Tally Ho, Eagles ... Book One

By Gerald Grantham

TALLY HO, EAGLES

So many young Americans came to fly and fight for England in 1940-41, they soon formed their own squadron – the Eagle Squadron. As more young Americans came, they formed three Eagle Squadrons.
In the Fall of 1942, the three RAF Squadrons became the 4th Fighter Group, US 8th Air Force.

They had started out flying Spitfires, and eating British food ... then they had to change to the big P‐47, and Spam!

This is the story of that change ...how they adapted to the American forces; their women, and their losses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Feb 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370965304

Gerald Grantham

The Author was born in Palo Alto, raised in the San Jose area of California, graduating from San Jose State University − that part of the state known as Silicon Valley. After working there for several years, his training in solid state electronics led him to travel extensively throughout the US. He traveled extensively overseas in Asia and Europe and more recently mainland China, where his work involves the installation of complex systems and training of operators. Although having lived in many parts of the US, he always returned home to California. He began to write after moving to a small mountain community in the north of the state where the ridges and valleys, the towns and characters have been the inspiration for his stories. In his travels, he has come upon accounts of roaming spirits, usually out to revenge a wrong. The Lady of the Canyon pays homage to these tales, and the people who believe in them. The Author respects the sincerity of their beliefs, something science is hard pressed to disprove.

Book preview

TALLY HO, EAGLES

So many young Americans came to fly and fight for England in 1940-41, they soon formed their own squadron – the Eagle Squadron. As more young Americans came, they formed three Eagle Squadrons.

In the Fall of 1942, the three RAF Squadrons became the 4th Fighter Group, US 8th Air Force.

They had started out flying Spitfires, and eating British food … then they had to change to the big P 47, and Spam!

This is the story of that change …how they adapted to the American forces; their women, and their losses.

ALSO BY THIS AUTHOR

THE LADY OF THE CANYON

A late foggy night…

Not a good start to his retirement, he is already tired from driving all day in impenetrable fog. Four hundred miles creeping along jammed roads, guided by radar equipped Highway Patrol cars. Finally, he is on a two-lane country road passing through a narrow canyon, a last winding step to his new home.

Suddenly she is there, caught in his light beam, standing in the middle of the road. He stops, stunned by her appearance in the middle of the night…

She beckons to him, then disappears into some trees.

Then she is gone.

Who did he see in the Canyon?

GERALD W. GRANTHAM

The Author was born in Palo Alto, raised in the San Jose area of California, graduating from San Jose State University − that part of the state known as Silicon Valley. After working there for several years, his training in solid state electronics led him to travel extensively throughout the US. He traveled extensively overseas in Asia and Europe and more recently mainland China, where his work involves the installation of complex systems and training of operators. Although having lived in many parts of the US, he always returned home to California. He began to write after moving to a small mountain community in the north of the state where the ridges and valleys, towns and characters have been the inspiration for his stories.

In his travels, he has come upon accounts of roaming spirits, usually out to revenge a wrong. The Lady of the Canyon pays homage to these tales, and the people who believe in them. The Author respects the sincerity of their beliefs, something science is hard pressed to disprove.

Copyright © 2017 Gerald W. Grantham

Published by

Asia’s Print & Digital Publisher

The Spitfires of the Eagle Squadrons

TALLY HO EAGLES

Book One of a Trilogy

by

Gerald W. Grantham

A Series of Stories of the Eagle Pilots in the US 8th Air Force.

Foreword

Nine young Americans spent the summer of 1940 in England. It was no vacation, one of them died fighting the Germans. Men from Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Jamaica, and Rhodesia of the British Commonwealth, and men from Ireland, Poland, Czechoslovakia, France, and Palestine joined the Americans in the RAF, and RCAF. This was the Battle of Britain, the Royal Air Force and Royal Canadian Air Force against the German Luftwaffe. At stake was the survival of Great Britain, as a victory would allow Germany to invade England. Already their invasion troops and barges filled the ports of conquered France.

The newsreels of the world preceded every movie, with the story of how a few hundred men and aircraft were defending the Britain from the Nazi hordes. A few young Americans began their quest to join their countrymen in this noble fight, by making their way north. They trained in Canada, joining the RAF or RCAF. They traveled to the UK by tramp steamer, some died when their ship was torpedoed by a U-boat. For every one young American who died flying for England, dozens trained to take his place.

