The Misfits were woken for a dawn patrol the next day, but there was no sign of the enemy on radar and they were soon released back to standby on the ground. There was so little business in fact that Abby sought and was given permission to contact the Barons and arrange for the return of their bodies and the pieces of their downed aircraft.

Scarlet flew the mission in Hummingbird, just as she had for each of the pilots that the Misfits had shot down and recovered. Boxes which attached to her aircraft in place of a second spring had been created specially for the task and all she had to do was hover a few inches above the ground, pull the spring-release lever, then fly away again. As always, the Prussian air defences had been expecting her and didn’t fire a single shot at her as she zoomed in, dropped the box off at the assigned coordinates a couple of miles from the shore, then zoomed away again.

On her return, Scarlet reported that there had been no soldiers at the rendezvous, just a contingent of pilots led by Gruber himself, who saluted her as she left before moving forward to retrieve the box.

Abby nodded grimly at the news; the Barons were back in France.

As the day wore on, the only incidents were an intrusion by a single fast-moving aircraft, which flew reconnaissance just off the coast and a couple of small raids, one on Portsmouth and the other on the Isle of Wight, both of which were handled by regular RAC squadrons and which didn’t warrant scrambling the Misfits.

It was nothing compared to what had come over in the previous weeks and the Misfits went to bed with the distinct feeling that something big was about to happen.

The next day, the 15th of September was Gwen’s birthday and it dawned bright and cloudless and the forecasts promised that it would continue that way for the rest of the day. It was perfect bombing weather and somehow the Misfits knew that the Prussians wouldn’t let this chance pass them by, especially with the Barons back in the area; this late in the English summer such days were likely to be few and far between. It seemed that Whitehall was under the same impression and the Misfits weren’t called upon to go out on their dawn patrol, but were instead put straight on standby.

For a while, though, it looked like everybody was going to be wrong, that the Prussians weren’t planning something that day in retaliation for the raid on their ports; the skies were completely clear and there was nothing on radar. The Misfits had laid out their deckchairs and were relaxing, enjoying what would possibly be the last of the sunshine for the year, but then at eleven the call came through to scramble as all hell broke loose around the south of England.

The pilots struggled out of the deckchairs, Mac and Bruce just rolling to one side and falling to the floor in a manoeuvre they had practised over the summer (mostly when drunk and to the vast amusement of the other Misfits) and raced across the grass towards the hangar, where the fitters were already pushing out A and B flight’s aircraft.

In less than two minutes they were airborne and climbing hard for Folkestone.

‘Sapper, this is Badger Leader, over.’

‘Badger Leader, Sapper here. Go ahead.’

‘Badger Squadron is airborne and awaiting instructions, over.’

‘Badger Leader, head east south east and make angels twenty-five. Enemy raid incoming, one hundred plus aircraft, over.’

‘Roger, Sapper, Badger leader, out.’ Abby switched to the squadron channel. ‘Badger Leader to all Badgers. You heard the man. Adjusting course and climbing to angels twenty-five.’

‘Bloody hell, looks like we’re going to have some fun today!’ Mac sounded positively gleeful at the prospect of so much business and Bruce was quick to join in.

‘Was yesterday a holiday in Prussia or something? Why take Saturday off, then come on a Sunday? Blimmin’ bastards, I was looking forward to a nice roast!’

‘Yeah, and about twenty pints!’ Mac laughed.

The pilots joined in the laughter as the two pilots carried on with their banter. Abby always let them have their little conversations at such moments where radio discipline wasn’t important; it relieved the tension and kept the pilots’ minds sharp trying to keep up with them. However, even the two irrepressible pilots knew when they had to shut up and they did so immediately when Sapper called again from the control room at Biggin Hill.

‘Badger Leader, Sapper here, over.’

‘Badger Leader here, go ahead, Sapper.’

‘Badger Leader, be advised - raid is now two hundred and fifty plus. Repeat two hundred and fifty plus, over.’

‘Thank you, Sapper. Badger Leader out.’

The radio clicked off and the Misfits flew on in stunned silence, climbing towards the sun and their station.

The enemy raid approaching England had taken off from multiple airfields in both France and Belgium, but they had joined up over Northern France to come across the channel in one huge mass of aircraft.

The RAC had scrambled several squadrons to meet them and there were more than a dozen Spitsteams and Harridans already up and over Canterbury at twenty-five thousand feet when the Misfits reached their station, but most of the British fighters were still trying to climb up to the raid. There wasn’t time to wait for them, though, as the enemy were already there.

