homepage Forums Air Combat & Civil Aviation Battle of Britain + Battle of Britain II Here's what happened (Continued)

Folks,

OK, here it is, "Ghost Squadron" in several delightful chapters. You'll pardon me if I don't read along with you, I have a few nasty fang bites to attend to and as I was struggling in the dark to save myself from those very large bats, I hit my thumb with the damn mallet.

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 1
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/10/02
By: Old Dux

There can be very few locations which have retained their character over a period spanning some 60 years or so. I need not have worried about any such change however, as the shallow vale, with village and airfield, came into view.

It had been a long though pleasant drive through Dorset and Wiltshire, my mind beset by crowding memories which grew in intensity as the hours passed. Why had I never returned before now? After a lifetime of purposely avoiding the place yet knowing that a pilgrimage would have to be made, I now found myself confronting that which I had always known would have to be faced one day. Now, that location which had been the scene of the most intense period of my life lay before me, and the mind which had been permanently scarred now almost overcome by a tide of thrusting memories, voices and spectral faces clamouring as never before.

With an eerie feeling of unreality I pulled into the gravel forcourt of the old Plough Inn, unloaded my suitcases and made my way into the silent bar. Once again I felt relief that the worst excesses of modernisation had passed by this place and the quiet within gave me the opportunity to to savour an atmosphere that seemed to have lingered from past times.

Within a few minutes I had signed the register and seated myself with a pint of brown and mild, right next to the dartboard which I was pleasantly surprised to see still placed exactly where it used to be.

Now the memories came flooding back again. Snatches of scenes and conversations from long ago, long forgotten but somehow now refreshed and leaping out involuntarily as in a fever. 'Been on the road long sir?' Startled, I turned to to see a dim form mostly hidden by the smoke laden shaft of sunlight which pierced the gloom between us.

'Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you there' I replied and standing, made my way over and seated myself on a stool at his table. He was a leathery countryman, about the same age as me I thought but with a piercing grey eye and the other covered by an incongruous purple eyepatch. 'Quite a few hours actually - from Minehead - pleasant trip but glad to be here at last.' 'Well, the mild's worth coming a long way for!' he winked.

From then on we entered into animated conversation which mostly covered rural life and some of the advantages of becoming elderly. There was a growing conviction that I had known this man but could not put my finger on it. This continued to nag me long after we had parted company with the mutual promise of a few more drinks in the evening.

That evening was indeed spent in the company of the locals and with Jim Appleyard my new acquaintance as we drank, chatted and played darts and dominoes. Jim soon established his superiority at the dart board and before long, it was my turn to take him on - with some trepidation I might add.

I took the first game of 501 and he the second which was relaxed enough, although I had the distinct feeling that he was giving me an edge. On the final leg - the decider - he finished in style with treble 20, treble 17 and double top. He looked my way with his one good eye. It was a knowing look that shot me back deep into the past but still I was no wiser. We smiled then laughed long and loud. I had been hustled well and truly.

This very convivial evening continued until I decided that the day had been long enough. Bidding everyone a very good night I made my way to bed with a swiftly growing weariness....

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 2
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/11/02
By: Old Dux

The night was warm and scented as I opened the leaded mullioned windows and settled down in the large four poster with it's luxurious overstuffed mattress and pillows. I do not remember dropping off but later the the dreams with disembodied voices gradually presented themselves again and I awoke with a start just after 2 a.m. The pub had long fallen silent after the departure of my erstwhile companions. Looking towards the window, the lace curtains wafted slightly in the balmy nocturnal air and I slowly rose from the bed. Leaning on the window ledge I opened one of the windows fully and took in the glorious panorama before me.

Under the wan light of a full moon at this time of the year, the English countryside is a place all of it's own. The rolling fields, trees and hedgerows lay as though on a ghostly carpet under the moonlight, and in the distance only one or two dull orange lights bore testimony to a few people still being abroad.

Almost imperceptably, a movement caught my eye several fields away. Something like a dark patch.....was it moving? Yes!.....there it is again gradually traversing the field and becoming elongated, then contracting, spreading out then linking into a circular motion. In this manner the dark amorphous shapes performed and as they did so, came closer, field after field.

This uncanny undulating progress caused me to edge back uneasily and eventually, being quite unable to take my eyes from it, the entire mass became strung out into a mad, cavorting and gyrating procession of hares as they rushed by below the window. Off they went on their way in that thrilling nocturnal dance with a zestful freedom and vitality that I could only stand and envy. I laughed over my nervousness and returned to my bed. There I spent the rest of the night in dream filled sleep, disturbed by the constant procession of long forgotten events.

The morning was fresh and beautiful, and after breakfasting well, I set off from the Plough and up the gradually sloping lane towards the site of the old airfield. As I progressed, many features stood out with great familiarity. Each bend, each hedgerow, fence and topographical undulation still as clear as it had been in 1940. The banks beneath the hedge, smothered in wild flowers and grasses were a constant reminder of the many pleasant off-duty walks we had enjoyed all those years ago.

