Day of Vengeance (2 page)

Their Finest Hour

Then Jack spotted it. A single BF109 heading for home. “This is Red Two. Snapper ten o’clock low. Tally-Ho! Tally-Ho!”

“Good luck Red Two.”

“Breaking – port forty-five degrees.”

Jack tipped the Supermarine Mark 1B into a steep dive. The twenty-seven litre Merlin III engine screamed as the Spitfire topped four hundred miles an hour, slicing through the freezing air. As Jack levelled out, the G-force crushed him into his seat. Surely the wings would be ripped from the fuselage? But he had managed it perfectly. He peered through the spinning disc of the airscrew at the yellow-nosed Messerschmitt 109 only a hundred metres ahead. The German pilot hadn’t noticed Jack on his tail, so focused was he on his run for the Channel. Jack flicked the gun button to fire and put the reflector sight on. He eased the dot in the middle onto the 109’s fuselage and, as he eased closer, the Messerschmitt drew into the cross hairs. Jack pressed the button. The four .303 Browning machine guns and the two 20mm Hispano canons let rip and the cockpit filled with the smell of cordite. The flank of the 109 was peppered. Instantly, glycol from the cooling system ignited and there was an explosion of white vapour. The 109 flipped onto its back and started to arc into a long, lazy dive. A few seconds before,
the German pilot had been heading for home – free. Now he was dead and plummeting to an icy grave, still strapped to his seat. Jack was hypnotised and trailed the 109 towards the metallic grey of the sea, far below.

It was a schoolboy error.

The first Jack knew about it was from the streak of angry tracer that missed his perspex canopy by millimetres. A second 109. He should have known better. They always hunt in pairs.

“Red One, Red One – Snapper on my tail.”

But the R/T just crackled. Red One wasn’t coming to his rescue any time soon.

He remembered Angus’s words to him not an hour before: “Never fly straight and level for more than twenty seconds. If you do, you’ll die.”

The Supermarine Spitfire and the Messerschmitt BF109 were the best fighter planes of their day. They were comparable but each had particular strengths. Jack’s training cut in as he remembered the one strength of the Spitfire, which might just save his life. He threw the Spit into a savage turn and glanced over his shoulder. The 109 was still with him – a dirty orange flash from its guns showed that the German was still clamped to his tail like a limpet. Jack heard rounds rip into his fuselage and suddenly a bullet passed right through his canopy, millimetres from his face. Jack cursed his luck. Trust him to pick a fight with a real pro. He gulped in oxygen from the clammy mask.

Jack tightened the turn and glanced at the instruments to see how badly he was hit – glycol at 100 degrees; oil pressure 70lbs – miraculously still OK – but suddenly his head felt heavy…
the brutal speed and tightness of the turn was causing him to black out. If he could hold on he might just survive. Words from his training flashed through his head,
“A Spit can turn tighter than a 109 – hold it long enough and the 109 can’t stay with you – he will trace a gradually widening circle in the sky and you may just live…”

Suddenly, the Spitfire started to shake – a high-speed stall. Jack bit his lip to stop himself losing consciousness and a drop of blood trickled down the inside of his mask. He knew it was possible to hold the Spit in the stall…
if
you were a good enough pilot. He was about to find out if he was. Jack made a second turn and snatched a glance at the pursuing 109. Suddenly he saw it wobble – it was also stalling – Jack’s heart soared… the German pilot was being forced to ease the turn to avoid engine failure. It was a matter of millimetres but it would save Jack’s life. A few more mad loops in the sky and Jack started to gain on the 109. His neck muscles were screaming for him to stop, but in seconds the tables would be turned and Jack would have the 109 in his own cross hairs. Sure enough the 109 crept into his sight. Jack felt the adrenaline surge through him and he stabbed the fire button. Again, he heard the staccato rip of his guns, but he had fired prematurely and the rounds flew high and wide. He tried again. Nothing. He was out of ammo already.

