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  Summer of No Surrender

  A Story of Fighter Pilots in the Battle of Britain

  Richard Bickers

  © Richard Bickers 2013

  Richard Bickers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Corgi Books

  This edition published in 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  For the sake of verisimilitude authentic R.A.F. numbers have been used, but no reference is intended to the actual squadrons concerned.

  For this reason no fighter squadron numbers have been adopted. No. 172 was a Coastal Command squadron and No. 82 was in Bomber Command. 699 is a typical Auxiliary Air Force squadron number.

  This is a work of fiction, and all the characters depicted are the product of the author's imagination and no reference is intended to any person living or dead.

  They were both bewildered when they first saw their section leaders' guns firing; flame licking back over the wings, smoke trailing behind. Then they were in the smoke slicks themselves. Something was rattling against wings and fuselage. They didn't know what was happening. Each tried to follow his leader: they were flying into ejected cartridge cases and belt clips, metal hammering on cockpit canopy and engine cowling; they thought they were under fire and flinched. They held their thumbs ready over their firing buttons, but no sooner did a bomber flash into the sights than it was gone again. Another -and it was lost in a split second also. Where had the enemy gone? Why was aiming so difficult? This wasn't like shooting at a towed target, or even like camera gun dogfighting with an instructor. A gut-pulling turn, standing on the wingtip, the blood draining from the head, eyes going dim … greying out…a sudden blackout.

  Recovery. An empty sky.

  It had all taken less than two minutes…

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Extract from Pearl Harbor: Hinge of War by Richard Freeman

  One

  Peter Knight, twenty thousand feet above the chalk cliffs of Kent, saw his Number Two burned alive.

  He had led 'Yellow Section', three Hurricanes with more fire power than a whole infantry battalion in the 1914 war, into action for the fourth time that day. He and the rest of the pilots in 172 Squadron were tired and dazed after so much fighting concentrated into so short a time; many weeks of the same hard routine.

  The four sections had separated, wading into an attacking force of some thirty German bombers protected by as many Messerschmitt 109 and 110 fighters. Yellow Two must have had the sun in his eyes or been concentrating too hard on firing his guns: two 109s attacked him and in six seconds his Hurricane was in flames.

  Knight peeled off and dived after him, turning steeply on a wingtip to circle his friend. He saw him snatch at the rip cord and the parachute open, watched him slapping at the flames which flared from his arms and legs and were climbing up his chest as the wind of his fall fanned them. Yellow Two was dead by the time he had dropped three thousand feet. Knight jerked his attention back to saving his own skin as enemy tracer bullets came sparkling past his cockpit canopy again.

  Like an incantation, an ironical R.A.F. song thrummed in his brain as he flew and fought until his ammunition ran out.

  'I don't want to join the Air Force,

  I don't want my bollocks shot away,

  I'd rather stay in England,

  In merry, merry England,

  And frig and drink me bleedin' life away, Cor blimey'

  But Merry England had become the most dangerous place in the world, in 1940, and was likely to stay such for many years to come.

  He had a nightmare about his friend's death that night.

  The next morning he was called later than usual. The arrival of fresh squadrons from Scotland at a neighbouring airfield had eased the pressure on 172; slightly and temporarily, but an extra two hours' sleep was more welcome to the weary fighter pilots than the richest treasures in the Tower of London.

  The first sound Knight heard was the Black Country whine of his batman, Aircraftman First Class Tuttle, who hated the war almost as much as he resented commissioned rank. 'Toime ter git oop, sir. It's seven-ow-clock.'

  He sounded pleased. About the only part of his job which Tuttle relished was this excuse to lay hands on an officer: he gripped Flying Officer Knight's muscular shoulder harder than necessary and gave it a jerk.

  The squadron had flown six sorties the day before. They had shot down seven German bombers for sure and claimed another two probables and four badly damaged. They had destroyed three Messerschmitt 109s and damaged three more. All this for the loss of three Hurricanes and two pilots: one dead and the other wounded but alive. So there had been something to celebrate and something to forget, as on most days. Tuttle, who was on duty in the Officers' Mess that evening, had seen all four of the pilots to whom he was personal servant stagger up to their rooms shortly before midnight, more than a little drunk.

