"The summer of 1940 would have been a glorious time had someone mentioned to Mister Hitler that it was cricket season."

A tale of War, of love, and of friendship. (And a few Nazis)

Flight lieutenant Harry Dolton stretched out under the warm midmorning sun as it played lazily over the grassy apron belonging to the squadron’s aircraft. The summer of 1940 would have been a glorious time had someone mentioned to Mister Hitler that it was cricket season. Nearly every day the men and planes of Fighter Command took to the skies to fend off the swarms of Nazi warplanes that plagued the south coast of England like gnats to a horse.

Drawing on his fourth cigarette that morning, he allowed his eyes drift up to the sky above as he watched the clouds roll past in lazy procession. This damned war had given his life some meaning for all its danger and bother. All his life Harry had been the preverbal black sheep of the well regarded Dolton family; never the sportsman his father had desired, nor the university graduate or businessman that his brothers had found great success as, he was never in favour with the old man. Washing out of public school at eighteen, Avoiding his parents insistence that he find a girl, settle down, get a job, he had dallied around for several years making the correct noises about advancing his life and career, without holding any real convictions on the subject. The arrival of war in Europe had provided him with a chance of escaping his father’s mournful disappointment and fulfilled the niggling feeling that he should make a man of himself. It was good for that much.

The shrill ring of the telephone in the operations hut caught his attention instantly just as it did every pilot on duty. The seconds ticked by slowly as the call was answered. Almost always, it was a scramble, but there were the occasional false alarms and admin phone calls that got the pilots on edge as they waited for the next call to arms. Sergeant Tomlinson’s head appearing at the ops room window however was enough of a sign for Harry and the other’s in the Duty section that this was no false alarm. The pilots were halfway to their aircraft before they heard him call the scramble: The boys of 43 Squadron were the best in the whole Royal Air Force.

Jumping into the seat of his spitfire Harry pumped the choke while fastening his flight harness about his torso. Checking the straps were secure, save those at his crotch, he eased the throttle open urging the fighter to roll forwards across the turf of the airstrip as he made his final instrument checks and lined up for takeoff. He wasn’t sure why he always made sure that he left the crotch straps loose, but it had become almost a personal pre-flight ritual to check. He remembered during training one of the instructors had joked about keeping them too tight for too long was a sure way to see off fatherhood. Like the other young, inexperienced trainee-pilots, he’d burned the advice into his memory.

“Ascot three, airborne.” He called over his radio transmitter as the heavy metallic sounds of the wheels tucking themselves into the wings of his fighter reverberated around the thin airframe. Testing the response of the controls, he settled into an intercept climb.

“Rodger that Three. Form up at Fifteen thousand feet with section, Ascot One out.”

Ascot flight formed up wing on wing at the designated attitude and cruised south from Biggin Hill towards the south coast of England.

“Hello Skipper, Ascot two, what’s on the menu today sir?”

“What have I told you about calling me Sir, Jenkins? And for god’s sake stick to radio protocol.” Squadron Commander Barton replied sharply over the radio. Harry smiled as he listened to the sweet sound of someone else suffering the Commanding Officer’s ire.

“Angels twenty, five thousand up; approaching from the south east… Just bombers lads.” Barton advised. “Don’t get bloody sloppy on me, there might be fighters lurking above that Radar can’t see.”

Confirming their mission, Ascot flight climbed above the incoming bombers and waited to spring their trap. Masked from sight by the cloudy costal skies, the incoming Luftwaffe aircrews had no way of seeing the fighters as they dove out of the cloud bank as they cut, guns blazing through their formations.

“That’s the last of ‘em boys. Jolly good work.” Barton announced triumphantly as he climbed back to join the flight after trailing the fiery plummet of a stricken bomber.

“Ascot Four, we’ve got two limping away at low altitude Ascot One. Permission to pursue?”

Audibly sighing over the radio, Barton agreed. “Rodger that Four, take Dolton with you and don’t drop your guard.”

“Wilco sir, Four out.”

“Tallyho Harry.” Andy Gold called as he rolled his Spitfire over and swooped down towards the retreating aircraft. “Here we go again.” Harry groaned to himself and rolled to give chase.

The two spitfires dropped down below the enemy bombers and began their approach, safely out of kicking range of the German aircrafts’ guns. As the two fighters closed the distance, Harry Dolton’s Spitfire began to slide into an attack position off the quarter of the damaged bomber. As he began to line up the kill, the Heinkel’s starboard engine began trailing a thick black trail of smoke that obscured Harry’s view, forcing him to pull back to regain the important visibility.

