The Reluctant Hero

By David Ayton

Chris just wanted to be an aeronautical engineer, but events and WWll changed it all.
Christopher Darby’s father wants him to follow a medical career and become a doctor like himself. But Chris knows his real love is engineering, especially aeroplanes, and he wants it to be his career. A chance encounter, the summer after leaving school in 1935, lands him a job working with planes. Chris is given the opportunity to learn to fly a plane and a long, exciting aeronautical career is sparked. Although Chris initially begins work in the Rolls Royce car factory upon completing his engineering studies, the outbreak of war changes everything. Drawn to do his bit for the country, Chris joins the Royal Air Force and is back working with planes once again. What follows is an exciting, varied and dangerous career serving his country. Never far from action and danger, Chris must rely on his expert knowledge and the trusted colleagues he meets along the way to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Sep 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787102682

Book preview

Epilogue

Chris looked at his watch and appeared a little startled at the passage of time. The sun was setting low on this warm September afternoon and shadows were starting to fall across the water from the willow trees lining the grassy river banks of the River Derwent. As if to shake himself up from his daydreams he looked around to make sure no one was listening, and said, "Better get moving, tomorrow is the big day, our day, the fifteenth of September 1946!"

Chapter 2

So, when do you start work at the factory? Chris’s dad asked, somewhat flushed after the celebratory whiskeys consumed.

Monday morning, bright and early. That gives me the entire weekend off before I start to pay the piper, Chris replied, equally flushed. The Darby family, along with Brian and his family, had been celebrating Chris’s return from Loughborough after graduating with his degree in aeronautical engineering. Paying the piper, of course, referred to earning his living at the Rolls factory. Brian was quick to point out that he had been ‘paying his piper’ since the beginning of the year, at their old school. Having left the teachers’ college, he was quick to apply for his position at Central, filling a recently retired teacher's spot.

It doesn’t hurt to have the inside track on advanced information of potential retirees, Brian had said.

Settling into their lawn chairs in the back garden that late afternoon, Friday the first of September 1939, Carol, John and Chris lazed in the warm, waning sunshine after saying goodbye to Brian and family. The worsening situation in Europe had been avoided in conversation up until now.

You do know it’s coming, the war I mean, don’t you? Chris’s Dad said.

Oh John, don’t bring it up, not now, Carol replied. This is a special day for us all, let’s just enjoy it— please.

I know, Dad, but Mum is right. Let’s just drop that subject for now, Chris replied. "The weather is supposed to be fine for tomorrow’s game, I do hope all the family will show up. Chris was quick to change the subject. The annual cricket game, old boys versus school, was on and Chris was playing, with Brian scoring. Just like old times, eh," Chris said.

The weather forecast was indeed accurate for the following day. Everyone from the Darby family showed up: grandparents, aunts and uncles and even some cousins. It proved to be a great family day for all, even the non-players, though for some the highlights revolved around the free food put on in the pavilion. The outcome of the game was in little doubt from the outset. The ‘old boys’ had had a particularly strong team and won easily. The pavilion soon filled up with hungry players and spectators alike and the cucumber sandwiches and sausage rolls complimented the free beer. For some the get-together meant catching up on all the news with relatives and friends, for others the post-mortem on the game provided much animation on what did, didn’t, could, and couldn’t have taken place. The youngsters played with the cricket gear that was scattered about the deckchairs, being chased by concerned parents. The schoolteachers buttonholed former pupils, catching up on events in their lives and discussing every imaginable topic of interest. Brian was eager to show off his classrooms to family and friends, particularly to Chris, of course. He was teaching science and history and was particularly proud of his well-equipped science lab.

Get me some engine parts from the factory, if you can, as there are always boys keen on getting to Rolls eventually, Brian said.

Hey, give me a chance, Chris shot back, I haven’t even started with them yet and you’re willing to get me sacked for stealing already! Chris promised he would do what he could.

The people started to leave the playing field, little by little. Everyone was saying their goodbyes to each other and promising to keep in touch during the coming months, most of them not daring to bring up the subject of the ominous rumblings on the worsening political situation in the world. None of them could have predicted the horrendous events about to take place.

