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[This
letter came into my hands following the death of Lady Cecilia Hawkins
in the autumn of 2004. It appears to have been written by her brother,
Lord Earnest Hawkins, to their father, the Baron of Brampton. Earnest
was a pilot during the Battle of Britain.]
610 Squadron, Auxiliary Air Force
RAF Biggin Hill
August 16, 1940
Dear Pater,
Well,
I know that writing letters with secret information in them is strictly
forbidden, but the events of the last few weeks have been so
extraordinary that I simply must make some kind of a record for
posterity, just in case I don't make it through. I'll give this to you
by hand the next time you're down this way, and that way it won't have
to go through the censors. Please put it away somewhere safe - perhaps
the family vault, where nobody would think to search - and that way
even if the Hun overrun England (which God forbid) they won't get their
paws on it.
Yesterday
was bloody awful. I know I shouldn't swear, but no other word will do.
Huge aerial assault from the Luftwaffe - all over England, they say,
although the news about these things is always sketchy. Several heavy
raids here, but we got up in the air straight away and gave as good as
we got, or better.
However,
I'm getting ahead of myself. The circumstances here are so different
from what I was led to expect in training that I'm completely amazed.
and baffled that our instructors could have got it so wrong.
These
aircraft are simply incredible. You know how I struggled with celestial
navigation during training. It's no picnic trying to fly a damaged
plane, take star sightings, and calculate a course to a blacked-out
airfield all at the same time. Well, I'm happy to say that we don't
have to. The boffins have come up with navigational aids that I've
never even dreamed of. To start with, there's a sort of mechanical map
that always shows you where you are. It never gets damaged, and it's
never wrong. And if that weren't enough, there's a device that always points in the direction of the nearest enemy.
Don't ask me how it works - it's positively unbelievable. It's a jolly
good thing we've got it, though, because I can't turn my head enough in
the cockpit to see clearly. And there are lot of other things that
simply seem like magic: buttons that suddenly change your altitude, or
pull you out of a spin, or even land the plane for you. If Jerry ever
gets his hands on one of these kites, we could be in real trouble.
I
know you never much cared for that science fiction I used to read
before the war - 'awful rubbish,' you always called it - but I swear if
you saw some of this new gear we've got, you'd think again.
Aerodynamically, they're a doddle, not nearly as tricky as everyone
said at flight school. It's almost as if we're flying an aeroplane from
the future, not 1940. It makes flying and fighting with them a dashed
sight easier than I had any right to expect.
The
planes are sturdier than I anticipated, too. We were told that it
doesn't take much to send one home - a bullet through an oil line or
the cooling system and it's goodnight, sweetheart, time to hit the
silk. But it seems as if I can be positively riddled and keep on
flying. (Sorry, you mustn't read that bit to mama, I'm sure it would
give her palpitations.) But the truth is I've never been wounded yet,
no matter what happens to my plane. Whether it's luck or Divine
Providence I couldn't say, but I'm heartily glad of it!
Our
maintenance johnnies are nothing short of brilliant. My Spitfire is
always spotless, never a scratch or a leaking drop of oil anywhere. And
not only that, even if she takes a few bullets during a sortie, they
always patch her up perfectly for the next mission - not the slightest
sign there was any damage at all. All the planes are in tip-top
condition, and operating at their maximum specifications all the time.
There's never any wear and tear except during battle itself, of course.
You can be sure that your boy is being looked after very well by our
ground crews - rather eerily well, in fact.
Then
there's another rum thing: the weather. I would not have believed there
could be such a difference between our home up in Lincolnshire and down
here in Kent. Anyway, it's ideal flying weather most of the time: good
visibility, few clouds, light winds, very little rain. The clouds are a
bit odd, though: in the air they don't look the way I expected them to
from the ground. And when you get in among them the plane actually
seems to stutter and slow down, especially if there are a lot of us all
flying together. It must be some strange meteorological phenomenon that
they forgot to tell us about.
We
don't fly any night missions, in spite of the Heinkels and Dorniers
that have given our cities such a pasting after dark. I suppose
somebody must be flying them, but it's not us.
That's
the good news, and if it were the whole story I should be happy as
Larry. But it's not all beer and skittles by any means. I've had the
most appalling bad luck with my wingmen. I don't have any choice about
who they are; they're just assigned according to some rota. Somehow I
keep being given wingmen who are still wet behind the ears and I've
lost no less than three of them. I swear it's nothing to do with me.
They just don't seem to have any tactical sense. They don't obey orders
or follow the correct procedures, and the moment we get into a scrap
they lose their heads completely. It's all I can do to look out for
myself and my own mission, much less wet-nurse them as well. Poor
fellows. I do feel badly about it, but honestly, what can I do? I'd
rather not be given a wingman at all.
And
that leads me to the strangest part of this whole war. I've never even
seen my quarters. We very nearly live in the planes themselves. I
expected to eat in the mess with the other chaps, but I find that I'm
so busy and exhausted that I can't even remember them. I just spend all
my time in the crate. I almost feel as if I'm a part of the machine
now, scarcely human. I don't want to get out of the cockpit. It's a
very odd sensation: as if the only world that's real is this tiny
enclosed space, and the sky, and the enemy. The ground is just
something to look at through the windscreen.
Everyone
always talks about the sense of camaraderie in war - the bonds that are
forged between men sharing danger. I know that's the way it was for you
during the last one. And yet. I feel strangely isolated, as if I were
fighting this war alone. I can hear the other chaps on the radio, but I
don't see them. We don't play cards, or have a smoke together, or go
out to a dance and meet the local girls. It's scramble and fight and
land and scramble and fight again, endlessly. Even during bad weather,
when Jerry's quiet and there's nothing to do, I find myself sitting in
the cockpit.
Sorry,
pater, I don't mean to sound maudlin. Stiff upper lip and so on. It's
just that. well, I believe this business is going to expand into
another world war, perhaps even bigger than the first. The lights are
going out all over Europe once again. There will be death, and horror,
and madness; there will be bravery, and gallantry, and sacrifice; there
will be heroes whose deeds go unsung and cowards treated as heroes for
deeds they did not do. And I - I am somehow apart from it all, alone in
my aeroplane. I know that Mr. Churchill is giving brilliant speeches in
the House of Commons, but I cannot hear them. I know that across our
beloved land the defenses are being made ready, and I cannot see them.
I know that somewhere the men back from Dunkirk are recovering from
their wounds, and I cannot shake their hands and thank them.
I fight for England, but I have no sense that England is fighting for me.
Give my dearest love to mama and little Cecilia.
God send us a speedy victory.
Earnest
[Earnest
Hawkins fought on, racking up kill after kill in the Battle of Britain
until one day, without warning, his entire universe vanished in the
middle of a routine patrol. His controls froze, and the last thing he
saw was a great blue rectangle, shutting out the world like a screen.]
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