1993, International Air Tattoo, RAF Fairford, England
"You ready?" Harry radioed.
"The question is not am I ready, but are you certain you are old enough to see out of the windscreen?" was the slightly sarcastic reply.
"Or are you too old and arthritic to fly?" he countered.
He was circling about five miles south of RAF Fairford in a customised Supermarine Spitfire IX with the twenty-one hundred horsepower Rolls-Royce Merlin One-Thirty from a de Havilland Hornet. Flying in close formation with him was another of his aircraft, a Messerschmitt Bf-109 'mutant'. Built out of bits, it had the eighteen-hundred horsepower Daimler-Benz DB605 from a 'G-6' model, complete with a thirty-millimetre 'Motorkanone' firing through the spinner, a twenty-millimetre cannon in each wing and two thirteen-millimetre machine-guns on top of the cowling.
The pilot was an elderly gentleman, tall, well-built, with brushed-back hair under his flying helmet and the thinning remains of a masterwork of a moustache. Painted on the side of the cockpit was a cigar-smoking Mickey Mouse.
"Full power. Use your methanol-water injection." Harry ordered, levelling out the wings.
"Jawohl, Herr Potter."
"One." the two pilots in their aircraft opened up their throttles; "Two." the noses dipped and a stream of white smoke began to leave the Messerschmitt's exhausts, the vaporised water-methanol. "Three." from about fifty feet away from each-other, side-by-side, the two aircraft rolled inwards and the pilots pulled back on their sticks. Right in front of the crowds at Fairford, the two aircraft, turning, flew within feet of each-other.
Giving the throttle a last burst just to lift the aircraft very slightly, nearly neutralising the rate-of-descent, Harry eased it onto the tarmac gently, not eliciting even the slightest complaint from the tyres, just as Generalleutnant Galland lowered his aircraft onto the tarmac five feet behind and twenty feet to the side of the Spitfire.
The crowd was silent. Even Air Vice Marshal Johnnie Johnson and Generalleutnant Gunther Rall in the commentary box were silent. They'd just watched the ace and the man who was a child in comparison spend ten minutes idly ripping up most of the laws of physics and what you could and should do with an aircraft.
Taxiing past airliners, military transports, helicopters and jet fighters, everyone turned to watch the mutant Spitfire and 109 roll past, ungainly on their long legs, and yet reminding anyone watching that they could, at the pull of a few levers, become what had once been two of the most deadly weapons of war ever built.
Harry had locked open the canopy as soon as he'd entered the circuit, and as soon as he'd landed, extended the aerial for one of his radio systems up, out of the cockpit and tied a Jolly Roger flag to it.
Grinning as the pirate flag billowed in the prop-wash of the Merlin, he followed the RAF ground-crewman who was marshalling him into a space. Steering by easing the brake on the port wheel with the bike handle-like brake lever on the far side of the stick and the rudder pedals to direct it to the that wheel, he swung the aircraft around to port. Then the crewman crossed his arms, so he released the rudder pedal he was pressing on and applied the brakes fully.
Fuel cocks off, he pushed the throttle open fully, burning away all the fuel in the fuel lines as he turned off the magneto switches on the left side of the cockpit. Swiftly, the Merlin burnt through what was left and wound down, the swish of the propeller blades slowing and the ticking of cooling metal suddenly being the loudest noise in the cockpit.
Pushing back the canopy, he reached out as his fitter for the airshow weekend leapt up on the wing and handed him a bottle of chilled water. Gulping it down, he then reached up and peeled off his flying helmet and put it on top of the rear-view mirror on the outside of the windscreen edge, replacing it with a horribly misshapen and faded RAF peaked cap. It also looked like the top had been re-stitched at some point. Probably after he'd thrown it into an endurance-test version BAE Harrier's engine to see what condition it would come out in, and in what condition the engine would come out in.
Reaching out, Harry released the side door and, after twisting the release on his harness, dealt it a hefty blow, loosing all the various straps. Putting his hands on either side of the mirror, he pulled himself up to stand on his parachute. Stepping out onto the wing, he dropped onto the tarmac and climbed straight into the back of the Mercedes-Benz 600 'Grosser' which pulled up next to the aircraft.
Galland climbed in moments later, each silently reflecting on their flight as they were whisked off.
On the far side of a shower and a change of clothes, Harry dropped into an armchair in one of the main residential buildings on-base, waiting for his 'wingman' for the display weekend. A few minutes later, as he was flicking through a classic car magazine, the big German emerged from a room, wearing a very smart business suit.
"What on earth is that!?" he demanded.
Harry was wearing trainers, scruffy jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
"It's easier to blend in when you're not wearing the scruffiest RAF uniform ever worn. Besides, I left my hat in the car." Harry replied with a smirk; "Come on, lets head back down to the flight-line."
Galland chuckled and stretched out a hand as, shaking Harry's hand firmly. It was an unspoken understanding between the two pilots, a strange form of comradeship. One young man who'd never had to kill in the sky, and one who had defended his country in the sky with every fibre of his being. Even on the wrong side.