They had a late breakfast that Sunday morning at the Darby home. The family had nothing planned especially. It seemed a nice time to just enjoy the day at home as the sun shone brightly through the changing autumn leaves.

We’ll have breakfast in the garden, it’s almost ready, Carol said, you must get your clothes ready for the morning, must put on a good impression for your first day at work. Chris agreed, saying he would see to it straight after breakfast. They were having a full English breakfast as a treat, it being the weekend and the start of his new career the following day.

They were listening to the ten o’clock news on the radio when the announcer told them to stand by for an announcement of national importance at 11.15 a.m.. The table fell silent. It was as if everyone knew to expect something to happen. The conversation around the table now became hushed with the expectancy of the prime minister’s message uppermost in their minds. It was Carol who broke the silence as she began to noisily collect up the breakfast plates. She reminded Chris to get his suit, shirt and tie ready for the morning.

And don’t forget to clean your shoes. Chris knew it was his mother’s way of breaking the suspense that they were all feeling. John got up to help with clearing the table. He looked at Chris and was about to speak but just shrugged his shoulders and went to the kitchen. Chris got up from the table and left to go upstairs, his mind racing with all the possible scenarios of the coming radio message. It certainly couldn’t be anything but bad news; the announcer’s tone of voice had indicated as much.

—and that consequentially, this country is now at war with Germany. Neville Chamberlain’s voice seemed to reflect the despair that he must have felt.

At least we know where we stand now, John had said.

"Yes, Dad, I think I know exactly where I stand."

Chapter 3

"I just do not understand your reasoning. You do realize that what you have at the factory is a reserved occupation? Chris’s Dad was saying forcefully. That means that your job is considered vital to the future of the nation. What you do there will be of great importance, to do otherwise is a waste of all your training up to now." Chris knew that this discussion had to happen sooner or later. Better now than later, he thought. He was into his second week at the Rolls factory and from the start he saw that Britain’s entry into the war had changed everything for him. He was correct in assuming that his function at work would merely be an extension of his apprenticeship, albeit hopefully only initially. He could hardly expect otherwise. Degree or no degree, you have to start at the bottom and work up gradually. He was determined to be the master of his own destiny, inasmuch as is possible given the circumstances of wartime conditions.

His superiors at the factory had listened patiently to his reasoning. He told them of his desire to join the RAF as a mechanic, of his need to ‘do his bit’ and be at the ‘sharp end’ of the action. In other words, to satisfy his honour of how he thought his duties should play out. Chris thought this probably sounded corny to them and tried to convince them more practically that he would get a better handle on his future career with having a more hands on beginning. This wasn’t too far from the truth anyway. They reminded him that under the terms of his scholarship the firm was obligated to keep him on staff and that, in light of the current emergency, they understood his wishes. It was expected that he would continue working at the plant until his call-up papers came and they mentioned that they quite understood his desire to serve his country.

Convincing his parents was another thing altogether. Carol had brought up the question of his being in less danger working at home. Chris’s argument against that was that everyone was in the front line and that as a mechanic he would be no more vulnerable than them. Chris realized his own father’s experiences of war must have been horrific, and coming home wounded did not make it any easier for him to accept.

That evening he went over to the town hall. There was an information session being held and recruitment booths set up. He wondered how he would handle the sticky question of his reserve occupation status when he applied for the RAF. To lie about his situation was no option, the authorities would find out eventually anyway. The RAF officer standing by the booth provided him with a possible solution.

Get a signed statement from the company stating their approval on the grounds of ‘vital engineering enhancement opportunities’. This was taken to mean getting experience on the job. He got the officer to provide him with some ammunition in the form of something official-looking to impress the company. Chris thanked him. He picked up some leaflets on applications and other useful information and headed home to formulate his strategy.

As luck would have it, he got unexpected help from within the company. He had no problem obtaining the signed statement and even an interview with the firm's RAF representative. He offered to get in touch with RAF Uxbridge, who dealt with the dispersal of personnel applications into the various operational categories.

