23. Of Kings and Common Men

“The past is never dead: It’s not even past.” William Faulkner

The war had been safely fought and won over a kitchen table. For the chroniclers of history, the good guys won and the bad guys had lost. Great Britain and her Commonwealth partners had pitched a good game; managing to keep the score close. But in the late innings America stepped up to bat and smacked a home run with two men on. A new player had swaggered onto the field and changed the face of the game.

The British Empire: that global power and economic juggernaut on which the sun never set was about to step down from the world stage. During the reign of Queen Victoria, Britannia controlled over 25% of the world’s population and land mass. After the war, decolonization took hold around the globe as one country after another opted (mostly unopposed) for self-rule. India and Burma in 1947. Palestine in ’48. Across the African continent former colonies chose to opt-out. The trend would continue through the rest of the 20th Century when Prince Charles officially handed Hong Kong over to the Communist Chinese government. The greatest empire in the world would be reduced to a small island no bigger than Oregon. On the plus side however; Oregon is our 10th biggest state.

As the English emerged from their backyard Anderson shelters and from the depths of the Underground they could finally take a collective breath of fresh air. Publishers wouldn’t have to print schoolbooks in German after all. A grateful nation showed its appreciation to Winston Churchill by unceremoniously booting him out of office. Clearly the English felt that after 6 years of sacrifice it was time to step off in a new direction. Anything that resembled the past was held up to the looking glass; and found wanting. Out with the old. Like the artifacts in a museum that are tucked away in storage rooms beyond sight, you know they’re there… you just don’t get to dwell on them. But before they locked the door and turned out the lights, the British paused to place their pride on the top shelf along with their bowler hats and world maps.

Keep in mind that the hardships brought on by the war didn’t magically disappear with the arrival of VE Day. Like millions of Europeans on the Continent, the British were literally digging themselves out from under the rubble of their bombed cities. Rationing would continue in Britain until 1954; fifteen years after it began. Tea and sugar were among the last items on the list. To the average American that would be akin to a ration on Cokes and Big Macs. Most people would think that the British don’t celebrate the Fourth of July but they do. That’s the day that rationing officially ended. Unfortunately, Fish ‘n Chips makes lousy barbecue food so our celebration tends to over shadow theirs.

That same summer, an Englishman; Roger Bannister, did something that sportswriters said could never be done. He broke the 4-minute mile. Suddenly it was okay to be British again. The flags came out and were waved about and then just as quickly were locked away again. There they remained closeted until 1966 when England not only hosted the World Cup – but they won the darn thing. And while the country flirted with the notion that just perhaps, there’s nothing wrong with a little national pride, Bob Doe was enjoying the quiet life for the first time in 27 years, having retired from the RAF four months earlier. Incidentally, England, appropriately enough, defeated West Germany in the finals. And ironically, just as in the fateful summer of 1940, America didn’t field a team.

Back in Sussex, the three of us sat around and lamented the decline of the British Empire: all the good, bad and indifferent of it. Any nation that can produce Stonehenge, the Magna Carta, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the King James Bible, the Pub, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Mary Poppins, Winnie the Pooh, Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Rudyard Kipling, Winston Churchill, George Orwell, the Spitfire, James Bond, the mini skirt, John, Paul, George and Ringo, Royal Albert Hall, the British Museum, the Tate Modern, Monty Python, the mini skirt, the Underground (Mind the Gap), Margaret Thatcher, the Routemaster bus, Big Ben, the BBC, Fish and Chips, Yorkshire Terriers, the mini skirt, Dame Judy Dench, English muffins and my ancestors, can’t be all bad.

Bob and Betty both felt that the pendulum had swung too far to the left. I mentioned how nice it was to see that they flew the flag at their home and how my friend Alan in Manchester had pointed out to me that there’s no sense of pride in being English these days. They both echoed that sentiment. Bob said that he felt compelled to ask his neighbor’s permission to fly the flag on their regulation-height pole in the yard.

“He’s fine with it as long as the wind doesn’t blow it around too much.”