Abruptly, his adversary released the 109 from its turn and, just for a moment, Jack caught his eyes peeking out from the white strip of face between helmet and mask. The German pilot touched his temple briefly with an outstretched palm – it was a wry acknowledgement, which meant simply, “Until next time, my friend.”

The sun flashed briefly on the grey tail fin of the 109 as he finally broke for home and then… he was gone.

Jack was alone again in the great blue emptiness, ten thousand feet above the green meadows of Kent.

Alive.

The Project

Angus thumped Jack on the back, “Great dogfight. He nearly had you. What do you think?”

“Love it – very realistic,” Jack replied.

“Yeah, these guys also make proper flight simulation kits, you know, for training pilots. I’ve used it on my pilot’s course,” Angus said.

Jack paused the simulation session and put down the joystick.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m up to forty hours now. We were up at the airstrip yesterday near Edinburgh.”

“But no Spitfires, eh?”

“Well, there is one up there – owned by some enthusiast. But he’s the only one daft enough to fly it – it’s nearly seventy years old after all. Would you fly a plane that old?”

Jack nodded at the console, “Wouldn’t mind if it’s anything like that.”

“Mind you, Dad says he’s talked to the guy who owns it – apparently it’s still great to fly – even after all those years. Anyway, if you wait long enough, you might have a chance…” Angus grinned.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, I’ll show you – you’re going to love this.”

Angus bolted from his bedroom at the top of the old farmhouse
and Jack followed as he tumbled down the stairs which creaked under his weight. They passed the living room where Angus’s dad had his feet up on a stool, puffing a pipe, reading
Soonhope News
.

“Dad – I’m just showing Jack, you know, your
project
…”

Mr Jud put down the paper as they hurried passed. “OK, but don’t touch anything… might join you in a sec…”

They crossed the courtyard of the farm and made their way down to one of the old barns. It was a beautiful June day. The Jud’s farm looked idyllic next to the wood-fringed pond, surrounded by the low rolling hills of the Border country.

Angus heaved open the large barn door, “Here…”

He switched on a light and Jack adjusted his eyes to the gloom. There were some large sheets of metal scattered about, bits of engineering equipment and some sort of enormous engine suspended by two chain hoists hanging from the roof.

Angus spread out his arms like a magician, “Ta-da!”

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Then Jack saw it. To the rear of the old barn resting on a series of wooden trestles was what looked like the fuselage of an aeroplane. There was only one problem – it didn’t have any wings.

“A plane. That’s your dad’s ‘project’?”

Mr Jud came into the barn, sliding the door open a bit wider. Sunlight flooded in.

“Not just any old project Jack, and not just any old plane.”

He spoke in a rumbling voice with a strong Scottish accent. He had the same powerful build as Angus, but his face was leathered and creased from years working the sheep farm.

Jack looked at Mr Jud. “No?”

Mr Jud marched over to the fuselage and patted it firmly on the flank, as if it was a prize cow he was fattening up for market.

“She’s a legend.”

Angus couldn’t hold back any longer. “A genuine Battle of Britain Spitfire!”

“A Mark One B,” Mr Jud added, a note of reverence in his voice.

“Incredible.” Jack stared in wonder at the old plane. “You’re restoring it?”

Angus laughed, “Trying to… a bit of a labour of love, eh Dad?”

Mr Jud shrugged. “That’s right, son – it’ll take years… but one day…” Mr Jud looked up at the ceiling of the barn as if he was having some sort of religious experience, “one day she will fly and we shall touch the face of God…”

Angus looked at his feet self-consciously. “Er, right Dad.”

“Where are the wings?” Jack asked, trying to bring him back down to earth.

“Well there’s the story, Jack. An incredible story really.” Mr Jud ushered them over to a cork message board on one side of the barn, which had all sorts of old photos and diagrams stuck to it. He pulled down one of the pictures.

“See that?”

Jack squinted at the old black-and-white photo.

“The Eiffel Tower. In Paris?”