Yours is an unusual request but I think I understand where you are coming from and I am sure the RAF would welcome someone of your experience somewhere within its ranks. He promised to get back to him as quickly as possible.

With unusual swiftness, the authorities got back to him and he was told to report to RAF Uxbridge on the following Monday. Chris’s parents, by now, were conditioned to their son’s wishes and went about offering advice on how to handle military life and generally fussing over him. He was therefore grateful when a knock on the door presented Harry who offered him a lift into Hucknall with a request for help at the base. It being a Saturday and his job at RR now being put on hold indefinitely, he jumped at the excuse being offered. He was surprised to find Brian in the car who told him he was there to help also. So, what’s all the mystery about? Chris asked.

No idea, his friend replied. Harry was just as non-committal.

The arrival at the guardroom presented them with much more formality than they were used to experiencing. Heightened security delayed their progress. Despite being known to most of the guardhouse staff, Chris and the others would have not expected anything less considering the war-footing that the country was now under. After receiving temporary passes they drove on to Harry’s workshop. By this time Chris was beginning to catch on, especially when CJ staggered out of the workshop and splattered himself all over the front of the car. Christ, he must be dead drunk! Chris laughed loudly.

Pissed as a newt, Harry offered.

I suspect flying is out of the question? commented Brian.

Yes, but drinking isn’t, yelled Chris, I figured you chaps were up to something. Let’s get at it eh!

With the work benches set up as a bar and beer crates piled high atop, they attacked the contents with enthusiasm. Their chatter centred on their individual futures. CJ was called up into the RAF for air traffic training. Chris too. Well, he wasn’t sure yet. Brian, having failed his medical for the forces, was about to sign up for the Observer Corps, part time at least, and Harry, nearing retirement, would continue as before in the workshops. Fairly soon the workshop developed into the most popular destination on the entire base and conversation became a lot less serious than before. It was as if they all realized that life would never be the same from now on. That prediction would be the only sure thing for all of them for a long time to come.

You will be applying for a commission, won’t you, sir? the airman at the induction centre asked. Chris had taken the train from Derby to Uxbridge, on the outskirts of London, and took troop transport from the train station to the air force base. The Air Ministry ran this shuttle bus service going back and forth all day from train station to base, carrying eager young men to the reception areas. On arrival, these potential recruits were moved from one location to another as their applications were processed. Signs were stuck up around the myriad of doorways explaining their significance, and confused applicants bustled and bumped into each other apologizing with each encounter in their attempts to find their assigned location.

Not unless they are commissioning mechanics, Chris said, having declared his life’s history to date. The aircraftsman had assumed he was an officer candidate, being a university graduate.

Well, right now they are taking trade training recruits at RAF Halton in Buckinghamshire, so that is likely where you would be sent, the clerk told him, also, that’s where you would be inducted and kitted out.

The whole process took him the entire day with the expectation that within a day or two he would get his marching orders. He had had several interviews with the various departments and he found himself repeating things over and over again. Some even tried persuading him in his choice of occupations, but Chris’s mind was made up on his goals. Most of the men were applying for aircrew duties, which was a purely voluntary position so little coercion was applied. Ground crew applicants had to provide some proof of technical aptitude or trade training.

He derived much amusement during his medical examination from questions thrown at him like ‘what colour eyes do you have?’

I don’t know, what colour would you like? asked Chris.

The examiner leaned forward, peering into his face

How about hazel?

OK, said Chris.

How much do you weigh?

I’m not too sure, let’s weigh me.

Ah yes, we don’t happen to have a set of scales at the moment. How does ten stone sound?

Perfect, Chris said.

The shuttle bus got to the station just in time for the return train home. With the remains of fifteen shillings in his pocket, less the cost of a lunch, and a free rail voucher that had been provided for his visit, he felt quite contented.

Four days later Chris’s call-up papers arrived in the post along with a travel warrant and yet another rail voucher. The following day, after a tearful goodbye to Carol, his father took him to the railway station for the train to RAF Halton.

