During the early part of the Battle of Britain, Royal Air Force relied mostly on the reservists and the part time flyers who were the mainstay of Fighter Command. Most were either young, 'green' and under-trained or had been with the RAF for so long that they were actually past their peak, although if we look at the records we would find that many of the 'aces' were actually over thirty years of age. The cream of the British fighter pilots for some reason were transferred to Bomber Command between the two world wars and at the outbreak of the Second World War it left Fighter Command in a rather dilapidated position.

Quite often we are accustomed to seeing the fighter pilot in silk-lined flying jackets with silk scarves

bellowing in the wind as they race around in their open wheeler two seater sports cars and with their public school education throw out remarks like " I say old chap, did you enjoy that pancake with the Spit". News and film media have always displayed the role of the fighter pilot in this fashion, but actually out of the 3,500 Fighter Command pilots that took part in the Battle of Britain, only about 200 had received a public school education. 601 Squadron had a number of these, and the parking lot at Tangmere used to look like a starting point for a 'concours de elegance' with brightly coloured MG's and Austin Healey's looking in far better shape than the Hurricanes that they flew. It has been said that these pilots actually bought the local service station so as to keep their cars on the road. Most of the pilots came from much humbler backgrounds, there were bank clerks, young doctors, factory workers, shop assistants and hundreds who had just ordinary jobs. Many of these were given a hard time by the educated contingent and quite a bit of resentment followed.

Pilots were called up to serve in the RAF in a number of ways, many applied to serve with the Royal Air Force after seeing the many recruitment posters displayed all over Britain. Quite a few were already serving with the RAF while others already belonged to University Air Squadrons such as Oxford, Cambridge and London, and Eton although only a school, was very well represented with many Etonians going to the other University Air Squadrons. Many, after having part time training belonged to the Auxilary Air Force and these pilots were given 'Calling Out Papers' like the one shown above that was issued to 'Sandy' Johnstone who was directed to report to 602 City of Glasgow Squadron. Many of these pilots flying for the first time together were sent to France, some immeadiatly became heroes like Edgar 'Cobber' Kain a New Zealander who claimed his first Dornier Do17 in November 1939, then shot down another Do17 just fifteen days later. 'Cobber' chalked up 17 confirmed victories before being killed in an accident in June 1940. He was awarded the DFC. Many pilots recorded victories but in general, most pilots complained of the condition of the aircraft saying that they were, in conjunction with the inexperience of the new pilots, no match for the Luftwaffe pilots who already had considerable combat experience.

I woke as the the airman orderly tapped my shoulder and repeated, "Come along Sir, come along Sir, 4.30" in my ear. It was very cold in the hut and dark, so I wrestled with myself for a few minutes and then jumped out of bed and put on my flying kit quickly. Irvin trousers over my pyjamas, sweater, flying boots, scarf, Irvin jacket......I left the hut to look at my aeroplane.

I climbed into the cockpit out of which the fitter had just stepped, "Morning Williams, morning French, put my 'chute on the tail please," I checked the instruments one by one: petrol tanks full; tail trimming wheels neutral; airscrew fine pitch; directional; gyro set; helmet on reflector sight with oxygen and R/T leads connected - in fact everything as I liked it for a quick getaway when we scrambled.

Returning to the hut I found Hathaway, the orderly lighting the fire by the light of a hurricane lamp, while Chips lay fast asleep in a deckchair, his head lolling down on his yellow Mae-West. I lay down, and immeadiately became unconcious as if doped.......What seemed the next moment I woke with a terrific start to see everyone pouring out of the hut.......I could hear the telephone orderly repeating: "Dover 26,000; fifty plus bandits approaching from south-east."

Horton shouted, "Scramble Bill, lazy bastard," and automatically I ran out. Parrachute on, pulled into cockpit by crew who had alreay started the engine. Straps, helmet, gloves, check the knobs, taxi out, get into the right position in my section and take off. I put the R/T on, and only then do I wake up and realise I am in the air flying with the distance between the ground and the Spitfire increasing all the time......

As the twelve Spitfires manoevered into formation, and climbed for the east, I glanced down at my watch. Under ninty seconds. 'Not bad. Hope the old man was impressed.'

I started to wonder if we'd be too late again. Somehow the Controllers seemed slower these days. (They were - the communications network had been hard hit. But what they gave was far more accurate....well, sometimes. Everyone was learning.) 'Villa Leader, hullo, Villa Leader. Many bandits approaching Dungeness, Angels 15 and above. Buster!"

Thin trails of smoke reached back from the exhaust ports. I looked over at my number two, "pull in Chips, pull in, your too far out....and pull up a bit.......and watch that sun, thats where the bastards will be coming from." and from Chips, I wouldn't expect anything else for a reply, "and I suppose you want me to watch me mirror too sir!!!"

