Multiverse Challenge
A Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons alternate universe story by Matt Crowther
This story is born out of passion for World War Two, the 1940’s, Captain
Scarlet and an over-active imagination.
I was initially going to keep this in ‘real time’ but after
“Fallen
Glory” –my other WWII/Scarlet story - I opted for alternate
history. In this genre there is something called Point Of Divergence where our
timeline changes into the ‘what if’ category. By making this an alternate
history story, I aim to have more scope and involve Scarlet and Co. fully.
I have also tried to portray the characters as they might be
in this setting – if it seems unrealistic that is not my intention, for I’m sure
under the Battle of Britain’s conditions these characters would change.
Characters are borrowed from other Anderson series besides
Scarlet.
I drew most of the Battle experiences from a novel called
Piece
of Cake
by Derek Robinson; which paints
a realistic image of those boys in blue.
If anyone has any feedback, please let me know. It’s quite important to
know I’m getting it right. I can be reached via
Chris Bishop on the Spectrum HQ website.
FOR C.S ‘BAM’ BAMBERGER AFC RAF A SPITFIRE PILOT AND FOR THOSE FEW WHO FOUGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM AND WON
Matt Crowther
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight, I do not hate,
Those that I guard, I do not love;
My country is Kiltarten Cross,
My countrymen, Kiltarten’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss,
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor low, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove
to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind,
In balance with this life, this death.
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
(WB Yeats)
Chapter One
“Somewhere in
Northern France, May 1940”
“Rat-a tat-tat!
Next thing you
know, he’s chewing up earth and saying his prayers to good old Adolf.”
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe plucked at a piece of grass. “Adam…stop
being so bloody theatrical.”
The grinning Adam Svenson, a very tall blue-eyed man with a shock of
blond hair, waved his cigarette, tracing a vague pattern in the air.
“Sorry Paul, just releasing
tension.”
Despite being born American, Adam’s shoulder tabs bore the legend
Finland. When he came to England
to fight the Germans in September 1939, the RAF wouldn’t allow him to enlist. So
in November of that year he went to fight in the Russo-Finnish War instead.
He was one of many foreign volunteers, looking to fight not only for the
Finns’ freedom against the Soviets, but also to fly. Adam started off in banged
up Tiger Moths that were easy meat for the Russians, but then moved onto one of
the four Hawker Hurricanes his squadron had.
Returning to England through Germany and Switzerland, Adam applied for
the RAF again. Despite the fact his war record was taken into account, Adam
still couldn’t join as an American but the canny Warrant Officer in that smoky
London office marked his nationality as Finnish.
To back his ‘nationality’ up, his surname was from that region even if
Svenson’s family was originally from Sweden.
Paul Metcalfe and his squadron mates sat around a smouldering fire in
the orchard where their plane were hidden.
Both the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht had kicked them clear
across France since the invasion of France on May 10. Browbeaten and
weary, the pilots had found a safe refuge for now.
Paul was only twenty-five –but he was their CO- it wasn’t unusual in
these trying times for someone his age to be of a high rank. He had been the third in charge to find
himself in charge of the squadron, for in the first two days they lost both the
CO –brought it after being riddled by a Hun in the Sun which was the Germans’
method of coming from the sun and pouncing on unsuspecting pilots - and the second in command – a blasted
idiot who hit the brakes on landing too hard. So after his two superiors’
deaths, Metcalfe was put in charge.
Of what?
Seven serviceable Spitfires, with no definable orders. Only to get home,
whatever the cost may be. With no back-up crews to help the squadron as it
rested and caught its breath in the French orchard some miles from Calais.
Chased and harried ever square bit of the way by the Luftwaffe from the
squadrons’ original airfield on the French-Belgian border near Bastogne. They
had literally taken off amongst speeding German tanks as the Germans launched
their daring Blitzkrieg through the Ardennes.
“What’s our plan, skipper?” asked black-haired Patrick Donaghue lying on
his back near Adam and Metcalfe, chewing on a piece of grass that he spat out
away from him.
“We get to the coast. If we
have to, we abandon the Spits here.”
“I’ll burn mine before any German gets here,” Donaghue declared.
Soft-spoken Edward Wilkie – an Australian who doubled as the squadron’s
Chief Medical Officer- emerged from beyond the wing of a Spitfire and tapped the
aircraft.
“Abandon our Spits, after the amount of time we’ve had them?” the
Australian, like some of the others had become attached to his Spit. Like most
people who flew or served at sea, he had a bond that people outside the RAF or
Navy wouldn’t understand.
“I understand Wink,” Metcalfe said. “But we may not have to.”
It was, after all, only an aircraft, not a breathing human being.
As many pilots would say, when they were at the helm of a Spitfire, for
them, it became a person. It
acquired characteristics, shuddering for no reason when taxing, or appearing to
mutter when it was stationary. It
became part of the pilot. Contrary
to a car – where the driver would feel safe, although separate from it – but
when the pilot of a Spitfire strapped himself into the seat of his craft – it
was as if the Spitfire was strapping itself to him, becoming part of him, like
an artificial extension of his body.
Pilot Officer Conrad Turner appeared from nowhere and caught Metcalfe’s
attention. Turner was also twenty-five, his hair black as charcoal and his eyes
also dark black, were slightly sunken - like bottomless pits. Tall, with a pale
face.
Conrad’s background was unknown to a point. He had joined the squadron
as it prepared to evacuate from their original French airfield, he said he was a
pilot and wanted to come with them.
His northern accent was accented with a European brogue. It was
discovered the brogue belonged to a Czech.
The CO allowed Turner to fly and Conrad had been with them since.
“I think we have locals coming Paul,” he said.
Metcalfe straightened against the tree he was leaning against. “Thanks,
Conrad. Be on the alert, they might be Fifth Columnists.”
The locals were four women, wearing peasant clothing and wielding
baskets that they held before them. They were attractive and Donaghue remarked,
“I say crumpet.”
He was summarily elbowed by Svenson
for his choice of wording, the pilots then stood to greet them. None of
the pilots spoke French but Metcalfe stumbled out a sentence.
One of the women with shining
blonde hair laughed and said in clear English, “You just asked me to kiss your
horse.”
Metcalfe blushed. “My
apologies, Mam’zelle.”
The women smiled politely. “There is no need to apologise.”
She laid her basket down as did her fellow countrywomen and gestured to
the pilots. “We brought food and drink for you, we understand you have had
little time to rest.”
“Something like that,” Metcalfe replied. “You didn’t have to this for
us.”
“You are our allies.”
“The Germans are not far,” Adam said reaching for a croissant.
“We know,” the woman pinched at her skirt and sat down. Metcalfe also
sat as she looked at him.
“I am Juliette
Pontoin.”
“Paul Metcalfe.”
Conversations broke out, independent to Juliette and Paul’s. “You have
been flying long?”
“In what way? During my life, or the invasion?”
Juliette shrugged and Metcalfe shrugged in return. “Too long to say
really. I’m trying to get my chaps home.”
“Your home is England?” her accent stumbled over the country’s name,
pronouncing it ‘Ongland.’
“Yes.”
Juliette looked mournful. “France has lost the war. The Germans have
outdone themselves, my country sinks into an abyss.”
Paul took her hands to reassure her. “Don’t worry, dear girl, Britain
will stand by her ally; Mr Hitler’s got to be kidding if he thinks we’ll roll
over.” Despite his brief knowing of her, Metcalfe used a term that chaps of his
generation used as a term of friendliness.
“This is our country!” Juliette said emotionally snatching her hands
back. “You do not care for it!”
“Care?” Metcalfe shot back. “My squadron’s been in this country since
November; we’ve seen all kinds of weather and put up with locals. We’ve got on
well with said locals after a month; in fact my CO married a local. Then came
the invasion, she was killed in a refugee column as we retreated and my CO was
killed by a wandering Messerschmitt. We cared for it enough to die here. We
cared enough to bury our friends in French soil.”
He trailed off and stood. “My apologies, but I have to go.”
He walked off into the woods leaving her being watched by the others.
After a while, the Frenchwoman shrugged to herself and sat back against a tree.
It was not her problem, after all the British had chosen to come here and fight.
In the morning Sergeant Pilot Patrick Donaghue stepped over the dead
campfire and walked away from the campsite and Spitfires. He walked some yards
down the dirt road that led past the house and the woods before finding a big
enough tree.
Donaghue had joined at the war’s outbreak,
his past was secretive and something he chose to keep to himself.
Donaghue was relieving himself
when he heard a trundling sound.
Leaning to his left he could see nothing until a grey tank came into
view and on its side was an Iron Cross.
“Saints above!” he cursed and did his trousers up, he ran back and
kicked the sleeping Metcalfe propped against the left wheel support of his
Spitfire. The Englishman woke with a growl. “What?”
“Jerries, down the road.”
Metcalfe crawled out from under the Spit and stood. “I don’t hear
anything.”
But he saw the tank, now stopped about three hundred yards away, he
could also see helmets.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Wake up people!”
Metcalfe and the Irishman
began to rouse the others from their sleep and although dozy with lack of sleep,
the squadron pilots packed their belongings quickly at seeing the Germans.
Paul looked back at the cottage on the edge of the woods and regretted
blazing at Juliette, but he could not say sorry now. As he reached for his
canopy, there came a shout.
“Die Engländer!”
Paul forgot about the canopy and started the engine, with a cough and
splutter of glycol the Merlin engine roared beautifully to life. At this point,
a rattle of machine gun fire came followed by a whoosh. The whoosh became a
violent explosion as a shell erupted beyond the Spitfires.
“This is Scarlet, let’s go chaps.”
Metcalfe slammed the throttle to full –this was inadvisable as the Spit
could go onto its nose- and drove the Spitfire forwards. Around him the squadron
also moved forward, the Spitfires bouncing on their narrow undercarriage as
German weapons fire chewed up the scenery.
The Spitfires were shortly airborne and with a defiant rising of
undercarriage, winged westwards.
For a smoking town called Dunkirk.
Chapter Two
“Southern
England, July 1940”
Flight Leader Adam Svenson frowned as he drove the MG sports car along
the quiet country lane, trees and hedgerows everywhere. It was pre-dawn and the
air was heavy with heat.
The blond American jerked the gear stick and with a grunt the car
accelerated, the person next to him shouted something incoherent and knocked
Adam’s left arm with his right arm.
“I said, you almost clipped the hedge!” shouted Donaghue in his ear.
“You crazy drunk Irishman,” grunted Adam.
“You’re not exactly a shining example,” quipped Edward Wilkie from
behind Adam. The Australian was rather more sober than Patrick.
“Wink, what do you mean?”
Wink grabbed the side of the MG as it tore around a curve. “Last night,
in the Savoy… What’s that line you used on that WAAF?” the Australian pretended to search his
memory. “Oh yes. ‘I was wondering
if you would go out with me sometime, let me come in to land with wheels down.’
That was it.”
“Well,” Adam sniffed, “I’m not a miracle worker.”
“Quite.”
Adam narrowed his eyes, remembering the return to England.
At Dunkirk, the squadron had –albeit reluctantly - ditched their Spits
and set them ablaze, hence they spent two days enduring day and night
Luftwaffe
raids and the curses of the Army men. They got onboard one of the last
little boats with a group of sour French soldiers, keen to insult the British
pilots for apparently being invisible in the skies, thus allowing the
Luftwaffe
to bomb the beaches into submission and attack refugee columns.
The seeming humiliation of the Spectrum chaps – Spectrum being their new
squadron name – continued as they lost some of their men to other squadrons and
lost one pilot to a Me109 whilst landing at Hawkinge in Kent.
The squadron was solidified under their name and with new pilots, a
Frenchman and Americans to boost their number to squadron worth.
Edward ‘Wink’ Wilkie, Royal Australian Air Force, watched the back of
Adam’s head, the American liked the company of his men and was able to mix it
with the women but there were times when he was silent –as if brooding on what
happened in France.
Wilkie though, was one of the quietists along with Conrad Turner in the
squadron.
Wilkie left his native Australia in 1938 having completed his training
as a doctor in Sydney. The dashing Aussie moved into a Baker Street apartment in
London to start his tenure at Guy’s Hospital in East London by London Bridge.
It was in October 1939 that he was brought to Stoke Mandeville, an
hour’s train journey from London, to treat a RAF pilot suffering mild burns. The
pilot’s story of how he had wandered across the French-German border at
Alsace-Lorraine and been horrendously downed, made Wilkie want to do something.
So the Australian joined the RAF, with no training, and joined the men
in France. He was one of the few Spectrums’ in the squadron since the war
started in November 1939.
“Watch out, road diversion,” warned Adam reaching for the handbrake.
Ahead was a herd of cows.
Donaghue swore.
“You can’t be serious!”
The MG swerved off the road onto the grass verge to avoid a collision.
Wet mud spewed from under the rear wheels and the MG returned onto the road and
came to a stop, facing the cows and the way the pilots had just come.
“Smashing piece of manoeuvring,” Donaghue said. “Now do it in a Spitfire
and I’ll give you a Distinguished Service Order.”
Donaghue then leant over the side of the car and vomited.
Adam chuckled. “Stupid Irishman, shove the DSO in that muck when you’re
done.”
Wilkie patted Donaghue’s heaving back. “How far now to the field, Adam?”
“Two miles.”
Svenson reversed and resumed the journey. As they drove, they passed a pub with a small forecourt
called The Fighter’s Way. This was Spectrum Squadron’s billet, as they
had no rooms on the airfield.
“Not stopping?” Wilkie asked as Donaghue recovered.
“No, we’re going to be late.”
Half a mile down the road, Adam turned through a farm gate and then onto
the airfield. To the left in the country field was a brick walled hut that could
house up to thirty people. Although it had no beds, the hut had an office for
the squadron’s adjutant and intelligence office. At present, Spectrum Squadron
had neither an adjutant nor intelligence officer.
To the right of the hut –nicknamed Cloudbase- was a makeshift bike rank;
in this war, fuel was precious. With Germany bombing –albeit uselessly –
the Channel convoys, you had to get the supplies when you could.
A few feet along, in the shelter of some pine trees was another smaller
hut. This was the ground crew’s hut.
Each aircraft had three ground crew –also known as Erks – that dealt with it when it was grounded.
Each group reported to a Senior Aircraftman. To the right of the gate and in a
loose row were the squadron’s aircraft.
Brand new Supermarine Spitfire Mark I’s. Powered by a Rolls Royce Merlin
engine, top speed of 448 mph –450 in a pinch- a cruising speed of 362mph and
shaped gracefully.
To fly a Spitfire was to fly heaven. Although they had flown Spits in
France, this was different.
When they came a week ago, the squadron placed lots on who would get
which of the craft.
Each Spit was identifiable by three letters, one before the roundel and
two after.
Paul’s Spit was personalised as squadron leader, his was therefore PM.
Adam’s was A-SP; the last Spit was L-SP.
Adam stopped the MG with a lurch that made Patrick grab his mouth; the
American leapt out of the car with a flourish.
Paul Metcalfe strode from the hut wearing his officer’s cap and snapped,
“What time do you call this?”
Patrick –still in the car – checked his watch with an unsure manner. He
was hung over. “Don’t know.”
“It’s 0900. You were meant to be back by 2400.”
“No need to get ticked,” Adam said coolly. “We lost track of time.”
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Paul said and turned on his heel.
Conrad Turner appeared from next to the doorway. “Sorry, Adam, Paul’s
been on the phone since 0700. Fighter Command.”
“Why Fighter Command?” asked Edward Wilkie.
The dark-haired Conrad shrugged. “Something’s on.”
It was.
As Adam and his friends mulled over the change in Paul, across the
Channel, squadrons of Junkers Ju87 Stuka dive bombers took off for their
targets.
But the game plan had changed; the Germans were upping the ante.
“Caen, Northern France”
Adolf Hitler, the man who now controlled the destiny of millions, swept
a pale white hand over the map that lay on the table in his private room on his
personal train Germania.
“The RAF must be smashed, once gone then we can invade.”
His twinkling blue eyes, blazing with victories past, found the man who
would bring about a new victory.
Reichmarshall
Hermann Goring was the obese head of
the Luftwaffe, a stalwart of the Nazi Party since before the days of the
Munich Putsch. He was a holder of the prestigious Pour le Merite
medal, received when serving in the famous Red Baron’s squadron. He then
achieved command of the Von Richtofen squadron.