Prussian bombers formed a huge column that seemed to go on forever, a black line in the sky that pointed straight to London, a dagger held to the heart of the Kingdom of Britain. Over and around them swarmed Prussian fighters, dozens upon dozens of nimble MU’s and HH’s, ready to defend their comrades.

The British seemed pitifully few, insignificant even, in the face of such might, but they didn’t care; they had a job to do and they had people who were depending on them. They engaged without hesitation, diving into the mass of aircraft, guns blazing.

The battle raged over miles and miles of the Kent countryside as the unstoppable force of the Prussian bombers continued its advance, shrugging off any losses it suffered. The Prussian fighters soon had to turn back because they had reached the limits of their range, but their job was done - the bombers were at the gates of London.

More and more RAC squadrons joined the fight, but they barely made a dent in the raid before the bombs began falling onto the city below and the factories and docklands along the winding river started to burn.

The British harassed the bombers all the way back to the coast, but the Misfits were forced to break off over Kent because they were low on tension. They had gotten a good haul, shooting down more than twenty enemy aircraft between them and on a normal day they would have been satisfied, but they had had to let so many Fleas go, many of which were still in sight from Badger Base when they landed, that it left a sour taste in their mouths.

The Misfits barely had time to grab a quick lunch before another call came through to scramble less than an hour later. This time, though, there was an addition to their orders - they were to equip secondary springs so that they could pursue the bombers for longer; Whitehall wanted the Prussians’ ability to bomb London if not destroyed then at least severely diminished.

The change in orders meant that it took them slightly more time to get off the ground because the fitters had to rush to install the springs and they were slower climbing to their station, but even then they had plenty of time to spare because it was taking the Fleas far longer to gather their forces for this second raid.

Chalky had been flying a circuit high over the south coast in Vulture, watching the Prussian bombers going home and it was he who had first warned Whitehall of the next raid building up. It was also him that was sent out over the channel to visually verify what the British radar systems were detecting, but what the operators couldn’t quite believe. He confirmed what they were seeing - almost twice as many aircraft were gathering for the second raid as had come over in the first.

The Misfits soon received the expected call from Sapper, informing them that the raid was estimated at more than four hundred and fifty aircraft.

This time they didn’t make any jokes.

As soon as they had realised the full extent of the enemy raid, Whitehall had ordered more British aircraft into the air and the Harridans and Spitsteams of the other RAC squadrons flew up to join the Misfits as they headed towards the south coast. An endless stream of aircraft appeared and formed up around them and it seemed that there was no room in the sky for any more, but still they kept coming until there must have been over two hundred of them.

Not surprisingly, Mac was the first to comment, but he was also the last, because he summed up what they were all thinking so succinctly that there was no need to say anything else.

‘Bloody marvellous! Bloody, bloody marvellous!’

Gwen gazed at the aircraft around the Misfits, bobbing up and down as they were gently buffeted by the air currents and gasped when she saw a flight of sixteen Spitsteams a mile off her left wing with gold stripes on their wings - the Spitsteams of the Royal Guard. All of them. They were supposed to be the last defence of the Royal Family, kept in reserve in case all else failed - if they were here then that meant that every aircraft that the RAC could throw into the air had been thrown into the air.

It was a stirring sight, but it was also a sobering one; while it might seem that there were a lot of British aircraft, especially compared to what was usually in the air, two hundred or two hundred and fifty was not a large number if you considered that they were all that was standing between the Kingdom of Britain and utter defeat at the hands of the Prussian army waiting just over twenty miles away. If the RAC lost today’s battle they would lose control of the air over the British Isles, which meant that the invasion fleet would be free to come without fear of death falling on them from above, which in turn meant that the war would inevitably be lost; there was no way the British army, already broken and defeated once in France, could possibly withstand the hugely powerful Prussian force that had known victory after victory.

It seemed that it wasn’t just Gwen who realised how desperately important the coming battle was and when the radio crackled to life it wasn’t Sapper they heard, delivering the expected instructions, it was a different voice that spoke, one that was instantly recognisable to the men and women of the RAC from his numerous radio addresses to the besieged nation and needed no introduction.

‘Hello, brave pilots of the RAC. I am speaking to you from the eleven group control room at Uxbridge, where I will remain throughout this fateful day so that I can be as close to you as possible during this most difficult of times.’

