Hugh Dundas was one of Britain’s leading fighter aces of the Second World War. In this reconstruction of pilots’ banter and operational chatter, he catches the atmosphere of a Fighter Command squadron in Southern England in the summer of 1941. The Battle of Britain, the Royal Air Force’s historic defeat of the Luftwaffe, was over but the pressure to keep the Luftwaffe at bay was still strong, the air battle over and beyond the English Channel intense, and pilots’ lives short. Douglas Bader, the legless survivor of the 1940 battles, was already celebrated for his longevity as well as unparalleled courage.
On some faded sheets of paper there has survived a description which I wrote, at that time, of an afternoon and evening which could have been one of many. It is incomplete, a fragment, not part of a diary or larger chronicle. I cannot remember writing it; I do not know exactly when I wrote it, for it is undated. Nor do I know whether it ever had an ending or whether perhaps I just got tired of writing and went to bed. But such as it is, it brings back sharply the feel and taste of those far-off days when I was very young and just discovering life and death stretched out its hand to touch me every day. I quote it, just as it was written then:
It was hot in the garden, lying face down on the lawn, a pot of iced shandy by my hand, Robin (my golden retriever) huffing and puffing and panting at the ants. Odd to be lying there peacefully, listening to the click of croquet balls, the blur of voices, the gramophone. The shandy sharp, cold, stimulating.
‘Hullo, Cocky.’
‘Hullo, Johnnie.’
‘Get a squirt this morning, Cocky?’
‘Yes, Johnnie, I got a squirt. Missed the bastard as usual, though.’
‘Another show this afternoon, Cocky. Take off 15.30.’
‘Yes, I know; take off 15.30.’ Three hours ago, over Lille. It happened yesterday, and last week, and last month. It will happen again in exactly two and a half hours, and tomorrow, and next month.
The grass smelt sweet in the garden, and the shandy was good, and Robin’s panting, and the gramophone playing ‘Momma may I go out dancing — yes, my darling daughter.’
It was hot at dispersal and the grass, what was left of it, brown and oil-stained. The Spitfires creaked and twanged in the sun.
‘Everything under control, Hally?’ (Flying Officer Hall was the squadron engineer officer.)
‘Yes, Cocky, everything under control. DB’s not ready yet, but it will be.’ (D B were the identification letters of Bader’s plane.)
‘Well, for Christ’s sake see that it is, or there’ll be some laughing-off to do.’
‘It will be ready, Cocky.’
‘OK, Hally.’
Inside is as hot as outside. The pilots, dressed almost as they like, lie about sweating.
‘Chalk please, Durham.’
They all watch as I chalk initials under the diagram of twelve aircraft in three sections of four. Nobody moves much until I have finished and written the time of take-off.
‘Smith, you’ll be with DB. Nip, you and I on his right. Johnnie, you with the CO and two of B Flight. OK?’
‘OK, Cocky.’
Here comes DB.
‘Why the bloody hell isn’t my aircraft ready? Cocky, my bloody aeroplane’s not ready. We take off in 20 minutes. Where’s that prick Hally?’
‘It’s OK, DB, it’ll be ready. I’ve seen Hally.’
‘Well, look at the bloody thing. They haven’t even got the cowlings on yet. Oi, Hally, come here!’
Christ, I wish we could get going.
‘Chewing gum, Johnnie, please. Thanks pal.’
‘OK, DB?’
‘Yes, Cocky, it’s going to be OK.’
We walk together again, as far as the road.
‘Well, good luck Cocky. And watch my tail, you old bastard.’
‘I’ll do that DB. Good luck.’
Just time for two or three more puffs before climbing into A for Apple.
‘Everything O K, Goodlad?’ (the fitter who looked after my plane).
‘OK, sir.’
‘Good show. Bloody hot.’
Climbing in, the hottest thing of all. The old girl shimmers like an oven, twangs and creaks.
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
Up the line DB’s motor starts. 610 [Squadron] have formed up and are beginning to move off across the airfield as we taxi out — DB, myself, Smithie, Nip, then two composite sections from both flights.
Straggle over the grandstand at Goodwood in a right-hand turn and set course east in a steady climb, Ken’s twelve [formation of twelve fighters] a little above and behind to the left, Stan’s out to the right. Ten thousand feet over Shoreham. The old familiar, nostalgic taste in the mouth. Brighton — Maxim’s last Saturday night; dancing with Diana in the Norfolk. Beachy, once a soft summer playground, now a gaunt buttress sticking its chin bluntly out towards our enemies. Spread out now into wide semi-independent fours. Glint of perspex way out and above to the south shows Stan and his boys nicely placed between us and the sun. Dungeness slides slowly past to port and we still climb steadily, straight on, way out in front.
