The Dawn Patrol Page 4

  Chapter Three

  His craft and power are great

  and armed with cruel hate

  on earth is not his equal

  Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also

  The body they may kill, but love endureth still

  This Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him

  His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure

  One little word shall fell him

  Eric felt chills down his spine as he opened his eyes, waking an hour earlier than usual, with the excitement a boy may have felt on a holiday morning or the first day of summer, like a racehorse wanting to surge, but holding it back with the reins of approaching the day as a man. Today was the day he would fly a Spitfire for the first time.

  He looked at his surroundings, at the dark green wool blankets, the cots of the other sleeping officers, all tired beyond measure with the relentless training. The card table with the last dregs of the previous night’s card game. Newspapers lying on crates, clothes and blankets carefully folded for the appearance of order.

  Emma looked up at him from the floor, twitching her tail expectantly, wondering what fun might be afoot. She lifted her head with a mutt’s curiosity, her speckled coat rippling with a morning stretch, and yawned into the chill air, grunting, rising to her feet, wagging.

  Eric reached over and scratched her behind the ears. “Yes Emma, girls can be in the Royal Air Force too, you know that. But a Spitfire’s no place for a dog, so there’s always the Women’s Auxiliary Force you can join. What say you?”

  And Emma nodded hear head, wagging.

  Eric rubbed his arms, and rose over the cold bowl with a bit of water, separating some for a rinse, and took his razor, readying the shaving soap, and leaned back in the morning light, carefully following the curve of his neck with the needle sharp edge of the blade, pausing to dip it in the water, and then rinsed away. He thought about how soldiers all across Europe were doing the same thing, Axis or Allied.

  He took out a toothbrush, squeezing out some Solidox toothpaste, remembering how it had come from Norway, the year before, from a company called Lilleborg. And barely a month ago, on April 9th, 1940, Norway had been invaded. And now, at the beginning of May, the last of the British Expeditionary force had soldiers in France, waiting for the hammer to fall.

  Eric brushed his teeth and wondered if the Norwegian toothpaste company would survive the war, and whether German soldiers would also be using this toothpaste. He spit out the taste of last night’s ale, shook his head, and walked out towards the airfield with Emma the Mutt in tow.

  Dawn was just breaking over the airfield, and no engines had been fired up yet that day, but electric lights were on in the hangar, and Eric walked over the dew laden grass to where the mechanics were working on the Spitfire.

  “Morning, master Tomkins” Eric nodded, “a gift for you that happened to survive last night’s card game” and he handed him a bottle of wine from Bordeaux. “Now that bottle there is mighty precious, from a soldier coming back from France.” and John Tomkins opened his eyes wider and whistled. “A mighty fine gift that is, given what those lads are up against.”

  “Well this lad was evidently appreciative of the role that the remaining RAF pilots are playing over there” said Eric. “And I refused twice, but the third time I took the wine, two bottles as it were, in a little haversack, and cracked one open last night, and here’s one for you lads then.”

  “Aye well it will be a fine toast to the RAF then!” said John, as he set the bottle down in his rolling cart and mused, then snapped his fingers. “And I daresay it will be celebrated for the miracle it is, water turned into wine, when all the lads make it back over the Channel.”

  “So you don’t think they can hold out against Hitler when he strikes?” asked Eric.

  “No Eric, not against the Blitzkrieg by land and the Luftwaffe by air,” said Johnny.

  Tommy Cranshaw stood and patted the Browning machine guns on the Spitfire’s wing, looking over the eight protruding gun ports, like a father over 8 sons.

  “But we’ll give it back to them, by God” Tommy said, and looked at Eric. “Now this will be your first time up in a Spit, and I imagine you’ve heard about the guns.” he said, pointing at the Brownings. “Now our lads have found that even if all eight of these work completely perfectly, you have to fire thousands of rounds to take an enemy down.”

  “Thousands of rounds!” chimed John.

  “And I hear that they’re working on a different caliber?” asked Eric?

  “True enough” said Tommy, “outfitting them with Hispano guns of .30 caliber”

  John patted the Spitfire. “One way or the other, we’ll give them what they’ve got coming, and the Spitfire’s a grand bird to fly.”

  “I can hardly wait!” Eric exclaimed, and they all grinned.

  Tommy winked at him, and motioned him over. “Now I’m supposed to let Captain Brethridge officially take you on the tour of the plane, but seeing as how everyone else is still sleeping besides you and John and I, well I can make allowances.” and the ambled over to the fuselage, setting up a stand to step up carefully on the wing, John on the other side, Tommy and Eric peering into the cockpit, just like a pack of schoolboys.

