Love, Death, Chariot of Fire Page 21

  Reginald Mitchell stands in front of the Spitfire prototype outside the A Flight hangar. Thirty yards away Sydney Camm and another civilian are leaning against the wing of another prototype decked out in RAF livery – the Hawker Hurricane, Camm’s creation. Mitchell exchanges polite collegial nods with him.

  They’ve met twice, briefly, over the years. It isn’t just rivalry that created the friction between them, Mitchell surmises, but Camm’s chilly aloofness and design conservatism. The Hurricane exemplifies its creator’s mindset. It’s a lumpy thing covered in canvas. At bottom it’s a monoplane version of Camm’s Fury. But it now boasts the same powerful V 12 Rolls-Royce engine as the Spitfire – one now christened the Merlin.

  Mitchell has heard that the Hurricane performs well, though it’s not as fast or nimble as the Spitfire. It looks like a businesslike machine, he silently concedes, especially as it’ll be as heavily armed as the Spitfire. The ministry appreciates its comparative ease of manufacture, servicing and repair, it seems.

  ‘The air force needs a workhorse like that, alongside the formidable Spitfire,’ Ralph Sorley has told him over the phone. ‘It’s a stable gun platform from which to pick the low-hanging fruit – the German bombers. We can expect plenty of those. That’s why we’ve placed a mass order for Hurricanes too.’

  The sound of cars approaching from the main road beyond the northern perimeter of the aerodrome heralds the event that has galvanised the airfield. Three large black cars – Humber Snipes fore and aft with a Rolls-Royce Phantom sandwiched between them – appear from between the workaday buildings, turn side on, and draw to a halt. Five powerfully built civilians immediately jump out of the leading car and head for the Rolls. The rear car disgorges three middle-aged men in gold-braided RAF uniforms. Mitchell recognises one of them – the beanstork frame of Stuffy Dowding, now in the early days of his appointment as Air Officer Commanding, Fighter Command.

  The three officers also make their way to the Rolls. Dowding opens its rear door and snaps to attention, saluting. Out steps a slim figure in a yet more braided uniform, that of Marshal of the Royal Air Force. It is the country’s new King, Edward VIII. His equerry, a Royal Navy officer, emerges from the other side of the car.

  The civilian bodyguards hang back, looking around warily, as the King and his officers advance a few yards towards the band and halt abreast facing the flagpoles. The band strikes up God Save the King, prompting the officers – and all the RAF personal scattered around the aerodrome – to stand to attention and salute. Mitchell doffs his hat and stiffens his stance, which hardly soothes his abdominal pain.

  After this brief formality Edward appears to strike an easier note as he chats with his companions. After all, this isn’t a state occasion, but a commander-in-chief ’s visit to his men in the field, bringing himself up to date with their current projects.

  Mitchell watches him with a curiosity that soon segues into sympathy. Edward is less than a year older than him. Before his father died last January, Edward was a fellow Gipsy Moth enthusiast, in spite of the old King’s disapproval. But now any such supposedly dangerous exploits would be ruled out. His Moth is no doubt gathering dust in the royal hangar at Hendon aerodrome, if not discreetly sold off. While Mitchell’s own is still cooling down in a far corner of the A Flight hangar after the flight from Eastleigh.

  There’s that other, graver matter that also engages Mitchell. As everyone in the country knows, Edward wants to marry a woman whom the religious and temporal establishment have refused him on the grounds that she’s a divorcée and a foreigner. What if similar power-besotted killjoys had tried to keep Flo and himself apart? By God, they wouldn’t have known what’d hit them! Yet here’s this other man forced to choose between his crown – his birthright – and the woman he loves. His reign might well end before Mitchell himself succumbs to his disease. The authorities are preparing a coronation for next May; but it’s far from clear that the head on which the crown descends will be Edward’s.

