Where Eagles Never Flew: A Battle of Britain Novel

Allars watched the sun go down from the adjutant’s office with phantom pains throbbing through his missing leg. He was numbed and horrified by his own sense of detachment. It seemed increasingly certain that the squadron had lost three pilots killed and one seriously injured – and was virtually leaderless – but all he felt was a weary sense of déja vu. Just like the last time around, his brain seemed to say. And like then, the best way to deal with it was not to let it get to you. Pilots come and pilots go. How did the Yeats poem go?

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life – this death.

Allars sighed, and gripping his pipe between his teeth, searched his pockets for matches. Mickey sprang to his feet to offer him a light. Mickey was looking shaken by today’s carnage. He wasn’t a pilot, but he was very devoted to his squadron.

“Any news of Jones yet?” Allars asked.

Mickey shook his head, adding: “But you never know. In the last war, I heard one of the lads disappeared without a trace and everyone wrote him off. Then the next day he called in bright and cheery from some French brothel, where he’d spent a very jolly night indeed.”

Allars smiled wanly. He’d heard that story, too. It was told a lot – and he supposed it might be true. Then again, it might not. It was the kind of story fighter pilots liked to imagine….

“Rowe just reported that he’ll have all three damaged Hurricanes repaired by morning, and two replacement aircraft are already on their way.”

Allars nodded. Rowe was nothing if not efficient – you had to give him that – but he drove the ground crews hard. Sometimes, Allars thought, too hard. That fitter with the broken back was a first-rate tradesman, and first-rate tradesmen don’t make stupid missteps unless they’re under too much pressure for too long. There could easily be other accidents, if he kept them at it like this. At some point, bad as the situation was, it would make more sense to have the squadron go on readiness with less than 12 aircraft.

The phone rang behind him. The WAAF clerk answered, “606 Squadron.” The WAAF sprang to her feet. “Yes, sir! He’s just here, sir. One moment, sir!” She covered the speaker and “whispered” in a loud voice to Allars, “Squadron Leader Allars, sir. It’s Air Vice Marshal Park, sir! He wants to speak with you, sir!”

Allars stamped over to the phone and took it. “Allars here.”

“Park. I’ve just had word that Squadron Leader Jones has been found dead. Apparently, his parachute failed – or was shot up. In any case, it didn’t open.” There was a pause.

Allars felt compelled to say dutifully, “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.” Was he? Not at all. He’d long thought Jones wasn’t up to the mark.

“Doug, I’d like an honest answer from you.”

“Of course, Keith,” Allars answered, although he was alerted by the use of his first name that this was a special request.

“Wait until you hear the question, Doug.”

“All right.”

“First, is your remaining Flight Lieutenant up to the task of serving as acting squadron leader over an extended period? I mean until this show is over.”

Allars didn’t even have to think about that one. “Under no circumstances. If anyone had asked me, I wouldn’t have made him a flight commander. He’s an irresponsible, self-satisfied whelp, who thinks that just because his father inherited a coal fortune the whole world ought to dance to his tune. I’m not saying he can’t fly, but he certainly can’t lead – if you want my honest opinion, Keith.”

“I asked for it. All right, then, is the rest of the squadron a write-off or not?”

Allars hadn’t been prepared for that. “There are still fifteen other pilots, Keith, and as I said, Tommy can fly well enough. Also, I’ve been told we’ll be back up to twelve aircraft by tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I asked, Doug. The question is: should I pull 606 out of the front line?”

“Pull them out?” That was strong temptation, but Allars also felt it was a disgrace. In the last war no squadrons had been rotated out to safety. He found himself saying, “Other squadrons have been in it longer. I think we can cope.”

That did not sound terribly reassuring to Park. He didn’t need squadrons that could ‘cope;’ he needed squadrons that could maul the Luftwaffe badly enough to stop it from coming back. Yet his options were limited. Taking a deep breath, he tried to explain. “The problem is this, Doug, almost every squadron we’ve rotated in from the north has been slaughtered within two to three days of arrival in 11 Group – often with hardly anything to show for it. The squadrons that have been here longer have much higher kill-to-loss ratios and have consistently lost fewer pilots. If I pull 606 out, the chances are that the replacement squadron will get badly mauled – maybe lose six or seven pilots – before the week is out. Now tell me if you think 606 needs to be pulled or not.”

“In that case, definitely not. Most of the pilots are sound, one or two have leadership potential, if they survive long enough. Several are good hunters.”

“You think a new CO could turn them around?” Park asked explicitly.

“The right CO could.”

“I hope you’re right, Doug.”

“So, do I, Keith – if not, I’m going to have several young men’s lives on my conscience, aren’t I?”

“If you haven’t already, Doug, you’re a lucky man.”

Not until that moment did Allars realise just how much Park’s responsibility weighed on him. Suddenly, he wished he could take back his remark – wished he could say something to comfort his friend. But the moment was past. Park had already thanked him and hung up.

Allars stood for a moment listening to the dialing tone, and then hung up.

Mickey and the WAAF clerk were both staring at him expectantly. Mickey finally asked, “Is he going to throw us out of 11 Group?”

“No, not yet. I think he’s going to try to find us a new CO – God knows where.”

“Well, Park could send us one of the experienced Polish officers…” It worked. Allars laughed, and together he and Mickey went over to the Mess to break the news about Jones.