Hauling on his parachute pack that he had left on the wing root, Daniel dropped down into the cramped cockpit, took his helmet from the stick and placed it on his head, then plugged in the radiotelephone lead and oxygen tube. With the assistance of his ground crew, he drew together the Sutton harness straps from his waist, legs and shoulders.
He was in.
Looking across to his right, he saw Smith make a bolt for his aircraft, holding his left hand to his chest, seemingly in pain.
Daniel pushed the starter button, just as the green Very Light flare punched high into the air, announcing that they were clear for take-off.
Daniel’s rigger removed the starter plug and whipped the trolley clear.
One by one, the pulsating, guttural Merlin engines came alive, firing to just over one thousand revs. Propellers began to turn. The machines began to hum, as though they were alive. Blueish grey smoke billowed from the exhaust stubs.
Daniel ran through the starter checks, then, along with the other Hurricanes in full harmony, began to taxi to his position in the standard ‘V’ formation on the airfield. It was like a carefully choreographed dance, he always thought, taking his place immediately to Wheeler’s left. He stopped and watched as the other aircraft drew into position.
Time slackened and his thoughts consolidated.
The only thing that mattered now, was getting this machine into the air, taking out some of the enemy, then getting the thing safely back to land.
He watched Wheeler’s plane, waiting for movement.
Over the radiotelephone, came Wheeler’s voice, using the squadron call sign, ‘Okay, Jacko, we’re off.’
The waiting game was over.
Wheeler’s Hurricane began to surge forward. Daniel released the brakes, eased open the throttle and pushed forward.
The eleven Hurricanes, as if locked together, began to speed along the runway.
Daniel increased the power to match Wheeler’s, receiving a throaty grunt of agreement from the engine.
Halfway across the field, one by one, the machines’ wheels began to lift from the grass below; all eyes were fixed on Wheeler.
The plane climbed and rocked gently at nearly three thousand revs, as Daniel pumped the undercarriage up.
‘Jacko Squadron airborne,’ came Wheeler’s voice over the R/T, as they flew over the perimeter of the aerodrome, leaving it largely defenceless.
As the Hurricanes passed through a narrow band of cloud, Daniel looked down through the small cockpit window and, in his peripheral vision, caught a glimpse of Cliff House, precariously straddling the border of land and sea. He knew the house well. Hated it. Hated what went on there. What had started life in the fun and frolicking of last summer had ended in a dark, serious place full of false accusations. He shuddered, turning his thoughts and attention back to the task in hand and flying the aircraft.
‘Jacko leader, this is Sapper,’ a voice over the radiotelephone system said. ‘Twenty bandits heading towards sector ‘E’ at angels twelve. Over.’
‘Sapper, this is Jacko. Message received and understood.’
Daniel breathed deeply, holding his position to Wheeler’s left. He looked down at his altimeter: 9,500 feet. Switching his oxygen dial to fifteen, he felt the first puffs against his cheek and breathed it in, deeply.
As they continued to rise, the shreds of silver and white cloud dissipated, parting like curtains before a stage play, revealing the coastline below. It was perfection. He took a mental snapshot, yearning to preserve the exquisite beauty before him. How desperately he wanted to say to the other pilots over the R/T, ‘Isn’t that just stunning?’ It was at moments like this that he always felt deeply sorry for the situation in which they found themselves: about to blast into oblivion similar young men, in similar machines, enjoying a similar view.
They continued to follow the coastline around towards Essex until Control said, ‘Jacko, this is Sapper. You’re very close.’
Wheeler responded, ‘Sapper, this is Jacko. I can see them now.’
‘Thank you, Jacko—good luck,’ Control said, their job over.
Daniel held his breath, glancing out of the cockpit window.
Droplets of sweat began to erupt all over his body.
He suddenly felt all alone.
In front of them, like an annoying plague of wasps, was the enemy. Twenty or so Messerschmitt 109s. Getting closer.
Then, Wheeler’s voice in his ear. ‘Okay, chaps, in we go. Give them what for,’ he said calmly, before peeling away from their formation.
Daniel picked a target—a Messerschmitt that had dipped slightly to the left of the rest of the swarm. He was gaining on it, fast. He backed off the throttle and held his thumb over the gun button.
The Messerschmitt grew large in Daniel’s target. In his peripheral vision, he saw Smith’s aircraft peeling to the right, away from the mêlée of activity.
Daniel pressed his thumb down, the pulsating judder shaking his entire arm as the bullets tore into the target.
The Messerschmitt veered away sharply, but Daniel was certain that he had hit him.
His heart thundered in his chest and he breathed quickly.
All at once, there was a panicked cry over the R/T system, but the deafening crack of crossfire stopped Daniel from hearing what had been said.
The return fire was close.
Daniel scanned around him for the Messerschmitt that he had targeted. He found it, pushing into a dive, leaving the aggravated swarm of Messerschmitts buzzing above. Smoke was billowing from the cannons on its left wing. Daniel had hit it, but the damage inflicted had not been lethal.
Above him, one of the other Hurricanes was struggling. Barker. He’d been hit. Flames were spilling from the engine. Behind him, a Messerschmitt was lining up, seconds