  The King’s party starts to walk along the row of hangars and other buildings, inspecting and commenting on aircraft on display as it does so. When it approaches the A Flight hangar, Hilton and Edwardes Jones join it. Edward stops beside the Spitfire and contemplates it at length. Hilton offers to answer any questions he might have; by the look of it Edward has quite a few. Hilton gestures to one of his men close to the party. The man rushes to fetch a stepladder, which is pushed up against the fillet at the plane’s wing root. Edward uses it to climb up on to the wing to peer into the cockpit. Hilton follows him up. The question and answer session between monarch and squadron leader continues.

  Once back on the ground, Edward ducks around the wing and suddenly appears in front of the plane’s designer, offering his hand. Dowding and Hilton hurry to catch up.

  ‘Mr Mitchell, I’m so pleased to meet you again,’ Edward says. ‘We met when I visited your firm’s works some years ago. Do you recall when that was?’

  ‘It was eleven years ago, sir. Yes, it was 1925. We were building seaplanes only back then.’

  ‘Well you’ve gone from strength to strength since that time, Mr Mitchell. And the proof is right here, in this beautiful and lethal machine of yours – our graceful bulwark against tyranny,’ Edward says, patting the leading edge of the wing.

  ‘Thank you for those kind words, sir. At Supermarine we’ve been grateful for your public support for our Schneider campaigns over the years as well.’

  ‘What a service you rendered your country even back then, Mr Mitchell! Not least during the Depression when so many of our people were losing heart. You restored Britain’s faith in herself! And I seem to remember certain senior RAF officers at the time dismissing your Schneider racers as weird machines of no military relevance. I guess they’re eating their words now – what do you say, Dowding?’ He gives the Spitfire another demonstrative pat as he turns to the air marshal.

  ‘Indeed they are, sir!’ Dowding says, attempting a jocular grin. ‘I thank God I wasn’t one of them.’

  As Edward’s party moves on, Dowding lags behind a moment. ‘Mitchell, I was wondering if we could have a quick chat as soon as the King leaves. In the A Flight office?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  He has only five minutes to wait outside the office door before Dowding strides up, takes him by the upper arm and conducts him inside. He tosses his cap onto the desk, moves the two spartan visitors’ chairs so they face each other a couple of yards apart, and motions Mitchell to sit in one of them. Dowding settles into the other, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands clasped. He appears to be labouring with his opening sentences.

  ‘The thing is this, Mitchell. McLean has told me about your condition. I’m so very sorry. And so very impressed by the courage you’re showing under the circumstances. What a bloody awful reward for what you’ve done for us! I’m glad the King himself acknowledged your gifts to the nation just now.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. His words were most gracious.’

  ‘Yes. But now that you’ve given us the Spitfire I feel I owe it to you to tell you just how we intend to deploy her. Because you may not still be with us to see for yourself when she goes into action. So what I’m about to say mustn’t leave this room, even if parts of it are already public knowledge.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Let’s start with the big picture. A German air attack on this country in the foreseeable future is almost certain. Obviously we can’t predict the time and exact circumstances, but given the proclivities of the Nazi regime it will try to deliver a knockout blow from the air right at the beginning of its attack and win a quick victory. We can expect mass bomber formations – with and without fighter escorts – to attack our airfields and destroy our aircraft on the ground in order to gain mastery in the air, and then bomb our cities unhindered so as to force us to capitulate.’

  Mitchell gasps at the horror of this unvarnished scenario. ‘That’s a terrible threat, given their
four-to-one advantage over us in frontline aircraft. At least that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Indeed. But fortunately there are ways to meet it, starting with some clear thinking. Our Prime Minister isn’t helping by parroting the old saw that “the bomber will always get through.” The bomber that encounters a Spitfire or a Hurricane will stand only a slim chance of getting through, and an even slimmer one of getting home. The German fighter escort that encounters a Spitfire will also find itself at a disadvantage. So our job is to sweep aside the defeatism and work out how to arrange the encounters in question to our own best advantage.’

  ‘So we need an early-warning system of some sort.’

  ‘Quite. We’re making great strides in developing radio reflection – better known these days as “radio direction finding” or “RDF”. The Americans call it “radar”. It will allow us to see the enemy coming. I’m pushing this development as hard as I can. We’ll be testing our first RDF station nearby at Bawdsey in a couple of months. Meanwhile our physicists and engineers are refining the system’s ability to tell us where hostile aircraft are coming from and likely heading for, roughly how many, and at what altitude.’

