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 Like Father Like Son Part Eight



   December 1939 - The Bore War

   The hut was freezing despite the efforts of the pot-bellied stove that
glowed cherry red in the darkness.  David groaned as he woke and someone
snapped on the lights.

   "All right you lot, hands off cocks and on with your socks.  Let's be
having you, gentlemen!  Parade outside, working dress, twenty minutes."

   The door slammed as Sergeant Rutter crashed his way out and down the
path to the next hut where his voice could be heard repeating the same
instructions to the inmates, like some absurd echo.  David flopped out of
bed and stood in his pyjamas, blinking in the harsh light.  The others,
too, were getting up and they stared at each other with bemused
expressions. David grabbed the wash bag and towel from his bedside locker
and made his way out to the ablutions.  He showered and shaved quickly and
hurried back into the main room to dress.

   "For crying out loud!  D'you know, it's only 4.30!  Don't they have any
consideration?"

   Mark Chapman sounded deeply aggrieved.  David had to smile.  Typical
Mark!  All the same, it was unusual.  He dressed and started to make up the
bed in its 'boxed' blankets.  He didn't have to think about it any more, it
was a reflex action.  Sometimes he would pause and wonder at how quickly he
seemed to have been absorbed into this new life but for most of the time he
was either too busy or too tired.  War had changed everything.  The tight
discipline had been replaced by a sense of urgency.  David and his fellows
had found themselves plunged into basic flying training within days of the
declaration of war.  They had done their initial flying in open-cockpit
biplanes, Tiger Moths, that his father would have been totally at home in.
They had flown every available hour permitted by the weather and at times
the sky had seemed so full of aeroplanes, he'd had the feeling he could
have walked across the sky using them as stepping stones.

   David had loved every second of his time in the air.  Eight of his entry
had been 'chopped' already - sent home, unable to make the grade, and the
one topic of conversation in the hut each evening was the dread prospect of
being thrown out.  Aubrey Maitland was definitely struggling.  On the
ground, he was all easy confidence but he froze once airborne.  He confided
in David that it wasn't a question of being afraid of flying but that he
was terrified of failing.  David sympathised; everyone felt the same. 
Aubrey was convinced he was next for the chop.  Now, after forty flying
hours, Aubrey was just starting to relax and his instructor had given him
the glad tidings that he thought Aubrey 'just might make it after all.'

   Mark Chapman, by contrast, had proved himself to be a 'natural' and had
been the first to go solo.  David was somewhere in the middle, slow to
start with but improving rapidly.  His instructor encouraged him to fly
more gently, not to overpower the aircraft.  He had been clumsy at first,
his feet had seemed too big for the rudder pedals and his movements were
exaggerated.  The tiny Tiger Moth had lurched about the sky to accompanying
bellows of anguish from the instructor in the rear seat.  He had settled
down, though, and now felt that he had begun to 'feel' the aeroplane
instead of trying to master it.  He finished his bed-making and stood back.
The others were ready now and they moved outside into the freezing
darkness. A mob of cadets was slowly organising itself into a semblance of
order and once they had formed up, Sergeant Rutter marched them off to the
parade square.  A small group of officers waited for them, huddled against
the cold.  They straightened visibly as the cadets marched on and formed up
to their front.

   It soon became clear to the cadets that this break with normal routine
signalled something momentous.  The officers were now holding a hurried
conference, sheaves of paper were being consulted and there was much arm
waving and urgent whispering.  At last, the senior officer, Squadron Leader
Bridges, moved forward.

   "Good morning, gentlemen.  So sorry to have dragged you from your beds
at such an ungodly hour but, you see, there is something of a flap on.  We
have been ordered to send your entry elsewhere for advanced flying
training. Some of you will be going to 6 SFTS, Little Rissington and some
to 14 SFTS, Kinloss and the remainder to 15 SFTS, Lossiemouth.  Transport
leaves at 0730.  Fall out when your names are called and get your kit
packed.  I'm going to call the Little Rissington contingent first."





   Aubrey Maitland's name was called for Little Rissington and he shrugged
as he walked away.  David and Mark Chapman were both selected for
Lossiemouth in Scotland.

   "Harvards," said Mark.  "They fly Harvards at Lossiemouth.  Little
Rissington does too, of course but they also have Ansons.  Looks like we're
going to be single-seater pilots, David."

   "Golly, I hope so!  I'd hate to spend the war stooging around in a
bomber - far too dangerous!"

   Aubrey Maitland looked desolate.

   "I can't believe they're splitting us up.  I bet I get Ansons."

   "They have Harvards at Little Risington, too, you know." David did his
best to cheer him up.

   "I know, but I'm such a ropey pilot, they're bound to give me the big
stuff.  Of course, Chapman's the ace of the base.  He's bound to be a
fighter pilot."

   "Jealous are you, Maitland?  How unbecoming."

   "Leave it out you two.  Aubrey, Mark can't help it if he is a natural. I
expect that I'll soon get found out and posted to Risington or somewhere to
convert to the big stuff, too."

   They completed their packing is silence.  Mark and Aubrey exchanged
glares and David made sure he stood between them whenever possible.  The
animosity between the two young men had grown worse during their flying
training.  Aubrey resented Mark's ability.  David came to the conclusion
that Aubrey was something of a snob and that Mark's humbler origins were
seen as an affront to Aubrey's aristocratic ego.  As a consequence, David
had become less friendly with Aubrey and closer to Mark.  Mark never
flaunted his superior ability and was always willing to offer encouragement
to those for whom flying did not come as naturally.  David liked it that
Mark never offered advice - that would have been to rub salt in already
tender wounds.  Instead, he would claim that he was just lucky to have been
placed with such a good instructor.  It was also noticeable that Mark was
no longer getting himself in trouble.  Now the serious business had begun,
he worked with a will.

   The long journey northward took almost two days.  The trainee pilots
were crammed into a couple of compartments of an ancient railway carriage
that seemed to have been added as an afterthought to a slow goods train. 
They then spent a cold and very uncomfortable six hours on Edinburgh's
Waverly Station, waiting for the connecting train to take them to Elgin. 
At Elgin they were met by transport to take them to No 15 Service Flying
Training School.  The aerodrome at Lossiemouth and its neighbour at Kinloss
had been only been open since the spring of that year and consequently,
they were delighted to find the Officers' Mess building was modern, warm
and comfortable.  David and Mark signed in.  Acting Pilot Officers Chapman
and Riley 'on posting' and grinned at each other.  Now the really serious
business could begin.

   ************************

   Back home in Dorset, Peter was experiencing another bout of intense
frustration.  Since the declaration of war, he had been trying to get back
in uniform.  He'd hoped that his engineering expertise would now be
recognised and that he could be of some service to the RAF.  Once more, he
found his pleas falling on deaf ears.  Someone in the Air Ministry was
pathologically opposed to the technology of fuel injection; that was the
only conclusion.  Pinky Harris hadn't been able to help much.  Bomber
Command had been in action since the first day and Pinky had been kept
busy. In the brief conversation that Peter had managed to have with Pinky,
he learned that the politicians were still interfering with the RAF's
efforts.  No bombs were to be dropped on Germany in case 'private property'
was destroyed.  Bomber Command was limited to dropping leaflets urging the
German people to overthrow Hitler and come to their senses.  The only raids
of note had been anti-shipping strikes.  The Blenheims and Wellingtons had
showed themselves to be vulnerable to the German fighter defences and the
bomb loads carried were too small to inflict serious damage.

   Only the Royal Navy seemed to be taking the war seriously.  Already they
had experienced both triumph and disaster.  The German pocket battleship,
Graf Spee, had been run to earth off Montevideo by a Royal Navy Cruiser
force and, after a sharp sea-fight, had sought respite in the port.  Her
captain, mistakenly believing the smaller British ships had been
reinforced, had scuttled the ship rather than resume the battle.  It was
being hailed everywhere as a great victory and welcome news for the first
Christmas of the war.  Churchill, recalled to the government as First Lord
of the Admiralty, was cock-a-hoop.  Less pleasing was the loss of the
aircraft carrier, HMS Courageous, torpedoed in the Irish Sea by the German
submarine, U29, with heavy loss of life.

   Worse was to follow.  On the night of Friday 13th October, U47,
commanded by Gunther Prien, penetrated the main fleet anchorage at Scapa
Flow and torpedoed the battleship Royal Oak.  Prien had made his getaway as
skilfully as his daring attack and returned to a hero's welcome in Germany.
Over 830 British sailors had died.  It was already clear that the U-Boat
menace would be every bit as dangerous in this new war as it had been in
the last.  In the opening three months of the war, the Royal Navy had
managed to destroy seven enemy submarines with a further two being lost to
mines.  On the debit side, the Royal Navy had lost two capital ships and
many, many merchant ships.  If nothing very much was happening in France,
the Navy already knew this was no 'phoney war.'

   ***********************

   Michael's squadron flew standing patrols and continued training hard for
the battle to come.  There was still much dissatisfaction with the Blenheim
F1.  It was fast enough to take on unescorted German Bombers but already,
in training exercises against the Hurricanes of 56 Squadron, it was shown
to be relatively ponderous and no match for a modern true fighter.  56
Squadron had endured troubles of their own.  In the infamous 'Battle of
Barking Creek' in September, they had lost two aircraft to the Spitfires of
74 Squadron sent to intercept them following a mistake by the radar
operators of 'Chain Home.' This led to the invention of an 'Identification
Friend or Foe' system.  The RAF hurriedly fitted these IFF devices to all
its aeroplanes and it was now common to hear a controller instruct an
unidentified aircraft to "squawk your parrot."

   The pilots were getting used to the battle control system that 'Stuffy'
Dowding was rapidly now perfecting.  Sir Hugh Dowding may not have been the
best squadron commander in the Royal Flying Corps in Peter's day, but he
had come into his own as the Commander of RAF Fighter Command.  The command
was organised into three Groups numbered 11, 12 and 13.  11 Group covered
the whole of the south of England and Wales.  12 Group then covered the
Midlands and East Anglia, where most of the bomber bases were situated, and
13 Group was responsible for the north of England and Scotland.  Each Group
was divided into sectors with a main RAF base designated as the 'sector
airfield.' Each sector airfield had a number of fighter airfields under its
control.

   The key to Dowding's defensive plans was the 'Chain Home' radar system.
This had been augmented by a further system called 'Chain Home Low,' which
covered the identified gap in the main system.  Whilst radar was in its
infancy, the Chain Home systems gave the fighters valuable warning and
could, in the hands of a skilful operator, provide quite detailed
information on numbers of enemy aircraft as well as height and bearing.  It
was then up to the ground controllers to 'vector' the fighters to intercept
an incoming enemy.  The system had already proved its worth with successful
interceptions of German bombers over Scotland and the east coast of
England.

   Dowding's real worry was the number of trained pilots.  Aeroplanes,
particularly the Hawker Hurricanes, were now coming off the production
lines at a satisfactory rate.  The RAF had expanded rapidly during 1939 but
there was a serious shortage of experienced men to fly the new machines. 
This accounted for David's sudden removal from Cranwell to the North of
Scotland.  The RAF could no longer afford the luxury of extended training
periods.  Basic flying courses had been cut back to five weeks and advanced
training reduced to twelve weeks from fourteen.  A sense of urgency
pervaded everywhere but the Air Ministry, where red tape and bureaucratic
muddle were still the order of the day.  After three stultifying months,
Peter finally secured an interview for the 28th December in London.  Bethan
was relieved.  It had been like living with a ticking time bomb.  Now, she
hoped, Peter would be satisfied at last.

   She dreaded the idea of having all 'her men' involved in the war but was
astute enough to know that Peter would never settle for the status of
casual observer.  Albert was far more philosophical:

   "I don't have the Captain's 'ighly developed sense of duty, Missus.  If
they want me, well, they know where to find me."

   Bethan wished that Peter could be similarly relaxed and let things take
their course.  She had the strong feeling that this war would be over no
quicker than the last one.  She also sensed that everyone would have a part
to play before the end.  If someone had questioned her on this, she would
have been able to give only the vaguest of answers.  The world had changed,
was all that she knew.  The twenty-one years between the wars had seen
seismic shifts in society and technological innovations happening at a
frenetic pace.  Back in 1914, when she had first volunteered her services,
aeroplanes were considered a novelty, radio communication was embryonic and
even motorcars were a comparative rarity.

   Now, every home in the land seemed to have a radio set, aeroplanes were
flying at the phenomenal speed of 400 mph and there were motor vehicles
cluttering up the roads wherever one looked.  The old social order of
squire and villager, master and servant had vanished with an entire
generation in the trenches and mud of the Western Front.  Britain had even
had a socialist government - something utterly unthinkable before the First
War, as people were starting to call it.  There was a very different mood.
The wild, uninformed patriotism of 1914 was no longer evident.  No crowds
had thronged the London streets on September 3rd 1939.  Instead, there had
been a sombre acceptance of the inevitable.  To Bethan, this did not signal
a lessening of love for one's country in any way.  It was more a case of
the country having grown up, she felt.  The experiences of four terrible
years had touched every home in the land.  Now it was starting all over
again, well, small wonder if there was less enthusiasm than in those
far-off days of innocence and ignorance.

   She found the change welcome.  It accorded with her own mood.  She saw
Hitler's Germany as something loathsome and evil.  The pillaging and
destruction of first Czechoslovakia and then, in far more dreadful
circumstances, Poland, was an act of barbarism perpetrated by a madman. 
Much as she hated the idea of war, she accepted its necessity.  If we don't
stop them, who will?  That was the way most people put it.  There was no
shortage of confidence in the country; that was for sure.  At the same
time, and possibly as a result of Peter's influence, she could not quite
suppress the sinking feeling that perhaps this confidence was somewhat
misplaced.  In her darker moments she was consumed by doubts and felt the
icy touch of fear; fear for her children and her husband.  It was all very
well for Peter to say he was too old for flying duties.  She knew her man
and if there was any way he could find to play an active part in the coming
struggle, she had no doubt he would be there at the forefront yet again.

   Most of all she feared for David.  Michael was self-sufficient somehow,
a law unto himself.  David, on the other hand, she felt was vulnerable.  He
was such a gentle soul.  In many ways he reminded her more of Phillip than
anyone else.  There was that innate sense of fairness, a willingness to see
the other person's point of view.  He lacked a little of Peter's steely
resolve.  Then there was Phillipa.  What would become of her?  Her heart
lurched at the thought of Phillipa having to endure the pain and loss that
she had been through when Phillip had died.  And yet this was likely. 
Almost all eligible young men would be in the forces and already there had
been casualties from among the families in the village and the Army hadn't
even begun to fight!  How terribly wasteful it all was.

   At other times she was proud of her sons; proud to have two young men in
the Air Force, ready to defend their loved ones and their country.  It was
all so confusing.  Peter didn't really understand - couldn't.  He saw
everything in terms of duty.  Duty, the curse of his generation!  Duty had
led them to hang on the barbed wire, to burn in a fiery comet-tail across
the skies of France or to drown in the icy waters of the oceans.  She was a
harsh mistress, this duty.  Where did love and the comfort of family come
into it all?  Nowhere, that's where!  So she kept her counsel and endured
in silence, weeping soundlessly in her bed after Peter had gone to sleep,
as doubts and fears assailed her.

   February 1940 Pieces on the board

   David glanced up as he heard the snarl of the Harvard's engine.  Someone
had ballsed-up their approach and was having to go round again.  He could
picture the scene perfectly.  First there would be the cold voice of the
instructor:

   "I have control."

   The poor student would then have to suffer a blistering tirade
enumerating every single mistake made.  Then the instructor would hand back
control and another attempt, further hampered by shattered confidence,
would begin.  The attrition rate amongst the student pilots was high.  Some
were sent to nearby Kinloss to try their luck on the twin-engined Airspeed
Oxfords or Avro Ansons.  Others, less fortunate, were offered only the
option of re-mustering as Equipment Officers or similar.  David had already
resolved that, if his name was called for the chop, he would not stay with
the Air Force but would join the Army instead.  What was the point of being
in the Air Force if one couldn't fly?  He might accept becoming a navigator
at a pinch but it wouldn't be the same.  His heart was set on being a
fighter pilot.

   He had learned to respect the North American Harvard advanced trainer.
It was a hell of lot more sophisticated than the Tiger Moths he learned to
fly on.  It had a retractable undercarriage and a variable-pitch propeller
as well as five times the horsepower and enough vices to keep a pilot very
much on his toes.  The Harvard was also fully aerobatic and Peter had
learned the joy of throwing a responsive aeroplane around the sky.  His
instructor had constantly encouraged David to be very accurate in his
manoeuvres and had made him repeat the various evolutions over and over
until David felt he could do them in his sleep.