Goring wielded a field marshal’s baton, the top unscrewed to release his
drugs. He was despised by many of the Army generals –including Chief of Staff
Franz Halder – but if the Fuhrer knew of his habits, he kept silent.
Goring smiled broadly from beneath his white cap. “Mein Fuhrer, I
shall crush the RAF.”
Behind him, Grossadmiral Erich Raeder the Naval
Commander-In-Chief, rolled his eyes at the prospect of Goring personally
flattening the RAF.
“No raids on London without my permission,” Hitler said wiping that
rogue forelock back.
“Mein Fuhrer,” began Raeder stepping forward. “The navy does not
have the vessels necessary but we are converting barges. I am however, without
the Scharnhorst.”
The Scharnhorst was the mighty battlecruiser damaged recently in
an engagement in which she sank the aircraft carrier HMS Glorious.
“The invasion will most likely be in the first week of September,”
Hitler said. “Is that time enough?”
Raeder glanced at Goring. “It will do if the Luftwaffe can do
their job.”
Hitler clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Now let’s have dinner.”
“Spectrum Squadron’s airfield,
near Portsmouth”
Deckchairs dotted the outside of the hut.
Two Erks had finished placing the bell that would ring when the scramble
was called. Chalked on it was the legend.
Ring the bell and run like hell!
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe sat in his small office and stared at the
phone on his wooden desk. Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory had been phoning
to make administrative changes concerning the squadron. As yet, the squadron was
not officially an active RAF squadron.
Paul had been born in Winchester not far from where they were based now.
His father was an Army general who had fought in World War One and had been
present during the Irish Crisis. His father had expected young Paul –who had
demonstrated his knowledge of warfare at a young age – to follow him into the
Army. However, Paul had become enraptured with stories of the Royal Flying Corps
in the Great War and
Paul’s training was abrupt to say the least, training in old biplanes
before making it into the RAF in 1936. He joined a Hurricane squadron a year
later and was still there on the eve of war. Yet, he switched to Spectrum as a
flight commander and it was with Spectrum Squadron in December 1939 on a
winter’s day near the French-German border he earned the nickname of
‘Indestructible’.
On patrol in his faithful Spitfire he ran into a snowstorm and found his
Spit heavy with hardening snow. Plunging through German lines caked in snow like
an avenging angel, Paul found himself under fierce anti-aircraft fire.
The Ack-Ack shook most of his burden and enabled him to return into
friendly territory; this done he concentrated on fighting the remainder of the
snow. Paul crashed through trees and smashed down onto his airfield with bent
wings. The craft burst into flames, the engine ruptured and appeared to be
shortly extinguished by the cold snow.
Erks shivering under their coats could only watch in horror as flames
engulfed the cockpit, then to their shock, Paul emerged and jumped clear walking
towards them. He was unscathed and dusted his battledress murmuring, “That was a
close rum do.”
In the coming weeks, Paul would see if he would really was
indestructible.
The phone rang, making Paul jump.
“Spectrum Squadron.”
“This is Banjo here.” Banjo was the plot room at Fratton near
Portsmouth that controlled Spectrum as well as three other squadrons in the
area. “German aircraft are bombing radar stations across the south, scramble
and head for Ventnor.”
Paul looked at the receiver. “Say again?”
“This is your squadron scramble.”
Paul dropped the receiver and swore, “Now it would have to be.”
He walked outside into the sunshine.
Patrick – still a little drunk but looking better – was playing chess
against the quiet Bradley Holden, a new American into the squadron. Wasn’t
everyone quiet at the moment thought Paul with a frown. But then he prepared to
shout, this would shake them up.
“SQUADRON SCRAMBLE!”
No one reacted; it was a well known phrase. Paul reached for the bell
–on its marked surface was a scrawled note that read in chalk Don’t Tell
–Ring like hell!- and began to ring it violently.
Adam leapt to his feet and shouted, “Come on!”
It was Adam running for his Spitfire that got the others kicking over
chairs and chessboards and running for their Spitfires. Erks made last minute
checks after starting the engines. As Paul vaulted onto his starboard wing and
into the cockpit, his chief Erk helped him strap in. Once done, the Erk tapped
the canopy.
“Get one for us, sir.”
“Thanks Eddie, I will.”
Paul reached for the canopy and pulled it forward; he left a finger wide
gap so that if he had to bail, he could open it and not face the pilot’s
nightmare of a stuck canopy. This done, he applied throttle and the Spitfire
moved forward. All around him, the
Spectrum Spitfires were racing for the end of the field where they had to clear
a three-foot high thorn hedge.
Paul gritted his teeth and slammed the throttle to full, the Spitfire’s
tail lifted and then he was airborne. The squadron flew in a formation of three
flights consisting of four Spitfires.
“Spectrum Squadron airborne, Banjo.”
“Acknowledged lead, head course zero-four-zero. Trade is still over
Ventnor.”
Paul Metcalfe stared into the blue skies and smiled. “Roger.” Then to his squadron: “Scarlet to all,
steer 040.”
They flew south for about ten minutes at maximum speed and then,
floating like a cloud on the horizon, was the Isle of Wight separated from the
mainland by the Solent.
Above the small island were a dozen black dots; below them were palls of
smoke.
“Trade spotted, engage at will and watch for fighters. Acknowledge all
flights.”
“Blue acknowledges.” That was Adam.
“Magenta acknowledges.” That was a sombre Patrick.
“Fawn acknowledges.” Good old Winky.
Like foxes in a hen house, the Spitfires charged into the flock of
Stukas guns blazing. Paul squinted and fired at one, he shot past the Stuka
missing and bringing his charges –Green, Grey and Ochre – around. He searched
for more.
“Stay with me, chaps.”
“Bandits Angels Twenty coming down now!” shouted Trinidadian Seymour
Griffith – Green.
Scarlet looked to twenty thousand feet and saw yellow nosed
Messerschmitt Me109 fighters diving.
“Hell’s teeth, all fighters beware. Yellow nosed bastards!”
The Me109’s came down firing their Hispano cannons. One Spitfire
exploded straightaway and another was wounded.
The wounded Spit was Edward ‘Winky’ Wilkie. The Australian tried rolling
but his Spit was sluggish, presumably they had hit his elevator controls. Glycol
poured from his engine and he dove for freer air. His brown eyes searched for
the enemy, a cocky Me109 dove over him and Wilkie stomped on the brakes. His
Spitfire appeared to hover, this allowed the 109 to move forward.
Wilkie’s fingers stabbed the red button central of his yoke.
The 109 exploded under sustained fire.
Wilkie rolled to avoid a 109 coming in on the kill and fired, but he
missed. Before him two Spitfires were trying to follow a Stuka. The radio was
alive with frantic chatter.
“Scarlet, this is Banjo, more bandits coming your way.”
“Thanks, Banjo.”
“They’re heading your way.”
“Banjo, you’re not helping!”
“Blue to Amber, watch out!”
“Can’t see him!”
A Spitfire raced past Wilkie and caught fire; it then exploded
spectacularly and Wilkie choked back tears. So far the Spectrums were down by
two and judging from the chaotic patterns of the survivors, the Germans were
winning.
Wilkie destroyed a Stuka in a passing shot and joined another Spit.
“Fawn,” he chirped.
“Scarlet, good to see you, Winky.”
Of course, now Wilkie spotted the PM on the side of the aircraft. “Come
on, Doc, let’s clear this field.”
They winged into the battle.
The two mugs hanging on the hut’s side above the wooden counter marked
AMBER and INDIGO were the only mugs not in use. The pilots of Spectrum Squadron
sat around the hut on the armchairs. Nobody had spoken since landing an hour
ago. Outside the Erks rearmed and refuelled the Spitfires.
“They just slaughtered us and we were like headless bloody chickens,”
spat out Metcalfe.
“Our tactics were like they were in France,” said Blue leaning forward
in his seat. “In Finland, we went at the Russkies like a herd of buffalo.”
“So you’re suggesting buffalo tactics?” asked Bradley Holden of his
fellow countryman.
“Not literally, Brad, but we should be free in the air. I’m dragging two
wingmen about and they’re having to watch my tail and theirs. I lost Mike today.”
Wilkie nodded sombrely, he had seen Mike- call sign Amber - die.
“We can’t not have wingmen,” Metcalfe said.
“We have them - but not too close, and in a dogfight we fight for our
own.”
“It was our first dogfight, we still have time to learn,” put forth
young Richard Fraser.
“We might die in the next dogfight,” snapped Adam.
Silence fell and then the phone rang, Metcalfe reached wearily from his
chair to the phone on the table by him.
“Spectrum Squadron… What, are you mad? We’ve just come down.”
He slammed the phone and stood spilling his tea. “We’ve got to scramble,
heavy bombers.”
“Hell,” swore Adam dropping his mug and running.
“Don’t just stand there!” Metcalfe yelled at the others. “We’ll go in
what we’ve got!”
The Erks quickly hurried their job, praying that the belt of ammo
wouldn’t jam and then leaping off, running for cover.
Half an hour later, Spectrum fought their second fight of the Battle of
Britain.
Chapter Three
“Banjo, Portsea, July 30”
Group Commander Charles Gray DSO AFC RAF the local air commander with
three squadrons under his watch, cleaned his glasses as he watched the plot
board empty following a third raid in a day.
Charles Gray wished that he could join the pilots of the Hurricanes and
Spitfires, as well as the Battles and fight the Germans in the air. At the age
of twenty in 1916 he switched from the infantry after being wounded at the
Somme, to the new Royal Flying Corps.
In the last two years of the war and in those days of experimental air
warfare, Gray was awarded firstly the Distinguished Service Order and then the
Air Flying Cross. When the RFC became the RAF, Gray was bounced out of aircraft
and onto a desk.
A stickler for discipline, Gray commanded three squadrons in the area
and directed them into battle under the call sign Banjo.
Gray’s snow-white hair belied the youthful vigour he sometimes displayed
off duty when playing cricket in inter-force games.
“Sir, all squadrons have now landed,” reported a young red-haired woman
at the board. Her headphones firmly on her head and hands clasping the stick
that moved the plots about.
Gray nodded. “Thank you, Corporal Simms, you and your ladies may have a
break now.”
Corporal Dianne Simms of the Women’s Royal Air Force –known as WAAFs-
slid her headphones off her head. “Okay girls, tea break.”
Corporal Karen Wainwright drawled quietly in her American accent, “Tough
day.”
“I’ll bloody say,” agreed Dianne. “Three major raids, I only hope our
boys can cope.”
In the balcony area where the telephones were used for the squadrons,
Gray tapped his pencil against the nearest one marked 11 Group, the area
covering London and the southeast.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Gray turned in his seat; standing in the doorway was a youthful man
wearing RAF battledress with the ribbon of a Distinguished Flying Cross. A black
glove covered his right hand.
“Are you Group Commander Gray?”
“The same,” Gray shook the man’s proffered left hand. “Squadron Leader
Troy Tempest, isn’t it?”
The dark haired man with bright blue eyes took a seat. “The same, sir.”
“You’re Spectrum Squadron’s adjutant. I’ll get down to the bones of it.
They’ve been in the frontline for two weeks now, fighting two raids a day. Your
job is to be their adjutant but also a confidant; some of these chaps need a
friend besides their fellow pilots. Is that okay?”
“Sir,” Tempest answered knowing as well as Gray that he had no choice.
Gray smiled. “Excellent. They’re a good bunch. The best of my three.
Their CO, by the way, is Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe.”
Tempest stood. “Thanks, sir.”
“Good luck.”
Tempest walked out of the control room housed in an old shop and stepped
into the blue RAF Ford waiting outside.
“Where to, sir?” said the corporal at the wheel.
“Spectrum Squadron.”
Fortunately, the corporal knew where that was and drove off northwards.
None of the Spectrum Squadron pilots wanted to go to the pub tonight,
despite the prospect of meeting the WAAFs and relaxing with a beer. They all sat indoors, in the various
armchairs and sofas, worn out from another scramble.
Metcalfe watched a fly whiz inside and climb up the poster of Churchill
declaring Let’s Go Forward Together. As he watched it, a pale white hand
smacked it.
“Sorry, Winnie,” murmured Conrad Turner wiping his hand.
Richard Fraser was rocking back and forth in his chair, a gentle rhythm
noticeable to anyone sitting by him. In this case, it was Patrick Donaghue.
Fraser had cheated death twice this day; his exhaustion from daily
scrambles had nearly killed him. Twice falling from formation and almost falling
foul of German fighters.
Richard Fraser was nicknamed Red despite his Ochre callsign by his
squadron mates. Nobody was perfect.
Born to a policeman father in Detroit, Fraser had hated the fact he
could not achieve much at school. Yet he loved flying and started at a young age
without his father knowing.
He listened and read reports from the Spanish Civil War with rapt
interest. The Germans and Italians displaying awesome air power against a weaker
opponent.
The outbreak of the European War –as it was known in America- made
twenty year old Fraser yearn to fight. Using his savings, he went to England. He
entered the RAF on June 7, 1940.
Fraser was thrust into Spectrum Squadron with fellow American Bradley
Holden –call sign Grey- the two had struck a strong friendship in their training
together. But Fraser was faltering, he knew that much and feared he was cracking
up.
“Why don’t they come?” muttered Adam Svenson seated by Metcalfe.
“Who?”
“The Germans, we’ve been up everyday and they’re bombing the country to
bits. Will the Germans come?”
“Relax, they’ll come and, when they do, we’ll be ready.”
“Visitor, Paul,” said Wilkie from his post by the door.
“Hello, I’m Troy Tempest, your new adjutant,” the young man said as he
stepped into the hut.
The standing Commanding Officer extended his hand. “Squadron Leader Paul
Metcalfe.”
Tempest shook with the left, it was an awkward shake and Metcalfe
frowned. “Something wrong with the right?”
Tempest dumped his air raid helmet bag by the wooden counter on which
sat the squadron mugs. He turned to face Metcalfe, the other pilots watched,
including Fraser although he held his left hand to stop it from shaking.
Tempest held up the gloved right hand. “I burnt it in France.”
“Damn silly thing to do,” remarked Donaghue.
Tempest blinked, an audacious thing to say considering the seriousness
of it all. Had these men really been flying for as long as Gray said?
“No, I crashed my Hurricane and it caught fire. My whole right arm is
burnt.”
He took off his glove and showed his hand. The hand was a normal shape
and had the correct number of digits but the skin was a rosy pink and almost
bubbly. At the wrist it was skewered and marred by a dark red line like a cut.
Metcalfe winced and answered softly. “I’m sorry, adj.”
Troy tugged on his glove and nodded gently; he breathed lightly. “Its
okay, CO, nothing I’m not used to.”
“Welcome aboard Spectrum.” Adam Svenson patted Troy’s back.
Outside the sun began to set.
The next day Troy went about making a desk for himself. He found a table
behind the hut covered in wet patches and mould and took it inside with the aid
of ‘Winky’. The dark-haired Australian was wasting no time in striking a rapport
with Troy. Wilkie’s experience with
burned pilots helped.
Troy cleaned the table up and placed it in the corner by the door, the
telephone was moved to his table and then he put out paper and pencils. He was
still getting used to not climbing into a cockpit, but counted himself lucky for
still wearing the light blue of the RAF.
Wilkie checked the wall clock by the pin up picture of the Daily
Mirror’s cartoon gal, Jane.
0730.
Daylight for a couple of hours now.
Outside, the Erks swarmed over the Spitfires, feeding belts of Browning
ammunition into the wing guns whilst other cleaned the canopies. The pilots
talked to their Erks occasionally and this morning they all, except Wilkie and
Paul, got a report.
“The bloody propellers feather when I come into land, Smith,” complained
Donaghue tapping the propeller of his Spitfire.
The mechanic who had been a Petty Officer during the Great War, nodded
in understanding. “I’ve looked, sir, but there’s nothing wrong that I can see.”
The Dubliner spun the propeller. “Maybe I’m imagining it.”
Red Fraser sat in his cockpit with Bradley Holden on the left wing, his
foot perched on the cockpit frame.
“You’ll be fine, Red, just remember. We’re the one with roundels,
they’ve got crosses.”
“Thanks, Hol, I’ll remember.”
At 0745 the engines were started, as they were this time every morning.
This enabled the aircraft to get off quicker.
In the doorway of Cloudbase, Paul checked his watch and coughed.
“Anything, Adj?”
“No, Skipper.”
Metcalfe grinned, facing Troy. “We’re relaxed around here, Troy, Paul
will do.”
“Right,” Troy answered and stared at the phone.