“Yes. But look again – what do you see there…?” Mr Jud stabbed a thick dirty fingernail at the top of the photo, “…towards the top section of the tower?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. He didn’t see it at first, the picture seemed to have been taken on quite a misty day, but then, yes, he was sure of it – there was the tail fin of an aeroplane sticking out of the tower. Somehow the main fuselage must have been buried inside the metal latticework of the great Paris landmark, but the tail fin was still hanging out.

“You’re not telling me…”

Mr Jud laughed. “Aye, Jack… and this was the very plane.
The very plane
.”

“Unbelievable. What happened?”

“There was a German air raid on Northolt, which is now near Heathrow Airport, near London. It was in June, during the early part of the Second World War, just before the Battle of Britain started properly. This Spitfire was scrambled and got into a rare old dogfight. Later, apparently, it pursued the attackers out over the Channel, but got caught in cloud. Very disorientating. The Spit made it all the way to Paris but couldn’t put down for some reason. Anyway, it flew straight into the Eiffel Tower!”

“The pilot died obviously?”

“Actually, no one knows who he was. He was never found. It is possible that he bailed out before the crash. It’s one of the strangest things about the story.”

“I suppose that explains the wings.”

“Aye. The wings were both ripped from the fuselage as the plane flew into the tower. Presumably because there was no fuel left, or very little, there was no fire. Shortly after the photo was taken the whole thing dislodged itself from the tower in the wind and it fell to the ground. After the war, they found it in bits in
some warehouse and it was transported back to the UK. It was a gift from the French to the British.”

“And you have it here now?”

“Cost me a bob or two – but yes, there she is. It’s taken me this long to assemble her even to this stage.”

“And that’s not all, is it Dad?” Angus said, enthusiastically. “Tell him.”

“Well, Jack, you know about my grandfather, Ludwig?”

Jack gave a furtive glance at Angus, “Oh yes, Mr Jud, Angus has told me all about him.”

“Well, as you know, he was a German soldier. He fought in the First World War. But he was injured and captured by the British and ended up in a British hospital. There he met Dot, my grandmother. She was a nurse in the field hospital. She was Scottish. The war ended. They got married and he never went home. Eventually he moved here and took over the farm. He became a British citizen. He liked the Brits – thought we were an eccentric lot. He was funny – I remember when I was a kid, he’d do a great impression of an English upper-class toff.”

Angus interrupted, “He fought in the Second World War as well, but on the
British side
. Amazing, eh?”

“He was interested in machines of all sorts – bit of a family tradition, as you know,” Mr Jud continued. “He got into flying, joined an amateur club and the RAF before the war. He was posted up here, but as the war got closer he was reassigned to the
south-east
. They had to rent out the farm – good pilots were scarce and very valuable.”

“That’s amazing.”

“If you come back up to the house, we’ll show you some of his old stuff. Come on.”

Mr Jud and Angus turned and walked back out into the sunshine.

For a moment, Jack lingered in the musty barn, surrounded by the metal detritus of the rusty old fighter plane. Jack didn’t know a lot about the history but he knew enough. Seventy years before, this little plane and others like it, piloted by a few hundred airmen, had swooped and soared over the gentle countryside of south-east England in a grim battle for survival as Britain stood alone against the Nazi war machine.

Jack slid his outstretched palm across the smooth metal of the fuselage and with his fingers he traced the outline of the red-and-blue concentric circles of the RAF roundel. It was worn, but still visible. He touched the ragged, rusted outline of the breach in the fuselage, where the port wing had been ripped free in the crash into the tower. He peered through the crack in the side into the bottom of the cockpit and he could make out the seat, dials and controls. He noticed that on the side of the cockpit and on the seat and in the foot well there was curious brown staining. Jack’s heart gave a little jump when he realised that it was probably dried blood from the pilot as he was injured on impact.

“You coming or what?” Angus stuck his head around the barn door, “You’ve got to see this stuff of Dad’s. It’s so cool. Come on!”