It seemed sad to me that a nation that had contributed some of the greatest literary, cultural and scientific works to the world had allowed itself to become so uncomfortable in its own skin. Being humble and unassuming is one thing. Being embarrassed is completely different. By birthright I am an unabashedly proud citizen. As a Southern I have had to weigh the wrong-doings and misdeeds of my heritage against the innumerable contributions from those same people. From the indecency of slavery sprang the dignity of Rosa Parks. From African dirges came the Blues, which in turn, begat Rock and Roll. And as an American… well, there’s no limit to all the points of pride that we can hold up at Show and Tell. But, if Americans can wave the flag and yell, “Look at us” after only 230 years as a nation (great though we may be) then the British should have every right to sit us down and say, “That’s terrific; but when we were your age….”

Another spot of tea later and we had moved on to more trivial matters. I suppose any subject broached after what I had just experienced was bound to be trivial. Betty asked me how I liked the Canary Islands. I gave her the punch line to my experience with Cerstin. She thought that was just horrible and I felt better having her on my side. I said that perhaps dating a German girl hadn’t been such a good idea. They looked at each other as if to say. “That’s what you get.” I glossed over the moment by saying that what I was really looking for was a nice English girl. “At least we’d only be separated by a common language.” To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw.

Betty chuckled. “Good for you. Oh, that’s much better.”

The hours past delightfully by. For the first time since arriving I noticed how dark it had become outside. It had been hard enough finding this house in the daylight that I think I can safely say that the thought of driving back at night made me quite anxious; in the correct sense of the word. Besides it was 7:00 pm and I was probably keeping them from their supper, though neither of them made any moves or suggestions that it was time for me to leave. Still, I felt as if I had extended my welcome as long as I should have and that I could impose on them no longer.

“I really should be letting you both get on with your evening.” I interjected. “I’ve probably taken up too much of your time already.”

“Oh nonsense.” Bob responded. I think Betty suggested that I was being a “Silly ole pudding.” I had never heard that expression before and it caught me off guard. Perhaps I didn’t hear it right. It was obvious however that she was echoing Bob’s sentiment.

“It has been an absolute pleasure to meet you.” Bob continued. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciated getting your kind letters.”

“And he really means it.” Betty added “He shows them to everyone. They’re his letters from a Hollywood stuntman.”
I didn’t think I could be humbled any further by my experiences here today but I felt my face flush a bit and as I broke into an embarrassed smile. I reached up to casually dab at my eyes, which had begun to glisten slightly at his unexpected humility and humanity. I thanked him for his graciousness and for taking the time to meet with a stranger from “across the Pond” and for regaling me with his remembrances of the war.

“It’s such a terrible waste…war is. There’s just no reason to it is there?” It seemed that we had fast-forwarded 60 years and were suddenly talking about the current war. I felt like he was bringing me full-circle and that I needed to leave with the understanding that war is not romantic nor is it heroic. It is a sad and lonely affair that degrades and diminishes everything and everyone that it touches.

I said something very profound in response. I only wish now that I could remember what it was. I thought about Andi’s nephew Charlie. It had been less than a week since he was killed in Iraq. I mentioned him to Bob and Betty. They were both disturbed by the news. I said that in all my sheltered, pampered life that Charlie was the only person I knew that had been killed in war.

“It’s always the politicians that get us into these messes.” He said.

“But they’re not the ones that are asked to pay the price.” I added; not very profoundly. Betty voiced agreement and the conversation trailed off. I stood up and reached into my backpack. I broke the silence by asking if Bob he would mind signing two copies of “Spitfire Ace”. I wanted one for myself and one for my best friend Tom. I apologized by saying that I had tried unsuccessfully to find his book before I came but no one had it in stock. He happily obliged.

“How do you want it to read?” He asked as he turned to the title page “Do you want me to sign it ‘Wing Commander’?”

I started to say that whatever title he felt was appropriate was fine by me but Betty interjected. “Oh he doesn’t want all that. Just sign your name.” And so he did.