I had to start thinking tactics, we should really add a couple of thousand feet to our directed height, better to be a little too high, than caught in the murderous fire raining down from the 109s....

Johnson, rehearsing in his mind his first - and only kill; a bomber nearly two weeks ago. Had it been a fluke? could he ever do it again? Chips, with five to his credit, wondering if was really true that you got the DFM for six kills.....he switched on the reflector sight, and turned the knurled knob until the brightness was exactly right. By now, a hardened veteran at 21, he knew what to expect. We were climbing higher; he set the bars to the wingspan of a 109. Chalkie Turner, on his first operational sortie, checking every dial, every setting again and again, practising lifesaving tips he'd managed to pick up from the others. Get the head moving - check above, behind, to the beam......And Horton, humming contentedly away in his cockpit again, adrenalin pumping already, senses alive.........

'Jesus Christ, it's the whole of the Lufwaffe......'

Shimmering in the morning sun, wave upon wave of bombers, driving for London. Stepped above and behind, the serried ranks of Messerschmitts. Covering mile upon mile of sky, as far as the eye could see. It was at once magnificent and terrible.

'Villa Squadron, aim for the bombers. Look out for snappers coming down.....here they come.....Villa, break, break'

Suddenly the sky was dissolved into whirling confusion, the headphones filled with snatches of command, of exultation, of warning, of stark terror.

'He's a flamer.....Jeez, that was close.....Hey, look out!'

'Go for the bombers......more at two o'clock......'

'Hold on Hamish, I'm coming. Hold on!'

Chips was jinking left, then right, as the tracer flashed past; suddenly, a twin reared up in his sights - long glasshouse, a 110. He let fly, saw little chips float off as the Messerschmitt completed its bunt. One damaged. He dived for the protection of the haze.

I was there again, and cautiously lifted the Spitfire up again, and was once again shocked by the sight of hundreds of black-crossed aircraft in unbroken phalanxes boring for London. What had all the sweat, the turmoil, the sacrifices of the last few minutes been for I wondered. I squirted at a Heinkel, and sank below the haze as it flew solidly on. I headed east, then rose again, hoping to come on the flank of the raid. Still they were there in dozens. By now, I was quite alone, fuel was low and circled long enough to take in the sight of bombs raining down over the docks. Fires springing up from Tilbury, a vast white splash in the Thames Estuary. Probably one of our boys, I thought. I swung for home and three 109s slanted across from the right. Instinctively, fired at the nearest; it rolled onto its back and dived away. I couldn't hang around to watch the results, with the other two whipping round to attack. Yellow noses - did that really mean a crack unit? - the thought was fleeting. I fired - the guns clattered briefly, then stopped. Time to go. I shoved the nose down, twisted, jinked, aileron turned, and all the time the 109s clinged to my elusive Spitfire. These boys were really good. With the altimeter unwinding like a sweep second hand, I finally found sanctuary right down among the Slough balloon barrage, and threaded my way carefully to the west.

I landed the Spitfire back at the home base, and bumped my way across the grass towards the hangars, throwing the hood back and filled my lungs with fresh, clean English air . I came to a standstill, and the ground staff were immeadiately taken to task in refueling and rearming. I jumped out onto the wing, then down to the ground, "Running on fumes now, are we Sir." said the sergeant bending down and looking at me from under the wing. "We both are," I replied pulling my helmet and goggles off and making my way over to 'the hut', "both of us are exhausted."

"That bad is it Sir." he said,

"....and its going to get worse, " I said walking away almost shouting, "the bastards are in London."

As I got near to the dispersal hut, I saw a lean figure hurriedly put his head out of the window, "B Flight, "Scramble!!!" he had hardly got all the words out of his mouth as five or six bodies that were lazily lounging around outside sprang to their feet and ran to their awaiting aircraft. If theyr'e going where I think theyr'e going, there going to be in for it. By the time I got inside, the place was deserted except for the despatch clerk and Horton who had already beaten me down. "Any of the others back?" I asked pouring a cup of tea from the urn.

We both walked outside and sat down in the now vacant deckchairs. "No, just me, I was back first for a change," he paused, "....mind you, if it wasn't for being low on juice, I would have gone to Margate....they tell me it's nice there at this time of year."

As we sat there, almost in a meloncholly silence, the others came back one by one......Chips, Hamish, Turner, it seemed that we had all made it back, a little tired, a little weary and our thoughts were with the other flight that had gone out to take our place.

The rest that we had all looked forward to was short lived. I was just about to go and see 'the old man' when the telephone rang again, there was a short silence then "Everybody up....scramble."

There had been hardly enough time to service the aircraft, but we ran all the same, fired up the Merlins and within seconds we were bouncing across the grass with throttles open, and doing it all over again.