Jack followed Angus back up to the farmhouse. In the living room Mr Jud had opened up an old wooden box and distributed its contents all over the floor. There were lots of old black-
and-white
photos: pictures of airmen in uniform, aerodromes, Spitfires
and Hurricanes taking off or being prepared, pilots playing cards and even some blurred pictures of aerial combat.

“Look at that one. Some fighter planes had cameras in them that were triggered when the guns were firing. That’s a German Heinkel bomber being clobbered,” Mr Jud said – possibly with a little more enthusiasm than was necessary.

“So your great grandfather Ludwig – he was allowed in the RAF? Even though he was German, you know, by birth?”

“Oh, he gained British nationality, remember, after the First World War, when he married Dot. I know it sounds a bit strange. But he kind of renounced his past and became a Brit. Eventually he made it to Flight Commander.”

“But wasn’t he too old to fight by the Second World War?”

“You’re right that most of the pilots were very young – eighteen or nineteen even. But they were desperate for qualified pilots so Ludwig ended up doing his fair share of operational stuff. Like the Northolt Raid I was talking about.”

“Yeah – what
was
that?”

“A bit of a wake-up call for the RAF for sure. The RAF’s communications usually gave them a big advantage – radar gave warning of incoming aircraft and fighters could be scrambled into the air to meet them. But this time it broke down. They think it was some sort of intelligence leak. They did find out about a German spy ring at that time that may have had something to do with it. Something about scientific secrets. A number of aircraft were destroyed on the ground and pilots killed. But old Ludwig didn’t hesitate, he jumped into a waiting Hurricane and got it into the air. Shot down a number of enemy aircraft that day – won a medal…”
Mr Jud pulled a shiny metal cross from the box, “…there you go – Distinguished Flying Cross. Don’t know why I have never put it up on the mantelpiece.” Mr Jud buffed the medal with the cuff of his old jumper and placed it next to the jar which still contained a piece of Ludwig’s shin bone from his injury in the First World War.

“Why was it was all such a big deal – you know, the Battle of Britain?” Jack asked.

Mr Jud shrugged. “In some ways it wasn’t. Actually only about five hundred allied pilots died during the four or so months of fighting, which in military terms was not very many. Compare that to the millions who died in some of the other campaigns, like on the Eastern front between the Soviet Union and Germany.”

“And Britain won the Battle?”

“In so much as the Germans called off Operation Sea Lion, which was the plan to invade Britain after France had surrendered. In fact, just before the Battle of Britain, France had surrendered to Germany and quite a few people had lost hope. Winston Churchill was determined that Britain should fight on, alone or not.”

Angus stared at one of the old photos, “So what happened?”

“The Germans launched air attacks from their new bases in France and the Netherlands. They needed to get control of the skies before any sea invasion could take place, but try as they might, the German Luftwaffe could not break down the RAF. Then, in return for British planes bombing Berlin, Hitler changed tactics to bomb British cities – this gave the RAF breathing space. Eventually, Hitler gave up and then in 1941 he turned his attention to the east – invading the Soviet Union. So the Battle of Britain kept Britain in the war and, because it could continue the
fight this meant that later on, in 1944, the Allies were able to launch D-Day and reoccupy Western Europe. Without those pilots, Britain may have needed to agree a humiliating peace with the Nazis, or face invasion. The world would have ended up a very different place.”

“Hey – what about this one?” Jack held up another photo.

Mr Jud took it from Jack and looked at it. “That one is quite famous too. It’s a picture taken from a plane showing a V-2 rocket just as it is taking off from its launch site in northern France.”

“I’ve heard of them too, you know, V-1s and V-2s…”

“Yes – the German Vengeance programme. Towards the end of the war, German scientists developed flying bombs, called V-1s – and then actual rockets, called V-2s, which they launched from sites in northern France, targeting London, Paris and the Netherlands. By that stage they were losing the war and Hitler was desperate to find a miracle weapon that could somehow tip the balance.”

“But it didn’t work?”