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The Battle Over Britain
Chapter Eleven
By Simon Brading

Since Kitty’s family were in America, Scarlet’s were in Ireland and Gwen’s had visited only recently, the three pilots decided to go up to London for the three days of freedom that they had been given.

They didn’t officially go on leave until ten in the morning so the three of them rolled out of bed late and went to breakfast around nine, a bit hungover and sat together to finalise their plans. Things were made slightly difficult by the fact that they were in the middle of nowhere, but in the end they determined that the best thing to do would be to take one of the squadron’s automobiles to Maidstone. From there they could catch a train to central London then hop on the Tube to whichever hotel Gwen could book after they’d finished eating.

Their plans were blown to shreds fifteen minutes later, though, when Abby came back into the mess; she had overheard that they had planned to go to London and had rushed off to make a few calls and obtained permission for them to fly into the restricted airspace of London and land at Hyde Airstrip, the main airfield of the capital, used only by the Royal Family, their guards and the most well-heeled of the socialites and nobility, which would cut several hours off their journey.

That wasn’t the only thing she’d done for them - she revealed that the manager of The Dorchester owed her several favours and that she had called one of them in and gotten them a room for both nights.

When they thanked her she revealed that she had had an ulterior motive in arranging things for them - their aircraft would be on hand in case they were urgently needed and the hotel was within walking distance of Hyde Airstrip.

At two minutes to ten the three pilots were sitting in their cockpits at the end of the runway with their springs under tension, waiting for the signal that they were free to go. The three aircraft made an unlikely group; the large red, white and blue Hawk clashed painfully with the pink and black Wasp, while the tiny Hummingbird was almost invisible next to them in its highly effective green camouflage.

Abby was standing by, looking at her watch and when she saw that it was precisely ten o’clock she saluted them, then waved them away with a shooing motion. The pilots laughed and took the time to return her salute before opening their throttles.

The watching Misfits, sitting in the sun outside the mess in various states of disrepair after a night of heavy drinking, lifted their feet from the ground and the three women were treated to the sight of Mac, taken by surprise coming back from the bathroom, throwing himself to the floor in order to do the same as Wasp and Hawk raced past them down the airfield. They were neck and neck the whole way, the power of the heavier Hawk competing with the agility of Wasp and the two aircraft lifted into the air at almost the same time and climbed briefly before banking towards London. Wasp turned tighter and was on its new course first, ahead of Hawk, but the interceptor soon caught up again with its superior speed. However, neither of them was in the lead, because Hummingbird, despite being slower, already had a head start because of its vertical takeoff ability.

As Badger Base disappeared behind them, Gwen and Kitty throttled back and formed on Scarlet as she sped just above the treetops, heading directly towards London, less than fifty miles away as fast as Hummingbird could go. The Irishwoman had actually wanted to take advantage of the journey to try out a few tactics that she had come up with and over breakfast she had asked Kitty and Gwen if they would mind spending half an hour or so dogfighting with her. Neither of the other Misfits had anything like the small woman’s capacity for alcohol, though, and weren’t particularly feeling up to it after the previous night’s revelry. She had been disappointed and had tried to persuade them with offers of drinks in the nightclubs of London, but had readily agreed to drop the idea when they pointed out that it would be best to get to the city as quickly as possible so that they could fit in as much fun as they could during their time off.

The trees immediately around the base gave way to fields, which became more and more populated with houses when they left the Kent Downs behind. They stayed at low-level, not only because was Hummingbird safer closer to the ground, but because they were also far less likely to stumble across any Fleas - just because they were on leave, didn’t mean that the Prussians were and, despite the fact that Sapper had said that there were no enemy aircraft in the area, they still kept a good watch.

They caught sight of a squadron of Spitsteams taking off from a country estate near Rochester and adjusted course slightly to buzz them, just for fun, waggling their wings when the fitters and support staff waved at them.

Five minutes later they flew by Dartford, which was covered in a haze of smoke; enemy bombers that were damaged by British fighters invariably jettisoned their loads before turning for home, not caring who or what was below them and the bombers from the previous day’s raid had left a trail of destruction along the coast from Margate towards their targets - three airfields south of London - and the town had been the unlucky recipient of at least a few of them.

London’s airspace began a couple of miles beyond Dartford and they passed the first of the three lines of anti-aircraft batteries that protected the capital. The first comprised dozens of batteries of guns which guarded the approaches to the city in a semi-circle that went all the way from beside the Crystal Palace in the south, round to Woolwich in the east, before ending just beyond Enfield in the north. The next, a couple of miles closer to the city, began on the hill in the middle of Brockwell Park near Brixton and swept past the Isle of Dogs before ending in Highbury Fields. The last completely encircled the centre of London and comprised more than double the amount of guns as the other two, but if they ever fired that would mean that bombers were almost directly over the city itself.

