Just Ordinary Men

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction. All original characters are my own invention and any similarity to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. Where actual historical figures are mentioned any dialogue or actions attributed to them is to be similarly viewed, unless the incident concerned is a matter of historical record. 

'SCRAMBLE!!!!!!!!!'

The stentorian bellow ripped across the airfield shattering the peace that had prevailed.  It was a beautiful mid summer's day in August 1940 with a bright sun shining in a duck egg blue clear sky.  At any other time idyllic.  He became aware that he was running toward his crate, a Hawker Hurricane Mk 1, having bolted out of the deckchair he'd been dozing in at the first syllable of the call to arms.  As he ran he noticed a stationary petrol tanker stood in the open, inviting attention and roared 'Get that fucking thing out of here!', only dimly aware of the rapid salute as LAC Lawford ran towards the petrol bowser to drive it to the relative safety of dispersal.

Approaching his aircraft the usual peculiar time dilation took hold and he was able to observe more detail as he ran; the smell of kerosene in the air; the sight of his ground crew scrambling to ready the Hurri in the few seconds they knew they had between his backside leaving the deckchair and landing with a thump on top of his parachute, expecting everything to be ready so that he could just slam open the throttle and go to war; the armourer securing the two panels having ensured his eight Browning .303 machine guns were fully armed and prepared; the fitter sliding out of the cockpit having got the engine running - saving precious seconds.  As he breathed in he caught the tang of the exhaust fumes belching as the blue smoke spat from the exhausts.

As he vaulted onto the wing a blast from behind caused him to stumble and he swore as he scraped his knuckles on the leading edge of the wing.  Barely a thought given to what could have caused the blast he slammed down into the cockpit, the parachute harness straps being held out of his way by Flt Sgt Powell, commanding his ground crew, and as he reached for the throttle Powell slammed the straps into the turnbuckle at the centre of his chest tightening the straps murmuring 'nothing you could do sir, not your fault', before clambering off the wing and giving the all clear for take off.

Breathing heavily he scowled as he closed the cockpit canopy muttering 'Getting too old for this Johnny boy!'  John Ashton knew technically he should not still be flying, as the Air Officer Commanding Fighter Command, Air Chief Marshall Dowding had, by way of the 11 Group AOC, Air Vice Marshal Park issued strict instructions that all pilots over 26 were to be grounded, or taken off combat operations and confined to the Training Command where their expertise and experience would be best used without fear of it being lost.  At 41 years old Ashton was considerably wide of that mark.  'Stuff that!' he groused as he checked the gauges ready to take off.

He pulled on his helmet adjusting the R/T and oxygen mask with his right hand, the left slammed the throttle open, and only then did he look up divining the meaning of Powell's words.  A hundred yards away to his left a smoking crater was all that remained of the petrol bowser.  Gripping the joystick he swore viciously knowing it was his order that had condemned a two year old boy to not remember his father and a second child as yet unborn to never know theirs.  He knew Powell was right though and smiled grimly recognising that Powell knew him better than he thought, and that today there would be vengeance for Lawford's death.

_________________________

'Haltet die Augen offen! Die warden schon Verstärkung gerufen haben!' The clipped tone of Major Johann Alfelt cut across the exuberant radio chatter as his staffel watched their charges strafe and bomb the airfield below, making sure they kept an eye open for any enemy aircraft.