John, with my best wishes – Bob Doe

“Now, shall we be getting your autograph?” Betty inquired. She explained that late last year they had a visit from a Canadian who wanted to meet Bob and take some photos of him. A few days afterwards Betty told her grandchildren about this nice young man named Bryan Adams (as in: the rock star). The Grandkids gave her fits for not getting his autograph and she didn’t want to go through that again with. I assured her that her family had never heard of me but that just to be safe I would send them autographed pictures when I returned home.

“May I ask another favor of you? I put forward. “Do you know of an easier way to get back to Gatwick?”

Bob immediately sprang to the rescue and turned to Betty. “Why don’t you ring up Tim?” Their son-in-law. Betty did, and explained the situation to him. She made the introductions and passed the phone to me.
“Hello John.”

“Hi Tim. Sorry to trouble you.”

“No worries. So where are you off to?”

“I’m staying at a hotel near Gatwick.”

“Oh…well take the A26 to Tunbridge Wells....”

“Hold on just a moment….” I flipped through my note pad. The one that I hadn’t written a single word in since entering this house. So much for a career in journalism. At the same time I fumbled around in my backpack and fished out a pen.
“Okay.” I reported “Take the A26…”

“That’s it. When you get to Tunbridge Wells take the A264. You’ll see signs for M23 just before the airport.”

Simple. I thanked Tim and handed the phone back to Betty who also thanked him. I put away the video camera and the books, being careful not to bend the print that Bob had signed for me. I slung the pack over one shoulder as Bob and Betty both stood up to see me off. Bob and I shook hands again. This time I took his into both of mine.

“Thank you again so very much.” I offered. “I’ll keep in touch if that’s okay.”

“John, please do. That would be marvelous.” He intoned.

Betty saw me out the door and to the car. “Now you know how to get back to the main road?”

I assured her that I did. She gave me a warm hug and stood in the drive as I backed around and then headed out the driveway past the flagpole on which the Union Jack proudly flew. Less than 45 minutes later I was approaching the M23 and Gatwick. The drive had been uneventful. Even in the dark of night and with a brief mixture of snow and rain around Tunbridge Wells I had no trouble finding my way. I did overshoot the turnoff to the M23 and had to figure out how to get turned around the other direction. Then I got trapped on a roundabout for a couple of turns as I tried to determine where to exit. Eventually I made it back to Gatwick and dropped the car off at the rental place.

The clerk asked how I had gotten along on the English roads. I assured him that there was nothing to it. He asked where all I had been and if I had found it to be a satisfying experience. I smiled.

“I just interviewed Bob Doe, who flew Spitfires in the Battle of Britain.” I proudly stated, as I headed off into the English night.

22. The Remaining Few

I was running down my list of questions. I knew from my reading, that during the Battle of Britain Bob Doe was credited with 14 1/ 2 kills: making him one of the highest scoring Aces during the Battle. As a policy, Fighter Command frowned upon the practice of recognizing individual records, as opposed to the Germans, who tended to glorify personal triumph, often at the expense of the squadron. That was deep rooted in the God-like status of the Red Baron in World War I. And while it was the British press that felt the need to glorify the flyers, among themselves, the pilots considered it bad form to brag about their exploits: “Line shooting” as they referred to it.

When I asked Bob Doe about the planes that he had shot down he simply acknowledged that the number was accurate. I think I phrased it in some innocuous way; avoiding the term “Kills”. Like most of the young men who chose to hurl themselves around the sky in metal crates at 360 m.p.h. Bob Doe was a gentle warrior. He, and the others, did what they had to do because, quite frankly, there was no other choice. Many pilots recounted that they weren’t trying to kill the man; they were trying to destroy the plane. The Poles and Czechs who flew for the RAF, on the other hand, took things much more personally. For them it was a chance for retribution.

I glanced over at my notepad on the table to search for a good question. “You flew both Spitfires and Hurricanes. How many physically did you have… Where you had to bail out or crash land?”