“Troy Tempest, interesting name,” remarked Paul turning back to face the
field.
“My parents were Shakespearian actors.”
Metcalfe watched a sparrow fly over the Spitfires and land on the pole
holding the windsock. The sock itself was limp the sparrow began tweeting.
Metcalfe was transfixed and at first didn’t hear the jingle of the telephone.
“Squadron scramble!”
Fraser was first to move having been seated, Bradley Holden leaping from
the wing of Red’s Spit before the younger American could start his engine.
Erks scrambled for their hut as the Spitfires turned on their aft wheels
towards the open field.
Conrad Turner gripped his yoke with sweaty hands; with the canopy closed
and the air warm it was bound to get hot inside. He wore his yellow Mae West
lifejacket over the blue RAF shirt. He was risking a fine for not wearing his
battledress.
Conrad had been born Konrad Turnernski in Prague, the Czech capital. His
father had been an Army Major and his mother an English language teacher at a
local school. His mother taught Konrad English for future use, and Konrad felt
he would need it as the Germans gathered on the border in 1937.
Conrad and his parents fled Czechoslovakia a week before the Germans
came over the border to ‘liberate’ German-speaking Czechs and bring them back
into the fold of der Vaterland. A perilous journey through Austria –now
absorbed into Germany- and into France began following that. The need to escape
Prague, because his father had
openly complained against the Czech supporters of the Nazi party – mostly German
speakers from the Sudetenland.
The Turnernski’s settled in Manchester in England’s north changing their
name to Turner. Konrad became Conrad and then aged twenty-three, applied to join
the RAF to hopefully liberate his people.
He spoke English almost as well as any Englishman but with a gentle
accent that sounded to many a cross between Russian and German. He entered the
RAF in 1939 during the invasion of Poland and was transferred into Spectrum
Squadron in October before the November transit to France.
Conrad fixed his
gaze on Patrick’s Spitfire and settled into formation. The sky was as blue as
the Atlantic and cloudless. This was not good. Firstly, the Spitfires would be
seen from a distance by the Germans and secondly, there were no clouds to hide
behind to pounce on unsuspecting bombers.
A few miles away in Banjo’s control room, cigarette smoke drifting
lazily near the ceiling. Group Commander Gray spoke into the black telephone.
His voice was carried direct to Paul Metcalfe’s Spitfire as it raced across the
Hampshire countryside.
“Banjo to Scarlet, trade building southwest towards Southampton. Steer
zero-nine-zero, your signal is Buster.”
Buster was the call sign for ‘get there as quick as you can’. Trade
being the name for German bombers.
Paul relayed instructions to his men and soon they were racing for the
bombers. At this time, Gray directed the other two squadrons under his command
to the trade. The Observer Corps at Cowes on the Western Isle of Wight–
replacing radar in the south for now – reported one hundred bombers with twenty
fighters.
The Germans had for the last two weeks of July bombed airfields in the
south of England. Occasionally, they bombed radar stations just back on their
feet, control centres and even docks such as Folkestone, Dover and Portsmouth.
Southampton did not really surprise Gray or even Paul commanding
Spectrum Squadron.
The Spectrums neared Southampton from Portsmouth way, the bombers
–Heinkel He111’s – were coming in from the Solent. This suggested that they had
come from the British Channel Island of Guernsey, occupied for a few weeks.
Paul’s radio crackled. “Scarlet this is Pine, on your starboard wing.”
Metcalfe glanced to his right and sighted a squadron of Hurricanes. The
Hawker Hurricane nickname the Hurri, was the Spits rival and running mate in the
Battle of Britain. It was slightly slower than a Spitfire but had proved itself
in France and the Battle of Britain so far.
“Roger, Pine. Spectrum, friends to starboard.”
“Scarlet this is Shadow, we’re below.”
Paul knew without looking that Shadow Squadron were like Pine Squadron,
a squadron of Hurricanes.
The German bombers were drawing nearer, moving quickly. No sign of
escorting fighters, but like a sheepdog escorting its flock, they were there.
“Pines and Shadows take the bombers, Spectrums we take the fighters.
Climb to thirty thousand and lookout.”
The two Hurricane squadrons sped ahead and engaged the bombers in small
formations. The pattern of Hurris attacking bombers and Spits fighters had
already been practised.
In a curving formation, Spectrum climbed into the cloudless sky. Paul
was struck by a poem he discovered when at school in Winchester.
A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds.
Yeats’ An Irish Airman Forsees his Death.
No times for Yeats. Paul scanned the sky as they reached 30,000 feet.
“There, Scarlet!” came Red Fraser’s voice. “Beyond the bombers!”
A mist of thirty Messerschmitt Me109E fighters were hanging a little
while back beyond the formation of He111’s besieged by the Hurricanes.
“Scarlet to Blue, what do you think?”
The American hanging to Scarlet’s rear was
“Scarlet to all, tally ho. Tally ho.”
The Spits were outnumbered thirty to ten; those were odds that Metcalfe
could deal with.
In a single line, the Spitfires raced into the sky further and then
peeled off one by one. They spread out and attacked the German fighters; two
109’s were hit and leaking the smoky glycol, pulled away to head home.
Tradition dictated that One Oh Nine’s rarely hung around long; they were
hit and runners.
However, the fact they outnumbered the Spitfires was too tempting for
the Germans.
Patrick Donaghue grinned like the Cheshire Cat as he led Conrad and
Bradley into the dogfight. It was as if somebody had hit a wasps nest and now
the wasps were swarming. It seemed apt that the Germans called their formation a
Schwarm.
Yet there appeared to be two Germans for every Spit and even as Patrick
joined the melee head on, Conrad hit his intercom.
“Black to Magenta, one on my tail! Can’t shake him!”
Donaghue jerked his head around, the radio cables snagging on his nose.
He swore. The cables were everywhere and he couldn’t concentrate on the flying.
His left hand grabbed the yoke whilst all the while Turner was yelling.
Donaghue wrestled with his cables and banked his aircraft.
The horizon span around and he cursed again. With a snarl, he wrenched
the radio headphones off and then realised they were snagged also on the yoke.
Tracer fire ripped through the belly of the spinning Spitfire and into
the cockpit. Blood and cartilage showered the inside of the cockpit. Donaghue
stared in morbid fascination at his stump of legs before the Spitfire exploded
violently.
It all took five seconds.
The Hurricanes and German bombers were further away now but the fighter
dogfight continued over the silent Solent.
Metcalfe had given up shouting warnings, for it was every man for
himself and it was bloody.
Flicking his yoke this way and that, Metcalfe hammered his trigger
whenever he sighted crosses but more often than not they were gone quickly. He
chased one low to the Solent and clipped his tail; the Me109 staggered before
pinwheeling into the Solent.
Exuberant, Metcalfe pulled up and looked around.
There were no fighters of any kind and no bombers.
Metcalfe had suffered the classic case of the fight leaving him behind.
His fuel gauge low, Paul
Metcalfe nudged his Spitfire home. It took half an hour for him to get there,
hugging land; he was finding it hard to control his Spit. Eventually he sighted
that familiar field and saw Spitfires taxiing to the runway’s edge.
Leaving his flaps down – you were fined for landing with them up
–Metcalfe guided in. The engine coughed throatily, puffs of smoke trailed aft
from it and then came the gentle double thud of his wheels making contact.
Carefully, Metcalfe threaded the throttle – many pilots stopped so suddenly the aircraft went A over T.
He came to a stop and swung his
craft around so that he was facing the runway.
Metcalfe pushed the canopy back and wiped his face. Climbing out, he
jumped off and dusted himself down, he noticed that the others were gathered
around Troy at Cloudbase’s door.
“What’s wrong, Troy?” asked Metcalfe.
Red Fraser answered. “Patrick’s not back.”
“Flipping Irishman,” murmured Metcalfe and ran a hand through his sweaty
black hair. “Maybe he landed elsewhere.”
“Brad has,” Adam said. “But Patrick’s not been sighted.”
“I saw a flash during the dogfight,” Conrad Turner said.
His face was pale. “I had been alerting Patrick to a fighter.”
“It must be considered that he bought it and if that’s the case, we’re
now down to nine pilots.”
Metcalfe walked into Cloudbase; the seven pilots scattered, leaving Troy
to turn back into the hut.
“Tea, Paul?”
“Thanks Troy, you wouldn’t mind getting me Banjo, would you?”
“Sure.”
Metcalfe sat down in an armchair as Troy made the tea and began to
shake.
Chapter Four
“Cabinet War Room, Central
London”
Air Vice Marshal Keith Park commander 11 Group, tugged at his tie once
more and ignored the cigar smoke wafting across the room. Beside him sat Fighter
Command’s commander, Hugh ‘Stuffy’ Dowding.
Dowding was a tall quiet man with a neatly trimmed brown moustache; he
was called Stuffy for his refined manner and curtness. Even to the Prime
Minister, he could be as such, in May demanding more or less in a letter that
Fighter Command sends no more fighters to France.
Across from them, was a man whom history had deemed correct for this
situation. This hour of destiny.
Winston Churchill read Fighter Command’s latest assessment of the Battle
with little emotion, the cigar firmly in his teeth’s grip. Occasionally, the
puffs grew denser and then finally, he laid the foolscap sheet down on the
wooden table.
The CWR was beneath official Whitehall buildings, protected from any
German raids that might come. This was Churchill’s preferred domain; he did not
like Downing Street as much for it was a depressing place to be.
“These reports are accurate?” he asked.
“They are, Prime Minister,” Dowding replied.
Churchill removed the cigar with two fingers and held it before him.
“The raids are increasing, this suggests that they want us finished.”
“Our fighters are demoralised sir, some are even cracking,” Dowding put
forth.
“Demoralised?” Churchill glowered. “They cannot be, we’re holding our
own.”
“Sir,” Park interrupted. “I have here in my briefcase letters from
squadron leaders. They request more replacements, both in terms of aircraft and
men. One pilot in Hampshire, I believe it’s a Squadron Leader Metcalfe says…”
Park trailed off as he reached into his briefcase. He produced the sheet of
paper and read from it. “I have lost three pilots in as many days. We’re down to
nine and that also goes for aircraft. If we don’t get any new aircraft or
pilots, our squadron will be defunct within the week.”
Park raised his eyes to Churchill. Park and Dowding had already talked
about this issue and had decided to put it to Churchill this afternoon.
Churchill met Park’s gaze. “Then we must dig into our reserves,
gentlemen, the Fleet Air Arm and our foreign volunteers.”
Dowding exhaled silently. Park refrained from smiling; he knew –as did
many – Dowding’s reservations about
the Czech and Polish volunteers. The French and Americans were one thing, but
the Czechs and Poles were their own people.
“They are being trained right now sir, I’ll hurry them along.”
“Be sure to do that, gentlemen. This has to be our finest hour or we do
indeed slip into a new dark age. Dismissed.”
Outside in the warm sunshine looking towards St James Park and
Buckingham Palace, Dowding and Park waited for their official staff car. “I’m
sorry sir, about jumping in like that.”
“No matter, Park, it had to be done.” Dowding cast a glance towards
Horse Guard Parade and smiled thinly. “I can only hope we do this, Park.”
“Yes sir,” Park answered and raised his eyes skywards.
They had to.
“Cherbourg, Northern France,
August 10”
The Cherbourg peninsula jutted into the English Channel like a thumb; to
its right was the curved shore of Normandy. But it was in Cherbourg Harbour that
the French Resistance member looked.
Her blonde hair whipped across her shoulders as the sea breeze
strengthened, the winds were strong enough to halt raids on England today and
this pleased her.
What didn’t was what lay in the harbour.
Dozens of barges that had in the past few weeks been converted for
landing troops; even the number of troops deployed to Northern France was
increasing.
The resistance member took discreet photos from the high ground and
walked back to the command post for her cell in a farmhouse ten miles from the
Normandy coastline not far from Caen.
The farm was a Norman building set against a deep set of trees and a
ramshackle barn house. She walked into the building and straight into the
kitchen; there a man greeted her and asked if she had the photos.
“Oui, it was rather simple.”
“The Boche know nothing.”
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Do not be so sure. Pierre,
they have began transferring Jews back to Germany.”
“That is not our business.”
“It is!” she said. “Blast it, they’re French!”
Pierre was busy dissembling the handbag she had been carrying and said
indifferently. “That might be so, but my main problem is with the invasion
fleet. If Britain falls then there is no hope for France, and then for the
Jews.”
Juliette Pontoin sighed. “Right.”
“Voila!” Pierre said joyously as he held the film up from inside
the handbag. “Get to our contact in London, tell them we need the photos
collecting. This will be too important for a Lysander.”
“Spectrum Airfield”
As the rain fell giving Spectrum a respite, Red Fraser, his hands dug
into his pockets, stood in the door of Cloudbase.
“Better look lively, there’s some brass coming. Might be important.”
Paul Metcalfe got up and looked out the door as a blue Rolls Royce with
RAF stencilled on its doors rolled in and stopped close to the door. Group
Commander Charles Gray stepped out; he nodded at Metcalfe.
“Can we talk, Squadron Leader?”
“In here, sir.”
Gray paused by the stencilled sign by the door –CLOUDBASE – and smiled
musingly. “Excellent.”
On seeing the Group Co, the men of Spectrum snapped to attention. He
looked to Metcalfe. “Tell your men to relax.”
They sat down as Metcalfe nodded; he gestured for Gray to sit at Troy’s
desk. The Group Co deposited his briefcase beside him and was able to ignore the
men, as they were concentrating on dozing or just staring into space.
“Something came up, Paul, and you’re required for duties for His
Majesty.”
“Interesting, sir. I’m all ears.”
Gray looked about. “Then please dismiss your men.”
Metcalfe stood and cleared his throat. “Clear off chaps, thanks
awfully.”
In a few seconds, the men emptied the hut.
Gray opened his briefcase and presented Metcalfe with a foolscap sheet
of paper headed TOP SECRET and a smaller stamp declaring ACTION THIS DAY.
The latter was the watchword of the Prime Minister; if the PM had this
stamped than it must be important.
“Read this, Paul.”
Metcalfe took the sheet as Gray produced a cigarette and lit it.
TOP SECRET
RAF FIGHTER COMMAND
BENTLEY PRIORY
11AUG40
ACTION THIS DAY
FOR THE ATTENTION OF GROUP
COMMANDER C. D. GRAY RAF
FROM: AVM K.
PARK RAF (CO 11 GROUP)
The French Resistance cells based near Caen covering the invasion port
at Cherbourg with links to Guernsey have photos of the port. These photos are
highly important to the war effort and the future of this country. Group
Commander, the return of these photos has been allocated to me from the War
Office. These photos must be brought back
to England, use your best man.
KEITH PARK
AIR VICE MARSHAL
Metcalfe dropped the sheet and it landed with a silent whoosh. Gray was
watching him through a haze of tobacco smoke that tinged with blueness clinging
to the air between them.
“Am I to assume I’m your best man, sir?”
Gray didn’t smile. “You have the nickname Indestructible.”
“Sir that’s not a standalone reason and besides that is a foolish
nickname because I flew home blind.”
“All the same, you’re the best out of the three squadron leaders. You’re
also a crack pilot; you handle a Spitfire like a ballerina.”
Metcalfe scoffed. “That is because the Spit deserves to be treated as
such, sir. I can’t discuss the finer points of the fighter. When do I go?”
“This evening, 2200.”
“What aircraft do I use, sir?”
“Your Spitfire should be fine for this, it’s the fastest thing we’ve
got. Damn faster than a Lysander and more damn faster than a Dak.”
Gray referred to the American-built transport aircraft, the two engine
C-47 Dakota the military version of the DC-3.
“I’m ready sir.”
“You have no choice in the matter, Paul. But good luck all the same.”
Chapter Five
“Evening of August 11, morning
August 12”
The weather abated in time for the evening, there would be no night
raids by the Germans.
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe breathed heavily into his radio mask as
the Supermarine Spitfire sped low across the English Channel. The speed dial
hung around four hundred as he pushed the Spit to its design limits. His cockpit
began to fill with the growing mainland mass of France – this area being the Normandy coastline.
Metcalfe was sceptical about this mission; one drawback was crossing the
coastline. Normandy might not be the most heavily defended area of the occupied
coast, but it was close to the Cherbourg peninsula that was important unto
itself. Cherbourg linked the mainland Reich to the occupied Channel
Islands, the English Channel and the Atlantic beyond.