  Knight grunted, shrugged the batman's hand away and. Reached for the proffered cup of tea. His head throbbed and his tongue felt like a piece of thick flannel.

  But it was not only his aching head and hangover which put a blight on the start of a new day and kept him lying inert long after he had first become conscious of his batman's summons. As soon as he woke he had the same ugly memory which had plagued him the previous evening and pursued him in his dreams.

  All the time the squadron was drinking pints of bitter in the White Swan (known to them as the Mucky Duck) until after closing time, and then in the mess anteroom, the vision had haunted him. Even during the game of high cockalorum with which the evening had ended, he was thinking of his dead friend and the manner of his dying. In that sprawling, noisy, good-natured tangle of arms and legs, heaped bodies threshing on the carpeted floor, Peter Knight could not put away the images in his mind's eye, or shut his ears to the remembered cry. 'Yellow Two ... I've been hit ...baling out ...Oh! Christ…’ And the flaming hurricane spinning away on his starboard.

  But now it was another day and he sipped the fresh, hot tea gratefully and said, by way of encouragement to a batman whom he suspected of being less than half-witted: 'Bloody good cup of tea, Tuttle. Get me another, will you.'

  'Yessir.'

  'And see if you can grab me a bathroom, and turn the water on. A shower won't do anything for me this morning. I need a good long soak.' He yawned and stretched, grimacing as his bruised body ached, victim of last night's horseplay and a low altitude bale-out two days previously when he had hit the ground clumsily and bruised his ribs.

  'Yessir.'

  There was a snuffle and a scratch at the door and as Tuttle opened it on his way out a white mongrel with a black patch over its left eye and a brown splodge on its back bounded in and leaped on the bed.

  ''Morning, Moonshine.' Knight ruffled his pet's wiry coat. The small dog, named on account of its dubious ancestry (the illegitimate result of some illicit nocturnal activity), sprawled on his chest and tried to lick his face.

  This was also part of the morning ritual. When Tuttle brought in the tea, he let Moonshine out on what his owner called his morning recce. The batman liked the animal, which was just as well; for if he hadn't treated Moonshine with what Flying Officer Knight considered due care and attention, A/Cl Tuttle would not have received his weekly half­ c
rown tip.

  Knight lay back with his arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. The hammering at his temples was easing, his mouth no longer felt like the Gobi Desert. Another cup of tea, five minutes in a hot tub, and he would feel fit for breakfast and the walk to dispersals; where, if Jerry would not molest them for the next couple of hours, he could sleep some more in an armchair in the crew room, or out of doors in a deck chair. He thought of the advertisement for artificial suntan stain in magazines like Wide World and Strand, claiming that 'All handsome men are slightly sunburnt', which had become a catchphrase of the thirties. He wondered if Anne, his current girl, would endorse this. But, so far, the pilots of No. 11 Group in Fighter Command had not had much opportunity for sun­ bathing, this summer.

  Where was that lazy blighter Tuttle?

  The door opened and Birmingham's gift to R.A.F. station East Malford shuffled in with a cup and saucer in one hand and Knight's newly polished black shoes in the other. 'Bath's running, sir,' he announced unctuously.

  Knight took his tea and Moonshine wagged his tail, hoping for a saucerful. 'Better go and see it doesn't overflow.'

  'Yessir.' Tuttle went, with mutinous thoughts: You'd think I’d nowt else ter do but run 'is bleedin' bath and fetch 'im extra cupsertea, and me with three others to look after, an' all. Roll on my bleedin' leave. Thought of leave cheered him: he had a ploy in mind which should assure that his next visit home would bring him a hero's perquisites. If the tarts was so keen on air crew, then air crew they would get. He grinned in anticipation. Norm Tuttle knew how to enjoy the perks without having to run the risks.