“No good Andy, I can’t get a clean shot through the smoke, take a pop at the Bosh and I’ll cover you.” He offered deferring the kill to his wingman.

“Rodger that Harry, I’ll save you the other,” Gold chuckled manoeuvring his spitfire in for the kill.

As the aircraft got closer, the Heinkel’s engine spluttered and died spraying thick black engine oil out into its wake. Lining his guns up on the sedate target, Flight Officer Andy gold never saw it coming as the thick black oil smothered his Plexiglas cockpit.

“Blast it Harry I can’t see a thing, I’m pulling out.” He called breaking off from the attack. Harry was in the process of lamenting the difficulty of downing two limping Jerry bombers when he saw his wingman’s fatal error and felt the sickening grip of dread as, instead of diving away to safety, his wingman and friend pulled back on his yoke for fear of the low altitude and brought his Spitfire directly into the tail gunner’s sights. Yanking his aircraft sharply to port, Harry barely missed being hit by the burning wreckage of Gold’s Spitfire.

“Andy!” Harry yelled uselessly into his transmitter. “You damn fool.” He added softly, “Damn fool…”

Centring his crosshairs on the bomber he jabbed angrily at the trigger feeling the airframe shudder as the Spitfire’s guns rained down on the German aircraft. Shuddering, the bomber began to come apart before rolling to starboard and diving into the ocean. “That one’s for Andy.” Harry muttered to himself as he centred his aim on the healthier of the two enemy bombers that was now diving and twisting in erratic evasive manoeuvres.

Straining his eyes to see the retreating bomber through the descending fog, Harry pressed on as he attempted to close the gap between himself and the German.

As the pair broke out of a bank of fog he saw his chance and opened fire, sending the aircraft to the waves bellow.

Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to celebrate the kill. “Ascot Three to Ascot Leader, Jerries down, but… sir, Andy bought it.”

Hearing no reply Harry tapped his transmitter switch and tried again, greeted only by the cold tone of static. “Ascot Three to any aircraft, do you read?” He tried again hoping that for some simple reason things would work again. Shaking his head, he unclipped his mask and muttered a curse under his breath; another repair to add to the list for the ground crew back home.

Although at that moment in time, his blinkered pursuit of the German bomber left him entirely unaware of where home was…

Checking through his instruments, Harry began to spot damage throughout the aircraft. His fuel gauge, compass and radio all seemed to have faults; he presumed, the blame lay in a round through the wiring in the aircraft’s nose at some point in the previous scrap. Heaven knows, looking out at his wings showed that he had taken enough hits. Gentle tests to his flight controls showed them to be working as expected; small mercies he supposed.

Dropping down bellow the clouds left him a narrow corridor of several hundred feet above the dirty grey waves of the English Channel. He had three hundred and sixty choices to make, two hundred and seventy of which, would result in land, the remaining ninety, could land him in the middle of the Atlantic, without a radio or a prayer. Crossing his fingers inside the flying gloves he wore, he banked left and took a chance. Sailing had been one of the few interests he had shared with his father. That memory of childhood brought one fact to the forefront of his brain at that moment however: In the morning, winds predominantly blew out from or into the channel, bound either for, or coming in from the Atlantic Ocean, and judging by the wave patterns, he could estimate broadly which direction that was. Completing the bank, he levelled out till he was flying parallel to the waves bellow, and pressed on praying his fuel load held out.

Within fifteen minutes of his decision, the gamble appeared to have paid off as land became visible on the horizon below the cloud. Heartened by his discovery, Harry opened the throttle to a fighting speed, unsure which coast he was approaching. He didn’t very well want to go strolling over the French coast and become a leisurely target to the AAA the Jerries lined the cliffs with.

Dropping down to the wave tops. He pushed forwards, hoping his gamble would land him on friendly soil, by his estimation, his fuel load had to be dropping dangerously low; any port in a storm suited him just fine at that moment..

Rising up over the beach and headland, he sped inland encountering no resistance. It wasn’t a part of England he recognised, but there was no flak… Passing over a coast road, his heart sank, traffic was passing on the wrong side of the road… it was German military traffic.

