LE HAVRE, FRANCE—SEPTEMBER 13, 1939
Fifteen thousand feet above the English Channel, Flying Officer James “Jimmie” Quill of the Royal Air Force (RAF) peered through the cockpit glass of his Hawker Hurricane, a British single-seater monoplane fighter aircraft. Ahead and below his plane, a Blenheim bomber squadron was flying in a tight, Vic formation. The drone of propellers filled Jimmie’s ears, and a mix of patriotism and disquietude stirred inside his chest. He was serving as an escort for the bombers of the Air Component of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) that were being deployed to France to support British and French armies. But, after accompanying the bombers to their airfield, Jimmie wasn’t returning home. He was going to war.
Jimmie—a tall, hazel-eyed twenty-five-year-old son of a shipbuilder from Portsmouth—had been given orders to report to his new post with the No. 73 Squadron, a unit of Hawker Hurricane fighter pilots that arrived in France earlier in the week. Unlike the other pilots of No. 73 Squadron, who were experienced and had flown together for quite some time, Jimmie was a raw recruit. Two weeks ago, he finished his advanced training on fighters at RAF Tern Hill in Shropshire. Although he had graduated near the top of his class, he was far from an adept aviator.
Prior to advanced training, Jimmie flew a Gloster Gladiator, an obsolete biplane fighter that was no match for a German Messerschmitt. The RAF expected the new Hurricane to be a more formidable opponent, given its light weight, maneuverability, and one-thousand-horsepower Rolls-Royce engine that could produce a top speed of 340 mph. Additionally, the Hurricane was heavily armed with eight .303-inch Browning machine guns, four in each wing. Jimmie, despite his rigorous training, was still getting acclimated to wearing a flying helmet with a radio set, as well as having his nose and mouth covered by an oxygen mask that contained a microphone. Also, the space of the cockpit was quite narrow, especially for a broad-shouldered man like Jimmie, and each time he turned to examine his surroundings, his arms brushed the sides of the compartment. He hoped that, with additional flight time, the Hurricane would begin to feel like an extension of his mind and limbs. But training was over, and gaining expertise in the Hurricane would likely need to be acquired in combat.
An hour after departing RAF Digby in Lincolnshire, England, Jimmie’s adrenaline surged at the sight of the earth’s crust that rose from the sea. As he gazed at the rugged Normandy coastline, the radio speaker crackled inside his helmet.
“Welcome to France,” the bomber squadron leader’s voice said.
Jimmie drew a deep breath and exhaled. He reached into the interior pocket of his flight jacket and patted his good luck charm—a small, tattered stuffed Piglet—which was a gift from his sister, Nora.
Minutes later, the squadron reached the Le Havre-Octeville Airport and was given permission to land. Jimmie circled the perimeter while the Blenheim bombers took turns touching down on an earthen runway. After the bombers safely landed, Jimmie lined his sights on the strip of smooth ground. He adjusted the control stick and cut back on the throttle, decreasing the airspeed. The pointers on the altimeter gradually lowered until the wheels of his Hurricane touched the ground.
The airport was primarily used as a French military airbase. It contained a large fleet of planes, most of which were outdated French aircraft. Much like Britain, France had been militarily complacent in the decades after the Great War, and the country had been scrambling over the past year to modernize its air force. At the far end of the field were canvas tents and aircraft of the RAF, identifiable by their painted roundel symbols. He taxied his plane to a squadron of parked Hurricanes on a grass-covered area and cut the engine. He unbuckled his harness, slid open the canopy, and climbed out of his aircraft.
A bespectacled RAF ground crewman, wearing a blue coverall and cap, approached Jimmie and saluted him. “Good day, sir.”
Jimmie returned the salute and extended his hand. “Flying Officer Jimmie Quill.”
The man shook Jimmie’s hand. “I’m Corporal Horace Yates, your fitter.”
A “fitter” was a technician who was responsible for aircraft engines, as well as loads of other mechanical parts. Although each of the ground crew—including “riggers” who fueled the aircraft, and “armorers” who loaded weapons—performed important roles, a cracking “fitter” could be the difference between life and death for a pilot.
“Where do you call home?” Jimmie asked.
“Southampton, sir.”
Jimmie grinned. “We’re almost neighbors. I was born and raised in Portsmouth.”
“My wife, Daisy, and I were married in Portsmouth Cathedral.”
“It’s a grand church, and a short walk from my childhood home,” Jimmie said. “Do you and Daisy have children?”
Horace’s eyes brightened. “A six-month-old girl named Olive.” He removed a small photograph from a breast pocket of his coverall and showed it to Jimmie.
“She’s a darling,” Jimmie said, peering at an image of a chubby-cheeked infant wearing a lace dress and bonnet.
“She takes after her mum.” Horace put away the picture. “Do you have a wife and children, sir?”
“Not as fortunate as you, I’m afraid.” Jimmie placed a hand on the wing of his Hurricane. “Until the war is over, I’m devoted to my bird.”
Horace chuckled. “Of course, sir.”
“You’re welcome to call me Jimmie when we’re not in the presence of officers.”
“Will do.” He pointed to a large tent with a British flag. “The squadron leader is expecting you.”
“There’s a duffel bag stowed away in the plane,” Jimmie said. “I’ll get it after I meet with him.”
“No need. I’ll have it placed in your barracks.” Horace slid his cap from his head, revealing a receding brown hairline. “When you were landing, I noticed an oil streak on the belly of your Hurricane. I’ll check over the engine to make sure there’s not a leak. Also, the stain clashes with the camouflage and you might be spotted by the Luftwaffe. I’ll have the aircraft touched up with some fresh paint.”
“Thanks, Horace.”
Jimmie made his way to the squadron leader’s tent, its canvas flap door tied open. He stopped at the entrance and saluted a group of four RAF officers who were inside, standing around a table with a map. “Flying Officer Jimmie Quill reporting for duty, sir.”
“At ease.” A thin-framed officer with pale skin and chapped lips approached Jimmie and shook his hand. “I’m Squadron Leader Hank More. Welcome to Seventy-Three Squadron.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jimmie said.
Hank gestured to a mustached, pipe-smoking pilot, who was wearing a red, paisley ascot that was neatly tied around his neck and tucked into his tunic. “Flying Officer Gord Fernsby.”
“Good day,” Jimmie said.
Gord, his face stoic, gave a nod and puffed on his pipe.
An acrid scent of burnt tobacco penetrated Jimmie’s nose.
Hank pointed to a pilot with a round, boyish face and unkempt, thick brown hair. “Flying Officer Newell Orton—his nickname is Fanny.”
“Welcome.” Fanny shook Jimmie’s hand.
Hank gestured to the last pilot. “Flying Officer Edgar Kain.”
“Everyone calls me Cobber,” the pilot said with a New Zealand accent. He had dark brown hair, parted down the middle but slightly off center, and dark circles surrounded his eyes, like someone who suffered from insomnia. He approached Jimmie and shook his hand.
“It’s good to meet you,” Jimmie said.
