As the crowd began to look skyward the old man began to rise from his wooden folding chair assisted by two teens that were seated to his right and left. They gently lifted him under each arm as he stuggled to stand. Dressed in a dark suit with several ribbons and medals attached to his breast the gentleman squinted as he peered into the late afternoon sun. The crowd bustled with anticipation on the tarmac as most also stood gazing toward the west. Within a few minutes the first sounds could be heard. The whine of the engine signaled the approach of a jet aircraft and almost as soon as it could be heard an RAF Harrier was over the field. Following close behind were three American F16 Falcons, the dark silloutte of a dragon painted on the tails of each. The old man smiled as the modern airplanes flew over, clearly impressed with their amazing performance and speed. But this was not what he came for, there was more to his presence on the tarmac that day. There were several other old chaps in the crowd and some put their hands together in applause as the planes went across while others simply tried to follow them as they banked right and climbed away into the high clouds above. A few more minutes passed and then another, much different sound could be heard approaching. The drone of piston engined aircraft.
The old man with the two youngsters at his side and now providing a bit more support continued to look nervously toward the sounds, his hands over his brow trying to block the glare of the bright afternoon sunshine. "There they are" cried someone in the crowd and everyone present seemed to become more alert, looking toward the direction of the distinctive sounds. And then there they were. Painted in brown and green camoflauge the vintage planes appeared over the trees near the end of the field. There were six in all, three Spitfires IX, two Hawker Hurricanes and a lone Lancaster heavy bomber. The Hurricanes led the way followed by the lumbering Lancaster and then the Spits. The old man stood more erect and he signaled for the flanking teens to release his arms. The formation slowly made their way over the field as a band began to play tunes unfamiliar to most in the crowd. The planes were wonderfully restored to their original condition and the unmistakable sounds of their powerplants was impressive as they came in low over the heads of everyone and then climbed slightly and turned right as the jets had done moments before. The old man bent down to hear what one of the teens was trying to say to him. "Was that your Spitfire grandfather" the young boy asked. "No my boy" was his reply and then added "But it was just like the one I flew during the war" As the man looked back toward the aircraft they turned and began another pass from the opposite direction. As they did the sun began dancing on their wings sending shards of light toward the ground. At that moment the old man, tears streaming down both cheeks passed from the present as his thoughts drifted toward another day, another time.
" Bandits, 3 miles and above" came the call over the crackling R/T, "Tally Ho". Messerschmitt 109's screamed through the 65 squadron formation, darts of flame spitting from their nose and wings as they passed. "Red One Red One you've got one on your tail" "Break, break" Smoke poured from the stricken spitfire as the German continued to throw rounds into it. The British plane exploded, portions falling from the sky in several directions. A portion of wing slipped by his windscreen as the boyishly young RAF pilot struggled with his controls to avoid it. He pulled hard on the stick and gained altitude swiftly. To his left another Spitfire began a death roll as it broke up, the pilot leaping from the smoke filled cockpit. Yanking the buffeting plane left and right as tracers penned him into an ever tightening course the lad, scared but determined to survive rolled his aircraft onto it's back then pulled it down toward the ground below. The action released him from the pursuing German allowing him to regain some sense of his situation. As he leveled off just a few hundred feet from the deck a 109, peppered with bullet holes passed by him from above and dove straight in exploding upon impact. Smoke and flame leapt high into the air and he flew directly through it losing all ability to see for an instant. Emerging from the blast he began climbing again, turning his head in every direction to assess the battle raging above him. The glare of the bright sunshine impaired his view as he struggled to get back into the fight. Seconds later he found a 109 just ahead of him, the sun glistening off it's shiny metal body. Skillfully the pilot grabbed a position behind the stalking German and opened fire. The Messerschmitt tumbled as the starboard wing was cut almost in two and collapsed under the strain. He didn't know if the pilot escaped, there was no time to be concerned with such things. That was for later. As he began to seek another target two Spitfires passed very closely from either side headed in the opposite direction. He glanced at the rearview mirror mounted on the frame atop the windscreen. One of the Spitfires was diving toward an enemy plane, the other flew straight into a passing 109, the two mangled birds falling toward the ground as one.
The Flak guns from the town below were hard at workl. Tracers from the heavy guns streaked toward the heavens, large puffs of black smoke marking their reach. Behind the wall of German escorts came the bombers. Scores of HE111's and DO17's made their way toward the dock area's and unleashed their loads upon the industrial center below them. As the last of them released their load, in perfect formation they began turning towards France and their bases. Hurricanes continued their assault as best they could given their small number. A few of the behemoths caught fire and fell from the formation making them easier prey for the Hurri's. Chutes dotted the sky as crewmen from the destroyed aircraft glided slowly down having a unique though perilous view of the proceedings. Explosions dotted the target area along the docks as the bombs found their mark. Cranes toppled from their mountings and several warehouses burst into flames as tiny figures could be seen fleeing the hell around them. The Spitfires continued to press the now retreating German escorts until fuel and ammunition were expended. Flames from the port could still be seen well after the remaining Spitfires left the area and steered a course toward their field at Hornchurch. Passing through a heavy cloud base the reduced formation of six Spitfires faded from view......
The old man, still at attention, his weakening knees slightly bent as he fought to stay prone. His sight blurred from tear filled eyes while he struggled to follow the formation now disappearing into the distant clouds. That evening as he laid down to sleep his medals and ribbons clenched tightly in his fist, the old man of seventy four years thinking of the events a lifetime ago passed peacefully into history to rejoin his fallen mates of 65 squadron for all eternity.
This story was in part inspired by a scene described by our own Sir Bader during a visit to a local airshow sometime ago.
