down to Rochford at first light had long gone. So, too, had the morning dew. When Archie Jackson had clambered down from his Spitfire and walked with Ted Tyler and the others over to the dispersal hut, his black leather flying boots had been sodden, but now, some four hours later, they were as dry as the surrounding grass.

  It already felt as though half the day had gone by: up at four, shaken awake by their batman, a quick shower, a lukewarm mug of sugary tea, and then they were on the bus being driven to their dispersal. Ten minutes later, having collected Mae Wests, parachutes and flying helmets, they had been tramping towards their aircraft. Irving and Green, Archie’s fitter and rigger, had already been there – Green giving the canopy one last polish, Irving battening down a bolt on the cowling. A cheery greeting from Green, a weary nod from Irving.

  Just five minutes later, he’d been airborne, along with five others from A Flight and six from B, led by their CO, Squadron Leader Dix. Archie had wondered then whether he would ever see Northolt again. If I do, he had thought, it will be after my first combat sortie. I will have survived.

  Rochford was their temporary forward base, a place to refuel and wait for the order to take off and patrol the French coast. New, unfamiliar ground crew – erks as they were universally known by the pilots – had descended on their aircraft, and Archie had followed the others to the dispersal hut on the western edge of the airfield. After a short while, a van had drawn up bringing Thermos flasks of tea and bacon sandwiches. The tea had been lukewarm, the bacon limp, but he had not struggled through his sandwich because of the taste.

  ‘Make sure you eat, Archie,’ the CO had told him in an avuncular tone. ‘You don’t know when you might get the chance again, and there’s no point in flying to France on an empty stomach.’

  Archie had nodded silently as a new wave of nausea had coursed through his stomach. Gingerly, he had taken another bite.

  That had been around 6 a.m. – four hours ago. Four hours! Four hours of sitting, waiting, doing little, the knot in his stomach tightening, first in the crew room of the wooden dispersal hut, and then, as the sun warmed the air, outside. Some managed to read, others played cards. Archie couldn’t face either. All he could think of was the mission that lay ahead of him, like a giant chasm waiting to swallow him up. He wasn’t sure what gnawed at him the most: the thought of being killed, or the prospect of somehow messing up. He could not imagine what it would be like, or how he would react, when he saw a German aircraft for the first time. A real German. In a real plane.

  An hour ago, the Spits of 74 Squadron had returned from an earlier patrol. Archie had watched them come in, one after the other, then rumble around the perimeter. The red canvas patches that covered the gun ports had all been shredded, smoke from the guns streaked the underside of the wings, and some had visible battle damage – jagged silvery metal sticking out where a bullet had torn into it. The pilots then clambered out and staggered over to the crew room. Archie saw the expression of one: it was a look of shock, his eyes wide and disbelieving, his hair clammy with sweat.

  ‘Well, you can hardly miss Dunkirk,’ said one, as the pilots dropped off their kit and reported to their Intelligence Officer. ‘The oil depot’s on fire and there’s smoke rising ten thousand feet into the air.’

  ‘Or more,’ said another. ‘Honestly, you’ve never seen anything like it. Thick black smoke. Damn hard to see anything much below.’

  Two aircraft had not returned. There had been some speculation over what
had happened to them. Several of the pilots had seen Sergeant Mould bail out of his, and were convinced he had done so on the right side of the lines, but no one could be sure what had happened to Flying Officer Hoare.

  ‘He was trailing white smoke,’ said one.

  ‘Glycol,’ said another.

  ‘But he had his kite under control,’ said the first. ‘I’m sure he’s just landed it somewhere.’

  Three others were gesticulating wildly at the IO, making steep diving motions with their arms.

  ‘So that’s a third of a kill each, then,’ said the IO eventually. The three men had looked deflated.

  Archie had listened to all this with a mixture of excitement and dread. His stomach felt heavy, while the salty taste of bacon lingered sourly in his mouth. He’d watched them take off shortly after he had landed, and now two were still in France, possibly wounded, possibly dead. He struggled to take it in. Soon after, the pilots had disappeared, tramping back to the messes. Quiet had descended once more.