"-And I came in from five o'clock high, three hundred knots, he pushed the stick forward, I think instinctively, trying to out-dive me. I overshot him, turned and found that he'd pulled an Immelmann, he was behind me, above me." Harry described as he walked past a German Air Force C-130 with Galland.
"Between Erich and Gunther, it is hard to choose which of them is the best of the '109 pilots." the German replied simply; "Other than Marseille, who could not be matched, it was a toss-up between the two to choose the better, I would not be confident to say which of the two was the best of those who remained."
Harry nodded slowly, he'd first visited Celle a year ago in the Spitfire on his way to Berlin, in need of fuel and food. His lunch had been interrupted by one of Galland's aces, Hans-Ekkehard Bob, who he had the distinct pleasure of calling a friend. After going to Berlin, he'd bagged several weeks of long-overdue leave and returned to Celle. Flying a variety of manoeuvrable light aircraft with various old fighter pilots, he'd learnt the pilot's trade, and after finishing putting together the Bf-109 earlier in the year, he'd flown mock-combats against a number of the veterans, with Hartmann and Rall being the most skilled of them.
"Aunty, please can I sit in it?" pleaded a pitiful sounding voice as they approached the parked-up warbirds. Harry glanced over to see a blonde woman, probably no older than he was with a small boy clutching one of her hands by the port wing-root of the Spitfire.
"Maybe one day when you have your own." was her slightly tired reply.
"Or you could climb in right now." Harry offered, interrupting them.
"Somehow I doubt 'they' will let us." the woman countered.
"I get to do what I like with my aircraft. Perks of ownership." he stated.
"What. You're serious." she said, lifting her sunglasses to stare at him.
"Why does nobody around here take me seriously?" Harry wondered aloud; "Is it the t-shirt and jeans?"
"I believe, Herr Potter, it is due to the fact you still have spots." interrupted a smirking Rall.
Galland, who had perched himself on the starboard wing-tip of the '109, nearly fell off with laughter.
"Come on, I'd expected someone to jump at the opportunity to sit in the Spit." said Harry, ignoring the other children.
"Please, please!" cried out the child.
"This is my sister's kid, Max." the woman introduced; "I'm Amy."
"Harry Potter." he greeted them; "Come on, Amy, it'd probably be easiest if you get in first. Just climb up onto the wing, stand on the seat, hold the edge of the windscreen and slide yourself in."
Max ran over to him, allowing his aunt up onto the wing, and she stepped into the cockpit before lowering herself in. Harry hoisted her nephew up and onto her lap.
"It's small." commented Max.
Harry barked a laugh.
"Sometimes it feels like wearing an aeroplane." he answered.
"How does it start?" Harry was asked immediately.
"You turn on the battery master switch first." he replied, reaching into the cockpit and flicking the relevant switch; "Now the gauges are working, you press this button to get the indicator for the undercarriage, showing you it's locked down. The handle to your left, you wind that forward so that the aeroplane steers right, because the engine makes it want to go left. Elevators are already set."
In quick succession, he pressed the undercarriage indicator switch, set the rudder trim.
"Now you can see in front of you a gauge with 'brakes' written on it. In the top-left corner, there's another reading which tells me that there's enough air to apply the brakes. The brakes are already locked on, so we pull up the fuel cock lever." Harry continued, reaching down to below the booster coil and starter switches and jammed the lever up and uncovered the switches. "These two switches on the left, I have to check they're off. Throttle, quarter of an inch open, propeller set and the idle cut off, which controls the fuel supply, is off. The next bit you'll need to do Max."
"What!" exclaimed the boy.
"See the black lever with the ball on the top, just wobble that around, it pushes fuel around the aeroplane." Harry explained it simply, making sure he did as told. "Right, that's enough, I'll turn on these two switches over here, then you press the two buttons I uncovered, but hold back the stick all the time with your other hand. Let go of the two buttons as soon as I tap you on the shoulder."
"Prop clear!" shouted Rall, who had been listening from nearby.
The boy reached forward and, using two fingers, pressed the booster coil and starter switches. A slight whine was followed by two loud swishes as two of the four propeller blades swung past the windscreen. Then Harry jerked the throttle slightly, injecting slightly more petrol into the engine.
The Merlin caught, and with an earthshaking roar, came to life.
Harry sat in the cockpit, the engine ticking over as he stared at the expanse of metal filling his view. Directly in front of him were several feet of Rolls-Royce Merlin and a four-blade propeller idling at a bit under a thousand revolutions-per-minute, while beyond that, was PA474, the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight's Avro Lancaster.
Reaching for his Thermos flask of coffee, he checked the engine temperature, pleased to see the two radiators were doing their job, cooling the engine sufficiently that he wasn't running any risk of overheating. The same probably couldn't be said for the veteran Battle of Britain Spitfire IIA sat behind him. He however had a less powerful, and therefore less stressed, engine unlike the customised Mk. IX. The same went for the Hawker Hurricane IIA at the back of the queue.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Harry sighed in contentment. The running joke at Stirling Lines was that his coffee was made with one teaspoon of boiling water and one jar of ground coffee.