  He turned off the bath taps and went to fetch Knight's everyday tunic from the wardrobe to polish its brass buttons and belt buckle.

  Knight heard a familiar voice singing under the shower.

  'Home, home on the range …'

  They met at breakfast.

  The bathroom baritone was over six feet tall, thin, with a humorous high-cheekboned face, weather-beaten and loose­limbed. His accent and background suggested strange, romantic places, and he did great bedroom execution among uniformed and civilian females alike. In those days, when few people went abroad on holiday, anyone from overseas was an attraction; and Hollywood had created such a glamorous legend about America, that somebody who actually lived there could count on a delighted reception.

  'Hi, Pete. Howya doin'?'

  ' 'Morning Six-gun. Here's a paper.' Knight handed Six­gun Massey a Daily Mirror and retired behind his Telegraph.

  The American was a good type, but still hadn't learned that the British did not like breakfast time conversation.

  Pilot Officer Burton Wilbur Massey had been a barn-storming air circus pilot who left America to join the R.A.F. as soon as Britain declared war on Germany. He could have chosen the U.S Air Corps if it were only a secure income he wanted, but they had no war to offer: the R.A.F. not only meant comfortable lodging, with regular meals and pay; it guaranteed the kind of excitement he craved. 172 Squadron set great store by his rarity: he was just what they expected a real live Yank to be like. He had acquired his nick-name from his remarkable skill with a pistol and because he wore, on duty, a massive .45 Colt at his waist, its holster strapped to his thigh with a leather thong. The fact that it was not a six-shooter was no deterrent from calling him 'Six-gun'. His party trick was a fast draw and he could toss an empty cocoa tin into the air and fire three shots into it while it was still overhead.

  But at this hour of the morning no one was in the mood for loud noises. The day held enough of those in store. In the traditional muted atmosphere of the British breakfast table, the officers of the three fighter squadrons which comprised the East Malford Wing ate their porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and read the papers. The country was on short commons, but pilots' rations were generous.

  Pick-up vans and 15 cwt. trucks waited outside the mess to take them to dispersals, hangars and offices. Some of them had their own cars, a few rode bicycles. Those whose squadron dispersals or other places of duty were close, sometimes walked.

  Knight usually allowed time to walk, when he could, for Moonshine's convenience: there was an abundance of fascinating smells and other exciting attractions on the way, which the dog pursued and investigated with gusto. He was going down the steps with Massey when they were hailed.

  The voice came from a tall, florid, overweight youth with a black moustache and slightly prominent teeth, who sat behind the wheel of an open Bentley, its British racing green paint bright in the morning sun, its radiator and huge headlamps glittering. 'Want a lift?'

  Nobody wanted a lift from Flying Officer Blakeney-Smith, the egregious Simon, with all his money and conceit, his Turkish cigarettes and caddish civilian friends.

  But he already had a passenger, whom it seemed churlish to leave alone with him. 'Froggy' Dunal, the squadron's solitary Frenchman, who was too fastidious to welcome Blakeney­Smith's company, but too courteous to refuse the loutish young Englishman's invitation, gave the other two an appealing look. They climbed into the back of the 4½ litre passion wagon, Moonshine grumbling in disappointment, and let the lumpkin Simon drive them the half-mile or so around the perimeter track to the bays where the Hurricanes were sheltered.

  Most of the aircraft stood outside their bays, facing the air field and ready for take-off. There were no concrete or tarmac runways at East Malford, so once an aeroplane turned into wind it had virtually the whole width of the airfield open to it as long as there was a long enough run ahead.

  At one end of each squadron's dispersal lines stood two or three huts, corrugated iron Nissens or standard Air Ministry wooden shacks. From one, which housed 172 pilots' crew room, a gramophone blared 'I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire', while from another, where the workshop and ground crews' rest room were, a wireless set turned to full volume broadcast Vera Lynn belting out 'We'll Meet Again'. Like most of the Hurricanes on the dispersal line, both gramophone and radio were war-scarred.