   Not that there seemed much time for sleep.  When there was no flying,
there was ground school and many of the students found this the most
onerous task of all.  David's years of playing with model aircraft stood
him in good stead.  He already knew much of the theory of aerodynamics and
impressed his tutors with his ready grasp of mechanical details.  Mark
Chapman managed well enough and David was always on hand to help out with
any complexities that Mark struggled with.  The two of them became
inseparable and spent what little free time was afforded to them in each
other's rooms, discussing the finer points of the day's lessons, their
flying experiences and the general state of the war.  David was also able
to snatch odd moments in which to write to Johanna.  This was the one part
of his life that he did not share with anyone.  Jo was his one release from
the toils of the day.  He had even managed to telephone her a few times and
he lived for the day he would see her again.  Now, over halfway through his
course, that day was drawing ever closer.

   ***************************

   Johanna had finished school the previous July and had immediately
announced her intention to join the Women's Auxiliary Air Force.  Her
parents vehemently opposed such a move.  They wanted her to continue her
education, her father harboured fond but vain hopes that she would be
attracted to a career in medicine.  Jo was not a girl to be put off easily
and her home life resembled nothing so much as guerrilla warfare as she
kept her determined campaign to be allowed to enlist in the forces.

   "But I want to do my bit, Mummy.  Loads of girls are joining the forces
now, you know.  I feel it is my duty."

   "There are plenty of other ways, dear.  All those girls do is menial
labour.  We didn't spend all that money on your education for you become to
a driver or a typist."

   "Well, if a girl does one of those jobs then it means that a man is
released to do something more useful!  Surely you must see, we're all
involved this time?"

   "Johanna, it's no good arguing with your mother about this.  When you
are twenty-one we will not be able to prevent you from doing as you wish.
Until that time, you are our responsibility and I forbid it.  That's flat."

   "But."

   "No 'buts' and no 'ifs,' Johanna.  You have my final word on the
subject. Anyway, I expect that we'll make peace soon and it will all be for
nothing."

   "Make peace?  How?  Daddy, you don't think the Germans are suddenly
going to change their minds and march out of Poland, do you?  You must know
that it's impossible to make peace with that horrid man.  Look at all the
promises he made and never kept."

   "There's a lot more to it than you understand.  All I know is that I
went through the last lot and I don't want to see it happening again.  I
would do anything in my power to stop this war.  If that means letting the
Germans have Poland, so be it."

   "What a dreadful thing to say!  How can you simply forget about all
those poor people?  And what about what they did to Warsaw?"

   "I don't want to see the same happen to London or Birmingham or even
Dorchester.  We can't stop bombers with fine sentiments, Johanna."

   "But we can help if we try.  That's why it's so important that we all do
our bit."

   "Enough!  The subject is closed."

   But it wasn't.  Johanna returned to it again and again.

   Peter was back in uniform.  He had accepted a commission in the rank of
Flying Officer - one down from his old RFC rank - but, if the truth were
known, he'd have enlisted as a lowly aircraftman simply to get involved. 
He wore his old RFC Observer's badge and First war medal ribbons with a
quiet pride.  As he had predicted to Bethan, he was considered too old at
44 for a flying appointment but had been pleased to be posted to the Head
Quarters of 12 Group, at RAF Watnall in Nottinghamshire, as a junior staff
officer.  He was due to take up his duties at the beginning of March and
was arranging with Bethan for them to move to a rented house nearby. 
Bethan had taken the news philosophically.  Her one concern was Beatrice,
who had gone downhill markedly over the last year and now seemed to be
living in the past permanently.  She scarcely recognised Bethan these days
and when she did, asked why Phillip never visited.  It broke Bethan's heart
to see how frail the old lady had become.

   After one such visit, she broached the subject with Peter:

   "Peter, I don't know what to do about Beatrice, do I?  She isn't at all
well, you know, and I dread to think what will become of her if we're not
around to keep an eye on things.  I feel like I'm abandoning her, see?"

   "I don't know what to suggest, my love.  We can ask old Hepworth-Lloyd
to keep an eye on her, I suppose."

   "I'm not sure it's a doctor she needs.  Maybe we could find her a
companion?  It would have to be someone we can trust, mind."

   "Anyone particular in mind?"

   "Well, now, I was thinking just the other day.  What about Marjorie
Hallam?  She's retired now and I think she would like something useful to
do.  She never married, you know."

   "I didn't realise you were still in touch.  Where is Sister Hallam these
days?"

   "She lives with her sister near Reading, isn't it?  I think I'll write
and ask if she's interested."

   Marjorie Hallam arrived a week later, as formidable as ever.  She hadn't
changed much to Peter's eye, perhaps a little stouter, and her hair, still
swept into a severe bun, was grey now.  But there was still that faintly
humorous twinkle in her eyes that belied her stern demeanour.  Bethan took
her to Pitton House and she immediately took charge in a very unobtrusive
but no nonsense fashion.  Beatrice, somewhat bewildered by the rapid turn
of events, was acquiescent.  Bethan felt a weight lifting from her as she
drove back home with Peter.  Beatrice would be well looked after, that was
for sure.  Now she could concentrate all her energies on supporting her own
family.

   ***************************

   At the end of that month, Michael's squadron scored their first success.
Two Blenheim F1s on patrol over the Thames estuary had been vectored to
intercept a German raider.  They shot down a Heinkel 111 that was
attempting to lay mines in the approaches to Tilbury docks.  Michael wasn't
involved, but he joined enthusiastically in the celebratory party that
followed.  For the first time in his life he was really enjoying himself.
War had lent an urgency, an immediacy to things that had always been
missing before.  He was learning to trust others a bit more.  His sense of
superiority had been severely challenged as the flying had intensified. 
The slight edge of danger thrilled him.  He didn't feel fear exactly.  It
was more a sense of heightened awareness.  His superiors noted the change
in his attitude approvingly.

   He would never be a popular member of the squadron.  His colleagues
found him somewhat disconcerting.  There was a brittleness about him that
made others wary.  It was as if he were barely contained, always teetering
on the edge of violence.  His rages were legendary.  Most of the time he
managed to remain silent, white faced, eyes blazing with murderous intent.
Very occasionally he was unable to restrain himself and would vent his fury
in a high-pitched voice, crackling with rage and dripping vitriol.  A
fighter squadron is a fairly tolerant place but there is little room for
prima donnas.  Michael learned this the hard way.  After one such episode
in a local pub he was seized bodily by a group of pilots and flung head
first into an adjacent pond to cool off.  That night he had prowled the
streets of Soho, looking for a prostitute to take out his anger and
frustration.  After the incident with Maisey, he found himself increasingly
drawn to rough sex and more than once his victims ended up in hospital
claiming to have 'fallen down stairs.'





   He heard the news of Peter's appointment to 12 Group with something like
disbelief.  He told anyone who could be bothered to listen that his
step-father was a washed up old 'has-been' who had no place in the modern
Air Force and would be soon be exposed as the liability that Michael knew
him to be.  He learnt to keep such opinions to himself when an elderly
reserve officer called 'Tiny' O'Rourke flattened him with a single punch
after Michael had ventured to suggest that 'dug-outs' (former offices
recalled to the service) were a waste of time.  O' Rourke's nickname was
ironic.  He was around six foot six and possessed of a temper to rival
Michael's.

   Michael avoided confronting him directly again but lost no opportunity
to goad the big man.  He was always careful, however, to do so only when
senior officers were present.  Now, with the war hotting up, he gave up on
such puerile pass-times and everyone was relieved.  The best news was yet
to come.  One morning, the Squadron Commander announced to the assembled
crews that the squadron was to re-equip with Hurricane Mk1s the following
month.  The pilots greeted the news with much enthusiasm.  Of course, it
would mean that the rest of the crews would have to be posted elsewhere,
but, to Michael, this was an added bonus.  Now the squadron was deemed
fully operational, they had already shed the navigators and were flying
with two man crews of pilot and wireless operator/air gunner.  Michael
suspected that the news would also be welcome in the Sergeants Mess by at
least one NCO.  His Wop/AG, Sergeant Braithwaite, was not exactly Michael's
greatest admirer and had insubordination down to a fine art.  Braithwaite
had been the target for Michael's rages too often.

   Had Michael but known it, the NCOs had received the news before the
pilots and a party of epic proportion was in full swing.  'Kiwi'
Braithwaite sank another pint of bitter and grinned at his mate, a black
Jamaican air gunner who went by the nickname 'Snowball.'

   "Christ, Snowy, old mate, it's the best news I've heard since getting
off the boat.  That little shit Mr Welford-fucking-Barnes can go root
himself blue."

   "Ya got your chit, yet, Kiwi, man?"

   "Yep, 264.  Defiants.  How 'bout you?"

   "'Cross the road, man.  600 Squadron.  More bloody gentlemen."

   "Ow!  Tough shit, mate.  At least 264 are proper Air Force and not
bloody nobs.  I reckon the Defiant's good kit, too."

   "Me, I prefer two engines, Kiwi, man.  One more to get you home when the
other gets shot up.  At least it will be better than bombers, man.  My pal
from Kingston, Alfie, he's on a Hampden squadron.  I don't give much for
his chances, man."

   "Too right!  Give me fighters any day.  The kiwi is not a nocturnal
bird, Snowy.  At least we get home for supper."

   "From what I heard, the kiwi can't fly at all, man.  The aerodynamic
properties of a brick."

   "True, my wise and educated friend.  I sometimes think I should have
remembered that when I get into the kite with that young prick."

   "Well, man, maybe you'll get somet'ing worse next time."

   "Christ, it's being so bloody cheerful keeps you going, mate.  Anyway, I
heard that it's the gunner that's the aircraft captain in a Defiant."

   "Tell that to the officers."

   The two men exchanged wry smiles.  The social order was very much
maintained in the 'Millionaires.' Kiwi Braithwaite had heard that, in
pre-war days, a prospective officer was deliberately encouraged to drink a
large amount of alcohol over dinner, to see if 'he still comported himself
like a gentleman.' The Auxiliary Air Force was too much like a gentlemen's
club for the taste of most regular servicemen and 'Empire' volunteers like
Kiwi and Snowball were considered way beyond the pale.  Kiwi had once
overheard Michael complaining to his flight commander:

   "Can't I at least get rid of that bloody man Braithwaite?  He doesn't
even speak a recognisable form of English, for God's sake!"



   Kiwi Braithwaite had stored this away and teased Michael mercilessly
over the intercom.

   "Tickle your arse with a feather, sir."

   "What?"

   "I said, particularly nasty weather, sir."

   "Braithwaite, if you have nothing sensible to say, pipe down."

   "Up yours, sir."

   "What did you say?"

   "I said, of course, sir."

   And so it went on.



   April 1940 Storm Warning

   "Riley!"

   Peter looked up from the 'plot' - a giant map of eastern and southern
England - and drew himself up to attention.  Wing Commander Adams stood in
front of him, his eyes just about level with Peter's chest.

   "Yes, sir?"

   "The balloon has gone up, Riley.  Norway is on."

   "Very good, sir.  I'll see to it right away."

   Peter's heart sank.  The government had been vacillating for weeks over
whether or not to land a force in Norway to secure the iron ore deposits
and prevent Germany from getting hold of this valuable source of raw
material.  From what Peter could gather, the idea was Churchill's. 
Chamberlain and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, had hesitated, afraid
of the impact on world opinion of occupying a small neutral country.

   "You should know, Riley.  Intelligence reports that the Huns look like
they've beaten us to it.  We're getting reports of a large German force
already on its way."

   "That doesn't sound too good sir."

   "Indeed it doesn't.  Still, make sure we hold our end up, Riley, there's
a good chap."

   "Of course, sir."

   Peter sighed inwardly.  In the six weeks since taking up his appointment
at 12 Group HQ, he had become increasingly aware that the country was still
not on a proper war footing.  It had more to do with the mentality than
anything else.  Too many people still believed that the Germans would wait
for the British to act, would somehow oblige in conforming to the laborious
British plans.  Once again, it appeared, the enemy had anticipated British
actions.  Peter had no doubt that the Wehrmacht would be ashore in Norway
before the British convoy carrying the troops had even sailed.  For all
Wing Commander Adams's sense of urgency, all Peter had to do was to warn 46
Squadron that they were now on standby for operations with the Royal Navy
in Norway.  He drafted the appropriate secure signal and handed it to one
of the WAAF clerks for transmission.  In due course, no doubt, someone
would come up with an aircraft carrier to ship the Hurricanes to the
battlefront.  He checked the air movement orders -copies of signals sent to
the various units of Fighter Command.  263 Squadron to embark HMS Glorious.
Fuck!  Gladiators!  They were sending biplanes to take on the most powerful
Air Force the world had ever seen!  He felt the touch of despair.

   Later that night, in bed, he spoke quietly while Bethan listened:

   "Things have to change soon, love.  We're playing at it.  Bombers can't
drop bombs; fighters aren't allowed to fight unless the Huns come over
here. We seem to lack the will for real war.  I bet the Hun high command
are laughing up their sleeves at us.  I bet they can't believe their luck!
If the time ever comes when they do attack us, about half of our pilots
will be totally new to the job."

   "Like Michael and David, you mean."

   "Uh, not so much Michael, he's got a fair few flying hours under his
belt by now, but like David, fresh out of training certainly."

   "So he doesn't stand much chance, is it?"

   "No, no, I didn't say that.  It's more that we could be preparing our
pilots so much better than we are.  Look at David.  Straight out of
training and straight to a squadron.  We should have some sort of programme
where the boys get to fly operational types before they ever see a real
front line unit."

   Bethan's silence was eloquent.  The realisation slowly dawned on Peter
that he had said the very words his wife least wanted to hear.  He wanted
to speak out, to reassure her but he knew instantly that the damage was
done.  David had recently joined 264 Squadron at RAF Martlesham Heath in
Suffolk and was now learning to fly the Boulton Paul Defiant fighter.  To
his disappointment, he had been told he was too tall for Hurricanes or
Spitfires.  He soon reconciled himself to the Defiant, however.  At least
it was a fighter and that was what he had set his heart on - to be a
fighter pilot.  Peter had reservations about the Defiant as a concept.  It
was a two seater with all the armament concentrated in a hydraulic turret
that sat immediately behind the cockpit.  The turret carried four browning
.303 machineguns.  Delays in production meant that there were only two
squadrons equipped with the Defiant.  It was slower than the Hurricanes and
Spitfires but faster and more manoeuvrable than the Blenheim F1s.  From
what Peter had seen and read so far, only the Spitfire was the true equal
of the German Me 109.

   **************************

   An improvement in the weather meant that David was able to spend every
possible moment getting to know his new aircraft.  Like most RAF Fighter
squadrons, 264 had an establishment of twelve aeroplanes but sixteen crews.
It was squadron policy not to match crews on a permanent basis so any pilot
could fly with any air gunner.  As luck would have it, David's first
pairing was another new arrival to the squadron, Sergeant 'Kiwi'
Braithwaite.  David had made a couple of flights 'in the back seat' and had
spent hours poring over the 'pilot's notes' for the Defiant.  Like the
Spitfire and Hurricane, it was powered by a Rolls-Royce Merlin Engine, and
was fitted with the De Havilland three-bladed variable pitch propeller.  It
was undoubtedly the most powerful machine that David had flown to date and
was a further step up from the Harvard trainer.  His flight commander
assured him that the Defiant was a well-mannered aircraft, easy to fly and
lightly responsive on the controls.  The time had come to put it to the
test.

   David took his time over all the pre-flight checks.  They were as yet
unfamiliar to him and he was conscious of the sergeant gunner's scrutiny.
David recognised that he was being weighed up - that was entirely to be
expected.  He just hoped he wasn't found wanting.  He gave the 'thumbs up'
to the waiting ground crew and he heard the clunk as the starter trolley
was engaged.  The Merlin coughed a couple of times and the cockpit filled
momentarily with blue exhaust fumes.  The engine picked up and he heard the
sweet snarl of the V12 Merlin.  He checked the magnetos and oil pressure
and temperature, gave another 'thumbs up' and stood hard on the brakes as
the chocks were removed from the undercarriage.

   The 'plane eased gently forward out of its blast pen and David waved
away the two airmen guiding the wingtips.  He spoke briefly to the
controller:

   "Harper, this is Blue two.  Single flight air test, over."

   "Blue two, Harper.  Clear to climb angels five, steer zero-ninety to
clear the coast, over."

   "Roger, Harper.  Any aircraft in the vicinity?"

   "Negative, blue two.  You're on your sweet little ownsome."

   "Roger, Harper, Blue two out."







   David selected 'fully fine' on the pitch control and opened the
throttle. The Defiant accelerated forward and David had the impression of
the earth rushing by as they hurtled down the strip.  He was dimly aware of
Kiwi Braithwaite humming a tune to himself.  He ignored the gunner for the
moment and concentrated hard on the controls.  The torque from the
propeller threatened to push the nose to one side and he applied a touch of
opposite rudder to keep the machine straight.  He felt the control surfaces
bite increasingly as the speed increased.  He deliberately held the 'plane
down until he was ten knots over the minimum take off speed before easing
back on the stick and letting the Defiant gently take to the air.  He
climbed slowly; there was no rush and visibility was very good, for a
change.  He reached the designated height of 5000 ft and throttled back,
made sure he was now in coarse pitch, and started to relax.

   "Nicely done, Skip."

   David almost jumped.  He had entirely forgotten that there was someone
else aboard.