It was growing dark quick and the Spitfire was following the night into
France. Paul throttled back and his plane practically glided over the beaches;
he followed a tree line and then country fields. His eyes narrowed, his
breathing becoming quicker.
Then there was the signal.
He saw the letter L formed by eight people holding red lanterns, in a
clearing in some trees near a farmhouse. Paul throttled even lower and came
around in a decreasing circle. He lowered the wheels, waiting until the board on
his panel flashed green before he landed. This time he brought his flaps up;
there were no one here to fine him.
The red lights were extinguished quickly and even quicker, as Metcalfe
stopped the engine, the eight people grabbed either wing –four apiece- and
guided the Spit towards the barn beside the farmhouse. Before entering, the
French swung the Spit around and backed it in. Metcalfe was a little
disorientated but climbed out after they went inside.
A tall handsome tousled-haired man met Metcalfe by the side of
Metcalfe’s Spitfire. “Bonjour, I am Pierre.”
Metcalfe nodded in acknowledgement. “Paul, RAF.”
“The photos are inside. Please, this way.”
Paul took off his goggles and cap, following Pierre and his comrades
into the farmhouse. It was cold now, crisp and almost wintry. It was also dark.
The French were wary of Paul and he of them. He wasn’t sure if they were
Bolsheviks and if they were, he would be on guard. He disliked Communists and
Fascists alike.
Inside it was bright, the light unseen from outside by thick blackout
curtains. Although the RAF had not returned to France since May, the French took
no chances.
As Paul grew accustomed to the brightness, a feminine voice began
speaking.
“Welcome to France Monsieur, my name is…” the voice petered out.
“Mon Dieu, Paul?”
Metcalfe sat down and rubbed his eyes. He found the source of the voice
and felt stunned; it had been a while and even if their encounter had been
brief, it had been memorable. For whatever reason.
“Juliette.”
Juliette Pontoin, the attractive Frenchwoman, sat down across the
rickety wooden table in the kitchen from Paul. Her blonde hair was long, across
the black sweater she wore. “It has been a long time.”
“Four months almost,” Paul Metcalfe smiled wearily. “I hate to be curt,
but I need to get the photos back to England.”
Juliette nodded quickly. “Of course, these photos show the invasion
barges.”
She handed Paul the photos; they were in a large brown envelope. Paul
didn’t look at them, he had a feeling the fleet was massing quicker than Britain
was expecting. He stood, the chair he had been on scratching nosily on the stone
floor.
“I wish this could have been longer.”
Juliette led him towards the door. “Me too.”
Suddenly the door was flung open. Pierre’s right hand man, a red-haired
Norman by the name of Julien ran in, a rifle slung in over his shoulder. “Les
Boches! They are at the perimeter of the farm, two motorbikes and a
half-track. They are not coming this way, but they might have heard the
Englishman come in.”
Julien had been speaking French and the look on Paul’s face prompted
Juliette to translate, she concluded, “We must hide you. Upstairs will be
ideal.”
“My Spit?”
It took her a few seconds to realise he meant his aircraft. “We are
camouflaging it. We must take our chances.”
Upstairs was warmer and Paul found it to his liking, but now was not the
time to be in that kind of mood. Paul noticed women’s clothing around the room
and looked at the Frenchwoman by his side.
“My room,” explained Juliette. “Just wait here.”
Juliette disappeared and Paul walked to the window. He parted the
curtains a little and looked out; in the gloom he could make out the helmets of
the Germans. The last time he was this close to the Germans had been the moment
he left Juliette the first time.
“Small world,” he murmured, sitting on the bed.
A little later, Metcalfe realised he must have fallen asleep, for
Juliette was shrugging him awake. He sat up on the bed with a sickly taste in
his mouth. Her breath was upon her face, her hands on his shoulders. “Paul, the
Germans have gone. Now you can go.”
“What time is it?”
“Five in the morning.”
“Christ, I’ve slept all bloody night. My Group Co might think me dead.”
Paul climbed off the bed and was handed some coffee by Juliette; he
drank it readily and relished the sweet taste. There was sometimes nothing like
ersatz coffee. He had loosened his battledress and followed her downstairs, the
sky was brightening but he had to go now.
They stepped into the pre-dawn air; Pierre and his men were pushing the
Spitfire out of the barn. Once it was out, they ran ahead to the clearing to
make sure there were no Germans around. Paul was buttoning his battledress.
Then he heard the crack of a twig.
Juliette started breathing hard.
And then, there was Pierre’s verbal challenge.
Metcalfe leapt and pushed Juliette to the ground as machine gun fire
raked the area. He landed atop her and spat out dust.
“Who left the door open?”
In the clearing a hundred yards before the Spitfire, Pierre and the
others were fighting hand to hand with German soldiers.
“Betrayed!” screamed Juliette as her comrades were killed.
Metcalfe stood up dragging her up with him; he held onto her hand and
made her look at him. There isn’t any time to waste. I’m getting you out of
here.”
“I won’t go,” she said defiantly.
“Your friends are being murdered, I know. It’s sad but unfortunately I
have not had time to bond with them and indeed, with you. But in England, you
can continue the fight.”
It was crazy, holding a debate in the middle of a fire fight. Bullets
streaked past and thudded into the barn door; Metcalfe snarled in anger.
“Juliette!”
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “I go.”
He herded her towards the Spit and helped her up; once she was in the
cockpit, he expertly slung himself in before her. Somehow they managed to get
in; fortunately the Spitfire’s cockpit was a little more spacious than a
Hurricane’s. Frantically, he tugged at the throttle and swore savagely.
“Come on, you stupid piece of scrap!”
Ahead, the Germans had finished off the Frenchmen and were firing at the
Spit. Metcalfe, sitting as intimately with Juliette as he was, raised an elbow.
“Sorry, old girl.”
He banged it down and the propeller began turning as the engine started
with a cough and splutter of glycol. The Spit bounced forward and Metcalfe
gunned the engine. He heard Juliette begin to cry and he felt a pang of
sympathy; the whole situation was unbelievable and he wondered why he had made
her come. Damn foolish.
Gradually, the Spit built up speed and its tail rose from the ground.
Without prompting, Paul brought the nose up and retracted the undercarriage.
“Jerry’ll have alerted the Luftwaffe, we’re going to go flat out until
Portsmouth.”
Defiantly, the Spit flicked its wings and sped off.
Charles Gray flicked ash into the nearby ashtray as he perched his right
foot against the balcony railing of the gallery in Banjo’s command room. The
radio was crackling with raids on Dover but none in this area. The boards for
Pine, Shadow and Spectrum squadrons were lit on WAITING. Gray impatiently tapped
his finger with the cigarette upon his upraised knee, his blue eyes watching the
plot board.
Dianne Simms and Karen Wainwright, with their charges, stood around the
empty table.
The radio squawked and Gray pricked his ears in attention and then joy
as a familiar voice came over.
“This is Squadron Leader Metcalfe with package, requesting
assistance. My fuel’s low and I’ve got four Me109’s on my tail.”
On cue, Simms used her stick to put five blocks on the table near the
Isle of Wight as she received information from Ventnor.
Gray picked up the telephone. “Get me Spectrum’s hut.”
There was a temporary problem.
The telephone line linking Banjo to Cloudbase was down following a car
crash near Fratton. The Spectrums were sitting on their chairs blissfully
unaware of the problem.
Adam Svenson slammed his chess piece down and swore. “Blast it,
Bradley!”
“Hey, not my fault you’re a novice.”
“Novice,” snorted Adam and made a disparaging comment on Bradley’s
mother. Bradley snickered.
Conrad was outside on the grass walking around the aircraft, his
battledress open the Mae West askew.
He paused by the
fuel dump at the hedgerow and cocked his head. A buzzing sound was growing
louder and when he looked, his mouth fell open in shock.
One Spitfire and four Me109’s were blazing in from across the horizon.
Without preamble, he began running for his Spitfire, adrenalin now in
command.
Adam and the others appeared at Cloudbase’s doorway, upon seeing the
commotion and then saw Conrad scrambling into his Spit.
“Conrad, no!” shouted Adam.
The lone Spit –undoubtedly Paul’s – had crash-landed in the cornfield
just beyond the border hedge and now Conrad jerked his Spitfire along. The
others’ attempts at joining Conrad were halted by the 109’s stitching cannon
fire across the airfield.
Conrad Turner took to the
sky, cursing the Germans for attacking his motherland and for capturing him
briefly in France and torturing him. That was one thing he kept secret, that and
how they tried press-ganging him into being a spy.
He clawed for altitude and in doing so, was sniffed out by a yellow
nosed one-oh-nine.
Conrad rolled the Spit onto its back.
As the Me came in, he missed Conrad and the latter was then able to out.
He fired a long burst of tracer fire at the Me109 that had just slewed past him.
His bullets chewed off the tailfin of the fighter and it was remarkable luck,
considering the fact that the Me109 had hung around long enough for him to do
so. The remaining three Me’s were
surrendering their option of attacking the Spectrums and came in a sweeping
triangle formation towards Conrad.
On the ground, safe and sound despite the emergency landing if it could
be called that. A landing is a landing. Metcalfe helped Juliette out. Her feet
planted squarely on the ground, she wiped her eyes and he glanced at her. “Sorry
about the intimate ride.”
He didn’t hear her answer as he saw a Me109 fall from the sky and crash
beyond the trees close to the Portsmouth road.
“Christ!” he swore and craned his neck to see a lone Spitfire dart
around the tree line.
Conrad hugged the cornfield and then raced into the sky, he began a loop
with two Me109’s still on his tail. The third was gone.
The loop completed, he rolled out and fired straight into the second
Me109 that hadn’t managed the loop. The cockpit splashed red and the blue and
grey aircraft plunged downwards. Conrad shook his tail as the last Me settled
after him. He cursed savagely in Czech as bullets thudded past him and some
stitched his right wing. He then cut the engine and watched the German hurtle
past. Quickly restarting, he fired
and smiled with satisfaction with as flecks of pain flew off the 109.
The Me109 then turned and made
for France.
When Conrad leapt from his Spitfire, Adam Svenson greeted him; the tall
blonde American slapped him on the back.
“You bastard! That was great, a bloody DFC I should think!”
“Excellent, Conrad.”
“Thanks Adam,” Conrad smiled. “It was stupid and I don’t need a
Distinguished Flying Cross.”
Whether he’d like it or not, via Charles Gray, Paul nominated Conrad for
a DFC.
“Portsmouth, August 13”
“The photos are smashing, can’t say much but they give us an idea of
what’s going on.”
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe fiddled with the breadstick in the
restaurant at Portsmouth Harbour, every other seat occupied by uniforms from
primarily the navy and army. Opposite him, Charles Gray drank his water. “You
should be happy, Paul.”
“I witnessed the elimination of men Group Co, you try doing that.”
“I have, old chap,” Gray replied coolly. “In the last war. You’ll get
used to it.”
“Great,” said Paul sarcastically. “Meanwhile, what about Juliette?”
Gray frowned and then smiled. “I see, the Frenchwoman. Well she’s been
offered a post in something rather hush-hush but she’d wanted a Waaf posting at
Banjo.”
“I see,” Metcalfe nearly echoed.
Gray clicked his fingers in realisation; however a waiter began coming
over and Gray sighed. “No, not you!”
Metcalfe watched the waiter retreat and Gray continued, “Your
replacements, three pilots coming this afternoon.”
“About bloody time, been holding on with that I had and that’s not
easy.”
“Be grateful that you are getting replacements, some squadrons have not
been so lucky.”
Metcalfe drank from his water and mumbled sarcastically. “Tally ho.”
The three pilots were at the airfield when Gray’s car dropped Paul off.
His Spitfire had quickly been salvaged from the cornfield by the Erks and was
propped –beneath either wing- by bricks. The damage was that great but
Metcalfe’s Erks were perfectionists and would do what they had to get the job
done.
The three replacements stood by the door inside of Cloudbase; only Adam
and Troy were present.
“Where’s the others?” asked Paul as he threw his cap onto the nearest
chair.
“In the Erks’ hut,” replied Troy Tempest. “Going over any repairs
needed.”
“About bloody time,” grumbled Metcalfe and looked warily at the three
men all wearing battledress. “Okay,
give me some details each. I’m Squadron Leader Metcalfe.”
The first man spoke, he was of medium height with plain looks and
tousled hair. His accent was heavy with French, his English was rather good.
“Henri Verdain, formerly of the French Air Force,” he said casually. “I
was flying in a Hurricane squadron until a month ago.”
“O, Hurris?” inquired Metcalfe with a raised eyebrow. He reached for a
cigarette and lit it. “Before the war?”
“A fashion designer.”
“Good God,” Metcalfe murmured around the cigarette and held it in his
left thumb and forefinger. “Seriously?”
“Oui, Monsieur. And I take it very seriously,” Verdain said with
an edge of defiance. Chin tilted as if bracing for a challenge.
“Steady, old chap, just don’t get many people like you in the RAF.”
Metcalfe indicated for the next to speak and waited. The man was tall,
with faint freckles and gingery hair. He spoke with a slight stammer. “Gordon
Tracy, s-sir.”
“Relax Gordon, call me Paul,” said Metcalfe in a calming tone.
Tracy smiled nervously. “This is my first squadron.”
“How many hours on Spits?” asked Adam, arms folded and perched on a
chair.
“One,” Gordon said his reply making Adam jump.
“Christ, Paul!”
“Relax Adam. So Gordon, did you fly any other aircraft?”
“Ten hours on Hurricanes and twenty on Anson’s.”
“Thought so,” murmured Metcalfe. The two-seated Avro Anson was a good
trainer but wasn’t a fighter. Even so, young Gordon had enough hours. “We’ll try
to get you up to speed.”
You’ll probably die in the first dogfight, he didn’t say.
The final replacement, like Gordon was American, although his accent was
deeper and more defined than Gordon’s.
“I’m Steve Blackburn. I’ve been in the RAF for about four years. I’m a
bomber test pilot.”
“Bombers?” said Adam sharply. “Never flown a fighter?”
Blackburn nodded as equally sharp as Adam had been verbal. “Mustangs,
started flying them in May. Got pulled from RAE Farnborough.”
“You’ll all do. Troy here will brief you on operations and then it’s
back to the Battle of Britain.”
Adam followed Metcalfe into the sun outside. It was here that Metcalfe
saw three Spitfires that he hadn’t seen before, all bore the RAF colours but did
not bear the –SP lettering system. “Their aircraft.”
“They flew in on different aircraft?” asked Paul in response.
Svenson shrugged. “They’re still Spits. I’m more concerned with Gordon.”
“He’ll do fine,” said Metcalfe quietly. “I hope.”
Gordon Tracy spent the rest of the day concreting a friendship with Troy
Tempest; the adjutant had taken the young American under his wing and was
starting to regard himself like an older brother.
Gordon shrugged to himself; at least he wasn’t the only Yank.
Bradley Holden jogged by and leapt to catch a – the British called it –
football and fell as he got hold of it. Richard ‘Red’ Fraser caught up with him,
as did Conrad who seemed much more brighter than normal and kicked Holden’s left
shoe.
“Come on, you blasted Yank, that’s a football. It’s meant to be kicked.”
“Back home we carry and throw a football,” drawled Bradley.
Conrad swore in Czech and Bradley raised an eyebrow. “I hope that
whatever that is, you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth.”
Gordon had been leaning against the wall of Cloudbase, watching the
exchange and laughed despite himself.
The three pilots looked at him and suddenly he felt himself blushing.
“Sorry.”
Bradley stood, taking the ball with him. “Don’t be. Come on, you can
join in. Play this game called soccer.”
Conrad tackled Bradley and they fell to the ground. “Football, you
Yank!”
“Limey!”
Eventually, the four pilots mucked about to the point that Metcalfe
joined in.
Chapter Six
“August 14 to August 20”
In the next few days, the Germans flung raid after raid against southern
airfields and docks. Hardest hit were Dover and Folkestone, concreting beliefs
that the Germans were stepping up invasion plans.
The RAF – more to the point, Fighter Command – were bearing the brunt of
these raids and were losing in great numbers. On August 15 alone, the RAF lost
twenty fighters. Pilots were sorely needed and the RAF was resorting to
plundering pilots from Bomber Command and the Fleet Air Arm. Volunteers were
coming in from the Empire –Canada and Australia chiefly – but also from South
Africa, the USA and Brazil.
Three hundred and fifty pilots stood between Hitler and total domination
of Europe.
