Lest We Forget Their Finest Hour

*Note: This short story is fiction, but based upon real events.*

Not many people forget that sound. It rings in yours ears. It vibrates the brain inside your head. Your vision is blurry and unfocused. Screeching of failed engines and a shake of your plane as it rattles to pieces. All your mind can accomplish is will your body to keep going, pull up or down or left or right. You fly. Away from life, you always fly. Fly away from the danger as a natural human instinct. And heck did I fly. We all flew: for love, for hate, for god, for faith; we flew through war. We were the pilots of Australia, the pilots of Britain.

Before having been drafted, I was born and raised in New South Wales, Australia. We were poor, like everyone else. You were lucky even to be living with four walls and a roof above your head. But we managed out there in the wildernesses of ’straya, living in a little shack that held our family of three. My Mother, Margaret, was kind and gentle; but our way of living never suited her. She dreamt of going to America one day, the land of freedom, where you could do anything you wanted and live happily. But that was more of a miracle than a dream. My dad was more of a real adventurer. He was buff, and could lift crates of our food all day long. He was the image of a real Australian. We hunted in the fields that seemed to be endless, and set up a little crop. Of course, once a year the Emus trampled our crops, and the magpies swooped like dive-bombers onto our skulls, but those things were the least of our problems.

Our country suffered from a depression in 1929, which only made things worse for our little hut out in the outback. Australia declared war on the Axis powers in June, 1940. To aid Britain in war, we helped their defence, especially in the aspect of defense against Germany and Japan. We were excellent pilots. The RAF (Royal Air Force) fought in air with as many as 100 Australian pilots during the Battle of Britain. That was the battle I would be flying in, just a year after being drafted in 1940.

The letter barely reached us, the only post office we had was a little house in the center of town. Other men got letters too, younger than me, scared to go, but also excited to serve Australia. We were due to leave to a military camp in Victoria where we chose what division we want to join. I chose the RAAF (Royal Australian Air Force). I always marveled at every plane that passed by our town (That wasn't very often either). After a physical two weeks later, I was ready to leave for training at the RAAF Base Williams. I had one month before I had to go and I spent that month as best I could. I said bye to family and friends and went to every party and gathering in the town. I drank and boasted while wearing the sharp Airman flight uniform. I had never worn clothes that clean or nice looking, and my parents were more than ecstatic.

When the day came for me to depart for Williams, I said my final goodbyes and stepped onto the bus that would take me to the airport in the next town. The landscape always looked the same out there. But I had very rarely been outside of the town I grew up in, so I stared at the window of the bus like a little kid looking into the window of a sweet shop while the other riders glanced at me. The bus stopped at the airport and I piled out along with some other men dressed similarly as me. I had never been on a plane, I was shaking from both fear and excitement.

We boarded and the Douglas DC3 taxied to the runway, and took off. The flight led Eastward, across South New Wales to NewCastle on the Coast. If I was excited on the bus ride, I was ECSTATIC on that plane ride. Face glued to the window, I never took my eyes off of the landscape below me. The plane landed at Williams and I clung to my seat when the plane shook. We departed and marveled at the sight of hundreds of fighters and bombers lined along the airport. De Havilland DH.98 Mosquito fighter-bombers were smooth, shiny, and were almost elegant looking. The crews affectionately called them “Mossie”, or the “Wooden Wonder”.

There were spitfires and Mustangs too, lined up in rows and rows and rows of endless wings. It sure was a sight for me: a boy who had grown up only seeing a few planes a year fly by. But here there were hundreds of planes. We started flight training the next day. For six months (along with flight training) we also trained in boot camp, rifle handling, plane evacuation, flak gun operations, plane turret operations, bombing, and survival skills. We also completed obstacle courses: the kinds you’d imagine in most training scenes in war movies.

