Ahhh, Old Dux, I'm so very pleased that you like the screen play outline. Now if I could only get that guy Spielburg to confess that the first Star Wars movie was really our idea we'd be siting pretty. Oh, oh. The wife must be playing Scrabble Solitaire again. She has just asked me if I can spell the word 'Plagiarism'?
There is neither rest nor escape for the wicked. Here is another odorous dropping from my painfully overactive imagination. Forgive me Old Dux, SNAFU, and Sir Bader for getting you mixed up in this one.
A Tangle of Serpents
The ‘Phony War’ and Battle for France are finally over; the Battle of Britain has now begun. On August 12th and 13th the Luftwaffe attacked the Chain Guard radar stations along the British coast resulting in only one station being down for just a day. Consequently, the German’s noticed no appreciable difference in the number of interceptions of their bombers attacking England. For this reason, they never followed up this attack. Adolph Galland is said to have stated that this was a most grievous mistake.
According to ‘Dolpho’ Galland the British relied on the powerful eyes of RADAR whilst the Germans had only their own imperfect vision on which they could rely. First, Channel shipping gets a beating, then the RAF airfields are next to consider on the short list of juicy targets. Another strategic mistake will be made here and, soon enough, British cities will become the prime targets.
Across the skies over endangered English coastal towns and cities stretch long, tangled tendrils of snow white ice crystals. These snake-like coils emanate from the blistering hot exhausts of hundreds of bombers and fighters locked in an unforgiving dance of death. This marks a deadly confrontation between two opposing ideologies played out high above the cringing populace below. The average person trapped under this veritable dome of death can do naught but look up into those windy, crowded skies with trepidation, rapt wonder or perhaps even while screaming in abject terror.
On August 29th, near the coastal British town of Dover we see a group of such interested men are now gathered. From their dress and perhaps from their demeanor, we are made instantly aware that these men are not average citizens. One man in particular somehow stands out. This shortish, portly, older gentleman is dressed all in black from his stylish charcoal Fedora to his plumped out, over-strained waistcoat and from his perfectly pressed trousers down to the soles of his blindingly shiny black shoes.
This man has startlingly bright blue eyes that are widely set in a face one might expect to see in a painting by Peter Paul Rubens. His likeable features are almost cherubic in nature, yet on closer inspection there is also flame hardened Sheffield steel in his gaze. If this man’s attention freezes for a moment upon you, you are transfixed like a beetle thrust sharply through the thorax by two long, hard pins. One immediately senses far more in that smiling countenance than the good-natured grin of an older gentleman of his class might otherwise convey. This man is confident beyond all contradiction and used to absolute command.
A long, black cigar is clenched tightly in this man’s constantly shifting mouth. His ample chin is thrust forward somewhat like that of a bulldog’s. The men around him nearly all wear military uniforms and though we see that they are of the highest ranks, each shows great deference to the short man with the big cigar. Another portly gentleman in a dapper black suit and Bowler hat gazes straight ahead through the cast iron fence before them. He is the worried mayor of Dover. You can tell by his expression that he has much on his cluttered mind. The cold, black fence he gazes beyond is fashioned with large, round rods tipped with black, spear-like points that thrust upward pointing toward that menacing sky full of twisting contrails. It is a hot, sunny day today. The mid-morning sun casts a crawling black shadow of that great fence upon the warm concrete surface all about them. If you look closely you will notice that it seems to surround the lighter, moving shadows of the men standing there as if it were protecting them in some way from the fleeting dangers above.
A photographer busily snaps several B&W photographs of this distinguished assembly to capture the moment for posterity. If you read many books containing photos of the period that have been printed since the war you will have seen one or more of these. Mr. Churchill alone is seen to look up in rapt attention as the tangled serpents spreading across the sky presently catch his full attention. For some moments the important looking men all stand there in quite indulgence while Winston squints up into the bright sky filled with roiling, twisting lines, dark streaks and tiny dots. These men are all so busy and there is so much to do. Suddenly, there is a bright flash and seconds latter a boom from the sky bounces off the buildings to rumble all around them.
Everyone is watching now and cheering as they see something burning bright with a dark center begin to fall earthward. It falls swiftly at first, end over end, and then more slowly like a leaf held on a soft zephyr. As the burning, smoking aircraft continues its final fall to a patiently waiting earth below, all continue to cheer. Just then, someone realizes that the fatally wounded craft is a Hurricane. There is an audible gasp and a sudden embarrassed hush. There follows a long silence as each man becomes lost in his own deep thoughts and somehow, in his own way, is sharing the misery of that brave pilot. Then it is over and the group moves on to more important duties. All are following slightly behind the man with the cigar.
High amongst the spreading contrails the deadly play continues. The combatants are totally unaware of the VIP audience below. Gray BF109E German fighters climb and fall. Powerful G forces shove each goggled pilot down deep into their cold aluminum seats in painful, face re-shaping contortions or sometimes they lift the pilots right out of their safety harness, practically weightless, in a mind numbing red-out. These are stresses that the planes easily endure far better than do the mere mortals who fight in them. The Spitfires are there too and the Hurricanes. As the nimble Spitfires spar effectively with the 109s, the magnificent, hump-backed Hurricanes expertly harry the determined formations of German bombers. There are black, bullet shaped HE111s with red spinners on their three-bladed props and long, thin, well camouflaged DO17s. Hundreds of planes now fill the skies over Dover.