It was Pilot Sergeant Conrad Turner DFC leading B Flight, consisting of
Gordon, Henri and himself that would inexplicably change history. The four
Spitfires were on patrol and close to London when they came across – in the
starkly dark sky –a lone Heinkel He111H bomber. The bomber was well away from
any major airfield such as Hawkinge or Biggins Hill and was unprotected.
Conrad led the attack and scored a lucky hit on the port engine. The
engine exploded and destroyed the rest of the aircraft in the short time that
followed.
“August 20”
“Where are they?” murmured Gray.
He glanced at the clock and saw it was 1020. Not even one enemy fighter or
bomber in sight. Around the plot table stood Dianne Simms and her charges that
now included Juliette Pontoin.
They waited for something to do.
“Weather report?” Gray asked the man in RAF uniform seated at another
desk around the gallery’s corner from Gray.
“Clear skies and high temperatures all day, sir.”
Good timing. The Waafs
below Gray suddenly began bringing blocks with numbers onto the plot table and
they kept doing so, the blocks building steadily by the minute. When they did,
Gray was in an unnatural state of shock.
Blocks –denoting raids that had magically happened without warning- were
all along the south coast and that was just one small bit of the problem. Gray
soon received calls from other Group Commanders further along the coast; almost
four hundred bombers were raiding the southeast coast.
Six hundred were attacking the Solent coast.
In total, there were eleven hundred bombers attacking, only half of the
Luftwaffe’s bomber force.
“This is only the beginning,” Gray murmured before picking up the phone
to Spectrum Squadron.
“Swarms of the sods!”
“Cut the chatter, Ochre,” Paul Metcalfe snapped in answer to Red
Fraser’s outburst. The long and short of it was that the sky above Portsmouth
was full of German bombers. A mixture of the pencil neck Dornier Do17’s and
medium sized fighter-bomber Junkers Ju88’s to the larger faster Heinkel He111’s.
Around one hundred and fifty in all.
Besides Gray’s squadrons –Spectrum, Pine and Shadow – there were six other squadrons, gathered
from Gosport, Portsmouth, Southampton and even Bournemouth. The RAF’s presence
in this area alone boosted to nine squadrons.
“Look out for escorts,” warned Metcalfe, his voice muffled by the oxygen
mask.
The routine was simple. Come in from the side in flight formations and
get in amongst the bombers; at least that was the plan for the Hurricanes. But
beggars couldn’t be choosers, not with the country at risk of invasion.
“Attack, tally ho…”
“Escorts!” shouted Bradley Holden.
Forty Messerschmitt Me109E’s banked and fell screaming on the assembling
RAF fighters, their cannons chattering death and destruction. Metcalfe had time
to shout dispersion as he rolled his Spit onto his back and close his eyes as
the horizon span around suddenly. Metcalfe levelled out in time to see the bellies of the
German bombers pass above. Without waiting to straighten, he pulled up and began
firing at anything bearing crosses.
Somewhere near Metcalfe, Conrad Turner was sweating frantically. The
sweat was pouring in rivulets down his forehead, collecting his eyebrows and
into his eyes. Blinking seemed to make it worse; he didn’t want to let one hand
go in case he lost control. So far, his part in the dogfight had been rolls,
banks and turns. He still had fuel ammo.
“On your tail, Brad.”
“Get him off my tail, Red.”
“I’m hit!”
There was a cacophony of noises and then, Conrad felt his aircraft
shudder. He had been passing a He111 and had been strafed by its waist gunner.
Banking again to attack, he realised his controls were sluggish. He tugged at
the yoke and then he saw his altimeter slide downwards. The Spitfire had halted
its bank and was now sliding downwards in a spiral, like a ship riding the
descent of a whirlpool. Conrad saw the dogfight above him, scurrying Spitfires
and Hurricanes clashing with Me109’s. The larger bombers passing further above.
Conrad clenched his eyes shut and prayed for his Spit to halt the
downward descent; his hands gripped the yoke and tried wrenching the Spit into a
horizontal position. His eyes opened and he pulled back the canopy, his Mae West
fluttered as the g-forces tugged at him. The ground appeared and then the sky.
Ground.
Sky.
Ground.
Sky.
“Argh!” he shouted, but unable to hear as the wind whipped his words
away and tossed them to the four winds. Unbuckling, he stood and saw the ground
closer than he thought. He jumped and fell clear of the Spit, the parachute
ripped open as he jerked the ripcord.
Dangling in the sky, he saw his Spit crash and explode silently near a
park; that was where he would land.
A buzzing sound made him look around and he saw it coming in, streaking
like a comet.
The Me109 had seen Conrad and was racing towards him.
“The 109, fastest fighter pre-war,” Conrad murmured and then realisation
dawned. “God!”
Closer the fighter came, and Conrad could almost make out the German
flyer inside.
A miracle happened.
A Spitfire came from above and, in a split second, rammed the 109. Both
aircraft exploded and when the fireball vanished, there was nothing remaining.
Conrad sobbed as he had seen the aircraft’s numbers. D-SP.
Red Fraser’s aircraft.
The craft of the Detroit-born pilot had been damaged when he was clipped
by unknown tracer fire. He had then followed Conrad and was shocked as his
friend’s Spit was hit and then lost control. Richard Fraser saw that Conrad had
been in trouble, after bailing and came in to make sure he was okay. Coming from
above, Red sighted a Me109 and it was in that instant –seeing his ammo was low –
that Fraser chose to ram the German.
He saw a blur of cockpit and then he made the step into the beyond.
Charles Gray was on his sixth cigarette and looked once again, phone
pressed to ear, at the plot board. All that remained were straggling Germans
over the Isle of Wight. The squadron boards were either on LANDED or RETURNING.
“Group Commander.”
Gray returned attention to his phone as he recognised the voice.
“Tempest, report.”
“Of the scrambled twelve fighters, only eight have returned.”
Gray muttered an obscenity. “Do you know who is missing?”
On the other end of the phone, the dark-haired adjutant awkwardly picked up the clipboard on his
table with his burnt hand. He tried to ignore the loud talking and carried on.
“Pilot Officer Richard Fraser, believed Killed In Action. Pilot Sergeant
Conrad Turner, believed Missing In Action. Pilot Sergeant Adam Svenson, believed
MIA and Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe believed MIA.”
“You mentioned that Fraser was KIA, but the others not.”
Troy frowned at the receiver, rather in exasperation than wonder.
“Somebody from Pine Squadron saw him ram a Me109 sir. Turner and Svenson have
landed at other airfields due to fuel shortage.”
“Metcalfe?”
“Don’t know sir.”
“Fine, thank you.”
Gray hung up and Tempest slammed his receiver down; he turned round and
stood. Bradley Holden was sitting closest to him on one of the battered old
sofas. “Did you see Paul?”
Bradley numbly shook his head. “No. Poor Red.”
“He did save Conrad.”
“Where is that Czech bastard?” swore Holden looking around. At that
point, a Mae West lifejacket and parachute was thrown into the hut and clattered
with a metallic sound to the ground. In came a mud-covered Paul Metcalfe.
“Son of a… where did you come from?” asked Bradley, standing.
Metcalfe flicked his left hand and wet mud flew everywhere making
Bradley scowl.
“I landed in a flooded field, didn’t I?” Metcalfe sat down and mud
squelched against the chair he sat in. He exhaled. “I lost my Spit.”
“You’ll get another,” Edward Wilkie said handing Metcalfe a tea.
“Not the same as her.”
There was silence.
Conrad dragged his chute wearily all the way from the Portsea Channel to
the airfield, a distance of two miles.
No one stopped to help him.
The Czech stumbled over a small fence in a hedge gap and lay on his
back, the chute falling on his face and mud staining his uniform. He heard the
sound of Merlin engines and rolling over, the chute gathering around him; he
sighted some Spitfire sitting at the far end of the field.
“The bloody field,” he grumbled and stood. His boot caught on the chute
and he slipped, landing firmly on his behind;
he swore and then proceeded to crawl across the field.
The atmosphere was frosty at Spectrum’s airfield, least because of the
invasion threat but also between Bradley and Conrad. Holden blamed Turner for
the death of Richard ‘Red’ Fraser. To confound this matter, the squadron was
being used to mop up stragglers from raids on the Dover area and in particular,
Manston airfield.
On August 23 rain made flying impossible, the aircraft wheels caked in
wet brown mud and covered in sheeting. The Erks sheltered in their hut; in the
pilots’ hut, the wireless played live music from the Savoy in London.
“And now, Ed Straker’s Band with A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley
Square.”
“Smashing,” muttered Troy Tempest at his desk. Nearby slouched in an
armchair, Conrad Turner ran a hand through his black hair and sighed. “British
weather.”
“Keeps the Germans away,” Bradley Holden said in a broody manner.
“That is good, but I want to go at them,” Conrad replied. Bradley’s eyes
swivelled towards Conrad. Seated on the sofa next to Bradley, Adam Svenson
stirred, as did the others. Paul Metcalfe turned away from the doorway and
exhaled his cigarette smoke.
“So you can bring one of us down?” Holden said sharply.
“No, bring one of them down.” Conrad fixed Holden with a steady gaze
that did not make Holden break his own gaze.
“And then get in trouble, so one of us rams the bastard.”
“Something on your chest, Brad?”
“Yeah, and it’s Pilot Officer Holden to you.”
“Enough Brad, its not Conrad’s fault that Red decided to bring one of
them down,” Adam said and put a hand on Bradley’s left arm.
The dark-haired American shrugged it off angrily. “Red didn’t need to
sacrifice himself.”
“Deep down ,Red wanted to be a hero and he did just that,” Adam coolly
said.
“He didn’t have to,” Bradley emphatically said with tears in his eyes.
He stood and lunged for Conrad, but Adam wrapped his arms around Holden’s legs
and the two fell to the ground. They wrestled and then Adam reached for a
cushion and began beating Bradley, Conrad got his own cushion and joined in. The
seriousness faded as
Bradley laughed, eventually the others
joined in, including Metcalfe.
Troy sat and watched from his desk. Shouts came from the floor and the
Erks came to watch, the officers fighting was worth a look in. bets were placed.
It was how these men, these brave boys in blue, realised tension after loosing a
friend in battle.
The phone jangled and in the hubbub, only Troy heard; with his gloved
hand, he took it. “Spectrum Squadron.”
“This is Whitehall 1212,” came the refined voice. Troy stiffened,
Whitehall and that number meant something big.
“Yes.”
“You are receiving the codeword Cromwell, repeat please.”
“Cromwell.”
The line went dead and hurriedly Troy reached for the book on his desk,
sealed with red tape and marked CODE SIGNALS that had been issued to every
fighter squadron adjutant in the south. He tore the tape and ignored the
playfight that was still releasing tension his gloved finger flicked pages to C.
Cromwell.
“Oh hell…” He read some of it. “Invasion readiness. Invasion expected at
any time. Pilots must be on instant readiness for scramble.”
Troy saw Metcalfe on the floor by him and grabbed him by the shoulder;
Metcalfe stood.
“What is it, old man?”
“Cromwell,” replied Troy.
He showed the book to Metcalfe; the dark-haired Hampshire born pilot
swore and shouted for everyone to stop. In various stages of action, the pilots
stopped. “We’re on instant readiness, we can’t leave the field. Not until we get
the stand down. Invasion’s expected, gentlemen.”
The mood fell and everyone stayed where they were, not knowing what to
do.
Chapter Seven
“September 6, 1940”
Corporal Dianne Simms in charge of Banjo’s
Plot Room extinguished her cigarette as she sat in the building’s canteen. At
her table sat the American Karen Wainwright and Frenchwoman Juliette Pontoin.
Dianne was tired, having been on duty all week with little sleep. Moving blocks
to denote raids on airfields,
she knew that Biggin Hill had taken a
battering in Kent. But who hadn’t?
“I am too tired to move,” groaned Karen as
she stretched her arms and checked her watch.
“I agree, too tired,” murmured Juliette. “If
only I was able to see the men, to know they are okay.”
“I know how you feel,” agreed Dianne,
thinking of Conrad. He was in the thick of it, so was the rest of Spectrum
Squadron.
A phone rang somewhere in the building and
Dianne nudged Karen’s arm that was resting on the table by the Briton.
“Any more cigs?”
“No and even if I did, they’ll be mine,”
Karen said. “What with rationing and the air raids, I’m in short supply.”
“You’re a Yank, can’t you pull some strings
and get some?” Dianne said emphatically.
“No.”
Ten minutes later, they and four other Waafs were plotting the latest raid; the
attack was coming in three prongs of groups and towards three airfields in the
area. Gosport, Thorney Island and the Isle of Wight. The speakers on the walls
squawked pilots as they went into battle.
“This is Scarlet lead, we’re airborne. Direct us, Banjo.”
In the gallery, Group Commander Charles Gray
replied via his telephone. “Scarlet, Banjo. Steer zero-six-zero, trade building
over Portsmouth bound for Thorney Island. Twenty-six plus.”
“Acknowledged, engaging shortly.”
Gray hung up the telephone and watched his Waafs move the plots across the map, due
to the airfields being targeted, the concentration of German bombers was over
the Portsmouth isle. Banjo and its commanding airfields were not far from
Portsmouth and Fratton. Gray’s glass of water began rattling and he stared at
it; he then looked at his right leg thinking he had been unconsciously tapping
it against the table leg.
Yet his leg was still and the water in the
glass was rolling like the waters of the Solent in winter. The pencil on his
table rolled and fell off, now he thought it could be an earthquake.
A quake in Portsmouth?
Dianne Simms rolled her headphones off and
placed them on her shoulders. Her eyebrows knitted into a frown.
“Anyone hear that?”
Gray heard it; the rumbling of aircraft
engines, and hundreds of them it seemed. It was getting louder, drowning out any
speech. Gray got to his feet. “To the shelter!”
The Waafs
began ditching their equipment as Gray was shouting orders to his officers.
Whilst they did this, the world came to an unexpected end or it seemed like it.
The whistling of bombs joined the cacophony of engines and explosions sounded;
one of the room’s walls blew in and Gray fell. He landed heavily on the plot
room floor and looked in time to see the gallery begin tilting onto him from
above.
Then it went black.
“Say again, Banjo,” Metcalfe shouted into his
radio.
He fell silent, having tried dozens of times,
unsuccessfully. He stared ahead as the Spitfires raced southwards and could see
the bombers that were their targets. Just behind the marauding bombers was a
pillar of black smoke. Just where Banjo’s control building was.
“Attack at will, Spectrums, flights
acknowledge.”
“Fawn acknowledges.”
“Blue acknowledges.”
Splitting into three flights – Blue’s flight
down to three fighters – Spectrum Squadron flew against the German bombers
without hesitation. Metcalfe led his flight in a head on attack that made some
of the Heinkel bombers jerk nervously. Streams of tracer fire rippled across the
sky against Germans or RAF men. Words overflowed words as pilots shouted
warnings.
“Fawn to Scarlet, enemy fighters coming from above,” warned Edward ‘Winky’ Wilkie.
Scarlet glanced upwards as he jerked his
rudder and brought the Spitfire in a scything turn to port. The fighters were as
always the Messerschmitt Me109 but these had red noses and stark red numbers.
“Hell. Scarlet acknowledging, all fighters,
enemy bogies attacking.”
Trinidadian Seymour Griffith aged twenty-one
had been largely in the background of Spectrum Squadron. Call sign Green, he had
kept to himself and had merged into Adam Svenson’s flight without preamble. Now
he flanked Conrad Turner above the changing landscape of Portsmouth and
neighbouring suburb of Fratton.
“Green to Black, what now?”
“We keep fighting,” Conrad
answered knowing without asking that Seymour referred to the fact that they had
lost Adam, the American had been lost in the melee of the dogfight.
Ahead of Seymour, a He111H dropped from formation, undamaged but in a
vain hope at dodging the Spitfires that flitted around like anxious wasps at a
picnic. “Okay Green, lets
get that bastard. Teach him for trespassing in our park.”
“Roger wilko,” Griffith answered.
Beside each other, Conrad and Seymour closed
the distance on the lone He111. They parted so that they could individually take
a respective side, Seymour the left and Conrad the right. Seymour noticed an arm
waving from the gun bubble atop the He111 by the radio mast; it was the gunner
perhaps gesturing to the pilot.
Too late.
The Spitfires attacked the bombers engines in
rapid tandem; Seymour hammered the left Junkers Jumo engine with ten second
bursts of tracer fire. The propeller began to feather and then stopped, black
smoke blanketed Seymour – he pulled up, spiralling into the sky. He fell above
and beside Conrad; he was hammering the engine too but it wasn’t stopping.