London’s defences had yet to be breached by the enemy, though, and some politicians and newspapers insisted that it was impenetrable, that no enemy would ever overfly the capital of the Kingdom of Britain, but the Misfits knew that was just propaganda; no amount of anti-aircraft batteries could possibly bring down the numbers of bombers that they had seen just the day before. Hopefully, though, the claims would never be tested; the enemy had no real reason to bomb London - aside from the small Royal Guard squadron stationed at Hyde Airstrip and Whitehall itself, there were no military targets in the city and the industry and shipping in the capital were insignificant when compared to that concentrated elsewhere.

Soon enough, the Imperial Observatory on the hill at Greenwich was in sight and the Misfits climbed up over it to a thousand feet to give them a better view of the city.

Even though most homes and power stations had converted to burning the much cleaner Hydrogen in the last decade, London hadn’t quite been able to completely shrug off its previous dependence on coal. It was much better than it had been; at least now you could walk outside without your clothing becoming black, but the city was still permanently shrouded in twilight and while some claimed that gave it mystery and romance, most people, especially the ones that actually had to live there, just said it was filth.

Only the tallest buildings could rise above that constant smog and several did so, but only two of those were really worthy of their attention. The first was the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, which seemed to have been guarding the conscience of London forever and had remained unchanged and untouched through revolutions in both industry and beliefs. The second was the graceful form of the glass-paned iron tower of Isombard Kingdom Brunel’s extension to Buckingham Palace, the tallest building in the Kingdom of Britain and only rivalled by the monstrous edifices built over the Atlantic. The extension and its tapering tower that had been likened to a “glass shard through the heart of London” by its detractors, had been commissioned from Brunel by Empress Victoria at the turn of the century and had been conceived by the great man as a monument to both her reign and the lofty status of the British Empire at the time. Its usually sleek and elegant silhouette was marred, though, by a dozen antiaircraft guns, perched on specially-built extensions around the upper levels - the King had insisted on “doing his bit”, paying for the batteries out of his own pocket and placing them on his own tower for best effect, despite the fact that when they fired they would likely shake his expensive china off the shelves and rattle the artworks.

Their destination, Hyde Airstrip, was less than a mile to the west of the Palace and they turned towards the tower, using it as a reference point. Air traffic control gave them permission to land and they approached the airstrip from the south, swinging wide to give the Palace a wide berth, not wanting to spook the antiaircraft gunners into firing at machines that would undoubtedly be unfamiliar to them.

After landing they were directed to the Royal Guard squadron hangar near the south end of the airfield, positioned so that in an emergency the Spitsteams of the Guards could accelerate from the hangar straight onto the airfield and they taxied back to it past dozens of civilian aircraft of all shapes and sizes, from grand flying yachts and deflated zeppelins, to smaller pleasure cruisers and fast messenger vehicles for the various diplomatic services in the city. They all had a sad look to them and a thin layer of dust, despite a twice-weekly cleaning being covered by the exorbitant fees their owners paid; all civilian traffic had been grounded the past six months by order of the King and the aircraft likely hadn’t flown since then.

Fitters were waiting to guide the aircraft inside the hangar, placing them to one side, out of the way of the Royal Guard aircraft before beginning to rewind them. It was the work of only moments to shut them down and then the three pilots climbed out to be met by a contingent of twelve Royal Guards. Their red uniforms initially sent shivers through Gwen, but they quickly subsided, especially when she saw how handsome the young men among them were and how they were admiring the Misfits. The envious looks of the women among them didn’t particularly hurt either.

The Guards escorted them to a small but luxuriously appointed dressing room attached to the hangar where they were able to change out of their flightsuits and store them in lockers so that they wouldn’t have to carry them around London and risk damaging them. Then, with their day uniforms on, they were once again accompanied by the entire contingent to the entrance opposite Wellington Arch and passed through the security gate.

As they strode away, Scarlet turned to blow a kiss at one of the Guardsmen who blushed, his face the colour of his uniform. The Misfits laughed gaily and linked arms, all thoughts of the war and the danger posed by the Crimson Barons temporarily forgotten in the excitement of being on leave in London.

The Guards had offered to procure them a motorcab, but they had refused; it was only a short walk to The Dorchester up Airfield Lane along the boundary fence of Hyde Airstrip and their overnight bags were extremely light because under regulations they had to wear their uniforms at all times, except when they were sleeping.