The King knew that he wasn’t obeying radio protocol and he paused for a few seconds to let this information sink in before going on. ‘I could easily make a long-winded speech saying that England expects every man and woman to do his duty, or that this will be your finest hour, but I won’t; I will save those platitudes for the people and for after the day’s work is done because you already know what is at stake and you are well equipped to face the threat that is coming. What I will say, though, is that the thoughts and the hopes of an entire nation are with you. Take our strength, make it your own and come home victorious. Good speed and happy hunting. Out.’

There was a few seconds of respectful silence after the King had finished to allow the pilots to savour the moment, but then Sapper took over again and gave instructions that split the British forces; this time the Prussians had formed three columns, the two largest of which, designated raids one and two, were easily the same size as the morning’s raid had been. The smallest, raid three, comprising only fifty bombers or so, was lagging slightly behind.

The Misfits were predictably assigned to the raid that would arrive first, which was also the largest one, and they and around a hundred other fighters manoeuvred to meet it. The Royal Guards led a hundred more to deal with raid two and the rest of the fighters, most of which were still climbing to get to station were given the task of intercepting raid three when it arrived.

The enemy came closer and closer and soon they were able to make out individual machines at maximum magnification. Hands tightened on sticks, last checks were done and nerves were steeled. Some wag, one of the women from the other squadrons briefly came over the radio to give the old joke. ‘For what we are about to receive...’ but apart from that the British flew on in silence, completely concentrated on the job ahead.

‘Er, Leader, this is Three.’

‘Go ahead, Three.’

Badger Three was Bruce in Devil and Gwen glanced across Abby’s rear to look at him and was surprised to see a frown on his face; normally he had a huge grin plastered on his face before going in to action and he habitually spent most of the dogfights laughing his head off.

‘Um. Aren’t we going to drop the spares?’

With a start Gwen realised that she had completely forgotten that they were still carrying two springs.

‘Negative, Badger Three. Weren’t you listening in the briefing, Bruce? I know it was a bit hurried, but even so...’

‘Um, I might have dozed off a bit, Leader, sorry.’

There were chuckles from most of the pilots at that, but Abby gave a very audible sigh. ‘We’re using the springs until they’re finished, at which point you have my permission to jettison. Got it, Three?’

‘I think so, Leader.’

‘Good, because we don’t exactly have time to go through it again. Happy hunting, Badgers.’

There was no time at all in fact and Abby finished talking just in time to dive onto the enemy formation.

Like so many times before, the plan was to use speed and surprise to blast through escort and make their first pass together at the bombers, then A flight would engage the fighters and try to draw them away while B flight would continue to attack the bombers.

The fight began and as always Gwen stuck to Abby’s wing, firing whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself. It was chaotic, far more than the morning’s fight had been because, while there were similar numbers of enemy aircraft in the raid they were attacking, there were far more British aircraft and every pilot had to look twice to make sure that they weren’t firing at a friend. Gwen felt strange, though, as if she were in a dream, and she struggled to wake herself up and concentrate, blinking and working her jaw, knowing that she couldn’t afford any distraction. No matter what she did, the feeling wouldn’t go away and eventually she realised that it wasn’t her, it was Wasp - Wasp felt sluggish; the fact that the second spring was still attached was making the aircraft react slower to Gwen’s every command and it seemed almost as if she were moving through water.

The Misfits had had a lot of invaluable experience of flying with dual springs during the long patrols when they had been trying to engage the Barons, but they had never entered a dogfight with the second one still attached. It was extremely strange, throwing the balance of the aircraft out subtly and making it manoeuvre much slower. However, even though the playing field was suddenly more even, the difference in quality of the Misfit pilots still shone through and they started to make an impact on the Flea forces, but, no matter how many aircraft the Misfits and the RAC shot down, they never seemed to make a dent in the enemy numbers and the bombers continued their inexorable advance on London.

After only five minutes of hard fighting Abby’s voice crackled over their personal frequency. ‘Badger Two, this is Leader. I’m dropping my spring. How are you doing on tension?’

Gwen flicked her eyes to the indicator. ‘One quarter left, Leader.’

‘Bloody hell, Two, I'm going to have to set you loose on the rest of the squadron’s aircraft when we have a chance to breathe.’

Gwen grinned. ‘With pleasure, Leader.’

