‘We’ll be better off with Winston Churchill – he’s a man who knows what he’s doing. My brother is in France and Mummy has heard nothing from him. General Gort is in charge of the army, you know, and Clive thinks the world of him, so I expect he’s fine.’
Unfortunately, accommodation had now been built for them at the base and they had to leave their cushy billet with the doctor. Ellie wasn’t looking forward to being there next winter as it was basic to say the least, and they didn’t have a wireless. If they wanted to hear the news they had to remain in the recreation room with everyone else.
As a non-smoker she found the blue haze created by the smoke unpleasant so spent as little time as possible in there. This meant she often got news second hand.
Weekends no longer existed – they didn’t get days off. On Sunday, 26th May, her watch had been from midnight to eight o’clock in the morning. When she and the other members of the team headed for the canteen later that day, everyone off duty was congregated in the recreation room listening to the wireless.
Hitler was driving the British and French armies back to the coast and they were being fired at and bombed. The RAF fighters were protecting the soldiers as they retreated and British warships were trying to evacuate as many as they could before they were killed or captured.
*
Greg decided to ask for a transfer to a fighter squadron. That was where the main action was going to be and he didn’t want to be a bus driver any longer. He wanted to take a more active role in shooting down enemy aircraft. Dropping bombs on civilians wasn’t supposed to happen, but he knew, like everyone else in the squadron, it was inevitable. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea of killing innocent people; by becoming a Spitfire or Hurricane pilot he wouldn’t have to do that.
When he handed in his request the adjutant looked less than pleased. ‘I see from your log book, Flight Lieutenant Dunlop, that you have some experience flying a single engine plane. We are desperately short of pilots of any sort and I don't expect you’ll get a transfer as this would mean losing an experienced flyer from here who I doubt we would be able to replace.’
Greg was about to reply but the adjutant continued.
‘Nevertheless, I’ll put this through, but don’t get your hopes up, old chap.’ He waved his hand and Greg was dismissed.
There was nothing to do apart from the occasional night flight to keep their skills honed when weather permitted. He’d got a forty-eight-hour pass but as Ellie was away somewhere training there was no point in him leaving the base.
He was cycling around the apron just as a Tiger Moth landed. He pedalled furiously towards it and arrived just as pilot jumped out.
‘Can you give me a lift? I don’t care where you’re going – I just want to get away for a bit?’
‘I’m delivering spare parts – if you care to give me a hand unloading them, I’d be happy to.’
Greg discovered the middle-aged airman was returning to Hornchurch where he was based. Neil was there; it would be grand to catch up with his friend as he hadn’t seen him since Christmas, almost four months ago.
He grabbed his overnight bag, made sure his whereabouts for the next twenty-four hours had been logged, and was ready to scramble into the front seat of the little plane.
Even with his flying jacket and helmet on it was cold in the open cockpit. At least he had a heated flying suit when he went up in the Blenheim.
The short hop to Hornchurch was over too quickly. The pilot landed smoothly, they shook hands, and Greg went in search of his friend. He found him in the Officers’ Mess.
‘Good God! How the hell did you get here?’
‘I cadged a lift. I’ve got two days’ leave and this seemed as good a place as any to come.’
Over a beer he told Neil about his wish to become a fighter pilot. ‘I doubt I’ll get a transfer, but I had to ask. I just hope my CO doesn’t think I’m lacking in moral fibre and has me demoted and sent to scrub latrines for the duration.’
Two chaps overheard his remark. One of them, Greg realised, was wearing the insignia of a Wing Commander. He was about to leap to his feet and salute but the man waved him back.
‘Ever been up in a Spit?’
‘No, sir. But I’ve logged twenty hours in single engine kites.’
‘Bus driver, are you? What’s your squadron?’
Greg told him and the man pulled a face. ‘Bloody Blenheims are absolutely useless. Not fast enough and vulnerable to enemy attack. Simpson, let him have a spin in your crate. See how he goes. Do three bumps and circuits.’
His friend didn’t look too pleased about this but could hardly refuse a senior officer. Once they were outside he gripped Greg’s elbow. ‘If you prang my Spit I’ll kill you. There aren’t any spares – not enough coming from the factories at the moment.’
Neil stood on the wing and ran through the basics. ‘Pre-op flight check is the same. Good luck – take care of her.’ He jumped down and a couple of ground engineers took over. Moments later the Merlin engine roared into life – the propeller turned and it was chocks away.
Greg taxied from the apron onto the runway. Waited for the green light and then took off. The Spitfire was a joy to fly, a bit claustrophobic inside the closed cockpit after the space in the Blenheim, but this was more than made up for