When basic training ended we were assigned our crew, our rank, and a plane. I secretly hoped to myself that I would get put in a glorious and speedy Mosquito, no matter how terrible my crew was. The day we were assigned my wish was granted: I had been assigned to slick, gray Mosquito fighter bomber (Mk VI). I met my crew standing outside, chatting and smoking together. First there was me, a young skinny Corporal with sunburns and squinting eyes. There was Roger, the short rookie pilot. He may have been small, but he was strong as a bull and had the heart the size of a whale’s. There was our navigator Lt. Scott, a laid-back officer, tall with blonde hair and a beard just as blonde. Lastly there was Tim: our bomb bay man and back machine gun operator. He was buff and handsome, the kind of man that got a woman’s attention. But sadly for Tim, the base had not a trace of female presence. Most worked in factories producing vehicles and weapons for the war.

I was happy with who I had, and we all got along well, and had a little fun too. I sat copilot alongside Roger in the de Havilland Mosquito we called “Malie” (in respect to the number of mosquito bugs buzzing around in Hawaii). After each practice fly, we would taxi to the runway and partly raise and lower the gear, one at a time, to tilt the plane back and forth as if it were doing some kind of Hawaiian hula dance. That cracked up even the Flight Captains and Squadron Leaders. The more we flew the better we got at it. Soon we were one of the best crews in the Squadron (RAAF Squadron 109). We were ready to get into the air at any time, which was anytime Britain needed planes in the air. One day they did, on September 7th. Luftwaffe (Germany’s former air-force) fighters and bombers were ordered into London, and laid down hundreds of thousands of pounds of bombs on the city, destroying everything.

The next day on September 8th, all of Base Williams was in a rush to get ready to depart for London. On September 9th one hundred planes took off from Base Williams. Ten were Mosquitos, forty were Spitfires, and fifty were Mustangs. With the help from the RAAF, Britain’s RAF stood a chance against Germany’s Luftwaffe air-force. On September 11th we arrived at the ANZAC headquarters in Greece to refuel and rest before we flew to meet with the Luftwaffe bombers in London. We had only 2 days to rest in Greece, and we were not allowed outside the base to sight-see. I had never been outside of my town, so not being able to go and explore Greece was like torture. I begged to be allowed into the Air Traffic Tower so I could get a view of the area around the base. They finally let me in and I marvelled at the hills and lakes outside the Air-base’s walls.

We arrived in Britain on September 13th, and all of the radios went silent. Thousands of London houses were reduced to dust and rubble. Smoke plagued the sky as we descended, and fires all over the city glowed red in the grey and depressing scenery of what London once was. No one spoke, we only took off our flight caps and held them against our chests as we gazed upon the apocalyptic landscape.

“Holy ****.”

A voice mumbled over the radio, and we all knew why he said that. Britain really did need our help.

We landed in West London at RAF Northolt. The British there weren’t so cheery nor happy. Their whole city had just been reduced to smithereens. Almost all of the British pilots there had families in London, and they had no idea if they were evacuated in time (Telephone lines were down for miles). They moped around the base, depressed and didn’t see any hope for themselves. We were supposed to be ready at all times to get into the air when the Germans attacked London again. We were also ready to get down on the ground in case the airport was bombed. Both situations were awful to think about.

Twice a day we had air-raid drills. The Sergeants would yell “HIT THE DECK” at any given time, and we would have to get on the ground no matter where we were, and place our hands over our ears like a bomb was about to land. It sure did shake our nerves, and only made us more saddened and worried. On September 14 we circled around radios all over the base, listening to a special speech given out by Winston Churchill. He said this to his people, and to the rest of the world: “I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour’.”

Upon hearing these words, the entire base cheered and clapped, and the sounds of which rang out through the empty halls. But all was about to change.

September 15th the Luftwaffe launched another attack on London, feeling optimistic after their first and very successful seventy bombings on the city. Sirens rang out across the base, a lot more foreboding than the ringing of cheers the day before. That was the day Churchill was talking about. That day was the day we tested our strength against Germany, against Hitler, and against evil. Our planes went up and up off of the runway, but none of us were prepared for what was coming.

