Where Eagles Never Flew: A Battle of Britain Novel

Priestman led the squadron into the air this morning, with Kiwi on his left flank and MacLeod and Bowles on his right. The other two sections were led, as before, by Ringwood and Donohue respectively.

The sun was very bright and there was a heavy haze across the surface of the earth, obscuring the contours of the land and making it hard to recognise landmarks. The Channel gave off a sheen through the haze. Robin had to squint hard against the glare, and it seemed exceptionally hot in the cockpit. He shouldn’t have put on his flight jacket.

“Bandits! One o’clock!” Williams’ voice crackled through his earphones.

Priestman found them, too: from here they were only dark specks against the haze, but in fact it was a vast armada of enemy aircraft, the twin-engine bombers in neat formation and above them, a swarming beehive of 109s.

As they watched, a handful of planes flew in at right angles to the armada, evidently another squadron also vectored onto the formation and intent on attacking the bombers. Instantly, what seemed like a score of snappers fell out of the sky to start attacking them. One flamed almost immediately.

“Jesus Christ!” Donohue commented.

“Redcap Squadron, buster! Eton, don’t fire unless it’s got two engines on it. Do you read me?”

“But, sir—”

“I don’t want you shooting at Spitfires again. If it doesn’t have two engines, hold your fire.”

“But what if it’s shooting at me?”

“Then evade it.”

“Redcap Leader! Those aren’t bombers.”

“Good God! There’s nothing but snappers out there!”

The “bombers” were Me110s, and while these had proved ineffective escorts, they could still be deadly. For a start, they were faster than the Hurricane, and armed with four forward facing guns, one rearward firing gun and two forward canons. Furthermore, they were pure bait. The whole armada was nothing but an elaborate trick to lure the RAF fighters into the air where the 109s could get at them. Unfortunately, it was too late to disengage safely.

Priestman made a snap decision not to target the 110s, but to charge the 109s. He didn’t have enough altitude to bounce them, of course, but he was determined not to let them do that to him, either. He ordered the squadron to bank hard right, away from the melee, and forced his Hurricane into a curving battle climb. His engine screamed and the little aircraft trembled with effort. He tried to keep his eye on the enemy, but his wing was in the way, blocking his view. Maybe this wasn’t such a clever idea, after all. He couldn’t risk this much longer. He flipped back to the horizontal, looked left, and his heart almost exploded from sheer terror. A swarm of 109s was coming straight at him, not more than 500 yards away. Another second or two and they would be in range.

The two formations clashed. Guns flashed. Tracer crisscrossed in the air. Someone screamed into the R/T. One 109 was so close that Robin could see the pilot’s face. Robin thought, “we’re going to crash,” even as he instinctively flinched away. He found himself beyond, his heart battering his chest and his hands trembling. His breathing was ragged. But already, more 109s were coming towards him. They were hopelessly outnumbered.

“Could you try to give them a little more berth next time, skipper?” Kiwi was miraculously still with him, but there was no sign of the rest of the squadron.

Priestman didn’t bother answering. There was no time. He sideslipped and then did a quarter-roll to take him between the leader and wingman of the next on-rushing pair of German fighters. Then he hauled the aircraft around to the right and tried to get in behind them. The Germans were turning, too. Again, Robin looked for the rest of his squadron. They had to be out here. But the chaos was too great.

A Spitfire chasing a 109 sliced across his bows. A lumbering 110 going full-out and hard on the tail of an unfortunate Hurricane swept by going the other way. It was from another squadron, but before Robin’s eyes, the Hurricane seemed to disintegrate as the cannon and machine guns of the heavier German aircraft severed a wing off the fragile wooden British kite. Robin saw the pilot start to climb out of his cockpit. Saw the impact of the 110’s cannon. Saw the body fall out, bang against the tail, tumble down lifelessly – and already he had the murderer in his sights, unconscious of anything he had done to position himself for a deflection shot.

His machine guns shattered the glass of the canopy. The Me110 jinked. Its engines started smoking as the pilot shoved them into full emergency power, trying to get away. The bigger plane was faster, and Robin had only another second or two. He held the trigger down furiously. But the 110 pulled away – straight across Kiwi’s bows and into his stream of bullets. Abruptly, it started to dive.

“That’s one for you, Kiwi.”

But he’d hardly got the words out before he saw tracer flash past him on the right. Something hostile had him in its sights and had only just missed hitting him. Robin hauled the Hurricane around until he greyed out. He eased a fraction, but it was still there. Must be a 109. He turned tighter again. His vision faded. He couldn’t take this much longer. He eased up on the turn, but his stomach cramped in anticipation of the bullets. Nothing. He eased a bit more. Looked in the rear-view mirror, over his shoulder. Left. Right. Nothing.

Disoriented, he looked around again. He was alone in the sky. Well, not entirely: a 109 was skimming over the surface of the earth maybe 2000 feet below him – making for home. Further away there were other aircraft – scattered over the whole horizon. But the dogfight was over. The Germans had run out of playing time.