Another flight of German fighters arrives late but just in time to plunge headlong into the swirling melee. They have had difficulty joining up with the bomber stream leaving France and without RADAR to guide them they are just now coming on the scene. These are the twin-engined Me 110 “Destroyers”. Each is fitted with front firing machine guns plus heavy cannons. They sport a shark tooth grin that has been brightly painted on their gray noses and a rear-firing 7.92 machine gun that is perfectly positioned to discourage uninvited British fighters coming up from behind with questionable intentions. These 110s are truly nasty, ill-tempered beasts and they all fall like hungry sharks upon the unsuspecting Hurricanes.
The hard pressed German pilots and crews who are floating along and just barely hanging onto what is left of the shredded bomber formations breathe a collective sigh of relief as the tormenting Hurricanes break off their attacks and become otherwise distracted. Nonetheless, having had enough of this, as one, the bombers release their deadly bombs and slowly bank to starboard for a long and dangerous race toward the Channel and home. Sunlight glints indifferently across their riddled airframes as they make the slow turn and point their bloodied noses toward France. The 109s that are not falling in flames or already permanently dug deep into the chalky soils of Dover are running out of ammunition and petrol. They too are breaking off from the scrap as soon as they can and dive away powerfully churning up the floating contrails with their spinning props. Off they go in the general direction of France and the relative safety of the Channel.
Nestled in their bullet holed but still trusty Spitfires, Old Dux, SNAFU, and JRT (AKA the Three-Mess-Kit-Teers) are boldly climbing toward the twisting scrap high above. Their seats are still run down low for maximum safety and their machine guns are primed with more than enough .303 lead to do the job. Ammunition enough, in fact, JRT is thinking, to change the mind of the most determined and recalcitrant Hurricane hunter. Enough to set his swastika painted tail on fire, ruin his day, and then send him spinning homeward yelling for Adolph.
These three men were separated from their chums during the bitter fought battle with the 109s. Now having been vectored by RADAR and the crackling R/T, they so generously decide to go up and help out. They know their pal Bader is up to his armpits in “Zerstoyers” and that those “desperate” Hurricane pilots must be devoutly praying for the Spitfire “cavalry” to come to their rescue. Visions of 110s by the bucket loads falling to their spitting guns, Victoria Crosses being pinned upon breasts puffed out and offered up with pride as nodding and embarrassingly thankful Hurricane pilots stand to attention come brazenly to over imaginative minds. They adjust their controls and check their oxygen supplies for the long climb up. JRT breaks in on the R/T to shout encouragement to Bader and the lads. The “cavalry” is on its way once again to save the day.
On the way up they pass several poorly treated 110s on their unhappy way down. Ahead, they eventually draw closer and notice even more 110s hanging in the sky from lengthening coils of coal black smoke. Slowly it dawns upon these somewhat snobbish, arrogant young men that perhaps Spitfires are not the only fighters capable of holding their own with the unsociable 110s. Is it possible perhaps that a Hurricane could also successfully stand up to Fat Hermann’s boys in a no-holds-barred, toe-to-toe battle to the death determining who sleeps in a soft bed tonight and who sleeps in a rough wooden box?
If true, this is a revelation to each of the three confirmed Spitfire pilots. To them the Spitfire is a lovely thing to behold. They are so sleek, swift and maneuverable that these three pilots worship their fighters above all others. It is a heavy shock then to find that although appreciated, their additional help (after all, they did keep those angry 109s busy) is not now needed. The Hurricane, they must grudgingly admit, is an amazingly stable gun platform and is a formidable opponent in the capable hands of the likes of Bader and his “Bus Company”.
Over the R/T they clearly hear an all too Bader-like voice exclaim: “static, garble….flight join up on me. Well done lads, it’s time to go home. ..snap…pop…garble….hiss….. Sorry, JRT we saved a few of them for you lads. Waited as long as we dared….static…hiss… pop…the ruddy blighters simply wouldn’t cooperate in the end…hiss..pop…crackle… Sorry chaps (muffled laughter and gleefully rude sounds follow) perhaps next time? Did JRT also hear a rousing great raspberry? He always smiled and swore that he did so although Bader always frowned and flatly denied it.
Soon the skies over Dover are clear of death and falling planes. The fighters have gone and so have the bombers. Only the long, twisting ice crystals and roiling black smoke trails remain suspended now in the cold, thin air. The long, white contrails, mix with the sad, oily vapors of destruction. All have become wispy now, and miss-shapen as they fan out, pushed by the casual brush strokes of the brisk winds blowing aloft.
Soon, the canvas will be swept completely clear.
------------------ "Blessed are they who expect nothing. For they will not be disappointed." - Edmund Qwenn, "The Trouble with Harry"
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