Soon, young men answered newspaper ads, or notices on airport bulletin boards. There were secret meetings, then travel by train or car to a private Flight School somewhere in the US. These schools were under contract to a dummy corporation, but the money came from Canada. Young men with a private pilot license, were taught to fly the military way. The graduates quietly bade goodbye to their families then boarded a train for Canada. They were knowingly violating their country’s neutrality laws.

There, they joined the RAF, or for a few, the RCAF, then sailed for the UK. In Wales, they learned to fly old Spitfires. If this training did not kill them, they joined an Operational Squadron. Here, they learned the art of the dogfight and if they were lucky, they lived to be veterans.

Nine young Americans became ninety, and still they came. The US knew what was happening, but chose to look the other way, knowing that Hitler was their enemy as well. The RAF realized the publicity power of these young Americans fliers and the first all-American Squadron was soon formed – the Eagle Squadron. They were much in the news and soon there were three Eagle Squadrons, then they formed their own Wing within the RAF. The Wing and Squadrons continued to be commanded by English officers, until some of the Americans showed ability. Many flew in regular RAF and RCAF squadrons and did not appreciate the publicity garnered by the Eagles, feeling it more than was deserved, everyone was doing their best, and that all Americans fighting for Britain were courageous.

After Pearl Harbor, the US Eighth Air Force was formed in England. Slowly growing in strength, it absorbed the Eagle Squadrons in the fall of 1942. This a story of that transition, and the maturing of the Eighth Air Force. It is the story of some of these young Eagles, their lives, loves, and for some, their deaths. The Eagle hunts, but also mates, often for life and this is the story of their women, young British women who married these young Americans. Some were the daughters of nobility, others came from hard scrabble farms, but all tried to make a home with their husband. If he survived the War, they traveled back to America with him where most became citizens, or mothers of citizens. This is a story of men and women faced by world war, and affairs of the heart. Not perfect, but they had a clear sense of purpose.

Will we ever find that unity of direction again?

*****

Chapter One

The late March sky was gray, another winter storm out of the Arctic. There was a dark blue RAF silk scarf showing above his Army topcoat, the US Army Captain knew what it took to beat the wind that came right off the Atlantic. This was Prestwick, Scotland, and Ted Sanders had come here to see a new monument, dedicated to several WAAF – Women’s Auxiliary Air Force – who died in an air raid. He had known two of them, one of them intimately. His young wife had died here, in a slit trench covered with sandbags. She now lay in a common grave with her sisters of the RAF auxiliary, blown to bits by a 550lb German bomb. Ted knew all the details of their deaths, so he had avoided the ceremonial unveiling of the small concrete slab that bore their names. Yesterday, the Brass were here in solemn homage to the five young women whose lives ended so swiftly. He had spent the last two months dealing with her death, and that of the child she carried. Ted gazed at her name, among the list of victims. They used her married name, she had so little time to get used to it, now it was hers for eternity. He took a moment to remember her face, her strawberry-blonde hair, then he turned away.

It was a cold walk to the waiting car, the old Flight Sergeant had known his wife, she worked for him. His face was sad as he drove Ted to the Railway Station. He was a widower too, he understood Ted’s grief. They shook hands, then Ted turned toward his train. On the train trip south, Ted tried to remember how it began with the two of them. He was in the RAF, one of the Eagle Squadrons … she worked in the Squadron office. Then, the US Air Corps took over the three Squadrons, changing their whole world. They were splitting the men up, they were losing their Spitfires …

The roar of Rolls Royce engines was deafening. Six Spitfires warmed their engines, the young pilots smiling and signaling one another. Ted loved the sound, a love born of sixty-five missions flying one in the RAF. He hoped that these young men treated them well. He had flown three of them, one of them had been his. A Spitfire Mark Vb, fast, maneuverable, heavily armed, the British sure knew how to build them. He knew, no matter what, nothing the US Army Air Corps had for him would measure up.

His mind switched to the reason someone else now had his aircraft. ‘Who the hell’s idea was this? The Eagles being broken up, and spread over the whole Eighth Air Force!’ The members of the Eagle Squadrons were the only battle proven American pilots available to the Eighth Air Force. Washington had felt that a few Eagles in each green squadron would improve their chances. ‘Did it occur to these geniuses that none of the Eagles were trained on the American aircraft?’

