The Pilot's Story: A beautiful, emotional wartime novella from BESTSELLER Fenella J Miller for 2024

By Fenella J Miller

If you enjoyed the Pilot's Girl series, don't miss The Pilot's Story of bravery and courage.

Missing, presumed dead…

For Squadron Leader Alex Everton dogfights in his Spitfire have become his way of life. He knows every time he goes up in the air, he might not make it home again, but he’ll keep fighting anyway.

The boys in blue seem to be winning the Battle of Britain, but during a raid over Dieppe the Luftwaffe gain the upper hand and Alex’s spitfire is shot down. Alex expects to either drown in the water beneath him or be incarcerated in a German prisoner of war camp. Instead, he becomes an evader, dodging the enemy as he tries to get back home to Blighty.

If his luck holds, Alex will soon be reunited with his beloved wife Barbara, but it’s a long way from Dieppe to Gibraltar then home and his journey is fraught with danger, disaster and difficulty.

Please note: This was originally published as A Long Way Back

Praise for Fenella J. Miller:

'Engaging characters and setting which whisks you back to the home front of wartime Britain. A great start to what promises to be a fabulous series.' Jean Fullerton

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Apr 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781835617557

Fenella J Miller

Fenella J. Miller is the bestselling writer of over eighteen historical sagas. She also has a passion for Regency romantic adventures and has published over fifty to great acclaim. Her father was a Yorkshireman and her mother the daughter of a Rajah. She lives in a small village in Essex with her British Shorthair cat.

Book preview

1

RAF ANDREAS, ISLE OF MAN

Squadron Leader Alex Everton and his eleven Spitfires had scarcely settled into their new home when he was summoned to speak to the CO.

‘Sorry, old boy, almighty cock-up. You boys are supposed to be elsewhere. Stanmore, Northolt, to be exact.’

‘Bloody hell! We’ve only just arrived. When do we have to leave?’

‘ASAP. There’s a bit of a flap going on and they need you for that. Your kites are being prepared and your ground crew are already packing up and will be flying after you as soon as you’ve left.’

‘Let me get this right, sir, you want us to go now – this very minute?’

‘You’ve got an hour to get your kit packed so you and your chaps had better get a move on.’

Alex left at the double. It took him half an hour to find everyone and none of them were particularly happy to be going back so unexpectedly.

‘For Christ’s sake, Alex, we thought we were stationed here for six months,’ Pete Thompson said.

‘On the bright side, Pete, we’ll be back in Blighty and maybe get to see our families occasionally. There’s no time to write letters now – we’ll have to do that once we’re in Stanmore.’

Freddie Humphrey, his second in command, as always took it in his stride. He was a cheerful chap. Nothing got him down, and he would smooth things over with the other boys, thus leaving Alex to run around like a blue-arsed fly getting the paperwork sorted.

His wife, Babs, would be delighted he was back. Their parting had been hard for both of them. He’d thought he wouldn’t see his baby son or his wife for months and had been resigned to it. Maybe this almighty balls-up wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Always a silver lining. The orderly taking care of him must have known the revised orders before he did, as his kitbag was packed and waiting for him when he got back to his quarters.

There was a lorry ready to take them across the airfield to their Spits. These were grouped on the far side of the strip. He was the last to arrive.

‘Cutting it a bit fine, Alex, old bean,’ someone said from the rear of the vehicle.

‘I’m here now, so we can go. The Met report’s good for once. Stay in formation, minimum of chat on the radio, keep your eyes peeled for Jerries. You never know if the bastards are lurking about up there, hoping for a kill.’

The lorry lurched off, gears screaming, and he was almost flung out of the back of the vehicle, much to the amusement of his squadron. He’d only been promoted just before they left and was still getting used to being in command.

Fortunately, he knew half the blokes and this made it easier. They would have told the others that he was an excellent flyer and had clocked up more hours than most. He wasn’t a volunteer but a career man and had been operational for over a year when war broke out.

He was strapped into his Mae West, then – clutching the dinghy and parachute – he clambered into his cockpit with the help of a boost in the rear end by the mechanics.

His radio was switched on, the camera gun, carburettor, pitot head, gyro-intake heaters and de-icing equipment were working as they should. Although he didn’t expect his squadron to be involved in any dogfights, the mirror had to be adjusted. A quick look at the sight and then he set the safety catch to ‘off’ on the guns. Better to be prepared than caught napping.

A Spitfire’s range with a full tank was more than enough for them to cover the three hundred or so miles to Northolt. The bowsers were already trundling away, having filled up each kite.