They checked in and were taken up to their rooms by a uniformed doorman who all but sneered at the NCO uniforms of Kitty and Gwen and wasn’t at all impressed by Scarlet’s lowly Aviator Lieutenant’s uniform. They didn’t let that spoil their mood, though; they were there to enjoy themselves and besides, the sight of the room that Abby had gotten them more than compensated for any snobbery from the staff - the “room” turned out to be a suite with four huge bedrooms with equally huge four-poster beds, a central lounge area with two sofas each, a fully stocked complementary bar with champagne already on ice and a view to the west over the neighbouring airfield that they appreciated far more than a they would have done a view of the city centre.

It was just as well Abby had sorted the bill, though, because it probably would have come to more than a year of their wages. Combined. Each night.

They chose rooms and dropped off their bags, only taking the time to make sure their hair and makeup was alright before heading straight back out.

Stepping onto the London streets was like stepping into another world after the isolation and quiet of the Kent Downs.

Airfield Lane was one of the main thoroughfares of London, part of the ring road that completely encircled the centre of the city. Autocars were everywhere, most of them spring-powered and quiet, but there was also the occasional vintage steam car chugging along noisily, although thankfully they tended to have been converted to Hydrogen, which limited the amount of pollution they emitted.

This close to the airfield there weren’t very many people on foot, though, and it was only when the Misfits got to Marble Arch at the end of the road and turned onto the splendour of Oxford Street that they encountered the crowds. It was Saturday, the weather was perfect and it seemed like the whole of the city was out and about enjoying themselves, filling the wide pavements in front of the shops to capacity.

Apart from the large number of men and women in uniform and the occasional glimpse of anti-aircraft guns on building roofs there was barely any sign that there was a war on and life seemed to be going on as usual. The boutiques looked like they were fully stocked and the people wandered around, many of them clutching packages wrapped in the gaily-coloured paper of the various boutiques, as if they didn’t have a care in the world, as if young men and women weren’t dying to guarantee them the freedom that they were enjoying. Gwen felt like she should be angry with them, should be shouting at them to wake up and do something, but she found that she was strangely comforted to know that, because of the efforts of her squadron and so many others like them, people like these could lead normal lives that weren’t filled with fear.

With no need to maintain radio discipline and no other Misfits in transmission range to overhear them they had spent much of the journey discussing what they wanted to do in London. They all agreed that the nights were definitely going to be spent in one or more of the clubs in the centre, but it had been a lot harder to agree on what to do during the days. Kitty had only been to the city a couple of times and had never done the rounds of the museums and art galleries. She was particularly interested in going to the Aeronautics Museum, which had a full-scale model of her grandfather’s famous aircraft in the lobby, but she also wanted to visit the Darwin Museum right next door to it with its collection of fossils and dinosaur skeletons. Scarlet and Gwen had visited most of them already, though, and were understandably rather reluctant to do such time-consuming things. They had countered with suggestions of their own, highlights of London that were more appropriate to their interests, or that casual visitors to the city wouldn’t necessarily know about. Their first suggestion, which had rather bemused Kitty, was actually to have tea.

They took a pneumatic lift up the outside of Selfridges to the renowned tea rooms on the roof and sat around a table looking out at the view over the rooftops while waiters served them from the gigantic and world famous brass machine, designed, reportedly, by Selfridge himself, that brewed to perfection over fifty different types of tea at the same time in its various gurgling tanks. They ordered one of the more exotic types, but didn’t find it to be anything special, although obviously it was better than the mud-like substance, brewed for hours, that had passed for tea on Gwen’s first RAC base. The tea was accompanied by scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam as well as a dish of the first strawberries they had seen in months, grown in one of the hothouses of Kew.

Once again, Scarlet managed to hone in on the best-looking company available and once they had finished their tea they were joined by three young men, who doffed their expensive velvet top hats in greeting, then bullied a reluctant waiter into pushing two tables together for the six of them.

Unfortunately, the men’s intellect didn’t match their looks and the Misfits endured less than ten minutes of banal conversation before making their excuses and leaving. Their lack of interest in the men didn’t stop them from accepting their calling cards or allowing them to paying for the teas, though, but the cards did go straight into recycling bins as soon as they stepped out of the lifts and back onto the street.

Their next port of call was Hamleys, a short walk away on Regent’s Street, where the latest innovations and technological advances were displayed in model form on its four floors, each of which was a single giant room.