   "Thank you, sergeant.  What should I call you, by the way?"

   "Well, Skip, you could call me Sergeant Braithwaite but that might be a
bit of mouthful if we ever get busy.  Most blokes call me 'Kiwi.' It's 'cos
I'm from God's own sheep farm, see?"

   David chuckled.  "Right-O, Kiwi it is then."

   "Suits me, Skip."

   Once clear of the coast, David called control again and received
permission to climb to 10,000 feet and start his test.  He eased the
Defiant through a variety of manoeuvres, slowly intensifying them as he got
used to the machine.  His flight commander was right; it was responsive and
didn't seem to have any vices that he could find.  Like most
propeller-driven aeroplanes, it would turn slightly quicker one way rather
than another, favouring the direction of the propeller's rotation, but it
wasn't unduly marked, as the Harvard had been.  David executed a half-loop
and roll off the top followed by a slow roll and then a few really tight
turns.  Kiwi was singing happily in the rear and when David finally
levelled out to head back to Martlesham, he asked if David wanted to test
the guns.  David readily agreed and they went around a few more times,
swinging the turret left and right and firing short bursts into the sea.

   The clatter of the guns seemed strangely muted to David although Kiwi
did assure him it was 'bloody deafening' back in the turret.  The recoil of
the guns made the airframe shudder and the 'plane seemed to twitch slightly
each time the turret swung.  Kiwi reassured him that this was normal for a
Defiant.  They were both well satisfied when the Defiant touched down back
at the base.  David's landing was a little bouncy but safe enough.  They
taxied back to the blast pens and handed the machine back to the tender
care of the ground crew.  David and Kiwi walked together to the flight hut.
Kiwi pulled out a packet of Players and they both smoked contentedly as
they walked.

   "So, what do you think, Skip?  She's a good old bus, ain't she?"

   "Lovely, Kiwi, just lovely."

   "First squadron, Skip?"

   "Yes, how about you?"

   "Posted in from the 'Toffs' at 601.  Didn't need any peasants once they
got their 'Hurribacks,' did they?  I wasn't sorry, mind."

   "My half brother's on 601, Michael Welford-Barnes, do you know him?"

   David sensed Kiwi Braithwaite stiffen beside him.  The sergeant's
demeanour changed instantly.

   "Yes, sir, I was on his crew."

   "Bad Luck, Kiwi," David kept his voice light.  "The man's a total shit."

   "You may say that, sir, I can only think it."

   "I preferred 'Skip,' Kiwi.  As I said, he's my half-brother.  We aren't
at all alike."

   "Well, Skip, you certainly don't look like him and, from what I can
tell, you don't act like him, neither."

   David laughed.  "Kiwi, if I ever start to act like Michael, turn the
turret round and blow my bloody head off, won't you?  Put me out of my
misery!"

   "Roger, Skip, will do!" It was Braithwaite's turn to laugh.

   **********************

   Michael flung the Hurricane into a steep turn and shouted aloud for joy.
By God, he loved this aeroplane!  Two thousand feet below and about a mile
away, the aged Avro Anson towing the target drogue appeared bang on the
nose of Michael's aeroplane.  He throttled back slightly as he eased the
stick forward and began his run on the target.  The last attempt had been a
failure as he'd come down far too fast and overshot wildly.  The Hurricane
was armed with eight Browning .303 machine guns, four in each wing.  The on
board ammunition was sufficient for only twenty seconds of sustained firing
so this called for short bursts of no more than three seconds each. 
Michael's guns were 'coned' for the stream of bullets to converge at a
range of 550 yards.  This meant opening fire slightly outside this range.
At an approach speed of 300 mph, the Hurricane covered a quarter of a mile
in the length of a single burst.  He opened fire on the towed drogue at
about 900 yards, leading the target by a fraction to compensate for the
Anson's stately progress.  The Hurricane staggered under the recoil of the
guns.  Michael pushed the stick further forward to dive sharply beneath the
target and pulled away in a climbing turn to start another run.

   He was already aware that he'd missed again.  Still coming in too fast!
He made one final pass, this time at 250 mph, and he had the satisfaction
of seeing the fabric of the drogue twitch as the bullets struck home at
last.  He waggled the Hurricane's wings at the retreating Anson and headed
for home.  His mind was in turmoil.  How the hell would he ever manage to
shoot down an enemy aeroplane that was dodging about all over the place
when he could barely hit a towed target flying straight and level?  He
resolved to view the on-board gun camera films and see if he could find a
solution there.  It was strange the way the target seemed to swell so
quickly once you began the attack.  Two or three miles out, everything
happened at a leisurely pace; once inside 1,000 yards, everything speeded
up, almost exponentially.  It was as though time suddenly compressed as
soon as he looked through the reflector gun site.

   As son as he landed, he instructed the ground crew to refuel and re-arm
the machine and made his way to the flight hut.

   "I've got to have another go, Boss."

   "Another, Michael?  That will be your fourth today.  There are still
three others waiting to take their third shot."

   "Yes, I understand.  It's simply that I need to get the hang of it,
d'you see?  Sometimes I think I'm almost there and then I go and find some
new way of ballsing the whole thing up."

   The squadron commander looked at him appraisingly.  Welford-Barnes had
definitely changed.  There had always been something driven about him but,
these days, he looked to have found a focus for his almost manic energy. 
All he wanted to talk about was flying.  He no longer baited his fellows
and was even heard to speak civilly to the ground crews.  The Squadron
Leader was also an Auxiliary Air Force man.  He had seen the change from
light-hearted self-indulgence to concentrated professionalism overtake many
of his pilots but Michael Welford-Barnes was something else again.  An
elderly member of the old, pre-war, squadron had once remarked that Michael
was not quite a gentleman.  Now, maybe, that might be a good thing.  He had
taken to the Hurricane like a duck to water.  If the truth were told he was
an outstanding pilot but, currently, he was a poor shot.



   "Very well, then, Michael.  You can go again.  Let Red Flight finish
their turn and follow on as arse-end Charlie.  I'll tell Bill there will be
four, this time."

   "Yes, sir.  And.  thank you, sir."

   The Royal Air Force standard fighter formation at this time was for a
'vic' of three - one leading aircraft flanked by two wingmen in a 'V'
formation.  This evolved with the Royal Flying Corps in the previous war
and was laid down in the standard manual of air tactics.  Michael would
take station behind one of the wingmen in echelon.  It would be up to the
flight commander how loose or tight the formation was but the normal
practice was to get in as close as possible.  First War experience had
shown that once the combat started, such niceties as formation flying went
completely out of the window.  In the thick of a dogfight, it was every man
for himself.

   As Michael strode away to try again, the squadron commander concentrated
his attention back on the sheaf of signals and intelligence reports
received from 11 Group Head Quarters.  It was already clear that operations
in Norway were not going well The Germans had landed troops in the south of
the country and were swiftly pushing north.  The Norwegian Army and Air
Force were seriously over-matched.  The Royal Navy was doing what it could
but its own aircraft were needed to protect the fleet from air attack.  263
Squadron's Gladiators had flown off from HMS Glorious successfully but now
all the squadron's aircraft were out of action after only three days of
operations.  Disquieting reports of mess and muddle were slowly filtering
through.  One French regiment of ski-troops had been disembarked only to
find that their ski bindings were still on the dockside at Rosythe.  There
were also stories of regiments being separated from their equipment and the
wrong ammunition arriving for the few heavy weapons that they had managed
to deploy.  The Navy achieved the only success of note at Narvik, where a
small force of British Destroyers had taken on and beaten a larger German
flotilla.  He rubbed his eyes and sighed aloud.  Sooner or later we'll have
to sort ourselves out, he thought.

   *********************

   Johanna finally got her way and applied to join the Women's Auxiliary
Air Force.  She was accepted and told to report to RAF Swinderby for 6
week's basic training on 28th April.  The news came as a relief to all
concerned.  She'd driven her parents to distraction with her insistence on
her chosen course and, of course, she had been bored stupid at home, which
added to her general frustration.  Part of the problem was David - or
rather his absence.  She had seen him just once since he joined the RAF. 
It wasn't his fault, she knew.  They had barely two days together
immediately prior to David joining his new squadron.  And, of course, he'd
had to spend some of that precious leave with his parents who were now
absolutely miles away in Nottinghamshire.  He'd managed to come south to
see her as soon as he'd been able and she still cherished the memory of it.


   Her mother had encouraged her to 'play the field' a bit; there were
plenty of nice young men out there.  Johanna reluctantly accepted a couple
of invitations from sons of her mother's friends but it had felt all wrong.
It wasn't the boys.  They were probably nice enough; but none of them
looked at her like David did; none of them ignited that special little
spark in her breast.  She had leapt like a scalded cat when one had tried
to kiss her.  He became stammeringly apologetic but it was too late.  She
didn't want to be touched by anyone but her David.  She dreamily remembered
their last evening together.

   He had taken her to dinner in Dorchester.  Albert had obligingly loaned
David his car for the occasion.  In Peter's absence, but with his
wholehearted agreement, Albert had secured some precision engineering
contracts and the little Riley-Armitage works was now turning out gun parts
for the Royal Navy.  As a consequence, Albert always had a bit of extra
petrol - an important consideration now that rationing had been introduced.
Johanna had insisted that David wear his uniform.  He hadn't needed much
persuasion and was immensely proud of the bright new cloth 'wings' that sat
above his breast pocket.  Johanna thought him very handsome; even when he
had removed his hat to reveal the shock of untidy sandy hair.  She felt
sure that the other women in the restaurant had been looking on with envy.

   Although the war was now in its eighth month, men in uniform were still
a comparative rarity in Dorchester.  Of course, most of the Army were over
in France with the British Expeditionary Force and Dorchester was not such
a metropolis as to attract servicemen in from far and wide.  Johanna had
worn her sole cocktail dress.  She thought it old fashioned but David's
reaction had suitably reassured her.  His eyes went wide with awe on seeing
her come down the stairs to greet him in her parents' hall.

   "Gosh, Jo, you look fantastic."

   She still glowed inwardly at the memory.  Her mother frowned when she'd
first bought the dress.  It showed off her cleavage to advantage.  If it
hadn't been for David, she would never have dared to wear such a thing. 
She hated her freckled skin but David loved it, so that was all right. 
David insisted on buying champagne.  It made her feel light and giggly at
the same time.  When he'd stopped the car in the darkened lane on the way
home, she moved to him eagerly, enfolding herself in his arms and drifting
into a warm, champagne-flavoured kiss.  She hadn't meant to do it, but
somehow she found herself with the top of her dress around her waist and
David's lips striking feathered lightning from her nipples.  Not that she
let him go all the way.  She wasn't that sort of girl!  She'd been both
relieved and disappointed, though, when he readily acquiesced once she
called a halt to proceedings.  One day, she promised herself; soon,
perhaps, but not yet!

   He'd been deliberately casual afterwards; had lit a cigarette and tapped
the ash out of the window, his other arm still about her shoulders.

   "Of course we must wait, Jo.  It would spoil everything if we rushed
it."

   But there had been an echo of desperation in his voice that secretly
pleased her.  It was a memory to be hugged in the long nights at Swinderby
as she and the other volunteers learned to march and salute and to do all
those other 'necessary' tasks that the armed forces prized so highly. 
David, alone of her intimate circle, was enthusiastic about her joining up.


   "I think it will be splendid, Jo.  Maybe we could even end up on the
same station."

   "Wouldn't that be wonderful?  Although, I don't expect you'd be allowed
to speak to me as you're an officer."

   "Just let them try and stop me!"

   "Mutiny, Pilot Officer Riley?"

   "If that's what it takes, by all means!"

   He drove her home.  The silence stretched between them as each
anticipated the pain of another parting.  At her door he said, "I won't
come, in Jo, if you don't mind.  I've an early start in the morning."

   She understood the real reason was that he didn't want to engage in
small talk with her parents.  He wanted, she knew, to remember the two of
them alone, without any intervention from the rest of the world.  She
kissed him then; a gentle, slow kiss.  Her long red hair had come loose and
tumbled about her shoulders in disarray.  She stepped back, suddenly shy
and toyed with the rebellious locks.

   "Golly, look at me!  Mum's sure to think we've been doing what we
shouldn't."

   "I want to, Jo," David said softly, holding her eyes.  She nodded.

   "I know, my love." Her face was solemn and her eyes looked huge.

   They stared at each other for a few moments as the implication of their
words resounded in the quiet.  There was nothing else to say so they bade
each other 'Goodnight' and promised to write every day.  David moved
reluctantly into the darkness as she turned to open the door.  It was too
dark for her to see that spring that returned to his step a little further
down the road.  He had no doubts at all, now; he was happily, gloriously
and irreversibly in love.

   May 1940 Be Ye Men of Valour

   May 10th 1940 would always be engraved indelibly on David's memory.  It
was the day the German war machine turned its attention to the west; it was
the day that 264 squadron moved hurriedly from Martlesham Heath to RAF
Duxford and was declared 'fully operational.' It was also the day that
Winston Churchill became Prime Minister.  David had little time to think
much about politics as he drove to Duxford that Friday evening.  He hadn't
been one of the pilots nominated to fly the Defiants to their new home and,
instead, was driving one of his colleagues' cars with both of their luggage
crammed into the 'dickie seat' at the rear.  The reports from France had
been very confusing.  It appeared that the Germans had made a simultaneous
strike into the Low Countries and that the British and French armies were
advancing into Belgium to meet them.

   Unbeknown to David, Michael was on the move, too, and much further
afield.  Michael's flight was detached to France to reinforce the Advanced
Air Striking Force already in situ.  By one of those strange coincidences,
the Flight was to be based at the French airfield of Bellevue - the very
field from which Phillip had flown his last mission.  Bellevue was also
home to a squadron of Fairey Battle light bombers.  Pinky Harris's
prediction that the Battle was a disaster waiting to happen had already
come true.  The Battle squadron was sent to attack the German spearhead
that very morning.  The Luftwaffe fighters had shot the unescorted Battles
from the sky with ease.  There was an air of gloom about the place when the
Hurricane pilots arrived.

   Intelligence was fragmentary and wild rumours were circulating.  The
Hurricane flight commander sized up the situation in a moment and resolved
to keep his pilots as far away from the influence of the demoralised units
as possible.  Supporting ground crews and materiel arrived by transport,
elderly Bristol Bombay aeroplanes that looked as if they belonged to a
different generation from the Hurricanes.  As soon as it was possible to do
so, the Hurricanes were refuelled and fully armed to await orders.  They
flew standing patrols all the next day and were twice ordered to intercept
enemy aircraft attacking French positions, but each time they found only
smoke and empty sky.  The German bombers had been and gone before they
arrived.

   If preparation for war had wrought a welcome change in Michael, it was
encountering the harsh realities over the coming days that completed the
process.  It was on Tuesday, 12th May, that Michael first experienced the
madness and elation of air combat.  Almost all the remaining British
Blenheims and Battles were ordered to attack the German positions along the
River Meuse.  Michael's flight was detailed to provide close fighter escort
to the vulnerable bombers.  They took off shortly after first light and
steered northeast towards the target.  As they approached Sedan, a voice
crackled in Michael's headphones:

   "Red Leader, Red three.  Bogeys, two o'clock, low."

   "Roger, Red Three, I have them.  Me 110's.Red leader to Red Flight,
prepare to attack.  Tally Ho, Red Flight!"

   Michael was designated 'Red Five', he flew in the second 'vic' of three.
The first section dived away.  Keeping station on his section leader,
Michael followed them down.  Four Me110's, twin-engined fighters with a
rear gunner, were aiming to intercept a flight of three Fairey Battles.  So
intent were the Luftwaffe 'planes on their prey, they didn't notice the
approaching Hurricanes until the latter were almost upon them.  Michael
again experienced that strange feeling of time compression.  The enemy
fighters had looked like distant black dots for the longest time. 
Suddenly, he could make out the pale face of the rear gunner in one of the
German aircraft, could see the man feverishly swinging his defensive
machine gun to face the diving threat.  Michael flicked the safety catch
away from the gun button on top of the Hurricane's joystick and pressed
hard.

   He felt himself grow rigid with concentration as he spun the Hurricane
around to follow the Messerschmitt, which was diving away in an effort to
avoid the plunging British fighters.  Michael realised with horror that he
was still firing and he quickly released the button.  How long was that? 
Five, maybe six seconds?  At least a quarter of his ammunition in one
futile burst.  He swore richly at himself and reversed his turn as the 110
tried to claw its way free of the melee.  Suddenly, it seemed to fill his
windscreen and he thumbed down on the button again: one, two, three, stop!
He yanked back hard on the stick and zoomed over the enemy 'plane.  He felt
bullets strike the Hurricane somewhere behind him and he flicked left. 
Bugger!  Forgot about the gunner, the bastard was on the ball!  He was sure
he'd seen his tracers strike the target and he pulled up sharply, rolling
off the top.  A quick glance in the mirror.  Fuck!  Where they did come
from?

   "Red Leader, Red Five.  Bandits, repeat bandits, at six o'clock.  High
but coming down fast."

   Even to his own ears, his voice sounded high-pitched and shaky.