Twenty-five thousand.
‘Levelling out.’
Puffs of black ten thousand feet below show where the bombers [they are escorting] are crossing between Boulogne and Le Touquet. Six big cigars with tiers of protective fighters milling above them.
‘Hello, Douglas, Woody calling. There are fifty plus gaining height to the east.’
‘OK Woody.’
‘Put your corks in, boys.’ Stan.
Over the coast at Hardelot we nose ahead without altering course.
‘DB, there’s some stuff at three o’clock, climbing round to the south-west.’
‘OK, I see it. Stan, you deal with them if necessary.’
‘OK, OK. Don’t get excited.’
Usual remarks. Usual shouts of warning. Usual bad language. Usual bloody Huns climbing round the usual bloody way.
St Omer on the left. We fly· on, straight and steady in our fours, towards Lille. Stan’s voice:
‘They’re behind us, Walker squadron. Stand by to break.’ Then: ‘Look out, Walker. Breaking starboard.’
Looking over my shoulder to the right and above I see the specks and glints which are Stan’s planes break up into the fight, a quick impression of machines diving, climbing, gyrating. Stan, Fan, Tony, Derek and the rest of them are fighting for their lives up there.
Close to the target area now. More black puffs below show where the bombers are running in through the flak.
‘Billy here, DB. There’s a lot of stuff coming round at three o’clock, slightly above.’
Quick look to the right. Where the hell? Christ, yes! There they are, the sods. A typical long, fast, climbing straggle of [Messerschmitt] 109s.
‘More below, DB, to port.’
‘OK, going down. Ken, watch those buggers behind.’
‘OK, DB.’
‘Come on, Cocky.’
Down after DB. The Huns are climbing fast to the south. Have to get in quick before those sods up above get at us. Turn right, open up slightly. We are diving to two or three hundred feet below their level. DB goes for the one on the left. Nipple is on my right. Johnnie slides across beyond him. Getting in range now. Wait for it, wait for DB and open up all together. 250 yards ... 200 ... wish to Christ I felt safer behind ... 150. DB opens up. I pull my nose up slightly to put the dot a little ahead of his orange spinner. Hold it and squeeze, cannon and machine guns together ... correct slightly ... you’re hitting the bastard ... wisp of smoke.
‘BREAK, Rusty squadron, for Christ’s sake BREAK!’
Stick hard over and back into tummy, peak revs and haul her round. Tracers curl past ... orange nose impression not forty yards off ... slacken turn for a second ... hell of a melee ... better keep turning, keep turning, keep turning.
There’s a chance, now. Ease off, nose up, give her two lengths’ lead and fire. Now break, don’t hang around, break! Tracers again ... a huge orange spinner and three little tongues of flame spitting at me for a second in a semi-head-on attack. Round, round, so that she judders and nearly spins. Then they’re all gone, gone as usual as suddenly as they came.
‘Cocky, where the hell are you? Are you with me, Cocky?’
There he is, I think. Lucky to find him after that shambles.
‘OK, DB, coming up on your starboard now.’
‘Right behind vou, Cocky.’ That’s Johnnie calling.
‘O K Johnnie, I see you.’
Good show; the old firm’s still together.
It was cooler, on the lawn, and still. The shadows from the tall trees stretched out to the east. Robin lay beside me pressing his muzzle into the grass, huffing at insects. The pint pot of Pimms was cool in my hands and the ice clinked when I moved. The cucumber out of the drink was good and cold and sharp when I sucked it.
‘Hullo Cocky.’
‘What-ho Johnnie.’
‘Tough about Derek.’
‘Yes, Johnnie; and Mab.’
The croquet balls sounded loud to my ear, pressed in the grass. The distant gramophone started again on ‘Momma, may I go out dancing’.
‘Come on, you old bastard, let’s drink up and get out of here.’
The tide washed up the creek to Bosham and splashed against the balcony of the Old Ship. We sat and sipped our good, warm, heartening brandy and watched the red sun dip through the western haze, watched the stars light one by one, watched the two swans gliding past like ghost ships.
‘Cocky.’
‘Yes, Johnnie.’
‘Readiness at four a.m.’
‘OK let’s go.’
That was the way of it at Tangmere in high summer 1941. That, word for word, is how I wrote it down, in some moment of self-release on eleven sheets of pale blue writing paper which then lay unregarded among other old papers for twenty years.