The Spitfires started their taxi out to the end of the runway. He had been flying one of these beauties, a Mark I, when they heard about Pearl Harbor. There were seven Americans at the OTC – Operational Training Command – airfield in Wales, plus a mix of Australians, South Africans, Czechs, Poles, Canadians, and one lad from New Zealand. Ted had then served with two RAF Squadrons before joining one of the Eagle Squadrons. It had taken the US almost ten months to absorb Ted and the other Americans of the three Eagle Squadrons, but it had finally happened. He already wore his new American uniform, his new American Army raincoat, and his American hat with its rain cover. The warm, waterproof black boots were British, they still did some things better. It was their climate, after all.

The aircraft started their takeoff rolls, two abreast, they took off. Ted watched them in the drizzle, until even their sound was gone. It left him cold, anxious and cold. With no aircraft and no missions, he felt lost.

Eleanor saw him standing there, on her way from the nurse’s barracks. ‘One of the Yanks from the Eagle Squadrons. Fancy that! A sentimental Yank!’ She and her umbrella, made their way to the Hospital. The Americans were taking over the Air Base, but the Medical Staff would remain British. At least, until the Americans could provide their own staff. She hated the thought of moving, this base was so close to home. That was still important for a Volunteer Nurse of nineteen. Her red hair was up and covered by her wimple. Sister Margaret insisted that they wore them. The Nursing Sisters that staffed this Hospital were tough. They thought themselves so superior to the young volunteers who outnumbered them three to one. But she would show them! Her anger made her freckles stand out, her green eyes flashed. She did have a temper! She stopped! ‘I cannot report to Sister Margaret this way!’ She took a moment to calm down, then continued.

In the Cloak Room, she hung up her umbrella with the others. Her coat was hung up to dry. She scurried to the small office of the Head Nurse, Sister Margaret. It was empty! This was Eleanor’s lucky day. Smiling, she hurried to her ward, and her friend, Sister Silvia.

Ted did not feel sentimental as he made his way to the Officer’s Mess Hall. He just felt sad at the changes. He was losing so many friends, Squadron Leader Walters, his CO, for one. Even Corporal Tommy Evens, his Barrack’s batman or valet. The US Army Air Corps had no provision for personal servants, except for Colonels and above. The British had a much more civilized idea of what a fighter pilot needed. He was a First Lieutenant now, that was an improvement from his previous rank, an RAF Flying Officer. The difference was in the pay – it had gone from fifty-eight dollars a month with the RAF, to the unreal sum of three hundred and forty, with flight pay. In the Hall, there were only a handful of guys left. The rest had been sent to other bases to bolster the green Americans. What Squadron would occupy this base, and what would they be flying? The civilian staff of the Mess Hall was still on duty. Ted hoped they could stay, they were all locals, and needed the money. Then there were the cute waitresses, losing them would be a tragedy. Two of them smiled at him as he hung up his coat. At twenty-four, he was not anxious to date either of these eighteen-year-old's, although they were quite tasty.

‘Ted! Over here!’ There was the smiling face of Charlie Ross. They had met over a year ago, in Bakersfield, California, during flight training for the RAF.

‘Hi, Charlie. What’s for lunch?’ Ted sat down opposite his friend.

‘Baked Cod, mashed potatoes, and Brussel Sprouts,’ Charlie answered with a smile.

Ted rolled his eyes, ‘Bubble and Squeak! Thank God we don’t have to fly, this afternoon!’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, right Ted?’ Charlie was enjoying himself. They both remembered the first time they had eaten this vegetable combination, then flew at more than twenty thousand feet. Brussel Sprouts cause gas, hence the ’bubble’. The ‘squeak’ referred to the poor, suffering pilots releasing the gas in the lower air pressure at high altitude. Both pilots knew that it was no fun, even though it drew laughter when the RAF Medical Officer tried to discuss this phenomenon. He was so conscientious, in his attempt to warn them of the perils of this medical condition. How could he phrase it, without the young Americans barely stifling their laughter? Ted had graduated from Stanford University, while Charlie was an alumnus of Harvard. The other smiling gentlemen present, came from various levels of public education. Toilet humor cut across class boundaries.