   "Roger, Red Five.  I have them.  Attention Red Flight, Bandits bearing
zero ninety, let's meet them."

   The Hurricanes left the retreating 110s and turned to face the new
threat.  About a dozen single-seater Me 109s were screaming down towards
the now-scattered Red Flight.  Michael gave the Merlin full positive boost
and tried to close up on his section leader.  The two sets of aircraft had
a closing speed in excess of 600 mph.  The Germans opened fire first.  They
carried the heavier armament, with a 20mm firing through the propeller
boss, in addition to their machine guns.  Tracer bullets started lazily
towards the Hurricanes and seemed to rapidly accelerate to the speed of
lightning as they came closer.  He jinked the Hurricane slightly to put off
the German gunnery and then thumbed his own guns into life.  A camouflaged
109 flashed by his cockpit so close that afterwards, Michael swore he could
have touched it.  Then everything dissolved into chaos.  The sky appeared
full of aeroplanes.  Michael was vaguely aware of the shouts of his fellows
but it was remote from him, somehow; he was fighting for his life.

   He got a quick burst in at a flashing 109 and then broke hard to the
right as he caught the twinkling flash of a 20mm cannon in the corner of
his eye.  The Messerschmitts were undoubtedly faster than the RAF fighters,
but it soon became apparent that the Hurricanes had the better turning
radius.  Michael twisted this way and that.  He was so caught up in evasion
that he rarely had any chance to go onto the offensive himself.  He was
aware of feeling calmer now.  The initial shock of the sneak attack had
left him.  He found he was able to think straight again.  He spotted a
Hurricane falling away from the battle, trailing a fiery scarf in its wake.
Another was blowing heavy blue smoke from its exhaust stubs and a third
simply blew up directly in front of him.  Two Messerschmitts were stalking
the same Hurricane that was weaving about the sky in a desperate bid for
escape.  A cold rage seized Michael and he flung his 'plane towards the
unequal combat.

   This time he waited until he was very close before opening fire.  His
tracers flew straight and hammered into the cockpit area of the rearmost
German.  The 109 seemed to leap upwards and then rolled onto its back and
dived steeply towards the earth.  The other Hurricane had spotted Michael's
intervention and a calm voice said:

   "Red leader.  Thank you Red Five.  He was starting to get on my tits."

   Michael held back a grin.

   "Red Five, Red leader.  Glad to be of service.  I'm 'bingo' fuel and
ammunition, Red Leader.  Time to go home."

   "Roger, Red Five.  Red Leader, Red Flight, let's make tracks."

   But only one other Hurricane responded.

   **********************

   Of the 73 Blenheims and Battles that attacked the German Army that day,
enemy fighters and anti-aircraft fire shot down 34.  Half of the Advanced
Air Striking Force was lost to enemy action in the first three days of the
Battle of France.  As the week went by, it was clear that the French Army
was being defeated in detail.  Resistance ended in Holland and Queen
Wilhelmina and the rest of the Dutch Royal family fled to London.  The
German 7th Panzer Division, led by a young General by the name of Erwin
Rommel, had smashed a wedge between the main French Army and the forces on
the left flank, including the B.E.F.  At RAF Bentley Priory, 'Stuffy'
Dowding gave the orders to prepare the withdrawal of the battered Fighter
Squadrons from France.

   Dowding now faced, and passed, his first great test as Commander in
Chief, Fighter Command.  Faced with demands that he reinforce the squadrons
at the front line, he wrote to Churchill on 16th May:

   I would remind the Air Council that the last estimate, which they made
as to the force necessary to defend this country, was fifty-two squadrons,
and my strength has now been reduced to the equivalent of thirty-six
squadrons.  I must therefore request that as a matter of paramount urgency
the Air Ministry will consider and decide what level of strength is to be
left to the Fighter Command for the defence of this country, and will
assure me that when the level has been reached, not one fighter will be
sent across the Channel however urgent and insistent the appeals for help
may be.

   I believe that if an adequate fighter force is kept in this country, if
the Fleet remains in being, and if Home Forces are suitably organized to
resist invasion, we should be able to carry on the war single-handed for
some time, if not indefinitely.  But, if the Home Defence Force is drained
away in desperate attempts to remedy the situation in France, defeat in
France will involve the final, complete and irremediable defeat of this
country.

   It was a brave man that refused a request from the irascible Churchill.
To his credit, however, Churchill accepted Dowding's reasoning and all but
three of the front line squadrons were withdrawn from France.  From now on,
the RAF would continue the battle from its bases in Southern England.

   On 19th May, Churchill made his first radio broadcast as Prime Minister.
He concluded it with the words:

   "Behind them - behind us- behind the Armies and Fleets of Britain and
France - gather a group of shattered States and bludgeoned races: the
Czechs, the Poles, the Norwegians, the Danes, the Dutch, the Belgians -upon
all of whom the long night of barbarism will descend, unbroken even by a
star of hope, unless we conquer, as conquer we must; as conquer we shall.

   "Today is Trinity Sunday.  Centuries ago, words were written to be a
call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Justice: "Arm
yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict;
for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage
of our nation and our altar.  As the Will of God is in Heaven, even so let
it be."

   Peter and Bethan sat holding hands, listening to the strong voice with
its characteristic lisp.  Their eyes met and Bethan gave a tight smile as
the Prime Minister finished his peroration.

   "I suppose that's it, isn't it?  I mean, we've no choice now, have we? I
just wish I knew the boys are safe."

   "Oh, I can put your mind at rest on that score.  David's squadron have
been having quite a bit of success but as far as I know, he hasn't been
action yet.  As for Michael, well I understand his lot have been ordered
home today.  I expect we'll hear from him soon."

   Peter was being kept busy.  In accordance with Dowding's plan, the
fighter squadrons were rotated between the three Groups to ensure the
squadrons that had seen heavy action in France were rotated from the front
line to a quieter sector to rest and re-equip.  The RAF had endured heavy
losses in the invasion of France.  Much needed experience had been gained -
but at a terrible cost.  Some aircraft had been found wanting in the
extreme.  The Fairey Battle was withdrawn from frontline service and the
Blenheim was exposed as useless against modern fighters.  On the positive
side, the Hawker Hurricane had shown itself to be a match for the Luftwaffe
and, with its rugged but simple construction, it could take a great deal of
punishment and was easy to repair.  There were, however, severe doubts now
being expressed as to the RAF fighter tactics.

   Of the six aircraft and nine pilots detached to France with Michael's
flight, only two Hurricanes and five pilots made it back to the squadron.
Two pilots were missing, believed killed, and two more, although wounded,
had made their way back to the UK, but were unfit for action.  The Squadron
Leader assembled the entire fighting strength in the briefing room to hear,
at first hand, the experiences of those who had been involved in the hard
fighting.  Michael had scored two confirmed 'kills' - a Me 109 and a
Heinkel 111.  His flight commander had achieved a similar score and
overall, the flight had accounted for nine enemy aircraft for the loss of
four Hurricanes.  Michael was called upon to speak.

   "Well, chaps, I don't know what I can add to what you've already heard.
There is one thing perhaps.  The Luftwaffe fighters tend to act in pairs.
The basic formation is a four like this."

   He spread the fingers of his hand to show them.

   "It's very flexible.  One Hun attacks and his wingman watches his back.
They don't fly as close together as we do and, when they get the chance, as
we saw against the bombers, they split their attack.  One comes in from the
back and the other from abeam.  It divides the defences and was pretty
bloody effective.

   "When it comes to a dog fight, you always have to watch out for the
wingman.  Oh, and another thing, the Messerschmitt Bf 110 isn't all that
it's cracked up to be.  It's tough all right, but it's slow in the turn and
the rear gunner has a bloody great blind spot if you attack from behind and
slightly below.



   "When it comes to the bombers, I don't rate the Heinkel and the Dornier
but the Ju 88 is good kit.  Those bastards can dive like a bat out of hell
and leave us standing.  I only saw the Stukas once and didn't get close
enough to have a go."

   "Anything else to add, Michael?"

   "That's about it from me, sir."

   "Thank you.  And well done, by the way."

   The pilots trooped away from the briefing with much to consider.  From
now on they would be taking the fight to the enemy across the English
Channel.  The situation in France was deteriorating rapidly.  The Germans
succeeded in driving a wedge between the British, French and Belgian Forces
in the north and the main French Armies in the south.  The much-vaunted
Maginot Line was simply bypassed.  The race was on to seize the Channel
ports.  The B.E.F., together with what remained of their allies, withdrew
to Dunkirk to await evacuation.

   ***********************

   For the third time that day, the Defiants of 264 Squadron were sent to
patrol the evacuation beaches at Dunkirk.  David was flying with Sergeant
Wilmott as his gunner.  Wilmott, a taciturn Yorkshireman, kept the turret
on the move as he scanned the skies behind them.  The voice of the Biggin
Hill controller cut through the background throbbing of the Merlin engine:

   "Rogue Squadron, this is Sapper."

   "Rogue Leader.  Go ahead, Sapper"

   "I have some trade for you.  Twenty Plus bandits assembling over Gris
Nez.  Vector one-four-zero, angels fifteen."

   "Roger, Sapper.  Vector one four zero.  Rogue Squadron, climbing to
angels fifteen."

   David opened the throttle and began the climb to 15,000 feet.  He turned
up his oxygen slightly and craned his neck to left and right, searching the
sky ahead.  Away to his left, a vast pall of smoke stretched into the
heavens from the area around Dunkirk.  Toy ships moved on a calm blue sea.
He couldn't yet see the actual evacuation beaches but he made out the
vapour trails of air combat further to the north.  Then he spotted the
enemy bombers.  There seemed to be two distinct squadrons, separated by
perhaps a mile.  The Defiants moved to intercept.

   Unteroffizier Helmut Graube was flying his first combat mission.  He was
detailed as 'katschmarek' - wingman to Leutnant Muller in a 'schwarm' of
Messerschmitts from Jagdgeschwader 26.  He was both scared and excited at
the same time.  The German Fighters were some 7,000 feet above the
ponderous Heinkel Bombers and quickly spotted the Defiants as they moved to
intercept.  Graube followed his leader faithfully, keeping station about
thirty yards to his right and just behind the senior man.

   "Hurricanes!  I don't think they've seen us."

   Leutnant Muller was wrong on both counts.  The plunging Messerschmitts,
convinced that their attack from astern of the British aircraft had gone
unnoticed, flew into a storm of tracers from the Defiants' rear turrets. 
Graube watched in horror as Muller's plane seemed to fall apart before his
eyes.  He had been hit by the concentrated fire of at least three British
fighters.  Graube pulled up and away, hearing the bullets strike his own
machine as he did so.  A solid thump immediately behind him told him that
the armour plating protecting the cockpit had just done its job.  He smelt
burning and saw that his engine was leaking oil, the temperature gauge
already beginning to climb.  He turned for home, a bitter taste in his
mouth.  What were these 'planes?  Hurricanes with turrets?  Five of his
staffel were down and another trailed thick smoke as it headed back for
their new base at Quevaucamps.  Meanwhile, the Defiants flew on towards the
bombers.



   The debriefing was a riotous scrum.  Excited crews vied with each other
to press their claims for enemy aircraft destroyed.  Even the normally
silent Wilmott was animated and yelling to all who would listen that he was
claiming three Huns, one Bf109 and two Heinkels.  The Intelligence Officer
tried to make sense of all the claims.  At last he held up his hand for
silence:
"Gentlemen, if I am to believe all of you, you have just shot down half
the bloody Luftwaffe.  We have Heinkel claims totalling thirty-one.  That's
bloody good going out of two squadrons of twelve each, particularly as you
also report about ten getting away.  We also have claims for eight Bf109s

plus six damaged out of a possible twelve."

   He then began a painstaking interrogation of each crew.  At the end of
it, David and his gunner had been awarded one Heinkel and a share of a 109.
David was delighted but Wilmott brooded, claiming he's been robbed of at
least another Heinkel.  As they left the room, David spotted Kiwi
Braithwaite standing alone.  He went up and clapped Kiwi on the shoulder.

   "Wotcha, Kiwi.  How did you make out?"

   Braithwaite turned a grim face towards David.

   "OK, I guess, skip.  It was bloody pandemonium up there, wasn't it?"

   "It certainly got 'interesting' at times." He noted Kiwi's sour
expression.  "What's up?"

   "Just heard my mate 'Snowball' bought the farm.  He was a gunner on 600
Squadron." Kiwi indicated a piece of paper balled in his large fist.  "One
of his pals wrote to let me know.  They bought it over Rotterdam, on the
12th.  Six Blenheims went to attack the airfields; only one came home. 
This bloke reckons it certain that Snowy got the chop.  He says he saw them
go down and nobody got out."

   David's mood instantly sobered.  He was aware of the RAF's losses, of
course, but this was closer to home.

   "I'm most dreadfully sorry, Kiwi."

   "Yeah, Skip, so am I."



   June 1940 Taking Stock

   It was hard to see how things could much worse, thought Peter, as he
cycled to 12 Group Head Quarters.  The French had collapsed entirely,
utterly crushed in the space of three weeks.  OK, granted the evacuation
form Dunkirk was an amazing feat, but the truth was that although 330,000
men had been taken off the beaches, most of them had no weapons or
equipment.  The RAF casualties had been high.  Over 1100 'planes were lost,
477 of them fighters, in the debacle.  As far as one could tell the
Luftwaffe had been hit pretty hard too, but then, they'd had a lot more to
start with.  The big worry was pilots.  Fighter pilot losses during the
campaigns in France and Norway amounted to over 280.  That didn't count
those who'd either been wounded or captured.  Replacing the 'planes would
be a Hell of a lot easier than replacing the men.

   Still more bad news awaited Peter when he got to his office.  HMS
Glorious, the aircraft carrier bringing back 46 and 263 Squadron from the
mess in Norway, ran into two German 'pocket battleships' and was sunk with
heavy loss of life.  Peter scratched 46 Squadron from the Group's strength.
Another body blow.  He spent the first part of the morning going through
the squadron daily returns.  Each day, the front line units submitted a
report to the HQ detailing the number of aircraft serviceable, the
available crews and the fuel, ammunition and spares states.  Peter smiled
with satisfaction when he noted that 264 were at full strength and
readiness with only two pilots reported unfit for duty.

   David was in bed with tonsillitis.  His temperature had rocketed
overnight and now his throat felt like he had been swallowing barbed wire.
Quite how he'd come to be in this state puzzled him.  Yesterday he'd felt
as fit as a flea and now he was utterly wretched.  The Medical Officer
called on him briefly, peered into his raw throat with a grim smile and had
left muttering something about 'having those out.' David dozed fitfully for
most of the day.  He couldn't eat and lacked the concentration to read or
listen to the wireless.  In his waking moments, he replayed the intense air
battles of the previous couple of weeks in his head.



   264 had acquitted itself well.  The Squadron had destroyed nearly
seventy enemy aeroplanes and suffered few losses.  Morale was good and the
men had confidence in their Defiants.  David would be the first to admit
that the 'plane wasn't the fastest thing in the sky, but it had been very
effective, particularly against the slower German bombers.  Despite
official policy, the Defiant crews had evolved into unofficial 'teams.'
Most days, David flew with Kiwi Braithwaite, an arrangement that they had
arrived at by mutual, unspoken, consent.  Between them, they had three
confirmed 'kills.' This was not among the highest in the squadron; one
pairing had eleven to their credit.

   David reflected on his feelings about the fighting.  It was hard not to
dwell on the death that one was one causing.  Like when you shot down a
Heinkel.  There were four or five men whose lives you had just snuffed out.
Of course, they had no bloody business being where they were and doing what
they were doing but all the same, it was a sobering thought being
responsible for another human being's death.  David knew that Kiwi had no
such qualms.  The big New Zealander had conceived a rare hatred for the
enemy and revelled in the fighting.  David frequently heard him muttering,
"another one for Snowy," as a Heinkel or Dornier turned into a blazing pyre
for the men inside.

   True to his word, the Medical Officer returned later and David was
whisked off to the civilian hospital in Ipswich.  Before he had time to
think, he was anaesthetised and taken to the operating theatre to emerge
fifteen minutes later sans tonsils.  After three days on the ward, he was
discharged with a supply of painkillers and sent back to Martlesham Heath.
The MO gave him a swift check-up and despatched him on a week's sick leave.
It was an ill wind..

   Bethan was overjoyed to see him.  She thought he looked pale and thinner
but more grown-up.  It was difficult to remember he was still only
nineteen. When Peter returned that evening he grinned broadly.  He didn't
tell David that he read every combat report submitted by 264 Squadron with
an almost fanatical devotion.  Peter had been promoted to Flight Lieutenant
recently.  He was still one of the oldest in that rank but had taken it as
a sign he was proving his worth.  He was able to tell David that his
squadron would be moving from Duxford shortly and going to RAF Foulmere. 
After dinner, they gathered around the radio and listened to a broadcast
from the Prime Minister.  Churchill repeated a speech he gave to the House
of Commons on 18th June.  David was profoundly moved as the elderly
statesman concluded:

   "What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over.  I expect
that the Battle of Britain is about to begin.  Upon this battle depends the
survival of Christian civilization.  Upon it depends our own British life,
and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire.  The whole fury
and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.  Hitler knows that
he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war.  If we can stand
up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move
forward into broad, sunlit uplands.  But if we fail, then the whole world,
including the United States, including all that we have known and cared
for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and
perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.  Let us
therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the
British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will
still say, "This was their finest hour."