.

Chapter 4

There must have been close to a hundred newly inducted young men gathered together in a large hangar close to the grass runway. On arrival, they had all been shuffled through a series of long narrow billets. The introduction process took them through all the initial stages.

Having been pre-approved at Uxbridge meant that certain formalities had already been achieved. Here they had their first air force haircuts, where three frantically operating barbers snipped and sheared their way through the scores of noisy men lining up like sheep to be sheared. Then a brief stop to pick up their temporary 1250s, or identity cards, on to a photographer, then to a medical orderly. The sheaf of papers they had all been issued with were dutifully signed or stamped by the various faceless clerks or officials of one kind or another.

The babble of voices of the airmen were all talking at once, some repeating over and over the service number they had been issued with and attempting to memorize it. Others were making new friends, and all were combined to make rational thinking all but impossible. Passing from one billet to the next, they entered a room with a very long, seemingly endless series of tables on which uniform apparels of all descriptions were being issued. They were expected to initial a long sheet of items as they received them, all the time being warned that any missing items would not be re-issued later except under payroll deduction.

Store clerks moved from one man to the next, measuring shoulder widths, inside trouser length, and hat sizes, all the time shouting instructions to the issuing person who pulled the items from shelves on to the table. Two pairs of trousers, two jackets, two shirts, four pairs of socks, four pairs of ‘drawers cellular’ or underpants, two vests, two black ties, two shirt collars, two forage caps with hat badges, and one ‘housewife’ containing numerous items including collar studs, needle and thread, and other useful items. All these essentials and others topped up with two pairs of boots to be stuffed into one kit-bag.

They eventually ended up, to the relief of most, in the open air where they were counted off into groups of twenty by an escorting aircraftsman and led to billets which were to be their ‘home from home’ for the next three or four months. Chris, along with his new mates, had been herded into their hut with instructions to report to the same hanger they had started out in in an hours’ time. After selecting their beds, they were told to change into uniforms and stow their gear. You’ll soon find out how to make your beds and arrange kit later in the day, you lucky buggers! the AC told them.

And so that is how the newly-minted AC2 (aircraftsman second-class), Christopher Darby, began his RAF career in the lowest rank of the Royal Air Force.

The wing commander, who was the OC (Officer Commanding) of training, accompanied by his second in command and the station warrant officer (arguably the most important person on an air force station), stood on a raised dais at the back of the hangar. After welcoming the new recruits arrayed before him, he explained the syllabus the training would take over the next four months. He introduced the NCOs into whose tender care they would be thrust initially during the ‘square bashing’ phase. He further explained that on graduating ITS (initial training squadron), the men would be split up into their separate trade departments for the intensive courses to follow. There was much sneezing and coughing to accompany this introduction. The smell of floating particles from scores of brand new uniforms seemed to affect the respiratory systems of many. Hastily picking up on the growing restlessness of the assembled men, the wing-co dismissed them to make their way to the mess hall for dinner.

It was late afternoon and most of the men had been in camp over five hours without so much as a cup of tea and the orderly departure from the hangar took on the looks of a stampede as they attempted to locate the mess hall. Bloody hell, the airman next to Chris yelled as he tried to keep up with the flow of hungry bodies, I could eat a horse. Chris yelled back that that was likely exactly what they would be feeding them! It turned out that this airman, whose name was Bob, had the bed next to Chris. They arrived breathless at the growing line-up of starving men outside the mess. A corporal cook stood at the entrance to the hall, issuing everyone their utensils and large tea mug.

"Don’t lose these. They are the only issue you’ll ever get. When you’ve finished eating, wash them in the water bath provided. Do not drop them in the scalding water!" The steam rising from the bath needed little further explanation.