As always the ground floor was filled to capacity with children and adults alike, all gawking at the railway engines that were weaving and chuffing their way around tracks that took them from cities to mountains and from American plains to British countryside. The biggest crowd was gathered around a working quarter-size model of the latest innovation, which had been set in pride of place in the centre of the atrium - the Gallant, the fastest locomotive in the world. It employed the latest in hydrogen compression technology in a uniquely streamlined form that was reminiscent of the fuselage of an aircraft and which allowed it to approach speeds that were previously unheard of.

The three Misfits barely sparing a glance for the locomotive, though, or for any of the other things that were delighting the crowds, although they did spare a moment to appreciate a spring-powered model of a Spitsteam as it buzzed over the British countryside, eternally describing a circle on the end of a long piece of wire. Instead, they headed directly for the stairs to take them upwards to their destination on the fourth floor.

There weren’t quite as many people on the second floor, where clockwork road-going machines were displayed in all their varieties and could be sent careening around enclosed racing circuits and where child-sized automobiles could be piloted around diminutive tracks lined with padding by the offspring of whoever had half a crown to spare for five minutes of fun.

The crowds thinned out even more on the third floor where a gigantic brass basin filled with water held ocean-going behemoths and lithe modern naval vessels with belching funnels, alongside elegant clippers and sailing ships of ages past which were blown along by trade winds provided by fans placed around the edges of the tanks, all of which were occasionally persecuted by the submarine boats of the Prussians, which were booed by the children (and quite a few adults) every time they surfaced and jeered when they failed to destroy their targets with tiny clockwork torpedoes.

They climbed the last set of stairs to the fourth floor and were unsurprised to find that it was almost empty.

Aviation, despite having been revolutionised and made much cheaper and accessible by the advent of spring power, was still seen by most as being very much the province of the privileged few, so it attracted far less interest than the other exhibitions, particularly the railway, which the public was very much in love with, seeing it as the method of transport that belonged to the people. Parents looking for a toy for their children, usually looked elsewhere and those people who were merely wandering the store in search of an hour or more’s entertainment were largely thinned out by the wonders below and by the necessity of using staircases to ascend. Consequently, the large space immediately under the roof was almost exclusively populated by a more serious sort of individual who had had the fourth floor in mind as their destination all along. They were the enthusiasts and intellectuals, the pilots and inventors, the visionaries and dreamers who saw flight as being the future of mankind.

Hamleys had been Gwen’s suggestion of something that the Misfits could do with their time. Her parents had brought her many times while she had been growing up and she had actually been quite surprised that neither of the others had ever visited the aviation floor before; it was the unofficial meeting point for the aviation community. Although, now that the borders were closed and most of the British experts were working towards the war effort there were probably far less visitors than there had been during peacetime.

The stairs finished in the middle of one wall, giving them a view of the entire floor and they stood and gazed around.

It was just as Gwen remembered. The multitude of aircraft on display had slowly changed and been renewed as designs and fashions evolved, but the way in which they were presented, lovingly recreating the magic of flight, was the same as ever and, despite no longer being a child, the wonder that she felt when she gazed at them hadn’t faded.

The display was decidedly patriotic, with flights of mainly Spitsteams and Harridans streaking overhead, suspended with what Gwen knew was fishing line, but Hamleys would never neglect innovation, no matter its source and the Prussian Empire was also well-represented with various Muhlenburgs, Hoffmanns, Funkels and Hock-Hunds. However, while Hamleys showed no discrimination against their inventors, they were not beyond catering to the national feeling and the Fleas were definitely coming off much worse in their confrontation with the RAC. One of the HO111’s had even been rigged with a small gas burner and was falling out of the sky in flames in a very convincing manner, which made the three pilots wince; fire was the nightmare of all pilots, but thankfully it had been made much less likely to happen, at least in fighters, by spring power.

The few people that were there were gathered in groups and deep in discussion, probably about the merits of certain aircraft, or some theory that one of them had put forward, but there was one man off on his own to the side, standing on a step ladder and attaching a shiny silver model to a new display advertising the new American-built luxury aircraft. Gwen smiled and immediately went towards him, ignoring the admiring silence that fell in her and the other pilots’ wake when the men and women saw their uniforms and more particularly the wings on their chests.