   David glanced at his mother and saw her eyes glistening with tears.  It
wasn't difficult to read her thoughts.  No one could doubt that Churchill
was right.  The whole might of Nazi Germany was about to descend on Britain
and her boys would in the thick of it.  He leaned over and squeezed her
hand; a huge lump in his throat prevented him from speaking a word.

   ********************

   Johanna completed her basic 'square bashing,' as she had learnt to call
it and was posted to RAF Tangmere on the South Coast of England, near
Chichester.  There she would assist in the operations room, the nerve
centre for the Tangmere Sector control system.  Her duties would mainly
involve keeping up the 'plot.' This large map covered most of the floor of
the ops room and was a constantly updated display of enemy forces and the
RAF dispositions available to counter them.  Her first impressions were
frightening.  How would she ever make sense of it all?  One of the more
experienced girls reassured her.

   "Oh, we all felt like that when we first started.  Don't worry, you'll
get the hang of it."







   Jo certainly hoped so.  She had been lectured repeatedly since her
arrival as to how vital the task was.  The sector ops room exercised
tactical control over the fighter squadrons.  It was kept up to date by
reports from the 'Chain Home' stations and the many volunteers of the Royal
Observer Corps.  These men and women, armed only with binoculars and a
telephone, would monitor enemy movements once the incoming intruders had
passed inside the 'sight' of the coastal radar stations.  In addition, the
plot showed which fighter squadrons were airborne, which at instant
readiness or thirty minutes' stand-by plus those that had recently landed
and needed to be refuelled and re-armed.  It was a daunting task for a
novice.  On her third day, the ops room was conducting an exercise to
simulate a full-scale attack on the naval installations at nearby
Portsmouth.  A group of fighter pilots from the newly arrived Hurricane
Squadron were ushered into the ops room to observe proceedings.  Michael
Welford-Barnes had come to Tangmere.

   The exercise was suddenly interrupted by a real alert from the 'Chain
Home' station at Ventnor on the Isle of Wight.  Instantly the call went out
to 43 Squadron to 'scramble.' The radar had picked up an enemy formation
building up in northern France, It seemed likely that their target was a
small in-shore convoy heading down the Channel from Dover to Portland. 
Jo's heart was in her mouth as she pushed the telltale counter denoting the
German bomber formation into place on the plot.  "Not there, Jo, left a
bit. That's it." She gave a grateful smile to the girl who had whispered
the correction.

   The voice of the controller echoed from the control room loudspeaker.

   "Cameo Squadron, this is Heartbeat."

   "Roger, Heartbeat, Cameo Leader."

   The fighter pilot's voice was distant and distorted.  Jo could barely
hear his side of the exchanges.  The controller instructed the fighters to
climb to 12,000 feet and head 165 degrees.  The minutes ticked slowly by
until there was a sudden burst of noise from the speaker.

   "Red Three, Cameo Leader, bandits twelve O'clock level."

   "Roger, Red Three.  Cameo Leader to all Cameo aircraft.  Blue flight to
maintain present height and watch out for fighters.  Red Flight, line
astern, line astern go!  Tally -ho Red Flight!"

   After that the ops room was filled with the excited and sometimes
desperate transmissions of the pilots.

   "Break Red One, for fuck's sake, there's one on your tail!"

   "Got one."

   "Red six, I'm hit.  Glycol tank's gone."

   "Break right!"

   "Who the fuck?"

   "Oh no!  Red six down, leader."

   Jo could barely imagine the mayhem taking place a few miles out to sea.
The pilots' transmissions were crackly and garbled.  Fragments of yells and
screams and the distant rattle of gunfire when someone attacked while
transmitting.  She gazed about wide-eyed while the experienced girls calmly
shuffled the markers over the plot.  A Spitfire squadron joined in the
battle and there was a brief exchange between the two leaders.  She worked
out that the Hurricanes had been 'bounced' by some Me 110s and the
Spitfires were now wading into these newcomers with a vengeance.  The whole
thing was over in a little more than ten minutes.  The Bomber formation had
been broken up and the British fighters were on their way back to base. 
Calm returned to the control room.

   Jo became aware of someone staring at her.  She turned to find a young,
dark haired Flying Officer just behind her.  He was one of the new pilots
form 601 Squadron.  There was something in that gaze that made her shiver
inwardly.

   "Can I help you, sir?"

   "You don't know me, do you?"

   "No sir, I don't."

   "But I know you.  You're the Hepworth-Lloyd girl."

   "Yes sir, but how.?"

   "I'm Michael Welford-Barnes, I think you know my.  step brother."

   It seemed to Jo that he almost spat the words.

   "Oh!  You mean David Riley!  Yes, sir, he's a friend of mine."

   "How very .  charming."

   He smiled but there was no warmth in his eyes.  Jo felt cold under his
watchful stare.

   "What do you say we have a drink Miss Hepworth-Lloyd?  We can, um, catch
up on the family, what?"

   "That's really very kind of you, sir, but no, thank you.  Our 'mother
hen' is frightfully strict on that sort of thing."

   He shrugged and turned away but Jo had the sensation that he was
watching her until the squadron were called away to go on thirty minutes'
standby.

   Michael was gleeful as he hopped on the transport to the squadron
dispersal.  What luck!  David's popsie here, of all places.  Now he could
plan some serious revenge on that miserable streak of piss that bastard
Riley had whelped on his mother.  He wondered idly if David had fucked her
yet.  If he hadn't - so much the better!

   Throughout June and into July, the RAF slowly increased its strength. 
On the other side of the Channel, the Luftwaffe, too, were steadily
repairing the damage done during the bloody battle for France.  They had
been hit hard during May, harder than the RAF even, but they had greater
strength in depth.  Unteroffizier Graube had learned swiftly since his
first battle.  The squadrons of Jg26 had been replenished with both pilots
and machines.  Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before they were
required to take the fight across the English Channel - the Kanal, as the
Luftwaffe men called it.  Helmut Graube was no fanatic.  He flew because he
loved flying and fought because he must.  He was glad he flew an 'Emil' -
the pilots' name for the Messerschmitt Bf109E.  He had seen the slaughter
of the bombers - both British and German - and couldn't imagine what it
would be like to waddle about like that; a big, fat target.

   August 1940 The Cauldron

   Michael was tired, bone weary.  His head ached and he felt lethargic. 
Too much bloody beer last night.  They'd all been down to the Coach and
Horses, the nearest pub to Tangmere.  Never mind, a few whiffs of oxygen
would set him straight.  It seemed that the enemy attacks had been
intensifying day by day since the middle of July.  Christ was it only
really four weeks?  It felt like years.  Their only respite had come on the
odd days when the weather clamped and there hadn't been many of them.  He
gazed around the flight hut.  The squadron pilots were sprawled every
which-way.  Some drank tea, others read while the odd hardy soul tried to
snooze.  The telephone orderly sat at his table, ready to take the call
that would have them sprinting for their aeroplanes to take off into the
clear blue of the English summer skies.  Even though it wasn't yet eight
o'clock, Michael felt warm.  His Sidcot suit - named after its inventor,
Sidney Cotton, was undone and his fleece-lined flying jacket hung on the
back of the rickety chair he occupied.

   Like most of his colleagues, he had taken to leaving his parachute on
the wing of his Hurricane.  It was bad enough trying to run weighed down by
the rest of the kit and heavy flying boots without the additional weight of
his silk 'brolly.' 11 Group's squadrons had been in the thick of it since
July 10th.  They'd learned quickly, they'd had to.  The old 'vic' of three
formation had been abandoned.  They now used the Luftwaffe's 'finger
fours.' Michael now had six confirmed kills - two more and he'd be in line
for the DFC (Distinguished Flying Cross.) He stretched and lit a cigarette
just as the phone gave out its distinctive tinny tinkle.  Oh, fuck!  Here
we go again.

   Jo arrived at the ops room just as 601 were given the order to scramble.
The personnel going off duty looked drained.  It had been a busy night with
widespread raids to the west.  Although Tangmere had not been called upon
to assist, the ops room had automatically tracked the events and relayed
such information as came their way to the recently-formed 10 Group, which
had taken over responsibility for Wales and the West back in July.  The
bruise on Jo's face was fading now.  She had told her friends that she had
tripped in the blackout and hit her head, but the truth was it was that
bloody man, David's brother.

   It happened a few days earlier.  Jo had been on the late shift - 4pm to
midnight.  She was making her back to the WAAF quarters when Michael had
materialised out of the darkness.

   "Ah, the fair Johanna, out on your own so late?"

   "Oh golly!  You made me jump, sir.  I'm just going off shift."

   "Time to relax, then, don't you think?"

   Before she could respond, he lunged forward, grabbing hold of her arms
and forcing himself on her.  She could smell the alcohol on his breath. 
She tried to twist away from him but he was too strong.

   "Stop struggling, bitch.  You know you want it.  I bet you've never had
a real man, have you?"

   He forced her back against some sandbags that surrounded one of the
makeshift air raid shelters.  His arm was across her throat now and he tore
at her blouse with his free hand.  She shoved him away as hard as she
could. He staggered back and then ran at her with a roar, punching her in
the face.  She saw the blow coming and half blocked with her forearms, but
still she saw stars.  Desperate now, she lashed out with her foot and felt
a satisfying jolt as she made contact with his shins.  Rage filled her. 
She was a tall girl and quite strong from years of enforced sport at
school. The drink had made him slow and he hopped about unsteadily, rubbing
his shin, She took aim deliberately and kicked him straight in the crotch
as hard she could.  He seemed to deflate before her eyes and sank to knees,
retching and gasping for breath.  She stood over him.

   "Don't you ever come near me again, you bastard!"

   She shrieked at him, her voice loud in the darkness.  Someone called
'That told him, love!' She stood, gasping for a breath as the panic
subsided, then turned and ran, leaving Michael crumpled on the gravel path.
Her anger gave way to fear and self-loathing as she neared her barracks. 
Fortunately it was late and it was easy to avoid the few girls who were
still up.  She locked herself in the bathroom and wept as she scrubbed
herself, over and over again.

   In the morning she had gone to her commanding officer.  The older woman
had sat silently as Jo recounted what had happened.  Once Jo lapsed into
silence, sobbing quietly, the Officer had stood and laid a comforting hand
on Jo's shoulder.

   "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Hepworth-Lloyd.  If this
goes outside this room, it will cause the most dreadful stink and that is
something we can ill afford at this time, do you agree?"

   Jo made no reply but a cold knot of dread was forming in the pit of her
stomach.

   "If I make sure that there is no repetition of this unhappy incident,
will you promise me that it stays here, between us?"

   "But how can you make sure he doesn't try to .  rape me again?"

   "Rape?  My dear girl, I hardly think so!  The man was patently drunk, as
you yourself admit.  Those boys have been under a lot of strain, you know.
I suspect it was just an amorous advance that got out of hand."

   Jo wanted to respond, to rail against the unfairness of it all.  The
woman was making her feel like she was to blame, had encourages the swine!
Instead, she shrank a little more inside herself and sat, silent and
unmoving, avoiding the officer's eyes.  I won't give her the satisfaction,
she told herself.  I know what he was after.  The Officer took her silence
for acquiescence.  She gave Jo another pat on the shoulder and dismissed
her.  She thought hard for several minutes after Jo had left and then
picked up the telephone and called the squadron commander of 601.

   "Edward?  Felicity here.  It appears we've had a little unpleasantness
involving one of your chaps and one of my girls.  Who?  Flying Officer
Welford-Barnes..  Oh yes, quite sure.  It seems they know each other from
before.  I want him warned off, Edward, in no uncertain terms..  Yes I
agree, we don't want a fuss but I want no repetition either.  Good, I knew
you'd understand."

   She hung up, satisfied.  Unfortunately for her, the Squadron Leader was
posted away that very day.  He meant to leave a note for his successor but
it slipped his mind.

   *********************

   The 11th August was a day of frantic activity after three relatively
quiet days when poor weather had limited operations for both sides.  Three
Tangmere Squadrons were scrambled to meet a large enemy raid attacking the
Royal Navy base at Portland.  601 got involved in a huge dogfight with
Bf109s from Jg2.  The squadron claimed nine enemy aircraft shot down plus
three 'probables' but none of these claims was confirmed.  What was
certain, however, was the loss of four Hurricanes and their pilots.  As a
consequence, 601Squadron was stood down for the following day to recoup. 
If the attacks on the 11th and 12th were severe enough, they were nothing
compared to the storm unleashed on the 13th.  This was 'Adler Tag' - Eagle
Day - the date originally selected by Hitler for the invasion of Britain.
Eagle day started early for the men of 601.

   Jo was on the night shift, Midnight to 8am.  Just after six the first
reports started coming in of a massive raid building up over northern
France.  'Chain Home' reported 150 plus aircraft.  43 Squadron were the
first to scramble followed five minutes later by 601.  Jo watched in
horrified fascination as the plot developed.  It was soon clear that the
big raid was headed their way.  The number of enemy 'planes was revised
upwards; there were now 250 coming in on a broad front from Selsey Bill to
Portsmouth and this time, the RAF themselves were the target.  Jo listened
avidly to the loudspeaker.  Updating the plot was now second nature to her.
She could scarcely believe that she had been only doing the job for two
short months.  It was clear from the radio traffic that the fighting was
intense.  A total of seven squadrons were involved before the enemy were
finally dispersed after an hour of brutal fighting.  601 mixed it with a
formation of Ju88s and this time came off much the better.

   They were sent up again just before midday to intercept an attack by
Me110s and then again in the afternoon at around 3.30 when another enemy
force approached the Coast near Portland.  Raids poured in up and down the
coast and heavy attacks were reported against the Fighter bases at Dettling
and Eastchurch as well as against a number of aircraft factories.  At 11
Group Head Quarters, Air Vice Marshall Keith Park picked up the telephone
to Dowding.  He was now convinced the enemy was determined to blow the RAF
from the skies - at whatever cost.  Dowding, as always, was cool and aloof.
This didn't bother Park.  He knew Dowding well, having been his Chief of
Staff immediately before his posting to 11 Group.  The two senior airmen
got on well and respected each other's abilities.  Park told Dowding what
he believed the enemy tactics would now be.  Dowding listened in silence
and then concurred.  "It's what I'd do," he said.

   Over the next few days the fight for the RAF's bases intensified.  Other
targets included the 'Chain Home' radar stations along the South Coast and
the Isle of Wight.  Each day was, for Michael and his colleagues, an
endless round of combat interspersed with periods of waiting, on edge, for
the telephone to ring and the shouts of "Scramble!" Death was commonplace
and Michael discovered that he no longer cared .  It was a matter of simple
arithmetic.  If one stayed at the front too long, it was simply a matter of
time.  On the 16th Tangmere was attacked heavily by Stukas and a number of
aircraft were destroyed or damaged.  Jo had remained at her post throughout
the attack.  She was frightened but the calm activity around her was
reassuring.  The ops room shook to the crash of bombs and above all, she
would always remember the unearthly scream of the sirens fitted to the
German dive-bombers.



   On the 19th August 601 was withdrawn from Tangmere and sent to RAF
Debden.  It was a quiet day, as if both sides were pausing for breath like
a couple of heavyweight boxers in the middle rounds of a brutal title
fight. Jo was happy to see them go.  601 would always be synonymous with
Michael.  She knew the squadron had suffered in the fighting and had given
a very good account of themselves but, for the first time in her young
life, she felt real hatred.

   ********************

   In accordance with Dowding's plan, hard-hit squadrons were withdrawn
from the south east of England to quieter areas and replaced by fresh
formations.  So it was, on the 21st August that David's squadron were sent
to RAF Hornchurch to replace 266 Squadron.  The Defiants hadn't been
heavily engaged since the fall of France and were raring to go.  Little did
they suspect that they were about to experience their own small Calvary.

   Helmut Graube was once again 'katschmarek' to the schwarm leader.  After
two days of low cloud and squalls, the 24th August dawned clear and bright.
Graube's staffel was detailed to escort an attack by Heinkel Bombers to be
delivered against the RAF base at Manston.  Graube was relaxed.  Sure, the
fighting had been hard, but he was now an experienced Kanalflieger - the
Luftwaffe nickname for those who daily crossed to England to fight the
hated RAF.  Graube had five 'kills' to his credit and had long since
learned to conquer the fear that had almost paralysed him the first time he
flew in combat.  He yawned prodigiously as the pre-flight briefing droned
on.  The salient points had come early - two staffeln of Bf109s would
escort a mixed force of Heinkels and Ju88s.  The bombers would assemble
over Cap Gris Nez at midday and climb to 4,000 metres.  The fighters were
scheduled to take off some twenty minutes later and rendezvous with the
bomber stream.  One staffel would fly just ahead of the main formation at
4750 metres while the other, Graube's staffel, would fly directly above and
1,000 metres higher.