He checked all the bods were installed and then taxied to the dispersal point. He raised and lowered his arm and nodded furiously to show it was time to open throttles. As one he led his flight of aircraft forward, rapidly gaining speed as the marker boards raced past and dust and grass swirled in the air behind them.

As leader he was the point of the Vic – the V-shaped formation that his squadron had adopted – the kites in lines of four behind him. With his radiator flaps wide open he climbed, followed by the rest. At 13,000 feet he leant down and switched on the oxygen.

They would cruise at just over 300 miles an hour once they were 22,000 feet above sea level. Piece of cake – unless they were unlucky enough to encounter snappers. This was unlikely whilst flying over the Irish Sea but one never knew once they were flying over England.

They kept radio silence. No need to announce their presence to any Huns that might be listening. They had strict instructions not to engage the enemy unless attacked.

They were expected at the base and once down were directed to form up behind three other squadrons. The bowsers raced across and began to refuel. Two erks helped him out.

‘You’re wanted in ops immediately, sir – there’s transport waiting.’

Alex didn’t need to tell his chaps to grab a wad and a cuppa as they would recognise the significance of the bowsers. A NAAFI truck was parked on the perimeter and the lucky blighters were heading towards it. He doubted he would get time for anything to eat.

Despite the urgency of the summons he made a quick detour to the bog. There was nothing worse than being trapped in a tiny cockpit with a full bladder. A flyer only made that mistake once.

On his entrance the wing co beamed. ‘Bloody good show, Everton, didn’t expect you for another half an hour. Take a pew and I’ll get started on the gen.’

The intelligence room was thick with smoke and unpleasantly hot, but it wasn’t overcrowded. It was unusual for only the top brass and squadron leaders to be at a meeting like this. Why weren’t the rest of the chaps included? They couldn’t function efficiently as a unit if they didn’t bloody well know where they were going or what they were supposed to be doing when they got there.

There were a few faces that he recognised and he nodded to them as he took his place. They were to be the air support for a raid on Dieppe. God knows why Churchill had chosen this port but he would follow orders and do his duty as expected of him.

There were to be several thousand Canadian troops, tanks and other artillery in this attack and as far as he could see the raid would only succeed if the Germans weren’t alerted. Bomber Command was also involved.

‘Righto, gentlemen, you have your orders. You will convey them to your squadrons verbally. Good luck and safe return. You leave in half an hour.’

Those leaning against the wall straightened and shot off – more likely to grab something to eat than to give the gen to their flyers. He didn’t stop to talk but shouldered his way through and grabbed a bicycle that was leaning drunkenly against the wall.

He pedalled furiously and arrived in a skid of dust and gravel bedside the NAAFI van. He looked around and gestured that his squadron head in his direction for a briefing. Whilst he devoured two bacon sandwiches, he explained their sortie.

Satisfied everyone knew what was happening, where they would be positioned, and what their role would be when they arrived, he swallowed the last of his tea and gave his mug to someone to return to the truck for him. For this op he was Red Leader and Tommy and John were his two and three. Freddie was Blue Leader and Buffy was Yellow. Everyone had a number and a colour and would use these in all communications over the radio.

The armourers finished checking the guns and the ammunition, every Spit was fuelled, and they were ready to go. Cigarettes were stubbed out, gloves pulled on, and ground crew were poised to do their bit to get them in the air.

Alex scrambled up the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit. He checked his harness was secure then began to run through the routine checklists. He applied the brakes first, then checked that the ignition switch was off and that the undercarriage selector was in the down position and the indicator was showing idle. He waited for the green light.

Chocks away and he taxied forward followed by his squadron. Take-off was smooth and soon they were climbing to the designated height. Visibility was good and the sky cloudless. Looked pretty but better for everyone when there were clouds you could dive into if required.

His squadron was to fly in reserve – protect the bombers and troop ships that were somewhere ahead of him if necessary. This meant the horizon was empty as the others had taken off two minutes before him and his boys. Beneath him was the Channel. From this height it seemed smooth and inviting but looks could be deceptive. The coastline of France was closer than that of England now.

They’d barely reached cruising height and speed when the radio crackled into life. ‘Red Leader, bandits include many snappers. I say again, many snappers – keep a good lookout. Over.’

Snappers was the code name for Messerschmitt 109s. He acknowledged the information and kept his eyes peeled. Then he saw them approaching. They looked like a small swarm of bees from that distance.

There was a well-known saying in the RAF that it wasn’t the Jerry that you saw that got you, but the one that you didn’t. How true that was.

‘Tally-ho, lads, stay in your pairs. Good luck and good hunting.’ There was no time to say more as the first of the 109s screamed towards him.