As well as a pilot, John Dunne had been one of the early pioneers of aviation. He had worked as an aircraft designer for the army, but had retired in 1913 with health problems. A year later when the Great War had started and aircraft had taken on a new importance, Hamleys had snapped him up to convert their top floor, previously a storeroom, to a dedicated aviation display. He had worked there ever since and had become something of an institution, often joining in the discussions when he wasn’t working and his opinion was respected and sought after by most of the members of the “Top Floor Club” as the regular visitors liked to call themselves. When her parents had brought her to London it had often been because they had meeting in Whitehall or the Palace and rather than have her sitting bored in a waiting room somewhere with nothing to entertain her they had brought her to Hamleys and left her in this man’s charge. She had spent hours on end in his workshop, helping him construct models of the latest inventions, some of which had been copied from her parents’ designs. He was in his sixties, with a shock of white hair on his head and a bushy moustache, equally white.

She stopped a few feet from him and waited for him to have the silver aircraft safely anchored before speaking. ‘Mr Dunne.’

‘Yes?’ The old man finished what he was doing and stepped off the ladder before turning to her. ‘What can I...?’ His eyes lit up with recognition and not a little bit of joy. ‘Why! Young Miss Hawking, as I live and breathe!’ His eyes darted to her left hand. ‘Ah, but I see it is no longer Miss! Mrs...?’

‘Stone.’

‘Stone! And an Aviator Sergeant no less. A pilot!’ His incredibly quick mind darted back to her name and he frowned. ‘Stone... Not Matthew and Joanne’s boy, Richard?’

Gwen nodded, a lump rising in her throat.

‘My word! Congratulations! How is he? He hasn’t been in in, oh, it must be seven years! And is there a little Stone, a pebble, dare I say, for me to entertain just like I hope I did the delightful parents?’ The old man grinned, but when she didn’t answer he frowned, his busy gaze scanning her face as if searching for an enemy in a suspiciously clear sky, reading her expression. ‘Oh. How insensitive of me. I’m so sorry, my dear.’

Gwen shook her head. ‘You weren’t to know, Mr Dunne.’

Dunne smiled weakly and spoke quietly, reaching out to put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Please, Gwen, call me John; you’re a little too old and grown up for “Mister” and I hope we know each other well enough to be on first-name basis.’

Gwen smiled and nodded. ‘I believe we do! John, these are my friends, Ophelia Flynn and Kitty Wright. They’re in my squadron.’

‘Very pleased to meet you young ladies.’ He raised an eyebrow at Kitty. ‘Wright? Kitty Wright? As in Kitty Hawk? As in Orville and Wilbur?’

She nodded, grinning and he groaned, rolling his eyes theatrically. ‘As if being upstaged by Gwen Hawking when she was twelve wasn’t enough, she brings a Wright with her...’

They laughed and he smiled at them. ‘Would you like a tour of the workshop?’

Gwen was already very familiar with the workshop, but that didn’t bother her one bit; the old man was always working on something new, and her nod was just as enthusiastic as those of the other two pilots.

‘Wonderful! Come on then, before the gannets descend to feed.’ Dunne nodded at the men and women who had started to gravitate around them, trying to listen in on their conversation and obviously desperate for a chance to speak with the aviators. The names “Wright” and “Hawking” were already being repeated in hushed tones and Dunne had to raise his voice to be heard over the increasing volume of noise. ‘Don’t worry! You’ll get your chance at them soon enough!’

He winked at the Misfits, then led the way to the back of the room where there was a small door, hidden behind scenery which represented the rolling hills of the Cotswolds.

The workshop was small compared to the main room and extremely cluttered. To one side there were row after row of wooden drawers, many of which were open to reveal that they were filled with aircraft pieces and spare parts in miniature, but exquisite detail. The three remaining walls were completely obscured behind drawings, prints, sketches, paintings and the occasional blueprint of aircraft of all types, haphazardly pinned up in no apparent order. However, it was the large workbench that occupied most of the space in the centre of the room that caught their attention; on it were the beginnings of several model aircraft, including the beginnings of the frame of a large four-engined bomber and a MU9 with a broken wing, but also an almost-finished triplane that was disturbingly familiar to Gwen.

Kitty and Scarlet saw the direction of Gwen’s gaze and looked at her in concern, but she smiled at them; they didn’t need to worry about her, not in a place that had made her so welcome and provided her with so many magical memories.

Gwen walked over to the triplane and bent down to get a closer look at it. ‘This isn’t quite right, John.’

The old man frowned. ‘Really? I’ve got some sketches around here from someone who actually saw her in flight on a recent diplomatic journey to Prussia. Hold on, I’ll dig them out...’

He rooted around in the drawers underneath the worktable, pulling out one cardboard tube after another and discarding them again until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here we go.’ He popped the end off the tube and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers, which he spread on a nearby drawing board.