He got quite still. I feared I had crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. He looked down at the table and shook his head.

“God knows. I don’t know. I have no idea.”

Bailing out of a plane must be tricky enough under the best of circumstances. I don’t imagine that there were many of those scenarios involved in combat. You had to remember to unfasten your straps, unhook your oxygen mask and communications lines from your flying helmet and then, if all was going according to procedure, you would slide back the canopy, roll the plane upside down, and fall out of the plane. That doesn’t account for the possibility that the plane is on fire, you get caught on something, you’re injured or that someone is shooting at you. Oh yeah… and pray your chute opens. If you survive all of that you automatically become a member of the Caterpillar Club: as in silk worms. Ergo, “Hitting the silks.” Bob Doe is a member.

Just after noon on October 10, while flying a Hurricane with 238 Squadron over Dorset he got tangled up with a BF109. Wounded in the leg and shoulder, and with a crippled airplane, Bob Doe had to bail out. His Hurricane crashed near the 1000-year old Corfe Castle. The battle diary for that day listed 8 aircraft damaged or destroyed with 6 pilots killed and one wounded. Twelve days later Bob Doe received the Distinguished Flying Cross. Only one medal, the Victoria Cross, is more honored; and only one of those was awarded to Fighter Command during the entire war.

Two months later he was flying again. And then on January 3, 1941 while returning from a night sortie the oil in his plane froze and the engine stopped. He crashed into a snow-covered field at 160 m.p.h. His harness snapped and he broke his arm. That was the least of his injuries. His face smashed into the gun sight obliterating his nose and knocking one of his eyes out of its socket. Doctors were able to reset the eye and he was placed under the care of Dr. Harold Gillies, who arguably was the Father of Plastic Surgery. While at Park Prewett Hospital Bob Doe underwent 20 surgeries just to regain the ability to talk and eat properly. He was even allowed to pick out a new nose from pictures of various styles in a book.

With a piece of his hip now forming the boney bridge of his new nose he walked out of the hospital four months after his horrific crash and rejoined his squadron.

Of course he mentioned none of this to me. I wouldn’t learn about his personal sacrifices and suffering until well afterward. So for the moment I was left hanging with a discomfited silence that seemed to last as long as it probably took to read that explanation.

Thankfully Betty, perhaps sensing trouble, or else trying to extract me from my awkwardness, came to the rescue.

“You didn’t always have the same plane….” She volunteered; deftly steering us back on course and away from the conversational rocks.

“I nearly always had the same plane.” He seemed to brighten up again. “Occasionally it had to be serviced or repaired.”

Crisis averted. Betty has been a real lifesaver throughout this process. I suspect that is in both the literal and figurative senses. She was a natural editor for Bob’s remembrances. I’m sure she has sat in that same chair across from me on countless afternoons as Bob recounted his life to other captivated audiences. She was a trusted partner in the business of “Bob Doe – Fighter Pilot”. I knew that he was in very capable hands having her by his side.

As we talked Betty would unapologetically light a cigarette as though we were back in 1940’s London, sitting around a cozy table at the Savoy Hotel or taking a break between dances at the Hammersmith Palias. I found it rather charming. She refilled my glass with a spot more Brandy and put the kettle on for tea which she served up with a plate of absolutely mouth-watering biscuits (cookies). She arranged the flowers that I had brought in a crystal vase and set them on the counter near us. While she tended to us Bob signed a print for me of a pastel portrait of him as a young pilot.

I commented on the American pilots penchant for painting the name of their girl, or some other form of nose art, on their plane. I had noticed in pictures that the British planes seemed devoid of that.

“Some people used to put the number of swastikas on the side that you’d shot down. I never did.” I could sense that he viewed that as a visual form of “Line shooting”.

“I always had a ‘D’ on my plane. ‘D’ for Doe.” That sounded like something I would do. I don’t know if it’s superstition or just something neat to do. Even now I wear “90” on my ice hockey jersey because it was my number when I played football in high school: Just a year or two younger than many of those pilots. It was probably the only thing that I would be able to empathize with. I joined his smile with one of my own.