We weren’t even in the air for five minutes when we saw them come through the clouds, twenty German Focke-Wulf bombers escorted by a hundred Messerschmitt fighters. Our planes broke apart and veered right and left in the smoking sky. The radios were crowded with so many people talking at once that I couldn’t even hear anyone clearly. Yelling back to Tim and Scott, I fastened my seatbelt and turned our guns off of safety.

“You ready Roger?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” he replied grimly. The German planes grew closer, and they looked like a flock of demonic birds coming to reap our souls. Most of our Spitfires and Mustangs began engaging the first couple bombers, sending one of them plummeting into the ground in a ball of flame. Our Mosquito and nine others were farther back, and we were ordered to engage on any bombers that got through the Spitfires and Mustangs. One by one, the Nazi bombers plummeted into the earth like meteors. But they were getting closer and closer to the city, which was not exactly what we wanted. Seven bombers managed to escaped through the Spitfires, and were headed full-throttle towards the city. Only us ten Mosquitoes were there to stop them. We quickly veered to the right and sped up to catch them. It didn’t take long: the Mosquito was one of the fastest planes in the war. Soon we were right on their tails. Each one of the ten of us chose a bomber out of the seven, and three stayed on the outside incase any bombers tried to turn away.

Roger’s hands were shaking as he got closer to the tail of the bomber in front of us.

“Your plane” he said, his voice cracking.

He turned the controls over to me and I began aiming the nose of the plane toward the bomber.

I brought the gunsight to my eyes and aimed it slightly above the tail of the bomber. With shaking hands I clutched the trigger and pressed it. Bright orange flashes sparked n the front of our plane and bright yellow streaks stuck the tail of the bomber, completely destroying it. Without a tail, the plane spun downwards into the smoky clouds below us. I wiped my forehead and looked to our left. One of our planes had been struck as he got closer to a bomber, and was struck again before he plummeted down into the clouds. We turned left to intercept the bomber, and a bullet hole went through the cockpit windshield. I swerved until we were aligned with the bomber, and more bullet holes hit our windshield and wings. There was a back turret on the Wulf bomber ahead of us, and that gunner was going to do anything to keep us off his tail. I aimed at the bomber again and fired, striking one of its propellers. I fired again, strikings it’s other propeller. With no lift the German plane descended into the clouds while it’s occupants parachuted down, now prisoners of war once they landed.

Only 3 bomber remained, 4 had been taken down. But when we looked up, the city of London came out of the clouds. Burning and grey, the city needed anything but more destruction. Now was our finest hour. With all the force we could muster, the nine Mosquitoes remaining sped up to full speed and we sprayed the bombers with everything we had, blowing two into nothing but fire even before they could even hit the ground. One bomber was left, but we didn’t have any ammunition left, and our guns were smoking. To make things worse, the city was right below us. The Mosquito to our right sped up and moved to the right of the bomber, then tilted its wings left to veer into it.

“For the Queen!”

The radios went to static as the Mosquito’s wings slammed into the bomber’s wings, breaking both planes in half in an explosion. Both planes plummeted through the clouds, and all was silent as we flew over a hell-like London. But the clouds slowly parted and we flew into open blue skies. From that day on people really did remember. That was our finest hour.

---------------------------------------------=<{ Ten Years Later }>=-----------------------------------------

I woke up with a ray of sunlight over my eyes. I raised myself out of bed and stretched. I got dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. My newly wed American wife, Mary, gave me a smile and I headed out of the front door to get the paper. I walked down the block to the mailbox and said hello to some neighbors. I reached our mailbox and pulled the morning paper out of it. There was a comic strip titled: “Peanuts” on the front cover. It was the very first published episode and I read the whole thing, giggling to myself. I folded it up and headed home. It was a perfect day outside, and I couldn’t wait to go grab a shake with Mary, Mom, and Dad. I smiled to myself and looked up at that beautiful blue American sky.