  Fitters, riggers and armourers added their voices to one or the other, creating the habitual cheerful din of British troops at work.

  It was the usual start to any day on an operational fighter station.

  Two

  Some eighty miles to the south-east of East Malford, Leutnant Erich Hafner was emerging from sleep at about the same time as Peter Knight, his enemy. But the hand on his shoulder was more delicate than Tuttle's and the voice in his ear more intimate.

  Gentle fingers on his bare skin. 'Time to wake, mon trésor.' The brush of soft lips on his cheek.

  In an instant he passed from sleep to full wakefulness and opened his eyes wide. The girl lay with her naked breasts against his chest, her blonde hair falling about her pretty face. He put his arms around her and pulled her hard against him, so that she squealed and protested 'Not now, mon chou ...tonight ...now you must be a good boy and get up.' She wriggled free of his clasp and out of bed, giggling as she evaded his reaching hand. He lay admiring her while she put on her underclothes and slid her bare feet into shoes: silk stockings were too precious to risk laddering just to go home in the early morning; she put hers away in her handbag.

  There was a knock on the door of the farmhouse bedroom and Hafner called 'Come'. Greiner, his servant, a serious looking man of thirty-five with flat feet, astigmatism and boundless sincerity, sidled in holding a tray bearing a large kettle of boiling water and two small cups of coffee.

  The girl was washing at the enamel basin on a table in a corner of the room, regardless of the batman who was pottering about tidying. Hafner sipped his coffee, watched her with proprietary self-congratulation, then got out of bed, said 'See you tonight,' and went down to have his shower.

  When II JG 97, No.2 Gruppe of the 97th Jagd, or Fighter, Geschwader had come to this corner of northern France they had requisitioned farm buildings, village dwellings and large country houses: the officers and men in each of the three Staffelen in the Gruppe were billeted together; Oberleutnant Werner Ri
chter's Staffel, in which Hafner flew, had taken over a big farm and its labourers' cottages. The bathing facilities were not up to the standard demanded by a German officer, so the parent Geschwader's engineers had rigged up showers under canvas shelters. There, on this fine July morning, young Erich Hafner met all his brother officers of the Staffel.

  By the time he returned to his room, Greiner was standing to attention holding his shaving brush and soap. Whenever a girl stayed the night with his officer, Greiner made sure that she left enough water for him to shave comfortably after his shower. He believed that the commissioned ranks of the German armed forces were an elite even more exalted than the old nobility and that it was a privilege to serve them. He had an idealistic notion that the wild young lecher to whom he was orderly was a heroic demi-god, a winged Siegfried who rode the sky in defence of the Fatherland with gallant disregard for danger, trailing glory wherever he went. It did not disgust Greiner to launder Leutnant Hafner's soiled garments or mop up his vomit.

  JG 97 had fought in Poland; but that campaign was over almost as soon as it started: and there had been little for the fighters to do, for it was a dive bombers' war. Hafner had seen action but scored no victories in Poland.

  But when the Geschwader began operating over France he made his first kill: a Potez, slow and helpless under the guns of his Me.109. In the fighting that drove the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk there were more worthy targets and in greater numbers. In those few weeks he shot down a Blenheim, a Fairey Battle, and sharing this victory with two of his comrades, at last he brought down a Hurricane. A shared kill was not as satisfactory as one made in single combat, but at least he could now claim a British fighter among his few victims.

  Since then he had flown more sorties than he could count without reference to his logbook; added two Moranes (targets as easy as the old Potez), two more Fairey Battles, another Blenheim and a Spitfire to his tally of kills; and damaged another Spitfire and a couple of Hurricanes. His own Me. 109 had been shot full of holes more than once. He had crash landed on a French beach. He had baled out when a Hurricane pilot set his Messerschmitt on fire, its engine stopped, with two well aimed bursts. He knew what it was to feel so frightened that he could not control his bladder or his bowels; what it was to see his comrades killed, wounded, blinded, maimed, drowned and burned beyond recognition.