His heart rate quickening, Harry climbed to a safer altitude away from potential ground fire and pondered his choices. He was over occupied France, with low fuel. The chances of making a return trip to England successfully were slim, at roughly 20-40 miles, he estimated that he would need to swim a good portion of the way home at best. His other options were less inviting still. He could bail out, or fly till he ran out of fuel, or till a fighter found him and dealt with him. It was the first time since he had joined the RAF that Harry had been required to decide his own fate with more than just guns and guts: It was not a pleasant feeling to realise one would either die, or spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp. Harry was still pondering his fate when the chatter of guns behind him informed him that the decision had already been made by a higher power…

Cursing his lack of awareness, he began to evade the German fighter that had so successfully stalked its prey to within striking distance. Diving steeply he barely dodged a second burst as he used what he expected to be the last of his fuel in this fruitless dance. He jerked his head around quickly trying to catch sight of the Me109 at his rear. The fighter was close, and staying glued to his tail regardless of the manoeuvres he pulled off. That in itself worried him greatly: For a pilot to be able to match a Spitfire in the older 109, he must have been quite the flier. Harry shook himself mentally. Giving the Jerry too much credit would only help kill him. Instead, a risky manoeuvre was called for. It was a chance to turn the tables. It was risky, but offered greater odds than the certain death that waited should he kept up this fruitless game of chase. Opening the throttle fully, he began to accelerate away from his pursuer. As the 109 began to follow suit, Harry dropped his flaps and rammed open his dive brakes, causing the aircraft to shudder as it lurched up and shed speed. Unable to react in time, the 109, still fighting to match the speed of its faster prey, shot beneath Harry’s Spitfire. Closing his flaps, Harry nosed down and took advantage of the change in roles by opening fire with the six browning machine guns in his wings. The German fighter began to smoke as chunks flew off its fuselage as the bullets struck home. Harry fired bust after burst into the aircraft in a mixture of rage and relief. His guns clicking dry, Harry could only watch as the German Pilot bailed out as his aircraft accelerated downwards in its final dive.

At about three thousand feet, the German fighter gave up, its wings sheering off as the torque of the dive tore at them. Rolling to the side, Harry vainly tried to doge the flying metal to little avail. The wreckage tore clean through his port wing and stabalator, forcing the Spitfire into a vicious spin.

Harry fought the g-forces pulling his arms down as he reached for the cockpit release handle above his head. The few seconds it took felt like minutes as the aircraft plummeted. His fingers finally closing around the handle, he yanked at the catch as hard as he could. As the catch slipped free, the canopy was ripped backwards by the wind, making him catch his breath momentarily. Releasing the seat harness, he climbed upwards and dragged his torso out of the cockpit. Gasping for air as it sped past, he forced his legs to lift him into the buffeting wind. Feeling drained by the simple act of climbing out of the cockpit he lifted himself a fraction higher till the wind caught his body and dragged him from the stricken craft. As he was dragged by the slipstream, he felt his harness catch momentarily on the jagged edge of the stabalator as he tumbled away from the aircraft. Opening his arms as he was taught, he fought to stabilise himself as his Spitfire hurtled earthwards. Tugging at his harness with his gloved hands he checked for damage; everything felt in order… He might have been lucky. Pulling the ripcord on his harness, his heart skipped a beat as he waited for the drogue to deploy. After the longest moment, it caught air, dragging his main parachute from the seat base bellow him.

A jolt of pain shot through Harry’s body as the deployed parachute caught the air and filled. When his mind cleared enough to focus, he began to search for where he’d been hit. The pain was radiating out from his crotch… The damn loose jump straps on his harness were so comfortable in the cockpit, but when hanging from the canvas with a damaged waist strap taking no weight, the comfort and idiotic advice had proven costly. The strap on his waist, he realised, had been scythed clean through by the rough metal of the airframe as he was dragged past. Thankful as he was that he had not been closer to the stabalator; his body throbbed with the pain of his personal error. As the parachute had deployed, the change in speed had forced his entire body had slammed down on his crotch, causing debilitating jolts of pain to radiate through his whole being. Harry fought the pain to retain consciousness as he drifted towards the ground: It felt as though a knife was being twisted each time a gust caught the parachute. Sooner than he wished, the ground rushed up to meet him just as it had in the training exercises, but harder. Slamming into the grassy field took the wind out of him, and brought the world to a dark close.

To be continued...

From the Author:
Hello chickies, glad to see you're reading my new work this New Year's Day 2010. To start the new year, I bring you Angels High. My delve into the 40s, highly inspired by the damned dvd box set that I bought my boyfriend for christmas... He's not stopped watching the world war two films, so heres the product! I'll be updating this fairly regularly over the next few weeks, as with Focal Point and River of Shaddows Conclusion Chapter. My resolution if you haven't already guessed it, is to finish a few things I'd started. I may possibly POSSIBLY undertake a re-write of The Road to Haifa, I dont want to continue it as is, because i feel my writing back then was sub par. So perhaps expect that in early Feb, reposted, and rewritten.
Night night folks, Enjoy the bedtime reading, and if any one of you hum that theme song from a certain Mcqueen film... I'm going to throw an Ugg boot at you!
Alyssa
xx