  ‘But won’t the Germans just be able to locate these stations on reconnaissance photographs, and set their bombers on courses that avoid them?’

  ‘No they won’t, Mitchell. Not if we build a continuous chain of them all along our eastern and southern coastline. I’m aiming to create a fully integrated air-defence system which includes a chain of RDF stations, the existing civilian observer corps, and anti-aircraft artillery, as well as our rapidly expanding fighter squadrons. No matter when and where the bombers come, ideally we’ll have Spitfires and Hurricanes in the air – in the right place and at the right altitude – ready to pounce. Hopefully we can then break up their formations and achieve an even greater kill rate as we pick off their scattered planes.’

  ‘How on earth can you co-ordinate all this, sir?’

  ‘Ah, Mitchell, you’ve put your finger on my greatest challenge. I have to link the RDF stations with our existing command, control and communications layout – the C3 system – using both ground telephone networks and wireless-telephone. This will be just like the human nervous system. When any outlying part of the system detects approaching aircraft, the central command will know immediately, pass on the information to local control centres, which in turn can order the best placed fighters into the air. The response ought to be as good as immediate.’

  ‘Thanks to the Merlin engine, the Spitfire can climb to 25,000 feet in less than twelve minutes. That should improve our response time, sir.’

  ‘It’s a critical factor. As well, all our planes will carry wireless-telephone gear, so our flight, squadron and wing leaders can receive updated information and position themselves to intercept the enemy to best effect.’

  Mitchell listens intently. He’s overtaken by a sense of awe at the quality of Dowding’s mind. And he recognises Dowding’s total immersion in the job at hand.

  ‘But some bombers will get through, won’t they?’

  ‘Yes, that’s unavoidable given our numerical disadvantage. And they’ll do a lot of damage, I’m afraid. But we can and must inflict unacceptable losses on the enemy. If we succeed in that, we win the battle, and no invasion of this country can succeed.’

  ‘How does that conclusion follow, sir?’

  Dowding chuckles. ‘Alas, Mitchell, you’ve never been to military college and learned at the feet of the great strategist, Carl von Clausewitz. When two sides fight a battle, one must win so as not to lose, while the other must simply avoid losing in order to win. The Germans will be in the first position; we’ll be in the second. As long as our Spitfires and Hurricanes keep shooting down their raiders, we’re winning, and their knockout blow will be failing. When they can no longer sustain their losses and so desist, we’ll have won. And that will put them in a difficult position in the war in general.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘When a boxer tries to deliver a knockout blow and it fails, he finds himself off-balance and vulnerable. Hopefully the Germans too will find themselves in that predicament. When we start bombing them, they’ll have little to defend themselves with. Unless our military intelligence has missed something quite basic, the Germans haven’t developed RDF to any great extent. Or anything like our integrated air defence system.’

  ‘Why not, sir?’

  ‘They’ve assumed they won’t need such things – which can’t be conjured forth overnight, believe me. Their aircraft aren’t as good as ours either, or as fit for purpose. They don’t even have a heavy bomber like the one you’re developing at the moment, I hear. While their armaments industry – including their capacity to replace aircraft – is poorly coordinated and risks running out of raw materials.’

  Mitchell ponders this scenario. ‘Thank you for explaining all this, sir. I now feel a lot more optimistic about our chances of defending this country after what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Good. The main point I want to make to you, Mitchell, is that your Spitfire is the very cornerstone of our defence. You deserve to know that, and just how it will contribute to our foiling an invasion. Rest assured we’ll set your gift to work with ruthless efficiency. That I promise you.’

  ‘Hazeldene’, Portswood. Tuesday 21 July 1936, 9.30 pm. Mitchell is sitting in his armchair in the living room with a copy of The Times folded over his lap. He and Flo have just listened to the BBC nine-o’clock news broadcast together; now he can hear her upstairs preparing for bed. Outside the last of the summer twilight is fading, giving way to a dark rainy night.