“One of the nicest things that happened, I think, during the Battle of Britain, was on one occasion – as I told you… we had no C.O. and no “A” Flight Commander at all – they posted a new C.O. in and… he came up as my #2 on his first sortie. We eventually came across a JU-88 over Winchester area, or somewhere. I shot this thing down (laughs). I say I shot it down because I was the only one near it. It crashed in a field not far from the airfield.”

There must have been a bit of personal (and professional) satisfaction involved with that. I’m not certain how things worked in the RAF but I imagine that if I shot down a German bomber in front of my boss she would be very impressed, to say the least.

The imagine of the bomber, burning away in the field, reminded me of something that I hadn’t thought of in probably 30 years. I told them about the English Literature book that my mother had when she was going to school in Mississippi. It had obviously been published in the early ‘40s because when you opened up the cover, there inside, across two pages was a painting of a JU-88 that had just crashed in a field. Flames licked the outside of the mangled fuselage with the swastika was still emblazoned on the tail fin.

Bob eyes danced with the image; both his and mine. He laughs. “How lovely… (still laughing)… How lovely.”

He sighed. It was a relaxed and satisfying gesture. I looked for a sign that he was getting tired of reliving his experiences but to the contrary I think he actually pulled strength from doing so. We were soon back up at 20,000 feet again, a smoldering JU-88 scattered across a field in southern England below.

“…. I got a bullet through my main spar in the process. The weird thing is – when you’re coming up behind an aeroplane to shoot at it: the Germans used a lot of tracers… and when the tracer starts out it comes straight towards you and as it gets close to you it goes past.” He held his finger out from an arm’s length away and brought it straight back toward his beautifully reconstructed nose as he described the sensation of being fired on. At the last moment he passed his finger past his ear.

“It’s really a funny feeling.”

I would hopefully have to take his word for that. In my relatively cloistered life-experience I have never thought to use the word “funny” in the same sentence describing being shot at.

“You get down deeper behind the engine, you know, because the engine would stop most things.”

Note to self: In the event of gunfire, dive behind a 1200 h.p. Rolls Royce Merlin V12 engine.

“The interesting thing was, on this incident where I had a bullet through my main spar – there was an RAF; not RAF… a Spitfire repair place down at Hombolt which was sort of a grass airfield near Southampton. I was asked if I would fly my aeroplane down there the next day to get it repaired.”

The defense of Britain was augmented by the use of the Civilian Repair Organization. These journeymen; many from British Railways, repaired almost 4200 planes during the Battle of Britain. Often times salvaging parts from crashed planes. 60% of the aircraft that they eventually rebuilt had been written off as total losses by the air stations.

“It was flyable. Not safely flyable… A bullet through the main spar, it wouldn’t really be would it? Anyway, I flew it down there. It was a lovely day. At that time we were so tired. My over riding memory of the Battle of Britain was tiredness. Over-whelming tiredness. We didn’t much sleep, and I think it could have a lot to do with tension as well, you know. The two go together don’t they?”

“I arrived there and the first thing I do is went to sleep on the grass. It was a civilian place with civilian people doing all the work; and the foreman – a nice man, came over to me, where I was asleep on the grass and said, would I like to come home and meet his wife and have dinner with them.”

These early days of the war were not simply the Battle of Britain. In fact, the German never referred to this phase of the war as that. To them it was, “Kanalkampf” (Battle of the Channel). For the English; and you must include the Scots, Welsh and Irish, it was a battle for Britain. Everyone shared in the affects and hardships brought about by the Luftwaffe’s campaign.

On August 24th two German bombers, off-course and lost in a nighttime fog, jettisoned their payloads before turning for their bases in France. Unfortunately they happened to be over a blacked-out London at the time: and the Fuehrer had expressly forbidden the capitol city to be bombed. Churchill repaid the favor with two nights of bombing raids on Berlin. Göering had to eat his words. Many Berliners, having grown tired of the Reichsmarschall’s swaggering boasts, took him at his word and began referring to him as “Meyer.”

