Charles Jackson - England Expects

RAF No. 610 (County of Chester) Squadron

Sussex, England

Saturday

June 29, 1940

Alec Trumbull’s father still called him ‘young man’ whenever he visited, and in truth even he had to admit he didn’t really look a great deal older than he appeared in the pictures his parents kept of his last years at Eton. Trumbull was tall and bordering on ‘too thin’ (according to his mother, at least), although he was relatively fit for all that. His dark, curly hair, if not well groomed and kept regulation-short as it was, would tend to find a style of its own making — a style that might’ve been considered ‘foppish’ by some. At just twenty-six he was also relatively young for a squadron leader.

Trumbull would’ve liked to believe the situation had come about purely as a result of his own endeavour, innate talent and rapier wit. Unfortunately, try as he might, he was forced to admit that other factors had indeed played a greater hand: factors of a far less pleasant or light-hearted nature. As he sat in a folding deck chair outside the entrance flap to the large, army-green tent that served as the squadron briefing room, he cast his eyes around the area in general and gave a snort of derision that held more apprehension than real humour.

Not all that much of a ‘squadron’ though, old chap, he thought to himself with more than a little tired resignation. The open field before him, the closest the RAF could come to anything resembling a forward airfield these days, was the makeshift home for what Trumbull considered an incredibly motley collection of assorted aircraft.

Number 610 was an RAF Auxiliary Squadron originally been formed as a bomber unit at Hooton Park in February of 1936, flying Hawker Harts. The squadron converted to fighters in April of 1938 flying Hawker Hind biplanes, and had received Hurricanes (Britain’s first monoplane fighter in service) prior to the outbreak of war. Squadron 610 was also the first Auxiliary fighter unit to re-equip with the superlative Supermarine Spitfire Mark I, moving to Wittering in October of ’39 flying coastal patrols.

In May of 1940, as the Battle for France raged and the disaster of Dunkirk loomed, the squadron had moved south to Biggin Hill to relieve embattled RAF units of Eleven Group, already in the fray against the Luftwaffe over Britain and in France. France had subsequently fallen, the seemingly-invincible Germans had arrived at the eastern shores of the Channel and the Battle of Britain had begun. The savage intensity of Luftwaffe attacks from the outset against major airfields and sector stations across southern England quickly made Biggin Hill and many others untenable as a permanent bases of operations, and 610Sqn moved to Tangmere for a while. There, much like at Biggin Hill, there’d been billets and messes and full maintenance facilities and, more to the point, a full complement of state-of-the-art fighter aircraft to complement the rest of it. Trumbull had been a relatively inexperienced flight lieutenant then, and that had only been a month or six weeks ago.

The twelve aircraft carefully dispersed at the perimeter of the open fields around him — many of them positioned under or close to tree cover where it was more difficult for a raider to catch them on the ground — did nothing to instil confidence in the young man. The squadron had once flown only the mighty Spitfire — arguably the best single-engined fighter the world had at that point seen.

… And what do we have now… ? There were just three ‘Spits’ left — including his own — along with four Hurricanes, three obsolescent Gladiator biplanes and two new ‘prototypes’ from Hawker Aviation, the experimental Typhoons run hurriedly off the production lines and pressed into service due to the severity of the situation at hand. The heavy hitting power of the six machine guns in each of the Typhoon’s wings was more than counterbalanced by some serious design flaws there hadn’t as yet been time to iron out, most notorious of which was an infamously weak tail empennage. As this had an occasional tendency under stress to cause the tail to come completely off, it was needless to say a less than a popular aircraft with most pilots.

The airfield seemed deserted that afternoon, but Trumbull knew that was merely a façade. Should the alarm be raised to a scramble — something that was far from unlikely — pilots and ground crew would appear instantly, pouring out of the multitude of personal and group tents that were scattered about behind the briefing area. They could be in the air within a few moments, and if an attack was inbound and Fighter Command could give them enough warning, that’d be fast enough. But there was a very big ‘ if ’ in that situation that’d been seen to be less than reliable in the recent past. They’d been hit a number of times already with insufficient warning, and one of those raids had ended up with him receiving his ‘promotion’ to squadron leader. He could still remember the sight of his then commander and good friend literally disintegrating along with his Spitfire as a German bomb struck the taxiing aircraft a direct hit. Only six had managed to get into the air that day, and Squadron Leader Alec Trumbull could think of better ways to gain rank in the Royal Air Force, all things considered.

The sound of a vehicle approaching broke through his introspection for a moment and he turned his head to catch sight of an RAF supply lorry beyond the tent ‘town’, bouncing its way toward him along the dirt road that led back to Westhampnett, the green Bedford ambling along at what couldn’t have been more than five miles an hour in the pilot’s estimation. He recognised Fullarton, one of the base Quartermaster’s staff at the wheel, crouched behind his little windscreen and squinting out through spectacles with small, circular lenses that probably had thicker glass.

The 15cwt truck was standard War Department issue, with a canvas-covered cargo area and a pair of small, individual windscreens and canvas ‘doors’ for the driver and front passenger that had earned the hardy and useful vehicle the nickname of ‘pneumonia wagon’ among the troops. Trumbull checked his watch as others in their tents and around the airfield also heard the Bedford and seemingly appeared out of thin air. He realised it was actually later in the day than he’d originally believed and that the truck was arriving with the afternoon mail run along with other supplies, stores and such.

Many members of the unit were eager to see if there were any letters from home, family and/or loved ones, and Trumbull was no different: still single, Alec was nevertheless concerned for his parents. His father had remained in London, his work in the War Cabinet requiring his presence there, while his mother had moved back out to their family estate in Leicester with his younger brother and sister. Plans were already in the wind for a full-scale relocation to Australia for the duration of the current crisis, although his father would most likely remain in London until the last possible moment should a feared invasion materialise and look likely of being successful.

He knew his lot was no worse than that of any other man under arms or otherwise in Britain at that point: squaring up against the might of the Luftwaffe across the Channel was something that couldn’t be taken lightly even at the best of times.

And one couldn’t call these the best of times, to be certain, he thought darkly to himself as he rose awkwardly from his chair and began to join the small but growing crowd of men making their way to the nearing vehicle. England was in serious danger and it didn’t take any great intelligence to know that. Two or three months ago, the story had been different. The RAF had at that time still possessed the forces necessary to take to the sky against the Luftwaffe with something resembling parity.