Doris, a well-built brunette of eighteen, delivered the two pilots their lunch. Both men thanked her, her smile was dazzling. Ted wondered which one of these ‘gentlemen’ would take the lovely Doris out? Everyone was aware that the two-hundred-pound cook was her mother. He was sure that this fact would protect her virtue, at least until the US Army Air Corps got here in force. As Ted ate, he thought about that. He figured that there would be over one hundred officers, and two hundred and fifty enlisted men on the base, when fully staffed. He feared for Doris, and every other young woman in this vicinity. Except, of course, the nursing sisters, Catholic Nuns one and all. The volunteer nurses were another story. He wondered just how well Sister Margaret could protect them. Even she could not protect those who do not wish to be protected!

That made him think of Liz – another well-built young brunette he met when assigned to an RAF Squadron. There was a little village nearby where he had met her at a dance. They were both there alone, they danced, then she had invited him to her little cottage. They drank tea and talked. She was twenty, her parents worked in War plants down south. Her older Brother was in the Navy. She came there, to her Grandmother’s vacant cottage, when bombed out in London. She worked in a little garment shop, making uniform pants. She was lonely, he was lonely, and they ended up in bed. Those days and nights with Liz were wonderful. They could lose themselves in sex and small talk. It lasted for six weeks, then there was an air raid. The German plane dropped four bombs, one of them hit the Garment Shop. Twelve were killed, one of them was Liz. The Germans had taken so many of his friends, usually the pilots that he flew with. Now, they took his lover. He had found other female friends, but none of them was Liz. Currently, he had a London friend. Shelly was married, and about his age …a pretty blonde, with a great body. He did have to sneak out of her place in the wee hours. Mustn’t let the neighbors know that she was ‘entertaining’. She was a two-hour train journey away, Shelly was someone for when you had leave. Daily, there was no one.

‘I wish the wizards at Bushy Park would make up their minds!’ Charlie was upset with the leadership of the US Eighth Air Force, newly headquartered in that London suburb. He was referring to their decisions about just what to do with the men of the three Eagle Squadrons. They were all US citizens who had been fighting for the RAF, and England.

Ted shook his head, ‘Why don’t you enjoy the time off, Charlie?’

‘Yeah, Charlie!’

Someone yelled, ‘Leave it! Take a hike or something!’

Charlie looked around the room with mock disapproval, ‘Shame on you, shirker! Don’t you want to show our new leader what hot fighter pilots he has acquired?’

Charlie was promptly pelted with bits of food. In self-defense, he dove under the table. The most junior member of the group had already experienced over thirty missions, some had more than sixty under their belts. No one was anxious to rush out against the very dangerous Germans just to impress the American Brass. Ted signaled a ‘cease fire’, and Charlie stuck his head up to glare at his attackers. It caused more laughter, something of which there was never enough.

Fun over, Ted saw to it that the pilots picked up after themselves. The ladies appreciated that, Ted getting a smile from both. He was sure that Doris was a good girl, but not so sure about Beryl. A cute and petite blonde, she was now giving him a very meaningful smile. He was almost tempted to ask her out. But instead, he headed over to the Hospital, to visit a wounded pilot. He put his rain gear back on, and headed across the field. The rain had stopped, but could resume at any time. Situation normal! He had been in England for over a year, but sometimes the rain still got to him. ‘This was a hell of a climate for a guy from Central California! What a change! From fifteen inches of rain a year, to one hundred and fifteen!’

In the Hospital, he hung up his rain coat with the others.

Feeling brave, he stuck his head into the Lion’s Den. That was Sister Margaret’s office, for the ignorant.

‘And what do you want, Leftenant?’ Her sharp face was quite hostile.

Ted’s was all innocence, ‘Just inquiring of your health, Sister!’

She was skeptical, but decided to be civil, ‘I am very well, thank you. Come to visit your wingman?’

‘That is correct, Sister. Sooner or later, we will be back in the War. I hope that he will be back protecting me. Besides, I happen to like the gentleman.’

Sister snorted at that, ‘Some gentleman! I have to watch him like a hawk with the young volunteers!’