  Tommy nodded and gestured to the plane. “Well in you go!”

  And Eric sat in the cockpit of the Spitfire, and it felt strange and familiar at the same time. The central gauges - Airspeed, Attitude, Climb in top center, then Altitude, Turn/Heading, Slip. Most other controls were in the same locations.

  “You know about the Rolls Royce engine?” asked Tommy. “A new 12 cylinder, liquid cooled engine called the PV-12.” He gestured at the throttle. “Try it out.” Eric put his hand on the throttle and imagined the engine roaring to life.

  “They’re going to rename the engine Merlin.” John chimed in. “It’s a real corker.”

  Eric put his hands on the pressure plate of the pneumatic firing gun button, just lightly touching the safety. Tommy and John grew quiet.

  “And you know of course that the elliptical wings on the Spitfire enabled Mitchell to pack in four Brownings on each wing.” Tommy said.

  Eric gripped the control stick as if he was in flight, when they noticed a pipe smoking figure walk up in the morning mist. As he came closer, Tommy exclaimed.

  “Well bless my stars, it’s Douglas Bader!” and Tommy clambered down from the ladder stool, and clapped the figure on the shoulder. He motioned for Eric and Johnny to come down. “This here is Douglas Bader, come to visit his old mate from the fighting over in France!” and Tommy beamed.

  “How do you do Tommy, nice to see you,” and he nodded at Eric and Tommy.

  “Well, Master Bader, I wasn’t sure when I’d see you again, when I was shipped home to work on these here Spits.” and he jerked his thumb in the hangar, and nodded at Eric, “Some of these saw service over in France.”

  Douglas nodded, thinking about how very precious a good mechanic was, and Tommy was among the best, if not the best.

  “Well Tommy, you know my old friend, Tubby Mermagen,” suggested Bader, holding his pipe.

  “Yes, I seem to remember sharing a few drinks . . . “ Tommy said.

  “Well it turns out that I’m in his squadron, 222 at Duxford.” Douglas said, and Tommy could tell something was underneath the words – he knew Bader. Something in his voice was different.

  “What’s afoot, Douglas?” he asked, and had a premonition.

  “Well, you lads didn’t hear it from me, but the Nazis have invaded Luxembourg, the Netherlands and France – today.” and they all thought of their comrades in the British Expeditionary Force.

  Eric asked, a pit opening up in his stomach. “Do you think the BEF can hold off the Jerries?” Douglas looked at him and shook his head.

  “And actually Tommy, I’m sorry to be crass, but I’ve come to invite you and John to join me up at Duxford with the 222 squadron, and I need to know rather soon.” H
e said, earnestly. “You’re the best mechanic in the RAF, and I want you with the 222. What do you say?”

  Tommy smiled, and didn’t hesitate. “On your honor? I’m assuming you’ve spoken to the right people?” and Douglas returned his smile. “It’s taken care of – I’m owed a few favors by certain people.”

  Something about the man impressed Eric, and without thinking what he was doing, he blurted out. “Mr. Bader, would you consider taking me into the squadron?” and he held his breath, waiting.

  Douglas surveyed Eric, looking him up and down. Turning to him in the light, Eric realized that Douglas was actually standing on artificial legs. He remembered hearing about an RAF pilot who flew just as well as anyone else, and was known to be a bit daring.

  “Sir, an honor to meet you. Is it true that back in November, you flew the Avro Tutor upside down at 600 feet?”

  And Tommy and Douglas both laughed. “Well, I guess word has gotten around. I couldn’t resist the temptation. And then just like you, I progressed through flying the Fairey Battle and the Miles Master, and now here we are flying Hurricanes and Spitfires.” Douglas turned to Tommy, looking at him questioningly, nodding at Eric.

  Tommy looked back and forth between Eric and Douglas Bader, and coughed.

  “Well Master Bader, from what I know Eric is among the best pilots we have.” He said, gesturing to the Spitfire. “He advanced very fast through Hurricanes and has the full confidence of his commanders.”

  Eric held his breath, and marveled at the fact that Bader would have some pull to get him in that squadron. It may be a better squadron, or worse squadron at that – but there was something about the man that drew him. Up in the sky, the other pilots you flew with could make the difference between life and death, just like the mechanics.

  Douglas reached out his hand. “A pleasure to have you, I’ll talk to your commander.”

