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Probably the most dangerous time for invasion faced by Britain was in the early months of 1940. Hitler now controlled Europe and though the British expeditionary force had managed a miraculous escape from Dunkirk an ill prepared England now faced the German might alone. The German code name for the invasion was Operation Sea Lion but to achieve success the high command new the operation would require air supremacy over the English Channel. Goering promised Hitler that the Luftwaffe would quickly destroy the RAF, or break British morale with devastating air raids and on the 10th of July 1940 the Luftwaffe launched its first attack. The air superiority of the Luftwaffe was potentially overwhelming as the RAF was outnumbered by more than 4 to 1. But the British fighter pilots in their Hurricanes and Spitfires surprised the Germans with the ferocity of their attacks costing the Luftwaffe 1,733 aircraft from July to October for an RAF loss of 915. Giving rise to the famous Churchill quote

‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’

The Battle of Briton was won. But though Hitler cancelled the invasion he continued to bomb London and other cities in the following Blitz.

The human tragedy behind the battle will never be forgotten with many young men losing their lives and receiving terrible burns. In my book, Private Lives, I have placed another of Charlie Parkers lives in this period, where as James Pewsey, a young Oxford undergraduate, he finds himself called up and fighting for his country as a RAF fighter pilot in the Battle of Britain. In the following excerpt he sees his childhood friend Gerald die in circumstances that were not uncommon at the time.



Gerald was pulling off his helmet when I caught up with him. ‘What happened to Ginger?’ I asked.

‘Two 109s jumped him out of the sun,’ he shook his head. ‘Poor chap didn’t have a chance. Blew up bang in front of me.’ He slapped his pockets, ‘don’t have a cigarette do you, old boy? Seem to have left mine in my room.’

I fished out a packet of Players and tossed them to him, helping myself to a spam sandwich and a mug of tea being handed round by a thoughtful WAFF. ‘Which reminds me, before we were so rudely interrupted by the bloody Hun I was about to ask you round for dinner to celebrate my coming fatherhood. Are you doing anything tonight? Mind you it’ll only be pot luck I’m afraid, but I can guarantee some decent burgundy.’

‘Delighted, old boy, absolutely delighted. It just so happens I have a bar of Swiss chocolate that fell off a lorry somewhere, didn’t inquire where of course, but I dare say the Mum-to-be might enjoy it.’

‘I’m sure she’ll hug you to death. Let’s drive round together this evening once we’ve finished here.’ The telephone started to ring. ‘Oh Bloody Hell, here we go again,’ I said bitterly and sprinted towards Sergeant Gurney who was standing waving beside a standby Spitfire fresh from the hanger.

This time we made it to 20,000 feet before we saw them, another vast armada of black crosses filling the sky. For a moment I had a wild fantasy of living in a nightmare where every time you knocked down one attacker ten more stepped forward to take his place. Then we were into them and I forgot everything but the job in hand. I winged a Heinkel and looking round for a new target saw another Spitfire jinx hard to the left in an attempt to lose a 109 on his tail only to fly straight into a tail plane of a Heinkel, slicing through its like butter, before seconds later his own starboard wing snapped off like a broken twig and both aircraft fell spiralling to earth. Then I was into another group of raiders, climbing up from under one of them, raking the yellow belly with a quick burst. Out of the corner of my eye I saw an ME 109 diving on Gerald’s tail.

‘Watch out behind, Gerald, ME on your tail,’ I yelled in warning over the R/T. But even as I spoke the Messerschmidt opened fire and I could see the canon shells exploding along the Spitfire’s fuselage.

‘Christ, I’m hit!’ Gerald’s voice sounded clearly in my ears.

I looked on in horror as a tongue of flame burst from the engine cowling. ‘Get out, Gerald, get out now,’ I shouted urgently in warning.

‘Oh my God, the bloody canopy’s stuck,’ his voice cried desperately. ‘I can’t open the bloody canopy.’

The flames had engulfed the entire engine now and were licking back in the slipstream towards the cockpit. I could see him struggling frantically with the handles, then the entire engine cowling exploded and the cockpit disappeared in a mass of flame. ‘ Dear God, help me, help me someone, help me please.’ A terrible screaming filled my ears rising to a high keening shriek of an animal in terrible agony.

‘Oh Sweet Christ I’m coming, Gerald, I’m coming,’ I heard myself sobbing as I rammed the throttle open and dived on the flaming furnace, lining it up in my gun sights and thumbing the firing button, loosing a deadly stream of tracer from the eight Browning machine guns. The screaming stopped abruptly and seconds later what was left of the Spitfire exploded in a great ball of black and yellow flames. But I dived on, blinded by tears, oblivious and uncaring of the surrounding battle, the dreadful screams echoing in my ears, my thumb frozen on the firing button long after the magazines rattled empty.

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