The next three weeks were dedicated almost entirely to drill, barrack room housekeeping, and brief lectures on RAF history and discipline. The training hours were long and for some almost impossible to maintain. Inevitably some fell by the wayside and were discharged as not fit for duties. Bob was one who was struggling to keep up with the rigors of the routine and, but for Chris’s encouragement, would have been discharged early on. There were times of more pleasant distraction from the more arduous duties such as time on the firing ranges or ‘butts’. Reasonable proficiency on the twenty-five and two-hundred-and-fifty-yard range was expected but was rarely enforced. These men would be expected to maintain the fighting machines and so weapon safety was considered more important than accuracy as guard duty often required being in possession of a rifle.

Having a sense of humour was a definite advantage in barrack room life and every billet seemed to have at least one comedian. Often this would turn out to be an Irishman who, with their lyrical tongue and simple humour, could turn catastrophe into hilarity. Hut number E2, Chris’s billet, had such a person. Paddy O’Neil was his name. Once when the floor bumper, a weighted floor polisher with a long handle, broke down he had the entire room shuffle up and down the floor with squares of old blanket beneath their feet. This proved so effective that it was decided that no one was allowed to walk to their bed space without shuffling on blanket squares. This had the advantage of keeping the polished floor gleaming, thus requiring fewer applications of the bumper. It takes an Irishman to show a bunch of clod-hopping Englishmen how to do the soft-shoe’ shuffle, O’Neil remarked.

Those first three weeks in ITS weeded out several recruits but the majority managed the monotonous routine of marching, cleaning of rooms, spit and polishing of boots and the daily inspections. The day of their pass-out parade from ITS came a little after three weeks and was celebrated by the granting of a twelve hour pass allowing them the privilege of leaving camp for the first time. Chris, Bob and Paddy O’Neil, now firm friends, took a bus after the parade and decided on the Red Lion pub in nearby Wendover as their first, and likely their only, visit that evening.

It seems to me, Darby, that you are somewhat over-qualified for this course, the officer in charge of training remarked the following morning.

I’ll try to explain it, sir, Chris replied and proceeded to go over his rationale.

"It still seems to me that it should be you providing the training and not the air force but I think I get your drift. Just don’t be too hard on your instructors or too cocky either, or I shall get to hear about it from them!"

I assure you, sir, my intention is to learn and not to be a critic, Chris said.

You’re apt to be a little brighter than the rest of the chaps, so I think I shall make you senior man. You’ll be responsible for around thirty plus men who will be looking to you for leadership. Don’t let me down. The officer then went on to explain the engine fitter’s course curriculum.

The training hangar was adjacent to the flight line. It was equipped with a classroom and a large area for the numerous training devices, and all of them were hands on aero engines and systems. The course progressed from classwork on the various theories and general knowledge to more advanced and specific work on some of the current aircraft systems. Classwork was often broken off for practical demonstrations by the instructor, followed by actual periods of class participation. Chris found the methods employed in teaching the rudiments of the trade to be excellent, though occasionally the instructor would ask for confirmation of certain facts from Chris who would discretely provide the information if he knew it. Many of the engines were indeed supplied by Rolls Royce, for training purposes, to the air force and Chris could mentally take them apart and re-assemble them blindfolded.

The end of training was approaching and the men were looking forward to finding out their future postings and if they would get their preferred choice. Everyone in Chris’s class had passed their exams and were informed that they were now aircraftsmen first class, or AC1. They had just returned from the mess hall after lunch and were told to assemble on the flight line for some practical training on aircraft marshalling.

Two mechanics were doing an engine run up on a visiting Spitfire, the aircraft they would use for the training. It had been chocked on both wheels and with one mechanic draped over the tail plane to keep the nose up, the other in the cockpit was running the engine.

He’s taking the revs up a little high for a run up, Chris said. He should have two airmen on the tail plane!

He had to shout above the noise and Bob yelled back excitedly, Look, the starboard wheel is climbing the chock!

Why doesn’t he chop the engine? said another.

I think I know why, yelled Chris, and he started to run toward the aircraft. With an almighty lurch, the airplane cleared the chock and started to swing toward the left, shoving aside the remaining chock. The airman on the tail was flung backwards as the tail plane passed over him, the tail wheel narrowly missing his head as it careened toward the open airfield.

