10th June 1940
Harry cursed as he stumbled in the darkness of the hallway at RAF Sumburgh in the Shetland Islands. He'd just been intending to get some sleep when an NCO had knocked on the door of the room he'd been issued and told him he was to report to the office of the base's Commanding Officer.
Finally finding his way to the door of said office, he rapped on it smartly, waiting for a 'come in' before pushing it open. He didn't bother saluting because he wasn't in uniform, but still in flying kit.
"Flight Lieutenant Potter." said the CO, a Navy man as he reached into a drawer; "We've got your prisoner under guard, and the same for his aircraft. I'm informed there has been a whip-round on the base for a purse for your prize."
He tossed a small bag of coinage to Harry, who opened it to find high-value coins into it. The base had been very accomodating, Bill and Jake had flown back and arrived before him, and they'd arranged a memorial service on the shoreline to those lost in the earlier battle.
"Furthermore we've analysed the gun-camera footage. Flying Officer Jake Sanger should be credited with an Arado 196 destroyed, and you with a Focke-Wulf Fw-200 Condor destroyed. We identified the vessels involved in the sinking as the battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau." continued the CO; "And finally, a request from Fighter Command at RAF Bentley Priory for you, Flying Officer William Jakes and Flying Officer Jake Sanger to report to RAF Rochford, a satellite to RAF Hornchurch with immediate effect."
"And sir, how exactly do they propose we get there? Jake's Hurricane needs major work, Bill's aircraft is held together with sewing thread and prayers, while I have no aircraft anymore?" Harry nearly snapped back, his stress showing on his face. Being shot down was always unpleasant, especially by a battleship, add to that a six-hundred mile dash in a hijacked Axis aircraft in airspace controlled by Britain, and no sleep.
Slowly the CO reached into his desk and pulled out a key which he threw to Harry.
"Beechcraft Staggerwing, one with the supercharged Wright Cyclone. Look after it will you." he said tiredly.
Harry nodded and dropped the purse back on the table.
"Give a third to the padre. Put the rest into the base's mess bill." he said before walking out.
On the far side of four hours sleep, Harry loaded his rather meagre belongings into the Beech. He had a dozen combat knives of various designs, a .303 Browning Automatic Rifle, his Colt M1911, a .455 Webley revolver with the barrel cut down to four inches, a small amount of cash, and his copy of 46 Squadron's log book.
He sighed quietly. War was war, people would die. Checking the six twenty-round box magazines for the BAR, the six seven-round magazines for the Colt and the pouch of loose bullets for the .455, he made sure that the ammunition was all in good condition before putting it into the gun bag with the weapons.
A few of the tired pilots rose from the deckchairs outside the dispersal hut as the elegant biplane taxied up next to a line of brand new Supermarine Spitfire 1As with major propeller and radio upgrades. One of them ducked past the propeller as it wound to a halt and over to the door of the aircraft.
Three men dropped out, carrying flying kit, and one a bulging gun bag.
"James Leathart, CO 54 Squadron." introduced the pilot who had come over to the aircraft.
"Harry Potter, Bill Jakes, Jake Sanger." Harry introduced the three of them; "Formerly of Forty-Six Squadron."
"Oh?"
"Squadron disbanded to prepare for re-equipment with different mission-orientated aircraft." Harry smoothly cut across Jake who was about to open his mouth. Kid couldn't lie to save his life.
"Have any of you flown a Spitfire?" Leathart asked.
"A few times." said Harry while the other two shook their heads
"We're in dire need of pilots, lost too many in the retreat from France." Leathart grunted; "And somehow I think we're going to loose a whole lot more."
"Norway wasn't exactly a perfect holiday." Bill said sarcastically.
"Right, get your kit stowed. Flight! Get these gentlemen rooms!" ordered Leathart; "Get some chow once you've stowed your kit, then report to dispersal, I'll arrange a couple of aircraft."
A broad-shouldered Flight Sergeant who had been working on one of the Spitfires jumped down and gestured them over to a Bedford 'Queen Lizzie' lorry.
In his room, Harry looked up to see the Queen Lizzie pilot's transport lorry pull up. Sat on his bed, he pulled off his scruffy RAF jacket, wound a thick silk scarf around his neck and pulled on a fur-lined leather jacket and quickly levered his feet into fur-lined shin-length flying boots before tightening the straps up.
The life jacket, uninflated, went around his shoulders followed by his flying helmet's straps which he did up around his neck, he'd pull it on while at the aircraft. Grabbing his parachute pack, Harry checked he had his Colt and the Webley holstered under his jacket, that the knives he liked to carry were all in their specially-made pockets. Finally, Harry grabbed his Browning Automatic Rifle and a couple of magazines which he stuffed into the two stomach pockets of the jacket.
Zipping the rifle into the watertight bag he took everywhere with him, Harry hoisted it over one shoulder with the parachute pack hanging from the other as he headed out to the courtyard where Bill and Jake were climbing into the back of the lorry. Dumping his rifle and parachute on the back, he hoisted himself up into the back and slumped on a bench.
"Eat well?" asked Jake cheekily.
"Could be worse." Bill shrugged.
"Could be a lot worse." Harry confirmed; "D'you think it'd be too much to hope that we come upon some poor German while out getting familiar with our new aircraft?"
"Don't get your hopes up." said Bill.
"Morning lads." said another pilot, clambering onto the back of the lorry with his kit before introducing himself; "Phil Tew, Flight Sergeant. I heard you just got back from Norway, what's going on up there?"