Abby laughed, then Gwen’s radio clicked as the woman switched over to the squadron frequency. ‘All right, listen up Badgers. The enemy fighters are going to break off soon and when they do we’re going to break into individuals. Take as many of the bombers down as you can and head home only when you have to.’

‘Badger Leader this is Badger Nine.’

Gwen frowned when Owen came over the radio. Usually during missions the Welshman was calm and unflappable, one of the reasons why Abby had made him her second in command and given him permission to call the shots in the air if he saw something different to her, but there was a strain in his voice that sent a shiver through not a few of the pilots; they knew him well and could tell that bad news was coming.

‘Go ahead, Badger Nine.’

‘Raid three... They’re heading directly for Badger Base.’

The entire squadron had the same reaction, but Lady Penelope beat them all to it. ‘That’s impossible!’

Abby swore. ‘When we landed after the first raid there were bombers in sight, one of them must have seen us.’

‘What do we do, Leader?’ asked Kitty, almost in a panic. ‘Are we going to break off and defend the base? Scarlet’s there, and the others... They can’t withstand a raid by fifty bombers!’

‘Negative, Eight. We have a job to do and we’re going to stick with it. Badger Base isn’t important in the grand scheme of things. If its destruction is the price we have to pay to make sure that the Fleas can’t bring this kind of force back ever again, then so be it.’

‘But our people...’

‘They have been warned, Eight, and the raiders are being intercepted. Now get your mind back on the job!’

‘Roger, Leader.’

There was silence for long seconds as their thoughts went to Badger Base and the friends and colleagues that were facing the bombs of as big a raid as any that had been sent to London and other British cities over the last few days. They continued to fight during that time and it was a testament to their ability that they had been able to carry out an entire conversation while still flying rings around the Prussians.

Gwen watched Abby blast apart a double-aitch then looked around for the next fighter that her leader would target, but didn’t see one. ‘Leader, the fighters are leaving.’

‘I see it, Two. All Badgers, let the fighters go and stay with the bombers. Split up and happy hunting.’

Gwen immediately broke away from Abby, already honing in on one of the bombers. She gave it a two-second burst and saw one of the engines flare, but had to pull up and over it. She left it behind, forgetting about it; there were too many targets in the sky to waste time circling around one and she would just have to trust that somebody else would finish off the job she started.

There was a slight stutter as her spare spring ran out of tension, but it was barely noticeable as the main one kicked in automatically and she smiled wickedly as she picked out her next target. It was less than half a mile away and well within range, but she didn’t open fire, instead she headed straight for it. In less than two seconds she was so close that she could see the face of the gunner in the glass bubble in the big aircraft’s side. He was young, blonde-haired, good-looking, but his face was contorted in a mask of fury and hatred as he swung his dual cannons towards her, already depressing the triggers and sending twin lines of fire searching for her.

His face disappeared from view as she brought her nose up sharply, simultaneously pulling the lever by her right buttock which released the spring.

Despite the fact that she had perfect targets lined up in front of her, she couldn’t resist banking to see the results of her mischief and quickly spotted three objects spinning to the ground - the tail of an aircraft, the wings and cockpit of the same aircraft and the thick disk of the spring that had neatly separated one from the other.

She laughed in glee and swung back to continue the destruction.

It was almost precisely two-thirty in the afternoon, according to the synchronised chronometers of the Misfits, when the bombers arrived over London and opened their bay doors.

The city below them was already wreathed in smoke; fires from the earlier raid were still raging, the civilian firefighting brigades stretched too thin and unable to effectively combat so many of them, despite the ingeniously efficient clockwork engines that they were equipped with. It was impossible for the bombers to see their targets, but they didn’t care, they released their loads, sending them tumbling indiscriminately into the city below, before turning and heading for home.

The British fighters had no choice but to ignore the explosions that started to bloom below as they followed the bombers, continuing to harass them. The Spitsteams and Harridans didn’t have the luxury of spare springs or increased ammo supplies courtesy of Wendy, though, and it wasn’t long before the Misfits were the only British aircraft left. They followed the bombers as they headed back the way they came, shooting down one after the other, leaving a trail of wrecked Prussian machinery behind them. They were beginning to tire now, though; they had been fighting solidly for almost an hour. Arms were becoming heavy on sticks and heads were pounding from the strain of fighting against extreme G forces that their aircraft could withstand far better than they could.

They lost two pilots during that return journey as concentration wavered and nerves frayed.