The three pilots gathered around to inspect them. The original was an overly dramatic depiction of Flamme leading a flight of Crimson Barons, overflying a cheering crowd that was waving Prussian flags. It looked like a preliminary sketch for a later work by someone who wasn’t a particularly good artist and who didn’t have any idea whatsoever about aircraft.

It had been the only thing that Dunne had had to base his work on, though, and he had used his vast experience to cleverly extrapolate the inner mechanisms of the aircraft from it and create a simple blueprint. It was a remarkable feat and both Kitty and Scarlet were suitably impressed, but Gwen knew that this was how the old man had been forced to create almost all of his models and almost thirty years of experience had given him a lot of practice of doing just that.

She surveyed the blueprint critically, knowing that the man would appreciate advice and corrections far more than he would simple praise of his talent.

‘The wings need to be swept back five more degrees and the lowest one has a slightly shorter span than the other two. By about a foot, I’d say. Also the tail is too short by at least eight or ten inches and the cockpit is too far forwards.’

‘Ah! Of course, I was wondering why it seemed so unstable in my mind. That would solve a lot of the yawing problems.’

‘Also the red isn’t quite right, it needs to be more...’ Gwen searched quickly through the rainbow of paints that were stacked in the middle of the work table and pulled one out. ‘This one.’

Instead of thanking her again, Dunne frowned at her, once again searching her face. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there... You’ve seen this machine, haven’t you?’

Gwen nodded. ‘Yes. So have Scarlet and Kitty.’

‘But we didn’t get to see it up as close and personal as you did.’ Kitty said.

Scarlet grinned her lopsided grin. ‘And we didn’t get a salute or a smile from Mr Movie Star himself.’ She winked at Kitty. ‘You know I reckon he blew her a kiss as well, but she didn’t want to tell us that part - it’s probably why she threw up when she landed. I know I would.’

Dunne blinked at Scarlet, trying to work out if there was some hidden meaning to her words, but eventually realised that he had to take them literally and turned back to Gwen. ‘This was in France, I take it?’

Gwen shook her head. ‘No, it was yesterday.’

‘Yesterday? But...’ He swallowed and his voice cracked slightly. ‘They’re here?’

‘Yes.’

‘My word...’ He looked down at the model. ‘I’d better get this correct then, otherwise we’ll be getting complaints; I always do when I get something wrong. You know how aviation spotters are - everything has to be exactly right.’

Gwen laughed. ‘Is that a not so subtle jab at me, John?’

‘Perish the thought!’ He looked at her sideways and grinned. ‘Actually aviation spotters are just as likely to get worked up if I get the roundels and rivets in the right places as they are if the design is completely wrong, whereas you didn’t care about such minutiae. You only pointed out my mistakes because the aircraft were wrong and wouldn’t fly properly, which I never minded one bit, especially because you always pointed out the mistakes the manufacturers had made in the design as well and showed me how it could have been improved. I learnt so much from you and my work improved as a result. Which reminds me... I have an original piece by the master around here somewhere...’

He opened one of the larger drawers at the base of the table and grunted with effort as he lifted a large box out and deposited it in one of the few clear spaces on the deck. It was sealed with string and he cut it open and peeled back the flaps, opening it flat to reveal the almost-finished model within - a white monoplane that was just over a foot long.

‘Swan! You kept her!’

‘Of course! I would never throw away a Gwen Stone née Hawking original! Apart from the fact it’s probably worth a lot to collectors, you never finished her and I always hoped you’d come back and do so one day.’

‘Oh, Mr Dunne...’

Gwen picked up the model and turned it round, re-familiarising herself with it and chuckled, shaking her head; it was a very immature design, ineffective, but elegant, based on the lines of a swan she had seen land on the lake on her parents’ estate. It would handle like a pig and be absolutely useless as a fighter or a pleasure craft, but would look lovely in an airshow or parade. ‘One day I’ll finish it for you, but I’ll have to make you a proper model or two to go on display as well. Maybe a Misfit aircraft.’

She put the model down, then turned to face Dunne, finding him staring at her, wide-eyed.

‘You’re in Misfit Squadron?’

Gwen cringed and looked at Kitty and Scarlet. ‘Damn, I forgot everything was so hush hush... Am I supposed to keep that a secret as well?’

Kitty shook her head. ‘It’s only really the base that’s secret, but we don’t tend to spread it around much; enemy agents and all that.’

Scarlet feigned disappointment. ‘Also, unfortunately, we’re not going to get bought drinks by handsome men telling them that we’re “misfits.”’

Gwen raised an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t do too badly in Selfridges!’