Off to the right now, and just over there was where Proudlove came in, flushed with success, and has he cleared the boundary fence, never even saw the 110 that got him. We had to watch with barely suppressed rage as the Jerry cleared the trees and waggled his wings mockingly like a schoolboy leaving somebody's orchard with his pockets stuffed with apples. Then he was gone, leaving a funeral pyre at the west end of the airfield. So died 'Prodder' Proudlove.

This farm gate, with the track paved with compacted flint and pebbles, leads to the farm over the rise. From here, the chimney can be discerned. Here is where our shooting party came across the flock of grey partridge feeding on the track and this is where we killed them all before they even had a chance to get airborne. That night in the mess, there was a bad-tempered and prolonged argument over the ethics of sportsmanship versus the necessities of war.

At this point, the lane levels out and reveals most of the site of the airfield - but now I am beginning to feel the gathering warmth of the day and regret bringing my old tweed jacket which I throw over my shoulder.

During a brief spell of night flying patrols we lost Pritchard just around here. Perhaps that slight depression near the edge of the wood is where he struck the ground. The Hurricane night fighter indeed! I know we had our successes but I would have liked a word with the cretin who dreamed that one up........

GHOST SQUADRON Chapter 3
HWH Cont. Page 7 3/12/02
By: Old Dux

....Some of the old hangars are still in place but much has been given back to agriculture. It will be about half an hour or so at my present rate of progress before I am any where near the main gate or what will be left of it. I need a short rest before I go the next mile or so.

Over towards the village there is a dip on the horizon still outlined with a row of oaks, and we had watched with a dreaded fascination when Carswell, after taking of in the station Magister, passed through the gap and slammed into an Oxford which we could see approaching low in the circuit. We buried all six in the local churchyard.

Despite taking a lengthy rest I notice a familiar pain returning across my chest and sweat starts to trickle down my face. Foraging for my pills I remember having left them back at the pub and curse myself for such a careless omission. As the pain increases I hold onto a fence post for support.

Well, you bloody fool, you've gone and done it now haven't you?! The long drive, more beer than usual, a late night and not much sleep! You ate enough for two at breakfast and now you're pushing it to get round the airfield. What was it the doc said? 'Take my advise and you will enjoy the company of your grandchildren for a good few years yet....'

Now the pain has extended around my back.....that's a new one. I tighten my grip on the post and jam my stick into the ground as the rural panorama swims before me like a heat haze when seen through binoculars.

Take deep breaths...you have done it before...hold on then you can steadily make it back to the pub for help. Sweat pours down my face. The jolt across my back is not painful but has a deadly finality; a feeling I have never previously experienced. My left foot shoots out to correct my balance and I seem to hang there, frozen in time.

Looking out again across the airfield the view has cleared....in fact it has never been so clear. The pain has gone and as I bend to retrieve my stick from the lane, see myself lying on the right, half hidden by the long grass, meadowsweet and red campion.

Looking down, I am not really surprised to see the young, smooth, strong hands of a nineteen year old protruding from air force blue sleeves and three inches above the cuff, the thin pale blue 'scraper ring' of Pilot Officer.

Now I know why I never came back.....I would only ever be allowed a one-way ticket.
--------------
Across the lane and just beyond the hedge stands a Hurricane and more behind it, straps hanging from cockpits ready for their occupants. The groundcrew turn smiling and beckoning. A long awaited moment which transcends the years. He walks briskly across the lane, wafting away the the exhaust fumes of the Bedford three-tonner which had just dropped him off, and passes through a gap in the low hawthorn hedge. 'Good morning chaps - everything O.K. for standby?' 'Everything on line sir' replies Sgt. Sinclair.He climbs on to the wing, toes into the 'D' steps and lowers himself into the cockpit to quickly complete the pre - flight checks.

'By the way Sargeant. Are you due at the Plough this lunchtime for some send-off party or other?'
'That's right sir. Some armourers are being posted out to Malta tomorrow. Lucky blighters!'
'Well, I don't know about that. Things are starting to warm up over there I've heard. Out of the frying pan and into the fire I'd say! You can do me a favour though while you are at it'.

He fumbles in his pocket and flips half-a-crown to Sinclair who deftly catches it.
'Give that to young Appleyard and remind me not to gamble my hard earned pay against a one eyed darts player'.

'Wish I'd known sir. I've warned a few not to take him on!. The primed Merlin turns briefly and kicks back in the opposite direction. Twice more it does this and then fires with a characteristic crackling roar sending back short blasts of flame from the exhaust stubs.

A covey of grouse rise as one from the thicket and beat low over the dew laden grass, raising a fine misty spray as they hug the field contours. The Merlin's note bawls out and in front Harris and Benson move back, each dragging a chock on a length of rope. To the left and just below, Sinclair teeters back on his heels, trousers rippling, tunic billowing, right hand held up to his face palm outwards against the flaying grit and corn stalks.

As the power rises, carbonised high octane exhaust blasts back past the tail surfaces, through the hedgerow, over the ploughed stubble field and into the copse beyond. Now the ghosts and the voices are back. Restless and hesitant at first but with a growing conviction and determination, eager to re-live the comradeship, glory and high adventure of old days. With forms no longer earth enwrapped they strive to complete their transformation.

Bid them now to wake and rise, and as they turn in wonder toward the dawn streaked sky..........'tell them, and Caesar, that we still make war'