Bruce lost almost half of his left lower wing when he lingered too long behind a bomber that was reluctant to go down, giving the tail gunners time to bring him into their sights. The last the Misfits saw of him he was spinning towards the ground, swearing as he fought to regain control of Devil.

Mad Mac had been ceaselessly zooming at top speed in and out of the formation in Swordfish, diving and swooping, always seeming to come perilously close to a collision, making more than one bomber pilot swerve or dive in panic. Somewhere over the Kent Downs, just out of sight of Badger Base, he finally misjudged and clipped the cockpit of a Hoffman with the tip of his wing. Swordfish was instantly ripped apart and fell, dropping swiftly out of sight and into the sparse cloud that had been building during the afternoon.

It was almost a relief when the coast came into sight because it meant that the Misfits would finally be able to break off and head for home. Even better, there was a squadron of fighters fast approaching from the east who would be able to take some of the pressure off them and draw some of the fire from the bombers.

Any thoughts that help was coming were immediately shattered by Owen, though.

‘Badger Leader, this is Badger Nine.’

‘Go ahead, Nine.’ The tiredness and strain made Abby’s voice barely audible in the squadron’s ears.

‘Enemy aircraft approaching from the east.’

The hesitation before the wing commander replied was a clear indication of how tired she was. ‘Say again, please, Nine.’

‘Enemy aircraft, repeat, enemy aircraft, approaching from the east.’

‘Where did they come from, Owen?’

‘They were with raid three, Leader. They turned back when the bombers crossed the coast. Pilots who met raid three are reporting that there were red aircraft escorting them.’

Abby swore on the open channel.

There were no laughs from the other pilots at her slip; they were all too tired and too chilled by the prospect of facing the Barons when they were so far from their best and missing members.

‘Recommend you break off and head for Hawkinge, Leader. Badger Base is inoperable.’

If the news of the incoming enemy aces wasn’t enough, the news of their base was a hammer blow to them. However, while it would have demoralised many pilots it had the opposite effect on the Misfits.

‘Let’s get the bastards, Abby, I’ve got tons of ammo left.’

The bloodthirsty growl was so incongruous, coming from the amiable Monty, that it took Gwen a second to realise it had been him, but then every other pilot joined in, clamouring for action, and she found herself calling out along with them.

‘MISFITS! SHUT UP!’

The radio instantly fell silent as Abby’s shout all but deafened them.

There were long seconds of quiet, at least on the radio, during which another two enemy bombers fell from the sky.

‘Reform flights and break off to the north, maximum climb.’

There was no argument from any of the Misfits as they separated from the bomber formation; Abby’s decision made perfect sense. The bombers were a high priority because destroying them would destroy the Prussians’ ability to attack Britain, but the Barons were far more important - if they could be defeated again, then the enemy’s morale would take a significant beating; one defeat could be explained away, especially because they had been taken by surprise, but a second defeat, on more even terms, wouldn’t be as easy to justify.

The Misfits were exhausted, but it was entirely possible that the Barons were equally tired; they had had further to fly before fighting. It was also quite possible that they had lost members as well, but that proved to be a false hope as the two forces drew closer and the Misfits were able to make out that they were facing a full complement of sixteen red aircraft - they were outnumbered almost three to one.

‘It’s not too late to run, Misfits.’ Abby’s weary voice expressed what had crossed the minds of all of them at some point since the Barons had first been spotted.

‘Bugger that, Abby.’

Gwen was shocked to find that it was she herself who had answered. She didn’t know why she’d spoken; the words had just forced their way out, but she realised that she’d wholeheartedly meant what she’d said.

There was a shocked silence as the other pilots assimilated her words and Gwen blushed when she looked out at the colourful machines grouped around her and saw that every single face was turned towards her.

The laughter started softly with a couple of chuckles from Kitty and Lady Penelope, but they swiftly spread and grew until all six of them were roaring with laughter as they sped towards the deadliest fight of their lives.

Thank you so much for reading. ‘The Battle Over Britain’ is Simon Brading's first novel in his ‘Misfit Squadron’ series. More information on where to obtain the book as well as other information about Simon and the series can be found on his website. Also, Simon would love to hear from you about this, or any of his work — please get in touch on Bluesky. We invite you to read Chapter Nineteen by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Seventeen you can go back and read it now by clicking the left-arrow below. Alternatively, you can go back to the beginning, the Prologue, with the beginning-arrow also over on the left.