Scarlet nodded and grinned wonkily. ‘Ah! But I never told them who we were exactly, did I?’

Gwen laughed, but didn’t continue with the banter when she realised that Dunne was just staring at them. ‘Mr Dunne? Come on, it’s only a squadron! We don’t do any more than any of the other squadrons that are fighting for the Kingdom.’

Dunne shook his head. ‘You may make light of it, but those of us that are in the know are fully aware of who the Misfits are and the contribution that they’ve made and are continuing to make to the war effort. We know that without you we would be lost and we thank you.’

Gwen gave him a half smile. ‘I’ve only been in the squadron for a few weeks, these two have been in since the start - it’s them and the others who you owe your thanks to, not me.’

It was Kitty’s turn to shake her head. ‘Don’t keep selling yourself short, Gwen! You’re one of us and you’ve made a huge contribution since you arrived, one that goes beyond just the numbers of Fleas you’ve shot down.’

‘Yes! Now we’re a squadron again!’ Scarlet added enthusiastically. ‘Things were a bit shaky for a while there and morale was a bit low because we were a pilot short - it was like a constant shadow hanging over us.’

Gwen blushed and smiled shyly at her fellow Misfits. ‘Enough about that, you can tell me how amazing I am later...’ She glanced at Dunne, who had been following the conversation intently. ‘Mr... uh, John, if you give me a sheet of paper I’ll do you a quick sketch of the triplane in return for you telling us all the gossip in the aviation world. Agreed?’

‘Agreed! And with pleasure!’ Dunne hurriedly set up a clean sheet of paper on a drawing board and, while Gwen began to sketch, he started to fill them in on recent developments.

There was a more-powerful spring in the works, the Phoenix, which would add speed and range to the smaller fighters and which the manufacturers, Rentley-Joyce, hoped to be able to deliver before the end of the summer. They were having problems with it, though, and in the meantime they had developed a better version of the Ozzy, which would be in production soon. A new variant of the Harridan, the Mark IIa, was in production and already going into service and there was a new Spitsteam ready, also designated Mark IIa, but delivery from Supranaval was lagging slightly behind the more efficient Hawking production process.

While the pilots were delighted at prospect of a new spring to add performance to their machines, it was the news coming from across the Atlantic which the old man was most enthusiastic about and that was most interesting to them and Kitty in particular.

‘Nicole Tesla’s apparently put one of her grandfather’s electric engines in an aircraft. It’s much lighter than a spring and there’s no need to construct around a bulky cylinder, but nobody I’ve spoken to quite knows how it works and I haven’t been able to figure it out myself either. I don’t suppose any of you...’ He looked at them one by one and sighed when the three pilots shook their heads. ‘Oh well, it was too much to hope, I suppose.’

‘I went to school with Nicole,’ volunteered Kitty. ‘She’s the one who first got me interested in electricity and in return I got her hooked on aircraft. I can write and ask her about it, although I doubt she’ll share the secret; her grandfather learnt his lesson early on and now the whole Tesla clan tend to keep their inventions close to their chest until they’ve had a chance to patent the hell out of them.’

Dunne beamed at her. ‘Really? That would be wonderful!’

Kitty smiled in return. ‘I’m not promising anything, John, and it might be a while before she writes back, but I’ll let you know what she says.’

‘Thank you, my dear!’

‘There you go.’ Gwen put her pencil down and stepped back from the drawing board allowing the others to crowd around.

Solemnly silent, Scarlet and Kitty surveyed the three drawings Gwen had done, showing Flamme from the front, side and above. They took note of the sheer amount of detail that she had been able to put into them, details that would only be available to someone who had been very, very close to the aircraft. Details which most British aviators wouldn’t survive to remember.

Dunne on the other hand overflowed with praise for her quick and exemplary work. He thanked her profusely before looking at the clock on the wall and sighing. ‘Well, I suppose you have to come out of hiding and face the music at some point. I apologise in advance in the name of Hamleys for any inconvenience you are about to encounter... I have some vouchers around here somewhere for the tea shoppe in the basement. It’s not much in the way of compensation, I know, but...’

The Misfits laughed away his offer.

‘No need, John, we’ll survive!’ Scarlet clapped him on the shoulder and gave him one of her winning grins. ‘Come on girls, let’s go dazzle them!’

She led the way to the door back into the main room, but as soon as she stepped around the concealing scenery she halted and Gwen almost bumped into the back of her. ‘What is it?’

Scarlet’s wide grin had rather comically changed to a nervous half-smile as she stared out into the main room. ‘I’m kind of scared.’