"Not much, we've pulled out." Jake stated; "Cost the Germans a lot though, they lost a heavy cruiser, Blucher, to Norwegian coastal artillery, while the flying navy boys in the Orkneys took out a light cruiser and one of our submarines took out a second, while we bloodied the Luftwaffe who didn't at first seem to realise we were serious about this war and kept sending rather pathetic aircraft out. Eventually they got the message and we lost a few chaps to '109s, but we kept them on their heels the whole time."
"Things have been a mess down here, the Acting Squadron Leader's not exactly hugely experienced, we're losing pilots too fast, in late May, we went down from squadron strength to eight beat up Spits and little more in the way of beat up men." Tew sighed as he ran a hand through his matted hair; "You been to briefing yet?"
"No." Bill shook his head; "We were rather inferring a familiarisation flight."
"Damn, I'll give it to you plain then since somebody hasn't bothered. Dunkirk is over, the BEF is gone from there but there are still pockets holding out, including about ten-thousand in Le Havre and many times that in the Cherbourg to Saint-Malo area, so with a number of fighter squadrons being diverted to that area, our job is a mixture of air defence and simply going out and causing trouble for Jerry." said Tew; "However, if you haven't been briefed, then there's probably a reason for it."
Several more pilots piled into the back, lighting cigarettes and pipes as the Queen Lizzie pulled away, heading for the airfield itself. A few minutes later, it bounced across the grass to the dispersal where Leathart was waiting.
"Potter, Whitehill, Jakes, over here!" he called as the three, the last to leave the truck, dropped out of the back and walked over towards the aircraft parked up before they changed directions and made for him. "I've just got a load of contradictory orders about you lot from several different commands, but the gist of it from the most senior person is for you three to be dispatched to the base at Tangmere with new aircraft and perform missions which, though not described as such, can be summed up as 'kill anything unfriendly that moves'. Clear?"
"Clear." the three chorused.
"Right, I'll show you over your new aircraft."
The rapidly changing orders had been strange. It had turned out that, having loaned it to them during the short hours he'd spent there, the RAF Sumburgh administration had copied out the 46 Squadron log and, after returning his own copy, sent it to the Air Ministry, who in turn had analysed the reports, deciding that the three were worth more on the front line than in the position of London air defence.
Harry glanced at the two Supermarine Spitfires spread out slightly behind and with a hundred yards between him and them, on either side. The Hurricane was a superb aircraft, however, it did not have quite the same 'thoroughbred' handling characteristics as they'd found the Spitfire to have.
After just an hour of testing their new aircraft, he, Bill and Jake were rolling out across the English Channel towards France, and towards who-knew-what. They were moving at a fair pace and constantly scanning the sky above and the sea below for anything to have a go at, the loss of Glorious and all on board still weighing on them.
"French coast, five miles." reported Bill, who was keeping track of where they were.
They had burned up a small amount of their fuel, travelling at a comfortable cruise of under three-hundred miles an hour so as to conserve the small amount the Spitfire carried, but at full military power, the tanks wouldn't last that long, and it was a hundred mile flight from Le Havre, which they were approaching, and Tangmere.
"Uh, boss, got five bogeys, flying east-west, two miles probably, 'bout eleven o'clock, low." radioed Jake.
Harry rolled onto one wing-tip to get a better look. Twin engined, that was all he could see, then twin tailfins.
"Lockheed Hudsons?" he queried; "I'll go down and have a look, circle around at a distance and follow."
Securing his oxygen mask, Harry opened the throttle a touch and pushed the nose down gently, making sure not to cause a negative-G flooding of the engine. He closed to within a mile when the thin shape of the fuselages resolved themselves. Harry quickly flicked off the safety catch for his eight Brownings and opened up to full power.
"Rapier flight, '110s, close and kill." Harry barked.
Bill and Jake closed up behind him as the first Spitfire dived towards the formation. In seconds, the Messerschmitt Bf-110 heavy fighters spotted them and broke to each side. It was too late. Harry had the rearmost in his sights, and for a short moment, the wings of the Spitfire lit up with flashes of fire.
The eight .303 Brownings blazed, spitting bullets into the starboard engine of the aircraft and suddenly, a sheet of flame left the engine nacelle and then the wing folded upwards. The 110 spiralled uncontrollably, one wing missing, and the last thing the gun camera saw was a large white water-spout as the heavy fighter plunged into the English Channel.
Pulling hard back, Harry was astounded once more as the Spitfire launched itself through a two-hundred-and-seventy degree loop that brought him slap-bang right behind another '110. Rolling to starboard to avoid a burst of tracer from the rear gunner, Harry dropped down to below the Messerschmitt and just waited to pounce as it drifted into his gunsight. Once again the staccato flicker of fire on the edge of the wing, and then the tracer of his bullets reached out. Harry eased the Spitfire's nose down for a second before bringing it back up, with a slight right-hand input and let off a second burst of fire.
The first set of bullets ripped into the two port fuel tanks on either side of the central support for the wing – the spar – and then another burst hit the starboard tanks, again on either side of the tanks. The Messerschmitt shuddered as the bullets hit it, then it stalled, rolling over and entering an inverted dive with Harry following it. Then suddenly, it was enveloped in flames, and what emerged was just the tumbling remains of the outer wing panels and the tail.
Harry brought the Spitfire's nose up to see one Messerschmitt trailing smoke and Bill's brand-new Spitfire spitting bullets into it, and Jake diving past the tumbling wreckage of a '110 of his own, trails of tracer leaving his wings and lighting up the side of a second heavy fighter.
Circling to keep an eye out for covering fighters, his eye fell on the petrol gauge.
"Rapier flight, disengage, disengage and return to base." he radioed.
There was no need for the disengage order, the last of the five '110s was on fire and plunging vertically towards the sea. The fight was over, for the next few hours.