When Göering asked his top fighter ace, Adolf Gallant, what he would need to defeat the RAF, Gallant responded, “A squardon of Spitfires.”

Enraged by the indignity of the Berlin attacks, Hitler ordered the full-scale bombing of London to commence. What had begun as attacks on coastal radar and airfields turned into the indiscriminate bombing of cities and civilians. On September 4th, Hitler ordered the first raids on London. The Blitz was about to begin.

On September 15th, what be be later known as the Battle of Britain Day, Göering launched the entire might of the Luftwaffe against England. At one point every plane that Fighter Command had was in the air. This was literally, Do or Die.

Bob Doe did not see action that day. Reflecting on 234 Squadron he recounted just how quickly things transpired during the Battle. “We were out in just under 28 days because we only had 3 pilots left.” He paused and then felt the need, I’m sure, to re-assure me. “They weren’t all killed.”

Fighter Command had won the day. On the 17th, Hitler cancelled plans for Operation Sea Lion. Bombs would continue to rain down on London, Manchester, Liverpool and the other cities and towns throughout England. But never again with the intention being to eliminate the RAF. Instead, Hitler now hoped that by bombing the cities, the people would turn against Churchill and the war. He was grossly underestimating the will of the British.

Bob Doe would return to action. He would survive countless crashes and agonizingly brutal injuries. The Summer of battles over the fields of England gave way to increased forays over German-held territory. The RAF was now taking to fight to Hitler. 1940 turned to 41. America was still a year away from joining the war.

In May he was promoted to Flight Commander and posted to No: 66 Squadron and after three months joined No: 130 Squadron on August 18th. Later that year, on October 22nd he was posted to 57 O.T.U. (Operational Training Unit) as an instructor. On June 9th 1943 Doe went to the Fighter Leaders School, at Milfield and then joined No: 118 Squadron at Coltishall in July. He then joined No: 613 Squadron in August until October when he was posted to Burma. In December 1943 he was tasked with forming No: 10 (Indian Air Force) Squadron and commanded it throughout the Burma campaign until April 1945.

“We were flying Hurricanes carrying two, 500 lbs. bombs and four cannons. It’s like flying a barge. I don’t know how else to describe it.” He laughed hard. “As an airplane it was useless…but it did the job.” He gave a satisfied and definite punctuation to that staement.

“We were dropping bombs 50 yards from our own troops. In the middle of the jungle. So your map reading had to be pretty accurate.”

“That’s precision bombing.” I marveled.

“It was. It was. Precisely.”

Their orders were to give close support of the ground troops and to stop the Japanese advance. With the formal surrender of Japan On August 15th, 1945 it was all over. Six weeks later, on October 2nd Bob Doe received the Indian DSO, one of only two men to be honored with this award.

Almost seven years to the day from the start of the war, Bob Doe finally returned home to his beloved England and his mum’s backyard; The one that he was just trying to keep “those Bastards” from coming into. The gardener’s son from Surrey, the 17-year-old boy that memorized the Moment of the Arm retired from the RAF on April 1st, 1966 having obtained the rank of Wing Commander.

Epilogue: 2,917 men flew in the Battle of Britain against the Germans. As of May 28, 2006, 150 are still alive. Bob Doe is one of the remaining few.

21. Tally Ho

Some estimates placed the number of German fighters and bombers at 2,500. The RAF had roughly 650 Spitfires and Hurricanes. If England were to achieve victory in the air then these fresh-faced boys of 19 and 20 years of age would have to shoot down battle-hardened veterans of the German Luftwaffe at a ratio of 4-1. Anyone could do the math. Fighter Command would be asked to do the impossible.

Churchill said in a speech to the House of Commons on June 4, 1940, after the evacuation of Dunkirk. “…. The Royal Air Force engaged the main strength of the German Air Force, and inflicted upon them losses of at least four to one….”