  And Douglas walked back away in the mist, puffing his pipe, walking fairly close to the gait of a normal man. Tommy whistled.

  “Well I’ll be damned. You can start the day with one expectation and things can change in a flash.” he said, turning back to John and Eric. “Ok mates, let’s see if we can wake up the rest of the pilots” he said, with an evil grin on his face. Eric raised his eyebrows, and John winked, saying. “It looks like we’re going to do a convergence test on the Brownings of this here Spitfire that you’re about to fly.”

  Eric thought back to the discussion of harmonization and convergence in gun placement for the Spitfire, calibrating the guns so that they would come to focus on a point somewhere ahead of the plane. For the Spitfire, 400 yards originally, but under debate. Some believed the guns should be dispersed to have the widest possible zone of fire with a single gun on target. Others believed the guns should be parallel so that they would cover an elongated zone when dealing with bombers. But in practice, the concentration of fire on a single point had proved most effective.

  “How far out is the convergence point set?” asked Eric, as they connected the hitch to a small vehicle to bring the Spitfire around to the area where the convergence point was tested. It was a homebrew experiment from Tommy, who liked to make absolutely certain everything was in order.

  “250 yards” said Tommy, and Eric imagined flying at the top speed of the Spitfire, roughly 300 miles per hour, and what it would be like to close in to that point, and let out a short burst on another plane that was trying like the devil to do the same thing to him. A terrible dance indeed, and devilishly difficult. John seemed to read his thoughts.

  “It’s all about geometry, mate” said Johnny, patting him on the back.

  Word had gotten round the barracks with other early risers, who stood around in groups, watching the men back the plane into an embankment so that it was roughly level, and point it at a small group of very old cars about 250 yards in the distance. Tommy gestured to Eric. “Up you go! We’re off to Duxford anyway, don’t worry about captain. And you know as well as I do that up in the air you need to let out short bursts. But this morning we want to let out a solid stream until all the bullets are gone, partly to test the convergence point, and also the guns overheating” Eric nodded.

  “You may wish to cover your ears” Tommy said, to some of the other green, new pilots who might never have heard 8 browning machine guns fire before in unison. No one covered their ears.

  Eric climbed in the cockpit, touched the pressure plate switch to unlock the safety, and looked at Tommy, who raised his thumb, and covered his ears. Eric depressed the trigger, and everyone covered their ears, as bullets and tracers roared out in a blaze of fire to reach 250 yards in a split second and devastate the junk cars assembled there. It was still not fully light so the noise and the explosions lit up the morning. Eric couldn’t bring himself to shoot so continuously, in spite of the go ahead, and stopped, and took a break, his pulse racing. He looked at Tommy, who motioned for him to keep going, and covered his ears.

  Eric fired, thrilled and sobered and excited by the roaring power of the machine guns, and by some miracle, none of the guns jammed or faltered in their fire – when they ran out he could just hear the final whirring clicks, and he thought he could see some steam and smoke rising from the hot metal of the gun ports.

  After the noise stopped, Eric depressed the safety again, and some of the new pilots made as if to go and inspect the cards. Tommy waved at them.

  “Sorry, the captain doesn’t wish anyone to get in front of guns, just in case” he said, and stared down their naive curiosity, and they started back to the barracks. It was a bald-faced lie of course.

  Tommy thought about the wreckage of other Spitfires that he had to salvage for parts, and he was afraid that if new pilots saw the devastation that 8 Brownings could do up close, they might bring more fear into the sky than they already had, or they might not go at all.

  Eric thanked Tommy and John, and made his way back to the barracks as well.

  “God bless em” said Tommy, as he and John watched the pilots filter back to their barracks to catch a few minutes of sleep before first call, whispering excitedly about the invasion of Europe.

  “Do you think we’ll have enough pilots and planes to keep the Nazis at bay?” asked John.

  “We’ll have enough planes at least” said Tommy, who had been to the Vickers Supermarine factory for training, and talked to the people who were ramping up production, and actually walked the production lines. “But I don’t know as we’ll have enough pilots. They’re just lads, courageous, going up against hardened pilots who have been flying for longer” he said.

  “But at least they’ll have the Spitfire and Hurricane to fight with, and that has already given the Jerries a run for their money” said Tommy, wondering how well they would fare, and just how far the Luftwaffe outnumbered the RAF. He thanked his lucky stars that Bader had told him about the experimental radar project, and sworn him to utter secrecy. The courage of the pilots, and the people on the ground, and radar – maybe that would allow us to hold out against Hitler. Just maybe.