Suddenly the engine exploded and shrapnel peppered Conrad.
“Black, you okay?” Seymour frantically cried.
Black shook his Spit and the rasp reply came
back. “Some fresh holes
but lets get moving.”
The He111, mortally wounded, nose-dived and
crashed into the Portsea channel.
Seymour ‘Green’ and Conrad ‘Black’ winged
their way back into the raging dogfight.
Thirty minutes later, Conrad’s chief Erk was
studying the Spit as Conrad leapt from the cockpit, his boots thudding on the
wooden wings. “Bloody ‘ell sir, somebody jabbed you with a knitting pin.”
Conrad shrugged; beside them another Spitfire
swung its tail to a stop. “Merely brushed me.”
Troy Tempest ran from Cloudbase onto the
grass before the Spits and shouted. “Get back up there!”
“Says who?” shouted back Bradley Holden
swinging his legs off the wing of his own Spitfire.
Paul Metcalfe remained in his cockpit. “We’re
not even rearmed or refuelled.”
Troy waved his arms frantically. “Orders from
Fighter Command, more bombers inbound.”
“Why not Banjo?” Metcalfe pressed.
“They were bombed.”
The comment was made matter of factly, enough
though to shock everyone within ear range. Metcalfe thought of Juliette, Adam of
Karen and Conrad of Dianne. Adam’s romance with Karen had bloomed in the past
week, covered over by the invasion threat. But Metcalfe regained composure
rapidly. “Okay. Erks, get these topped up now, you’ve got five minutes.”
It was the longest five minutes in history.
Throughout the remainder of September 6,
1940, the Germans hammered with their bombs any airfield they could find and the
docks at Dover, Portsmouth and Folkestone. They struck at Dover Castle –Admiral
Beatty’s HQ – and at Hythe just down the coast from Dover. As night fell, the
Germans made two more raids – this time on Harwich and sunk five destroyers.
When the raiders left the shores, silence
fell and Britain licked its wounds.
Chapter
Eight
“September 7”
As the sun began to win its battle against
the night, the Home Guardsmen in Dover stood by their dazzle painted post. There
were five in total, all aged sixty to seventy and wielding rifles. They drank
their tea and talked about general events that did not really preoccupy the
minds of those outside of Dover. Not any one of them noticed the shadows on the
lane behind them; even if they did, they would not have reacted in time. One
Home Guardsman disappeared from view as a hand came across his mouth and dragged
him behind the post hut. A figure appeared wearing a flat helmet that bore an
eagle clasping a swastika in its talons.
He slit one man’s throat but was discovered;
his comrades opened fire on the other Home Guardsmen and their presence was now
exposed. The small team of German paratroopers, who had landed by glider during
the night, now ran for Dover Castle as more gliders swooped in. In the English
Channel, a dark line of ships began to appear closing towards the coastline.
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe stood with some
aching pains from where he had been lying on the huts floor; he reached for the phone that was
jangling incessantly. Troy had fallen asleep at the table and was rubbing his
eyes groggily.
“Spectrum.”
“This is Fighter Command, the enemy is landing at points around Dover.
Your squadron is to fly to Dover and make attacks on the enemy. Airfields in the
area are available for refuelling and rearming.”
Metcalfe exhaled and nodded as if he could
see the man at Bentley Priory. “Right.” He hung up.
By now the men of Spectrum Squadron were
awake. “Chaps, the Germans are landing. To your aircraft.”
Sombrely, the men of Spectrum Squadron took
to the air minutes later, heading further east from Portsmouth, they eventually
made out columns of black smoke from Dover. The air around the town seemed to be
a seething pot of confusion, aircraft dotted the sky and explosions of shells
drifted upwards. The sun was making the surface of the English Channel shiny,
hard to see the ships dotting the channel.
“Head for the channel,” ordered Metcalfe.
“The barges are our targets.”
The Spits dropped to hug the land and crossed
the beaches on which men of green and grey uniforms battled. As they raced
across the waters to assemble for attack, there was a bright explosion aft of
Metcalfe.
“Seymour just got hit!”
exclaimed Conrad Turner. He broke formation as a wave of enemy Me109’s swept
past firing.
Metcalfe jerked his yoke around and tore
skywards; nearby Henri Verdain’s Spitfire rolled over onto its back, glycol
trailing. A body dropped clear and the chute extended; seconds later, he
splashed down into the channel. Metcalfe couldn’t speak; fear gripped his heart
as Me109’s assaulted the Spits scrambling every which way they could. There was
smattering of explosions everywhere, black puffs of smoke, tracer fire. He
closed his eyes.
The years ahead, wasted breath.
Wasted breath, the years behind.
He opened them and saw blue sky; for a moment
he thought he had died but the spluttering of his engine alerted him to the fact
he was very much alive. Cannon fire crisscrossed the chaotic sky; Spitfires were
scattering to the four winds with a Me109 each. Metcalfe shouted orders but two
more Spits were struck, one feathered smoke before nose-diving and the other’s
wings folded onto the cockpit.
Eventually the Hampshire born man ordered a
retreat. Contacting the local control room, the surviving Spectrums were
directed to RAF Woodchurch – that
was a few miles from Folkestone. Upon landing,
the sounds of battle could still be heard, with the rattle of guns and
thuds of shells. Only six Spitfires remained.
The pilots gathered around Metcalfe’s
Spitfire; the pilot made notations on a piece of paper leaning against the port
wing. He made notes of who were there, pilots killed were Seymour Griffith – RAF
Commonwealth, Steve Blackburn – RAF Eagle and Gordon Tracy also RAF Eagle. Left
–Metcalfe, Adam, Conrad, Winky and Bradley.
“Poor Gordon,” mourned Conrad. His black hair
slick with sweat. “Too young.”
The fact they were all in their early
twenties slipped everyone’s mind. Paul Metcalfe glanced at Adam Svenson across
the wing.
“We’re down to six, the
Luftwaffe’s everywhere. What now?”
“We keep on until the Germans get this far.”
“Surrender?” asked Bradley Holden. Dirt
smeared his face and the American looked tired, more than the others.
“I’m not surrendering,” declared Conrad,
receiving a gentle tap from Holden. “Not to the Nazis.”
“It is too early to talk about surrendering,”
Metcalfe said. “I, on the other hand, am not. Not now, not ever. I’ll go down
fighting, as for the rest of you,
you can decide for yourself.”
“I’ll fight,” Adam said firmly.
“Moi aussi,” Henri
Verdain nodded emphatically.
Conrad Turner, Bradley Holden and Edward
Wilkie simply nodded their feelings clear. Metcalfe pinched the bridge of his
nose wearily.
C’est le guerre.
“Thank you all. Let’s get refuelled and
rearmed. We’ll hit the enemy, where we can.”
It had been six hours since Operation Sea
Lion had begun. The name given to the invasion of Britain by the Germans.
Britain’s hour was at hand.
Wearing a tin helmet in the Fratton cottage,
Group Commander Charles Gray AFC DFC pressed the field telephone to his ear. His
blue eyes were narrowed in concentration.
“Your pilots have not been seen in the area, but six fighters have been
operating out of the Folkestone pocket.”
Gray tilted his head as the words settled in
from the Fighter Command man. “Thank you.”
Dianne Simms –also sporting a helmet – saw
Gray hung up. “Any sign of them, sir?”
“It looks like some of them are in
Folkestone,” Gray murmured. “Anything new Dianne?”
The Londoner consulted her board; she leant
against a temporary plot table. “Dover’s fallen, Admiral Beatty surrendered last
night. The Germans are pouring more men into the town and look set to be heading
for a breakout.”
Gray swallowed and sighed. “The wolf is upon
the fold.”
Major Helmut Lang felt as seasick as he had
ever did. The old barge was more used to the Rhine than the width of the English
Channel. It was the morning of September 9 – Sea Lion Plus Two – and the weather was still holding. Lang
was on a barge carrying one of five barges carrying tanks.
The only travel on water the Munich-born Lang
had ever done until now, had been on a paddleboat, on a small lake. Even then he
had been ill. Yet his uncle was a U-Boat captain, but then again, Uncle Willy
was from Wilhelmshaven.
Lang heard a buzzing and shook his head.
Probably the barges motor, he thought. He glanced towards the rear where stood his men. Their pale faces
met his; the waves beyond his peripheral made him sway.
“Mein Gott,” he
breathed.
Just then, aircraft roared overhead and a
barge blew up. Lang swore again as the Spitfires –six of them – came for another attack. Their roundels
glittered in the September sun, their Merlin engines cackled loudly. They now
came in six abreast and Lang slammed to the bottom, rolling against the nearest
Tiger Tank.
Tat-a-tat-a-tat!
Lang felt the barge begin to heel over to one
side, the cold water from the English Channel began filling the base and shouts
of German became panicky were heard everywhere.
“Where is the
Luftwaffe?” screamed
Lang.
At this point, the Tiger by him was torn from
its chains and landed atop the wailing major. Shortly after the barge, capsized
and sank.
By the time
Luftwaffe
fighters were scrambled from Manston in Kent, the Spits had gone and
only two barges remained.
“September 10, S+3”
The woods somewhere in Kentish countryside
proved a startling remainder of the fact that a mere two months or so ago, the
pilots hid in a wood like this in France.
Both times the Germans were coming.
The pilots gathered around Metcalfe’s Spit
port wingtip as he held a torch at the map spread out.
“Okay, chaps. Jerry’s just broken out of the
Dover Pocket, radio chatter suggests that their heading northwards for London
but expanding westwards to capture Portsmouth intact. We’re going to strafe
military columns, be careful not to hit refugee columns. This is Britain,
they’re our own.”
The pilots got into their Spitfires and
seconds later were moving to take-off.
Invasion preparations were being triggered
across the occupied lands and the areas were soon to be swept up by the
marauding Germans. British Resistance cells were being activated, simple Britons
recruited following the outbreak of war a year ago. This was Churchill’s Secret
Army, known under the heading ‘Auxiliary Units.’
The British were confused in reaction. Using a combination of Commonwealth
troops, they held the line at the Kentish border, but the Germans were hell-bent
intent on taking London. A bigger hold was being prepared north of London.
Charles Gray was bundling papers into the
burning rubbish bin, soot streaked his face having stoked two previous bonfires
outside. The cottage had been Banjo’s command centre for only three days. In all
his life in uniform, he had never retreated and that had earned him his
decorations from His Majesty George V.
Corporal Dianne Simms came up to him with a
framed photo; it was of His Majesty King George VI. “Shall I burn this too,
sir?”
Gray took it and scowled. “God no, Dianne,
this is our ruling Monarch.”
He tore the frames off and rolled the picture
up; he placed it in his breast pocket. Dianne Simms continued packing papers in
and after a while, stood watching the flames; her face lit red, her tears seemed
like drops of lava.
“Jerry’s coming!” shouted Troy Tempest. He had stayed behind when Spectrum went
east and determinedly found his way to Banjo Command.
Dianne looked with wide eyes to Gray; the
white-haired Group Commander took her by the shoulder. “Get into the lorry, I’ll
be out in a minute.”
Gray ran to the living quarters at the front
of the cottage – outside a blue Ford lorry waited – he grabbed the gramophone and placed it by the door.
A short while later, he leapt into the lorry.
It soon rumbled northwards as further behind, German motorbikes and sidecars
came to a stop. Behind, a field car stopped, and a major commanding the small
convoy, a tall well-built chap who had his helmet pulled low, jumped from it. He
walked into the cottage and paused as he saw on the wall opposite a hastily
scrawled message:
WE’LL BE BACK, YOU BASTARDS.
It was only then that he heard from a
gramophone the song
There’ll always be an England.
“Engländer.”
“Washington DC, September 15, S+8”
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt relaxed
in his wheelchair in the White House garden. The sun was bright upon this little
slice of Eden. It was a pity that across the Atlantic a war was being fought.
One of Roosevelt’s aides approached the
president as he smoked and saluted. “Excuse me sir, the British Ambassador to
see you.”
“Show him here, please.”
Phillip Henry Kerr –Eleventh Marquis of
Lothian – was sixty-two and Ambassador to America since 1939. The suit he wore
was as smartly furnished as ever;
he doffed his cap as he stood before Roosevelt. “Morning Mr President, I bring a
message from my government.”
Of course you do. Roosevelt gestured to the brick wall of the
rose bed. “Do sit, Mr Ambassador, I understand its not a good seat but there you
go.”
Kerr made the most of it and waited for
Roosevelt to prompt him. “German forces are now surrounding London, Downing
Street is under artillery attack. The Prime Minister wishes me to reiterate that
he requests American support.”
Roosevelt removed the cigarette from his
mouth and held it between his right forefinger and second finger. He had no
doubt that
requests
were a politer way to
demand. Churchill had been requesting help ever
since Dover fell.
“Even if the U.S.A. were to lend help to the United Kingdom, surely
London would’ve fallen and with it the government?”
Kerr held his hat in his fingers and rotated
it as he replied, “We are preparing rearguard action at Luton to halt the
Germans any further. Liverpool and Cardiff will be kept open at any costs. They are being declared fortresses in
the event the Germans break the Luton Line.”
So its come to Britain declaring its
cities fortresses and fighting in the countryside?
Roosevelt was silent and could feel Kerr’s
expectant gaze upon him, he could also imagine Churchill wanting to fight to the
death.
“All right Mr Ambassador,” Roosevelt said
firmly. “We’ll help you. Tell your government we’re coming.”
Kerr stood. “I must leave and pass this on
quickly.”
The next morning as it became celebrated in a
battered London, the American Congress watched on as on September 16, 1940,
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt declared war on Nazi Germany.
On September 17, two aircraft carriers –Enterprise
and
Wasp – set sail
from Norfolk, Virginia, with a convoy of destroyers and troop ships bound for
Great Britain.
Chapter
Nine
“London, September 17 1940. Sealion Plus Ten”
Even as the British Army stalled the Germans
at Luton, a column of Panzer tanks rolled through the Admiralty down The Mall
towards Buckingham Palace. Behind them infantry marched grinning, a scene
reminiscent of the Champs Elysees victory parade. Upon reaching the grand gates
of the Palace, the General in command – Erwin Rommel –walked into the grounds
with his aides, one of them
wielding a swastika banner that would be flown from the Palace.
Standing in uniform, looking brave, was King
George VI; beside him were his wife
Queen Elizabeth and one of his daughters – Princess Elizabeth. Rommel recognised
the king and saluted him with a hand to his cap.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.”
The king spoke German but stuttered in
English, “Morning.”
“I am General Erwin Rommel, representing the
German
Wehrmacht
commanded by Field Marshal von
Runstedt. I declare that an armistice has been signed by your Lord Halifax and
you must now enforce this by radio.”
“If I must,” the king said dryly. “What has
happened to Winston Churchill?”
Rommel looked ill at ease suddenly. “Herr
Churchill was shot dead defending Downing
Street.”
Indeed he had. Days before as front units ran up the street Churchill had
appeared from behind sandbags and shot two soldiers dead before he was shot
dead.
The king paled and his lip trembled but he
stiffened. “Such is war.”
The swastika shortly hoisted, the king made
his speech.
In Luton, their Spits standing in a nearby
park, Spectrum Squadron gathered once more around Metcalfe as he sat on a bench,
a portable wireless on his lap. Luton was totally British, the line was being
held two miles south of the town and it was already brimming with uniforms.
“And now His Majesty King George VI, Emperor of India,” the clipped accent of a BBC announcer
intoned emotionlessly.
The king was not a great public speaker but
this time he managed to sold commanding. Paul Metcalfe pictured him in the
Palace, wearing his naval uniform and keeping a brave face.
“It is my solemn duty as your monarch to inform you of the death of
Winston Churchill,
who died whilst in the service of his
country…”
“Bloody hell,” swore Conrad tears stinging
his eyes, as were Paul and Adam’s.
The king continued: “But now I must declare that all
fighting must cease. I have been
requested to say this by the Germans. To the loyal soldiers still fighting, I
ask you to lay down your weapons and surrender peacefully. I am sure that once
the fighting is over, the Germans will release prisoners of war after a brief
time. To you all, civilian and soldier alike I say –good luck and may God save
this great nation.”
As the words trickled off, somebody in the
park – it was full of people listening to the radio – began singing
God Save the King.