It was a very optimistic claim. Figures listed the RAF losses at 106 planes versus 390 for the Luftwaffe. The fact that this wasn’t true didn’t seem to concern anyone. It was a huge public relations triumph and an important morale booster. It wasn’t until after the war that it was discovered that the German losses amounted to no more than 132 planes.

Throughout the Battle of Britain the number of planes shot down on both sides would be greatly exaggerated. These inflated numbers were more often the result of confusion in the heat of battle; with several pilots claiming the same “kill”. When asked his opinion of suspiciously high kill counts, Air Marshal Hugh Dowding said, “I'm really not interested in dealing with propaganda. If we're right, they'll give up. If we're wrong, they'll be in London within a week.” Actually I don’t know for a fact that he said that. Lawrence Olivier, playing Dowding in the 1969 movie Battle of Britain said that.

Still, it would have been easy to overlook Churchill’s boasting of the RAF. Dunkirk was seen as a Naval triumph, aided by the privately owned “little ships.” It was his closing remarks in that same speech that grabbed the hearts and minds of the British (and perhaps a few Americans as well). “…. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender….”

Now the war was moving from the confines of continental Europe and was being fought in the skies above Great Britain. The average Brit was no longer an innocent observer, or a politically detached participant. You could step outside your home, look up into the sky and follow the battles being played out 20,000 feet above you. Planes crashed in your fields. Bombs, initially intended for airfields, errantly fell on your village. Everyone now had a stake in the outcome.

On August 15th Göering launched, what he told Hitler, would be the knockout blow to destroy the RAF and pave the way for the invasion of England. He sent 1,790 planes in five waves against 584 fighters for the RAF. He even gave it a name. Adlertag. (Eagle Day). That was the day that Bob Doe was first ordered into battle.

At 17:00 hours the call came in to 234 Squadron. “Scramble.” They formed up with Hurricanes from 87 Squadron and 213 Squadron. Their 20 planes were sent on a course to intercept a wave of bombers over the Channel. What they found was a combined strength of 125 German planes, including fighter escort. In their first action they were already at a 5-1 disadvantage.

F/L Ian Gleed of 87 Squadron quickly accessed the situation and the odds. In a moment of inspired lunacy, he radioed instructions to his flight. “Okay chaps… let’s go and surround them!” Though heavily outnumbered, the scrappy RAF pilots managed to break through the formation. Bob Doe found himself behind a BF110 twin-engine heavy fighter. He closed up within range and began firing his 8 machine guns. To his utter astonishment the fighter turned over and dived into the Channel. Perhaps somewhat mesmerized, he followed it down and watched it crash into the sea. As he pulled out of his dive he realized that someone was shooting at him from behind. The pursuing German over shot him. Bob Doe was able to settle in behind the 2nd plane and he shot him down too. In less than a minute he had claimed two of the three BF110s that crashed into the Channel.

The successes were not without losses. Three of the five Hurricanes from 87 Squadron that heeded the call to surround the Germans were shot down. One pilot died and another was reported missing. The third received injuries making a crash landing.

With the earlier disappearance of their C.O. and one Flight Commander, 234 Squadron was already down two men going into its first major combat.

“Two more of our people landed in France with their wheels down.” He stared deep into my soul. His gaze… I couldn’t quite place it at first…Deliberate. The pause lasted only a few beats but the implication hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. He seemed to be willing me to understand. I replayed his words in my head. “… landed in France with their wheels down.” - And then I got it. Those pilots weren’t shot down. They chose to land in France. The war for them was over. Life in a P.O.W. camp preferable to slugging it out in the air.

He punctuated the sentence. “We had four pilots went LMF: Lack of Moral Fibre we called it; in our first sortie.” He offered no other explanation nor did he editorialize.