‘Of what?’ Gwen poked her head around the scenery and gasped.

The main room was packed with at least twenty times as many people as before and there were quite a few children as well, most of whom had pushed their way to the front and were craning their necks, trying to get a view of them over the Cotswolds hills.

Kitty used her height advantage to peer over the painted wooden board. ‘It’s like they’ve never seen pilots before...’

Dunne whispered from behind them. ‘They haven’t for a while. At least not pilots on active duty in the Royal Aviator Corps who can tell them how the war is going - not many of you lot have been getting leave recently and those that do certainly don’t end up in here. Just wait until they find out who you all are!’ He chuckled, rubbing his hands together gleefully at the prospect.

Gwen shook her head, though. ‘Please don’t tell them that, John. Just let them think we’re ordinary pilots; we should try not to draw too much attention to ourselves and besides,’ she eyed the crowd warily, ‘we do have plans for the evening and we’d like to be out of her before closing time.’

Dunne checked his pocket watch. ‘Well, that gives you five hours.’ He snapped the watch closed and grinned. ‘It’s going to be a close-run thing!’

In the end they were in Hamleys for “only” three hours.

Many of the people who had flocked to the fourth floor weren’t particularly keen about aviation, they had just wandered upstairs to see what all the fuss was about and were only really interested in superficial matters, like how fast their aircraft went or how many “kills” the Misfits had - they were disappointed with Scarlet’s three, not understanding that even that was a remarkable feat for a scout and especially one whose aircraft was barely even armed, having only two .303 machine guns, then goggled at Gwen’s ten before almost shrieking in joy when Kitty admitted to twenty-six. However, they began to wander away again when slightly more technical questions were thrown at the pilots and eventually the crowd shrank back to something approximating its original size, although many of the children remained, watched over by their parents, gobbling up Scarlet’s tale of the dog food mission and a couple of other amusing anecdotes that she had stored for a rainy day.

Once the casual admirers had gone, Kitty and Gwen entered into a much more serious discussion with the true enthusiasts and despite their initial trepidation they had a very enjoyable time; Hamleys was the place to be to swap opinions, discoveries and experimental results and it was rumoured that the Spitsteam itself had started life during a discussion in that very department. Even though they weren’t inventors and didn’t have many ideas of their own to share, the people were surprisingly knowledgeable and the views they had on existing machines were interesting and often thought provoking, due to their sometimes innocent, but nonetheless fresh perspective. It was everything that Gwen had told them to expect from a visit to Hamleys and when the Misfits finally did bid Dunne farewell they left with large grins on their faces and even she came away feeling that it had been worth it.

Their smiles and all thoughts of dinner, a show and a night of dancing in one of the famous clubs of London were banished as soon as they returned to The Dorchester, though; there was a message waiting for them from Abby in reception and just the first few words, “I apologise, but”, had them groaning, knowing that their plans for fun were going out of the window.

The message went on to say that their presence had been requested at Buckingham Palace that evening by the King himself; he had heard that three of the “famous Misfits”, as he had put it, were in the city on leave and had expressed an interest in meeting them.

That interest, of course, was tantamount to a command and Abby had immediately responded that the three pilots would, of course, be delighted to attend the Palace at seven o’clock sharp as requested. She had sent their dress uniforms and the message with Derek in Swift, their fastest aircraft, hoping to catch them before they went out for the night and while Derek returned directly to Badger Base the items had been delivered to the hotel by Royal Guards, causing quite a stir among the guests.

The concierge was far more polite to them than the doorman had been earlier and after he had delivered the message he informed them that their uniforms had been taken up to their rooms and that there were hairdressers and make-up assistants available if they should want them, free of charge.

The pilots thanked him with a smile and told him that it wouldn’t be necessary, then took the lift up to their room. They weren’t quite sure how they felt about the change in their plans; on the one hand they had been looking forward to blowing off some steam, having a few drinks, a laugh at a variety show and then dancing most of the night away at the Astoria or Coven Garden, but on the other it was what might well be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be presented at court and meet the King. The excitement of that was greatly lessened by the need to wear their dress uniforms, though; they were smart and especially favoured the female form, but were so awfully uncomfortable, especially when compared to their form-fitting flightsuits.

The boxes and bags containing their uniforms were laid out on a sofa in the sitting area, but they pointedly ignored them and went to draw baths - they had two hours before they needed to be at the Palace and weren’t going to spend a minute more than necessary in them.

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 Twelve by clicking the right-arrow down there on the right. If you missed out on Chapter Ten 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.

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