Chris ran at top speed toward where he hoped to head off the runaway Spit. He lunged at the starboard wing tip, yanking on the leading edge to bring it out of its circling motion. Momentarily slowing the machine down, he ran toward the fuselage. Throwing himself onto the wing, he clawed his way up and grabbed for the open cockpit sill. Dragging himself upright and leaning into the propeller slipstream, he pulled himself over the slumped figure of the mechanic and pulled back on the throttle lever on the left side. He located the mag switches and shut them off. As the aircraft slowly came to a stop he tried to revive the ‘driver’ who was slowly coming out of his feint. With willing hands to help, he was lifted out from the cockpit and gently laid to recover on the grass. Someone had called for an ambulance and Chris and his fellow airmen patiently waited for it to arrive.

Quick thinking lad! a sergeant, somewhat breathless after sprinting from the hanger, remarked, slapping Chris on the back. I’d best have your name, lad. I shall have to make out a report about this.

I shouldn’t make a fuss about it, Sarge, Chris said sympathetically.

I have no choice, lad, the sergeant said, waving an arm toward the hangar. It was in full view of the squadron offices, witnesses galore.

After the dust had settled and he was made to present his own report he forgot all about it and it was only years later that he discovered that it had cropped up in his service record. The first of many entries to come in the future.

The class never did get their marshalling lesson and the station postings were published and put into SROs, or station routine orders, the following day. Chris, Bob and Paddy O’Neil all got their first choice which was 19 Squadron, resident at RAF Duxford in Cambridgeshire. They were ordered to report during the first week in January after enjoying a two week leave over Christmas. The new year 1940 would see the end of what was to be called ‘the phony war', and the Battle of Britain was yet to begin.

Chapter 5

So, what happened next? Chris’s father asked, warming up to the news of the aircraft incident. Chris had barely been in the house long enough to take his shoes off before his parents started shooting questions at him.

Well, someone called the sick bay and in minutes the blood wagon arrived to take the fellow away. He apparently fainted and I doubt he’ll be doing any more run ups till they find the cause, Chris said consolingly. The chap on the tail, though shaken up, was fine but he had some explaining to do later. I had to make a report and of course there were no end of witnesses all with their own take on the thing, Chris continued at the urging of his father, rather enjoying the moment. So, it had caused quite a stir in HQ and I was told to report in person to the station commander, who had by this time assembled quite a number of staff around him. He was most complimentary and said he was putting me up for a commendation on my prompt action. I suppose it’ll mean I’ll get an ‘attaboy’ on my record!

Oh no, said Carol "they’ll give you a medal, surely? I mean it was a terribly brave thing you did and probably saved that poor boy’s life as well." Rather ungraciously both Chris and John laughed at this.

Sorry, Mum, nice thought but incidents happen all the time, this one just a little more dramatic than most. The one piece of good news that Chris had was that as senior airman and highest achiever on the course, he was promoted to LAC, or leading aircraftsman. They all had a good laugh when he told them he would get an additional one shilling and sixpence a week for the privilege.

Chris’s leave passed agreeably enough, meeting up with Brian and Harry in the local pubs and catching up on the news from the home front. CJ was apparently overseas, rumour had it in North Africa though no one was certain. Chris and Brian amused themselves testing each other on aircraft recognition both friend and foe. Brian, as an observer, had to attain high proficiency. He had several official pictorial books and pamphlets for aids. The flip cards with aircraft depicted in silhouette form proved the most interesting, Brian said that these formed a major part of their activity as early enemy aircraft detection could and would save lives.

We have our main observer outpost just across the river from the Rolls factory, Brian told him. I have to be on duty there at least four times a week, mostly at night, of course, because of school work. It’s causing quite a problem. Because of aerial activity at the factory, we’re having a hard time picking out the good guys from the bad, not that I’ve seen any enemy yet.

It’s no secret, Chris interrupted, that they are coming out with a radio system to identify our aircraft as friendly, though the details are still secret and I know no more than that.