The term “LMF” seems to have originated within the ranks of Bomber Command as a way of describing an officer or airman that refused to do one’s duty for whatever reason. It could have been a moral objection, exhaustion or saving your skin. It seems obvious that “LMF” was a proxy for “Coward”. The label might not seem particularly sensitive in this day of political correctness, when the individual’s feelings supercede those of the greater body. One good thing can be said for the term. Even though it was intended to shame and humiliate the individual it was a much kinder reputation to acquire than “Coward”. That word had legal ramifications that, in the heat of battle, that could get you killed: by firing squad. Better to forego a promotion or peel potatoes than be shot. Maybe that’s just me.

In accessing their performance Bob Doe was quite succinct some 60-odd years later when interviewed by another television crew. “We did everything wrong that we could possibly do wrong. We flew off in close formation, which is about the most stupid thing you can do... We got the same height that we were told the enemy was at, which, again, is very stupid. You want to be above them. We proceeded to troll up and down the sun which is idiotic because half the time you can’t see a thing behind you.”

For all the mistakes that were made that day, and there were many; the RAF had been bullied and bloodied, but not beaten. It was the first significant test of Hugh Dowding’s Fighter Command and they had passed. If the German insisted on coming they would be made to pay dearly.

On August 20, Winston Churchill rose in the House of Commons and paid homage to the pilots of the RAF and forever galvanized a nation.

“…. The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the world war by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

The pilots had finally gotten their due. Earlier questions raised during the Battle of France were forgotten. No longer were they viewed as a swaggering cadre of elitists. These pilots were from among their own ranks and social class. They were now playing to a world stage. And with the official anointing from Churchill they had just attained “Rock Star” status. Men wanted to buy them drinks. Girls wanted to go out with them. From across the nation they had become, almost over night, “Our Boys.”

It seemed like a good place to ask one of the stupid questions I had written down when I was sitting on the balcony in La Gomera waiting for Cerstin to return from the beach. Wow. Was that yesterday? Two days ago? I was literally and historically a world away.

“How many Sorties would you fly in a day?”

“Four or Five.” He said very matter-of-factly.

I think I audibly exhaled in disbelief. “So you’d land – because of fuel, or to rearm…. What was the turn around time before you’d go up again?”

“Oh… it depends on how quick you were. You could turn around in ten minutes.”

This time I definitely audiblized. It was a cross between a laugh, a gasp and a spit-take. “I had no idea it was that quick.”

“Our ground crews were fantastic. They really were fantastic. They took more interest in what you had done than anyone did. They used to leap on the wing as you got in and help you take your straps off. They’d say, ‘How’d you get on today?’. They knew you had been in action because when you’d come back, underneath the wing, where the guns fired would be gunpowder. They used to wash it off every time so they knew if you had been in action. They were wonderful. They really were wonderful.”

I was curious about the relationship between the pilots and the airmen that made up the support team. “Did you have the same ground crew?”

“Yes, yes. An airframe fitter and an engine fitter. The rest of them were just around all of the aeroplanes.”

These were the men that made it possible for the planes to stay in the air and though they weren’t taken the Germans on head-to-head they were nonetheless just as vulnerable to attack. Perhaps more so. With the Luftwaffes’s initial emphasis on bombing airfields there were many causalities to the ground crews. There were instances throughout the war of the heroic, selfless and unheralded sacrifices made by the ground crews as they tried to save planes or pilots from imminent danger; usual resulting in their deaths.

“One I have met since, but I think they’re all dead now. I remember our Flight Sergeant was an ex-bus driver. A London bus driver.” Bob Doe smiled fondly as he reached back to recall his crew. He probably hadn’t thought about them in years but doing so now seemed to please him.

In the first letter that he sent to me, Bob Doe included a photo of him standing in front of his Spitfire; still wearing his Mae West life vest and holding his helmet. To the left of the photo, sprawled on the grass field beside him, was a dapper looking fellow in full uniform. Officer’s hat and all. It seemed a strange juxtaposition. The casual pose somehow at odds with the rank. And yet, while my eye was first drawn to that detail, there was another, more important feature to the photograph. For there, on the wing, stood Bob Doe’s ubiquitous airman; ready to assist his pilot at a moment’s notice.