An hour later, General Bernard Montgomery
announced that the Americans were on their way and that the British would
continue to hold the line at Luton twenty-five miles north of London.
Stalemate was settling in.
Chapter
Ten
“September 30”
Paul Metcalfe stuffed his hands into the
pockets of his long jacket on this thirteenth day of German occupation. He stood
on the northern end of Westminster Bridge by the shadow of Big Ben –the hands of
the big clock were directed at 1314. Metcalfe waited by a newsstand of the
Evening Standard, posters declaring
Formation of New Government under Lord Halifax!
And
Germans declare Martial Law.
Since armistice on September 17, the Germans
had been unable to press further north than the line held on that mournful day.
As a result, the occupied land extended from Portsmouth in a gradual curve to
north of London, around the city’s northern limits – with areas before London –
and to the Thames estuary.
The occupied land – known as the Occupied
Zone - was held from the ‘free’ land by a No-Man’s Land of two miles width.
If you were to look at a map of Britain with the Occupied Zone coloured
in red, then it would appear that Britain’s backside was sore.
In theory, the Unoccupied Zone –the area of
land without physical German presence-
was to come under Halifax’s new
government –puppet
government thought Metcalfe – but General
Alan Brooke – recently bundled by his aides across No Man’s Land into Luton –
declared that they would continue to fight the invaders.
Net result – a general state of uncertainty,
chaos and confusion.
But there was no outright fighting between
the German forces and surviving British Armed Forces and so it was all quiet on
the western front. As for the Yanks? Who knew? Nobody knew what the Americans
were doing, whether they will still coming or not.
Metcalfe bought a paper and moodily read
Halifax’s inauguration speech, co-signed by General Rommel. Halifax had always
been on the German side, not literally, but he had wanted peace with Germany and
was keen on appeasement. He became such a problem to Churchill that the late
Prime Minister had been about to send Halifax to Washington as British
Ambassador. The invasion had changed all that. He was literally about to leave
as
Panzers
rolled ashore at Dover but
stayed. He remained hidden in London until the capitulation and then was sought
by the Germans. They knew he had been wanting a peace weeks ago, he shared this
belief with Hitler. So, Halifax was made the leader of Britain. To many in the
free zone north of No Man’s Land, he was nothing short of a coward and a
traitor.
“Weather is rather cold,” came a crisp
British voice at Metcalfe’s elbow. A quick glance showed a man to wear a homburg
hat with black overcoat. He had blonde hair and wore black-rimmed glasses.
“They say its colder in Berlin,” murmured
Metcalfe not looking directly at the man and keeping his gaze random.
“Congratulations on making it this far into the OZ. I’m Metcalfe.”
The man took the introduction without
reaction. “McClaine.”
Metcalfe folded up the paper and nodded
towards Parliament Square down the road behind them. “That way.”
Silently, they walked into Parliament Square,
on the square before Westminster, swastikas and Union Jacks fluttered together
as well as the Union swastika –essentially the Union Jack with a swastika on a
white circle central of the union. Metcalfe was not happy about this mutilation
of his flag, but he couldn’t do anything about it and silently brooded about it.
He hoped that Halifax got his come-uppances for this heinous crime. They crossed
onto the square passing a marching column of German soldiers. McClaine and
Metcalfe sat on a bench looking towards Parliament.
“What is the plan?”
Metcalfe gave him a scrap of paper. “Here. A
series of hit and run strikes across the capital on German targets. Commit these street names to memory and
destroy that paper.”
“I thought we’d be doing top notch resistance
work.”
“My dear chap, I don’t know what you did
before the invasion, but the resistance is not all espionage. We’ve got to hit
the bastards hard and hit them long enough until the Americans come.”
“Right.” McClaine tore the paper into bits
and stood. He doffed his cap. “Be seeing you. By the way I was in the navy.”
With that, he left and Metcalfe soon went his
way. Within minutes, he was at Horse Guard Parade and collected Adam Svenson –
wearing a business suit – and they moved onto St. James Park.
“I met the contact. Hopefully things will start moving
sooner or later. Probably tonight and then onto the next couple of days.”
Svenson nodded, kicking at leaves as they
moved on across the park. “Is he trustworthy?”
“I think so. Heard anything from Park?”
Air Vice Marshal Keith Park – 11 Group’s CO –
had escaped before the Germans swept over Bentley Priory and captured Dowding.
Park was Brooke’s commander of the RAF – sometimes known as the
Free Royal Air Force –and was in any effect Metcalfe’s boss.
Although officially, the survivors of Spectrum Squadron were incorporated into
the British Resistance – this had morphed from the make do cells to a higher
level of structure – they still
came under Park’s command.
“Nope, communications only in event of
absolute emergency,” replied Svenson. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that the
American force that left on the seventeenth has rounded Northern Ireland.
Should make landfall at Liverpool tomorrow.”
Some hope. Metcalfe paused and as a result,
do did Svenson. His gaze was on Buckingham Palace; there were swastikas
everywhere, and a large banner showing Hitler’s face across the balcony.
“With only the rump of the UK occupied, the
Germans can’t hold. They’ll either have to invade the rest of the islands, and
perhaps whilst the Yanks disembark, or take their chances and fight us off long
enough for a spring offensive.”
Svenson faced his old friend.
“Paul, we’ll win.
I’m with you until the end.
Besides, if we make it, I’m going
to ask Karen to marry me.”
At any other time, Metcalfe might’ve whooped
or clapped but he simply dipped his head. “Now let’s get to Chelsea, we have
little time.”
“Formby, near Liverpool, evening September 30”
Black-haired, moustachioed General Alan
Brooke commander of the British Armed Forces – and in part ‘Free Britain’ – stood from the conference table in the
council building to meet the helmeted figure that entered the dull-looking room
bedecked by Union Jacks.
“Welcome to Britain, General.”
General George S. Patton Junior, commanding
officer of the American Relief Force – the ARF – took off his shiny black helmet
and extended his right hand. “Thank you, General.”
Brooke gestured for Patton to sit; compared
to Brooke ,Patton was well built –the shoulders of a football player and the
look of a man who has seen war.
Indeed, Patton had served in France in 1918 and this moment – September 1940 –
was now his moment of destiny. He had been chosen at short notice, over his old
friend Dwight D. Eisenhower, to command the ARF.
Patton spoke in a squeaky voice: “I’m
personally eager to take the fight to the Germans.” His tone emphasised on the
word ‘fight’. “I assume you have a plan, General?”
Brooke raised an eyebrow. “You can assume
correctly, General.”
Brooke stood and went to a nearby map of
Britain that had been altered to show the Occupied Zone and tapped a black dot
above the northern red line. “Here is Luton.
This is our headquarters,
really. Sooner or later, the Germans will try to drive us from there and
make for Scotland like the clappers.” The last word threw Patton momentarily as
Brooke continued, “I suggest that with the forces we have, we move in three
lines towards positions north and slightly west of London,” Brooke’s finger
pointed them out.
“Luton, Braintree and Oxford.”
Patton stood to get a better look and saw the
places mentioned as being parallel to the Occupied Zone. “Then what, General?”
“Then we get some reinforcements move them
down to a line north of Southampton on the western edge of the OZ.”
Brooke fixed Patton with a look. “Will the
Americans be sending reinforcements?”
“A second force will leave Norfolk in a week,
ETA being October 10.”
“We should hold.”
“I hope so, General Brooke. I want to pin the Krauts to Big Ben.”
“Chelsea, London, evening September 30 morning October 1,
1940”
Dianne Simms’ family home was in the better
part of London, Chelsea – or so she’d have the others believe. Not all of
Spectrum Squadron was in the white-bricked Simms home as night settled and
curfew enforced. Only Adam, Paul, Conrad and Bradley were here – the others were
out, on various assignments.
However, Dianne, Karen and Juliette were present. There was no sign of Charles
Gray though. The women had reached safety with Gray after fleeing Portsmouth and
were quickly absorbed into the resistance. Gray was also take in, he should’ve
been here at the house but could easily be on a different assignment elsewhere.
“Hyde Park is our target. Let’s make sure
Jerry doesn’t catch us.”
“That would be the general idea of this
exercise, Paul,” Adam pointed out as they slipped out of the house. Few streetlamps worked since the
occupation of London, primarily to counter any British raids. It hadn’t stopped
the Germans bombing Cardiff though.
Paul Metcalfe, Adam Svenson, Conrad Turner,
Bradley Holden, Dianne Simms, Karen Wainwright and Juliette Pontoin were dressed
all in black. Each carried a handgun, two grenades and enough plastique
explosive to destroy a vehicle. They managed to get to Hyde Park without
crossing a German patrol and crept through a hole in the southern fence to move
towards the Serpentine. On the bridge were two tanks; by the lake’s shoreline
towards the bridge were three half-track vehicles –vehicles with wheels forward
and caterpillar tracks aft. These
were tempting targets for the British Resistance.
A shadow from behind an oak tree made the
Spectrums pause and Metcalfe whispered, “Come on.”
“Wimbledon.” Ian McClaine appeared speaking
the password. He had been their rendezvous for this night and operation. “Sorry, old chap.”
Metcalfe waved him aside. “No matter.”
The other resistance man had passed the
primitive test, the well-known theory that Germans couldn’t for the life of them
say Wimbledon. Other favourites for the resistance were Wolverhampton,
Woolworth’s and Warwick.
The
group scattered and divided to take either target, one group consisted of Paul,
Adam and Conrad. The two Britons and American opted to take the tanks on the
bridge. The bridge was on the western edge of the Serpentine and was a
throughway for traffic; right now, the two tanks were next to a checkpoint and
six Germans were present. Unseen by the Germans, Metcalfe, Svenson and Turner
placed their explosives under each tank. As they were moving away, a bright
explosion lit the bridge and immediate area.
The three men could feel the whoosh from the explosion. Metcalfe scowled
as the half-tracks brewed; the shout of German began on the bridge.
“Christ!” he whispered. “Get moving!”
The three men stood and began running, in the
process moving before the reacting Germans. Shots were exchanged and shouts of
German intermixed with those of English. Conrad tripped one soldier and took him
down; they rolled on the road just as the tanks exploded. Debris landed in the
Serpentine sending up fountains of water. Conrad was dragged from behind and
ended up on the roadside further down from the smouldering tanks were a staff
car waited.
A German officer looked down at him. “It is
all over for you,
Englander.”
Conrad swore in Czech and it went frightfully
black as he was thumped on the head from above.
“Who set off the bloody charges too early?”
snapped Metcalfe as he closed the doors to the Baker Street safe house. The
members of the raiding party had found seats and didn’t look too happy, either
with Metcalfe or the Germans.
“Somebody, answer me!” he fumed. “Because
Conrad’s been captured as a result of them going off early.”
“We were hounded quickly by the Germans,”
Adam piped in.
McClaine raised a hand. “I did.”
“Why in God’s name did you?” Metcalfe went to
where McLaine stood by the room’s fireplace.
“Shock and awe, I thought it would do the
trick.”
“Did the trick all right,” grumbled Metcalfe.
“We’re down one man. A good man who’s also a good fighter pilot, bloody hell!”
Nobody else spoke.
Conrad Turner thought himself resilient. He
had proved it when he escaped his homeland and had proved it again when he flew
against the Germans. Now, as he sat
tied to a wooden chair in a dark room somewhere in London, he doubted that
resilience.
The door opened and a light switched on.
Two black-clad soldiers, their collars bearing the double crooked
runes of the SS and their helmets the death’s head, stepped in.
Conrad’s stomach tightened; those were the people that oppressed his country.
The two SS men stopped and behind them
a third man in army grey –Feldgrau
the Germans called it – entered. He too was
SS and the leaf on the collar denoted him as a general of
Gruppenfuhrer. His hair was silvery grey and his build
athletic, he was tall and his boots gleaming.
“Morning, I am General Kitz of the SS-GB.”
Conrad didn’t reply. “I am investigating
terror activities against the people of this land. You are no doubt behind them
– or at least you are one of them. A tree has many branches, yes?” Kitz removed
his gloves. “Silence will do you no good, what is your name?”
“Ball.”
The clenched voice of Conrad made Kitz smile.
“What is your first name
Herr
Ball?”
“Hitler has only got one.”
It sunk in Kitz and the SS general went red;
he slapped Conrad across the face. “Insolence will not be tolerated!”
Conrad bit his lip and fell silent. Kitz
glowered. “The arresting soldiers reported you spoke a foreign tongue, one
speculated it was Czech. Now, with Czechoslovakia being a province of the
Greater German
Reich this means you are an enemy of the state,
for no doubt you are a Czech.”
“Go to hell,” Conrad swore. “One day all
Europe will be free of Nazi tyranny.”
Kitz nodded and stepped back.
Here, the torture began with German efficiency. It would last hours and
with Nazi precision, be as hurtful and as damaging as possible. During the
torture Conrad fainted and the torture halted until he woke, then they would
continue until he fainted again. The process was continuously repeated until
morning.
“October 4, 1940.”
Between October 1 and October 4, the Germans
rounded up and executed forty known members of the British Resistance. In that
time also, the resistance – now morphing into its French equivalent – killed
twenty German soldiers in a bomb attack in Dover and destroyed three German fuel
dumps at Portsmouth, Brighton and Folkestone.
Hitler ordered the invasion for the remainder
of Britain for October 20 before winter settled in, although the winter of
Britain was tame compared to most.
Hitler had in mind the invasion of Russia. He needed Britain eliminated
so that he had no thorn in his back whilst fighting Russia. The codename for the
continuation of the invasion was Operation
Phoenix. As the
Germans sent in two more Armies into the Occupied Zone, and Halifax complained
to no end, the British Resistance and British-American Coalition geared for
further action.
“Park Crescent, Northwest London”
The buildings at Park Crescent in Marylebone
were formed in a curve, indeed like a crescent. They might look posh in
appearance, but in this dreary time of occupied London, they were either empty
or home to squatters. In the second building’s basement, Bradley Holden and
Dianne Simms stood over a map of Central London. Pins marked areas searched by
Metcalfe, Svenson, Karen and Dianne for Conrad.
The American scratched his unshaven chin.
“We’ve checked everywhere, even the
Gestapo
chambers at Whitehall.”
“Maybe he’s in the Tower of London,”
suggested Dianne. “It’s not that fantastical a suggestion, I’ve heard that the
Gestapo
have places there.”
Mentally, Holden pictured the medieval castle
by Tower Bridge on the Thames’ northern bank he had seen a couple of times on
forays into the city both before occupation and after. That area of London, The
City, was now in the Occupied Zone. Tower Bridge had four large swastika banners
hanging from its upper walkways; the Tower of London was festooned with medieval
styled swastikas.
“Damn.”
There was a knock at the door; Bradley and
Dianne looked at each other. Bradley took to the stone steps leading to the
hallway saying, “I’ll answer. If we don’t, then it’ll be suspicious.”
He opened the door and gasped in surprise.
“Conrad!”
Dianne pushed past Bradley as the
battered-looking Czech pilot collapsed gratefully into her arms; the door still
open Dianne cradled him as he sagged. Bradley looked down at Conrad; not a bit
of his face was untouched by either a cut or bruise. No doubt the rest of his
body was covered in the same way.
“You look like hell, buddy.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Conrad. His brown eyes
found Dianne’s. “Germans, coming.” His voice was suddenly dry.
Dianne frowned. “What?”
“They’re coming.”
The voice had become raspy and the two words
hung in the crisp air. Bradley whirled to run for the basement; down there was
his Colt handgun. As he did, bullets stitched the hallway wall and there came a
shout. “Halt!”
Dianne held Conrad tighter as the Czech began
to weep. “They tortured me, I’ve betrayed you all. I’ve betrayed you all.
Forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” she whispered fiercely as
the troopers stormed into the building.
“Do not move,
fraulein,” one said
in accented English. She stayed still, then the soldier was pitched backwards as
bullets tore into his chest. Bradley killed a second soldier before the third
sprayed him with an Schmeisser machine gun pistol. Dianne closed her eyes as
blood exploded in fountains from Bradley’s
The soldier who had killed Bradley Holden,
Royal Air Force, looked sadly down at Dianne who felt his gaze and met it.
Tears stung his eyes. “I do not like
killing.”
“In war, there are such that we do,” she said
and waited to be led into captivity. Bradley had got off lucky by being shot
dead. Ho doubt the
Gestapo
would wait in line for
her.
Rounding Park Crescent were Paul Metcalfe and
Adam Svenson; the two pilots had left Karen Wainwright and Juliette Pontoin at a
room in the Savoy where two resistance members from Luton would meet them.