  The BBC and the London newspaper – a rare purchase for him – have filled out the sketchy news reported in the Southern Echo he read at breakfast. Three days ago a renegade Spanish general, Francisco Franco, began a fascist rebellion in Spain, one intent on overthrowing the country’s legitimate republican government. Early indications suggest he enjoys widespread support from the Spanish military, upper classes, and the Catholic Church.

  The semi-fascist Salazar regime next door in Portugal has also signalled its readiness to help the rebels. Even more alarming are the strong messages of support from the Italian and German fascist regimes, with their planes and tanks already on their way to Spain. Barring an immediate government surrender, then, Spaniards face an intense civil war made even more terrible by the intervention of barbaric foreign regimes and their massive armaments.

  And who or what is expressing solidarity with the hard-pressed government of Spain? Certainly not the British and French governments, who are singing a chorus called ‘Strong Neutrality’. The expression rivals ‘dry water’ in its very absurdity! What can it possibly mean other than a resolve to abandon the Spaniards to the fascist terror? With feckless disregard for how a fascist victory in Spain would greatly increase Britain’s own vulnerability, starting with its Mediterranean territories, Malta and Gibraltar.

  Suddenly Europe seems to Mitchell to be awash with fascism. Strong fascist movements are arising in supposed bastions of liberal democracy in western Europe too. In Britain itself, where the British Union of Fascists and its Blackshirts are on the march. Led by a certain Sir Oswald Mosley, now cock-a-hoop in his public comments about the events in Spain.

  Mitchell finds this last development trebly disturbing. What is organised fascism doing in Britain in the first place? How come it’s led by a prominent member of the establishment and the aristocracy, when misfits of far humbler origins preside over its main sister movements in Germany and Italy? And why does the home movement have to be led by someone with a connection to his own boyhood home town, Stoke-on-Trent?

  The Mosleys have been a staple topic of conversation in Mitchell’s family circle since Lady Cynthia Mosley entered parliament as the Labour member for Stoke-on-Trent in 1929. She was the thirty-year-old daughter of a marquess and wife of the celebrated Sir Oswald, hereditary baronet, and Labour MP for Smethwick.

  During his apprenti
ceship in the locomotive works, Mitchell was struck by many of his fellow workers’ deference towards the aristocracy. Many of them actually believed all that ‘born to rule’ humbug that posh Tories carry on with, and voted accordingly. But Cynthia’s election added a new twist. The aristocratic Mosleys were actually progressive back then, challenging the government of their own party (in which Oswald was then a minister) to reverse its disastrous belt-tightening approach to managing the Depression. They even offered a well-formulated alternative.

  In the political shambles that followed the government’s rebuff of this alternative, the Mosleys abandoned Labour and formed the New Party. Oswald stood as its candidate in Stoke in the 1931 election, and lost. Cynthia seems to have withdrawn from political life, and died in tragic circumstances two years later. Though not before Oswald took his new party off in a fascist direction, to Cynthia’s manifest disapproval. And Mitchell’s revulsion.

  Mosley refashioned his new party into the British Union of Fascists, with the Blackshirts as its paramilitary wing of uniformed hooligans. Mitchell recalls that ghastly street scene in Venice in 1927, when he and Flo saw uniformed fascist lowlifes roughing up ordinary citizens while the police just looked on.

  Like Mussolini and Hitler, Mosley is a gifted orator. But unlike them, he isn’t an obvious ratbag. This makes him even more dangerous than they are. He enjoys strong links with the establishment, but also with progressive figures left politically homeless by the collapse of Labour unity – people who remember his insights into economic policy that later developments confirmed. These links endure in spite of Mosley’s importing the standard fascist concoction – pseudo-patriotism laced with antisemitism.

  Mitchell doesn’t spend much time thinking about politics, but he always votes in elections. Usually with the old adage, ‘patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel’ in mind. In the light of the rising fascist menace, though, he now adds ‘and antisemitism’ to the refuge in question.