   Then came the detailed stuff; call signs, weather reports, primary and
secondary targets.  Graube smiled to himself.  A lot of it was academic. 
As soon as the Tommies came up to defend their airspace, it would be every
man for himself.  The latest briefings form Luftflotte HQ, handed down from
no lesser a personage than Goering himself, said the RAF was on its last
legs.  According to 'Grosse Herman,' the RAF only had the equivalent of ten
squadrons left.  This announcement had been greeted with jeers of derision
by the assembled fighter pilots.  As one had remarked, those ten Tommie
squadrons must be able to fly like lightning to get from Portsmouth to
Dover and back again so quickly.  And was it true that the Tommies had an
engine that could run on fresh air?  If there were only ten of them, they
never needed to refuel!  Sometimes, Graube thought, the High Command lived
in dreamland.

   Graube woke up when the Intelligence Officer started to give a briefing
on the different RAF Fighter types.  The pilots were already very familiar
with the Spitfire and Hurricane and recognised them as worthy foes. 
Goering had asked Major Adolf Galland, Graube's personal hero, what he
needed to win the battle.  Galland had replied, "give me a squadron of
Spitfires!" Goering had not been pleased.  The only good news was that the
Tommies didn't have too many Spitfires.  The Hurricane was the main British
Fighter.  They might be slow compared to an 'Emil' but the bastards took
some knocking down.  Graube had seen one Hurricane with the fuselage so
riddled with bullet holes that he could see daylight through it.  Of
course, the back end of the Hurricane was made of fabric so punching holes
in it had little effect.  It also made damaged 'planes easy to repair. 
Sometimes, one could see the patches.

   The Intelligence Officer was now talking about another fighter - the
Boulton Paul Defiant.  Apparently an earlier raid had encountered a
squadron of these 'planes earlier that day.  They hadn't come to grips, the
bombers turned back after being heavily attacked by Spitfires.  Another
Jagdgeschwader had encountered a squadron of these fighters back in July
and had discovered they had no forward-firing armament.  "The sting is in
the tail, yes?" The pilots had laughed.  Helmut Graube remembered the late
Leutnant Muller's last mistake.  So!  No guns at the front.  That could
make it interesting.  The briefing was over.  The pilots got their feet as
the senior officers made their exit.  Graube's schwarm leader was beckoning
him.  He crossed the smoky room to where his three comrades waited.  Two
hours to take off.  No doubt Leutnant Freund, the schwarm leader, wanted to
have his say now the 'brass' had departed.  Graube looked attentive but his
mind was elsewhere.

   Helmut Graube was in love!  Well, not really love, perhaps, but he'd
found himself the most delightful young lady.  Her name was Michelle and
she was French.  At first, Graube had found it difficult.  After all, he
was the embodiment of the enemy that invaded her country and slaughtered
her countrymen.  But he was nothing if not persistent.  He had courted her
assiduously, he spoke fluent French; after all, his mother was from Alsace.
Michelle Boissin was just seventeen and a real beauty.  Dark hair and eyes
and a seductively, if somewhat artful, shy manner.  And Graube could pass
for a Frenchman.  He had inherited his mother's looks; not at all the image
of the 'Aryan superman' so beloved of his country's new leaders.  At the
age of twenty, Graube was not much concerned with politics.  Life was too
exciting as a fighter pilot to waste time on such dull stuff.

   Michelle lived in the village at the edge of the airfield.  Graube felt
sorry for the French.  He couldn't imagine what it must be like to have
your country occupied by a foreign power.  For the most part they were a
sullen bunch, but that was understandable.  Michelle, however, was
different.  He'd been taking a stroll one day back in June and had come
across her.  She'd been out visiting some relatives and was on her way home
when he'd stopped to pass the time of day.  Once she was over the initial
shock of his being able to speak such good French, he swore she started to
flirt with him!  He'd only really spoken to her to practice the language
but he was quick to pick up the signals.  She fancied him!  Well, why not?
He knew he was a good-looking young man.  He'd had his successes back home;
although he would be the first to admit, the Luftwaffe uniform helped.

   One thing had lead to another and he'd arranged to see her again, duties
permitting.  Since then, their affaire had slowly blossomed.  Michelle was
nowhere near as shy as she pretended and had responded enthusiastically to
his embraces.  She had always resisted bestowing the ultimate favour,
however, until last night!  Replaying the scene in his memory now, he found
he was becoming aroused and hastily switched his concentration to what Herr
Leutnant Freund was saying.  He didn't much care for the officer.  Freund
was inclined to bluster and was too boastful for Graube's liking.  Nothing
like Major Galland; now there was a true pilot.  Under Galland's
leadership, the Jagdgeschwader would achieve great things, of that there
was no doubt.  Freund was too much for the poseur; too inclined to
emphasise his own prowess and too slow to recognise others.  Oh well, it
was a small price to pay for flying an 'Emil' by day and fucking Michelle
by night.

   The time passed slowly.  Graube wandered over to chat to the mechanics
that were putting the finishing touches to his Messerschmitt.  They were
good guys, these mechanics, salt of the earth.  Everything was top line. 
They'd found the cause of his high oil pressure - a defective cooler - and
replaced it.  Yes, they'd run the motor for half an hour and it behaved
perfectly.  Everything was in order - alles in ordnung, Herr Unteroffizier!
"Great," he told them, "I don't want to get my feet wet!" They laughed
dutifully, it was an old joke between them.

   He climbed into his machine and ran through the pre-flight checks.  The
'Emil' was a great aeroplane to fly but a pig to taxi on the ground.  The
undercarriage was its weakest link.  The bloody 'plane was inclined to
wander all over the place until you got near flying speed.  The staffel
took off in pairs.  Graube was sixth in line.  He followed Freund's
aircraft in the climb.  That man could make 'katschmarek' sound like an
insult and Graube wasn't about to give him any reason to issue one of his
hectoring lectures.  The staffel formed up, four flights of four, a
'maximum effort' job today.  Surely it must be over soon.  The RAF couldn't
have that much left, could it?

   ********************

   Air Vice Marshall Keith Park was having an acrimonious meeting with his
opposite number from 12 Group, Trafford Leigh-Mallory.  There was little
love between the two group commanders.  Leigh-Mallory had wanted - expected
-to get 11 Group and disliked both Park and Dowding.  That wasn't the cause
of the current argument, however.  Park had requested assistance from 12
Group.  He had wanted their fighters to protect his airfields while the 11
Group fighters engaged the enemy bombers.  While this had been agreed more
than once, the reality was that the 12 Group squadrons had persistently
abandoned this task to get 'stuck in' to the fighting.  Leigh-Mallory was
constantly urging Dowding to make Fighter Command more offensive in its
operations.  In his mind, it didn't matter when and where you attacked the
Luftwaffe; it was quite simply a case of shooting down as many of the enemy
as possible.

   Park disagreed.  His priority was to prevent the bombers from reaching
their targets.  Lately, those targets were 11 Group itself.  Park had seen
the destruction for himself.  He was a regular visitor to the frontline
bases, flying his own personal Hurricane.  Park, a New Zealander, was a
fighter pilot by inclination.  He's been a First War 'ace' flying Bristol
Fighters in the air battles of 1918 and had commanded 48 Squadron,
Phillip's last unit.  He knew that the Germans were now engaging in a war
of attrition against the RAF and he recognised that this was a war he could
not win.  Leigh-Mallory now wanted to adopt new tactics.  Under the
promptings of one his squadron commanders, Squadron Leader Douglas Bader of
242 Squadron, Leigh-Mallory was proposing that Fighter Command should start
attacking the enemy in massed formations of up to five squadrons at a time
- so called 'Big Wings.'

   The flaw in this suggestion was obvious to Park.  He patiently explained
that it wouldn't work.  It takes time to assemble such a large number of
fighters.  The Germans would reach their target before the defenders could
be ready for them.  Leigh-Mallory brushed the objection aside.  What did
that matter in the scheme of things?  It made no difference in the long run
if the enemy were destroyed going to or returning from the target; all that
mattered was destroying them in large numbers by overwhelming firepower. 
Park demurred.  The British fighters would lose the one tactical advantage
they had - that of operating close to their bases.  The German fighters
frequently had to break off their action because of low fuel.  If the RAF
took to following the bombers all the way back to France, the boot would be
on the other foot.

   Dowding remained silent throughout the conference.  If Park was
disappointed in the lack of support from his chief, he didn't show it.  The
meeting broke up without agreement.  Park again extracted the promise that
12 Group squadrons would protect his bases but he accepted this with little
satisfaction.  After Leigh-Mallory left with his entourage, Park turned to
Dowding.

   "I think we're close to the limit, sir."

   Dowding nodded gravely.  "The problem is pilots, Keith.  We simply
cannot train them fast enough to replace the casualties.  All I ask is that
you do your best."

   Park gave a tight smile.  The strain of the battle was immense and he
saw its imprint on Dowding's tired face.  He relaxed for a moment into
informality:

   "We'll do it, Stuffy, we'll do it because we bloody well have to."

   *****************

   "Green Flight, Scramble!"

   The telephone orderly's bellow sent them running for their aircraft once
again.  David was half way through his starting checks before Kiwi was
strapped into the turret and plugged into the intercom.  Moments later, six
Defiants were rumbling down the take off strip on full throttle.

   "Rogue Squadron, Green Flight airborne."

   "Roger, Green Leader.  Climb to Angels one-nine and vector 105 degrees,
thirty plus bandits reported headed for Dover."

   The Defiants climbed steadily, orbiting over the Thames estuary as they
gained height before setting course for the interception.  David noted the
flow of radio traffic with half an ear, picking out the salient messages
and sorting out the picture in his mind.  Two big raids were in progress,
Manston was catching it.  Green Flight were ordered to look out for a
squadron of Hurricanes in the area, call sign 'Kestrel Squadron.' He also
heard the controller speaking to the other flight from 264, presently
heavily engaged over North Foreland.  It was another busy day!

   Shortly after 12.30, the Defiants spotted the enemy formation.  Heinkels
and Ju88s in three groups, 109s above them.  Spitfires rose past Green
Flight to engage the fighters.  David and his colleagues were to
concentrate on the bombers.  David and Kiwi had a brief discussion.  David
was flying Green three, his wingman, a novice fresh from training was Green
four.

   "Green three, Follow me, Green four and stick like bloody glue.  Target
is the 88s."

   "Green four, wilco, green three."

   David eased the big fighter into a slow turn.  The plan he'd agreed with
Kiwi was for a quick diving pass under the Junkers formation.  This would
give the turret gunners their best shooting opportunity.  He selected
maximum boost and climbed higher before throttling back slightly to begin
his attack.  The enemy bombers thundered on, straight and level.  The air
was filled with yells and warnings, instructions and reports, he ignored
everything but the targets in front of him.  Kiwi was singing a filthy song
as they hurtled down on the Ju88s.  David caught a glimpse of a 'plane
spiralling down out of control.  He couldn't tell whose it was.  Tracers
arced towards him, first lazily then zipping by.  He weaved slightly to
spoil the gunner's aim.  He pushed forward on the stick a touch to steepen
the angle and then they were flashing beneath the bombers.  Fire poured out
of the ventral gondolas but David ignored it.  The Defiant shuddered as
Kiwi opened up on his chosen bomber.  Two short bursts and then the
whirring of the turret mechanism as he shifted to the next; another two
short bursts and then they were through, pulling into a sharp climbing turn
to make another pass.

   Helmut Graube saw two Defiants thunder out from beneath the Junkers
formation.  Freund had seen them also and was yelling at him to follow. 
The Schwarm swept down on the British pair.  Freund was screaming at them
to attack.  Graube ignored him and concentrated instead on the second of
the British 'planes.  He kicked the 'Emil's' rudder furiously to slew his
plane round into position.  The Defiant's gunner was frantically swinging
his turret to try and track the incoming Messerschmitts.  Graube smiled. 
Too late, Tommie.  He opened fire at three hundred metres, saw the cannon
shells strike.  A cloud of thick smoke burst from the target's exhausts. 
It staggered visibly under the impact of the explosive 20mm rounds.  A
kill! The first Fighter was flying for his life.  He couldn't help but
admire the way the Tommie pilot flung that thing around.  His gunner was a
cool one, too; holding his fire and only letting go with a quick burst when
he had a good chance of scoring.  Freund was hit!  The leader's 109 was
falling away, flopping limply.  Either the controls had been shot through
or the pilot was dead.  So!  He glanced about.

   Two Spitfires were screaming down towards him.  Too far away to worry
about, ah, the other pair had turned to engage them, good.  That left the
remaining Defiant all to him.  He opened the throttle and dived steeply,
building up speed to close with the British plane.  God!  He was brave,
this Tommie, he was going back after the bombers.  Graube calculated that
he couldn't attack while the enemy was under the formation, they might end
up hitting him in the crossfire.  He prolonged his dive, deciding to attack
from below when the Defiant re-emerged from its own attacking pass.  He
watched dispassionately as a Ju88 pulled sharply up, out of formation. 
Smoke streamed from its engine and there were flames licking at the wing.
Someone was going to get their feet wet.  Then he saw his chance.

   David was sweating profusely as he hauled the big fighter around for
another attack.  He checked with Kiwi what the ammunition state was.

   "200 rounds per gun I reckon, Skip."

   "Game for another pass, Kiwi?"

   "Let's dance, Skip."

   A 20mm cannon shell erupted from the floor of the cockpit between
David's feet and smashed out through the canopy above him without
exploding. Instinctively he flung the aeroplane over on one wing, ramming
open the throttle to the maximum before reversing his turn and slamming the
stick into the pit of his stomach.  The Defiant rose like a rocket and then
flopped onto its back.  Kiwi fired two long bursts and then the guns fell
silent.  Something warm was trickling down David's legs.  The engine cut.
Damn!  He'd flooded the carburettors.  He pulled further back on the stick
to push the nose towards the ground.  The Plane stalled and fell out of the
inverted turn in a spin.  Kiwi's voice came from the back.

   "Skip, Skip!  Are you OK?"

   "Fine, Kiwi, just dandy.  Where did that bloody 109 come from?"

   "Underneath, I reckon, Skip.  I think I got him though.  Oh, and we're
;'bingo' ammo, Skip."

   David let the speed build up before applying opposite rudder to correct
the spin.  The Defiant slowly eased out into a controlled dive.  David
reset the switches and tried to start the Merlin.  It coughed a couple of
times and died.  Oil smeared the windscreen in front of him.

   "Sorry, Kiwi, old mate.  The motor's broken.  Time to get out."

   "Skip, I can't!  The turret's jammed.  You get yourself out."

   "Nothing doing Kiwi.  We'll just have to pancake in a field."

   As David fought the stricken Defiant, Helmut Graube was having troubles
of his own.  His engine was running distinctly rough and the oil
temperature was climbing as steadily as the pressure was falling.  He'd
turned for home as soon as he'd realised he's been hit.  Come on, Baby, he
thought, don't let Papa down now.  I have a great aversion to wet feet.  He
suddenly found this amusing and laughed out loud.







   The Defiant staggered over the orchard at barely 80mph.  It wallowed
like a sick pig.  Three and a half tons of fighter was not meant to glide.
The other side of the trees was a ploughed field.  Someone had got the
harvest in early, David mused.  It was strange, he felt light-headed; it
was as though he was watching someone else trying to land the 'plane.  He
warned Kiwi to brace himself and tugged on his own harness straps.  It was
going to be a 'wheels up' job.  Whatever happened, this kite would be a
write-off.

   The crash, when it came, was an oddly muted affair.  There was an
initial crunch on impact as the propeller blades folded and then a low sort
of grinding noise as the Defiant slithered and skidded over the muddy
earth. Kiwi's head banged against the side of the turret - he'd been jammed
at an angle of 45 degrees - and then it was over; just the ticking of hot
metal.  David wrenched the canopy open and climbed unsteadily out of the
wrecked machine.  He staggered to the turret and grabbed one of the gun
barrels, pushing with all his might.  The turret moved and he collapsed
into the mud.  He assisted a groggy Kiwi from the wreck and the pair of
them, supporting each other, stumbled away from the ruined aircraft.  David
collapsed against an earth bank at the edge of the field and closed his
eyes.

   "Christ alive, Skip!  You're wounded."

   Kiwi was staring aghast at David's legs.  Shrapnel from the cockpit
floor had embedded itself in the backs of David's calves from knee to
ankle, shredding his Sidcot suit and heavy flying boots.  Only the steel of
the seat had prevented worse injury.  Even so, he was bleeding profusely.
David opened weary eyes and smiled at Kiwi.

   "Thank God for that, Kiwi.  I thought I was losing it back there.  You
don't look so good yourself."

   Kiwi's nose was broken and there was a livid bruise on one side of his
face.  He started to laugh.

   "Christ, Skip, what a sorry pair!  Still, we're alive, though, eh?"