  Archie closed his eyes a moment and felt the warmth of the sun beating down on his face, and the comforting orange glow through his lids that reminded him that summer was on its way once more. For a moment, he thought about summery things: lunches outside, cricket, golf at Strathtay, the tiny nine-hole course near his home, the sound of a bee on the air, cut grass and skylarks. There was one twittering away nearby, chirruping madly, and he now looked up, his hand shielding his eyes, and tried to spot it. Where was it? No, can’t see him.

  Giving up, he glanced around. Ahead lay the open expanse of the airfield, while away to the south a couple of large hangars loomed over a cluster of buildings. Aircraft lined the perimeter: twin-engine Bristol Blenheims of Coastal Command, Spitfires of 54 Squadron and their own machines from A Flight. Some hammering began from somewhere near the two hangars and then, a moment later, a fuel bowser began rumbling around the far side of the field. To his left, sitting in a battered old leather armchair, Will Merton-Moore, the A Flight commander, was reading a copy of the Daily Express, and tutting occasionally. Archie glanced across. Merton-Moore was holding the paper so that the upper half of his body was almost entirely hidden, revealing the headlines in the process. The news from France was not good – not good at all – but sitting here on this fine May morning in south Essex, Archie found it hard to imagine such terrible things going on just the other side of the Channel.

  The Channel. His stomach lurched. For a few blissful minutes, he’d managed to put the task ahead out of his mind, but now it came crashing back, sweeping over him like a heavy weight. For so long he had been chomping at the bit, itching to have a crack at the enemy, but now that that moment was almost upon him, he felt consumed by an urge to fly straight back to Northolt. Archie swallowed hard, then turned to look at Ted Tyler sitting beside him in another deckchair. His friend’s leg was jiggling, and he was rapidly tapping his hands together, only pausing occasionally to sweep back his overly long dark hair.

  He heard Ted sigh, then saw him reach into his trouser pocket and pull out his cigarette case. Plucking a cigarette out, he tapped it swiftly on the case, put it between his lips and then, noticing Archie watching him, turned and offered him one too.

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Archie, taking one.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Ted again. ‘How much blinking longer?’

  ‘Calm down, Ted,’ said Will Merton-Moore. The flight commander was older than most in the squadron – twenty-eight – and tall, with a slow, dry voice. ‘I can feel your impatience assaulting me. I’m trying to read the paper. It’s really very off-putting, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Ted, ‘but I just wish we could get on with it. Four hours we’ve been sat around here.’ He lit his cigarette then tossed the matches to Archie.

  Archie caught the box and was about to light his cigarette when he realized his hands were shaking. Anxiously, he glanced around, saw that no one seemed to be looking at him, hastily struck a match and then held it with one hand gripping the other to steady himself. He wished he could feel as calm as Merton-Moore. He ran a hand round his neck, the collar of his shirt blissfully unbuttoned, his tie replaced by his new silk scarf.

  He had bought it only the day before, in London. It was bright orange and at first he had thought it rather dashing. Now he was not so sure. The other pilots had ribbed him mercilessly.

  ‘How’s the scarf, Baby?’ said Will, without looking up from his paper.

  Archie immediately brought his hand back down again. Will had given him the nickname almost as soon as he’d joined 629 Squadron. It was not just that he was still nineteen; he had a thick mop of strawberry blond hair, and a wide, open face with barely a bristle on it, which made him look younger than he really was. ‘Extremely comfortable, thank you,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s the main thing, Archie,’ said Mike Drummond from his deckchair behind Merton-Moore. He grinned. ‘Even if you look like you’re wearing a carrot.’ There were sniggers from the others.

  Archie thought about a riposte, but then decided against it. He was glad of the scarf – after all, it was far better to be able to move one’s neck freely – but privately, he determined that when he next had a chance he would buy another, more sombre-coloured one: navy blue, perhaps, or maroon.

  Next to him, Ted suddenly stood up. Like Archie, he was only nineteen, although a few months older; both were about the same height too – just under six foot – but there the similarities ended. No one would be calling Ted ‘Baby’ in a hurry: he had dark hair, shaved every day, and had a leaner, more muscular face. Archie had been brought up in the country – well, halfway up a Scottish mountain – the son of a local doctor, while Ted’s father was Group Captain Guy Tyler DSO and Bar, MC, DFC, a flying ace of the last war with more than thirty kills to his name. Ted had lived all over England and all over the world. He’d been born in India, had learned to walk in Iraq and to fly in Palestine; at least, that’s how Ted liked to tell it.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ted.

