Where Eagles Never Flew: A Battle of Britain Novel

As Robin walked through the door, he noted a sign that said: W/C Kennel, Station Commander. He entered what must have been a downstairs parlour, now somewhat awkwardly accommodating a large desk, and saluted smartly. “Flight Lieutenant Priestman, reporting as ordered, sir, although I honestly don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“Oh?” The Wing Commander, who had looked quite benevolent up to this point, raised his eyebrows and answered with a very cool, “And you think the Air Ministry owes you an explanation for every posting in your career?”

“No, sir, but unless I’m greatly mistaken, the German Wehrmacht is about to launch an invasion of this country, and His Majesty needs every fighter pilot he has in the air.”

“That is one – if rather melodramatic – way of putting it,” the Wing Commander agreed, now managing to look slightly amused.

“So, what am I doing in training, sir? Why aren’t I back with my squadron? Even if they’re now with 13 Group, sir, they’re still on ops. What am I doing here?

“You’re here for the reasons you just stated, Flight Lieutenant. We need every trained fighter pilot we have – and more. It takes only hours to assemble a fighter plane, but it takes years to make a fighter pilot. Fighter production is coping with the losses; pilot production is not. If you go back to your squadron, you are one pilot; your job here is to produce dozens. It’s as simple as that.” The Wing Commander rested his arms on the desk in front of him and fixed his gaze firmly on the baffled Flight Lieutenant in front of him.

Priestman couldn’t grasp it. “Sir? Are you telling me, I’m here as an instructor?”

“Of course; what did you think?”

“I hadn’t the foggiest, sir, but….” Priestman cut himself off. He still couldn’t grasp it. He was 24 years old. When he’d been in flying school, all the instructors had been men with greying sideboards and receding hairlines, men who had fought in the last war, men with a lifetime of experience coddling and harassing aspiring young pilots. He couldn’t picture himself as an instructor.

“But what?”

“Aren’t I a bit young for an instructor, sir?”

Kennel smiled faintly, leaned back in his chair, and picked up his pipe. He carefully pressed the tobacco down into it and then lit up. Only after he’d taken a few puffs did he direct his attention to Priestman again.

“Have a seat.” He indicated the worn leather chair in front of his desk with his pipe.

Priestman sat down and looked at the Wing Commander expectantly.

“What good is an instructor whose experience is from a different war, on different aeroplanes, against different – in terms of aircraft anyway – opponents? Our operational squadrons are too hard pressed at the moment to provide operational training, so this unit and others like it have been established to provide pilots with the final stage of training before going on ops. The young men who come here are on their last leg of training before being thrown at the Luftwaffe. Who better to get them ready for that, than someone who has faced all the Luftwaffe has to offer?”

Priestman thought of the four sprogs that had been sent to 579 Squadron in France and hadn’t been of any use to them. He decided it made sense and concluded, “This is Hurricane training?”

“Spitfire.”

“But I’ve never flown a Spitfire!” Priestman protested.

Kennel glanced out the window; the wind was tearing the clouds apart, and sunlight was stabbing down through the gloom in places. “Then I suggest you get a couple of hours in before your trainees arrive.”