Yes, I’ve heard something to that effect, Brian said. Of course, we do have recognition lights on the aircraft that flash the code of the day, but they are useless in cloudy weather and daytime. Tell you what though, Brian continued, why don’t you and Harry come on over to the site and see for yourself?

So, it was that two days later, Christmas Eve, around four in the afternoon and already getting dark, that the three of them arrived at the observer site. Not sure I should be here, not official like, Harry said, looking at Brian enquiringly. Brian replied that he had cleared it with the authorities who apparently knew Harry anyway. It wasn’t a duty day for Brian so he could devote all his time to his friends. He introduced them to the two observers who were manning the site.

Should be a quite night as it’s a Sunday and the factory is closed till tomorrow, remarked one of them. Harry thought that there would be little flying activity from Hucknall as most of the squadron lads would be away for Christmas.

They’ve got the new Hawker Hurricane on 504 Squadron now, Harry said. They have a few of the Gauntlets left but they are just being used for training now.

Come on down into the pit, I’ll show you the plotting room, said Brian. The pit was the dug-out, roofed over and covered in sandbags as was the open observation area. Some rudimentary instruments were in the open area, designed for estimating heights of aircraft during daylight hours. A telephone was close by, near the doorway to the plotting room, directly linking it to the airfield at Hucknall. From there other command posts, including Fighter Command HQ, could be contacted. We’re still in the early stages of training, said Brian, leaning over the plot table, but the idea is to relay aircraft movements, height and direction to Hucknall, and hopefully identify friend from foe! Although the main aerial early warning defence system was the Home Chain radar detection, little was known about it at this time and it was very much on the secret list.

So, we’re reckoned to be the choice of last resort for information to fighter command, Brian said.

Maybe, but a vital service nonetheless, Chris replied.

It’s all way over my head, I’m afraid, Harry chimed in, in a rare attempt at humour. Their laughter was cut short by an increasingly loud noise coming from above.

I spoke too soon, the observer yelled down from the doorway. They all rushed up top to check out the commotion in the air.

It’s fairly low, whatever it is, maybe a thousand feet give or take, Brian said and his team agreed with him.

Maybe it would be a good idea to tell Hucknall, one of the observers said and grabbed for the telephone. They all looked upward, straining their necks searching the sky and only the sound of their breathing broke the silence of the cool evening. The cloudless night allowed them to search for a sign of a returning aircraft.

Hucknall says that no aircraft from their airfield are airborne yet, but that could change soon, and to keep alert, the observer said. Very few enemy aircraft had been positively identified thus far since the declaration of war some three months earlier. The most sightings had been over the English Channel and not too many at that. To many people any sound was bad news and false sightings had been routinely reported.

Listen, I can hear it returning, Chris said, it sounds a little higher this time. There it is, I can see it, it’s a twin engine, twin boom. Oh Christ, it’s a Dornier, a Dornier 17! Chris’s voice was drowned out by the speeding aircraft. Get on the phone, it’s a positive ident, Chris yelled out. Brian was already yelling down into the receiver, cupping his other ear with his hand.

Although blacked out, the Rolls Royce plant seemed terribly vulnerable in the clear moonlight and if the Do 17 had it on its itinerary for attention, there seemed little to stop it. As if in answer to the question, the sound of a light anti-aircraft gun started up, then a second one joined in.

That’ll be the new Bofors guns they set up recently on the base, Harry said excitedly.

How in the hell can they see the bugger? There are no searchlights, Chris said.

That’s what we said, Harry continued, bit like the chicken and the egg, we can’t have both just yet so which comes first, lights or guns? I reckon they are just putting on a show. Still, it’s better than nothing ain't it!

Suddenly all eyes moved toward the sound of what would be the third pass of the Do 17. This time the aircraft appeared a little further to the east on an approach which put it in line with the aero plant.

Oh Christ, he’s lining up for a bombing run, yelled Chris. But wait, he’s being chased. There’s an aircraft coming up behind him!

Must be one of those new Hurricanes from Hucknall, said Harry. Everyone at the observer post watched