  ‘Where?’ said Archie, glad of the distraction and the chance to get away from the others.

  Ted shrugged. ‘Dunno. Over to our kites? I can’t sit here any longer.’

  Archie stood up and followed him.

  ‘I just want it over and done with,’ said Ted, taking a jerky puff on his cigarette.

  ‘You’re not the only –’

  Archie stopped mid-sentence as the telephone in the dispersal hut rang. Both men turned and froze. Will had lowered his paper a fraction. Others looked up too.

  ‘For you, sir!’ the orderly called out to the CO through the open window.

  Dix hurried over, the others watching him disappear inside. Archie felt rooted to the spot.

  A moment later, the CO reappeared. ‘We’re heading over the Channel, boys,’ he said in a loud but calm voice. ‘Patrolling Dunkirk to Calais, angels fifteen.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s aim to be airborne in ten minutes – so, 10.15, all right?’

  Archie swallowed again, glanced at Ted, then waited for the others as they flung down newspapers and cards and hurriedly began walking towards their aircraft. Will cuffed him lightly on the back of his head as he passed.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Baby?’ he said. ‘I thought you and Ted were desperate to get going.’

  ‘I was – I am,’ stuttered Archie, now hurrying after him.

  Moments later, they reached the first of the planes. He saw Mike Drummond, one of the longest-serving members of the squadron, already up on the wing and clambering into his cockpit. Then he reached Ted’s plane and watched his friend jump up on to the wing root. Ted shot him a glance, smiled uncertainly, and hoisted himself over the half-lowered door.

  Now Archie reached his own Spitfire. Snatching the parachute from where he had left it at the end of the wing, he lobbed it into the cockpit, then jumped up himself. A fitter and rigger were waiting; the rigger, standing at the edge of the wing root, hastily placed the parachute
on his bucket seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Archie, his tone mechanical. With one hand on the top of the windscreen, he hoisted one leg over the door, then the other, standing briefly on his parachute, then slid down on top of it, his feet slotting into and resting on the two rudder pedals. Parachute straps on, then the Sutton harness.

  ‘Nice and tight, sir,’ said his rigger. Archie nodded as he slipped the ends into the fastener with a click and then tightened the straps. His helmet was still on the control column, but he took it now and pushed it over his mop of gingery blond hair. Radio leads in, oxygen lead too. He felt for his goggles, perched on the top of his head, left his oxygen mask dangling free – he hated its claustrophobic smell of rubber – then went through his basic cockpit drill, murmuring the now ritual mnemonic: BTFCPPUR. Brakes, trim, flats, contacts, pressure, petrol, undercarriage, radiator. All in order. Everything set. He nodded to the rigger, who closed the door, gave a wink then slid off the wing.

  Archie glanced across at the Spitfires either side of him, both now bursting into life, then shouted, ‘All clear? Contact!’

  The fitter pulled the chocks clear and signalled to Archie, who began manipulating the hand-pumps and the starter buttons. Ahead of him, pointing imperiously upwards, was the huge engine cowling and beyond it the three-bladed airscrew, black with yellow tips. Slowly, it began to turn, the engine whined and then suddenly, with a flick of flames and smoke from the exhaust stubs and a muffled roar, the machine burst into thunderous life, shuddering as it did so.

  Opening the radiator wide, Archie watched the engine temperature quickly begin to rise, then released the brakes, opened the throttle a fraction and began rumbling forward, following Dennis Cotton – like Drummond, one of the long-serving originals, and his section leader – as they began taxiing round the edge of the field. He glanced behind him: there was Ted, weaving from side to side so that he could see beyond the cowling. Twelve Spitfires, airscrews nothing more than a blur, all rolling forward. The CO led the first vic of three on to the grass, then, through his headset, Archie heard the ground controller at Rochford say, ‘Nimbus Leader, you may scramble now, you may scramble now.’