   Helmut Graube's engine quit just as he crossed the coast near Calais. 
He pointed the 'plane back out to sea and bailed out - no point in hitting
anyone on the ground with a falling Bf109 'Emil.' He quite enjoyed the
descent after the initial tumbling panic had subsided with the 'chute
opening.  He landed in someone's garden, crashing through a cold frame and
ripping his flying suit on the shards of glass.  He staggered to his feet
and winced.  It felt like his ankle was broken or, at least, badly
sprained. He hobbled to the house and asked, in exquisitely polite French,
to be taken to a doctor.

   *******************

   Only Two Defiants returned to Hornchurch from Green Flight.  Apart from
David and Kiwi, the squadron lost two pilots and three gunners killed and
two other pilots wounded.  The enemy had found the Defiant's Achilles heel.
After a similar mauling on 28th August, both the RAF Defiant squadrons were
withdrawn from operational flying by day.  They would return before the end
of the battle as night fighters and once again prove their worth.  RAF
Manston was so heavily bombed on the 24th August that the RAF had to
evacuate the base entirely.  Douglas Bader's 242 Squadron successfully
attacked the retreating enemy formations.  He reported to Leigh-Mallory
that he could have done even better if he'd had another couple of squadrons
at his disposal..  Once again, the 12 Group fighters had failed to protect
the 11 Group bases.

   David and Kiwi were taken to hospital in Canterbury.  Kiwi was found to
be suffering from concussion and had also sustained a broken collarbone. 
The surgeon removed forty-one steel fragments from David's legs.  His left
ankle was dislocated, probably by the blast effect of a 20mm canon shell
smashing past his feet at over 1,000 mph.  Neither Kiwi nor David played
any further part in the Battle of Britain.  Their final score was five
confirmed 'kills' and two 'probables.' David was awarded the Distinguished
Flying Cross on 30th August.  Kiwi later received the NCO's version, the
DFM, following strong representations from his squadron.  He threw it in a
drawer and never looked at it.



   September 1940 The Crisis

   Michael Welford-Barnes and 601 Squadron returned to Tangmere on Monday
2nd September.  At least one person did not welcome them back.  Johanna
Hepworth-Lloyd was less than happy to learn Michael was back on the
station. She had managed to put the incident out of her mind when the
squadron had left but, now they were back, it was like a raw wound to he
psyche.  Jo learnt of David's last action in a telephone call from Peter.
She broke down in tears of relief once she established that he was not too
badly wounded.  It was all she could do to thank Peter for his kindness in
letting her know before she hung up the receiver with a shaking hand.

   The girls had grown used to death but not inured to it.  She had often
seen the WAAFs in the ops room with silent tears streaming down their faces
as they listened to the combat far above.  Sometimes you would hear someone
screaming; that was always the worst.  It made you picture some poor boy
roasting to death as his stricken fighter fell from the sky like some
modern-day Icarus.  At other times you felt their elation as they yelled
their triumphs.  You silently shouted with them when they urged a comrade
to 'jump' as his 'plane tumbled from the tumult.  Jo felt emotionally
drained and physically exhausted at the end of every shift.

   In her heart, Jo was glad that David was now out of the battle.  She
knew it was selfish; other women were going through the same thing, day
after day as their husbands, lovers or sons rose to meet the German menace.
She searched herself for sympathy and was saddened she could find none. 
The knowledge that her man, at least, was safe for the time being, was more
than enough.  She had seen one young WAAF collapse on being told the news
that her husband of three weeks had died in his Spitfire over Folkestone.
It left her feeling oddly guilty and wicked that all she could think was
'at least it wasn't David.' The Luftwaffe intensified its attacks against
the fighter bases.  Biggin Hill, Manston, Hawkinge, Eastchurch - the list
went on and on.  In a strange way, the girls in the ops room welcomed such
attacks.  It gave them a fellow feeling with the young men who rose each
dawn to face the enemy.  Now they were sharing the danger.  It wasn't much,
but it was something.

   On 6th September, the day dawned bright but with an early haze.  601
Squadron was scrambled at around nine o'clock to assist with a big raid
over Kent and Sussex.  Around 300 enemy aircraft were attacking and the
raid fanned out on reaching the coast to attack a number of separate
targets.  Jo listened to the fight in the ops room.  It was desperate
stuff. The Hurricanes were heavily engaged by the covering Bf109s.  She
heard the casualties reported.  Four 601 'planes were downed in the space
of a couple of minutes.  It was noticeable that this raid had a
preponderance of fighters.  The only bombers were the Luftwaffe's fastest
machines, the Ju88s.  The remnants of the squadron landed at 10.30.  Four
Hurricanes were missing.

   Michael looked around the flight hut as the pilots came into to make
reports to the 'spy.' There were not many of the old club left, now.  The
Squadron's replacements were not of the same ilk as the original members.
There were Poles, South Africans, Canadians plus those who'd joined since
war broke out.  Two more 'originals' had 'gone west' that day.  Carl Davis,
an American, had joined 601 in 1936.  He hadn't been called for operational
service until the previous month, though.  Now he was dead, shot down over
Tunbridge Wells along with Willie Rhodes-Moorhouse, the son of the first
ever airman to win the Victoria Cross.  It seemed unreal.  All those
cheerful young men: alive, vibrant one minute, and now gone.  Forever.  His
head ached and he felt slightly sick.  A change had come over him during
the past few weeks.  He was reluctant to acknowledge it.  It was
uncomfortable.  He was starting to feel a connection to his fellows. 
Christ!  Wasn't that ironic?  All the years when there had been time, he
hadn't taken it.  Now, when time was the one commodity none of them had, he
suddenly wanted it.  He wanted his time again.  It hit him like a punch in
the guts.  Michael sighed and made his report.  The Intelligence officer
gave him a tight smile.

   "I've some news for you W-B, you've been awarded the DFC.  So has your
brother, by the way.  He put up a good show with 264.  Got shot down over
Folkestone but he's OK.  I'd thought you'd like to know."

   Michael shrugged.  The part about David was old news.  Bethan had
telephoned him.  God only knew why she thought he'd be interested.  He
couldn't care less about the little shit.  Except that wasn't right.  He
did care.  He found himself glad that David was alive, happy almost.  He
examined this new feeling with interested detachment.  He couldn't put his
finger on it.  Christ!  He was feeling guilty!  He hurried away from the
'spy' to write up his report.  He needed time to think.  It had to be the
fatigue!  Yes, that was it!  But the feelings wouldn't go away.  Images
from his past kept pooping into his head like ghosts, elusive,
insubstantial but real, somehow.  He shook his head to clear it but they
wouldn't go away.  Someone spoke to him, asking if he was all right.  He
shouldered past them and out into the fresh air.  That was what he needed.
He walked unseeing towards the dispersal.  The ground crews stiffened at
his approach, Michael had the reputation of being a 'right bastard.' He
wasn't aware of their relief when he shambled on, beyond the fighters in
their blast pens, beyond the NAAFI wagon delivering 'tea and wads' to the
hard-working mechanics.  He walked over the grass only stopping when he
reached the chain-link fence.  His hands contorted like claws as he gripped
the wire.  Then he began to weep.







   Jo ran to the barracks telephone.  It only took 'internal calls' so she
supposed it must have been put through by the station switchboard.  The
girl had yelled, "Jo, call for you!  It's a man!" She screamed David's name
in her head.  She had rushed from the showers and was wrapped in a towel,
her red hair a wet ruin around her face and neck.  She had almost vomited
with the shock when the clipped, precise voice had said:

   "Miss Hepworth-Lloyd?  Michael Welford-Barnes.  No!  Don't hang up. 
It's very important.  I .  I need to see you.  Um.  I owe you a very deep
apology.  Please!  Don't go, just listen to me.  I've had rather a strange
experience - you could call it a conversion on the road to Damascus.  No,
I'm sorry, I'm not making sense."

   His voice tailed off.  There was a strange quality to it.  Could it be
desperation?  Jo steadied herself.  She tried as hard to keep her voice
level and cool.

   "Go on, sir, I'm listening."

   "Christ!  Look, this is frightfully hard for me.  I can't do it on the
phone.  Can you meet me by the entrance to the number three shelter in
about five minutes?"

   He felt Jo's hesitation.

   "Please?  Look, don't worry, there's loads of people about and the NAAFI
van's due any minute.  It really is important."

   To her great surprise, Jo found herself agreeing.  She hurried back to
her room and towelled her hair frantically and hurried to dress.  There
were one or two raised eyebrows as she rushed out of the barracks but no
one said anything.  He was standing there looking diminished somehow, a
little lost.  She still approached him warily.  God!  Why am I doing this,
she thought.  She didn't have a convincing answer.  He wouldn't meet her
eyes as she approached.  He barely nodded, keeping his face averted and
indicated that she should walk with him.  She fell in beside him, making
sure to keep a good gap between them.  He walked a few paces in silence
then he stopped and faced her.  She was surprised to see his face was wet
with tears.

   "Something odd happened to me this morning.  Just after we landed, it
was.  This is going to sound utterly mad, but have you ever seen yourself
really clearly?  I just did.  I didn't like it.  Johanna, do you mind if I
call you Johanna?  I owe you, and a lot of other people, a huge apology.  I
have been such a shit for the longest time.  I've been mean and spiteful
and.  oh, just fucking awful!

   "And today, it hit me.  What a bloody waste!  All you good people out
there and all you ever got from me was just shit, shit, shit!  And d'you
know the worst part?  I really haven't the foggiest notion why.  I only
lashed out at you to hurt David.  No, don't ask me why, I can't tell you.
He never did anything to me, quite the reverse.  I did my best to make his
life Hell at school, y'know.  He did nothing to deserve it, it was just
me!"

   Michael's voice trailed off into a wail.  His shoulders shook as he
sobbed silently.  Then he composed himself and turned to Jo again.

   "I can't explain why I've acted the way I have.  Jealousy, I suppose,
'though God knows I never had cause.  And Peter!  Christ, I was a bastard
to him and he deserved none of it.  And my poor mother!  Oh I wish I could
take it all back and start again but I can't, can I?  I mean, who'd believe
me?"

   "I do, Michael," Jo said quietly.  And she did, every word.  Instinct
made her pull him towards her, place her arms around him and croon soft
nonsense noises to soothe him as he was wracked again by sobbing.  At
length, he drew back.

   "I haven't cracked, you know, if that's what your thinking.  It's just
that I've suddenly realised what's important in life and how much time I
absolutely wasted."

   He stepped back from her, calmer now.

   "Thank you.  You know, my brother's a very lucky man.  Tell him from me,
will you, when you see him?"



   Jo smiled.  Her heart went out to him.  She had no doubts now about his
sincerity.  She hadn't known him long but she could see his face was
different in some way.  His eyes!  The cold, imperious stare was gone.  He
looked vulnerable, not weak exactly but, well, human.

   "I think David would like it very much if you were the one to tell him."

   Michael gave a taught grimace.

   "I'm not saying this for sympathy but I have this feeling that I'm never
going to see David, or any of them again.  Don't look at me like that!  I'm
not scared or anything.  I worked out months ago that the odds are stacked
against us.  Willie Rhodes-Moorhouse went this morning.  I was with him in
France!  Christ, France!  That's a lifetime ago, don't you see?

   "Johanna, you're the only one I can talk to; to say how I sorry I am. 
Think of yourself as a proxy for all the rest.  I.  I'm sorry, I have to be
getting back.  Sorry.."

   With that he turned on his heel and strode off.  Jo watched him go,
noted how his head came up and his shoulders straightened as he moved away.
She turned back.  She'd be on shift later and still had things to do.  She
fought back her own tears as she walked.

   ****************

   "Well, Bader's got his way.  Today's the day for trying out the 'Big
Wing.' Well, Riley, what do you think?"

   Peter suppressed a sigh as he turned to face Wing Commander Adams. 
Adams, like most of 12 Group staff, had swung into line behind their
commanding officer.  Peter pondered his reply for a second or two.  Fuck
it, he thought, why not?

   "If you want the truth, sir, I think it's a mistake.  Squadron Leader
Bader is letting his considerable ego get the better of him."

   Adams stiffened, his face grew red.

   "Really, and, pray, what do you know about such things?"

   Peter bit back the urge to say 'a damn sight more than a 'wingless
wonder' like you.' Instead he drew a deep breath and said:

   "I think it might just work for 12 Group, sir.  We have the luxury of a
little time.  The boys on the coast, well, sir, they don't.  11 Group are
right up against it.  They don't have time to form up if they're to stop
the bombers getting through."

   Adams gave him a haughty look and stalked away.  Oh well, looks like
I've blotted my copybook.  Maybe it's time I asked for a posting anyway, he
thought.  He was damned if he'd be a 'yes-man' for anybody.  He said aloud,
for anyone who was listening, "I suppose I'm fortunate.  This isn't my idea
of a career.  I'll do my duty to the best of my ability but I won't toady
to anyone."

   He heard a deep chuckle.

   "Flight Lieutenant Riley, isn't it?"

   He spun around.  Air Vice Marshall Trafford Leigh-Mallory was gazing at
him with obvious amusement.

   "Yes, sir, sorry sir.  I let my temper get the better of me for a
moment. It won't happen again, sir."

   "Meaning that you won't say it out loud again, eh Riley?  Well it's
either a brave man or a bloody fool who disagrees with his superiors,
Riley. Which are you?"

   "It depends on your point of view, I suppose, sir."

   Leigh-Mallory laughed out loud.  He grinned amiably at Peter and said:



   "Well, Riley, if you're not on my team then it will probably suit us
both best if you move on, don't you think?"

   "Yes, sir, if you say so."

   "Oh, Riley, I do say so and my word is law.  Shame!  You've done well
but I can't afford to harbour the disaffected.  I'll arrange for your
posting."

   "Yes, sir."

   "Hmm.  Squadron Leader Riley, I think.  I wouldn't want you to believe
me ungrateful."

   Typical of the man, thought Peter.  Get rid of you if you don't agree
but promote you to sweeten the pill.  In for a penny, in for a pound:

   "I'd be grateful if I could go to an operational station, sir, if that's
at all possible."

   "Why not, Riley?  I'll see what I can do.  And by the way, I think you
fall into the 'brave man' category.  You, sir, are nobody's bloody fool."

   What on earth did he mean by that?  Peter thought, as the senior officer
wandered away.  Someone clapped on the back and whispered "God, that took
balls, old man." He shrugged.  What did it matter?  He'd survived the worst
that the Western Front could do.  What could touch him now?

   ********************

   The following day, Saturday, 7th September, was to be the turning point,
though nobody knew at the time.  Michael's Squadron was withdrawn from
Tangmere and sent to Exeter to recuperate.  213 Squadron replaced them. 
Peter received a movement order for Acting Squadron Leader Riley to report
to Biggin Hill as OC Operations.  His predecessor had been killed in an air
raid on the base.  David underwent further surgery to remove some
deep-seated fragments from his left knee.  Kiwi Braithwaite was discharged
from hospital and sent on sick leave.  On David's insistence, he went to
visit Bethan and Peter.

   Winston Churchill visited 11 group HQ at RAF Uxbridge.  He inquired of
Keith Park what reserves Park had.  Park answered truthfully and promptly.
"None," he said.

   In France, Helmut Graube was pronounced fit for duty.  He had mixed
feelings.  His badly sprained ankle had allowed him to spend a great deal
of very satisfactory time with Michelle Boissin.  At the same time, he was
bored with inactivity.  The award of the Iron Cross, 2nd Class, had been a
great excuse for a party.  He was so hung-over, he felt worse than he had
immediately after his heavy landing.  The spirit is very resilient at the
age of twenty, however; he sneaked into the cockpit of his new 'Emil' and
took a few whiffs of pure oxygen.  He felt immediately better.

   There was some surprise and consternation later that night when word
filtered down from on high that the Luftwaffe was to change tactics. 
'Grosse Herman' had lost his patience with the battle of attrition.  He'd
decided to switch the raids from the RAF stations and Radar sites and
attack England's very heart.  From now on, the main target would be London.
It would force the RAF to commit their last reserves, Goering reasoned. 
Then his beloved fighters could destroy them in a single set piece battle.
After that, well, the invasion, of course.  He could picture himself in
London in a matter of weeks.  For now, his squadrons needed some breathing
space.  He set the date for the great all-out attack for September 15th.

   Dowding and Park could not believe their luck.  There were some heavy
raids on 8th but poor weather and Goering's plans gave Fighter Command a
whole blessed week to recover.  Dowding knew, better than anyone, how close
the RAF had come to defeat.  If the raids of the 6th and 7th had continued,
11 Group would have virtually ceased to exist as an effective force.  At a
meeting on 10th September they had almost been lost for words.  The switch
of targets to London had brought the Germans into effective range of all 12
Group's strength.  Furthermore, London was at the extreme limit of the
Me109's combat range.  Could the tide be turning?







   It all started very slowly.  Peter was in the ops room at Biggin Hill
well before eight.  He was glad, seeing the damage to the base and
surrounding area, that he'd insisted that Bethan stayed back in
Nottinghamshire.  A few reports came in from those 'Chain Home' stations
still operating.  The odd enemy patrol or reconnaissance flight but nothing
significant.  It wasn't until 11 O'clock that reports began to filter
through of a big formation building up over Gris Nez.  Peter chewed his
knuckles and thought hard.  He ordered off all the sector fighters.  It was
a gamble but something told him that this was the moment.