They paused suddenly as they saw
the
Wehrmacht
lorry –a captured Bedford –and
Dianne being led into it by German soldiers, followed by a sullen Conrad. The
Germans then lifted two dead comrades and headed towards the lorry.
“They used Conrad as bait. The poor bastard
must’ve been beaten black and blue,” whispered Adam.
“They might know where other cells are, but I
doubt it,” Metcalfe murmured. “We don’t know many others.”
“Easy for you to say, they’ve got them…”
Adam’s voice trailed off as they saw a casually clothed body gathered from
inside the Park Crescent building. “Bradley,” he moaned mournfully.
Metcalfe could not help but feel tears. He
blinked them away; how many of his squadron would he loose before this war was
over?
Svenson and Metcalfe collected two bicycles
locked to the railings opposite to the buildings. As the small German entourage
headed east, the pilots headed north.
With Karen and Juliette back in Luton, Henri
Verdain and Edward Wilkie seconded elsewhere, Conrad and Dianne prisoner,
Bradley, Seymour and others dead, Metcalfe and Svenson were truly on their own.
Safe to say the last dregs of the unit once known as Spectrum Squadron. They
didn’t know what had happened to the squadron’s adjutant, Troy Tempest – they
had left him behind on invasion day. They even know less of what might had
happened to Group Commander Charles Gray.
The years ahead now indeed seemed wasted
breath to Paul Metcalfe as he cycled with Svenson into London’s suburbs and
closer to friendly lines. Eventually, they turned into a park with dense trees;
the area seemed like the park that time forgot. Fortunately for the two, it was
also the park that the Germans forgot.
Leaving their bikes, they walked a short
distance to a clump of grass. Birds chirped somewhere as Metcalfe whipped back
the grass to reveal a wingtip; with Adam’s help, he kept pulling it back to show
a Supermarine Spitfire Mark I. He then helped Adam and together they uncovered
two Spits. One had been Adam’s since France, the other Paul’s replacement
aircraft since being shot down shortly before the invasion.
“What are we doing, Paul?” asked Adam in
equal tones.
“Taking the fight directly to the enemy.”
“You can’t be serious, the push south isn’t
expected until the end of the month.”
“This isn’t about the offensive,” Metcalfe
said grimly. “Its about our friends.”
“Paul,” Adam Svenson was almost whispering.
“We’ll get Conrad and Dianne back.”
“What about Bradley? Hmm?” snapped Metcalfe.
“No, this time they’ve had it coming. The Germans, I mean.” He snarled and
turned his back on Adam. “No more defensive action.”
Adam walked to his Spit and climbed into the
cockpit after lowering the side door; he started the engine – the Merlin coughed
and caught. Metcalfe whirled and Adam waved. “Come on, you Limey.”
“One moment.”
Merlin’s echoing around the park, the two
pilots moved forward. Gradually, they picked up speed and, retracting
undercarriage, followed the park as it curved upwards.
Metcalfe winged up into the air rolling onto his back and dived;
Adam copied his move and together they levelled out, following a perfect roll to
the right way up. Already, they were flying into North London but continued onto
the city’s centre. As they did, Londoners that saw them cheered them on. The
sight of roundels and indeed, Spitfires – that symbol of freedom – raised hopes.
But realistically, what could two Spits do against the occupying Germans?
Rounding above Oxford Street, Metcalfe
sighted a marching column of soldiers on the street. “Blue, down below.”
“Lead the way, Scarlet,” came the
scratchy reply.
Metcalfe came down on the street from Oxford
Circus; Adam followed a couple of seconds later. The two Spits roared down the
street; Metcalfe opened fire and cut a swathe down the soldiers. Those who
didn’t fall scattered like ants. Svenson swept the road behind Metcalfe.
Rifles cracked but they didn’t hit the Spits
nor did their sound puncture the cockpits. Metcalfe just missed a lamppost and
soared above Selfridges on the corner of Baker and Oxford Streets. The Spits now
had been reported by a panicky Non-Com to the nearby
Luftwaffe
base at Northolt. Fighters were scrambled.
The Spits came back one last time, their
cannons eating up stretches of road and destroying a red phone box in which the
Non-Com had phoned. Continuing over Oxford Circus, Metcalfe saw someone on the
railing by the Underground sign. He just made out what the person was doing with
his fingers.
V. For Victory.
Smiling and pulling skywards with Adam, Paul
wagged his wings in salute and then executed a victory roll. They were gone
before the
Luftwaffe
could arrive.
Chapter
Eleven
“October 7, 1940”
Dianne Simms’ trousers were tatters of what
they had been when she had been thrown into the small dungeon cell in the bowels
of the Tower of London. Her sweater was more intact, her long red hair matted
with dirt and sweat. In the three days of imprisonment, she had been first
slapped about by
Gruppenfuhrer
Kitz and then ‘interrogated’ by
two female SS auxiliaries. She shivered as she remembered what she endured.
Instead, she tried to picture
The screams from next door were enough to
fill her cell and in desperation she buried her head between her knees. The
screams were Conrad’s, they had to be.
The door to her cell was thrown open,
rebounding with a metallic thud of the stonewall. Her jailer came in, keys
jangling against his Luger and wielding a tray. “Food and drink,” he grunted
gutturally.
Dianne glanced at the tray as it was settled
and the jailer left. She took the small portion of bread and nibbled on it like
a rabbit; the orange juice was almost green and her stomach rebelled. Her eyes
caught the newspaper on the tray; they gave it as toilet roll. But the headline
– dated two days ago – was what attracted the Londoner’s attention.
TERROR FIGHTERS KILL VALIANT SOLDIERS!
She read the article and read how the
‘dastardly English cowards’ strafed a column of soldiers in London, braving the
lampposts and ‘small arms fire’ to kill. A picture had been caught showing two
Spitfires angling upwards; it was hazy but clear enough to show the markings.
“Paul! Adam!” she exclaimed.
The door was opened again and she threw the
newspaper down; it was Kitz and her stomach rebelled again.
“Morning,
Fraulein
Simms,” he
said courteously.
“Humph,” she grunted. Dianne could feel the
screams even if they had now stopped.
“I report to you that the invasion of the
rest of Britain has begun.” Kitz’s eyes gleamed. “We have also captured more of
your fellow freedom fighters. For your release, tell me where the terror pilots
are.”
Dianne blinked. First the news the Germans
were conquering the rest of Britain and now this question.
“Why would I know where they are?”
“We’ve done some checking through files in
the Air Ministry.” Kitz placated her with the coldest of stares. “There is a
squadron listed in the south of England known as Spectrum Squadron. They flew
Spitfires. The markings of the terror fighters matched two of those in the fact
sheet. We also saw that Spectrum’s control centre was nearby and you served
there. The rest seems straightforward,
Fraulein.”
Dianne stood, her legs shaking. “Never will I
betray my friends! Never!”
“The British spirit… I am however German.” He
advanced on her. “You will tell me, Dianne.”
Dianne backed against the cold unflinching
wall as much as she dared and then charged him; she didn’t know later why she
did –but she did it. The momentum garnered enabled her to knock
She knelt by him. “You bastard, never
underestimate the British character. What you and your fellow ‘Aryans’ have done
is nothing more than inhumane.” Dianne’s voice broke under the stress and so she
took the Germans’ gun belt. On the belt was a dagger, presented to SS officers
upon graduating into the Security Force. She took it; Kitz’s eyes followed the
blade. He didn’t have time to do anything.
Dianne made two quick motions
across his throat with the dagger and then cleaned the dagger, holstered
it and stole into the corridor. Her jailer was sleeping on a chair, head against
his chest and chair against the corridor wall. Dianne killed him as she had Kitz
and found his keys; she had to act fast least she get caught. Dianne unlocked
the cell by the dead jailer and sighted Conrad, the pilot literally battered
black and blue and lying on the floor.
“Dianne,” he gasped. She knelt by him and cradled his head to her
chest.
“Those bastards.”
Dianne went into the corridor and hurriedly
stripped the jailer down; she left the blood-stained vest behind and dressed
Conrad in the rest of the uniform. “We can get out, make for No Man’s Land. Hope
the Germans haven’t reached it.”
He stood by himself and murmured, “Let’s get
a vehicle.”
“Right,” she answered and they walked out.
They passed no one and when they did, Conrad used enough strength to declare he
had orders to move her to a new prison.
They were faraway in their ‘borrowed’ car
when the alarm sounded.
In response to the German invasion of the
Unoccupied Zone, the Americans and British as well as Commonwealth troops
consisting of Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders waited, and then during
the night charged into the No Man’s Land north and just northwest of London.
They met the Germans twenty miles from North London and fought them hard, the
fighting grew intense as the Allies drove them out of the occupied lands. This
fight would not be an easy one.
Spectrum Squadron’s surviving members were
present in the liberation, except Conrad Turner who, after fighting for two
days, collapsed from injuries and spent the liberation in field hospitals.
It was November 5, 1940 that the Germans left
, almost two million were captured in a pocket at Dover, four million escaped
across the Channel before the US Air Force and US Navy secured control of the
narrow waterway. Resistance continued onto November 7. The liberation spelt the
end for Nazi Germany. Over the next few months, the Americans sent more men into
Europe. The invasion of Europe by the Allies started in June 1941 and although
initially unsuccessful, it caught the Germans off guard enough for the allied
troops to make gains.
The allies were able to invade Germany in
November 1941 and even the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour in December wasn’t
able to stop them. The disintegration of the German Army had begun in England
and now was coming to an end.
Although the Battle for Berlin lasted a
month, the German troops defending it, surrendered
followed by the rest of the Army.
Against the
Fuhrer’s wishes, on December
22, 1941. Hitler was captured by the Allied, but took cyanide whilst on route to
a prison held by the British.
The war ended with the whole of Germany
being occupied by the allied forces, New Year’s 1942.
The war on Japan ended in early 1943
following the destruction of the Japanese Navy and swift invasion of Japan by
joint American and British forces.
It was all over.
Epilogue
“London, November 1990”
I watched the last of the six Spitfires fly
above Westminster and disappear, engines throbbing and quietening. That had
marked the end of the celebrations commemorating the anniversary of liberation.
A column of veterans marched down past the Embankment; they would gather on
Horse Guard Parade for final celebrations. Queen Elizabeth II watched with tears
in her eyes; she remembered how her father had been imprisoned in the Tower of
London until liberation. He had
died in 1944 from his mistreatment at the Nazis’ hands.
After the march ended, I worked my way
through the crowd to the RAF memorial dedicated to those in the Battle of
Britain and subsequent invasion/liberation. The memorial was made of shiny black
marble, with a pilot in mid-run atop the monument and a Spitfire and Hurricane
next to it in smaller marble. There were ten columns of names that stretched
down the five-foot length of the monument and across six feet between emblems. I
ran my finger over the grooved names and eventually came to golden words that
read –RAF AIRCREW IN RESISTANCE AND LIBERATION DUTIES – SEPTEMBER-DECEMBER 1940.
It was here I found their names, as they
should be.
Pilot Sergeant Adam Svenson DSO, DFC (Finland)
Pilot Officer Henri Verdain DFC, AFC (France)
Pilot Sergeant Edward Wilkie DSO, DFC and Bar (Australia)
Squadron Leader Paul Metcalfe DSO, DFC, AFC (United Kingdom)
Pilot Officer Conrad Turner DSO, VC (United Kingdom)
Good to see them all listed, Adam still known
as a Finn. He lives in Boston now, with his wife Karen. Frenchman Henri had
earned his AFC actions in the liberation of France, had become becoming a
fashion designer and sadly, died a few years ago. Edward Wilkie, still Winky to
his friends, stayed in Britain after the war and returned to medicine in
England.
His
sons all fly in the RAF and are out east at the moment. Conrad Turner was one of
six Victoria Crosses earned during the liberation. He earned it for his actions,
testament of character and fighting on after recovering from injuries. He
married Dianne soon after and stayed in the RAF until 1945. They had six
children.
Finally, my dear father Paul Metcalfe. Before
being posted to the invasion forces, he spent the intervening months marrying
Juliette, reforming Spectrum and trying to find Group Commander Charles Gray. He
eventually found Gray, but unfortunately too late. Gray had been separated from
the WAAFs after reaching their train at Fratton for Birmingham. Captured by the
Germans, he was transferred to the Channel Island of Alderney, which had been
transformed into a concentration camp in its brief occupation under the Germans.
He died there and was buried by his fellow prisoners.
My father fought on, earning a Distinguished
Service Order for leading Spectrum on a daredevil mission into occupied Norway.
He stayed in the RAF to train pilots after the war, but retired to work for Adam
Svenson’s fledgling law firm in Britain. I was the youngest of the Metcalfe
seven children, and it was often said I resemble my father greatly.
I stood back from the memorial and then felt
a hand on my back. Turning I smiled at the man standing there.
“James.”
James Turner looked just like his father; we
first met a few years ago at a Spectrum Squadron reunion. James, unlike me, was
in the Royal Navy. He had flown Harriers during the brief Falkland war. We shook
hands. “Thought you’d be here, haven’t seen your father.”
“He’s coming to the dinner gathering at the
palace tonight,” I answered. “Something I can do for you?”
James nodded. “My father wants to see you,
he’s by the Cenotaph.”
James led me to the Cenotaph on Whitehall;
although the Cenotaph was in the middle of the road we were able to cross
easily. Dozen of flowers littered the steps of the monument and I watched my
feet. A red-haired young woman was supporting a white-haired man; they were
facing the flags of the Royal Navy, Royal Air Force and Army. They turned as
James called. “Father.”
Conrad Turner looked a little frail but the
fire that had kept him going to
eventually see Czechoslovakia free was still in his eyes. I recognised
the woman as Conrad’s younger daughter.
Rhapsody was her name. Her full name was Rhapsody McKnight – she had
married in college but it fell through soon after – she was attractive and like
her mother. I thought Rhapsody was a nice enough name.
“Adam,” said Conrad in a strong voice. I was
named after Adam Svenson, my godfather. “I am glad to see you. How is Paul?”
“He’s fine.” I repeated what I told James
about the banquet at Buckingham Palace. “What is it that you wish to see me
about, Mr Turner?”
“Firstly, you’re Paul’s son and I’ve known
you for thirty years. Secondly, I have something that I want you to give to your
father.”
He retrieved an envelope from his pocket, and
handed it to me. I felt something hard inside and also some paper.
Conrad explained, “It’s a letter from Troy
Tempest and a photograph.”
I felt some excitement, the Spectrum adjutant
had vanished after the war’s conclusion. No one knew where he went. I took the
photograph out and saw six men crowding round a Spitfire’s wingtip. I recognised
my father pointing to something on the wing and Conrad in mid-nod. I turned it
over and saw a scrawled piece of writing.
Spectrum Squadron. RAF Hornchurch,
Kent, September 1940.
“It was taken by an Erk that was waiting to
refuel our Spits,” Conrad went on. “As with many events in the war, he ended up
serving with me and mentioned something about it. It wasn’t until recently I got
it. As for Troy, he survived the
war but died in a motoring accident in 1950. Damned shame, he was a good man.”
I pocketed the letter and photo. “You are
coming to the banquet?”
“Mm-hmm, but I wanted you to give it to Paul.
I’ll see him, but you know...” He looked to Rhapsody after finishing the line.
“We may as well go to Horse Guard.”
“Are you coming, Adam?” asked Rhapsody.
“Yes, I’ll walk with you.”
I walked with the Turners to Horse Guard and
amongst the gathered veterans, we came across my father and mother. Paul
Metcalfe had aged since and looked weak, but he was well enough. James went to
talk with Juliette, Rhapsody and I hung back as the two comrades exchanged
emotional embraces.
“In war, comrades strengthen their bonds,”
murmured Rhapsody and I nodded gently. We watched them talk and I could see my
father using his right hand to describe a manoeuvre. I nodded once more and
smiled at Rhapsody.
“That they do,” I replied and looked to the sky in time to see the
Red Arrows roar overhead.
The memory of Spectrum Squadron would live on
for some time, that much was certain.
END
____________ Title art and widescreen background image taken from Xbox game "Blazing Angels: Squadrons of World War II".
BACK TO
“FAN FICTION ARCHIVES” PAGE OTHER CAPTAIN SCARLET STORIES BY MATT CROWTHER
Any comments? Send an
E-MAIL to the
SPECTRUM HEADQUARTERS site.
|