"Bravo-Bravo flight, take off in one minute intervals, enter circuit and orbit." radioed the controller; "Lancaster, say one, Pirate, say two, Battle, say three and Hurricane, say five. Confirm."
"Lancaster, Bravo-Bravo one, received loud and clear."
"Pirate, I copy, number two." Harry replied.
"Battle, three confirmed."
"Hurricane, four roger."
"Bravo-Bravo flight, proceed to runway zero-nine-zero." came the next order from the controller.
Harry waited for the Lancaster to begin rolling forward before easing off his brakes and giving the throttle a slight poke with his index finger to increase the RPM of the propeller a few hundred rotations a minute. The Spitfire pulled away, with him using the wheel-brakes to weave left and right so he could see his path ahead of the immense engine.
The afternoon had a slight pall cast over it by an earlier incident. Literally. Two Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-29 'Fulcrum' fighters had collided, resulting in one being cut in half and bursting into flames and the other being fatally damaged. Both pilots had banged out, but one aircraft had nearly impacted a number of parked aircraft.
Now, the sunset ceremony with the lowering of the RAF standard from the flagpole on the parade ground, with various units parading and the usual bigwigs taking the salute. The three aircraft of the BBMF and Harry's IX were rolling out to formate and perform flybys for the parade.
Turning on his stopwatch as the Lancaster eased on and off its brakes at the runway threshold, Harry eased on his own, placing himself where the Lancaster had been. Then the stopwatch buzzed and he opened the throttle fully, releasing the brakes. With the rudder trim set to counter torque-swing he still exercised the the rudder pedals a touch as the aircraft bounded forward, the throttle lever sliding to where it was jammed against the end of its travel.
Easing the stick forward, Harry felt rather than saw the tail come up, and then the speed of the air over the wings become sufficient that the weight came off the wheels. Smacking up the undercarriage lever, he kept the aircraft level at about twenty feet until he'd gathered sufficient speed. Reaching behind his head, he slammed shut the canopy of the Spitfire and followed in the direction that the Lancaster had flown.
Finding it flying circuits of the airfield, he eased the Spitfire in behind the Lancaster's tail, idly noticing that whoever was in the rear turret was tracking him with the horizontal movement of the turret and the vertical traverse of the quad Browning .303 light-machine guns.
"Bravo-Bravo One, Bravo-Bravo Two, do you mind me turning off my engine so that I may maintain your speed." Harry sarcastically requested over the radio.
"Bravo-Bravo Two, Bravo-Bravo One, I somehow think that would be a colossally bad idea." came the reply from the Lancaster' radio operator.
Within a short time, the other aircraft had joined up with the formation and they simply circled, waiting from the signal of the ground-controller at the parade to perform the flyby.
"Bravo-Bravo flight, form up and roll in, ETA sixty seconds."
The aircraft joined up, Harry on the starboard wing-tip of the Lancaster, with the Hurricane on the opposite side and the other Spitfire falling in the rear just below and behind the bomber's twin tailfins. They banked around to starboard and opened their throttles, entering a shallow dive. They had practised the previous day and Harry had a couple of white marker-pen marks on his airframe, one on the canopy showing where the dorsal turret of the Lancaster should be and one on the engine nacelle below where the nose turret should be, allowing him to triangulate his position.
Spotting the parade ground as he led the formation as starboard marker, Harry kept an eye on the altimeter and the Lancaster as they levelled out. His stopwatch and the growing parade ground in his gunsight showed that they were exactly on time. The burning orange ring on the gunsight were set so that the moment that they turned on direct course for the parade ground, it would fill the extremities of the ring. Then at ten seconds out when they'd pull out of the shallow dive, the parade ground would extend to the extremities horizontal and vertical lines which protruded from the ring. He already knew the approach speed, so he'd set the sight so that the top, bottom and sides of the ring and the crosshairs would be exactly filled by the parade ground at set times. It worked and they were perfectly on time.
Easing back on the stick as the edges of the crosshairs filled the parade ground, he checked the Lancaster's position, confirming it was in the right place. In his rear-view mirror, he saw the Red Arrows, as planned, rolling in, seven directly behind them, the remaining two joining the BBMF formation. Then suddenly as they roared over the parade ground, the Reds performed the 'Vixen Break', the seven behind them pulling around in a hundred-and-eighty degree fan.
Then the Spitfire flying rear marker pulled back, climbing vertically. Harry slammed his aircraft onto its port wing-tip and pulled back, turning ninety-degrees. He passed within feet of the Lancaster's tail as he flipped over onto the tip of his starboard wing. In a second, there was a roar and a flash of green and brown as the Hurricane turned on its starboard wing and pulled back. They roared away, the Lancaster flying straight on and the fighters fanning out.