   The raid came on waves.  A total of sixteen fighter squadrons rose from
their battered airfields to meet the intruders.  12 Group sent Bader's
Wing, now of five squadrons.  It was utter mayhem.  Around a hundred enemy
'planes made it through to London.  They were harried all the way there and
all the way back.  Their casualties were enormous.

   Another big raid was launched at around two o'clock.  Peter repeated his
tactics of the morning, sending everything he had.  Once more only half of
the raiders got through to London.  By evening things were quiet in the
Biggin Hill sector.  Peter felt the strangest sense of elation.  It was
like electricity in the air.  The intelligence reports were patchy and
still being compiled but it did look like that the Luftwaffe had
experienced their heaviest casualties of the battle so far.  Something had
to give, Peter was certain.  He was equally certain it wouldn't be Fighter
Command.  Now that was something he couldn't have said even a week before.

   Helmut Graube was exhausted.  He felt angry, bitter, let down.  It had
been sheer Hell over there!  Great God!  He'd never seen so many Tommie
fighters.  Where had they all come from?  They were supposed to be on their
last legs, it made no sense.  He'd only just got back, flying on fumes. 
His tank had been reading 'empty' as he started back across the Kanal.  The
'Emil's' engine had cut as he tried to taxi back after landing.  That was a
close!  It was time someone in the High Command started talking straight
instead of out of their fat arses.  Oh well, he'd have a bath and go and
see Michelle; that always cheered him up.

   *****************

   Michael Welford-Barnes was amazed.  The Squadron Leader had sent for him
and made him flight commander of Blue Flight.  He couldn't believe it.  He
decided to do a quick 'hop' with one of the new boys, a Pole by the name of
Jazinski.  They took off as a pair and Michael pushed the young pilot hard,
rolling and turning and insisting the novice stayed with him.  Michael was
pleasantly surprised.  Jazinski had some ability, good!  He decided to make
one quick pass and then head for home.

   "Blue Leader, Blue two.  Follow me.  Tally Ho!"

   Michael dropped a wing and let the Hurricane sideslip into a screaming
turn.  He noted with satisfaction that Jazinski was still with him, right
where he should be.  He pushed the stick forward and began his mock attack.
They plunged down from 20,000 feet.  He watched the altimeter unwind.  He
felt good, clean, alive.  As they passed 12,000 feet he called his wingman
again.

   "Blue Leader, Blue two.  Break right, break right, go!"

   Maybe Jazinski's English wasn't as good as his flying, maybe it was just
a mistake.  As Michael jinked sharply to his right, the windscreen was
suddenly full of the Polish pilot's Hurricane.  Only the Exeter controller
heard Michael's last words.  They were: "Oh, fuck!"

















   September 15th 1965 Reunion

   Air Commodore David Riley waited to receive his luncheon guests.  The
parade had gone well, he thought, and this gathering to mark the 25th
Anniversary of the Battle of Britain had been his idea.  Invitations had
gone out to as many of the surviving RAF pilots and aircrew as could be
traced.  He was very pleased with the turnout.  There were over 200
veterans in attendance.  He was particularly pleased to welcome the small
delegation of former Luftwaffe flyers, who had also been invited.  Getting
Adolf Galland had been a real coup.

   Galland was a dapper, polite man a few years older and a good head
shorter than David.  He was chatting to a slender, dark man of about
David's age who was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the present day
German Air Force.  Galland switched politely into English as David
approached.

   "Ah, Air Commodore Riley.  Allow me to present one of my old Jg26
comrades.  Air Commodore Riley, Oberst Helmut Graube."

   David smiled and offered his hand.  The German Colonel smiled back
broadly.

   "You will not know this, Air Commodore, but we met at least once
before."

   David shook his head, puzzled.

   "Ja, it is so!  On the 24th August 1940.  I was the one who shot you
down."

   "Good God, really?  How can you be sure?  We lost quite a few Defiants
that day."

   "I did some research, Herr Riley.  You see, I am now the air attach, at
our embassy here in London.  I have no doubt at all.  Your serial letter
was 'P,' is that not so?"

   "Yes, it was; P-Peter.  Well I'll be damned!  You know, we never knew
where you came from."

   Graube turned to Galland.

   "I will tell you, Herr General, the Air Commodore and his gunner were
the bravest enemies I ever saw.  What happened to your gunner, if I may
inquire?"

   "Kiwi Braithwaite.  Oh Kiwi survived the war, thankfully.  He retrained
as a pilot in 1941 and wound up in Coastal Command as a Squadron Leader on
a Sunderland squadron.  He went back to New Zealand in 1946.  I still hear
from him.  He's running an Insurance Company or something."

   "I'm glad to hear he did not perish.  He was a good shot, too, Herr
General.  He put a few rounds into my motor while he was hanging upside
down.  That day, I nearly got my feet wet!"

   The two Germans laughed.  Galland explained.

   "Helmut here was always worried about falling into the sea."

   "It is simple, Air Commodore, I never learned to swim!"

   David found himself warming to the Colonel the longer they talked.  He
was humorous, polite and obviously felt not the slightest embarrassment in
the presence of his former enemies.  A thought struck him.

   "I say, Colonel Graube.  I would very much like to invite you to dinner.
I know my wife would love to meet you.  Jo always says that whoever shot me
down that day saved my life.  Do come and, uh, bring your own good lady?"

   "Please, call me Helmut.  I should love it.  My own wife, she is French
and loves to socialise.  With great pleasure, I accept, Air Commodore."

   "David.  My name's David."

   "Ah.  So it will be David and Helmut then.  That is good.  The very best
of enemies, ja?"

   "Let's have a drink on that!  Coming, gentlemen?"

   Epilogue November 11th 2003

   I reached the top of the hill a few moments before eleven o'clock.  The
village below was barely discernible through the dank haze.  I let the dogs
run ahead and paused by the iron railings.  I hadn't brought a wreathe -
that would have been too pretentious - just a couple of the simple cloth
poppies that they sell as buttonholes to mark Remembrance Day.  It was a
simple matter to twist the stems so that one could hang on each side of the
gate.  One poppy for Phillip and one for Michael; father and son, who died
in defence of their country and my - all our -freedom.

   The Church clock struck the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the
eleventh month.  There was no bugler at the war memorial this time, but he
had been there on Sunday.  I observed the silence on my own.  It seemed
fitting somehow.  I'd got to know these men, their strengths and
weaknesses; their lovers and their friends.  It was time to bid them
'farewell.'

   It's all so terribly long ago.  Men like David Riley are in their
Eighties, if they still yet live.  Fewer and fewer veterans now parade on
15th September, Battle of Britain Day.  As I walked back down the hill over
the soggy grass into the sunken lane behind Pitton House, I couldn't help
but think of Churchill's words:

   "The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed
throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the
British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant
challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their
prowess and by their devotion.  Never in the field of human conflict was so
much owed by so many to so few."







   The End.











   Historical Notes



   I was born a few years after the Second World War ended but memories
were still fresh.  The names of the great Fighter Aces were as well known
to me as modern-day sports stars are to the current generation.  'Sailor'
Malan, 'Ginger' Lacey, 'Cats-eyes' Cunningham, Johnny Johnson, Al Deere and
'Lucky' Bob Stamford -Tuck were household names.  Of course, it helped that
we were an Air Force family and I was consequently equally familiar with
the Bristol Blenheim, Hawker Hurricane, Supermarine Spitfire and the rest.
Some of my earliest memories involve hours spent looking his photo albums
with my father.  The photos, largely from his service during the 1920's and
30's were mostly of antiquated biplanes that would make a modern child
wonder how they ever got off the ground.

   Next came the age of aero modelling and my room was full of poorly-built
plastic kits.  It was small wonder, then, that I followed my father and
elder brother into RAF service.  I have to confess that modern jet aircraft
fail to inspire in the way that those famous old aeroplanes do.  I suppose
it was inevitable that, sooner or later, I would fall into the trap of
trying to write an aviation story.

   'Like Father Like Son' was inspired by coming across the graves of
William Barnard Rhodes-Moorhouse and his son, 'Willie' Rhodes-Moorhouse
that lie on a Dorset hilltop near the little town on Beaminster.  This is
not their story.  My characters are entirely imaginary and are not based on
the Rhodes-Moorhouse family in any remote way.

   William was a fine aviator.  He was the first airman to win the Victoria
Cross, Britain's highest award for gallantry.  He also achieved a number of
other notable firsts: the first pilot to carry passengers across the
English Channel and the first man to fly under the Golden Gate Bridge!  He
was killed in 1915 after a heroic bombing mission in a BE2c.  'Willie', who
gets a brief mention in the story, died on September 6th, 1940 when his
Hurricane was shot down over Tunbridge Wells in Kent.  He flew with 601
Squadron - 'The Millionaires' - and was part of a flight that was detached
to France in May 1940.  By one of those strange quirks of fate, Willie was
based at Merville airfield -the very place from which his father had taken
off on his famous last flight.

   It is inevitable when writing a piece of fiction based around real
events that actual people have to make an appearance.  Below are some brief
details about these true-life characters.  I had to invent some of the
exchanges but I believe I have been faithful to the record.  I did not have
to invent any of the flying incidents.  All of the tales in this story,
even the more improbable sounding ones, actually happened to someone.

   'Stuffy' Dowding: Air Marshall Sir Hugh Dowding was the Commander in
Chief of Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain.  He commanded 16
Squadron RFC during 1915 and 1916 and, as described, was not a great
success.  His 'finest hour' came later.  The letter to the Air Ministry is
quoted verbatim.  Dowding's greatest contribution was the establishment of
the air defence system that enabled the RAF to win the Battle of Britain.

   Air Vice Marshall Sir Keith Park: Keith Park was, perhaps, the true
architect of the tactical victory.  He was adored by his pilots and was an
inspirational leader, frequently visiting the operational squadrons in his
own Hurricane.  During the First War, he commanded 48 Squadron (after the
events described in this story) and was one of the top Bristol Fighter
'Aces' with 20 victories to his credit.  His clashes with Trafford
Leigh-Mallory are well documented.  He went on to command the RAF in Malta
and retired to his native New Zealand after the War.  His comment to
Churchill regarding reserves is a matter of record.

   Air Vice Marshall Sir Trafford Leigh- Mallory: Leigh-Mallory was an able
and highly ambitious officer.  He was the brother of George Leigh Mallory,
the mountaineer famously lost on Mt Everest, whose body was discovered only
recently.  The dispute with Park over tactics is one of the long-running
controversies.  The 'Big Wing' tactics, latterly favoured by 12 Group, were
fine in theory but difficult to put into practice effectively.  There were
huge problems in trying to control such large numbers and often the
squadrons took so long to assemble that they failed to engage the enemy. 
They did have their successes, though, notably on 15th September 1940. 
Leigh-Mallory went on to command first Fighter Command and then the entire
Allied Air Forces for the D-Day operations.  He was killed later in 1944
when the aircraft taking him to the Far East crashed.

   Sir Winston Spencer Churchill: So much has been written and said about
Churchill that there is little point in me trying to supply a biography
here.  All the quotations attributed to Churchill are verbatim except 'his
letter' to Peter, which is my own invention.

   Captain William Leefe-Robinson, VC: Leefe-Robinson was the first pilot
to shoot down a German airship over London as described.  Although an
experienced pilot, he lacked experience of fighting on the Western Front.
He was shot down by Richtofen's Flying Circus as described.  He survived
his wounds and was a prisoner of war.  Ironically, he died of Spanish 'Flu
immediately after the First War ended.

   Captain Albert Ball, VC: Albert Ball was the first RFC pilot to become a
national hero.  He was brave to the point of madness and frequently took on
vastly superior enemy formations single-handed.  The evening of his death
in 1917, he was last seen chasing seven enemy fighters on his own. 
Photographs of the time reveal an intense, boyish figure.  He was renowned
as a 'loner.' He was just twenty years old when he died.

   Major Lanoe Hawker, VC: Lanoe Hawker was arguably Britain's best pilot
and a very successful RFC Squadron Commander of 24 Squadron, as described.
He was shot down and killed by the Red Baron after a long unequal fight
during which his engine was constantly cutting out.  The description of the
collapsing wall of the officers' mess hut is factual.

   Freiherr Manfred von Richtofen - The Red Baron.  Despite being the
highest scoring 'ace' of World War I, 'The Red Baron' remains something of
a controversial figure.  His critics point out that many of his victories
came about against very inferior aircraft and that he had the habit of
'finishing off' enemy 'planes already damaged by combat with others.  Even
his death remains a topic for dispute, although it seems most likely he was
killed by ground fire from an Australian machine gunner.

   General Adolph Galland: Adolph Galland is arguably the greatest fighter
pilot of them all.  He commanded Jg26 in the later stages of the Battle of
Britain but his greatest triumphs came against the Red Air Force on the
Eastern Front.  Highly intelligent, urbane and humane, he became a regular
visitor to Britain and made many friends among his former enemies after the
war.  He did tell Goering that he wanted a squadron of Spitfires but this
was probably to annoy 'Grosse Herman.' Galland disliked the Nazi leadership
and thought Goering a posturing fool and was heavily critical of his
tactics.

   The Record Breakers: Malcolm Campbell, John Parry Thomas, Henry Segrave,
Ray Keech and Frank Lockhart were all real people who made attempts on the
Land Speed Record as described.

   Pinky Harris, Phillip, Michael and Bethan Welford-Barnes, Peter and
David Riley, Albert Armitage, Helmut Graube etc.  are all characters of my
own fevered imagination.  They bear no intentional resemblance to real
people, living or dead.

   The Squadrons

   14 Squadron, RFC, never served on the Western Front.  This was a
deliberate ploy on my part, as I wanted the freedom to tell the 'story'
without the restrictions of real events.

   48 Squadron, RFC, was the first to be equipped with the Bristol Fighter.
Their experiences with the new machine are a matter of record and the
events took place much as I described them.

   All of the squadrons named in Part Eight were real formations and their
story is taken from the official record.  The incidents involving David and
Michael are, of course, entirely imaginary but are based, as far as
possible, on actual operations that took place on the dates stated.  The
history of 264 Squadron and their Boulton Paul Defiants is a matter of
record.  When the Luftwaffe first encountered the Defiant, they did make
the mistake of thinking it was a Hurricane, to which it had a passing
resemblance.  The first squadron to be 'found out' was 141 Squadron, which
was severely mauled in July 1940.  264 came to their Calvary between 22nd
and 28thAugust, 1940.



   The Battle of Britain

   The Battle of Britain lasted from 10th July to 31st October 1940.  To
paraphrase the Duke of Wellington, it was a 'near-run thing.' Had the
Luftwaffe not switched their attacks to London from the airfields and radar
stations after 7th September, it is quite likely that Britain would have
lost and the invasion would have followed.  Whether or not the Germans
would have been successful can only be a matter of conjecture.  After the
huge air battles of September 15th, the Luftwaffe turned increasingly to
night bombing.  As the Official History remarks, fighting continued at a
lower level throughout October.  The Battle did not so much end as
eventually peter out.

   The 'Few', now sadly forgotten by many, were 2353 young men from Great
Britain and 574 from overseas, pilots and other aircrew, who are officially
recognised as having taken part in the Battle of Britain.  Each flew at
least one authorised operational sortie with an eligible unit of the Royal
Air Force or Fleet Air Arm during the period 10 July to 31 October 1940. 
544 lost their lives during the period of the Battle.  A further 791 were
killed in action or died in the course of their duties before the war's
end.

   If you would like to know more about the Battle of Britain I recommend:
http://www.raf.mod.uk/bob1940/bobhome.html
For anyone interested in the Air War on the Western Front, I recommend
'The First Air War,' by Richard Townsend Bickers.  For a personal account
of the RFC, 'Sagittarius Rising,' by Cecil Lewis is a marvellous read. 
There are many good books on the Battle of Britain, 'Fighter,' by Len
Deighton stands out, but my personal favourite is 'Nine Live.' by the New
Zealand 'ace.' Al Deere.  Al was shot down no less than seven times but

survived the War to retire as an Air Commodore in 1977.

   Finally, I have to acknowledge the contributions made in the writing of
this story.  My heartfelt thanks go to Svend Raun, a fellow 'airman' and
amateur historian with a keen interest in the Battle of Britain, for his
invaluable assistance in keeping me on the right track and his technical
input concerning the Battle.  I have, as always, to thank my editor, Denny
Wheeler, for correcting all my dreadful typos and pointing out where I
could express things better.  Denny also maintains my web pages and has
helped to find some of the photos that illustrate this story there.

   Any errors, factual or otherwise, I claim entirely for myself.

   Finally, my thanks also go to the very many readers who have encouraged
me with their kind comments and urged me on to complete this tale. 
Foremost among these is 'cmsix,' a fine imaginative writer- go read his
stories.

   (c) copyright 2003, Smilodon