Ted smiled, ‘Sounds like he is recovering. Good evening to you, Sister Margaret.’ He gave her a wave, then headed into the wards. Ted Sanders always bothered Sister Margaret, so polite and smart, just like he had been. Those blue eyes, so clear and cool. His had been cruel. She began to remember, back to a time before her vows. She had not always been a nun, or celibate. It had been twenty years, but she remembered. Ted brought it all back, and she disliked him for that.

Ted made his way to the Burn Ward, Brent had been burned by a gasoline fire in his burning plane. His hands and legs had suffered second degree burns when a German plane shot up his Spitfire. Fire was the biggest problem for pilots, their aircraft were flying tanks of one hundred octane gasoline, one bullet in the right spot was all it took. Second Lieutenant Brent Williams was lying in bed, his hands wrapped in bandages. The bed was reclined, his eyes were closed. He was not alone; a young nurse was reading to him. ‘You wouldn’t be taking advantage of your situation, would you, Leftenant Williams?’ Ted’s tone was stern.

The young woman seemed ready to leap to his defense.

It wasn’t necessary. Brent opened his eyes, ‘I might know, only you would come to torment me in my pain, sir.’

‘Pain? I’ve burnt myself worse roasting marshmallows!’

She stood up, ‘Lieutenant Williams was badly burned, then there was some infection. He must be suffering horribly!’

Ted looked at her, tall, but not skinny. Freckles, green eyes, a wisp of red hair exposed on her forehead. He smiled, ‘He obviously has you taken in. Come on, Brent, how about a quick game of Red Dog?’

Brent smiled, ‘You’re on!’ A deck of cards came out from under the covers. Brent started to deal onto his bed tray. Then he looked sheepishly at the young lady, ‘Sorry, Eleanor, but you are beautiful! It was worth a shot!’

Her hands went to her hips, a frown on her face.

‘Who’s your friend, Brent?’ Ted asked.

She was beautiful. Brent was smiling, ‘Miss Eleanor Howard, may I introduce First Lieutenant Ted Sanders, my Flight Leader. This is the guy I sacrificed myself to save!’

Ted offered his hand. ‘He means that he did not see the German that shot up his wreck of a Spitfire.’ Eleanor shook his hand.

Her frown relaxed, ‘I saw you on the Field, earlier.’

‘I was saying goodbye to an old friend.’

‘Your plane?’ she questioned.

‘Yes, you got me there.’

She smiled, ‘That’s okay. I know how it is with pilots.’

Ted looked at his wingman, ‘Hanging around with you seems to have corrupted her speech!’

Brent held up his hands, ‘Honest, Ted. She talked like that when she met me!’

Eleanor laughed, ‘You have my mother to blame, she’s an American from New York!’

What Ted had to say about that was lost when he heard the first sounds of engine. Several aircraft engines − Spitfire engines! Ted rushed to the window.

‘What are they?’ Brent asked.

‘Spitfires!’ Eleanor said, excitedly. Ted found that the tall beauty was standing right next to him.

They were indeed Spitfires, thirteen Mark Vb’s without any squadron markings. Ted wondered about Eleanor’s knowledge of aircraft, as he rushed outside. He did manage to pull on his coat and hat, as he hurried over to the tarmac. He was the senior officer present, due to their present skeleton crew. It was his duty to greet any visitors. The aircraft appeared to be brand new, there were chalk markings, only. The first one came to rest in front of the hanger, the prop quickly stopped. The other aircraft followed suit. Ted approached the figure climbing out of the first craft, it was Bob Rice! The name chalked on the plane was Major Robert Rice! When Bob looked his way, Ted snapped him a salute. He did remember to make it an American salute. For over a year, both men had grown used to the British version.

Bob returned it, then jumped off the wing of his Spitfire. Ted rushed to him. ‘Major Rice, sir, would you like to tell me what is going on!’

Bob laughed, ‘Come to the Squadron Office with me!’ This was yelled over the roar of the last of the aircraft to land. The two friends walked past the hanger, over to the Squadron offices. The RAF staff was still on the job, as they entered the office. Two young members of the WAAF, and an older RAF Flight Sergeant all smiled at the two officers. They smiled back, both would regret ever losing these workers. Bob led the way into the Commander’s office. He motioned Ted into a chair, as he sat at the desk.

‘Okay, Ted. This is what I know. The orders we saw must have come from Washington, DC. When General Spaatz – the Eighth Air Force Commander − saw our petition, he knew that he had a